#Charter Bus in Baltimore | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

janeofcakes · 5 years ago

Text

Keep Your Friends Close..: Chapter 11

Hello, my friends! I’ve been working off and on all day to get this one out because I’ll be stupid busy tomorrow with it being mother’s day and all. As it is, I have to keep stopping for long periods of time when all I really want to do is post this and work on my bedazzling project. Gah. And I thought week days were exasperating. It’s so hard to tell the difference now anyway. Oh, shit. I need to do the laundry.

Well, here you go. It’s a pretty good chapter, if I do say so myself. I was breathless when I finished editing. Enjoy!

----

Sorry if I'm speaking out of line, but I don't want this night to be over. I don't want it to end. 'Cause it seems like when our worlds collide, it just don't feel right not to hold ya. It's getting hard to be friends.

Do you feel what I feel the closer that we get? It’s almost like there’s a force that we can’t resist.

Baby, tell me why, why you wanna stop what’s happening inside. It’s bigger than you and me. It’s like we’re fighting gravity. --NKOTB, Fighting Gravity

For the next three weeks, the three men watch everything at bouts as closely as they can. Whether home or away, Greg and John are always stationed in locations where, between them, they can see every inch of the track and every member of both teams. Sherlock does his best to help while still coaching Rock City. But nothing happens. There are no suspicious injuries or accidents, nothing but the usual rough and tumble of a bout.

Similarly, there are no further attempts on John’s life, or Molly’s. Mycroft continues to keep an eye on her through PT and in her room. Sherlock has even walked in on the two of them in the throws of a ruthless chess game. Mycroft has also proved useful in obscuring John’s whereabouts. After picking up enough clothing to last a couple of weeks, along with a few other items, John drove to a hotel and made it look as though he had checked in while actually leaving for Sherlock’s condo. John repeated this every two or three days so he appeared to be moving around.

Unfortunately, Mycroft agreed with Greg that they do not have enough evidence to prove anything and that it would be useless to go to the police. Plus, that would only alert Moriarty to their suspicions. Instead, Mycroft enlisted the help of a few friends on the force who could look into Moriarty’s activities without being noticed. There had been no news thus far and with no further attempts on anyone, Sherlock and the others must simply maintain the holding pattern. Something will happen soon enough and they must all be ready for it, but the frustration of waiting becomes more and more evident, especially in his new roommate.

“God, I’m so tired of doing this every night,” John had said one evening, just after walking in the door. “I wish I could just come straight home and relax.”

Sherlock had meant to respond, but the words stuck in his throat. Home, John had said. Just come home and he had meant Sherlock’s condo. With Sherlock. At least that is what Sherlock wants to believe.

He never did find his voice before John continued speaking. John did not think better of saying the word and Sherlock never brought it up, not wanting to hear John correct himself. Sherlock knows he should forget it, assume it was a slip of the tongue and not pin any hopes on it. His conversation with Greg weeks ago has still not motivated him to say a word to John for fear of what the doctor will say. For the time being, he would still rather live in ignorance and misguided hope than know John does not think of him in that way.

Sherlock pushes open the door to his hotel room, key card in his mouth, a bag in one hand and a garment bag flung over his shoulder. His dark curls are all askew and one falls onto his forehead, nearly into his eye as he stumbles his way into the suite. He blows it off his face only to have it drop right back down and barges head-long into the bedroom.

Dropping his bags onto the bed unceremoniously, Sherlock runs a hand through his hair and sighs. They boarded Mrs. Hudson’s charter plane that morning, destined for Baltimore and a bout against the Rolling Ravens. With the bout on the following day, they loaded a bus and went straight from the airport to the practice facility to get some footwork and scrimmaging in. It is now around 5:30 and, having just arrived at the Sussex, they are all dropping bags in their rooms and meeting back on the bus for dinner.

Sherlock walks into the bathroom and flicks on the light. He turns on the water and splashes some on his face. Once, twice. He buries his face in a soft, plush towel and holds it for a moment. Sherlock is exhausted. He always is after a flight. He does not like flying and every muscle in his body tenses to remind him of it. He can never rest his mind either, scenario after scenario rushing from room to room of his mind palace, giving him not a moment’s peace. John tried to sit next to him the first flight of the season, but Sherlock did not want him to witness his quiet panic so he convinced him to sit elsewhere. He told John he liked having time to himself when, in truth, Sherlock wanted nothing more than to have John by his side forever. After that, John did not try sitting by Sherlock again.

Sherlock pulls the towel from his face and opens his eyes, brow furrowed. He presses his lips together, shaking his head and hanging up the towel. He is still so far gone on John Watson, despite his efforts to stop himself. All of which have been fruitless, he might add. Sherlock puts his hands on his hips and gives his reflection a very unamused look.

“You are so screwed,” he mumbles to himself. He studies his features for a moment and scowls. Walking into the suite’s living room, Sherlock diverges and heads for the kitchenette to pull a bottle of water from the small fridge. His phone pings with a text as he snags a bottle. He opens it and takes a drink while pulling the phone from his pocket. He knows exactly who it is. He has given him a particular ping. Greg, the bastard, noticed right away and has teased him whenever they are alone ever since. In spite of all protestations to the contrary, Greg is truly the big brother Sherlock never had.

