Performance In a Leading Role (10/20)
Title: Performance in a Leading Role
Author: MadLori
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Length: 9000 (this chapter)
Genre: AU, romance
Warnings: None
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is an Oscar winner in the midst of a career slump. John Watson is an Everyman actor trapped in the rom-com ghetto. When they are cast as a gay couple in a new independent drama, will they surprise each other? Will their on-screen romance make its way into the real world?
Chapter 1 -- Chapter 2 -- Chapter 3 -- Chapter 4 -- Chapter 5 -- Chapter 6 -- Chapter 7 -- Chapter 8 -- Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Sally was just opening up the office when her mobile rang. She glanced at the screen to see who was calling. Fabulous Bitch. She grinned and answered. “Harry, you tart.”
“All right?”
“Yeah. Just getting to the office.” She thumped the mail down on her desk and sat down. “What’s on, then?”
“Just checking in. John’s forbidden me from ringing him. How are our boys?”
“They drove down to Sussex yesterday afternoon. Heard not a word since. Did you get the fax about the ADR sessions?”
“Yeah, I got it. I’m watching the Tubes like you asked. My Google alerts are the envy of all who behold them. Plus I have a secret agent.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, our niece Isabelle. You think we’re Net-savvy, she’s a bloody ninja warrior. She’s taken it upon herself to become a member of all John’s fan communities and report on them to me. I didn’t even have to ask her to join up on Sherlock’s as well. She’s a smart one.”
“Anything?”
“Nothing new. No photos, no sightings. One posting on a fan forum said they saw John in Brentwood yesterday.”
“Where he was really, really not.”
“Indeed. But it looks like they made it out of town without a sighting. I’m worried about them going into Hailsham, though. You think they will?”
“Might do. If they need tea or something. I wouldn’t worry about it, though. Sherlock’s been going to Hailsham for years and he’s never been papped there, or even sighted there as I recollect. It’s a small town, he’s familiar, nobody cares. It’s a bit of an unwritten rule in places like that. Famous people come to get away, so you have to let them be away.”
“If someone saw them there together it might be enough to overcome the charming country reticence.”
“I’m not about to tell them they have to sequester themselves in the house.”
She chuckled. “Like they’d mind. Most of the chatter on the fansites is about John’s appearance on ‘The Mentalist,’ and they’re still trading stage-door photos of Sherlock from ‘Closer.’ It’s ramping up quite a bit for To a Stranger, though. It was like a bloody bomb went off when those publicity stills were released.”
“All right, well - keep your eyes open.”
“Cheers, luv.”
“Yeah, all right.” She hung up.
She’d barely had time to boot up her computer when there was a knock at the door. She frowned. Nobody ever came to the door here. Sherlock’s office was more or less a place for her to work and keep the files, and for him to have a neutral address to receive post. He was hardly ever here himself and nobody came here unless she’d asked them.
She got up and opened the door, and her heart sank. It was Anderson, the line producer, her very own on-and-off boyfriend. “David!” she said, feigning surprise even though she knew damn well why he was here. “I wasn’t expecting you until next week! This is a nice surprise.”
He looked grim. “Where are they, Sally?”
“Wait, who are we talking about?”
He came inside and shut the door behind him. “Don’t make this more awful than it has to be. I don’t want to be here and nobody wants me to be here but this is the reality of the situation. Where are John and Sherlock?”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “I don’t work for you, David. I work for Sherlock. Ordering me to betray his confidence isn’t the way to stay in my good graces.”
“I’m just trying to look out for them,” Anderson said. “We’ve got to make sure they aren’t seen.”
“And you’re doing all this out of a deep sense of concern for Sherlock’s privacy, of course. It can’t be to safeguard the profit margin of your film.”
“It’s their film, too.”
“He isn’t stupid, you know.”
“No, but he is stubborn.”
“You say that as if you think it’s news to me, somehow. And if I told you exactly where he was, what then?”
“I just need a word.”
“Then send him a fucking email, already!”
“This isn’t a conversation one likes to have via email.”
“I won’t disturb Sherlock. He’s on holiday.”
“Alone?”
“I can’t confirm or deny that.”
Anderson took a step closer. “Can we drop the act? We know where he is, and who he is with.”
“Then why the bad cop routine? Hoping I’d make it easier for you? Think again.”
“You think anyone is happy that we have to worry about this? If it were up to me I’d be sending them champagne and wishing them every happiness. But this is right from the top. Past Jim, even. This has to be contained.”
“A word more appropriately applied to nuclear meltdowns.”
“That’s exactly what we’ll have on our hands if the press gets wind of the fact that our lead actors are off somewhere in Sussex, shagging each other’s brains out.”
Sally tightened her jaw. “If you need to talk to Sherlock, you won’t be doing it through me. Not until he gets back from his holiday.”
Anderson nodded and went to the door. “I’ll find another way, then.”
Bright panic bloomed in Sally’s throat. She hurried over and slammed the door before Anderson could leave, then stood up against it so he couldn’t open it again. He looked at her in surprise. “Please,” she said. “Please, leave them alone.”
He swallowed hard and looked desperately miserable. “I can’t. Don’t you understand? I can’t.”
“They’re in love,” Sally said, playing her last card. “They’re so in love, David. Do you know what that means for them? Do you know how hard it’s going to be, what they’re going to go through? Give them some time before you start bringing reality down on their heads. Just a few days alone to get their feet under them. If they’re going to survive it they’re going to have to be strong with each other. Don’t cut their knees out before they’ve even had a chance to spend any time together. Please.”
He held her gaze for a moment, then sagged in defeat. “All right, Sally. I’ll stall the higher-ups. But Jim and I aren’t the enemy here.”
“I hope not. John and Sherlock are going to need friends, not enemies.”
Sherlock woke early Monday morning, his second morning waking up with John by his side. He wondered if it would ever become routine, if there would ever come a time when the mere fact that John was here in his bed would seem like nothing extraordinary, just another commonplace part of life. He hoped not. He rather liked the sensation of waking up and being immediately amazed.
He slipped quietly out of bed, not wishing to wake John. He wasn’t fond of lie-ins by nature but John was, and they’d both been sleep-deprived of late, for reasons both mundane and fantastic. Sherlock went into the bathroom to answer the call of nature; when he came back into the bedroom he had to stop for a moment and look at John, free to do so without self-consciousness now with his subject asleep, curled on his side with his hands tucked beneath his cheek.
Sherlock tiptoed to the side of the bed and crouched there, looking at John’s face, peaceful in sleep. He wondered what John was dreaming of. John did not think of himself as having great beauty. Sherlock didn’t know how to tell him how wrong he was. John was surely the most beautiful thing in the world. Sherlock certainly couldn’t think of anything he’d rather look at.
He let himself watch for a few moments, until he began to feel uneasy about it. Wasn’t it a bit stalkerish? Watching one’s beloved sleep? Looming over them whilst they slumbered on, unaware? He didn’t know the protocol for such things, but he felt like a creeper so he straightened up and went in search of his clothes. Pajama pants were located behind the chair in the corner, t-shirt wadded up in the covers. He pulled them on over his nude body and padded downstairs to put the kettle on.
He wandered to the window that gave onto the backyard, quite an tranquil view of the pond and woods on the property. The house sat on thirty acres which backed onto a preserve, where there were lovely hiking trails that led into Hailsham and beyond. The early morning sun was slanting in, casting picturesque shadows over the dew-sparkled grass, and for once Sherlock found himself enjoying the aesthetics of the moment instead of pondering the relative humidity or gauging the windspeed from the motion of the tree branches.
He was - content. It was a state he’d found himself in but rarely. Perhaps never, at least not like this. Content where he was, content in his own skin, content with the company.
His violin was still sitting on a chair where John had left it. Sherlock shivered a bit to remember the look in John’s eyes after he’d finished playing for him, and then they’d gone upstairs and it had been unexpectedly awkward and painful and bad but then it had been good - no, better than good, it had been everything.
Then after a serious discussion which Sherlock was determined not to think about until absolutely necessary, they’d made love again with their hands and mouths and their whole bodies and had fallen asleep with the sun still shining, spent and tangled together. Which only led to them being wide-awake at midnight, camped out on the couch in the den with hastily-arranged snacks and cuddling under a blanket, watching Bringing Up Baby and laughing together, a bit tipsy on the bottle of Gewürztraminer that Sherlock found in the fridge. The end of the film had been ignored in favor of some rather feverish snogging and groping under the blanket, which had led to stumbling back up the stairs to the bedroom for another go.
They’d only been here one night and Sherlock had already had more sex with John than he’d had in the last two years. Sex had always been an obligation to be fulfilled, something that was expected of him. He’d never known what it felt like to crave someone, not until now; it fit poorly inside him, poking him from within with sharp corners and unexpected angles, forever surprising him, like the sight of his own reflection in a mirror he hadn’t known was there. His thoughts lingered on John’s neck, his hands, his body, his mouth, the feeling of that mouth on Sherlock’s own body, the mind-bending discovery of what it felt like to bury himself in John, to be wrapped around and inside someone at the same time. It could become a preoccupation if he did not discipline his mind.
Good Lord, was this what it was like for other people? All the time? No wonder no one else ever seemed to get anything done, or to be able to muster the focus of discipline to think properly. The idea of sacrificing his own mental equilibrium on the altar of John Watson was disturbing, but damned if right now it didn’t feel like it was well worth it.
Sherlock gave himself a shake. Five minutes was about his limit for emotional introspection.
He got out his laptop and sat at the breakfast bar with his tea. An hour later he’d read his emails (nothing of significance that couldn’t wait), checked BBC News (ditto) and spent far too long Googling real estate in Los Angeles. He was interrupted by his mobile going off. Text message.
Missing: one Oscar winning actor. Thirty-four years old, six feet tall, dark brown hair. Dead sexy. If found please return ASAP to bed of John Watson. Generous reward is offered.
Sherlock grinned, a bloom of happy warmth bursting open in his chest and racing out to his fingers and toes, and gravity seemed to loosen its hold on his whole body for a moment.
He stared at John’s teasing text message. Was this what it felt like? Was this the feeling that humans had been writing and singing and painting about since the beginning of time? He’d long since given up on ever experiencing it firsthand, but what was this, then?
I think - I think I might love him.
The thought was there and then gone, tucked away to be looked at later, when it was perhaps a little less intimidating. He had things to do just now. Or rather someone to do. He got up and raced up the stairs. The sight that greeted him when he got there was John sprawled on his back in bed, propped up on his elbows with the duvet tangled all around him. He was all golden skin and mussed bed-hair and sleepy smiles and it damn near knocked the breath out of Sherlock’s chest. “I heard something about a reward,” he said, stripping off his t-shirt.
John beckoned him with a jerk of his chin. “Get back in here.”
Sherlock tossed his pajamas pants aside and crawled back under the covers, settling on top of John, his morning erection brushing against Sherlock’s own rapidly hardening cock. “Mmm,” he hummed. “I’m sorry, did you get lonely?”
