Work Text:
“Are you free Thursday night, John?” Sherlock asks over his phone.
“Wait. This is for the plant poison talk, isn’t it?” John tries not to snicker.
“Learning more about cyanogenic glucosides would be useful to the Work.”
“So a posh scientist has nothing to do with it whatsoever.”
Sherlock expels a loud, suffering sigh.
“Well, a wingman is not a bad idea, especially for you. Someone needs to step on your foot when you start to be an arse. However I don’t think a rather dashing male ex-roomate is the best choice in this situation.”
“Who else? Have you seen my address book lately, John?”
“Wait, I know just the person. Hold on a bit.”
####
The lecture is in the beautiful Orangery at Kew Gardens. Mary thinks it is an exceptionally romantic setting; large windows look over the plantings in the evening sunset. She is equally charmed by the way Dr. Allard’s face lights up when he spots Sherlock taking his seat.
The talk is titled, “Deadly edibles; taxiphyllin and hydracyanoside in garden fruits and vegetables.” Mary is relieved that the event is intended for laymen and gardeners, not scientists. Dr. Allard is an engaging and dynamic speaker, moving between educational slides about his research and exciting tales of cassava and apple pip poisoning. Sherlock is entranced and literally sits on the edge of his seat the entire time.
At the end of the talk, there is a reception. A couple of tables hold plant samples. Another one has toxicity testing papers and common plants and fruits for the guests to explore hands-on. Dr. Allard holds court here, greeting people and fielding questions.
“Remember, I’ll tag along all night, but just give me the signal and I’ll go,” Mary mutters to Sherlock as Dr. Allard spots them and starts moving their way.
“Please, really there is no need. I am here for a lecture, nothing more,” Sherlock replies casually.
“Mr. Holmes! I was not expecting you this evening. This is quite a pleasure.” Dr. Allard shakes Sherlock’s hand.
“Just Sherlock, please. This is Ms. Mary Mortsan-Watson. You met her husband, John the other day.”
Mary takes Dr. Allard’s hand. She notes he is a completely gorgeous man with a friendly and warm demeanor. “Darin will do. I do hope I wasn’t too dull?” Darin asks with a self-deprecating smile.
“All the pertinent details were watered down for the morons, but beside that, it was quite successful,” Sherlock critiques. Mary jabs him with her elbow on the sly.
Darin just smiles and shrugs. “This lecture series is not my standard audience, true. However, it’s good publicity for Kew. Does that mean you have more technical questions for me, Sherlock?”
“Indeed. What can you tell me about Jamaican vomiting sickness and the ackee fruit?”
“Oh yes. It contains hypoglycin, especially in the seeds. If the unripe fruit is consumed....”
Mary drifts off a bit towards the refreshments, not really needing to hear more details about “Jamaican vomiting sickness”. She mingles a bit and makes small talk with other guests, but it becomes quite clear that Sherlock and Darin are completely absorbed in the details of plant chemistry. They chatter on like jays for twenty or more minutes, hardly noticing when Mary returns to linger now and then to make sure Sherlock is fine.
“Dear Mary,” Sherlock turns to her as she drifts over for the last time, “I am keeping you late. I do believe you mentioned you have an early morning book club and you still have another chapter of The Grit On The Lens to get through.”
Mary smiles. “Oh Sherlock, thank you for the reminder! I can catch the train on my own, please stay and do your research.” The goodbyes are said, before Mary even turns to get her coat, Sherlock and Darin launch into a debate about distillation methods.
Mary texts John on her way out:
On my way home. He gave the signal.
Wow, going that well?
They are talking about dead animals, vomiting and making poison. Not very romantic.
It’s Sherlock. That sounds like pillow talk.
####
Near the end of the reception, Darin excuses himself to accept his congratulations from the event coordinators. Sherlock snatches one last glass of red wine and simply observes, but it’s hardly an effort. Darin is an open book, unusually unguarded and open. Most people try to impress, pretend to know things they do not, or attempt to hide flaws. Darin laughs at his own lapses and freely admits if the conversation wanders out of his expertise. He turns back to catch glimpses, assuring himself that Sherlock hasn’t left. His attraction shines through, and it simply makes Sherlock want to preen.
“It seems they are going to start to lock up soon,” Darin says, returning to him. “My student is in charge of packing up the demonstration tables. It’s good to have minions,” He jokes. “I would very much like to continue our chat over dinner, if you are free?”
