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Chapter Text

After leaving the crime scene in a fit of giggles, they eat Chinese. It is the first night John’s appetite returns. He eats with relish, whilst Sherlock makes rude observations about the other diners that send John into hysterics, laughing whilst trying not to spray beef and broccoli pieces from his mouth. The atmosphere between them crackles with a thrilling, electric energy. For the first time in months John feels alive.

It isn’t until he finishes his plate of food that he realises Sherlock has barely nibbled at his spring roles. Now that he has the opportunity to study the younger man he’s able to observe how malnourished he is. The ridiculous, thick coat that Sherlock wears is currently hanging on the back of his chair. The man is all angles. The sharpness of his cheekbones make him appear unapproachable.

He thinks back to the revelation of Sherlock’s past drug use and he feels the muscles in his stomach pulling tight with guilt. He reminds John so much of Harry in that moment that it’s startling. Frowning, he pushes the plate of spring roles insistently towards Sherlock.

Sherlock glances between John and the plate of food, a quizzical eyebrow twitching.

“Digestion slows my brain down.” Sherlock remarks, his words echoing what he said earlier in Angelo’s.“It’s bad for the work.”

“Please,” John inches the plate a little closer, imploring Sherlock to eat. “It would put my mind at ease.”

“It would?” Sherlock sweeps one lingering look over John and appears to come to a conclusion. “Fascinating.”

He reaches forward and plucks a spring role between two slender fingers, which John thinks seem well suited for a musician. John watches in relief as Sherlock begins to eat. It feels good to care for another human. No, he corrects, it feels exceptional to take care of Sherlock Holmes.

“Thank you.” John feels the muscles in his abdomen relax.

Nothing more needs to me said between them. Those two words carry enough weight on their own.

That night they sit opposite one another in 221B. A roaring fire crackles, as though the flat itself is welcoming an old friend. The chair he sits in feels right. The man he sits opposite even more so. It’s an inexplicable feeling that he can’t make sense of. It’s a feeling that starts from the soles of his feet and curls up into a strange but welcome heat in his chest. He hasn’t felt it before. It’s something new. He doesn’t know what to make of it.

His feet are inches away from Sherlock’s own, perhaps closer than they had any right to be. It’s been a long night and John is so tired he can’t bring himself to care.

“Are you going to call her?”

John blinks. “Her?”

“Come now, John. Don’t be dense. Harry, are you going to call her?” Sherlock clasps his hands beneath his chin and stares at John with his intense eyes.

“Maybe, eventually.” John shrugs in an attempt to appear calm, but the question has taken him off guard.

Sherlock appears to take note of this information, a deep rumble of acknowledgement forming in his throat. John expects the conversation to continue. He waits for more probing questions from his new flatmate, but they don’t come. He doesn’t know why but the lack of questioning makes him squirm.

“Why?” He eventually asks when it’s clear that Sherlock isn’t going to speak any time soon. John’s bad at this, discussing his feelings, but something is compelling him to open up to a man he’s barely known for a day.

“It’s your mouth.” Sherlock states succinctly, as though that’s meant to mean anything. He has a face that says ‘we both know the thing’ but John doesn’t, he really doesn’t.

“My mouth?” The question comes out an octave higher than his usual voice. He barely catches himself as his tongue slips between his lips and wets his mouth.

The way Sherlock spoke was clinical, as though he were a scientist explaining a theory, but the deep baritone is evocative. John is aware of his pulse accelerating, the heavy beating his chest obvious. He wonders if Sherlock can tell the shift in his body language. Probably. John has never been so hyper aware of the pulsing artery in his neck.

“The corners twitch occasionally. Some less observant people may misconstrue that as pouting.”

“But not you.”

“No, not me.” There’s a kindness in Sherlock’s words that John has only observed when they are alone. It makes him feel special. “Do you want me to stop? Some people dislike my ability to read micro-expressions.”

“No, don’t stop. I meant what I said earlier, Sherlock. You’re brilliant.”

The comment makes Sherlock’s ears turn a faint pink. John’s glad that he isn’t the only flustered one.

“Your mouth turns down as a sign you’re sad. It’s not to do with missing the war. Your leg ached and you hand trembled because you craved the adrenaline, but the twitch of your lips…it always worsens when you speak of her. I can tell when you’re thinking of her just by looking at the corners of your mouth.”

“That is…remarkable.”

“You really think that, don’t you?” In that moment Sherlock looks young, his eyes searching John for approval.

The beating in John’s chest slows momentarily, as he feels a sharp stab of sympathy for the man sat in front of him. He clearly isn’t used to someone praising him. John makes a mental note to try and change that.

“Yeah, course, of course I do.”

“Thank you.” The two words are genuine, ushered in a low voice, as though Sherlock is talking to the flat rather than John.

“You’re very welcome, Sherlock."

There’s a beat of silence then -

“Addicts are notorious liars, I should know. What she said, she didn’t mean it.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure.” John finds himself automatically inspecting Sherlock, medical instincts running on auto-pilot. He checks for any obvious recent drug use, but the distinctive marks that line the crook of Sherlock’s arms are old and faded.

“She’ll come back to you, when she’s ready. Sobriety…it makes you view the world through an entirely different lens.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“You’ll quickly realise that I’m always right.”

“Apart from thinking Harry was my brother.”

“Shut up.” The words are said in jest, followed by smirk that Sherlock barely manages to contain.

“Make me.” The commanding tone in his voice comes naturally, as does the straightening of his posture and slight tension in his muscles. It’s been too long since he pulled rank.

The detective extends a slender arm and reaches for his violin. The action at first appears lazy, but as he delicately plucks the musical instrument up, John notices the acceptation of his challenge in Sherlock's hard-set expression.

“Any requests?”

“Do you compose?”

Sherlock arches an eyebrow, answering him without having to utter a word. He carefully positions the violin, the bow hovering over the strings.

John’s socked toes curl in anticipation as he sinks back into the comfort of his chair. That’s what it is now, isn’t it? This is his chair and 221B is his home. It’s hard to imagine a time before this. John Watson, a man always itching to move, at last feels comfortable remaining rooted to the spot opposite Sherlock. It doesn’t feel like he’s spending the first night in a strange flat with its strange occupant. Instead it feels like this is a path he’s always been heading for. He’d always wondered what he was running to, but now, as peace settles around him, he knows he’d been searching for this. He doesn’t dwell on what this is, instead he accepts it without question.

The composition Sherlock plays is happy, upbeat and exciting.As John closes his eyes, exhaustion at last overtaking him now the adrenaline had dwindled, he dreams of chasing criminals through the streets of London and giggling till he is breathless at crime scenes. In his dreams Harry returns to him, they embrace, apologies are ushered between them, and he feels whole once more.

He’s vaguely aware of the music drifting further and further away, as his breathing deepens and his REM cycle begins. Large, masculine hands lift his neck into a better sleeping position. The weight of a blanket presses down on him. He feels warm, he feels safe, and it’s the first time John realises that the bullet didn’t end his life, it just led him to a better one.