Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Irene Adler. The Woman. The Woman. Sherlock blinked up at the ceiling. Grey... or white? It all swirled together in one. Maybe a tad rosy in colour? Off-white.  
 
His lips moved in the shape of John's name, but it took a few tries before he could the push actual sound from his useless throat. "John... Jo..hn..." He felt as weak as a small kitten, sprawled out on the floor and fighting to keep his eyes focused. "John.."  
 
Warm hands on either side of his pale face. The figure of soft, silver locks, worried and round eyes, pink lips moving quicker than Sherlocks lagged brain could keep up with.  
 
"...Can you hear me? Sherlock," John Watson brushed a hand over Holmes' black curls. Sherlock. Sherlock.  
 
The consulting detective tried to lift his body up to John's warmth. It wouldn't listen. Just fell back against the hardwood floor. Again. No luck. John. John. Sherlock forced his arms up to grip hold of Watson's old jacket. "John... H.. elp.."  
 
John sighed. Okay, a little responsive was he. "Alright, arms around my neck, come on." John had spent many hours carrying people around in the field and he knew the works. Even if Sherlock was quite long and lanky.  
 
Sherlock's shirt creased when he barely managed to loop his arms around John. Holmes' fogged mind didn't register the closeness one bit. Watson did. Though there was no time to linger on mildly homoerotic thoughts in the current situation. John snaked one hand all the way round Sherlock's midriff. He could feel the spasming muscles through the thin, dark fabric of Sherlock's shirt.  
 
"One, two..." John counted down, bracing the other hand against the floor. "Three..!" Upsie-dasy and Sherlock was pulled onto wobbly feet. When the detective lost grip and stumbled a bit too far, the doctor had to reel him back in. John hooked two fingers in one of Sherlock's beltloops - Pulled back flush. Sherlock bore fingers into John's shoulder, head drooping while he let a long groan spill freely from a slack jaw.  
 
It wasn't easy getting down the staircase. "One foot, other foot-- no, the other other foot. Oh, for crying out loud..." John murmured and tightened his hold on Sherlock's side. Hip to hip, they made it to the door.  
 
"John..."  
 
"Stop mumbling my name, I'm right here," John said while they made it outside.  
 
"John...!"  
 
"What?" John snapped and looked at the taller man who was collapsing again. The two rocked a bit at Sherlock's unsteady deadweight. Holmes' head felt as of lead. He chose to rest it, bringing it down on John's shoulder. No, not warm enough. Sherlock nuzzled his nose into the crook of John's neck. Yes.  
 
Dum... Dum... Dum... Dum. Dum. Dum. John's pulse.  
 
"Just a.. little break.." Sherlock slurred.  
 
"Oh, bloody hell, Sherlock, get a hold of yourself, what won't people think?" John complained, already shooting glances at passerbyers on the narrow street.  
 
"...People? Think? Fret not, my... dear Watson. They don't really tend to do that much."  
 
Still smart while half passed out. Lovely. John rolled his eyes and waved an eager hand at a taxi the moment one came by.  
 
"Bit early to drink, eh?" The driver commented when John firmly set Sherlock into the back seat before getting in himself. It was bright day outside.  
 
"Yeah, he's..." - drugged out of his right mind by a dangerous femme fatale - "..had a rough day." John answered and yanked the door closed.  
 
"'Aven't we all? 'Aven't we all..." The driver sighed, shook his head and drove the car forward.  
 
A sharp turn and Sherlock slipped from the position John had propped him up in, his cheek landing on John's shoulder again. Sherlock sought warmth once more like moth to a flame, subconsciously inching closer.  
 
"Sherlock."  
 
"Haven't got my c... my coat," Sherlock explained (or tried to). "Getting colder."  
 
John wet his lips and sighed. But he caved. He slid an arm around Holmes' waist and let the detective rest.  
 
Dum. Dum. Dum.  
 
Sherlock's knee pressed up to John's. "Mm... No, still cold," Sherlock hands found their way under John's jacket, his dark hair brushing by John's ear when he returned to his previous spot against the side of the doctor's neck.  
 
Dum-Dum-Dum-Dum.  
 
John swallowed the complaints on his tongue. The excuses. It was too close. Closer than Sherlock ever usually got. And yes, his curls were just as soft as they looked. John impatiently tapped his finger as he waited for the drive to be over. Almost as quickly as his pulse.  
 
John felt Sherlock's face pull to a lazy smile. The detective's lips parted, - yes, John could feel them do that - probably to attempt and voice a remark and John could feel the caress of every syllable. "...Your pulse is quicker than--"  
 
"Save the energy for making it to the bed," John said. He caught the driver raising his brow in the rearview mirror. John's face grew warm. "To sleep," he quickly added. The driver's face neutralized. John puffed air out.  
 