Sherlock blinks a moment and thinks he must be reading this all wrong. Most people display signs of anxiety when they ask someone on a date, afraid of rejection and embarrassment. Darin is relaxed, head slightly cocked and waiting for an answer. Unto the breach with no hesitation. The carefree willingness to so expose oneself sends a wave of discomfort through Sherlock that locks him into silence.
“Sherlock?” Still no fear, just a question.
Fascinating. “Yes, let’s go.”
####
Darin suggests an unassuming but excellent Indian restaurant halfway between the arboretum and center London. It’s new to Sherlock and he finds himself eating his meal. He tucks the location away in his Mind Palace for future reference.
He can’t control himself and makes deductions about all the other diners in the restaurant. Darin points out that while impressive, they can’t possibly know if he’s right unless they ask every patron if Sherlock is accurate. Laughing, Darin has to stop Sherlock from doing just that.
The night goes by quickly and miraculously they make it to dessert without any sort of public incident. Then Sherlock notices Darin is fidgeting with his espresso cup. He’s clearly anxious and working himself up to tell him something unpleasant. Why should he be feeling nervous now?
“This may be premature, but I have found it easier to get this out in the open.” Darin swallows and wets his lips. “This evening is unusual for me. I spend most of my time in the laboratory. Most of my days are long ones and I may not come home at all if I have a study in progress. Reactions need to be timed just right. When I’m not conducting research I travel to conferences, or I’m at home writing. Getting out to exercise Sophie is a luxury I allow so I can see the sun.”
He pauses to try to tease out Sherlock’s reaction, but gets none, so he pushes on. “My relationships usually fail spectacularly because I simply don’t have the time to dedicate to them.”
Sherlock’s eyebrows slowly raise. “Your work is the most important thing to you. You can’t sacrifice the Work to coddle other people. Because of this, you do not meet their expectations.”
“I’m afraid so,” Darin says regretfully, spreading his hands on top of the table.
Sherlock smiles beatifically. “Would you hand me your mobile? I would like to do this again, whenever the next opportunity arises.”
While Sherlock enters his number in Darin’s phone, he savors the utterly perplexed look on the other man’s face.
####
Eight days later, Darin sends Sherlock a text inviting him to his lab.
The lab is enormous, and every bit of equipment is cutting-edge. Darin has two graduate students, a post doctoral fellow and two full time lab supervisors. Sherlock realizes he must score significant funding, not something many botanists can pull off. One of the students pipes in to mention the research group’s number of publications, many more then most of the biological science labs at the university. Darin shrugs off this accomplishment, but admits it looks good when he submits grant proposals.
When Darin catches Sherlock trying to filch a grad student’s access card, he laughs. Sherlock is a bit put out, he’s hardly ever caught pickpocketing. Darin makes up for it though, and hands Sherlock a form that grants him visiting scholar privileges with his own access card.
Sherlock, excited at having unfettered access to a chemistry lab of this quality, snatches Darin by the arms and spins him around. It’s like Christmas and his birthday both at once. Darin is warm under his hands, and he finds it unsettling how simple human body temperature should unnerve him so.
Sherlock uses his new resource wisely. The lab bustles and he tries hard not to harangue students or abuse the staff. Darin always greets him when he is there but often that is all. Sherlock can’t help watching him though; Darin works at almost a frantic pace, dashing when timers ding to tend to a reaction. He thoroughly ignores Sherlock when he is working and it’s simply brilliant to behold.
####
“I would like you to get tested.” Sherlock says suddenly.
Darin chokes on his tea. They haven’t even held hands yet.
“Uh, I have been. I’m negative.”
Sherlock scowls. “How can you score negative on an intelligence test? Ah, you thought I wanted you to get a sexually transmitted disease examination. Let me clarify, I want your Mensa scores.”
Darin shakes his head, trying to keep up. “Whatever for? Sherlock, I graduated from Harvard.”
“The American educational system is highly suspect.”
“No.” Darin says firmly.
“I need to know if you are a proper genius. I can gather data through empirical methods and you appear to be gifted, but hard facts are the best when available. Mensa is recognized as a standard so...”
“I said no Sherlock. My whole career is spent proving myself. It’s enough.”
Sherlock pouts and Darin firmly ignores it. He’d still really like to kiss the wrinkles that appear between his nose when Sherlock scowls, though.
