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John knows that any questions he has regarding Sherlock’s past will be met with a roll of the eyes and a mutter. Sometimes, if he times it spectacularly badly, there’ll be a smashed petri dish on the kitchen floor, splinters of plastic scattered across the linoleum.
He leaves it to Sherlock to reveal his previous deeds and misdeeds in his own time.
*
Their relationship exists in a hazy space, between the soft silence of friendship and the almost electric steps towards something more. John feels the (impossible) squeeze of his heart in his chest whenever Sherlock snaps. Not scared, never scared, when Sherlock’s like this.
*
One Wednesday winter afternoon, they are without a case and the motivation to leave the flat. John spends the hours lodged comfortably in his armchair, flicking through the pages of the BMJ, until an interesting article or editorial catches his eye. Sherlock rises just past lunchtime, padding barefoot silently from his bedroom to the sofa. He fells himself like a tree, collapsing stiffly into a rumpled line of pyjamas and dressing gown across the cushions. His hair is wild, corkscrew curls left to roam free without any of the products currently cluttering the bathroom shelves.
He turns his head slowly, watching John for several minutes. “I studied abroad in France,” he says, and moves to stare at the crack in the ceiling again.
John pauses, about to turn another page. He smiles quickly at Sherlock. “Did you,” he says, mildly interested. It’s not a question. He continues reading.
“Grenoble. When I was nineteen. I stayed in a chalet.”
“That’s nice.” John licks his finger, and turns the page to finish the article.
“In the mountains.”
“Lovely,” says John.
“I ran away,” says Sherlock.
This is what grabs John’s attention, more than any of Sherlock’s previous statements. He closes the journal and drops it on the floor by his chair. “You ran away?”
Sherlock pushes himself up into a sitting position, and looks out of the window. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he announces, and marches back to his bedroom.
*
John is cooking pasta, mentally crossing his fingers that Sherlock will return harbouring amenable feelings towards food. He’s just heating up the tomato and basil sauce when the front door slams shut, and size eleven feet stomp their way upstairs. John sighs and stirs the sauce one last time. Once he’s eaten his portion, he’ll have to hunt for some uncontaminated tupperware.
*
They finally drag themselves home, cold and tired all the way through to their bones. John licks his lips as he climbs the stairs, trying to coax some warmth and sensation back into the chapped skin. Sherlock curses Lestrade’s team under his breath and unbuttons his coat with thawing fingers.
“Tea?” Sherlock asks, standing in the doorway, biting the tip of his finger before looking at it curiously.
“Lovely, thanks,” John replies, raising his eyebrows somewhat in surprise.
Sherlock sighs. “No, John. Tea?”
“Oh,” John says, with a short bark of a laugh. “Right.” He elbows Sherlock in the ribs as he passes, making his way into the kitchen. Sherlock follows, and leans against the the worktop as he waits for John to fill the kettle.
The kettle takes some time to boil, and they spend the minutes in companionable silence. The odd clink of a spoon against ceramic, and the rumble of the bubbling water are the only sounds to be heard.
“France was quite horrific,” Sherlock says, just as the kettle clicks off. John pours the water with one hand, whilst reaching for the milk with the other.
“France is always horrific,” John replies, “I hate the French.” He taps the spoon on the side of Sherlock’s cup before handing it to him. He sits at the table, for no other reason than he’s tired, and it’s close. He wraps both hands around his own mug, hoping to warm himself from outside and in.
With a long suffering sigh, Sherlock seats himself opposite John, one hand loosely around his cup, his thumb playing lazily along the handle. “Grenoble, John.”
“When you ran away?”
“When I ran away.” Sherlock sips delicately at the hot tea. John never adds enough milk, a remnant of his frugal army pension days, and the tea he makes is always too hot to drink straight away.
*
“Let me have a look,” John says, taking a step forward. Sherlock is dripping blood on the kitchen floor. Sherlock shuffles immediately backwards, knocking his hip into the edge of a chair, and winces.
His hand is clasped over the wound on his forearm as he tries to stop the bleeding. “I can take care of myself, thank you,” Sherlock bites back. “Go upstairs and do something boring, why don’t you?”
John rolls his eyes. “Sherlock.”
“I thought I’d dismissed you, John. Go, leave, shoo. Off.”
“Let me look at your fucking arm, and stop getting all snitty because I’m trying to help. I’m a doctor, for Christ’s sake. Come here,” John insists, walking slowly to the bathroom. He turns and beckons Sherlock. “Seriously. In here now.”
Sherlock storms past John, but the loss of blood and lack of sustenance work together, and he wobbles slightly as he comes to a stop in front of the sink. With a scowl, he removes his bloody fingers from the deep cut on his arm, and holds it out for inspection as steadily as he can. He concentrates very intently on the shower curtain.
John pulls on a pair of latex gloves he’s retrieved from the first aid kit under the sink (“Really, John?”), and carefully inspects Sherlock’s injury.
“He didn’t hit anything major,” John notes, “it’s just messy. I can stitch it up, but it’ll scar.”
“I know,” Sherlock says angrily.
“And now you know I know, and now I know you know I know.” With the tip of his tongue poking between his lips in concentration, John quickly and efficiently cleans the wound and stitches it closed. “There.”
Sherlock sits on the edge of the bath, mentally pulling himself together before skulking off again. John is busy packing the first aid kit away. Sherlock stands and sways, closes his eyes to reduce the nausea. He opens them again, and finds John looking at him, concerned. He prepares to spit bile. Instead, he steps forward on shaky feet, and doesn’t pull away when John lunges forward to hold him upright, firm hands on his upper arms.
