Archive of Our Own ^beta

"Mine? Or yours?" 

This phrase in particular seemed to be haunting Sherlock's every waking moment. 

In the past two successful months he'd managed to engage in a romantic relationship with one Dr. John Watson , the phrase had come into use more times than he could count. Murmured breathlessly into the side of his neck… sighed clumsily into the whole of his mouth… moaned softly into his left ear… outside of Scotland Yard… hidden in dark alleys… whispered in the back of crowded restaurants. 

"Mine? Or yours?" 

While Sherlock was in no way unopposed to being taken home by Dr. John Watson, or instead pushing the same John clumsily up the stairs of Baker Street, Sherlock couldn't help but feel a sharp pang of unpleasantness at the sheer fact the question had to be asked in the first place.

If they went to Baker Street, Sherlock typically woke to an empty bed with a cup of cold tea on his bedside and a small note. John worked early, so on those mornings at Baker Street, John had to leave even earlier to run home and change before heading to the surgery. Sherlock had grown to not mind it as much. 

However, mornings at John's place were spent doing much less productive things. Whether that meant kissing each other 'till Sherlock couldn't think straight and John absolutely had no time left before he had to leave, or standing under the short shower with John's lips making a trail down his collarbone and wanking him 'till his legs felt they'd give out, or sometimes just lying in the warm bed with warm cups of tea, watching the sun peak in through the blinds, and talking about nothing at all. But for Sherlock, the act of simply existing in John's flat made him think of the reason he had to purchase it in the first place. 

He knew John had left Baker Street after his supposed death, and upon his return, John had stayed in the flat, for he'd shared it with Mary at that point. 

But Mary was long gone, and Sherlock was very much alive. And he hated feeling as though he was intruding on John's personal life in his flat, or waking to cold tea and an empty house. 

"Why don't you just ask him to move back in with you?" Mycroft had groaned one afternoon, definitely regretting his decision to drop in on his baby brother to check on how he was doing. 

"It is not that simple," Sherlock responded, pretending not to notice how agitated Mycroft was growing. He liked watching him squirm.  

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Then don't ask him to move in with you,"

"But I don't like him not living here,"

"Then I don't know what I am supposed to tell you, Sherlock!" Mycroft said sharply. He took a deep breath, folding his hands in front of him.
Sherlock gave him a disapproving glance. 

"I will not pretend to understand the predicament you are in, brother mine , but I can say that you and Dr. Watson seem to be quite… well acquainted with one another…"

Sherlock bit his lip, willing himself not to laugh at his brother's attempt to give him relationship advice. 

"...and so I would urge you to perhaps voice your discomfort to him," 

"You want me to… talk with him?" 

"Is that not what I just said?"
"Yes, just checking to make sure it was actually you that said it," 

"Oh, piss off," 

And that was the end of it for the moment. That was, until, Sherlock found himself pressing John against the wall of the morgue, hands running through his hair, chests heaving in perfect synchroism. 

"Mine? Or yours?" John breathed against Sherlock's mouth. 

Sherlock's stomach churned. "Mine," he murmured. 

They'd managed to pull themselves from the morgue, hurrying outside and clumsily climbing into the cab.

The cab was always the worst part, the anticipation buzzing in the air with no way to give way to the need Sherlock felt pulsing through his body. He could tell John felt the same, hands fidgeting silently, eyes glued to the window. 

They paid the cabbie, and hurried up the steps, clumsily kissing up the stairs, careful not to wake Mrs. Hudson. 

Sherlock pushed John onto the couch lightly, unbuttoning his own shift and pulling John's jumper over his shoulders. 

" God, Sherlock ," John breathed against the bare skin of his neck sending sparks down his body. 

Trousers were discarded just as quickly, and Sherlock's hands moved in muscle memory to his boxers, feeling him under his fingers. John let out a soft groan, and Sherlock felt him twitch as he touched him the way he knew John liked. 

His pleasure came quickly, in hard, fast waves of ecstasy etched on his face. Sherlock enjoyed watching him come from his touch almost as must as he enjoyed being pleasured himself. 

