Archive of Our Own

John pauses in front of the staircase. He runs a hand over his stubbled jaw, gazing down at the carpet where he'd lain with Sherlock on the stairs. Then his eyes flicker to the the wall, where they'd laughed breathlessly after their first chase together. Their life together had not been easy, but sometimes despite that they'd been happy.

They haven't been happy for a long time. John realises this when he's standing in front of the stairwell, his hair greying. His eyes are as dark as the shadows on the stairwell. Even when they were happy, John thinks, there was always a feeling it would end, and then it did.

John takes the steps, and cracks open the door to 221B. Inside the living room is shadowed, too, their chairs sitting vacant. John steps into the room and traces the arm of Sherlock's chair with his fingertips. How often had they sat here, arguing? Or discussing a case. Or rarely, talking about things Sherlock had considered trivial, like the weather and when Sherlock would please restock the fridge.

Over in the kitchen, John thinks, turning in the dark to look at the shadowed counter, Sherlock would experiment. Sometimes they'd open takeaways or Sherlock would lean on the counter, rambling to John about anything he wished, bright as the sunlight through the window.

John lets out a long sigh and kneels slowly to sit in his chair. He leans back against the headrest, with his hands on the arms of the chair. John thinks that hes's old, and weary, and tired of being angry for no reason at all. He keeps thinking he should stay away from here, away from Sherlock Holmes, for peace of mind. It's then that he thinks he doesn't want peace of mind, and that's the problem, isn't it?

"Sorry." John says to the living room, for all of the mistakes and gunshot wounds and scars that were inflicted here. He closes his eyes and breathes in the smell of his old home. Sherlock asked him to move back in, after Sherrinford. For Mary, he'd said. Like John needed the incentive. "'M sorry, Sherlock."

But he had, for some reason, sneaked here instead, just to sit in his old chair and feel again. John sits there and thinks of the times Mrs Hudson would bring him a cup of tea and, after a case had swept them away from 221B, it had grown cold on the counter and was forgotten until the next day. He feels very much like that day old tea. Cold, tasteless, forgotten.

It's completely silent here - Sherlock is, hopefully, asleep upstairs. John hasn't slept for months.

Yet there, in the dark, in his old chair, his eyes grow heavy. They sting with exhaustion. Eventually, John drifts into a dream of happier days.

When he wakes, hours later, the sun is rising. Pink and yellow fall on the counters, and glitter in the mirror. In front of John is a pile of blankets, all stacked up, and by the dark shades and rich texture John decides they're Sherlock's. He rubs his eyes, confused.

John thinks it must be for a case. He had walked in on far more bewildering situations than this, back in the day. John's knees crack as he stands, his shoulders and back aching from - God - hours on the sofa. He lets out a groan before padding over to the front of the mount of blankets.

To his surprise, Sherlock is sitting cross legged inside of the pile of blankets with a book on his lap. His hair, longer now, is falling over his eyes. There are two cups of tea sitting beside him. His eyes flicker up to meet John's, and John raises his eyebrows as if to say what the hell, mate.

"Do you want to join me in my blanket fort?" Sherlock asks.

John blinks at him. Sherlock doesn't look high, or concussed. His eyes are clear, pretty as the sunrise, and his lips are curled into a shy smile. Hello, it says.

"Your what?"

"My blanket fort, John." Sherlock says. It feels like the old days, John thinks, having things explained to him like he's an idiot.

"Your blanket fort." John says, "Really, Sherlock?"

Sherlock gives him half a shrug. He looks younger than John remembers.

"It's a simple question." Sherlock says, "You can join me, or you can refuse."

John hesitates for just a moment, rocking back on his heels.

"Is this for a case?"

Sherlock pauses, his fingers splayed on the page of his book.

"It could be." He eventually says.

"Right." John frowns, unsure, and then finally he gives in and sits beside Sherlock in his... blanket fort?

Inside, next to Sherlock, it's warm. The small space smells of cologne and shampoo. John tucks up his legs to his chin and looks out of the window, where the sun is rising in the sky.

