Raw
part sixAnalise was at times a nightmare to put to sleep. It was almost as if she knew that adults had lives that carried on in her absence and felt a need to rectify that situation by never allowing John to leave. He read to her, sang to her, held her and walked in circles to try and wait out the reserves of her energy. On a bad night, it could take two hours. John felt rather lucky if he got out in under thirty minutes.
Coming back down the stairs, he sighed loudly at his success. That made three nights in a row before the one hour mark. He was getting better at it. Or she was. He was more than happy to call it a team effort. Sherlock was far from impressed, though. He didn't even bother to look up from his microscope as he sat at the dining room table with his slides prepped for viewing. "It would probably be more effective if you set the cut off rather than allow her to control bedtime."
John made a face at him. "I do not let her control bedtime. If she's not tired, she's not tired. If I'm going to give her any credit there, I'm going to have to give you a bit of blame as well," he said, holding still a chiding finger beside his face.
"Doesn't mean you can't just say goodnight and close the door. She'd scream herself to sleep in no time."
"And to think anyone was ever worried about you taking care of children." John rolled his eyes with a thoughtful frown while Sherlock shrugged and continued adjusting one of the dials on his instrument. He'd be busy at that long into the night. John smiled and nodded towards the kitchen. "Beer?" he asked.
Sherlock didn't so much as look up. "No, thank you."
John had expected as much but hated not to offer. He walked to the kitchen, cracking open the fridge door to spy one of the three cans still in. As he bent to grab one, his pocket began to vibrate, his phone giving a short, buzzing warning before moving into a full song. John stood up and pulled his phone out, kicking the fridge door closed as he looked at the string of numbers on the display before holding it up to his ear. "Hello?"
"John?" a woman's voice called. "Hi, it's Linda."
"Oh. Hey, Linda." John sat his beer on the counter, pressing the phone between his shoulder and chin as he popped the top on the can. It was just past nine o'clock. While not very late it wasn't exactly early evening anymore. She didn't sound distressed but it would certainly have warranted the call. "Can I help you?"
"Sorry about the time. I just wanted to let you know I spoke to a few others and it sounds like we'll have quite a group for drinks. Still think you can make it?"
"Oh, right." He'd almost forgotten over the days since they'd spoken. He could think of a few places he'd rather be on a Friday but it never hurt to get on with one's co-workers. Especially as a group. He readjusted the phone to his hand, finger trailing in the condensation of the drink he was waiting to take. "Tomorrow night, was it? I'll have to see if Sherlock can watch Analise but yeah, that should be fine. We going to meet at the pub or is there someplace I don't know about?"
He didn't get to hear Linda's reply. Sherlock took the phone from John's hand, thumb disconnecting the call before he tossed it towards the sofa. It was one of the ruder things Sherlock had done in a very long time which was John's only excuse for why he just stood there, hand out as though it still held the phone, staring in surprise as the device bounced against the cushions. Sherlock's face was almost unreadably blank though his silver eyes cut like a blade. John licked his lips, pinned by his shadow as Sherlock eclipsed the light from behind him. The moment felt unreasonably tense without buildup or decline. John looked away first, looking towards the stolen phone, and found instead a stolen kiss pressed against his lips.
It was the first time John had ever been kissed by someone with evening stubble. That should have been a signal to shove him away, one of the many of which all were ignored. He'd forgotten how amazing it felt. That static charge, the skip in one's pulse, the fun to lead and to follow. It'd been so long since he'd enjoyed that spark that zipped straight down his spine and sent waves of prickles through his skin. More, god, more. He grabbed Sherlock's hips, dragging him closer, feeling his bent knee slide along his legs as the taller man bent to oblige. He smelled of wood chips and bleach and tasted of tea with sugar. John growled to feel his thigh press in against his own stirring erection, canting immodestly as he extended his hands past their grip on Sherlock's hips to roughly grope at the globes of his arse through the taut material of his tailored trousers. The surprised moan swallowed whole by their kiss was a rumble of excitement from lips to cock. He wanted this--John needed this. A physical connection to another human being, the feel of another's body, the spontaneity of passion pushing and pulling towards a moment's eternity.