“Terribly,” John said, pulling him down into a languid kiss, his hands running up and down Sherlock’s back. “Something you ought to know about me.”
“That you are irresistible?”
John giggled, Sherlock adding another mental tally mark to his Making John Giggle scorecard. “Maybe to you.”
“Most certainly to me. You know that when I came in here and saw you, I forgot how to breathe for a moment? It was a little alarming. Good job that I didn’t require medical attention.”
John went quiet, his eyes searching Sherlock’s. “You’re not just saying that, are you? I mean, you’re not giving me a line just to get something. You mean it when you say things like that.”
“Of course I mean it. Why would I say it if I didn’t?”
He smiled and arched his neck to kiss Sherlock again, pulling on his lower lip, a part of him that seemed to fascinate John. “The fact that you can ask that question is - well, it’s just another reason I’m here with you.”
Sherlock looked down into John’s face, running one finger along his hairline. “You were going to tell me something I ought to know about you.”
“Oh, right. Something you should know about me is that I love, and I do mean love, morning sex.”
“I see. So for you to wake and find yourself alone in bed…”
“Deeply disappointing.” He ran one hand down Sherlock’s back to his arse, kneading it possessively.
“I’d hate for you to start the day disappointed.”
“That would be a shame.”
“Tell me how I might go about making amends.”
John thought for a moment, looking a little unsure. “I loved what we did last time. I wish you could fuck me again.”
“Why can’t I?” Honestly, that’s what he’d come up here with a mind to do. John had taken to it much better than he himself had, but that could have been the result of their learning from their mistakes. They’d gone much slower when it had been John’s turn.
“I don’t think I can again so soon. It’s a bit - sore.”
“Oh, John - I’m sorry, did I…”
“No, it’s nothing you did. It felt amazing at the time. I’m just not used to it.”
Sherlock kissed him hard, fast, quickly moving down to his neck, which he’d already learned was very sensitive. John arched into his mouth, a hand tangling in Sherlock’s hair. “I’m sure I can think of a suitable alternative,” he murmured. He slid down under the covers and took John’s cock in his mouth. He felt him groan and shudder, but after only a few moments he was pulling Sherlock away.
“No, I don’t want to come like that,” he said, breathy.
“How, then?”
John seized Sherlock’s arms and rolled them over, getting his knees between Sherlock’s legs and slotting their hips together. He hooked a hand behind Sherlock’s knee and lifted; Sherlock got the idea and wrapped his legs around John’s waist. John lay over him and kissed him with slow thoroughness. “I want to feel every inch of you,” he whispered in Sherlock’s ear.
Sherlock wasn’t quite sure what that meant. If John meant to fuck him again, he might have to raise the same objection that John had done a moment ago. But that would require leaving off kissing to speak, and he didn’t want to do that, either. For now John was just lying atop him, gently rolling his hips and working Sherlock’s mouth with his own. John felt pliable and drowsy, smelled of warm skin, and the whole experience was like sliding into a gentle whirlpool.
John began to thrust his hips harder against Sherlock, shifting around until their cocks aligned. Sherlock gasped at the contact and tilted his pelvis up. John dropped his mouth to Sherlock’s neck and their bodies rolled in waves on the bed, crashing against each other until John came, crying out Sherlock’s name. He stilled for a moment, then slid his hand between them and grasped Sherlock’s cock, stroking him until he spilled over John’s fingers, biting his lip and grunting. Then it was all breath and kisses and the slide of fresh sweat.
Sherlock kissed along John’s jawline to his ear. “Morning sex?”
John chuckled. “It’s a nice way to start the day.”
Sherlock had to agree with John’s assessment as to the best way to start the day. After their early romp, they rose just long enough to shower, fetch some breakfast, put on clean pajamas and get back into bed. John read a book, Sherlock sat up with his laptop. For hours, until well after noon, they lounged there together, each wrapped in their own pursuits. Even so, there was a togetherness in their silence. Their feet tangled together under the covers, they leaned against each other in turns. They exchanged quick, quiet kisses whenever the notion struck.
Around one o’clock, John put his book aside and rubbed at his eyes. “I suppose we ought to see about some lunch,” he said.
“Mmm.”
“And it might be nice to get out of the house.”
“I’m quite happy right where I am.”
“We can’t stay in bed for the whole day, Sherlock,” John said, smiling at him.
“Why not?”
“Well - because - we just can’t.”
Sherlock put his laptop aside and stretched out next to John, pulling him into his arms. John nestled against his chest. “How long can you stay?” he asked.
John sighed. “I have to fly home on Friday. I’d like to see my parents first, so we should spend Thursday night in town.”
“We’ll drive back on Thursday, then.”
“That’s only two more days we’ll have here. What happened to a whole week?”
“A week isn’t what it used to be, John.”
John slid his arm over Sherlock’s stomach and cuddled a bit closer. “Then it’ll be how long until you come to L.A.?”
“Three weeks.”
They were silent for a moment. “Blimey,” John said.
Sherlock knew what he meant. It had only been a few days for him and John but already the idea of being separated from him for even a single day, let alone three weeks, was depressing. “It’ll pass quickly,” he said, not really believing it.
“You know, I don’t think it will.” John turned his head and kissed Sherlock’s collarbone. “I’ll miss you awfully.”
“And I you.”
They lay there holding each other for a few minutes more, lost in their respective thoughts. “Well, come on, then. Let’s roust ourselves. How about we go into Hailsham, then? Get some lunch, have a look round? I’ve never been there.”
“If you like.”
John frowned. “Might we be spotted?”
“Unlikely. I’ve never been photographed there. At least, not that made its way to the public at large. We shouldn’t take the car, though. Too flashy. It’s only three miles, there are bicycles in the shed. We can ride.”
“Oh, brilliant. I’ve not ridden a bike in ages.” John grinned, excited. “It’ll be like an outing.”
“It won’t be like an outing, it will actually be one.”
“I know. I suppose I meant - it’ll be like something normal people do.”
“Are we not normal people?”
“Good Lord, no. We’re strange people. We work on weekends and holidays and people are paid to make us look as dashing as possible. We get paid to pretend for the amusement of others and people actually seem to care who designed our tuxedoes. Our jobs involve going to parties and films and talking about ourselves to people we don’t know. We live a bent, twisted existence, Sherlock. So let’s take a bike ride to a country town and get some tea and cakes and do something ordinary.”
They got dressed and made sure they had wallets and keys and such, then went out to the shed to retrieve the bicycles. They were shining silver touring bikes that looked eager to be taken out for a spin. They wheeled them out, toed up the kickstands and each tossed a leg over and settled on the seat.
Whereupon Sherlock discovered the flaw in the current plan. His arse had been subject to some new activity lately, and it was raising a white flag at the idea of a six mile bike ride. He looked at John, who’d clearly just had the same revelation. “Or we could just walk,” Sherlock said.
“Yeah, let’s walk, then,” John agreed, nodding. The bicycles were retired back to the shed - Sherlock fancied that they seemed a bit disappointed not to be going out after all -- and he and John set off for the path at the back of the property.
It was, Sherlock mused as they ambled along, quite ridiculously idyllic. It was a beautiful sunny day, not too warm but comfortably breezy, and the late-summer foliage was lush and green. Sunlight was flattering to John, it made his hair gleam like gold, warmed his features and made his eyes glow deep blue like an aquarium. The path they walked was shaded and secluded, enough so that after few minutes along the way, John reached out and laced their fingers together.
“Your parents are dead, right?”
Sherlock hesitated. “Wikipedia?”
“IMDB.”
“Well, that’s the cover story.”
“They’re not dead?”
“My father is dead. My mother is very much alive. But she values her privacy. Her horror that both her sons entered professions which would thrust us into the public eye is matched only by her terror of public knowledge of her existence. So we tell people our parents are dead.”
“That seems harsh.”
He shrugged. “My mother and I aren’t close. She was too attached to the perceptions of others to care much about our actual lives. My brother is more dutiful than I am.”
“What’s his name?”
“Mycroft.”
“Can I meet him?”
Sherlock glanced at him. “Would you like to?”
John stopped and turned to face him, forcing Sherlock to stop as well. “Sherlock, are we going to be part of each other’s lives? On at least a semi-permanent basis?”
“I certainly hope so.”
“Then yes, I want to meet your family.” He hesitated. “Unless you don’t mean to tell them about us.”
“No, I have every intention of doing so. Mycroft won’t care that you’re a man, he’ll just care if you have ties to the Mafia or any international terrorist organizations. Mother will wail about what the neighbors will think, then once she meets you she’ll ask you when we plan to give her grandchildren.”
John laughed. “Well, I’m quite sure I’m sorted on the Mafia and terrorist fronts, and I’ll have to get back to you on the grandchildren.”
They resumed walking. “What about your family?” Sherlock asked. “Do you plan to tell them?”
John was silent for a moment. “Remember how I said I wanted to see them before I fly back?”
“You’re going to tell them now?”
“Best to get it over with.”
“You don’t sound optimistic.”
“I honestly don’t know how I’m going to phrase it. Am I coming out? As what? I don’t know if I can just tell them something easy to grasp, like ‘I’m gay.’ I don’t know for sure that I am. All I know to tell them is that I’ve met someone who I want to be with, who is important to me, and who is a man.”
“I suspect that they’ll leap to the ‘gay’ conclusion all on their own.”
“That’s their business.”
“You think they won’t approve?”
“I honestly have no idea.”
“Your sister is a lesbian, is she not?”
“Harry? She plays for both teams. She’s never brought any women home, just men. I don’t know if that’s happenstance or by design, I’ve never asked her.” John glanced at him. “You don’t seem to be having any sexual identity issues.”
“I find the concept of binary sexual identity limiting and improbable. As with all else about human beings, sexual responsiveness exists on a continually changing scale that is affected by a dizzying array of variables, so there’s no point in attempting to predetermine a pointless and ultimately confining label.”
“Well, that’s certainly progressive of you.”
“It’s more useful to simply react when I am attracted to someone, regardless of their gender, and proceed from there. So if I have a sexual identity, it’s that on occasion I find another human being attractive.”
“How would you answer if someone asked you if you were gay or straight, though?”
Sherlock smirked. “I’d say ‘I’m Sherlock Holmes, I do what I want, and fuck you.’”
John burst out laughing. “Bloody hell, I want that on a t-shirt.”
“That can be arranged,” Sherlock said, chuckling with him. John pulled him closer by their joined hands and beamed up at him, laughter in his eyes, and Sherlock felt it again. That rocket-burst of warm happiness in his chest, the raw joy at being in John’s presence and basking in his attention, his regard and his acceptance.
Earlier I thought I might love him.
I think there’s no ‘might’ about it.
Thursday came far too quickly.
Their afternoon in Hailsham went off without a hitch. They reached the village, took a quick walk round, had tea and cakes, bought some of John’s favorite tea and walked back as the sun set, arriving home content, albeit with sore feet. They had a campfire in the garden that night and drank wine, swapping co-star horror stories, and took each other to bed with the evocative smell of woodsmoke lingering in their hair.