"Tea?" Sherlock asks, holding out John's mug. "I'm afraid it's gone cold. I underestimated how long you'd sleep."

John takes the mug with fumbling hands. When he takes a sip it is cold, and tasteless, but John drinks it because Sherlock made it for him. He's always treasured Sherlock's kind gestures, and remembered them later, when he felt hurt or betrayed. It's just one sweet thing on a list that's actually rather long.

"What's all this about then?" John asks, with the taste of bland tea on his tongue.

Sherlock hums. He's always been infuriatingly evasive. Now, staring down at his book, he avoids John's question.

"Make blanket forts often when I was away, did you?"

This makes Sherlock's eyes crinkle.

"Everyone needs a hobby, as you once said." Sherlock says.

"Even you?"

"Especially me." Sherlock pats the blankets beside him, and they hold steadily. "It's fine architecture, don't you think?"

John chuckles, and it's been a while, since he laughed affectionately in Sherlock's company. Still, this is a strange moment, and it reminds him of older days. A few years ago they might've been in this exact situation. He feels sad, and nostalgic, when he thinks of their younger selves.

"Did you ever make blanket forts?" Sherlock asks.

"When I was a kid, you mean?" John shakes his head, "Not our thing. Harry and I were more likely to be rolling around in the grass."

Sherlock nods.

"Can't imagine you and Mycroft in one of these, though."

"Oh, certainly not. Mycroft would have burned it." Sherlock says, "This is my first."

"Right. Well, congratulations."

"Thank you." Sherlock gives him a smile.

"So are you going to tell me why I'm sitting in a pile of blankets?"

Sherlock shrugs.

"I asked you to."

"No, I mean..." John takes another sip of cold tea. It's not pleasant, but it's his way of saying thank you. "Why'd you make it?"

"I said it was for a case."

"No, you said it could be."

Sherlock's mouth twitches.

"Oh, alright." Sherlock taps on his book with pale, slender fingers. Pianist fingers, John has always thought, "I thought it might be fun."

"Fun?" John asks, amused. The sun has risen to its peak in the sky, now, and the morning sunshine slips in between their knees. "I think I've forgotten what that is."

"Exactly." Sherlock says, and his smile seems to flicker with sadness. "You and I both."

The silence has meaning, so John tries to listen. As he's grown older he's noticed his own stubborn way of doing things has impacted his relationship with others, and with no one more than Sherlock. He had been - continues to be - unforgiving, rash, cruel. To Sherlock. That isn't who he wants to be, not anymore. He has come to the realisation that Sherlock is a far better man that he has ever been.

It wasn't a single moment that proved it. A million of them, like the cold tea between John's hands.

"Having fun, then?" John asks, after a few minutes of sitting quietly. Sherlock has been reading his book, pages turning softly under the blanket.

"Much." Sherlock says, and his eyes flicker up to meet John's. "You?"

"Actually, yes." John admits, "It's kind of peaceful here. Quiet, you know."

There has never been peace between the two of them, John thinks. He has always craved the rush of adrenaline on the field or out at war. He never enjoyed peace with Mary, or any of his other ex girlfriends. He finds it here, though, in the company of Sherlock, who has taken peace from him so many times. A bittersweet paradox, John thinks. The man who gives him peace just as easily rips it away from him.

"Mm." Sherlock agrees, "Dreadfully quiet."

"You might go shooting the walls again, if we're not careful."

"I think I've grown past that." Sherlock says, his smile widening. "Though maybe just one more, for old times sake..."

"Yeah. Lots of memories here, aren't there?" John murmurs.

"Some you'd rather forget?"

"You said it, not me." John gives Sherlock a fleeting grin. He thinks no, no never. He couldn't delete any memory, any thought, in connection to Sherlock. He treasures them all, and thinks them precious. Anyone lucky enough to have a history like his with Sherlock Holmes should keep the stories forever.

Sherlock hums again. He slams his book shut in a swift, sharp gesture that John is familiar with, and turns under the blanket fort to face John. When he leans forward on his elbows, he looks so young and so like the person he was when John met him. Confident, vibrant. Almost unreal. His eyes even seem to sparkle like they did back then, or maybe it's just the sunlight.