John breathed, their foreheads pressed together, chests heaving. 

"I love you ," he whispered, his voice hoarse. 

Sherlock smiled against his lips, sighing as John's hands threaded through his wild, dark curls. "Move in with me,"

John froze underneath him, and Sherlock felt himself pause, too. 

"What?"

"I…" Sherlock sat up. He wasn't sure why he said it. It had sort of… slipped out. He swallowed, sharply. "I…" he said again. 

John sat up, a look of worry crossing his face. 

"What did you say?" He repeated, a hand caressing Sherlock's cheek. 

"Move in with me…?" He said it softer now, barely meeting his eyes. 

John blinked, mind racing. 

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said anythi–"

"Did you mean it?" John interrupted. 

Sherlock looked up at him. "I…"

"Sherlock, did you mean it?" His voice was sharper now. 

"Yes," he answered quickly, heart pounding loudly in his chest.

What if he didn't want to move in with him? What is he scared him off? God, what if he leaves? He can't leave. I can't lose him. He is everything. I can't lo–

"You want me to move in with you?" John's voice was softer now, and Sherlock looked up at him. His eyes were soft, a smile gracing his lips. 

"I do," 

John smiled wider, causing Sherlock's heart to surge. 

"I want to wake up every morning and have you there with me in this home we've built together," He was getting more confident now, John's affectionate gaze giving him all the courage he needed. "I want you here always, forever, in our house. Not just mine or yours ," 

John's eyes looked watery, and Sherlock worried for a moment he'd said something wrong. That quickly wore off when John kissed his hard on the mouth. It was unlike the kissing they'd been doing moments ago, hurried and desperate. This was deeper. Hard and passionate . 

They broke apart for a moment, John smiling into his mouth. 

"I'd love to move in with you again," John murmured. 

Sherlock smiled so wide he felt his facial muscles strain, but he didn't care. 

John kissed him again, quicker, moving down his neck and his chest. 

"I don't think I've gotten you off, now have I?" John joked, pushing him backward and pulling himself onto him. 

Sherlock smiled, hands threading through his hair, thinking he'd never been so happy in his life.

And that feeling only gets better from there. 

Mornings now spent at Baker Street were spent holding each other in bed, whispering quiet things they'd never told anyone else, or wanking each other off until John was definitely going to be late this time and had to go wash up against Sherlock's better judgment, or sipping warm tea and listening to the soft crescendo of the city below them just beginning to wake up. Hot showers steamed the windows, tea was boiled with sugar being added to one cup and not the other, newspapers were read and toast was eaten, goodbye kisses were shared, and even though Sherlock was left alone, he could watch John out the window until his cab disappeared, and expect him back in a few hours, because this was his home again . 

Afternoons were then spent perched in armchairs listening to clients ramble about this and that , half paying attention to Lestrade explaining a new case that no one else has been able to crack and he needs Sherlock Holmes' help. Please. , tolerating Mycroft whenever dropping by unexpectedly to check in, rolling his eyes because It looks like you took my advice, brother mine, and smiling absent-mindedly at Mrs. Hudson when she came to pester Sherlock about dusting the damn bookcases and how she wasn't going to do it anymore because I'm not your housekeeper! which he knew he would never do but he agreed to it to appease her for the time being. 

But the nights were his favorite. Dinners were eaten on the ground whenever the table was taken over by whatever Sherlock's newest experiment was, Cluedo boards were pushed to the side during particularly tense games because this game is pointless there is no skill at all and John just laughs and laughs, dishes are washed with the small radio playing silly old music John loves and it sometimes ends with Sherlock convincing John into dance with him in the kitchen, and they always end in bed together, sometimes naked and breathless, others quiet and fully clothed, content with just holding each other and listening to the sound of their hearts beating at the same time. 

And sometimes it's not perfect, because Sherlock is Sherlock and John is John, and they are human and say stupid things and do stupid things. 

But every morning Sherlock gets to wake up by John's side, and every night fall asleep to the sound of his breathing.

And Sherlock would take those imperfect days over the mornings of empty beds and cold tea any day.