On Tuesday they packed up some food and gear, got in the car and drove toward the coast, where Sherlock knew some out-of-the-way hiking trails. They passed the day walking up hills and through valleys with views of the sea, pausing whenever they liked, going in whatever direction they fancied, and generally enjoying their freedom in the way that only men whose lives were usually excessively scheduled can. They ate their lunches on top of a meadowy peak, and spent a good half an hour working it off on a soft cushion of grass.
Wednesday found them in quieter spirits. Sherlock was keenly aware that it was their last full day in the country and so John seemed to be as well. They revisited the bicycles, both of their arses having adjusted to the new demands placed upon them, and rode aimlessly around Hailsham and its outlying regions, stopping frequently to take pictures. They ate supper at just the sort of local country pub John had been envisioning. He spent the entire meal looking around with an inordinately pleased expression on his face; Sherlock spent it just looking at John. They rode back well past dark, the headlamps on their bicycles lighting their path. Sherlock led John to the field behind the house, dragging an old quilt behind them. “I used to stargaze out here when I was a boy,” he said, spreading the blanket on the ground.
“Oh, I thought you bought this house yourself,” John said, as they stretched out on their backs.
“No, it belonged to my parents. When my father died it passed to Mycroft and myself.”
They looked up into the brilliant blanket of stars overhead. “It’s amazing,” John said. “You can’t see stars like this in London. Or in Los Angeles.”
Sherlock felt him twine their fingers together. He raised their linked hands to his own chest and held them there. “John, I - I’m really very much dreading you going away.”
“I know. So am I.”
“I’m not accustomed to taking someone else’s needs and wants into consideration. I don’t know how successful a partner I can be to you.”
It was pitch dark out so he couldn’t see him very well, but he could sense John propping up and looking down at him. “Where the hell is that coming from?”
“I just want you to know that if…” He swallowed hard. “If you want to consider this time we’ve had together to have been enough, and that it would be impractical to continue, then…”
“No, stop. Stop right there. Sherlock - God, you’re unbelievable. After all the conversations we’ve had? The decisions we’ve made together? The plans we’ve made? Suddenly you think I need an escape hatch?”
“I’m trying to be realistic. Soon we’ll reach the point of no return, or at least much less facile return. If I come to Los Angeles and move in with you…”
“Not if. You are coming to Los Angeles and you are…” John broke off, frowning a bit.
Sherlock nodded. “There, you see what it is that we’re really contemplating. It’s grand to be blue skies and chirping birds while we’re here but there, it’s going to be reality, John. With people who’ll demand explanations about why I’m living in your house, friends who’ll have to be kept in the dark, and photographers round every corner. We’re proposing moving in together. We’ve only known each other since the spring and we’ll have been together for less than a week. Seems a bit fast, doesn’t it?”
John flopped back onto his back. “Yeah. It does.”
“I am coming to Los Angeles either way. I do have my own place, there’s no need for me to stay with you. We can see each other every day.”
“That’ll be worse. Driving back and forth and meeting up and such, we’re sure to get papped.”
Sherlock’s gut clenched at what he was about to suggest. “John - don’t get the wrong idea, but perhaps it’d be best if we didn’t see each other until after the Oscars.”
John was very quiet. “Is that what you want?”
“No. It is not what I want. You know what I want.”
“You want to go public.”
“I know why we can’t, and I accept it. So if we can’t be together in the open and acknowledge it, maybe it’d be better, less hurtful for us, to take a break until we can.”
He heard John fetch a deep sigh. “Maybe it would.” No one spoke for a few beats. “Wait a minute, no, it would not!” John exclaimed, out of the blue. “It would not be better! Easier, perhaps. Less inconvenient, perhaps. But no, Sherlock! I am not giving you up because it’s easier.” He sat up again and pulled Sherlock up to face him. “I don’t care if it’s fast, it doesn’t matter that it’s new. I couldn’t be any more sure of you if we’d been together for a decade. And I’m not bloody staying away from you for six months. Three weeks is going to jolly well kill me.” He seized Sherlock’s face in his hands. “You remember what you said our first night here, about what you wanted? That what I want, too. You in my life, every day, all the time. I’m not going to wait. I don’t need it to be easy. Nothing worthwhile ever is. So you listen to me, Mr. Holmes. You are going to come to Los Angeles the moment you’re able and you are going to move into my house and we’ll do whatever we have to do to keep it quiet, but that does not include breaking up, even if it’s temporary.”
Sherlock felt tears prickling his eyes. He lifted his hands and covered John’s. “John,” he managed. “That’s what I hoped you’d say.”
John pulled him into a tight hug. Sherlock wrapped his arms around him and held him, wishing he’d never have to let go ever again, and wishing even more that he do it in front of the whole world.
They loaded up the car on Thursday morning, both of them quiet, going about their task with efficiency but not much enthusiasm.
Even though they’d have one more night together in London at Sherlock’s flat, they’d gone at each other the night before as if it were their last night on earth. John had unwrapped Sherlock on the blanket beneath the stars and claimed him again, wringing cries and raptures from his body that Sherlock hadn’t known were possible. They had staggered back to the house, leaning on each other, and collapsed into bed. John had been wrung out; he’d lain there and let Sherlock do as he wished, which was to worship every inch of him and try to show him what he could not say, that John had changed him and that he couldn’t change back, that he wouldn’t want to if he could, and that if people were going to condemn him for this then he’d be glad to be condemned.
John looked around at the house and grounds. “I love it here,” he said.
“I’ve always been fond of it,” Sherlock said. “I think it may have acquired some new emotional significance, though.”
“Can we come back?”
“Of course. Whenever you like.”
“We’ll likely not have time for awhile.”
“It will still be here when we do.”
John took Sherlock’s hands in his and kissed him. “I feel like I’m driving to my doom.”
“Come now, the M25 isn’t that horrible.”
He laughed, a little thinly. “All right, let’s get it over with. All locked up, then?”
“All locked up.”
They got in the car, the top up this time as it looked like it might rain, and John drove them back to the highway. They stuck to the A21 and made good time into London. Sherlock felt the press and loom of its massed humanity, architecture, and cumulative gaze upon him as they drew near to his home. He hadn’t realized how free and unfettered he had felt in the country until they returned to the city and it was no longer so.
John pulled into the underground garage and they got into the lift, bags in tow. They both breathed a sigh of relief upon emerging into 221B. “Blimey,” John said, stretching his back. “I’ve spent one night here and it feels like home.”
“I’ve barely spent much more time than that here myself.” He looked around. “I’ve long considered staying here on a more permanent basis, only going to Los Angeles when required.”
“Hmm. Well, that’s something we’ll need to discuss, isn’t it?”
Sherlock smiled, his own words echoing in his head. I want it to just be understood that anything that involves me also involves you. “Indeed.”
John looked at his watch. “Cor, I hate to do this but it’s gone three already and if I’m to see my parents, I ought to be off.”
“Take the car if you like.”
John perked up a bit at that. “Yeah?”
“Of course. I’m not going anywhere.”
He stepped close and slid his hands around Sherlock’s waist. “And what will you do here all by yourself while I’m gone?”
“Attempt to catch up on my emails, I suppose. Have Sally come around, take care of some business.”
“That answer is incorrect,” John said, giving him a faux-severe look.
“Oh, I beg your pardon. Naturally, what I meant to say is that I shall swoon upon this couch like a Regency heroine and lie there in abject desolation until my swain doth return.”
John laughed. “That’s better.” He arched his neck up and kissed him. When he began to withdraw Sherlock pulled him close again, angling his head down and teasing John’s lips open. He felt John smile against his mouth and slide his hands up Sherlock’s chest to his neck. “Mmm, you’re not making it easy for me to leave,” John murmured, sneaking the words in between kisses.
“You have discovered my cunning plan, Mr. Watson.”
John gave his arse a squeeze and stepped back. “I am a grown man in control of my libido, I am capable of resisting sexy boyfriend.”
“Curses, foiled again.” Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest and he and John just stood there grinning at each other for a moment.
“All right, I’m off. I’ll try not to be too late. Likely have dinner with the family, though.”
“All right.”
John went to the lift, glanced back once with a wave, and was gone.
Sherlock sighed, then took up his suitcase and headed for the bedroom to unpack.
Sally came over shortly after John left. “How was your trip?” she asked. Sherlock searched her face for smirkiness, but she seemed genuinely interested.
“Too short,” he said.
“Everything went all right?” He knew what she was asking. Did you get along? Was the sex okay? Did you cohabitate successfully in the short-term? Was it more than just a showmance? Did it last after the adrenaline of him showing up wore off?
He met her eyes. “It was perfect.”
Sally smiled and patted his shoulder. “Good.”
“In fact, we’ve decided that when I go back to LA at the end of the month, I’m going to stay at John’s house.”
“All right.” He saw the unasked question on her face.
“We’re not going public. Not until after the Oscars.”
Sally thought for a moment. “It’s going to be tough.”
“I know. We know.”
“You know that Harry and I will do everything we can to help.”
“I know.”
“In fact, we’ve already been taking some steps.”
“I trust you, Sally.”
She looked absurdly touched at this. “Thanks, Sherlock. Gosh, I think I like this kinder, gentler you. John must be a good influence.”
He couldn’t help but flush a little bit. “I think he might be, yes.”
They sat at the dining-room table and over the next few hours went over emails, schedules, travel plans, prospective projects and Sherlock’s dozens of phone messages. They were just wrapping up around five o’clock when Sherlock heard the lift rising. That couldn’t be John come back yet; he assumed it was one of his neighbors. But the lift stopped and the doors opened.
Sherlock turned to see John come in. One look and he could tell that something had gone very wrong. He looked at Sally, who’d made the same assessment. “I’ll be on my way,” she said, gathering her papers up. John barely gave her a glance as she went past him into the lift.
“John, what’s wrong? You’re back earlier than you thought.”
John didn’t answer. He took off his jacket in harsh, fast movements and threw it onto the sofa, hard. He pressed the heels of his palms to his forehead.
Sherlock hung back, not sure what to do. “Did you - see your parents?” It was obvious to him what had happened, in the general if not the specific, but he knew he ought to let John tell him in his own way.
“Yes, I bloody saw my fucking parents.” John turned to face him. “They were their usual delightful selves. Dissatisfied with everything in their lives, none of which they pay for, I might add. I tolerated the usual hour-long litany of their physical complaints and made the appropriate noises of concern for their health. And when they finally got around to asking how I was, I told them that there was someone new in my life and that I was very happy. When they learned who it was, I was informed in no uncertain terms that no son of theirs was going to take it up the arse!” He shouted the last few words, grabbing the nearest object, which happened to be a book, and throwing it. It crashed into a lamp, which toppled to the floor. “Shit,” John said. “I’m sorry.”
“John, I…” Sherlock didn’t know how to handle this. “I don’t know what to say.”