The way out of the cab was more of a stumble. Sherlock was a lot heavier than his lean frame portrayed. Maybe it was the height. Anywho, John was glad he'd had military training beforehand. The pair wobbled up the stairs to the door, John fiddled with the keys with one hand while the other was busy keeping Sherlock from sliding onto the steps.  
 
"Are you using a new shampoo?" Sherlock suddenly asked. "..Your.. hair smells different."  
 
John grumbled and finally turned the lock open. The worst part was that it was true. He had changed shampoos. Sherlock exhaled down the doctor's collar, letting himself be yanked along and up more stairs he could trip over.  
 
"Oh, boys, I was just about to..." Mrs. Hudson trailed off at the top of the staircase, hands clasped together at her chest when her face set into a motherly worry. "Tut-tut, it's far too early to be drinking," she commented and took a hold of Sherlock's other arm to help ease the weight off John.  
 
"Not.. drunk," Sherlock lisped. "Why does... everyone keep saying that..?"  
 
"Shut up," John rumbled. Sherlock did. Mrs. Hudson sent him a look and assisted leading Sherlock to the bedroom.  
 
"I'd better get some water ready - he looks bleak," she said and darted off to the kitchen.  
 
John huffed and finally, finally could he dump his friend onto the cushiony mattress with a deep sigh. The doctor brushed hair out of his face. He wasn't sure how long Adler's drug would work and he certainly didn't know how to counter it. Better to just sleep it off, John agreed with himself.  
 
Watson brushed his jacket into place and turned his back. One step and that was it. Long fingers wrapped around his wrist. John peered over his shoulder. A half-awake Sherlock stared back, ruffled hair - the messy kind that was enticingly charming on the right people, the dull and tired ocean blues that were his eyes peeked over the soft fabric of the striped pillowcase, lips pressing against it, nose sticking over it. A small grunt was enough to speak many kinds of the same word.  
 
Remain. Wait. Linger... Stay.  
 
John tongue lifted in his mouth as if to say something. John's hesitant eyes flickered and Sherlock was equally as impatient as he always was. With surprising power from someone so sluggish just before, Holmes silently persuaded Watson closer, tug by tug. And closer. And closer. And John still didn't say a thing.  
 
Yank, and the doctor was in the cloud-like duvet with the detective. Arms clad in expensive and quality material encircled John and he slotted into a place under Sherlock's chin. Sherlock sighed down into John's hair.  
 
It took extremely little time for Holmes to fall limp. Not unlike an overgrown stuffed animal. Despite his sharp bone structure, he was anything but uncomfortable to lay against and it was only now that John's average brain caught up. He blinked. Twice. And just as his hands unsurely moved to hold around the other... Mrs. Hudson walked in with a tall glass of water.  
 
John stiffened. Mrs. Hudson stood in the doorway with an unreadable look on her face. But nothing happened. She simply leaned over and placed the glass on the bedside table. Shaking her head she mumbled with a gentle smile on her face. John could barley make it out.  
 
"I knew they didn't need two bedrooms."  
 
The door closed. The room was quiet. Almost. John listened to Sherlock's breathing. He could feel the silk-like smoothness of Sherlock's skin, smell the classic cologne, watch his body rise and fall in nearly invisible motions. Everything that made Sherlock Holmes up. And then, even though he probably could've wrenched himself free and gotten up without the unconscious detective noticing... John Watson didn't. With doubt in every movement, he completed the shift to hold Sherlock tight, hands reaching around the slim waist.  
 
Sherlock's cold soul actually felt to have an effect on his physical person. His skin was cool and held a fine layer of muscle underneath before the pointed bone came. John settled and slowly but surely his warmth bled into Sherlock. Like newly washed and stiff jeans softening after a day or two of wearing them.  
 
Nice. Yeah, it was nice.  
 
"...I love you."  
 
The words combed through John's hair, raked down his neck, wrapped around his ribs, tied a bow and pulled it tight until they broke to puncture holes in his heart. Though at the same time, that figurative blood that pooled was such a hot rush through his system. So much so that John.. didn't do anything. He just stayed. Like he'd been asked. At least for a little while longer. John swallowed and clenched his jaw. Then he closed his eyes and chose to ignore.  
 

Chapter Text

Sherlock groaned and pressed his face into the pillow. He shifted on the bed to lie on his back. His spine cracked and he knew he'd slept in the same position the entire... night? No, it was dark currently. Sherlock furrowed his brows. Why couldn't he remember what happened after he went to confront miss Adler?

Sherlock propped himself up on his elbows. Still wearing the same clothes. Not shoes though. The bedsheets were a mess as they most often were.