####
He is making his way back to his flat late one evening when he is bundled into a black car. Mycroft Holmes primly introduces himself. “My sources tell me that beyond all belief, that you are dating my brother.”
“If you call it that.” Darin replies, none too pleased and a bit frightened. He is not a consulting detective and this cloak and dagger business is not his forte.
“You realize he has never had a relationship with anyone before. I am relatively sure he has never had sex, so if that is your primary intention you will be disappointed.”
“Why do you feel the need to tell me this?”
“My brother has been diagnosed as a high functioning sociopath. He is in all probability asexual. Is this a person you want to pursue?”
“I don’t believe either of those things. I realize Sherlock is atypical, but I don’t believe he is incapable of empathy. He threw himself off a building to save his friends,” he snaps angrily.
“He let them mourn him. Does that seem like a kind person?”
“I’d like to get out of the car. Now.” Darin demands, his voice a bit shaky, “I don’t think you know your brother at all.”
Mycroft finds the results of the interview satisfactory.
####
“Not texting today?” Darin asks, picking up his phone when he sees Sherlock’s number come up.
“It’s John Watson, Darin. Sherlock was stabbed interviewing a suspect. He’s just been taken into surgery at St. Thomas’s. He was stable and should be fine, but I thought you would want to know.”
John meets Darin in the waiting room an hour later.
“He’s in recovery.” John says, “They wanted to make sure his bowel wasn't pierced, but he’s fine. He’ll probably be admitted for forty-eight hours and released. I’ll sneak you back for a minute when he’s alert.”
Darin sits down on a plastic chair and rubs his face in with his hands. “Does this happen often in his line of work?”
“Not really. He gets banged up and into scuffles sure enough, but usually nothing I can’t tend to. He’s not always careful and takes chances. I guess we both do. We watch out for each other, too.” John pats Darin on the shoulder. “I’ll let you know when you can see him, yeah?”
Darin nods and wonders about the world of worry he’s getting himself involved in.
####
Sherlock wanders through the greenhouse behind Darin and pokes at a small bush with white, trumpet shaped flowers.
“Datura stramonium or Jimson weed.” Darin identifies for him.
“Hallucinogenic.” Sherlock notes.
Darin comes over to the potted plant, leaning close. “Or a quick stop to the morgue. The ratio of tropane alkaloids can vary dramatically due to plant age and environmental factors, making dosing dangerous.”
“Hmm.” Sherlock notes, rubbing his fingers over one of the silky blooms lost in thought in the possibilities of criminal intent. Suddenly Darin closes the gap and presses a simple kiss on his lips. Sherlock is too surprised to react at all, but he still observes; Darin’s mouth is warm and moist and he smells slightly herbal, like the plants he works with.
Darin pulls back when there is no retreat or response. “Okay?” he asks quietly.
Sherlock’s eyes are wide and his brain has stuttered to a standstill. There is a coil of heat in his lower belly, and his pulse is throbbing in his ears. He can’t seem to gather his wits, and it’s terrifying.
“I have to...” Sherlock backs away, bumping into another pot of the toxic shrub.
“Sherlock?”
The urge for flight is simply too great, his brain is tripping and stalling rendering him unable to form full sentences. “Later.” He can’t quite keep himself from leaving in an undignified jog.
####
Answer me or I’m calling in for a drugs bust.
I’m fine John. -SH
Sherlock glances at the bottle of Xanax on his desk. While not technically prescribed to him, he was very responsible and taken it only as indicated. Nothing for John to worry about.
Darin called me. Said you haven’t returned his calls.
Busy. -SH
Yeah right. Want me to stop over after my shift?
Just thinking. Stop badgering me. -SH
He tosses his phone back on his armchair. He picks up his violin and plays Bach until Mrs. Hudson tells him to stop.
####
Sherlock is a bit surprised when his keycard still opens the door to the chemistry lab nine days later. Darin looks over at him from under a fume hood. “I’ll be with you in a few minutes.” He says evenly. He is just too expressive and Sherlock can tell he is tamping down anger and confusion to finish his experiment. Sherlock sits on a stool and twists the seat back and forth, waiting in judgment.
Darin finally takes off his gloves and pulls down the cover of the fume hood. He takes a stool across from Sherlock’s and picks up a glass stirring rod and taps it on the table, fidgeting. “You ran off and wouldn’t speak to me for nine days. Care to tell me why?”
“I was thinking.”