“There’s nothing to say. I hoped this wouldn’t happen but I feared it would. I told them that if I was no son of theirs anymore then I assumed they’d soon be moving out of the house that I bought and firing the home help that I pay for and getting jobs. Then it got ugly.”
“Then it got ugly?”
“My father wanted to know how long I’d been a bender, my mother just cried over not having grandchildren, which makes no sense since she already has four, then it was oh, we knew this acting bollocks would turn you queer, nothing but queers in films these days, and then my father…” John had been speaking rapidly, but suddenly he broke off, his throat working, and when he spoke again his voice was choked with tears. “My own father told me that he’d not be leaving me alone with my nephews again.”
Sherlock felt like he might be sick. “Oh, my God.”
“My nephews, Sherlock. Like I’m now some kind of danger to them, like I’m a deviant or a predator…I love those boys, God, how could he ever think…” He shook his head.
Sherlock did the only thing he could think to do. He went over and pulled John to his chest, wrapping him up in his arms. John came against him at once and clutched at him. “I’m so sorry,” Sherlock said, pressing his lips into John’s hair. John tried to keep his composure for a few moments but then it just went. Sherlock held him as he cried, pushing away thoughts of all the ways he could exact slow, painful revenge on John’s parents for putting him through this.
John calmed himself quickly but stayed there for a time, his face buried in Sherlock’s shoulder. “God,” he said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to go to pieces like that.”
“You had good reason. And if you cannot do so in front of me, then where can you?”
John nodded. Sherlock handed him a handkerchief and he blew his nose and wiped his eyes. “At least my siblings aren’t on board with this. They made sure I knew they were fine with it. That helps. And I’m thirty-eight years old, I’m not a kid anymore, but my own parents - it’s hitting me harder than I’d have thought.”
“John, I never wanted to come between you and your family. If I’d known…”
“No, stop right there,” John said, pulling back and looking up at him, his eyes blazing. “Let’s get one thing perfectly clear. You are not coming between me and them, Sherlock. They are. This is not your fault or mine, it’s theirs. And they’ll come around. They’re just having a tantrum right now, it’s a shock. I could have handled it better, I got angry and that just makes my dad want to push back. Some time will go by and my siblings will work on them, they’ll get used to the idea and…” He sniffed and laughed a little. “Well, they can’t really afford to cut me out of their lives, can they? I’m the bloody meal ticket.”
“That isn’t right either, I dare say.”
“Why not? Who else ought to take care of them but me? I have the means.” He smiled up at him, a tired and teary smile. “Thanks.”
“For what?”
“For being here. For giving me a cuddle during my wobbly.”
“Is that not what boyfriends do?”
“I reckon it is.” John sat down with a flump, his whole body sagging. Sherlock sat facing him on a padded ottoman. “I’m bloody spent.”
“We’ll get some dinner, you must be famished.”
“Bit peckish, yeah. Give me a bit of time to sort myself out. I look a mess.”
Sherlock took his hands, shaking his head. “This is all so complex. Your family, our jobs, the business, the press - doesn’t seem fair. Other couples don’t have to deal with all this bollocks while they’re just getting used to being together in the first place.”
“I’m afraid that’s just our lot and we’re bloody well stuck with it.” John met his eyes. “And don’t you go getting more ideas about how it’d be easier if we just weren’t together.”
“Who says I was?”
“I do, and I ought to know.” He scooted closer. “Because you are worth it, all the bother, all the trouble, all the - everything.” His eyes moved over Sherlock’s face, and Sherlock could see him taking a breath, working himself up. Oh God. He’s going to say it. “Sherlock, I…”
“No, don’t,” Sherlock blurted out, holding up a hand. “Don’t say it.” Don’t say it before I get a chance. I loved you all this time, John, and it’s you who did this. You got on a plane, you came to my show and you forged us out of a single hydrangea, you held me in your arms and you didn’t let go even when I thought you should. This is all because of you and all you’re getting for it is bother and pain and please, let me give you something back before you blaze a trail ahead of me in that, too.
John shut his mouth with a snap and drew back, a crestfallen look on his face. “Oh. I, uh - all right, then. I won’t. Sorry.” He started to rise, avoiding Sherlock’s eyes, and the instant-replay in Sherlock’s head showed him the last few seconds again and he realized how that had sounded, and what John was probably thinking. Oh, well done, Holmes. Managed to bodge this up good and proper, haven’t you? Fix it, you cracking great idiot.
“John, wait - that isn’t what I meant, please, sit down. I’m sorry, I’ve made a right mess.” John sat back down, frowning. “I’m good at mimicking emotions, but apparently I’m hopeless with my own.”
John smiled, a little hesitantly. “I know.”
“You deserve someone who can properly express himself, who can speak to you the way normal people speak.”
“Oh, don’t let’s get onto this again about how I deserve better, no one’s better than you, and there’s nothing not normal about…”
“I love you, John.” John stopped speaking abruptly, his mouth hanging open. Sherlock held his gaze. The words were out, now. He found that all he wanted to do was keep repeating them until they filled the whole room, until their sheer magnitude approached the depth of the feeling he had for this man. “I’m sorry I stopped you, I know that’s what you were going to say and I couldn’t let you, I couldn’t have you be the brave one again, because you are always the one showing me the way through this and just once, I wanted to be the one taking the step and being brave for you.”
John had recovered himself a little. He grabbed Sherlock’s face, smiling even while his eyes were filling up again. “You don’t have to be brave for me, you lunatic. All I need you to be is you.”
“That’s not a concept I’m accustomed to.”
“I know, and I hate that, and I wish it were different.”
Sherlock was hanging on to John’s knees to steady himself. “You’re the only one who never wanted to fix me.”
“Why would I want to fix you? You aren’t broken.” John kissed him hard, once, then twice more. “You are barking mad and insanely talented and strange and wonderful and infuriating and amazing and I love you so fucking much, Sherlock.” Sherlock exhaled hard and let John pull him in, they tried to kiss each other but kept missing, getting each other’s cheeks and jaws and noses but it didn’t seem to matter. Finally they gave up and just held each other. Sherlock felt something settle along his spine, the nerves quieting, his whole being at rest.
“I love you,” he repeated in John’s ear.
“I love you, too.”
He drew back with a sigh. “Well, that’s sorted, then.”
John laughed. “Yes, let’s check that item off the agenda.”
“Come on, let’s get some food. I’m starving.”
They considered going out, but neither of them felt like they’d be able to carry off the whole “we’re just two mates out for a bite” tonight. “I’m not that good an actor, Sherlock,” John said. “Might be a few weeks before I can look at you without the cartoon hearts.” So it was sandwiches and crisps from the kitchen and bottles of lager laid in by Sally, consumed in front of the telly.
“What time’s your flight?” Sherlock asked, putting aside his plate.
John made a face. “Ten a.m.”
“Oh. You’ll have to be off right early, then.”
“I’ll get a cab.”
Sherlock hesitated. “I could drive you.”
“Absolutely not. There is no way I can stand to say goodbye to you in public, Sherlock.” He turned and looked at him. “God, I don’t want to go.”
“I’ll be there in a few weeks. No time at all. We can email and Skype in the meantime.”
“Mmm. Poor substitute.”
Sherlock got up and held out his hand. “Best make tonight count, then.”
John took it and let Sherlock pull him to his feet. “I intend to.”
Morning seemed to slam in with a vengeance, as it always did when one did not want it to come at all. The alarm on John’s mobile went off at half past six, but they were already awake. Sherlock’s hand scrabbled for the nightstand to turn off the insistent alarm as fast as possible so he could get his hands back on John’s hips. John chuckled, tossing his head back as he rode Sherlock slow and maddening, the early sunlight slanting in the window and smoothing over John’s skin like gold leaf, lighting his eyes from the side and making them glow cobalt blue. “John,” Sherlock groaned. “Oh, fuck yes, like that,” he said through clenched teeth.
John just smiled and rolled his hips in torturous circles and arcs. He leaned back and braced his hands on Sherlock’s legs, changing the angle and stretching his torso, his cock jutting hard from his groin. “You want to come like this?” he whispered, eyes shut.
“Yes,” Sherlock managed. He was continually amazed at how John was different every time they had sex. Last night he’d all but dragged Sherlock to bed and had fucked him on all fours, vigorously pounding him until Sherlock had to hang on to the headboard to brace himself. He had been loud and energetic and just rough enough to make it exciting, and they’d both come for England, but now he was quiet and soft and sleepy, riding Sherlock’s cock with a blissful expression as if he were enjoying a leisurely massage. “You first, though.”
Sherlock grasped John’s shaft in his hand and stroked, long slow pulls, taking his cue from his lover’s body language. John slowed his movements and let his head droop down, breathing harder now as Sherlock jerked him. It didn’t take long before he clenched his teeth and came onto Sherlock’s stomach, the pulses squeezing Sherlock’s cock inside him. He’d barely come down before he was back on the job, a little more forcefully now, clenching and thrusting down, leaning forward and pinning Sherlock in place with his eyes. He bent and kissed him, sucking on Sherlock’s lower lip.
“Fuck, John,” Sherlock panted. “God, your arse - so tight, you feel amazing.”
John grinned against Sherlock’s lips. “Come in me, Sherlock.”
“Yes…God, yes…”
“I want to watch you.” He stared down at Sherlock’s face and with another clench and thrust, Sherlock cried out his release, John never taking his eyes off him. “God, you’re beautiful like that,” John whispered, burying his face in Sherlock’s neck. “When you lose control and just let it go.”
Sherlock wrapped his arms around him, breathing hard, his brain not quite back online. “God, I love you.” It was all he could think to say, the lightest and most buoyant thought skimmed from the top of his brain where it had risen to the surface while all else that might crowd it out was buried in the sediment for now.
John rolled off, dropping a kiss to Sherlock’s chest. “I think you like saying that.”
“Could be that I’m getting used to it.”
They lay together and basked in the afterglow for a time, but only a short time. The morning was getting away from them.
Showers and clothing and packing and breakfast, and before Sherlock knew it, it was eight o’clock and John’s car was downstairs waiting. They stood by the lift doors, fidgeting their weight from foot to foot. “Call me when you get there,” Sherlock said.
John nodded. “I will.” He lifted his eyes to Sherlock’s. “I hate this.”
“Agreed.” Sherlock reached out and pulled John into a hug. “Three weeks.”
He felt John nod. “Three weeks.” He drew back and tilted his face up. They kissed, a relatively chaste, see-you-soon kiss. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
John stepped away and picked up his bag. “We’ll Skype later?”
“If you like.” Sherlock stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Safe trip.”
John nodded. “Bye, Sherlock.” He got into the lift, holding Sherlock’s eyes until the doors closed between them.
Sherlock went to the front window and watched until he saw John come out with his bag and get into the waiting car. He looked up towards 221B’s windows. Sherlock lifted a hand, although at this time of day from this angle, John wouldn’t be able to see him. John waved anyway. Then he got in the car, it drove off, and he was gone.
Sherlock turned around and surveyed his silent, empty flat. This flat did not contain a John, as it had not done for virtually all of the time he’d lived here, and yet it now felt incomplete without him.