*Coming down to dinner, yeah? Waiting on you and The Woman.*

Sherlock cocks a brow and replies.

*On my way. I’ll swing by her room*

*No need. She just turned up. Only you now.*

Sherlock smirks and caps the water bottle, carrying it with him when he walks to the door. He should take a minute and hang his suits for the bouts, but they will be fine. He can always steam them while he showers if they wrinkle.

He runs through tomorrow’s plan while the elevator takes him to the lobby. He has plenty of time as it stops on nearly every floor to pick up what always seems to be a parent with children bound for the hotel swimming pool. He rolls his eyes and tries to concentrate over the din. The bout starts at seven, the ladies have all afternoon to do weights on their own with warm-ups starting around 5:30. Since they put in a long practice today, on top of the flight, tomorrow morning is free for sight-seeing and relaxation. Sherlock has heard some of the ladies making plans, mostly involving spas and massages. For his money, there are several historic sites to choose from, not the least of which is the home of Edgar Allan Poe.

The elevator doors finally open at the lobby and all of its occupants exit. Sherlock follows the crowd without much thought until he catches the eye of a tall blonde looking his way. It is only a glance and Sherlock thinks nothing of it for a few steps. Then the feeling of cold realization hits him and he stops. It’s a threat, danger. Sherlock’s sharp eyes shoot back to the man, but he is gone. He looks around and sees nothing. Slowly, he makes his way to the hotel’s revolving doors, wishing for the first time that Greg had been able to come with them. Sherlock and John must keep an eye on the proceedings alone and Sherlock definitely has an uneasy feeling now.

Sherlock sees the Rock City bus as soon as he steps away from the hotel, right where he left it. As he walks toward it, he once again considers how he and John can best watch everything they need to throughout the bout. He has been to the stadium many times before, but John has never seen its track and Sherlock plans to discuss it with him at dinner. Ironically, the doctor is the very person he meets as he climbs up the bus’ three steps.

“There you are,” John beams. “They were about to send out a search party and believe me when I say they would’ve carried you out here kicking and screaming. It was all I could do to hold them back.”

“A Herculean feet indeed,” Sherlock snarks.

“Christ, Coach, where have you been?” HardOn cries upon catching sight of him. “We’re starving!”

“You should know by now not to keep us waiting,” Hella teases, standing at her seat with a knee resting on its cushions.

“No man should ever make a lady wait,” The Woman lifts a seductive brow and clicks her teeth. “Even I am ravenous.”

“You’re one to talk,” Sally snorts. “Where the hell were you?”

“I was tending to something very important.”

“What’s her name?”

Irene gives Sally a very sly, knowing look and the two dissolve into snickers.

“All right, ladies,” Sherlock announces. “Everyone sit down and behave yourselves.”

“Yes, papa,” HardOn quips as heads begin to drop, the skaters finding their seats. She casts a glance at John and jokes. “Don’t let him tell you what to do, Ph.D. Keep him in line.”

“I’ll do my best,” John laughs from his own seat in the front.

Sherlock counts heads, making sure to see the face of every skater and support staffer before turning to the driver who sits directly in front of his seat.

“Lawrence, we’re all here. Shall we go to our usual haunt?”

“The diner awaits,” the man replies with a kind smile.

Sherlock thanks him and sits down. He looks back at the skaters again and then gazes across the aisle at John. He has a curious expression on his face. His lips turned up on one side in that crooked smile Sherlock loves so much. His stomach flips, even as he affects nonchalance.

“What?” he asks, grinning almost like a fool.

“This is a hired bus and yet, you know the driver?” John replies, making no effort to hide his smile.

“We always use the same company,” Sherlock answers, “and we always request Lawrence. He chauffeured us around my first time here and every one since.”

“Ah, I see,” John says fondly. “You get attached to people, don’t you?

“I most certainly do not!” Sherlock raises his chin, straightening his long neck. He looks down his nose at John. “I merely appreciate a job well done.”

“Right, right,” John replies. The expression on his face just as fond as his tone. He also looks very amused. Sherlock’s cheeks grow pink and his stomach flips again. He put that look on John’s face.

They arrive at Krispin’s Diner nearly an hour later, colonially themed and larger than one normally expects a diner to be. Perfect for their over-sized group. They are able to get tables fairly close together, in spite of the busy night. The evening passes nicely enough as they all eat, joke and laugh. Unfortunately, the opportunity to talk through the bout does not arise, much to Sherlock’s chagrin. However, there is a restaurant in the hotel and he intends to speak with John once they are there. It might be better to do it alone anyway.

Two hours after they arrived, they are all climbing into the bus again. Sherlock grabs John’s elbow lightly before the man gets a foot on the first step. He pulls the doctor aside and speaks to him quietly as skaters continue disappearing into the vehicle.

“Would you join me in the hotel restaurant? We need to talk about tomorrow.”

John gives him a very serious nod.

Upon reaching the Sussex, Sherlock ushers the skaters to the elevators while telling them all to a good night’s sleep. He knows full well none of them will. About half will sneak out and the other will behave as though at a college slumber party. His and John’s only hope is that they not play any pranks on them in the night. Either way, none will get to sleep before 1am and will likely waste the morning sleeping in. Although, John has made an effort to have everyone up by nine for a team breakfast at all the away bouts thus far. To Sherlock’s surprise, the skaters have embraced the idea and most are up to join him.