"John?" He called. "John?" A little louder while he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sat up.

The door opened by a Watson rubbing his tired eyes. "You okay?"

"How did I get here?" Sherlock furrowed his brows and stood. John braced like he was prepared to catch him in case he'd suddenly lose his balance.

"Well, I don't suppose you'd remember much," John said and rubbed the back of his neck, a faint red tinting his face. "...You weren't making a lot of sense."

"What? No, I feel fine," Sherlock responded and corrected on his purple designer shirt. He felt better than fine, actually. Well rested, in fact. He hadn't slept like that since he was nine.

"I'm sure," John nodded and placed a hand on either side of his hips. Scrunched up shirt – the same he wore at Adler’s place. Unruly hair – wind? No, the trees were still outside. Left pant leg rode a bit up. The reddening around the highpoints of the face intensifying little by little the more Sherlock stared...

"What did you do while I was out?"

One blink. Two blinks. Averting eyes. About to lie. "Talked to Mrs. Hudson mainly. Read the paper-" Lying. Why?

"-Why?" John asked

Sherlock rose his brows. "Oh. No reason. Is my coat here?"

John licked his lips and lazily pointed to the door where it hung on a hook. He chose not to mention the fact that a certain female "friend" had come by to return it.

"Ah," Sherlock hummed and was over by the piece of clothing in a smooth movement. It was so far from the clumsy and heavy way he had carried himself - or hadn't - just hours ago.

Sherlock's fingers brushed over the warm fabric. A woman's breathy moan echoed in the now deadly quiet room. Interesting. John's brows slowly and carefully pinched together.

"What... was that?"

Holmes tilted his head and slipped his slim fingers into the pocket of the coat. Out came a phone, the screen lit with the notification of a new message. The phone moaned again. John grimaced. Sherlock didn't seem bothered. His eyes inhumanly quickly flicked over the text.

"She set a personal notification tone for her number..." Sherlock mused.

"She?"

"The Woman."

"Oh, great." Her again. John wasn't her biggest fan to put it politely. Sherlock, on the other hand, found her the most fascinating character in his story currently. She outshone John. John didn't know why he didn't like that.

"Would you stop smirking at the screen?" John huffed. "It's off-putting."

Sherlock looked up to John and cleared his throat. He stuffed the phone into his back pocket but just as his fingers left the plastic case of the phone, it elicited that horrific noise again and - swoop - back it was in Sherlock's hands. John groaned.

This texting continued for a torturous amount of time. It was in the middle of a case, in the middle of dinner, came between conversations, between interactions, between John and his detective. Sherlock was a man possessed. He couldn’t leave it alone, the device. He answered all Adler’s small quips and comments within minutes while John’s messages could go unnoticed for days. Adler came as first priority.

Sunday afternoon and Sherlock was chuckling at a joke John had slung out over the coffee table. They were talking normally again. It was odd, but it gave John a certain euphoria to watch Sherlock’s lips shift into that tiny V-shaped smile that just revealed white teeth when another huff of laughter pushed through his mouth.

A female moan and the moment came crumbling, Sherlock’s light sea irises sloshed to the side where his phone was placed on the armrest. The laughter died and Sherlock’s thoughts were elsewhere in an instant. John’s own smile faded when the detective took it into his hand. A feeling of disappointment swirled with frustration into a really bad cocktail. Mrs. Hudson who had been brewing tea in the kitchen watched as the doctor’s shoulders rose and he abruptly stood. At the noise of the armchair scraping along the floorboards, Sherlock looked up to an angrily smoking John with a deep furrow in his brow. John huffed and quickly grabbed his jacket and made his exit. Sherlock looked to Mrs. Hudson who just shook her head at him.

“What?” He scoffed, uncharacteristically unaware.

“Oh, Sherlock...”

Adler was an interesting character, fun, entertaining to text, and she was good, that Irene. It just got worse when she ‘died’ and sent Holmes that blasted camera phone for safe keeping. He was so set on figuring out the code. I AM _ _ _ _ LOCKED. Ooh, it drove Sherlock up the wall not knowing. Adler knew exactly what he liked. Or maybe she just knew what John didn’t like.

“What do you think it could be?” Sherlock mused in the middle of a gunfight one day, pressed up behind a wall shoulder to shoulder with his blogger.

“God- Sherlock, I don’t know!” Watson snapped and ducked closer into Sherlock’s frame when more bullets came hurling around the corner. “Do we have to do this right now!? If ever? She’s dead for crying out loud!”

“I know she’s dead,” Holmes bit and took John’s hand to lead him to the next spot in the crumbling building that could hide them from death by firearm.