Darin continues to tap the glass rod on the table. Click click click. “That isn’t an answer.”
Sherlock shrugs. “What kind of answer do you want?”
“Why are you here?”
Sherlock makes a low, noncommittal hum.
The stirring rod snaps as Darin bangs it on the table with a bit more force. “Damn it,” he curses, losing his temper. “I cannot read your mind. You need to tell me what is going on, or turn around and go back to Baker Street.”
Sherlock runs his hands through his hair. “Romantic involvements slow the mind and cause strife. Do you know how many crimes are committed by imbeciles who allow basal feelings rule their head? Most of them. It’s like an opiate that dulls the intellect. It’s not an advantage, especially for people like you and I who do nothing but brainwork.”
Darin picks up the bits of glass carefully, eyes on the table. “You came here to tell me that.”
“Yes. No.” Sherlock flutters his hands. “This is already absurd. I’ve spent nine days on this, wasted time on a triviality, unable to come to any firm conclusions.”
Darin looks over his glasses. “I kissed you, and you were afraid.”
“I stopped thinking!”
Darin stands up, disposing of the broken rod. “Ah. Did you really? Did it have any long term side effects?”
“You’re mocking me!” Sherlock snaps.
“No. I realize this is difficult for you,” he says, his voice softening. “You need to decide if you want to keep making up reasons to lock yourself in your Mind Palace or if you want to open the doors and let someone else in.”
“Darin!” Sherlock whines, frustrated. He feels panicky again, and he twists in the stool and kicks at the leg of table. He hates this.
“Hey,” Darin soothes, he steps over and put his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders to stop his flailing. “I don’t expect any grand promises or gestures. I just need to know where we stand.” Sherlock looks a little lost and a lot freaked out. It breaks Darin’s heart just a bit.
“You are brilliant, independent, loyal and gorgeous. I want to be more then your friend. We can go slow. Glacially. I am in no hurry. ” Darin brushes a kiss on Sherlock’s forehead. “Go home. Come back to me when you know if you want to try.”
“I want to try.” Sherlock answers before he can even stop himself. The words seem to bypass his brain. He gnaws at his lower lip.
Darin smiles on his forehead. “You wouldn’t have come otherwise. Just...you’re a bit overwhelmed right now. Sleep on it, for my sake.”
“Your sake?”
Darin stands back with a sad smile, “You are not the only one who has to make a leap here, Sherlock.”
####
I didn’t sleep, but it’s 6 am. -SH
Are you asking me if it counts as “sleeping on it?”
I want to. -SH
Good. I want to, too.
You said so last night. Repetitive. -SH
Repetition is the mother of perfection.
Said like someone who lives in a lab. -SH
Or a musician.
Fair point. -SH
####
“That is impossible. You can’t tell what breed of dog she has from a hair on her trousers fifteen feet away!” Darin whispers from across the table at Angelo’s.
Sherlock steals a forkful of Darin’s tiramisu and replies smugly. “I can.”
####
This conference is mind-numbing.
Leave -SH
Jump on a train. Come and mock the speakers.
Can’t. My worthless brother called in a favor. -SH
I met him once, you know.
Oh. Did he offer you money to spy on me? -SH
No. He told me you were an asexual sociopath.
Delightful. -SH
Are you?
I don’t know to the first. Potentially a yes to the second. -SH
How do you not know if you are asexual? You never tried to find out?
We are discussing this over text? Droll. -SH
You do everything over text!
Are you that surprised? -SH
Not really. Just your brother is an arse and I thought maybe he was having me on.
Fair enough. Problem? -SH
No.
Being involved with a sociopath should concern you more than a possibly-asexual virgin. -SH
Well, I can fix the very last bit.
I’m not broken. -SH
I didn’t mean it that way.
Have you been thinking about it? With me?
Oh my god. You are trying to sext me. -SH
Well now you’ve ruined it.
####
Sherlock never initiates.
Darin cups his face delicately and pulls his lips down to him. He brushes his mouth gently. Sometimes this is all Sherlock will tolerate before pulling away. Tonight he winds his long fingers through Darin’s collar and nudges him in, slotting their lips together more firmly. Darin lets the tip of his tongue trace the ridge of his cupid’s bow. Sherlock jolts a bit and stiffens, but he doesn’t break off, so Darin eases up and continues with soft, closed mouthed kisses.