When the last of the ladies have entered the elevators and the doors have closed, Sherlock turns to see John leaning against the wall in wait. Sherlock walks to him and nods in the direction of the restaurant entrance. John nods in return and follows. Soon they are seated at a quiet table in the corner, each with a drink. Sherlock watches John take a sip of his scotch and then look at the liquid with approval. He turns his eyes to the coach after placing the glass on the table.

“So, the stadium,” John begins, “you’ve been there before.”

“Many times,” Sherlock grabs a napkin and fishes a pen from his breast pocket. He starts to draw a diagram of the track and team boxes, the spectator areas, every detail he can think of. He looks up to John when finished to see him already studying the diagram closely.

“Since it’s just the two of us, I think you should watch the bout from here. It’s close enough to our box if needed and you will be able to see anything I can’t,” Sherlock tells him while pointing at different locations on the map.

“Looks good,” John nods. They discuss the logistics a bit more and then both sip their forgotten drinks, satisfied with the plan. That is until John gives Sherlock that look. It’s the look John wears when he knows there is something else on Sherlock’s mind. His ability to know Sherlock so well is infuriating, especially when John himself remains a mystery so much of the time.

“So.”

“So?”

“What’s on your mind?”

“I’ve already told you. We’ve discussed it. It’s done.”

“There’s something else.”

“There’s nothing else.”

“Look, Sherlock, you’re good at hiding things from people,” John pauses, pursing his lips while Sherlock gives him a smile of smug satisfaction, “but not from me.”

Sherlock’s face quickly morphs into one of indignation.

“Don’t give me that look. Something is bothering you. It’s obvious. Now what is it?”

Sherlock studies John closely. He doesn’t know why he hesitates, but still does. He can trust John with his concerns. He trusts him with his life, for god sake, but this is different. This is a feeling not backed by logic. Ordinarily, he would tell no one and dismiss it as an absurd lack of concentration. Sentiment. But John. He will understand and still Sherlock watches him, unsure. He soon finds himself looking intently at every aspect of John’s expression, getting lost in his eyes. The crinkles around them, the way his brows punctuate every expression, and his mouth… God, his mouth.

Sherlock licks his lips and begins to imagine what it would feel like to touch John’s lips. What must they taste like and how would they feel against his own? Or on his collarbone, his shoulder. Sherlock stutters back, staring at John with wide eyes. He absolutely was not doing that and will not do it again in the future. He has already gone over this in his mind palace enough times to know he cannot act on these feelings. It is too great a risk.

Brushing the thoughts from his mind, he looks at John again and hopes he did not notice the hungry look in his eyes, but knows he must have. He watches for any trace of reaction on the doctor’s face, but there is none. John opens his mouth to speak and his words are not at all what Sherlock expects.

“We’re in this together, yeah?” he says simply, leaning across the table. He looks at Sherlock so intently that Sherlock tips his head to the side, almost in wonder. “You, Greg, me, we’re working together to pull this off and protect the team. Now it’s just the two of us and I can’t help if I don’t have all the pieces. I know something is bothering you and I’m sure it’s to do with the accidents. What is it, Sherlock?”

“The two of us,” Sherlock repeats. His chest and cheeks feel warm as his feelings, so soundly stifled, bubble to the surface again. “Against the world.”

It is a foolish, romantic notion and Sherlock would normally berate anyone for such nonsense, but John is smiling that beautiful smile that shines in his eyes and Sherlock wants him never to stop.

“Yeah,” John replies with not just a little affection in his voice. “Something like that. Can you trust me?”

“Yes,” Sherlock breathes. His eyes must be dilating and he cannot stop them from giving him away.

“Do you trust me?” John asks slowly, voice rife with hesitation.

“Yes,” he answers without stopping to consider it. He has no need. He trusts John implicitly and he knows the feeling is mutual. There is no reason to delay any longer. There never was. “I have no real evidence of my suspicions.”

“Okay,” John’s tongue darts across his lips and it is all Sherlock can do not to look at them, not to even glance. “What suspicions?”

“I have...an uneasy feeling,” Sherlock pauses and swallows. He should feel like an idiot, citing anything as irrational as sentiment as a basis for suspicion, but it is a feeling he cannot shake. Something is not right in Baltimore.

“There was a man. When I stepped out of the elevator before dinner. He was watching me. I’m sure of it, and he was gone when I looked back.”

A moment of silence follows and Sherlock feels suddenly compelled to convince John he has not lost his mind. He leans forward and grasps the hand that lies idly on the table between them.

“I know how it sounds, John. I don’t put any stock into gut feelings, emotions or sentiment, but something is not right here. We have to be prepared for anything,” Sherlock tells him in a low, serious tone.

There it is. His intuition laid out on the table with no basis in logic, just a notion that something is off. He expects John to scoff, tell him he is a weak-minded fool and walk away.

But he does not.

“I believe you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock blinks. He cannot believe his ears. Trying to keep the surprise from his face, he concentrates on John’s features. Honesty and curiosity are the primary emotions he sees and they make him love John that much more. Flip.

Goddammit.

“I trust gut feelings. It’s what helped lead me to you. The team,” he corrects quickly when Sherlock’s eyes meet his and this time they are startled. “This man, what did he look like?”