The phone on the sofa rang, the dual vibration humming against the padded seat. Like the stroke of midnight, the spell was broken and the startled shove sent Sherlock crashing against the kitchen counter. John breathed in shaky breaths, observing the wide-blown pupils and reddened lips as Sherlock remained somewhat painfully arched against the woodblock. The phone rang until it stopped, neither of them moving to get it, neither so much as looking away.
John stood scared-still, breath catching in his throat as he finally edged against the wall towards the stairs. He shook his head mutely, words more a mumble than a phrase. "No... Sorry, I...." There wasn't an end to that sentence. John grabbed the stair rail and followed it up, not looking back once he'd finally looked away. He bypassed his own room and took refuge in Analise's instead where she was fast asleep and quiet but still better company than four beige walls alone. He sat in the chair in the corner, immediately resentful of the fact that it wasn't a rocking chair as he rocked himself with nervous energy and a weakening discomfort in his trousers.
Oh, god, what had he done? What had they done? What was Sherlock thinking? John cupped his mouth and nose between his hands, eyes on the door as though in fear that Sherlock would follow. Not now--god, not now--and unrealistically never. The truth of Sherlock's affections were the feigned ignorance by which they both got by, the crux to their platonic status that allowed them to just be friends. Achilles' heel, Sampson's hair, the secret to the invincible strength behind their bond that just was and needn't be understood. It had been precious. John did not want to lose it. And by his own actions he could not escape the fear they'd pushed too far to reclaim it.
With one last, deep, shuddering breath, John rolled his palms up over his head, fingers pressing through his hair. It had been one of the larger mistakes he'd made all year but still he warred to calm the part of him that wondered why they'd stopped.
+++
It didn't clear his thoughts any. It didn't ease the memories of a kiss returned or of the hedonistic vulgarity that surprised and mortified even himself. That wasn't him. He could be lustful, certainly, but never with so little concern to the context of the moment. It had been Sherlock kissing him and only one cause John could think of for him to do so. The man still loved him, not just as his friend. Good news for heartache, bad news for home life. John ran what he should say over and over and over again in his head until the hours rolled away and set him back in his car towards home.
He texted Linda with his excuses. He felt like shit for standing them up but he'd feel even worse if he didn't go home. Even if he had been, John didn't want Sherlock to think he was being evasive. Not coming home till later in the evening was the last thing they needed though being a bit late with fish and chips couldn't hurt. He supposed it was the housemate equivalent of a bouquet of flowers. Not that Sherlock was ever wanting for flora.
Sherlock and Analise were inside already when John walked in, plastic take-away bag in hand. It had been an artistic day going by the stripes of color on the tile floor and the handprints of olive green on the wall. Sherlock had Analise sitting on the counter, wiping blue from her eyebrows while he sported a long red splatter across his own cheek. Seeing John he lowered the excited little girl to the floor to let her run and hug his legs with mostly clean hands and more splashes of colors staining her clothes.
"We gave finger painting a try," he said, nodding to the counter where abstract works of art lay drying.
John put the food down and picked his daughter up. Talking would have to wait.
Bath time was a nightmare. Sherlock had done fairly well with her skin but Analise's hair boasted dried on specs and blobs of every color. When washing wasn't enough, John picked through the straight blonde locks with a comb until every last drop of paint was removed. It was hard not to see it as some kind of punishment--cosmic or by Sherlock's design. She hated having to sit still and let him fuss over her hair. Between a full day of play and an hour's screaming at him to let her get up, Analise fell asleep quite quickly, nearly as soon as he laid her in her cot. He was worn out himself from the effort, really, but kissed her head and went back downstairs where Sherlock was dutifully pouring acid along the grout to remove the mixed brown stains, paper mask over his mouth and nose.
"I take it you expected her to be cleaner," John said, leaning on the counter to watch him. The paintings had dried over dinner and were held fast to the fridge by watermelon and banana shaped magnets.
Sherlock glanced up then shrugged, rubbing a gloved finger along the dissolving mark. "It was fine until we decided the paper was a little too restrictive."
"We?"
"You think I'm picking up after her?" Sherlock raised his left brow inquisitively as he returned to mopping up the acidic solution with a soiled rag. "I'd probably leave it if it weren't brown. Remind me to pick up an extra tarp next we're out."
