Chapter Text
John woke slowly, feeling like he’d been drugged (and he had more than a passing familiarity with that sensation). He stretched, wincing a little at his tender bottom and the dull ache of bruises and a few bite marks.
“Sherlock?” He turned to look on the other side of the bed to discover it was empty, the sheets and duvet in a heap where Sherlock had been. His heart sank.
He rolled over and grabbed his phone from the nightstand. There were no new messages. He lay back with his phone in hand, staring at the ceiling.
So that was it.
Of course Sherlock would think nothing of leaving before he woke. The man probably had a kidney in a pickle jar somewhere that needed tending. Or perhaps Dimmock had called with some news about the case.
Whatever the reason, Sherlock had left without ceremony, without a word. Clearly last night’s activities had proven to be the solution to his problem. No more John needed, thank you.
So there was one more thing John could add to his list:
5. Dr. John H. Watson is a fool.
He’d known it was risky, the bargain he’d made. He had fallen asleep happy, thinking Sherlock would mean what he’d said: one night would never be enough.
It was exactly what he’d hoped for when he’d come up with the crazy scheme in the first place. When he’d realized how much Sherlock wanted him—loved him, he thought. And when he’d come to realize that he felt exactly the same way.
He’d honestly believed that once they had…that Sherlock would…
But he’d made a mistake. Sherlock was still married to his work. John was just a one-night stand, the scratching of a biological itch.
John got up slowly, pulling on his robe and draining the last mouthful from his bottle of water. He looked with deepening sadness at the rumpled bed before tossing the duvet onto the floor and stripping the sheets. He held them for a moment, inhaling the scent of Sherlock and the heady musk of sex on his bedding. He couldn’t prevent the lump that formed in his throat as he realized he would never smell those things together again.
John made his way down the stairs to find the flat empty. He put the sheets in to wash and ran himself a hot bath.
As he soaked, he allowed just a few self-indulgent tears to trickle over his cheeks.
It was ridiculous, really. This, this right here was exactly why he'd done what he had in the first place.
Sherlock hated sentiment: relationships were for idiots and love was a weakness. He’d been intellectually impeded by his feelings for John, but he probably would have continued that way forever rather than risk an emotional entanglement.
John had thought the plan was foolproof. John could be with the man he had fallen in love with. Sherlock would get relief and perhaps, just perhaps, come to realize that he needed more. That being with John, as more than friends and colleagues for more than one night, might be okay. If not, well, John had offered nothing but sex and asked for nothing in return: no recrimination, no awkwardness and no hard feelings.
At least there shouldn’t have been.
If he’d loved Sherlock before, he had no idea what to call it now. The pain in his chest was so acute it felt like fractured ribs. Every single breath hurt. He couldn’t imagine, just couldn’t think, what he was supposed to do now. He’d never felt like this before. Not even, he thought with some shame, when he’d learned his wife was cheating on him and wanted a divorce.
No, there was nothing for it. He’d got himself into this; he would have to live with the consequences. There was no way he could leave Sherlock now, so he would have to endure, knowing that however the man might feel about him, it would never be spoken of—or acted on—again.
John realized he was starting to prune. He washed quickly and drained the tub. He shaved, cleaned his teeth and willed the reflection in the mirror not to look so sad.
He tugged his robe on again, suddenly desperate for a cup of tea. He padded out to the kitchen and flipped the kettle on. He pulled his favourite mug out from the cupboard and turned to the refrigerator. He opened the door and sighed: cow’s tongues on the second shelf.
“Good morning, John.”
John spun, only just avoiding dropping the milk. “Sherlock, shit you scared me!”
“It was not my intention to startle you.”
John stared at him for a minute. He'd obviously returned from outside and was still wearing his coat. He was sitting at his desk, facing the kitchen.
John swallowed. “No, uh, it’s fine. Just didn’t realize you were home.”
“I’ve just returned. I was waiting for you to get out of the bath.”
“Oh. Oh, right. Sorry—did you need the loo? You should have knocked…”
“No. I was waiting for you.”
John tried hard to breathe normally. Please, let this be brief. We’ll both say it’s fine, all done now, nobody’s hurt, we can still be friends and then I can pretend it never happened. I will never, ever forget, but I can pretend.
“Fine. All right. Want some tea?”
“No, John, I don’t want tea.”
The kettle boiled and John turned gratefully to fill the pot. He eased the three minutes of tension by adding the milk to his cup and returning the bottle to the fridge.
“John, are you all right?”
“Fine, yeah,” John replied casually. “Bit sore, you know, but fine.”
“That isn’t what I meant,” Sherlock said, standing.
John poured his tea and turned to make his way to his chair. He needed to be sitting for this. Sherlock strode toward him, meeting him halfway.
“What are you doing?”
Sherlock stared down at him with a furrowed brow. “You’ve been crying.”
“Oh, for—how could you possibly know that?” John’s reserve cracked immediately. “My eyes aren’t even red. I checked.”
“So you have.”