“Then focus on what’s in front of us! You’re going to end up getting us killed---” John suddenly yanked Sherlock the opposite way, the detective ending behind the other as the doctor shot down the gunner who had previously had her aim trained on Holmes.

Sherlock blinked, thoughts about the camera phone and Irene Adler fizzing away just a second. He watched as John lowered the gun again, brushing a few stands of hair from his forehead. Still a crack shot. It was like their first case all over again. John corrected on his collar. Sherlock liked it.

“See?” Watson exhaled and turned to look at Holmes. Sherlock let his analysing eyes glide over John’s face.

Light sweating and panting via. parted mouth; nervous and/or adrenaline rush, cat hairs on shirt; visited someone this morning. New date? Lip colour; puce pink – not usual shade (usual shade; apricot pink) – indicates coldness and/or anxious biting, widening pupils; usually caused by---

“Sherlock,” John irritably huffed.

Sherlock pulled from his deductions and instead with a neutral expression his eyes travelled down to their still clasped hands. Sherlock tilted his head when John noticed it and quickly retracted his hand as if suddenly singed. John cleared his throat and opened his mouth to say something, though the words were denied exit when the two instead were forced to dodge under a bullet exploding forward their way. It embedded into the wooden pillar behind them.

“Let’s just get out of here, shall we?” John quickly spoke.

“You’re seeing someone new?” Sherlock responded. John’s dumbfounded look didn’t take long to fade, and the doctor groaned and rolled his eyes. Sherlock hadn’t expected much else for an answer while he let himself be tugged away, his long coat flowing dramatically behind him as they ran.

With about 5 gunmen on their heels as far as Sherlock could count – Oh, never mind, 6 gunmen – the building was suddenly a large maze trying to both avoid falling through the old floorboards and the armed hostiles. It involved far too much energy-consuming sprinting, panicked scrambling and confused circling. Eventually Sherlock and John made it to the roof, nearly falling over the steps because it couldn’t be done quick enough.

“What now!?” John panted, watching the stairs where he could hear at least three pairs of boots beginning stomp up. Sherlock’s eyes flicked around in erratic motions.

“Oh, God, tell you have some plan, please!” John desperately asked.

“Do you trust me?” The detective said and offered his hand in John’s direction.

John furrowed his brows, shaking his head. “Wh--?”

“Do you trust me?!” Sherlock questioned again, his hand beckoning John close with jittery movements as it waited in the air.

John made a quick sigh and took Sherlock’s hand. The doctor swore he saw the other smile for a split second. “This better not be another one of your mental ideas...”

“My ideas are a spark of genius,” Sherlock corrected and just as John wanted to reply, Sherlock set into a quick dash toward... the edge of the building!? With Sherlock holding John tight, the doctor had no choice but to trip along.

“Sherlock!” John exclaimed when the detective pulled him flush as they tipped over the edge. In a rotating blur of tangled limbs and whipping clothes they held tightly around one another in the free fall. John didn’t dare open his eyes. If this was how he died.... He tightened his grip on Sherlock further.

Sherlock grunted when the fall reached its end, taking the most of the impact as the one on the bottom, John on top. John blinked his eyes open. He was alive. And they hadn’t crushed into the gravelly ground, but a large and prickly haystack instead. John lifted himself, looking down at Sherlock while he was at all sixes and sevens. There was that endearing tousled hair again, this time with the addition of heavy breathing.

“You knew we...” John began. “You could have told me it was a safe landing before hurling us out from a building!”

A tiny, crooked smirk came to be. “I enjoy keeping you on your toes.”

“Of all the flatmates... You.”

The smirk grew. “Actually though, you are seeing someone new?”

“What, did you figure that out by a wrong crease in my jacket?”

“The cat hairs on your shirt,” Sherlock answered. “We don’t know anybody with a red cat and since the hairs are on your shirt, not your jacket, that means you took your jacket off, ergo it wasn’t a cat you found on the street – no – it's somebody’s cat. Somebody who invited you into their home and let you say hi to their pet...”

Sherlock leaned in near to John’s neck. “...And a woodsy perfume rubbed off on you. It isn’t Mrs. Hudson’s, so don’t attempt with that excuse. She wears floral.”

Now came Sherlock’s favourite part. The look on John’s face. Two blinks, the awe-struck look hiding under the annoyance. “...Obviously,” the doctor mumbled and moved to climb out of the haystack. Sherlock’s eyes darted down to the warm hand John placed on the detective's stomach for leverage. A flower bloomed in Sherlock every time John came in physical contact. This one was red and fiery. And another flower died waiting in the time it took for another grace of caress to happen. That was probably the most emotional metaphor Sherlock Holmes had come up with in a good while.