John nodded, smiling slightly as his stomach began to clench around dinner for some sense of internal security. It still felt stone-like and heavy. It would be nice to stay like this--ignoring the previous night entirely and carrying on as though nothing had happened. He appreciated Sherlock's efforts, really. But it would be cowardly to accept them. He rubbed at the back of his neck. "Sure thing... ah, if you have a minute, I thought we might...talk." His throat felt dry but he didn't dare go for another beer.
Sherlock glanced up then nodded slowly, pulling off his Marigold gloves as he stood to deposit his toxic supplies in the waste bin and his own locked cabinet. John decided it best not to watch him and give him some peace for the moment as he relocated himself to the den and his chair. It seemed the best place for it. It was a safe zone in many ways and the familiar comforts of their customary seats were a welcome presence in the midst of an indigestion inducing conversation. Much as John had planned for and drilled the things to come, he was no more ready for it than he was the night before.
Sherlock sat in his own chair, straight-backed and suspicious, eyes on John as he maintained the static pose. He was far from a fool; he knew exactly what this was about. "I'd like to clarify, if I may, that I did not kiss you because I want things between us to change," he said, bypassing all of John's rehearsed preamble and skipping ahead to the meat of it. "But if you're dissatisfied and are looking to date again, I needed to know you were still aware I consider myself an option."
John licked his lips, sliding the moistened halves against each other as he breathed before reply. "I'm aware. I haven't forgotten. Sherlock, Linda wasn't asking me out on a date. It was a group thing. Bunch of people from work just getting together, whinging over a couple pints. If I thought anyone else was bringing a plus one, I'd have gotten a sitter and asked you to come with me. I'm not looking to date right now."
Sherlock's cheeks colored quickly--or so it seemed, though the scrubbing of the red paint had left a rosy permeation. "Sorry," he said, nearly under his breath as he looked away, fingers fidgeting at his knees in a dead tell.
"It's fine." John took another deep breath, absolutely sure he'd have made himself sick by morning from the pressure in his gut. "God, I don't even know how to start this conversation," he admitted with a sigh, eyes searching the ceiling for the words that had evaded him all day.
"That wasn't it?"
John shook his head. "No. No, not by a long shot. Because I... I can't live my life to make you happy, Sherlock. And really, I say that more to remind myself than because I think you don't know that. You're the one who consistently shows me the value of doing what's right for oneself. And I don't know the future so I can't say for certain I won't date anyone and fall in love and get married again. And I know what that would do to you and it hurts to think of going back to that again but... If you died tomorrow, I'd still have my own life to live. I can't base my life's decisions on what's best for you. And I don't expect you to believe me when I say that hurts... I can't describe how much... to know I can hurt you just by that. So often I would rather be sleep deprived, starving and generally miserable just to watch you smile and dance about on a case or something. Day to day I would sacrifice almost anything for your happiness. But I can't for the big things. I can't let myself." He let his head hang, feeling a greater burden with things spoken, miles from relieved to finally say them. He rubbed his face, feeling very old under the weight of it all. "It'd be great if I woke up tomorrow and everything changed and suddenly I was in love with you in the way that would solve everything. After all these years, though--after all we've been through--if I was going to fall in love with you, don't you think I would have by now?"
Sherlock's face was stony, eyes intense. They did not waver in their stare as they bored into John, felt even when he wasn't looking back. "You're not going to ever consider me," he stated with no inflection or emotion.
John nodded, lips pursed. "It might be awkward if we tried. I don't even know how we'd try. What would be so different about a night out that isn't just you and me like we used to be? I mean, add kissing? Holding hands? Making out? How do you come back from that? Trust me, it's hard to just be friends with someone you've been intimate with. Whoever broke it off always ends up with all the power in the relationship and I don't want that with us."
Sherlock neither moved nor spoke, still and attentive as a Sunday congregation.