“I was assaulted,” he blurts, and looks stricken. “Grenoble.”
“Alright,” says John, sadly. He eases his hold on Sherlock, thumbs stroking biceps gently, fingers no longer biting into muscle. “OK.”
*
It’s 3am on a Sunday morning. Rain is battering the window, and John tiredly watches the drops of cold water obscure his view of the lamplit street below. Sherlock is curled up at the end of the bed, sleeping.
*
A tanned hand covers a longer, thinner, paler one. John marvels at the contrast. “Are you alright?” he asks, dipping his head lower to speak quietly into Sherlock’s ear.
Sherlock nods, but it’s not very convincing. John pulls back, concerned, and sees Sherlock’s wild eyes and measured breathing. His hair is fanned out against his crisp white pillow.
“John,” Sherlock says, as softly as he’s capable. John’s heart threatens to escape from his chest.
*
“I put a knife right into his eye,” says Sherlock, in between puffs of his cigarette. They’re waiting for Lestrade to grant them access to a crime scene, a terraced house in the heart of St John’s Wood. Inside, a burglar lies dead.
John places his hand on the small of Sherlock’s back, pushing him forward in the direction of the raised police tape and Donovan’s unimpressed face. “No, you didn’t.”
“I could have,” Sherlock counters. He drops his cigarette to the wet pavement and stamps it out.
“That’s a seventy five quid FPN right there,” Donovan tuts, as he breezes past her, rain spattered wool tweed fanning out behind him. John follows close behind, hands now in the pockets of his donkey jacket.
*
Once more they find themselves together in John’s bedroom. They’re side by side, fully clothed, legs dangling off the side of the bed. They've talked, and talked, and talked about it. They've applied the case appraisal system to Sherlock's comfort in this situation. The higher the number, the better. Nothing less than a six, he warns.
John reaches to his left, takes Sherlock’s hand in his. He rubs the pale skin with the side of his thumb. “Nine,” Sherlock says, a shy smile curving his lips. He shuffles nearer to John, closing the gap between them to merely an inch or two.
“More?” John asks, and is prepared to wait as long as he needs to for the answer.
Sherlock breathes out, long and thoughtful. “Yes,” he replies, looking at John, studying him.
John nods, smiles, lets go of Sherlock’s hand. Moves his arm behind Sherlock, rubbing smooth lines up and down his back. Sherlock leans in to the touch. “Eight?”
“Alright, good,” John says. He reaches up, runs his fingers through the curls at Sherlock’s nape.
“Four, four,” Sherlock coughs, and pulls himself forward, moves further away. He refuses to meet John’s gaze. After an awkward three minute silence, he stands and leaves the room.
*
John opens the fridge door. Closes it. Opens it again. Turns around, an incredulous look plastered across his face.
“You bought milk?”
“Well observed, John.” Sherlock doesn’t look up from his microscope.
“Why?”
Sherlock sighs. “I’m sure I don’t need to explain the wide and varied uses of milk, to someone as educated as yourself?”
“Fine. Smart arse.”
*
Sherlock’s eyes are closed. He hears John’s breath, coming in short and heavy huffs. Beneath him, he feels the clean linen sheets on his bed. He smells the coffee that John drank this morning and the peppermint aroma of his own shampoo. He feels hard-worn, hardworking fingers, tracing the lines of his ribs, his sternum, his collarbone.
“Seven,” he says, opening his eyes. He looks at John and sees his desire and compassion, intertwined so delicately that there’s no separating one from the other. Sherlock grins. “Eight.”
John leans forward slowly. He places his hands at either side of Sherlock’s torso. He lets his breath warm the freckled, taut skin of Sherlock’s stomach. Eventually, he rests his lips just above Sherlock’s navel. He feels, rather than hears, the hitch in Sherlock’s breathing. “Still eight,” Sherlock whispers, but squirms slightly into the mattress.
John tilts his head up. “Tell me what a nine would be.”
Sherlock looks away, up towards the ceiling. His hands fist gently at the sheets. “No.”
“Sherlock,” John coaxes. “Tell me nine. I want to get you to nine.”
There’s a silence. It’s not easy, but neither is it awkward. It’s just quiet, necessary quiet. John moves away, sits cross-legged on the bed. Waits.
“You haven’t asked me before,” Sherlock finally says, fiddling nervously with a stray thread on his blue pyjama bottoms. He’s curled into a ball, away from John, staring at the door. He pushes a leg backwards, finding John’s thigh with the bottom of his foot, and rests it there. “I was unprepared. Let me think about it."
*
After a eleven hour stakeout, a counterfeiter is apprehended and a cab is flagged down. John and Sherlock collapse onto the bench seat, and John manages to give the cabbie their address before dozing off.
Twenty minutes later, the driver's shaking them both awake, "Baker Street, lads, up you get." Sherlock looks affronted. John laughs and gives the man his money.
*
Sherlock is moaning, and John's lips are pressing, kissing, sucking at his neck. "Ten," he gasps, and feels the smile against his skin.
Sherlock is writhing, and John's hands are rubbing, smoothing, kneading his thighs. "Ten," he whispers, and feels the happy squeeze of fingers.
Sherlock is still, and John's eyes are soothing, lusting, loving. "Eleven," he says, "twelve, four hundred. Sixteen thousand, seven hundred and ninety two. I have never been loved before, eighteen billion, John. Twenty seven trillion..."
Sherlock is silenced, and John's lips are on his.