“My height, blonde, brown eyes and fair skin. He was wearing a black turtleneck and sport coat. I couldn’t see anything else through all the people. He had this look in his eye, like he knew something about me or someone I hold dear. And smirking, but more of a sneer. He’s dangerous, John. I don’t know how, but he is involved in all of this.”

“So we’ll watch for him at the bout and around the hotel. If we see him, we’ll get a hold of him and find out what the hell he’s doing here,” John tells him. Sherlock nods, unable to keep the smile from forming and John follows suit. “What?”

“Nothing. It’s just… You’re usually so polite and charming, but now…” Sherlock looks away coyly, but then snaps his gaze back to John and continues in a firm tone because he was absolutely not being flirtatious. Jesus Christ. “Now you’re quite the opposite.”

“More kick ass and take names? I believe that’s what you Americans say.”

“Yes, something like that,” Sherlock chuckles and, before he knows it, John has joined in his revelry. John continues talking a moment later, taking on a more serious tone.

“It’s where we’re similar. You see, I haven’t been here long, but I’ve grown quite fond of the ladies. I’ll do whatever I need to protect them. And you.”

Those two words catch Sherlock completely off guard and his gaze locks in on John. They share the most sincere of looks across the table. John’s deep blue eyes sparkle, even in the low light of the restaurant. A scheme by hotel managers to appeal to couples who want a romantic evening away from prying eyes. Even those who do not seek out the experience find themselves caught up in the atmosphere. As he continues to gaze into those amazingly expressive, gorgeous blue eyes, Sherlock decides he rather likes it himself.

Then he realizes his own hand still rests on John’s, warm and soft, and for much longer than is normal for friends. He grins uncharacteristically foolishly, hoping it will distract John while he slowly slides it off. The doctor just chuckles quietly and says nothing. Sherlock chastises himself in his mind for being such an idiot. Is this what love does to him? He clenches his jaw irritably. No. He was never like this with Victor. This is what John does to him.

“Hey,” John’s hand is suddenly on his. He looks at him from under long lashes. “You okay?”

“Yes,” Sherlock whispers after a few seconds of thought and John smiles.

They spend another hour or so in easy conversation before bidding one another good night and going to their rooms.

Back in the living room of his suite, Sherlock hangs his long coat and scarf in the closet by the door. He pulls off his suit coat as he goes to the kitchen, tossing it on the bar that separates the kitchenette from the rest of the room. He removes a small bottle of wine from the fridge and takes a glass from the cabinet. Sherlock likes a good white wine and only if it is colder than what most think is appropriate. This wine is acceptable, he concludes after a sip.

Sherlock toes out of his shoes and pads into the bedroom where his bags still sit on the bed. He should shower after the day of traveling and practice, but it is late enough that he cannot bring himself to do it. His only desires are to change and fall into the covers. However, there is one thing he wants to do more. Sherlock sets the wine glass on a side table and unzips his rather large bag. He slips his violin case from it carefully and runs a hand over its smooth surface. Playing helps him relax, clears his mind of most things, like flights. He places it on the bed and turns his attention to the garment bag next to it. He takes out the suits and hangs them in the wardrobe. They are a bit wrinkled, but it is nothing his morning shower won’t fix. He has another sip of wine while changing into dark blue pajamas and then pulls on his favorite dressing gown of cobalt blue satin. The color actually reminds him of John’s eyes. He quickly shakes his head to free himself of that thought. Jesus, he’s like a lovesick adolescent.

Sherlock picks up the violin case, the wine glass in his other hand, and goes into the living room. He sets both items down on the coffee table and looks out the large window for a moment before closing the curtains. Finally, he bends down and lifts the beloved violin from its case, plucking up the bow as he does. After a moment of preparation, he begins to play. He closes his eyes reverently and sways ever so slightly. He plays and plays, careful not to be too loud in the quiet hotel. So consumed by his playing is he that Sherlock almost misses the gentle knocks on his door.

His grey eyes pop open and immediately focus on the door to his suite. He stills the bow, but does not move it from where it hovers over the strings. He waits a beat or two as if there were rests in the piece and then hears it again. Two quiet knocks on his door. Sherlock glances at the clock by the flatscreen. Midnight.

Sherlock places the instrument and bow back in the case and moves toward the door, but pauses mid-step when there is another soft knock. He rolls his eyes and places his hands on his hips. This has happened before. There’s only one person it could be and Sherlock is beyond ticked off. He stomps the last few steps, releases the deadbolt in one swift movement and jerks the door open.

“Harry, if you’ve flooded your room again, I will not be responsible for my ac...tions,” Sherlock loses the vehemence in his last word as soon as he sees the figure at his door.

“What?” John asks, bewildered. “Has Harry flooded her room?”

“No. No, not this time,” Sherlock fumbles. “She did when we were here last year.”

“She does get up to things, doesn’t she?” John snickers.

“Don’t I know it.”

“I bet Clara was pissed off.”

“Oh, she was, believe me. They didn’t share a room for nine aways after that.”

“Nine? Seems rather arbitrary.”

“One for every year they’ve been together.”

“Oh,” the word sounds like a sigh and John’s eyes are soft. “That’s so sweet.”

