Fic: Get Over Your Hill and See (asexual!Sherlock/John)
Title: Get Over Your Hill & See
Author: Tuesdays with Moriarty / tueswmoriarty
Ratings/Warnings: Pretty PG. Brief mentions of sex. Het and asexuality ahoy.
Characters/Pairings: John/ace!Sherlock, John/Sarah, John/Mary, Sherlock/his work
Word count: 2,748
Disclaimer: Not mine. This incarnation of Holmes & Watson belongs to the BBC.
Notes: Loosely inspired by the song “After the Storm” by Mumford & Sons.
Summary: He kept bees, his own council, and John Watson.
The first time John got married Sherlock stayed home. He told John that he had been called away on a case, and if John had known that was a lie he never mentioned it. They still had dinner twice a week, away from Sarah, because John suspected if they didn’t then Sherlock wouldn’t eat.
He told himself it wasn’t because he missed his mercurial, brilliant best friend. That he didn’t long for the hours-some silent, some packed with nonstop, violent, deafening action-spent in the company of Sherlock Holmes.
Twice a week became every night. Soon he was running around London with Sherlock just as frequently as he had while single. More frequently, even.
One night he returned home to his flat to find the locks changed. He banged on the door.
“Sarah! Sarah open up! My key is sticking!”
She obliged, cracking the door just enough to reveal her pale face and calm expression. “John. I thought you’d moved out. I changed the locks.”
“Moved out?” He was puzzled. “Sarah, I haven’t left you.”
Her lips pressed into a tight line. “I think you’ll find you have.”
The door closed.
***
“Ah, John. I was wondering how long it would take you to come here.” Sherlock felt happiness, real happiness, bubbling in his chest for the first time in some 16 years. He had John back in the same city as him. No, better than that: under the same roof.
“No you weren’t,” John grumbled in badly feigned annoyance as he limped through the door. “You’ve probably had Mycroft tailing me since I left the churchyard.
“Mycroft is retired, John. And he’s in Tahiti.” His tone was supercilious.
“Right. Well, homeless network then.”
“Perhaps.”
John cocked his head at him.
“Oh alright. Of course. I considered meeting you at the station but I didn’t wish to appear over-eager.”
John’s grin illuminated the entire foyer. “Heaven forbid.”
***
John moved back after Sarah, but things were different. A line had been crossed and they weren’t entirely sure where.
Maybe it was the fact that Sherlock had never rented John’s room, or moved anything out of (or into) it during the two years he’d been married.
Maybe it was because John’s relationship with Sherlock was the reason Sarah had left him, and everyone knew it.
Maybe it was the touches that had been more or less constant since Jim Moriarty (may he rot in hell) had kidnapped John three months after he’d met Sherlock. A little reassuring brush against a shoulder, the press of a hand to a back, the way they would grasp hands and hoist the other to his feet-these had never really progressed to anything more, but they had never stopped either.
Maybe it was the careful way they hovered around the edges of each others’ lives, not sure where they fit, only sure that the other was important.
But maybe they were happy like this, moving in and out of each others’ orbits. Maybe it was enough.
Sherlock was the first to know it wasn’t. Somewhere along the line he realised that there were things he couldn’t give John, and he dearly wanted his friend to have those things. It wasn’t that he was scared, exactly. John had his heart; John was his heart. John had probably deduced as much, and if he hadn’t he was an idiot.
No, Sherlock wasn’t scared but there were things he didn’t do. John needed more than the occasional brush of fingers. He needed more than the languid kisses and quiet nights on the couch Sherlock would have happily given him if only he knew John wouldn’t look for more.
John needed a lover who was as eager for his body as John was for theirs. John needed someone who he could grope and taste and consume and worship. He needed to be touched, intimately and often.
He went for three years without any of these things.
***
They were in their sixties, but they laughed together like schoolboys. Their first few days had consisted mostly of lazing around the house, unpacking the boxes John had shipped, and eating takeaway. It was a quieter life than they used to lead, but Sherlock doubted either of them could have managed to chase down criminals on foot, or box with giants, or disguise themselves as anything other than the doddering old men they were fast becoming.
“You’ve still got the skull, I see,” John remarked, placing his jumpers in the guest room closet.
“Yes. You’re driving him out of his room.”
“The skull gets its own room?” He cast a disbelieving look at Sherlock, who was sitting on the edge of the bed.
“It made it seem more like having you at home.”
“Please tell me you haven’t named it John.”
“…No?”
John rolled his eyes and went to sit next to Sherlock. “Now I almost feel badly about kicking him out, but I don’t really want that thing watching me while I sleep.”
Sherlock brightened. “That’s alright. He sleeps in my room most nights anyway.”
John just stared.
“Not good?”
John still didn’t reply.
***
Mary had been a more understanding wife. The less she pushed, the less Sherlock pulled, and most days it was almost like there were only two people involved in the Watson marriage. Fortunately they had never had children, because Sherlock didn’t think he could have tolerated being named godfather.
It was everything Sherlock wanted for his friend and almost nothing he had wanted for himself.