"So when are you moving back in?" Sherlock asks. Certain, as if it's all decided. His presumptions have always rubbed John up the wrong way, but now it's sort of pleasing, to think of Sherlock waiting for him to come home.

"You've decided that for me, have you?"

"Logical deduction." Sherlock says, "It's not like you have anywhere else to go."

"Thanks for that, Sherlock."

"No, I mean..." Sherlock twists his hands in his lap. Nervous, John thinks. "Neither do I."

Ah. John taps his finger on the outside of his mug.

"Saturday?" Sherlock asks, "Sunday, perhaps?"

"Sherlock..."

"I can have Mrs Hudson-"

"Sherlock." John says, firmly. He hates the way Sherlock flinches away from him, and wants to reach out to soothe him, but it isn't the time. "Before I do, which I'm not saying I will, there need to be a few... ground rules."

Sherlock's face crumples.

"Yes, I suppose I-"

"Not for you." John interrupts, giving him Sherlock a smile, "For me."

Sherlock blinks.

"You?"

"Been a bit of an arse, lately." John says, and then swallows. "Well, more than a bit. And not just lately. I think it's time things changed around here, don't you?"

"That's why you came here?" Sherlock's eyebrows are furrowed in thought. "To discuss this?"

"Suppose." John says. "I dunno. Deduce me."

Sherlock laughs and leans forward again, his eyes scanning John's face. His smile falters, slightly, softened by the blankets all around him.

"Are you tired, John?" Sherlock asks gently. He shifts forward, his knees touching John's just slightly. His eyes flicker to the point of contact before he swallows and looks away. Always shy, John thinks. It had taken him a while to notice Sherlock's bashful streak, hidden under all of that bravado.

"Aren't you?"

"A little." Sherlock admits, "Well, a lot. But it does feel better in the blanket fort, doesn't it?"

"You know what?" John says, "It actually does."

Another silence, warm and peaceful. John thinks of every moment spent in 221B with Sherlock, every moment spent with him in London, every broken and lovely minute they spent next to each other. There was blood and pain and trauma but there was love, too, wasn't there?

"Saturday, then?" Sherlock asks.

John chuckles and shoves his shoulder, just gently. It's soft and thin under his hand. Brittle, John thinks. Like he could snap any minute.

"Suppose we should be setting boundaries."

"Where did you hear that?" Sherlock laughs, "Have you been spending time with Mycroft?"

"Sherlock, I'm being serious."

"Well, the blanket forth counts as a boundary, doesn't it?" Sherlock says.

"Us against the world?"

"It always has been." Sherlock says, and there's a lump in John's throat.

"Not lately." John says quietly, "I think that's my fault. I'm sorry, Sherlock."

Sherlock looks at him, and he's the most beautiful bastard John has ever seen.

"Blanket forts make you sentimental." Sherlock decides.

"Brilliant detective, you are."

"Yes, you have said that before." Sherlock's smile is sweet as the morning sun. He's still playing with his fingers. John feels at home, as ridiculous as it sounds, under a pile of blankets. More comfortable than he ever has been.

"I hurt you, didn't I?" John blurts out.

"What?"

"I hurt you." John reaches out and stills Sherlock's nervous hands by covering them with his own. He's not one for physical touch, but he wants Sherlock to be soothed, he wants- "Over and over again. God, for years, enough for a lifetime. Sherlock, I'm so sorry, I-"

Sherlock blinks, pink in the cheeks. His hands are still underneath John's.

"And I hurt you too. All of the time, if you recall." He murmurs. "Tit for tat."

"That wasn't the same. You were misguided, and I was-"

"You were traumatised, John."

"Not an excuse."

"As good an excuse as any." Sherlock retorts. He's trembling as he turns John's hands over and interlocks their fingers. "There is nothing to forgive."

"Like hell there isn't." John squeezes his hands. He's strong, and his eyes blaze with emotion, and he's still and stiff compared to Sherlock's lanky figure shaking in front of him. "If I'm moving back here then I've got to be sure that something has changed."