“Sentiment,” Sherlock’s tone is dismissive and John gives him a look. “After Victor, I determined that sentiment is a defect on the losing side.”

“And yet, you keep winning,” John replies with a cheeky smile, “and you love Molly.”

“Like a sister. It’s different.”

“It’s still sentiment.”

Sherlock looks past John for a moment, feeling himself being pulled down a rabbit hole to a place he would rather not go. He fixes his gaze on John once more, a more critical gaze this time.

“Did you have some reason for coming to my room at this hour?” he asks in a clipped and rude tone he immediately regrets. He blows out a frustrated breath as John’s playful grin fades into startled dejection. Sherlock rushes to put it right. “John…”

“No, you’re right. I’m sorry,” the doctor interrupts, taking a step away from the door. “I apologize for the hour, but I just got a message from Mike.”

Sherlock freezes. Molly’s recovery has gone perfectly by anyone’s measure, but the brotherly and ultimately, irrational part of his mind jumps to frightening conclusions. The logical, and thankfully, larger part of his mind quells the worry before it can be seen on his face. Still, John continues quickly and though he can see it all as clear as day. Damn it, he knows Sherlock too well.

“Everything looks good and she’ll be released tomorrow morning,” he rushes to say. “I thought you’d want to know.”

“Yes,” Sherlock’s body relaxes and he lets out the breath he was holding. “Thank you. Please, come in.”

He stands aside and John walks in hesitantly with a ta. In moments, they are seated on the couch, sipping from water bottles. There is an air of discomfort and awkwardness between them that crushes Sherlock’s heart. He has never felt this way with John in the whole of their association. Even when they met and he attacked him with accusations and suspicion, John was completely at ease. Irritated, yes, but not uncomfortable. Sherlock’s mind works fast for a way to fix this.

“There’s no need to worry about getting her home,” John says suddenly. “Mycroft is going to help her. He’s already arranged it and he’ll help her get settled at home. Since you’re out of town and all. Apparently, he’s taken quite a shine to her.”

“Has he?” Sherlock asks with a lopsided smile. John gives him that cheeky grin and they descend into laughter. Sherlock leans back on the couch, rests his hand on his belly and looks at John. The doctor wears an almost wistful expression. A slow smile creeps onto Sherlock’s face, but doesn’t quite reach his eyes before his lips turn down into a frown. “Mike called you at midnight?”

“What?” John asks and then raises his brows in understanding. “Oh, no, no. He phoned just after I got back to my room, but I didn’t hear it in the shower. Then I fell asleep watching crap telly as soon as my ass hit the sofa. I woke up just a little while ago and saw the message.”

John pauses. Sherlock meets his gaze and then lets his eyes drop down to John’s lips when the tip of his tongue darts out to wet them. Sherlock swallows hard.

“I came to tell you straight away. I thought you’d want to know,” he pauses to look at the coach with laughing eyes, “like I was saying.”

“Yes,” Sherlock says again in a smooth tone. He notices a shiver ripple through John’s body and narrows his eyes. “I do. Thank you, John.”

Before he realizes what he is doing, Sherlock is patting John’s knee lightly. It is warm and welcoming, the denim of his jeans softer than it has any right to be. Sherlock pulls his hand away, even though every instinct in his mind screams to stop and just rest his hand on that knee.

“You’re welcome,” John clears his throat, speaking quietly.

Sherlock tilts his head because the man sitting on the couch next to him is absolutely the most amazing sight he has ever seen. He places his water bottle on the coffee table, drawing John’s attention to the violin and bow.

“That was you playing?” he says incredulously. “You play the violin.”

“Since I was five,” Sherlock replies. “And Molly plays the cello. Our parents had us take lessons together.”

“You really are two of a kind.”

“Oh, no, John,” Sherlock corrects him. “We are very different, trust me.”

A goofy grin appears on John’s face. He glances at his own knee where Sherlock’s had just been and a soft look comes over his features. He turns on the couch, folding one leg in front of his body. One arm rests on the back and he cups his own cheek in his hand, but he says nothing.

Sherlock turns to mirror his position. Draping his left arm across the top of the back, his fingers are close enough for him to touch John’s elbow with his fingertips. A soft brush of affection, of love. Sherlock wiggles his fingers slowly, but does not get close enough to actually touch John. Oh, how he longs to.

“You’re going to visit Molly as soon as we get back?” John’s voice is quiet and gentle. Sherlock gazes at him and they slowly become the only two people on earth. The hotel room falls away. In fact, the whole hotel full of people no longer exists as Sherlock finds and catalogs every hue of blue in John’s eyes. And a fleck of dark brown in only the left one.

“You’re very lucky to have each other,” John says and Sherlock realizes he must have answered yes. He zooms out a bit to see a somewhat distant and sad expression on John’s face. “It’s a precious thing.”

“Do you have a friend like that?” Sherlock asks and then wonders if it was wise when John looks at him with shining eyes.

“I did once,” John replies in a choked voice. He clears his throat and seems to collect himself. Watching the struggle to reign in his emotions, Sherlock desperately wants to take his hand or even take the man into his arms. His body aches with the urge to comfort John in any way he is capable.