It was seven years in before he realised he had a problem. He no longer lived for his cases. Sure, he still enjoyed the rush that came from solving an unsolvable puzzle. He still loved the thrill of the chase. He was still brilliant and eager to prove it, but the only thing that kept him going back to New Scotland Yard was John. It was the opportunity to spend time with his old flatmate. It was the chance to pretend things had never changed, that they were still an unstoppable pair of young men racing about the city. That when this was over they would return to their flat and collapse on the sofa to watch telly and eat takeaway and laugh. To pretend that John was still his.
So Sherlock did what he always did when he was trying to shake an addiction. He cut out his substance of choice entirely. He traded it for something just similar enough to slake his unquenchable thirst.
The first time, he had traded the rush of cocaine for the thrill of the chase. Both were invigorating and exhilarating and dangerous. Both made him feel like more than a mere man. They balanced each other out, though there was always a dull ache for the drugs.
This time he was trading John Watson. Reliable yet always mysterious. Something Sherlock had to work at that would take years to solve. Something he might never solve.
He wasn’t foolish enough to think that he could ever trade John for another person. It was a small miracle that he was able to care about John as much as he did, and a tremendous one that John was able to reciprocate (more or less) Sherlock’s caring. So instead he traded his life in London, his life with John, for a quiet house in Hertfordshire. The house was atop a small hill, pleasant, and close to his new work. It was convenient and lovely and it wasn’t home.
Hertfordshire was not Sherlock’s home, but it was the home of Rothamsted Research and their colonies of bees. An agricultural research institute was not where anyone would have expected Sherlock to turn up, but the honeybees were disappearing and it was a mystery. It could hold his attention. Not to mention the fact that bees reminded him of John. They were small and buzzed around annoyingly. Sometimes they were fuzzy and round and striped. When they were missing the world was worse for it. It hurt.
They saw each other every few months and texted frequently, but it never stopped hurting.
***
When John finally spoke Sherlock was startled. He had been drinking in his friend's face: the deep wrinkles, the hollows of his eyes, and they grey hair that made him look every day of his 65 years.
“You are… an idiot.” His inflection was almost the same as it had been the day after they met, when they were riding in a cab and John had told him his deductions were amazing.
The wrinkled forehead clenched. “Or maybe I’m the idiot. I think I understand now.”
Sherlock was so delighted that John was speaking; that he hadn’t left as soon as Sherlock mentioned his tendency to share a room with the skull he’d named John. He grinned, but he had no idea if that was any more socially appropriate than his most recent revelation. “Of course you’re the idiot. I’m a genius, remember?”
John glared at him. “Not when it comes to things like this, you aren’t. If you were such a genius you would have just told me.”
Now it was Sherlock’s turn to furrow his brow. “Told you what?”
"How you feel."
"And how do I feel?"
"Well I don't know precisely, but at a guess I'd say you like me."
"Of course I like you! You're my best friend."
John looked a little sad, but something about the cant of his head showed he wasn't disappointed or hurt. John was sad for him. "And you're mine. In fact, I can safely say I like you better than anyone in the world."
"Well I suppose it was between me and Harry, now that Mary's gone." He regretted the words as soon as they were out of his mouth, but John seemed to have expected him to say something tinged with bitterness. He sighed deeply.
"This has nothing to do with her. There's never been any contest really, not since I met you."
Sherlock turned that over in his head for a moment.
"You might have just told me," John continued quietly.
"Couldn't," was his quiet answer. "I can't... we can't... it wouldn't have been fair to you. It's still not fair to you."
"And why's that?" John reached out and touched the back of his hand.
"You know why. Think, John. Have I ever show interest in a relationship?"
"Before now, you mean?" John was teasing him. Sherlock frowned. "Alright, alright. I know what you mean. No, you were married to your work if I remember correctly. Still are."
"So no interest then."
"No, I suppose not. There were times when I hoped... but on the whole I'd say no."
Sherlock nodded, satisfied. "As usual, you see but you don't observe."
"Some things never change."
"Indeed."
"Care to tell me what I should be observing?"
"I've never had a romantic relationship because there are certain elements of it that are... unappealing to me."
"Ah." Light dawned in John's eyes.
"Ah what?"
"I may be unobservant but I did just see the look of disdain you cast at the bed as you said that."
"And?"
"And I deduce you're referring to sex when you talk about things that are unappealing to you?"
Sherlock smiled. It was bitter. "Well done, John."
"So you're telling me you've never told me how you feel because you're asexual?" Why was John belabouring the point?
"That's the gist of it, yes."
"That's ridiculous, you know. Tell me, do you enjoy playing the martyr?"
"What? Of course not!" Sherlock was offended and he wasn't sure why. It wasn't like John hadn't accused him of melodrama in the past.
"Then why? Aside from the fact that you've probably only just realised you like me."
"Not. True." How dare John accuse him of such a dastardly oversight; of not realising a part of his heart had been missing for years. "It was because it wouldn't be fair to ask you to give up sex. I know you enjoy it."