Next Chapter
Author: MadLori
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Length: 9000 (this chapter)
Genre: AU, romance
Warnings: None
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is an Oscar winner in the midst of a career slump. John Watson is an Everyman actor trapped in the rom-com ghetto. When they are cast as a gay couple in a new independent drama, will they surprise each other? Will their on-screen romance make its way into the real world?
Chapter 1 -- Chapter 2 -- Chapter 3 -- Chapter 4 -- Chapter 5 -- Chapter 6 -- Chapter 7 -- Chapter 8 -- Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Sally was just opening up the office when her mobile rang. She glanced at the screen to see who was calling. Fabulous Bitch. She grinned and answered. “Harry, you tart.”
“All right?”
“Yeah. Just getting to the office.” She thumped the mail down on her desk and sat down. “What’s on, then?”
“Just checking in. John’s forbidden me from ringing him. How are our boys?”
“They drove down to Sussex yesterday afternoon. Heard not a word since. Did you get the fax about the ADR sessions?”
“Yeah, I got it. I’m watching the Tubes like you asked. My Google alerts are the envy of all who behold them. Plus I have a secret agent.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, our niece Isabelle. You think we’re Net-savvy, she’s a bloody ninja warrior. She’s taken it upon herself to become a member of all John’s fan communities and report on them to me. I didn’t even have to ask her to join up on Sherlock’s as well. She’s a smart one.”
“Anything?”
“Nothing new. No photos, no sightings. One posting on a fan forum said they saw John in Brentwood yesterday.”
“Where he was really, really not.”
“Indeed. But it looks like they made it out of town without a sighting. I’m worried about them going into Hailsham, though. You think they will?”
“Might do. If they need tea or something. I wouldn’t worry about it, though. Sherlock’s been going to Hailsham for years and he’s never been papped there, or even sighted there as I recollect. It’s a small town, he’s familiar, nobody cares. It’s a bit of an unwritten rule in places like that. Famous people come to get away, so you have to let them be away.”
“If someone saw them there together it might be enough to overcome the charming country reticence.”
“I’m not about to tell them they have to sequester themselves in the house.”
She chuckled. “Like they’d mind. Most of the chatter on the fansites is about John’s appearance on ‘The Mentalist,’ and they’re still trading stage-door photos of Sherlock from ‘Closer.’ It’s ramping up quite a bit for To a Stranger, though. It was like a bloody bomb went off when those publicity stills were released.”
“All right, well - keep your eyes open.”
“Cheers, luv.”
“Yeah, all right.” She hung up.
She’d barely had time to boot up her computer when there was a knock at the door. She frowned. Nobody ever came to the door here. Sherlock’s office was more or less a place for her to work and keep the files, and for him to have a neutral address to receive post. He was hardly ever here himself and nobody came here unless she’d asked them.
She got up and opened the door, and her heart sank. It was Anderson, the line producer, her very own on-and-off boyfriend. “David!” she said, feigning surprise even though she knew damn well why he was here. “I wasn’t expecting you until next week! This is a nice surprise.”
He looked grim. “Where are they, Sally?”
“Wait, who are we talking about?”
He came inside and shut the door behind him. “Don’t make this more awful than it has to be. I don’t want to be here and nobody wants me to be here but this is the reality of the situation. Where are John and Sherlock?”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “I don’t work for you, David. I work for Sherlock. Ordering me to betray his confidence isn’t the way to stay in my good graces.”
“I’m just trying to look out for them,” Anderson said. “We’ve got to make sure they aren’t seen.”
“And you’re doing all this out of a deep sense of concern for Sherlock’s privacy, of course. It can’t be to safeguard the profit margin of your film.”
“It’s their film, too.”
“He isn’t stupid, you know.”
“No, but he is stubborn.”
“You say that as if you think it’s news to me, somehow. And if I told you exactly where he was, what then?”
“I just need a word.”
“Then send him a fucking email, already!”
“This isn’t a conversation one likes to have via email.”
“I won’t disturb Sherlock. He’s on holiday.”
“Alone?”
“I can’t confirm or deny that.”
Anderson took a step closer. “Can we drop the act? We know where he is, and who he is with.”
“Then why the bad cop routine? Hoping I’d make it easier for you? Think again.”
“You think anyone is happy that we have to worry about this? If it were up to me I’d be sending them champagne and wishing them every happiness. But this is right from the top. Past Jim, even. This has to be contained.”
“A word more appropriately applied to nuclear meltdowns.”
“That’s exactly what we’ll have on our hands if the press gets wind of the fact that our lead actors are off somewhere in Sussex, shagging each other’s brains out.”
Sally tightened her jaw. “If you need to talk to Sherlock, you won’t be doing it through me. Not until he gets back from his holiday.”
Anderson nodded and went to the door. “I’ll find another way, then.”
Bright panic bloomed in Sally’s throat. She hurried over and slammed the door before Anderson could leave, then stood up against it so he couldn’t open it again. He looked at her in surprise. “Please,” she said. “Please, leave them alone.”
He swallowed hard and looked desperately miserable. “I can’t. Don’t you understand? I can’t.”
“They’re in love,” Sally said, playing her last card. “They’re so in love, David. Do you know what that means for them? Do you know how hard it’s going to be, what they’re going to go through? Give them some time before you start bringing reality down on their heads. Just a few days alone to get their feet under them. If they’re going to survive it they’re going to have to be strong with each other. Don’t cut their knees out before they’ve even had a chance to spend any time together. Please.”
He held her gaze for a moment, then sagged in defeat. “All right, Sally. I’ll stall the higher-ups. But Jim and I aren’t the enemy here.”
“I hope not. John and Sherlock are going to need friends, not enemies.”
Sherlock woke early Monday morning, his second morning waking up with John by his side. He wondered if it would ever become routine, if there would ever come a time when the mere fact that John was here in his bed would seem like nothing extraordinary, just another commonplace part of life. He hoped not. He rather liked the sensation of waking up and being immediately amazed.
He slipped quietly out of bed, not wishing to wake John. He wasn’t fond of lie-ins by nature but John was, and they’d both been sleep-deprived of late, for reasons both mundane and fantastic. Sherlock went into the bathroom to answer the call of nature; when he came back into the bedroom he had to stop for a moment and look at John, free to do so without self-consciousness now with his subject asleep, curled on his side with his hands tucked beneath his cheek.
Sherlock tiptoed to the side of the bed and crouched there, looking at John’s face, peaceful in sleep. He wondered what John was dreaming of. John did not think of himself as having great beauty. Sherlock didn’t know how to tell him how wrong he was. John was surely the most beautiful thing in the world. Sherlock certainly couldn’t think of anything he’d rather look at.
He let himself watch for a few moments, until he began to feel uneasy about it. Wasn’t it a bit stalkerish? Watching one’s beloved sleep? Looming over them whilst they slumbered on, unaware? He didn’t know the protocol for such things, but he felt like a creeper so he straightened up and went in search of his clothes. Pajama pants were located behind the chair in the corner, t-shirt wadded up in the covers. He pulled them on over his nude body and padded downstairs to put the kettle on.
He wandered to the window that gave onto the backyard, quite an tranquil view of the pond and woods on the property. The house sat on thirty acres which backed onto a preserve, where there were lovely hiking trails that led into Hailsham and beyond. The early morning sun was slanting in, casting picturesque shadows over the dew-sparkled grass, and for once Sherlock found himself enjoying the aesthetics of the moment instead of pondering the relative humidity or gauging the windspeed from the motion of the tree branches.
He was - content. It was a state he’d found himself in but rarely. Perhaps never, at least not like this. Content where he was, content in his own skin, content with the company.
His violin was still sitting on a chair where John had left it. Sherlock shivered a bit to remember the look in John’s eyes after he’d finished playing for him, and then they’d gone upstairs and it had been unexpectedly awkward and painful and bad but then it had been good - no, better than good, it had been everything.
Then after a serious discussion which Sherlock was determined not to think about until absolutely necessary, they’d made love again with their hands and mouths and their whole bodies and had fallen asleep with the sun still shining, spent and tangled together. Which only led to them being wide-awake at midnight, camped out on the couch in the den with hastily-arranged snacks and cuddling under a blanket, watching Bringing Up Baby and laughing together, a bit tipsy on the bottle of Gewürztraminer that Sherlock found in the fridge. The end of the film had been ignored in favor of some rather feverish snogging and groping under the blanket, which had led to stumbling back up the stairs to the bedroom for another go.
They’d only been here one night and Sherlock had already had more sex with John than he’d had in the last two years. Sex had always been an obligation to be fulfilled, something that was expected of him. He’d never known what it felt like to crave someone, not until now; it fit poorly inside him, poking him from within with sharp corners and unexpected angles, forever surprising him, like the sight of his own reflection in a mirror he hadn’t known was there. His thoughts lingered on John’s neck, his hands, his body, his mouth, the feeling of that mouth on Sherlock’s own body, the mind-bending discovery of what it felt like to bury himself in John, to be wrapped around and inside someone at the same time. It could become a preoccupation if he did not discipline his mind.
Good Lord, was this what it was like for other people? All the time? No wonder no one else ever seemed to get anything done, or to be able to muster the focus of discipline to think properly. The idea of sacrificing his own mental equilibrium on the altar of John Watson was disturbing, but damned if right now it didn’t feel like it was well worth it.
Sherlock gave himself a shake. Five minutes was about his limit for emotional introspection.
He got out his laptop and sat at the breakfast bar with his tea. An hour later he’d read his emails (nothing of significance that couldn’t wait), checked BBC News (ditto) and spent far too long Googling real estate in Los Angeles. He was interrupted by his mobile going off. Text message.
Missing: one Oscar winning actor. Thirty-four years old, six feet tall, dark brown hair. Dead sexy. If found please return ASAP to bed of John Watson. Generous reward is offered.
Sherlock grinned, a bloom of happy warmth bursting open in his chest and racing out to his fingers and toes, and gravity seemed to loosen its hold on his whole body for a moment.
He stared at John’s teasing text message. Was this what it felt like? Was this the feeling that humans had been writing and singing and painting about since the beginning of time? He’d long since given up on ever experiencing it firsthand, but what was this, then?
I think - I think I might love him.
The thought was there and then gone, tucked away to be looked at later, when it was perhaps a little less intimidating. He had things to do just now. Or rather someone to do. He got up and raced up the stairs. The sight that greeted him when he got there was John sprawled on his back in bed, propped up on his elbows with the duvet tangled all around him. He was all golden skin and mussed bed-hair and sleepy smiles and it damn near knocked the breath out of Sherlock’s chest. “I heard something about a reward,” he said, stripping off his t-shirt.
John beckoned him with a jerk of his chin. “Get back in here.”
Sherlock tossed his pajamas pants aside and crawled back under the covers, settling on top of John, his morning erection brushing against Sherlock’s own rapidly hardening cock. “Mmm,” he hummed. “I’m sorry, did you get lonely?”