"I don't want anything to change." Sherlock says, in a small voice. "I want-"

Yes, John thinks, what does Sherlock wants? He's never asked.

"What do you want?" He asks, squeezing Sherlock's hands.

"For you to be back here. We could solve cases, and we could eat cheap takeaway, just like before." Sherlock shudders. He's such an expressive person, John thinks, his whole body showing his feelings clear as day. John had never realised before. "I want you to come home, John."

"I think this little blanket fort is as far as we've got to home." John says fondly.

"Oh, I don't know. Weren't there moments, when we lived together, where you felt at home?"

Every day, John thinks. He swallows.

"Sherlock?" John holds on to his hands for dear life. "What do we do?"

"Why are you asking me?"

"You always seem to know what to do."

"Haven't you noticed? I haven't the faintest clue what I'm doing, most of the time."

John chuckles.

"Yeah. Yeah, I have noticed that."

"I think if we could stay here, in this blanket fort." Sherlock says, "It would all be okay."

"Got to face reality eventually. We can't stay here forever."

"Can't we? Mrs Hudson wouldn't mind bringing us the essentials. Toilet trips may be a little more complicated, but-"

"Sherlock." John shakes his head, bubbling over with joy, amusement, hope. "You can't be serious."

"I'm always serious."

"You made a blanket fort."

"I'm almost always serious." Sherlock shrugs, "Close enough."

"Mad bastard." John shifts closer to him, wanting to see his face clearly. Now that they're finally touching, hands lay on hands, John doesn't think they'll let go. He always had struggled to let go of Sherlock's hands after they'd ran together through the streets on a case.

"This is nice, though, isn't it?" Sherlock asks gently.

"Blanket forts make you sentimental too?"

"Touché." Sherlock giggles, pretty as spring flowers and morning dew.

John can't stop noticing how he's wrapped a blanket around his shoulders and it keeps slipping. He moves his hands from under Sherlock's to lift the blanket onto his shoulders properly again and Sherlock lets out an irritated huff.

"What?"

Sherlock shrugs and looks away. He pouts like a petulant child, and it's so like him John's heart feels full, about to burst.

"What, Sherlock?" John laughs.

With his ears a bright shade of red Sherlock leans forward and grabs John's hands again.

"'S nice." He says quietly. And there's another side of Sherlock Holmes he hasn't seen before, John thinks in wonder. There is always something new to discover.

"Right." John says, gruffly. "Right, yeah."

"You don't mind, do you?"

An echo of the stag night. John swallows, thinking of the alcohol and laughter and his hand on Sherlock's knee.

"I don't mind." John says, and Sherlock squeezes his hands. It's unexpected but the gesture makes John's heart melt, just like the cold tea.

"Do you mind if I-" Sherlock leans forward, and rests his head against John's shoulder. He breathes in John, and feels warm and steady and small against John's shoulder, breathing against his neck. Closer than he ever has been. "Do this?"

"No." John murmurs.

"Sorry the tea was shit."

John's chest rumbles against Sherlock as he chuckles.

"Nah, it was nice."

"You're a bad liar, John."

John thinks of all the lies he's told and secretly agrees.

"You're not." John says.

"I am rather good at it, aren't I? It's a skill I learned from Mycroft." Sherlock reaches up his hands and clings to the coat John has been wearing for hours. "It can be... problematic."

"Oh? How?"

"A lie becomes another lie, and then another. Like a spiders web. Before you know it the façade has become your life and you're trapped within it." Sherlock breathes against him, "It's tiring."

"Yeah, I know." John says. He does. He shifts his head and presses his face into Sherlock's hair, breathing in his shampoo. Sherlock is trembling against him so he presses a gentle kiss there, into his hair, his heart fluttering when Sherlock exhales.

It's a lot nicer than their awkward hug had been, in front of the armchairs. John had wanted to pull Sherlock into his arms then and hold him tightly but there was so much pain. No more, John thinks, his eyes fluttering shut as Sherlock clings to him.

"Are you sure we can't spend forever here?" Sherlock whispers.

"Maybe on the weekends."

