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For how much their lives revolved around the epinephrine rushes—full of chases, close calls, cases, and chilling clues—they had fallen into a routine, domestic and delightful. Soft brushes, light touches, a warm hand here, a gentle prod there. They moved around the flat with grace and ease, not wary of intruding on the others space. Obviously, the days when Sherlock was “bored” or John was just done were ones to be careful of, but in general, the atmosphere was light and breezy. Cups of tea shared in the respective chairs, feet alternating but not quite touching. Stolen glances, secret grins, silent gazing. Neither realizing the other does these things too.
Until one not so special day, John caught Sherlock looking. Not so much so that Sherlock knew that he was caught, but enough for John to start keeping an eye out. And then he started noticing the gazing, the choosing to walk by him instead of around, the lingering touches, the low voice, the accommodating of John’s needs over his own, all the little things that screamed loudly of love.
So John began to return them more readily. No more stealing, hiding, or being quite so silent. His own touches became more frequent and lasting. He allowed himself to be caught in his longing looks with soft eyes and slight smiles, the only thing missing were hearts floating over his head. He felt foolish, but Sherlock still never said anything.
And then they finished a high profile case, had a wonderful run through London, nearly got stabbed several times, and ended up handing the thief over to Lestrade. They decided to celebrate with the scotch tucked away in the cupboard. Sitting down, Sherlock in his leather chair, John in his threadbare one, feet alternating as always but not touching still, they drink. After walking through the case for John, and clarifying some of the finer points, several glasses had passed by; and John was starting to feel the effects. He took another sip of courage, swirled the amber liquid left in his glass, and, with a raised eyebrow, said, “So, you love me, don’t you?”
Sherlock, not doing much better in his own sobriety, widened his eyes and bit his lips into a thin line. For several moments, there is a statue in place of Sherlock, a perfect rendition but with no breath and no movement. Then, Sherlock releases his now swollen lips and settles further into his chair. He looks down at his glass as he swirls it languidly. Then he raises it to his lips, takes a hesitant sip, and lowers his glass again. Now he looks at John, expression hidden beneath his mask, and John knows this means there is quite a bit of emotion if he is doing that. Finally, Sherlock responds, “Why do you want to know?”
The corner of John’s mouth turns up in a smirk, “Because, you dolt, I love you.” He kicks his foot over and nudges Sherlock’s, breaking their norm. Sherlock stares down at their feet for a moment, looks back up at John, eyes blazing. Then, John has a lap full of Sherlock, not quite sure how it happened. His head is braced on the back of his chair between two large hands. Putting his drink down to replace it with something better, he grasps Sherlock’s hips and runs his hands up his back and then over his thighs. Sherlock rests his forehead to John’s and, in that shared space, breathes “Yes, I do.” John’s hands slide up his back again to pull him closer. Warmth surrounds them both. When their lips finally touch, it feels so right, so natural, and so freeing. They know now, and they are finally home.