“Terribly,” John said, pulling him down into a languid kiss, his hands running up and down Sherlock’s back. “Something you ought to know about me.”
“That you are irresistible?”
John giggled, Sherlock adding another mental tally mark to his Making John Giggle scorecard. “Maybe to you.”
“Most certainly to me. You know that when I came in here and saw you, I forgot how to breathe for a moment? It was a little alarming. Good job that I didn’t require medical attention.”
John went quiet, his eyes searching Sherlock’s. “You’re not just saying that, are you? I mean, you’re not giving me a line just to get something. You mean it when you say things like that.”
“Of course I mean it. Why would I say it if I didn’t?”
He smiled and arched his neck to kiss Sherlock again, pulling on his lower lip, a part of him that seemed to fascinate John. “The fact that you can ask that question is - well, it’s just another reason I’m here with you.”
Sherlock looked down into John’s face, running one finger along his hairline. “You were going to tell me something I ought to know about you.”
“Oh, right. Something you should know about me is that I love, and I do mean love, morning sex.”
“I see. So for you to wake and find yourself alone in bed…”
“Deeply disappointing.” He ran one hand down Sherlock’s back to his arse, kneading it possessively.
“I’d hate for you to start the day disappointed.”
“That would be a shame.”
“Tell me how I might go about making amends.”
John thought for a moment, looking a little unsure. “I loved what we did last time. I wish you could fuck me again.”
“Why can’t I?” Honestly, that’s what he’d come up here with a mind to do. John had taken to it much better than he himself had, but that could have been the result of their learning from their mistakes. They’d gone much slower when it had been John’s turn.
“I don’t think I can again so soon. It’s a bit - sore.”
“Oh, John - I’m sorry, did I…”
“No, it’s nothing you did. It felt amazing at the time. I’m just not used to it.”
Sherlock kissed him hard, fast, quickly moving down to his neck, which he’d already learned was very sensitive. John arched into his mouth, a hand tangling in Sherlock’s hair. “I’m sure I can think of a suitable alternative,” he murmured. He slid down under the covers and took John’s cock in his mouth. He felt him groan and shudder, but after only a few moments he was pulling Sherlock away.
“No, I don’t want to come like that,” he said, breathy.
“How, then?”
John seized Sherlock’s arms and rolled them over, getting his knees between Sherlock’s legs and slotting their hips together. He hooked a hand behind Sherlock’s knee and lifted; Sherlock got the idea and wrapped his legs around John’s waist. John lay over him and kissed him with slow thoroughness. “I want to feel every inch of you,” he whispered in Sherlock’s ear.
Sherlock wasn’t quite sure what that meant. If John meant to fuck him again, he might have to raise the same objection that John had done a moment ago. But that would require leaving off kissing to speak, and he didn’t want to do that, either. For now John was just lying atop him, gently rolling his hips and working Sherlock’s mouth with his own. John felt pliable and drowsy, smelled of warm skin, and the whole experience was like sliding into a gentle whirlpool.
John began to thrust his hips harder against Sherlock, shifting around until their cocks aligned. Sherlock gasped at the contact and tilted his pelvis up. John dropped his mouth to Sherlock’s neck and their bodies rolled in waves on the bed, crashing against each other until John came, crying out Sherlock’s name. He stilled for a moment, then slid his hand between them and grasped Sherlock’s cock, stroking him until he spilled over John’s fingers, biting his lip and grunting. Then it was all breath and kisses and the slide of fresh sweat.
Sherlock kissed along John’s jawline to his ear. “Morning sex?”
John chuckled. “It’s a nice way to start the day.”
Sherlock had to agree with John’s assessment as to the best way to start the day. After their early romp, they rose just long enough to shower, fetch some breakfast, put on clean pajamas and get back into bed. John read a book, Sherlock sat up with his laptop. For hours, until well after noon, they lounged there together, each wrapped in their own pursuits. Even so, there was a togetherness in their silence. Their feet tangled together under the covers, they leaned against each other in turns. They exchanged quick, quiet kisses whenever the notion struck.
Around one o’clock, John put his book aside and rubbed at his eyes. “I suppose we ought to see about some lunch,” he said.
“Mmm.”
“And it might be nice to get out of the house.”
“I’m quite happy right where I am.”
“We can’t stay in bed for the whole day, Sherlock,” John said, smiling at him.
“Why not?”
“Well - because - we just can’t.”
Sherlock put his laptop aside and stretched out next to John, pulling him into his arms. John nestled against his chest. “How long can you stay?” he asked.
John sighed. “I have to fly home on Friday. I’d like to see my parents first, so we should spend Thursday night in town.”
“We’ll drive back on Thursday, then.”
“That’s only two more days we’ll have here. What happened to a whole week?”
“A week isn’t what it used to be, John.”
John slid his arm over Sherlock’s stomach and cuddled a bit closer. “Then it’ll be how long until you come to L.A.?”
“Three weeks.”
They were silent for a moment. “Blimey,” John said.
Sherlock knew what he meant. It had only been a few days for him and John but already the idea of being separated from him for even a single day, let alone three weeks, was depressing. “It’ll pass quickly,” he said, not really believing it.
“You know, I don’t think it will.” John turned his head and kissed Sherlock’s collarbone. “I’ll miss you awfully.”
“And I you.”
They lay there holding each other for a few minutes more, lost in their respective thoughts. “Well, come on, then. Let’s roust ourselves. How about we go into Hailsham, then? Get some lunch, have a look round? I’ve never been there.”
“If you like.”
John frowned. “Might we be spotted?”
“Unlikely. I’ve never been photographed there. At least, not that made its way to the public at large. We shouldn’t take the car, though. Too flashy. It’s only three miles, there are bicycles in the shed. We can ride.”
“Oh, brilliant. I’ve not ridden a bike in ages.” John grinned, excited. “It’ll be like an outing.”
“It won’t be like an outing, it will actually be one.”
“I know. I suppose I meant - it’ll be like something normal people do.”
“Are we not normal people?”
“Good Lord, no. We’re strange people. We work on weekends and holidays and people are paid to make us look as dashing as possible. We get paid to pretend for the amusement of others and people actually seem to care who designed our tuxedoes. Our jobs involve going to parties and films and talking about ourselves to people we don’t know. We live a bent, twisted existence, Sherlock. So let’s take a bike ride to a country town and get some tea and cakes and do something ordinary.”
They got dressed and made sure they had wallets and keys and such, then went out to the shed to retrieve the bicycles. They were shining silver touring bikes that looked eager to be taken out for a spin. They wheeled them out, toed up the kickstands and each tossed a leg over and settled on the seat.
Whereupon Sherlock discovered the flaw in the current plan. His arse had been subject to some new activity lately, and it was raising a white flag at the idea of a six mile bike ride. He looked at John, who’d clearly just had the same revelation. “Or we could just walk,” Sherlock said.
“Yeah, let’s walk, then,” John agreed, nodding. The bicycles were retired back to the shed - Sherlock fancied that they seemed a bit disappointed not to be going out after all -- and he and John set off for the path at the back of the property.
It was, Sherlock mused as they ambled along, quite ridiculously idyllic. It was a beautiful sunny day, not too warm but comfortably breezy, and the late-summer foliage was lush and green. Sunlight was flattering to John, it made his hair gleam like gold, warmed his features and made his eyes glow deep blue like an aquarium. The path they walked was shaded and secluded, enough so that after few minutes along the way, John reached out and laced their fingers together.
“Your parents are dead, right?”
Sherlock hesitated. “Wikipedia?”
“IMDB.”
“Well, that’s the cover story.”
“They’re not dead?”
“My father is dead. My mother is very much alive. But she values her privacy. Her horror that both her sons entered professions which would thrust us into the public eye is matched only by her terror of public knowledge of her existence. So we tell people our parents are dead.”
“That seems harsh.”
He shrugged. “My mother and I aren’t close. She was too attached to the perceptions of others to care much about our actual lives. My brother is more dutiful than I am.”
“What’s his name?”
“Mycroft.”
“Can I meet him?”
Sherlock glanced at him. “Would you like to?”
John stopped and turned to face him, forcing Sherlock to stop as well. “Sherlock, are we going to be part of each other’s lives? On at least a semi-permanent basis?”
“I certainly hope so.”
“Then yes, I want to meet your family.” He hesitated. “Unless you don’t mean to tell them about us.”
“No, I have every intention of doing so. Mycroft won’t care that you’re a man, he’ll just care if you have ties to the Mafia or any international terrorist organizations. Mother will wail about what the neighbors will think, then once she meets you she’ll ask you when we plan to give her grandchildren.”
John laughed. “Well, I’m quite sure I’m sorted on the Mafia and terrorist fronts, and I’ll have to get back to you on the grandchildren.”
They resumed walking. “What about your family?” Sherlock asked. “Do you plan to tell them?”
John was silent for a moment. “Remember how I said I wanted to see them before I fly back?”
“You’re going to tell them now?”
“Best to get it over with.”
“You don’t sound optimistic.”
“I honestly don’t know how I’m going to phrase it. Am I coming out? As what? I don’t know if I can just tell them something easy to grasp, like ‘I’m gay.’ I don’t know for sure that I am. All I know to tell them is that I’ve met someone who I want to be with, who is important to me, and who is a man.”
“I suspect that they’ll leap to the ‘gay’ conclusion all on their own.”
“That’s their business.”
“You think they won’t approve?”
“I honestly have no idea.”
“Your sister is a lesbian, is she not?”
“Harry? She plays for both teams. She’s never brought any women home, just men. I don’t know if that’s happenstance or by design, I’ve never asked her.” John glanced at him. “You don’t seem to be having any sexual identity issues.”
“I find the concept of binary sexual identity limiting and improbable. As with all else about human beings, sexual responsiveness exists on a continually changing scale that is affected by a dizzying array of variables, so there’s no point in attempting to predetermine a pointless and ultimately confining label.”
“Well, that’s certainly progressive of you.”
“It’s more useful to simply react when I am attracted to someone, regardless of their gender, and proceed from there. So if I have a sexual identity, it’s that on occasion I find another human being attractive.”
“How would you answer if someone asked you if you were gay or straight, though?”
Sherlock smirked. “I’d say ‘I’m Sherlock Holmes, I do what I want, and fuck you.’”
John burst out laughing. “Bloody hell, I want that on a t-shirt.”
“That can be arranged,” Sherlock said, chuckling with him. John pulled him closer by their joined hands and beamed up at him, laughter in his eyes, and Sherlock felt it again. That rocket-burst of warm happiness in his chest, the raw joy at being in John’s presence and basking in his attention, his regard and his acceptance.
Earlier I thought I might love him.
I think there’s no ‘might’ about it.
Thursday came far too quickly.
Their afternoon in Hailsham went off without a hitch. They reached the village, took a quick walk round, had tea and cakes, bought some of John’s favorite tea and walked back as the sun set, arriving home content, albeit with sore feet. They had a campfire in the garden that night and drank wine, swapping co-star horror stories, and took each other to bed with the evocative smell of woodsmoke lingering in their hair.