"And that doesn't even cover the fact that you could do a lot better than me. And I'm not just saying that," he continued. John felt he was rambling now but silence felt worse with Sherlock looking at him like that. "I mean just look at you. Sherlock, you deserve nights at the symphony and dinner at classy venues that require a jacket and tie. You should be completely swept off your feet in the chaos of romance and smile all day for no apparent reason. You should be with someone who makes you delirious with happiness who can devote every hour of the day to making sure you know you're loved. You deserve nothing less than absolute devotion. And I'm a widower with a kid whose music collection includes such chart toppers as 'The Wheels On the Bus' and 'The ABCs' who brings you home takeaways, asking you to pick up your feet while I sweep the floor and reminding you every day to make sure Analise doesn't eat a bee. I don't think that I could ever give you everything you deserve. Because you deserve the world."
"I'm not arguing that point in the slightest." Sherlock said, hands folding into a steeple under his chin. "I deserve nothing short of the best, in fact. But it's really not up to you to decide the means by which I measure."
John hadn't expected that, somehow. And he was right, of course. Somehow no matter how many times one ran a conversation through their brain, there were contingencies that could not be foreseen. Sherlock's ego and obstinacy should not have been among them. John could not help but smile slightly at their addition to the weighty conversation. He much preferred the fire in Sherlock's eyes to the ice. "I promise you, no matter what happens, it won't be like last time. I cannot imagine one person offering me more in my life than you do already. I've done married life, I'm doing fatherhood, there is literally nothing I have left to experience. And I have everything I need."
"Other than an active sex life," he quipped. It was hard to tell if he was being defensive or observant. Sometimes with Sherlock it was both.
"Celibacy has certainly been.... Well, it's not my preferred status but it's not going to kill me. I think mortification over my actions last night will make it easier for a while."
"I didn't mind."
"I grabbed your arse and humped your thigh. There are wild animals who are better behaved than I was."
"I didn't mind," Sherlock repeated.
John smiled wearily. "Still. Sorry. I don't normally act that way. Especially not to just a kiss." He let his head roll back on the last of his speech, finding it hard to focus on everything when there was just so much to say. "Are we okay? I mean... I don't want our conversations to be about all the things we're not. There's a lot more we could focus on. Better things, really."
Sherlock sat up from his chair, arms down at his sides as he stood attentive on the rug. His voice was no longer flat though his eyes were narrow and thickly shrouded. "I'm sure I understand. You're not in love with me nor do you expect you ever will be. You are not interested in pursuing a romantic relationship with me under any circumstances and any evidence in contradiction is an act of nature outside best judgments. Our roles are set and defined and best left unchanged and one day you may leave again but it has nothing to do with me because I deserve better anyway."
John could not help the wince that pulled his eyes closed and his lips taut at the sound of his own sentiments recounted in such easy summation, no punches pulled and no kindness to soften. And for the life of him he could not find a place to correct him for all the want to make it sound less like he hadn't a care for his feelings at all. John breathed deep through his nose, staring up at his friend in stunned, broken silence. "How are you still my friend?" he asked with no answer of his own readily available.
Sherlock tipped his chin nonchalantly. "I don't know how not to be."
"Do you ever wish you weren't?"
"No," he said, and walked closer to John's chair. "I think you're right, though. This isn't something we can afford to dwell on. Starting tomorrow, not another word on the subject."
John nodded, bile in the back of his throat. "Right. Okay."
"Which means you have a much smaller window to yell at me for this." And without further warning, he bent down and kissed John again, his hand cupping the back of his head to still his protesting jerk. The strong smell of soap filled John's nostrils as Sherlock's face became the extent of his sight. He didn't taste of sugar this time but of the oils from the chip shop and the remnants of malt vinegar. Sherlock cut the kiss short but did not let go of John's head, keeping himself firmly set as centerpiece for John's vision. "Don't think for one second that you have any power over me, John Watson," he said with surprising conviction. His eyes burned hot like molten silver. "I make the rules by which I live and you're merely along for the ride. Keep your sentiment and your sympathies. I am not here for you, you are here with me. Remember that the next time you give a thought to who has the most to lose."
He let go of John and righted himself with the same calm stoicism he faced nearly everything with, not a smile but far from a frown aligning the corners of his mouth. His own piece spoken, he turned and walked up the stairs to the rooms above, calling back in an almost parody of their daily tone, "Turn the lights out before you turn in," as he rose to the top.
John sat agape in the den, lips buzzing once more, stunned and somehow even more confused than ever as he looked on in the impossible man's wake.