John giggled. Giggled. “That shouldn’t be a problem. I’m 65, Sherlock. I don’t have half the sex drive I used to. Besides, I’ve gone without before.”
Sherlock thought back to the three years between Sarah and Mary. The three years when John had been his and no one else’s.
“That didn’t last. It couldn’t. And I don’t just want a few years John. I want decades. I want every last minute we have left.” The words were tumbling from him as rapidly as they did when he was in the middle of a deduction. And this was a deduction. He was speaking aloud and unraveling the truth as he went. He wanted John for the rest of his life. He loved John.
“It’s yours. Every minute is yours.” John's voice grew soft. “We’ve been together for three decades. If we’re lucky we’ll get three more.” He reached up and carded a hand through Sherlock’s salt and pepper curls.
“Are you going to stop getting married? Are you going to stay with me?” The vulnerability of the question surprised even him.
“I think I’m done being married. I’m all yours.” He paused for a second before leaning up and pressing a dry kiss to the base of Sherlock’s jaw. “And I’m really quite good at taking direction in the bedroom. We don’t need to do anything you don’t want to do.”
Sherlock stiffened. “I…I don’t know if I was clear, John.” John sat back.
“I’m sorry if I…”
Sherlock waved away his concern. “The kiss was fine. I quite liked the kiss. You may repeat the kiss as many times as you like.”
John did just that, getting a bit closer to his mouth this time.
“It’s just… bedrooms are for sleeping. That’s what I do in the bedroom. That’s it.”
“And what you do on the couch, and on trains, and wherever else you happen to collapse.” John smiled indulgently at him. “That’s fine, Sherlock. It’s all fine. I like sleeping.” He kissed him again, this time on the lips. “I like you.”
It seemed as though all the blood in Sherlock's body had rushed to his head, making his cheeks flush and his ears buzz. He briefly wondered if the bees had gotten out and followed him home.
"And I you."
John grinned at him cheekily. It made him look young again. "I thought you might have mentioned something like that."
Sherlock leaned in to kiss the grin off of his face. He was sixty years old and kissing for the first time; sixty years old and finally with the man he loved.
It was surprisingly nice. Sherlock let John tangle his hands into his hair and gently guide him. John's lips were soft and warm and dry. His touch was gentle. They kissed like two men who knew each other well and who knew what they wanted.
Sherlock pulled back momentarily. “Maybe you ought to let the skull keep his room. It's really not fair, you barging in like this.”
John smiled and said Sherlock's favourite word.
"Brilliant."
***
How are things? Mycroft mentioned Mary was in hospital. How are you holding up? - SH
Not good. Stroke. She’s in a coma. - John
I’m sorry. Do you want company? - SH
No, don’t trouble yourself. Harry’s here. I’ll keep you informed. How are your bees? - John
Wonderful. Presenting findings on effect of increased corn production on sex drive at a symposium next week. - SH
Sounds right up your street. - John
Very funny, John. - SH
…
Mary passed last night. Funeral tomorrow. - John
I’m so sorry John. Location? I’ll be there. - SH
No. I know you have the symposium tomorrow. I’ll visit soon. - John
Quite right. - SH
I would rather be with you than at any symposium. - SH
I mean it. Reply damn you or I’ll have to call Mycroft. He’s out of town so he won’t be pleased. - SH
I know. Thank you. I just need to process right now. Can I come visit when this is over? - John
You are always welcome here. - SH
I mean it. You can stay forever, if you’d like. - SH
Thank you. I’ll be there soon. - John
***
It was a quiet kind of life, but then they had always been easy with one another. They had fallen into a comfortable domesticity the first time they had met. Why should this be any different, despite the years and the miles that separated them from 221B Baker Street?
Notes: The timeline I’ve used for this story goes something like this: I supposed Sherlock to be 30 and John to be 35 during Series 1. I’ve assumed two years of romping around London, solving crimes, followed by John’s marriage to Sarah. I’ve (rather generously, poor Sarah) estimated that lasting a further two years. What follows is 3 more years of bachelorhood, then John’s marriage to Mary. I know in canon that marriage is rather short-lived, but I didn’t want to have John married three times so I ignored that. John and Mary were married for 23 years, but the 16 years Sherlock references are the 16 years he’s been living in Hertfordshire while the Watsons remained in London. The “present day” in this fic is 2040, making Sherlock 60 and John 65. Round numbers are probably lazy, but they’re easier to work with!
I didn't set out to write Sherlock as asexual, but in the end it was unavoidable! This is rapidly becoming my personal head-canon for him. I apologize if I got anything wrong. This fandom has really been my first contact with AVEN and asexuality in general, and I don't want to say/do/write anything offensive. Please gently correct me where I'm wrong and I'll try to do better in the future.
This is my only fandom and I'm new to it, so I lack the contacts for Britpicking / beta reading. Again, my apologies for the surplus of z's, the dearth of u's, and the tense problems.
There really is a Rothamsted Research and it really is located in Hertfordshire. It’s the oldest agricultural research institute in the UK.
Thank you so much for reading!