On Tuesday they packed up some food and gear, got in the car and drove toward the coast, where Sherlock knew some out-of-the-way hiking trails. They passed the day walking up hills and through valleys with views of the sea, pausing whenever they liked, going in whatever direction they fancied, and generally enjoying their freedom in the way that only men whose lives were usually excessively scheduled can. They ate their lunches on top of a meadowy peak, and spent a good half an hour working it off on a soft cushion of grass.
Wednesday found them in quieter spirits. Sherlock was keenly aware that it was their last full day in the country and so John seemed to be as well. They revisited the bicycles, both of their arses having adjusted to the new demands placed upon them, and rode aimlessly around Hailsham and its outlying regions, stopping frequently to take pictures. They ate supper at just the sort of local country pub John had been envisioning. He spent the entire meal looking around with an inordinately pleased expression on his face; Sherlock spent it just looking at John. They rode back well past dark, the headlamps on their bicycles lighting their path. Sherlock led John to the field behind the house, dragging an old quilt behind them. “I used to stargaze out here when I was a boy,” he said, spreading the blanket on the ground.
“Oh, I thought you bought this house yourself,” John said, as they stretched out on their backs.
“No, it belonged to my parents. When my father died it passed to Mycroft and myself.”
They looked up into the brilliant blanket of stars overhead. “It’s amazing,” John said. “You can’t see stars like this in London. Or in Los Angeles.”
Sherlock felt him twine their fingers together. He raised their linked hands to his own chest and held them there. “John, I - I’m really very much dreading you going away.”
“I know. So am I.”
“I’m not accustomed to taking someone else’s needs and wants into consideration. I don’t know how successful a partner I can be to you.”
It was pitch dark out so he couldn’t see him very well, but he could sense John propping up and looking down at him. “Where the hell is that coming from?”
“I just want you to know that if…” He swallowed hard. “If you want to consider this time we’ve had together to have been enough, and that it would be impractical to continue, then…”
“No, stop. Stop right there. Sherlock - God, you’re unbelievable. After all the conversations we’ve had? The decisions we’ve made together? The plans we’ve made? Suddenly you think I need an escape hatch?”
“I’m trying to be realistic. Soon we’ll reach the point of no return, or at least much less facile return. If I come to Los Angeles and move in with you…”
“Not if. You are coming to Los Angeles and you are…” John broke off, frowning a bit.
Sherlock nodded. “There, you see what it is that we’re really contemplating. It’s grand to be blue skies and chirping birds while we’re here but there, it’s going to be reality, John. With people who’ll demand explanations about why I’m living in your house, friends who’ll have to be kept in the dark, and photographers round every corner. We’re proposing moving in together. We’ve only known each other since the spring and we’ll have been together for less than a week. Seems a bit fast, doesn’t it?”
John flopped back onto his back. “Yeah. It does.”
“I am coming to Los Angeles either way. I do have my own place, there’s no need for me to stay with you. We can see each other every day.”
“That’ll be worse. Driving back and forth and meeting up and such, we’re sure to get papped.”
Sherlock’s gut clenched at what he was about to suggest. “John - don’t get the wrong idea, but perhaps it’d be best if we didn’t see each other until after the Oscars.”
John was very quiet. “Is that what you want?”
“No. It is not what I want. You know what I want.”
“You want to go public.”
“I know why we can’t, and I accept it. So if we can’t be together in the open and acknowledge it, maybe it’d be better, less hurtful for us, to take a break until we can.”
He heard John fetch a deep sigh. “Maybe it would.” No one spoke for a few beats. “Wait a minute, no, it would not!” John exclaimed, out of the blue. “It would not be better! Easier, perhaps. Less inconvenient, perhaps. But no, Sherlock! I am not giving you up because it’s easier.” He sat up again and pulled Sherlock up to face him. “I don’t care if it’s fast, it doesn’t matter that it’s new. I couldn’t be any more sure of you if we’d been together for a decade. And I’m not bloody staying away from you for six months. Three weeks is going to jolly well kill me.” He seized Sherlock’s face in his hands. “You remember what you said our first night here, about what you wanted? That what I want, too. You in my life, every day, all the time. I’m not going to wait. I don’t need it to be easy. Nothing worthwhile ever is. So you listen to me, Mr. Holmes. You are going to come to Los Angeles the moment you’re able and you are going to move into my house and we’ll do whatever we have to do to keep it quiet, but that does not include breaking up, even if it’s temporary.”
Sherlock felt tears prickling his eyes. He lifted his hands and covered John’s. “John,” he managed. “That’s what I hoped you’d say.”
John pulled him into a tight hug. Sherlock wrapped his arms around him and held him, wishing he’d never have to let go ever again, and wishing even more that he do it in front of the whole world.
They loaded up the car on Thursday morning, both of them quiet, going about their task with efficiency but not much enthusiasm.
Even though they’d have one more night together in London at Sherlock’s flat, they’d gone at each other the night before as if it were their last night on earth. John had unwrapped Sherlock on the blanket beneath the stars and claimed him again, wringing cries and raptures from his body that Sherlock hadn’t known were possible. They had staggered back to the house, leaning on each other, and collapsed into bed. John had been wrung out; he’d lain there and let Sherlock do as he wished, which was to worship every inch of him and try to show him what he could not say, that John had changed him and that he couldn’t change back, that he wouldn’t want to if he could, and that if people were going to condemn him for this then he’d be glad to be condemned.
John looked around at the house and grounds. “I love it here,” he said.
“I’ve always been fond of it,” Sherlock said. “I think it may have acquired some new emotional significance, though.”
“Can we come back?”
“Of course. Whenever you like.”
“We’ll likely not have time for awhile.”
“It will still be here when we do.”
John took Sherlock’s hands in his and kissed him. “I feel like I’m driving to my doom.”
“Come now, the M25 isn’t that horrible.”
He laughed, a little thinly. “All right, let’s get it over with. All locked up, then?”
“All locked up.”
They got in the car, the top up this time as it looked like it might rain, and John drove them back to the highway. They stuck to the A21 and made good time into London. Sherlock felt the press and loom of its massed humanity, architecture, and cumulative gaze upon him as they drew near to his home. He hadn’t realized how free and unfettered he had felt in the country until they returned to the city and it was no longer so.
John pulled into the underground garage and they got into the lift, bags in tow. They both breathed a sigh of relief upon emerging into 221B. “Blimey,” John said, stretching his back. “I’ve spent one night here and it feels like home.”
“I’ve barely spent much more time than that here myself.” He looked around. “I’ve long considered staying here on a more permanent basis, only going to Los Angeles when required.”
“Hmm. Well, that’s something we’ll need to discuss, isn’t it?”
Sherlock smiled, his own words echoing in his head. I want it to just be understood that anything that involves me also involves you. “Indeed.”
John looked at his watch. “Cor, I hate to do this but it’s gone three already and if I’m to see my parents, I ought to be off.”
“Take the car if you like.”
John perked up a bit at that. “Yeah?”
“Of course. I’m not going anywhere.”
He stepped close and slid his hands around Sherlock’s waist. “And what will you do here all by yourself while I’m gone?”
“Attempt to catch up on my emails, I suppose. Have Sally come around, take care of some business.”
“That answer is incorrect,” John said, giving him a faux-severe look.
“Oh, I beg your pardon. Naturally, what I meant to say is that I shall swoon upon this couch like a Regency heroine and lie there in abject desolation until my swain doth return.”
John laughed. “That’s better.” He arched his neck up and kissed him. When he began to withdraw Sherlock pulled him close again, angling his head down and teasing John’s lips open. He felt John smile against his mouth and slide his hands up Sherlock’s chest to his neck. “Mmm, you’re not making it easy for me to leave,” John murmured, sneaking the words in between kisses.
“You have discovered my cunning plan, Mr. Watson.”
John gave his arse a squeeze and stepped back. “I am a grown man in control of my libido, I am capable of resisting sexy boyfriend.”
“Curses, foiled again.” Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest and he and John just stood there grinning at each other for a moment.
“All right, I’m off. I’ll try not to be too late. Likely have dinner with the family, though.”
“All right.”
John went to the lift, glanced back once with a wave, and was gone.
Sherlock sighed, then took up his suitcase and headed for the bedroom to unpack.
Sally came over shortly after John left. “How was your trip?” she asked. Sherlock searched her face for smirkiness, but she seemed genuinely interested.
“Too short,” he said.
“Everything went all right?” He knew what she was asking. Did you get along? Was the sex okay? Did you cohabitate successfully in the short-term? Was it more than just a showmance? Did it last after the adrenaline of him showing up wore off?
He met her eyes. “It was perfect.”
Sally smiled and patted his shoulder. “Good.”
“In fact, we’ve decided that when I go back to LA at the end of the month, I’m going to stay at John’s house.”
“All right.” He saw the unasked question on her face.
“We’re not going public. Not until after the Oscars.”
Sally thought for a moment. “It’s going to be tough.”
“I know. We know.”
“You know that Harry and I will do everything we can to help.”
“I know.”
“In fact, we’ve already been taking some steps.”
“I trust you, Sally.”
She looked absurdly touched at this. “Thanks, Sherlock. Gosh, I think I like this kinder, gentler you. John must be a good influence.”
He couldn’t help but flush a little bit. “I think he might be, yes.”
They sat at the dining-room table and over the next few hours went over emails, schedules, travel plans, prospective projects and Sherlock’s dozens of phone messages. They were just wrapping up around five o’clock when Sherlock heard the lift rising. That couldn’t be John come back yet; he assumed it was one of his neighbors. But the lift stopped and the doors opened.
Sherlock turned to see John come in. One look and he could tell that something had gone very wrong. He looked at Sally, who’d made the same assessment. “I’ll be on my way,” she said, gathering her papers up. John barely gave her a glance as she went past him into the lift.
“John, what’s wrong? You’re back earlier than you thought.”
John didn’t answer. He took off his jacket in harsh, fast movements and threw it onto the sofa, hard. He pressed the heels of his palms to his forehead.
Sherlock hung back, not sure what to do. “Did you - see your parents?” It was obvious to him what had happened, in the general if not the specific, but he knew he ought to let John tell him in his own way.
“Yes, I bloody saw my fucking parents.” John turned to face him. “They were their usual delightful selves. Dissatisfied with everything in their lives, none of which they pay for, I might add. I tolerated the usual hour-long litany of their physical complaints and made the appropriate noises of concern for their health. And when they finally got around to asking how I was, I told them that there was someone new in my life and that I was very happy. When they learned who it was, I was informed in no uncertain terms that no son of theirs was going to take it up the arse!” He shouted the last few words, grabbing the nearest object, which happened to be a book, and throwing it. It crashed into a lamp, which toppled to the floor. “Shit,” John said. “I’m sorry.”
“John, I…” Sherlock didn’t know how to handle this. “I don’t know what to say.”
“There’s nothing to say. I hoped this wouldn’t happen but I feared it would. I told them that if I was no son of theirs anymore then I assumed they’d soon be moving out of the house that I bought and firing the home help that I pay for and getting jobs. Then it got ugly.”