John sipped his tea, refusing to meet Sherlock’s eyes. “Doesn’t matter. It was nothing.”
John slipped past him and gingerly settled into his chair, grimacing a bit as he shifted to find a comfortable position.
“It doesn’t matter or it was nothing?” Sherlock dropped into his chair across from John.
“Is that really important?” John asked weakly.
“I believe it is, considering.”
“Considering what? That we shagged each other’s brains out last night?”
“Well, yes, and—”
“Nothing to do with it. Don’t worry about it.” John drank his tea. “So where did you get to this morning? Dimmock?”
“I—yes.”
“You figured it out, then.”
“Yes. The solution presented itself at approximately seven-thirty a.m.”
“Well, great. Mission accomplished.” John hoped he didn’t sound bitter.
“Hmmm,” Sherlock replied. “I was getting dressed, preparing to go out, when I realized that the victim must have had an older sister who was a seamstress.”
“You were already on your way out?” John ignored the case details—he had no idea how a seamstress fit into things. He’d let Sherlock explain it to him later.
“Yes. I had something very urgent to attend to.”
“Oh.” John felt a tightening around his heart. An errand that was more important than waking up with him. Chucked, and it wasn’t even for a case.
“You aren’t going to ask what it was? That’s not like you, John. You’re usually much more curious.”
“Fine,” John said. He took another sip of tea. “What were you doing?”
Sherlock pulled a small box from his coat pocket. He held it for a moment before simply handing it to John.
John quirked an eyebrow at him. “What’s this?”
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Just open it.”
John set his tea on the floor with a look of annoyance and opened the box. And promptly forgot how to breathe. The ring was old, obviously an antique. It was platinum, of simple design, with a small sapphire at the centre.
“You are more than well aware this sort of thing is not my area.” Sherlock hesitated. “I consulted with Mycroft. He assures me this is an appropriate token under the circumstances.”
“Oh, god.”
“It belonged to my great-grandfather. It reminded me of the colour of your eyes, sometimes.”
John sank back into his chair, stunned. “Is this—are you—?”
“You said all night or 'as long as it takes' to get you out of my system,” Sherlock replied calmly. “I can reliably inform you that I do not believe that will ever happen. I am given to understand this is an accepted method of expressing a desire for a long-term commitment.”
John started to giggle. It was high-pitched, nearly hysterical.
Sherlock frowned. “You don’t like it. Mycroft…”
“No—jes—Sherlock—I love it,” John slid forward in his chair swiftly and grasped Sherlock’s hand. “I thought…when I woke up and you were gone, I just assumed that one night was enough for you. That you wanted to stay, you know, as we were.”
Sherlock looked stunned. “You actually believed, after last night, there was even a remote possibility that I could look at you everyday and not need to kiss you or touch you or tell you that I—I–love you?”
“You love me?”
“Of course I do—for heaven’s sake, John. Keep up!” Sherlock leapt to his feet, indignant. “You deduced it just last night. That’s what got us into all this.”
“But you kept saying, if it was ‘only for one night’…”
Sherlock turned and leaned on the mantle. “But you are the one who suggested this ridiculous arrangement. You know the state I was in! I’d have agreed to attend every one of Mycroft’s cocktail parties for the rest of my life if it meant I could be with you.”
“You were thinking about it, though,” John countered. He stood and placed himself beside Sherlock.
The taller man turned. “I am not skilled in relationships, John. I do not feel things the way others do and I do not understand how all this works.” He waved a hand between them. “I thought I could accept what you were offering and go back to…you would be better off, you know. There is a very high probability that this will end badly and you will be…hurt.”
“And you don’t want to hurt me,” John said softly. He took the ring from the box and slipped it onto his left hand.
Sherlock watched, his eyes wide. “Not again, no. I—I know I will, but the thought of you being hurt is…unacceptable.”
“Fair enough.” John smiled up at him. “That sounds very much like a promise to try to me. In return, I promise never, ever again to try to get you to want to be with me using an indecent proposal.”
Sherlock mouth crooked up on one side. “But I rather liked the indecent bit.”
“Oh, so did I,” John said, stroking Sherlock’s cheek. “Especially the part where you told me how much you wanted me inside you.” John’s grin was wicked. A faint flush coloured Sherlock’s cheeks. “I think the indecent bit will need to be revisited. Often.” John winced as he stretched up for a kiss. “Just maybe not all on the same night, yeah? I haven’t had a run like that since I was 25.”
Sherlock dropped his head and slanted his mouth across John’s, dragging the robe-clad body into the cocoon created by his billowing coat. John sagged into the warmth and eagerly wrapped both arms around the taller man’s waist.
Sherlock pulled back with a naughty grin. “Something to strive for, then.”
“You are a bad, bad man.”
“But you love me.”
“God help me, I do.”
“Will that be your response at the register office? Not terribly reassuring.”
“Speaking of that…”
“Are you formally accepting my proposal?”
“I suppose I am,” John agreed, beaming. “After all, you accepted mine.”