“Bill Murray,” John says louder, sounding more like himself. “Met him when I was thirteen. He was fifteen and had just moved next door. He was an only child like me and really into tech repair. He’d fix anything, tear anything apart to see how it works and always got it back together again, usually in better condition than it started. He appreciated my capacity to learn quickly and extrapolate. It helped him with his work.”

He pauses a moment and mirrors Sherlock’s warm smile. Maybe it is the wine he drank earlier, although he did not have nearly enough for this, but Sherlock feels pliant and cozy. The soft oranges and yellows from the lamp lights in the room make the deep red of John’s shirt look even softer. The corners of Sherlock’s mouth curl further and he allows his middle finger to just barely graze John’s elbow.

“Right about the time I went to uni, he graduated and joined the army. We were in contact all through med school and basic training. We found weekends to meet up here and there. I could tell him anything,” John smiles wistfully, but it fades from his face and Sherlock finds himself dreading John’s next words. “I thought about joining up once I was done with school. Figured they’d be happy to have a ‘brilliant’ army doctor.”

Sherlock studies John’s face carefully, gleaning it all from his features. He knows what happened next, but there is no way in hell he is going to let on. He straightens his middle finger again and touches John’s elbow gently. Instead of pulling away again after contact, Sherlock lets his fingertip remain against John’s arm, wishing the doctor had worn a short-sleeved shirt.

“Did you?” Sherlock asks, not failing to notice John has not moved his elbow. The doctor raises his eyes and looks at him sadly. “No, I didn’t. There was more opportunity in civilian life, in England. Bill had shipped out to Afghanistan,” a determined look comes over John’s face and his elbow presses into Sherlock’s fingertip as if he needs to ground himself with the touch. “I thought I could do more, help more people, make more of a difference working in London. Women, children, young and old…”

“I’m sure you did,” Sherlock assures him when he trails off. His index finger joins his middle one, touching John’s elbow gently. “You must have saved countless lives over your career.”

“I couldn’t save the one that mattered most,” John whispers. He turns his head away, casting his eyes at the floor below the flat screen as though he cannot face Sherlock. He can still see the shine of tears in John’s eyes in spite of it. “I’m sorry. That’s a terrible thing to say.”

Sherlock touches with his ring finger now too.

“It’s human,” his voice is quiet and sympathetic. He strokes with his middle finger, trying to comfort the wondrous man before him. John still won’t look at him. “Bill?”

John nods and blinks slowly.

“They were hit on patrol and pinned down for hours,” he sounds distant and still stares straight ahead. He looks as though he can somehow visualize the scene, like he was the lone witness who could do nothing. Sherlock inhales sharply when John’s elbow leans into his touch with all its weight. He can feel John’s pain as acutely as if it is his own. John finally looks at him with watery eyes haunted by sorrow and guilt.

“He got shot,” John says flatly. “In the shoulder. The medics couldn’t get to him for the gunfire and he bled out. Didn’t have a chance. His parents told me. Came to my flat to give me a few of Bill’s things. He’d wanted me to have them.”

As he stares at Sherlock, a tinge of anger sneaks onto his face and his voice has an edge when he speaks.

“Damn it, Sherlock,” John huffs, “if I’d been there... If I had joined up I could have saved him. If I’d just been there. I’ve...I’ve never been able to shake that.”

“What makes you think you could have made it to him?” Sherlock asks. His tone is firm, but empathetic and John gazes back with uncertainty written all over his face. He looks lost and yet, ready to hear what Sherlock has to say, ready to believe. It hits Sherlock all at once that John has never spoken to anyone about this before. He has never been able to put voice to his pain. He has never trusted anyone enough to share it. Sherlock takes a moment to let the weight of that realization wash over him before he speaks.

“You said the gunfire held them down. You would’ve been shot if you tried to get to him. Even if you had been right next to him, you may not have been able to control the bleeding. He may have still bled out.”

Sherlock leans closer. The two gaze at one another with the kind of trust and bond typically earned only after years of friendship.

“You can’t blame yourself, John,” he tells him in a gentle voice. “Bill wouldn’t want that.”

He watches in silence as John’s dark and stormy eyes slowly begin to clear. He may have heard words like Sherlock’s before, possibly from his parents, but he had never dared to believe. He could never find any peace in his heart or mind. So he bottled his feelings and carried the weight of his guilt. John clearly never spoke of it at any time, in any relationship and the fact that he would trust Sherlock with it opens Sherlock’s eyes. He sees for the first time how much their friendship truly means to John.

Sherlock closes his fingers around John’s elbow and fixes him with an earnest gaze. The next words out of his mouth are nearly ‘I love you’ and thank god, he doesn’t say them. Nothing in the world would be more awkward and John would have bolted like a frightened rabbit.

“I have no doubt that Bill treasured your friendship and never had any expectation that you would serve together. He left his things to you as a remembrance of what you shared, not to make you feel guilty or that you’d failed him. You haven’t, John.”

The doctor says nothing. He just looks at Sherlock, unblinking.

��You’re right,” he breathes, a tear slipping from his eye and trickling down his cheek. “I know you’re right. But it’s so hard.”

“I know, John,” Sherlock places his free hand comfortingly on John’s knee. “Bill’s death was a tragedy to be sure. But if you hadn’t been in London for the people you have saved before and after it, that would have been a tragedy. And I think Bill would agree.”