“Then it got ugly?”
“My father wanted to know how long I’d been a bender, my mother just cried over not having grandchildren, which makes no sense since she already has four, then it was oh, we knew this acting bollocks would turn you queer, nothing but queers in films these days, and then my father…” John had been speaking rapidly, but suddenly he broke off, his throat working, and when he spoke again his voice was choked with tears. “My own father told me that he’d not be leaving me alone with my nephews again.”
Sherlock felt like he might be sick. “Oh, my God.”
“My nephews, Sherlock. Like I’m now some kind of danger to them, like I’m a deviant or a predator…I love those boys, God, how could he ever think…” He shook his head.
Sherlock did the only thing he could think to do. He went over and pulled John to his chest, wrapping him up in his arms. John came against him at once and clutched at him. “I’m so sorry,” Sherlock said, pressing his lips into John’s hair. John tried to keep his composure for a few moments but then it just went. Sherlock held him as he cried, pushing away thoughts of all the ways he could exact slow, painful revenge on John’s parents for putting him through this.
John calmed himself quickly but stayed there for a time, his face buried in Sherlock’s shoulder. “God,” he said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to go to pieces like that.”
“You had good reason. And if you cannot do so in front of me, then where can you?”
John nodded. Sherlock handed him a handkerchief and he blew his nose and wiped his eyes. “At least my siblings aren’t on board with this. They made sure I knew they were fine with it. That helps. And I’m thirty-eight years old, I’m not a kid anymore, but my own parents - it’s hitting me harder than I’d have thought.”
“John, I never wanted to come between you and your family. If I’d known…”
“No, stop right there,” John said, pulling back and looking up at him, his eyes blazing. “Let’s get one thing perfectly clear. You are not coming between me and them, Sherlock. They are. This is not your fault or mine, it’s theirs. And they’ll come around. They’re just having a tantrum right now, it’s a shock. I could have handled it better, I got angry and that just makes my dad want to push back. Some time will go by and my siblings will work on them, they’ll get used to the idea and…” He sniffed and laughed a little. “Well, they can’t really afford to cut me out of their lives, can they? I’m the bloody meal ticket.”
“That isn’t right either, I dare say.”
“Why not? Who else ought to take care of them but me? I have the means.” He smiled up at him, a tired and teary smile. “Thanks.”
“For what?”
“For being here. For giving me a cuddle during my wobbly.”
“Is that not what boyfriends do?”
“I reckon it is.” John sat down with a flump, his whole body sagging. Sherlock sat facing him on a padded ottoman. “I’m bloody spent.”
“We’ll get some dinner, you must be famished.”
“Bit peckish, yeah. Give me a bit of time to sort myself out. I look a mess.”
Sherlock took his hands, shaking his head. “This is all so complex. Your family, our jobs, the business, the press - doesn’t seem fair. Other couples don’t have to deal with all this bollocks while they’re just getting used to being together in the first place.”
“I’m afraid that’s just our lot and we’re bloody well stuck with it.” John met his eyes. “And don’t you go getting more ideas about how it’d be easier if we just weren’t together.”
“Who says I was?”
“I do, and I ought to know.” He scooted closer. “Because you are worth it, all the bother, all the trouble, all the - everything.” His eyes moved over Sherlock’s face, and Sherlock could see him taking a breath, working himself up. Oh God. He’s going to say it. “Sherlock, I…”
“No, don’t,” Sherlock blurted out, holding up a hand. “Don’t say it.” Don’t say it before I get a chance. I loved you all this time, John, and it’s you who did this. You got on a plane, you came to my show and you forged us out of a single hydrangea, you held me in your arms and you didn’t let go even when I thought you should. This is all because of you and all you’re getting for it is bother and pain and please, let me give you something back before you blaze a trail ahead of me in that, too.
John shut his mouth with a snap and drew back, a crestfallen look on his face. “Oh. I, uh - all right, then. I won’t. Sorry.” He started to rise, avoiding Sherlock’s eyes, and the instant-replay in Sherlock’s head showed him the last few seconds again and he realized how that had sounded, and what John was probably thinking. Oh, well done, Holmes. Managed to bodge this up good and proper, haven’t you? Fix it, you cracking great idiot.
“John, wait - that isn’t what I meant, please, sit down. I’m sorry, I’ve made a right mess.” John sat back down, frowning. “I’m good at mimicking emotions, but apparently I’m hopeless with my own.”
John smiled, a little hesitantly. “I know.”
“You deserve someone who can properly express himself, who can speak to you the way normal people speak.”
“Oh, don’t let’s get onto this again about how I deserve better, no one’s better than you, and there’s nothing not normal about…”
“I love you, John.” John stopped speaking abruptly, his mouth hanging open. Sherlock held his gaze. The words were out, now. He found that all he wanted to do was keep repeating them until they filled the whole room, until their sheer magnitude approached the depth of the feeling he had for this man. “I’m sorry I stopped you, I know that’s what you were going to say and I couldn’t let you, I couldn’t have you be the brave one again, because you are always the one showing me the way through this and just once, I wanted to be the one taking the step and being brave for you.”
John had recovered himself a little. He grabbed Sherlock’s face, smiling even while his eyes were filling up again. “You don’t have to be brave for me, you lunatic. All I need you to be is you.”
“That’s not a concept I’m accustomed to.”
“I know, and I hate that, and I wish it were different.”
Sherlock was hanging on to John’s knees to steady himself. “You’re the only one who never wanted to fix me.”
“Why would I want to fix you? You aren’t broken.” John kissed him hard, once, then twice more. “You are barking mad and insanely talented and strange and wonderful and infuriating and amazing and I love you so fucking much, Sherlock.” Sherlock exhaled hard and let John pull him in, they tried to kiss each other but kept missing, getting each other’s cheeks and jaws and noses but it didn’t seem to matter. Finally they gave up and just held each other. Sherlock felt something settle along his spine, the nerves quieting, his whole being at rest.
“I love you,” he repeated in John’s ear.
“I love you, too.”
He drew back with a sigh. “Well, that’s sorted, then.”
John laughed. “Yes, let’s check that item off the agenda.”
“Come on, let’s get some food. I’m starving.”
They considered going out, but neither of them felt like they’d be able to carry off the whole “we’re just two mates out for a bite” tonight. “I’m not that good an actor, Sherlock,” John said. “Might be a few weeks before I can look at you without the cartoon hearts.” So it was sandwiches and crisps from the kitchen and bottles of lager laid in by Sally, consumed in front of the telly.
“What time’s your flight?” Sherlock asked, putting aside his plate.
John made a face. “Ten a.m.”
“Oh. You’ll have to be off right early, then.”
“I’ll get a cab.”
Sherlock hesitated. “I could drive you.”
“Absolutely not. There is no way I can stand to say goodbye to you in public, Sherlock.” He turned and looked at him. “God, I don’t want to go.”
“I’ll be there in a few weeks. No time at all. We can email and Skype in the meantime.”
“Mmm. Poor substitute.”
Sherlock got up and held out his hand. “Best make tonight count, then.”
John took it and let Sherlock pull him to his feet. “I intend to.”
Morning seemed to slam in with a vengeance, as it always did when one did not want it to come at all. The alarm on John’s mobile went off at half past six, but they were already awake. Sherlock’s hand scrabbled for the nightstand to turn off the insistent alarm as fast as possible so he could get his hands back on John’s hips. John chuckled, tossing his head back as he rode Sherlock slow and maddening, the early sunlight slanting in the window and smoothing over John’s skin like gold leaf, lighting his eyes from the side and making them glow cobalt blue. “John,” Sherlock groaned. “Oh, fuck yes, like that,” he said through clenched teeth.
John just smiled and rolled his hips in torturous circles and arcs. He leaned back and braced his hands on Sherlock’s legs, changing the angle and stretching his torso, his cock jutting hard from his groin. “You want to come like this?” he whispered, eyes shut.
“Yes,” Sherlock managed. He was continually amazed at how John was different every time they had sex. Last night he’d all but dragged Sherlock to bed and had fucked him on all fours, vigorously pounding him until Sherlock had to hang on to the headboard to brace himself. He had been loud and energetic and just rough enough to make it exciting, and they’d both come for England, but now he was quiet and soft and sleepy, riding Sherlock’s cock with a blissful expression as if he were enjoying a leisurely massage. “You first, though.”
Sherlock grasped John’s shaft in his hand and stroked, long slow pulls, taking his cue from his lover’s body language. John slowed his movements and let his head droop down, breathing harder now as Sherlock jerked him. It didn’t take long before he clenched his teeth and came onto Sherlock’s stomach, the pulses squeezing Sherlock’s cock inside him. He’d barely come down before he was back on the job, a little more forcefully now, clenching and thrusting down, leaning forward and pinning Sherlock in place with his eyes. He bent and kissed him, sucking on Sherlock’s lower lip.
“Fuck, John,” Sherlock panted. “God, your arse - so tight, you feel amazing.”
John grinned against Sherlock’s lips. “Come in me, Sherlock.”
“Yes…God, yes…”
“I want to watch you.” He stared down at Sherlock’s face and with another clench and thrust, Sherlock cried out his release, John never taking his eyes off him. “God, you’re beautiful like that,” John whispered, burying his face in Sherlock’s neck. “When you lose control and just let it go.”
Sherlock wrapped his arms around him, breathing hard, his brain not quite back online. “God, I love you.” It was all he could think to say, the lightest and most buoyant thought skimmed from the top of his brain where it had risen to the surface while all else that might crowd it out was buried in the sediment for now.
John rolled off, dropping a kiss to Sherlock’s chest. “I think you like saying that.”
“Could be that I’m getting used to it.”
They lay together and basked in the afterglow for a time, but only a short time. The morning was getting away from them.
Showers and clothing and packing and breakfast, and before Sherlock knew it, it was eight o’clock and John’s car was downstairs waiting. They stood by the lift doors, fidgeting their weight from foot to foot. “Call me when you get there,” Sherlock said.
John nodded. “I will.” He lifted his eyes to Sherlock’s. “I hate this.”
“Agreed.” Sherlock reached out and pulled John into a hug. “Three weeks.”
He felt John nod. “Three weeks.” He drew back and tilted his face up. They kissed, a relatively chaste, see-you-soon kiss. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
John stepped away and picked up his bag. “We’ll Skype later?”
“If you like.” Sherlock stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Safe trip.”
John nodded. “Bye, Sherlock.” He got into the lift, holding Sherlock’s eyes until the doors closed between them.
Sherlock went to the front window and watched until he saw John come out with his bag and get into the waiting car. He looked up towards 221B’s windows. Sherlock lifted a hand, although at this time of day from this angle, John wouldn’t be able to see him. John waved anyway. Then he got in the car, it drove off, and he was gone.
Sherlock turned around and surveyed his silent, empty flat. This flat did not contain a John, as it had not done for virtually all of the time he’d lived here, and yet it now felt incomplete without him.
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