"A noble compromise." Sherlock turns his head and presses his cheek against John's chest. "I can hear your heart beating."

"Yeah." John swallows, eyes still closed. "That is how anatomy works, Sherlock."

"Do be careful, John." Sherlock murmurs. "It's dangerously fast."

"It is, is it?"

"Mhm. I rather think you need a doctor."

"Good job I am one."

"That is reassuring." Sherlock says, a smile in his voice. "I will be rest assured knowing your heart is in good hands."

It is, isn't it, John thinks.

"What do you deduce from it?" John asks, "My heart, I mean."

Sherlock leans back and looks up at him. He's trembling less now, but he still looks shy with pink cheeks. He bites his lip.

"You know, John, I can't really think about very much at all right now."

"That's a first." John chuckles. Sherlock pats his chest with long fingers.

"I do love blanket forts." He says. "Do you?"

I love you, John thinks. The thought startles him, though he's thought it a million times before. He hopes Sherlock can see it written there on his features, under a pile of blankets. It'd be easier than telling. But love is the one thing Sherlock has always been stubbornly clueless about.

"Actually, I don't think that's true." Sherlock says, "It was rather in here dull, until you came along."

"Was it?"

"Mhm. And if anyone else had come inside I would've been rather put out."

"I'm flattered." John laughs, "Likewise. You're just about the only person I can stand right now."

"And thus we have more evidence that the blanket fort would be the best course of action-"

"Why do you even want me here, Sherlock?" John blurts. The insecurity slips out, in between the fondness and healing. "What can I even give you?"

"Well," Sherlock says, bewildered, "You."

"I don't understand."

"Didn't I tell you? In my best man's speech? I planned it out in quite a bit of detail." Sherlock gives him a little smile, endearing, beautiful. "You are my best friend. I do love you. I hoped to clear up that misunderstanding at your wedding. So of course I want you to live with me again. It's rather simple."

John sighs, long and tired.

"Not that look again." Sherlock shifts forward, and cups John's face with his hands. "I would give the world for you, you know that."

It is harder to remember the reality of things, John thinks, when they're under so many blankets, and Sherlock's hands are warm around his cheeks. Sherlock breathes deeply and his eyes flicker to John's mouth, and John feels uncertain, pulled towards him, yet scared.

"My life with you," Sherlock starts, "It's the most beautiful, and wonderful thing-"

And then he kisses John. It's a soft touch of the lips, achingly shy on Sherlock's part, but real. John has waited for it for so long, and so has Sherlock, John realises, awed as Sherlock pulls back.

"Um." Sherlock pauses, his cheeks bright pink. "I'm sorry I- Well, John, that is to say that I- Though you have said on multiple occasions that you're not, in fact, gay- and this is the time as you said to be setting boundaries- I just think that you and I- well, we could- if you were amiable-"

"Sherlock, what are you trying to say?"

"Will you have me?" Sherlock says, quietly. "I said, didn't I, the life of a liar is never ending. I don't wish to lie to you ever again. I love you."

John's world collapses. He never thought they'd confess to one another. In truth in his pessimism and despair he'd thought they'd die without ever admitting it. Now here Sherlock is, reaching out to him through his fear and inexperience, brave and good. And in love with him.

A laugh bubbles in John's throat.

"Course you're doing this in a blanket fort, of all places." He says.

Sherlock smiles, crooked. A little broken. But with John. Beside him. Hopefully forever.

"A bit not good?" Sherlock asks, as if they're young again.

"C'mere, Sherlock."

John takes Sherlock in his arms and kisses him, and kisses him, properly, laying him down beneath a tower of blankets. He loves how Sherlock feels beneath him, he loves how Sherlock's hands curl into John's coat, he loves the feeling of warmth, tenderness, home. It's bittersweet and gorgeous. A miracle.

Then the blanket fort collapses on top of them and John feels smothered under the weight. They laugh and scramble out from underneath it.

"Fine architecture, is it?" John laughs, looking down at the mess on the carpet.

"Well," Sherlock takes his hand. I love you, John thinks. "Practice makes perfect."