There is a long silence. Sherlock is just beginning to think he should have kept his mouth shut when John’s lips turn up at the ends. It is a subtle movement, one he almost did not detect, but it is there nonetheless. John places his hand over Sherlock’s where it still rests on his knee. Sherlock’s stomach flips and his brows bounce up to reach the curls on his forehead.

“Thanks,” John says, his thumb lightly feathering up and down over Sherlock’s thumb to the back of his hand. “I know that wasn’t easy to say. Certainly not what I thought we’d be talking about when I walked here.”

“I would do anything for you, John,” he replies after a few seconds. John looks at him, that ghost of a smile still on his face. He pulls away the elbow Sherlock has been touching throughout the conversation and extends it until his hand is resting on the coach’s bicep. A shiver surges through Sherlock’s body and he is sure John feels it too because his smile widens slightly.

“So,” John begins as Sherlock feels a burst of lightheadedness when he gives his arm a squeeze and then gestures to the empty water bottle on the coffee table, “any chance I could get another? Or was that wine I saw on the counter?”

***

Two hours later and they are still on the couch, giggling and snorting merrily. Not drunk, as each has only had one glass of wine, but certainly very jovial. Sherlock has a twinkle in his eye as he looks at John because a laughing John Watson is truly a sight to behold. The coach is leaning back on the couch again with his legs stretched out on the coffee table. His head is turned to face John, who still sits sideways with his arm resting on the back of the couch. They are close enough that John’s fingers touch Sherlock’s bicep and his damned stomach flips periodically with the knowledge of it. While Sherlock still finds it frustrating, he knows for an absolute fact that he would love to feel that touch again and again, every day and night. He wishes that touch meant what he wants it to mean.

Goddamn, he is so fucked.

“We turned and skated as fast as we could,” Sherlock laughs, “covered with paint and cotton candy.”

“Oh my god,” John snorts, rocking back and forth. “I can’t believe you and Molly got away with that! Did he ever show up at your house and tell your parents?”

“No,” Sherlock replies, sobering, “but he appeared in the playground after school the next day and extorted us.”

John freezes on the spot, his eyes wide with shock. His jaw drops open and all trace of humor drains away.

“Oh my god,” he murmurs.

Sherlock stares back at him with a grim expression. However, a grin he cannot hide lurks beneath. The corners of his mouth begin turning up and he bites his lip to hold it in. John raises a brow in confusion as Sherlock’s head tilts up and laughter bursts from his mouth. His head falls back on the couch as he laughs and laughs, a sound from deep in his belly and he clutches at his stomach.

“You should see your face,” he struggles to say, his body tilting slightly from side to side with laughter. Realization quickly dawns on John’s face and he shoves at Sherlock’s arm, mumbling something that sounds like prat. He wears a smile of genuine amusement only a moment later and laughs with the coach.

“I can’t believe I fell for that,” he gasps out between two rather undignified snorts. “Bastard.”

He shoves at Sherlock’s arm again, watching fondly as Sherlock tries to reign in his merriment. When he has finally collected himself again, he looks at John with a more serious expression. It does not last as he starts to giggle and then quickly descends into laughter again. John shoves at him a third time, making both laugh even harder.

Suddenly John lunges at him and Sherlock yelps. They topple over on the couch in a mess of limbs and giggles.

“Ass,” John accuses playfully from atop Sherlock’s chest. The coach wriggles beneath his body to no avail. He places his hands on John’s hips and then slides them a few inches up John’s sides. Sherlock’s breath hitches and he blinks once. His nerves are somewhere between disbelief and sheer panic. If they keep this up his body is going to react in a way he cannot easily hide from John. He must end this here and now before he gives away everything.

Sherlock delivers two quick but light pinches to John’s sides, just under his ribs. The doctor yelps and twists fiercely.

“Shit! Stop. Stop!”

John flounders and then jerks hard to one side. Unfortunately, he tips right over the edge of the couch and brings Sherlock with him. His back thuds onto the floor loudly, the taller man thumping down on top of him.

“Oh,” John groans. His head lays back on the floor and his hands fall to his sides. With the air knocked free from his lungs, he cannot answer Sherlock right away.

“Fuck! Are you all right?” Sherlock straddles his hips and rests on all fours above him, his hands on either side of John’s head. “John. John! Just try to relax, okay? That’s it. Take deep, slow breaths.”

John’s breathing normalizes within a minute and Sherlock should really get off of him. He knows he should. He absolutely cannot take advantage of their close proximity and position, but a war rages in his mind, each side battling for control.

Jesus, John smells so good. Stop it. Stop it!

He had not meant for this to happen and, while part of him wants to stay this way forever, another part tells him he can’t possibly do that and keep his friendship with John intact.

“I’m fine,” John chokes in a quiet voice. “Just need to catch my breath.”

“Sorry,” Sherlock mutters and makes to move off the doctor, but warm hands on his sides stop him.

“Don’t,” John whispers.

They stare at one another. Sherlock sees both fear and desire in John’s eyes? It is only then that he begins to notice other tells that he should have seen long ago. An elevated heart rate, flush blooming up John’s neck and onto his cheeks, and his pupils have grown tenfold. Sherlock is shocked to the core and his breath hitches again when he sees those gorgeous, perfect eyes with only a sliver of blue left flick down to his own lips. In fact, his whole brain screeches to a halt in stunning realization.

John wants him.

John wants him?

No.

Yes?

“John?”

“Yes?” he breathes.

But Sherlock has no words. He has no idea what to say or do. He knows John is nothing like Victor, but the risk...the pain seems inevitable. Sentiment. He should ignore it, douse out the flame.

“Sherlock?” John whispers, bringing the man back to himself. John looks worried, his pupils already shrinking. “Are you okay?”

Unacceptable.

Without a word or thought, Sherlock lowers his head. His eyes slip closed and he just brushes his lips against John’s. The slightest touch, light as a feather and completely surreal. Sherlock’s entire body tingles with just that one touch. It starts at their lips and spreads through his chest, down his arms and legs to fingertips and toes. It. Is. Amazing. Glorious. Perfect.

Sherlock feels like he is floating. He lets out a long, smooth sigh and then opens his eyes to find John staring back with an unreadable look on his face. The doctor blows out a quiet breath, his eyes searching Sherlock’s. His body is full to the brim with tension.

“I…” he begins in a hushed tone. “I should go.”

Sherlock bites his lip. It is too much. He lifts himself, putting more space between them and adopting an air of nonchalance that grips his heart and squeezes.

“Of course.”

Minutes later, they stand at the door to Sherlock’s suite. Neither has said a word and Sherlock feels like a complete idiot. Why the hell did he think that was a good idea? After all he had told himself about getting hurt, of John not feeling the same way? But why had he said don’t when Sherlock tried to get up? God, he must find some way to salvage this. He cannot bear to lose their friendship. He cannot lose John. It would be like… No, it would be nothing like losing Victor. It would be exponentially worse. A piece of his own heart ripped from his chest, never to return, and what a piss poor job he has done protecting it.

Sherlock feels numb. He watches John reach for the doorknob and then something in his mind explodes. His hand juts out abruptly and he touches John’s arm.

“John, wait,” he prides himself on the fact that his voice sounds steady.

John turns to face him with an expectant look and Sherlock has a sudden flash of unadulterated panic, but he pushes it aside before he shows. At least, he hopes so.

“I’m sorry,” he says simply. His big brain cannot come up with anything better or more eloquent than the truth. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

Please let us still be friends. Please don’t turn away.

John’s brows raise and he looks at Sherlock with a hint of surprise on his face.

“Is that what you…” he stops and shakes his head ever so slightly. His brows lower into a thoughtful crease. His features become deadly serious, but soft and understanding as well. “Don’t apologize, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s mouth opens, but no words come out and he ends up staring at John like a lovelorn fool. Don’t apologize. What the hell does that mean? Surely not what he wants them to. Why is this man so damn murky in a world that is otherwise, clear as glass? Everything and everyone so obvious and Sherlock likes it that way, but John Watson is an anomaly, an enigma he cannot quite piece together. It is absolutely infuriating and yet, everything Sherlock has ever wanted.

Sherlock stares at John without blinking, unsure of what to say or do. Don’t apologize could simply mean that John takes no offense and does not want to dwell on it. Several internal dialogues rapidly play out in his mind and Sherlock ignores them all to concentrate on a decent response instead. He begins to speak, but is not beyond John’s name before he is being manhandled towards the door. His back thuds against the wall with a curse and John’s body is against his, pinning him there. John’s face hovers in front of Sherlock’s, looking uncertain and a little scared, but heated and full of want. Without a word, he presses his lips against Sherlock’s and Sherlock’s mind goes blank.

-----

AHHHH! Omg, we finally made it! They finally got there. Can you even believe it? Eleven chapters in and slowest of slow burn, but YIKES, how exciting! When I got to the end, even I was thinking NO! YOU CAN’T STOP THERE! And now you all have to wait a week to see what happens next. Oops. And truly, with me, you just never know. Will one of the ladies knock on the door because someone’s trying to take down another lady? Or Mycroft phones with some news? Or Greg suddenly turns up to help with the bout? You just never know.

I wish you all a good weekend, a Happy Mother’s Day and an excellent upcoming week. I usually say I hope this brought you some solace, but this time I hope it continues to distract you all week long. Mwahahahaha!

Love, Jane

@zentris @221b-carefulwhatyouwishfor @toooldforthissh-stuff @shana-movershaker @melmey-fanfics @louise175dk @technicallywiseoncns @underestimatemethatwillbefun @jhamishw @weirdlittlegoofball @superwholockpotterincamelot @superwholocklmt @ladidragonuniverse @kittenmadnessandtea @srebrnafh @welcometomyharddrive @annecumberbatch @kingdomofbrokenhearts @philliphooper @whodwantmeasaflatmate @gloriascott93 @vvaticancameoss @cow-mow @echosilverwolf @spazzz32 @absentmindedstuff @swissmissing @shuukichan @maeliandmyself @wtgilsa @thetranslucentwallaby @red-pen-revolution @britishaccentfan @dischorde @plasticstrawsmuggler @youknowyougrow @francj96

#Sherlock Holmes #Sherlock #sherlockholmes #sherlock loves john #sherlock fanfic #john watson #johnwatson #johnlock #Johnlock fanfic #sherlock roller derby #sherlock au

12 notes · View notes