Sherlock makes a quiet little sound and parts his lips and that sends a jolt directly to Darin’s groin. Accepting the invitation, Darin shallowly explores his teeth and soft, delicate plushness of the flesh just inside. Sherlock jerks back and pulls away, not quite covering the flicker of panic crossing his face before he sets his normal, blank mask.
“Can you think?” Darin prompts him. “Tell me.”
Sherlock breathes deep. “Your shoes are worn on the inner heel, so you have high arches. A favorite pair you wear often. Church’s. Resoled once. You’ll spend the money on quality and don’t chase fashion, so you would rather fix an old pair then buy new.”
Darin smiles. “Perfect deduction. Better?”
Sherlock nods. He hates the sudden fear when things start to get interesting. He starts to relax and drift and then the realization that his self control is slipping hits him like cold water. All unimportant matters of the flesh are bypassed to serve his mind. He ignores hunger, eschews sleep. Passion-induced muzziness is terrifying, blotting him out. There is a threat that he will become nothing, ordinary, until he is just primal reactions to stimuli.
“You don’t have to do this. If it’s something you don’t want...”
Sherlock growls, his frustration coming to a head. Is this even something he wants? The situation is getting out of hand, and he simply needs to know. He seizes Darin roughly, making him squeak in surprise as he mashes their lips together. Their teeth click and he inexpertly licks in with too much tongue. Darin clutches his curls, just holding on and trying to keep up with the sudden turnabout.
Sherlock breaks off with a gasp. “Take my pulse, quickly.”
Darin goggles for a second.
“Come on!” Sherlock demands, shoving his wrist at him. Darin takes it, confused, but finds the radial beat.
“139,” Darin pronounces after a minute, perplexed.
“Ah. That’s...good,” Sherlock sags, resting his cheek on Darin’s shoulder.
“You are completely cracked,” Darin says, still not following.
“Probably.” Sherlock agrees, “however evidence is mounting that I’m not physically uninterested in you.”
Darin wraps his arms around him lightly, trying to get this thoughts in order. “Regardless, you are still wound tighter than a watch spring.”
###
John is hauling Darin along with a firm hand. Stronger than he looks, Darin thinks foggily, and he appreciates it right now. Otherwise he may fall and break his face on the pavement without the support.
“Sit, here on the kerb. Keep breathing, nice and slow.” John guides him down and presses Darin into crash position, head between his knees.
“I’m never coming to a crime scene again,” Darin mutters, another wave of dizziness rolling through him.
“It’s a pretty bad one, plenty of people get lightheaded seeing...”
“John, stop wasting time with him,” Sherlock calls, impatiently. “I need you to come here and look at this exit wound!”
“I’m keeping your boyfriend from blacking out!” John retorts, but ever faithful, starts to follow the command anyway.
“Unimportant. Focus, John, focus!”
“Maybe a little bit of a sociopath after all,” Darin mumbles, hoping he doesn’t embarrass himself further and throw up.
####
Darin finally hears the light tap on his flat door, and Sophie yips excitedly. It’s 2:16 am. He rubs his face blearily. He hasn’t cleaned up from the dinner Sherlock skipped out on but he doesn’t suppose the state of his kitchen matters much. He stumbles from the sofa and opens the door.
“Oh, it was brilliant!” Sherlock exclaims, charging in with enthusiasm. “Two murders in one night! Thank you London!”
“I’m sure the murdered people don’t agree,” Darin yawns, taking Sherlock’s scarf and heavy wool coat.
“They’re dead so they have no opinions about it one way or another. It truly was a spectacular night. Anderson was on holiday so the forensics squad wasn’t as stupid as usual. John noticed right off there wasn’t enough blood at the scene and...”
“Slow down, slow down,” Darin tells the hyperactive detective. Sherlock will be buzzing for hours from the stimulation of the night’s case. Darin is tired and should really send him home, but he hasn’t seen Sherlock much recently and can’t really make himself do it. When he finally crashes, he can sleep on the sofa.
“You want me to heat something up?”
Sherlock hums, which means he’s ravenous.
“Your sister is an interior decorator, yet you have the dullest flat in the city,” Sherlock observes looking around in distaste, not for the first time. He always prefers Baker Street over Darin’s sparsely furnished, plain-walled flat.
“Cheers,” Darin mutters, feeling a bit grumpy. One of the reasons that they get along is the tolerance for each other’s unpredictable schedules. That Sherlock stood him up for dinner isn’t a big deal. Piling on showing up in the middle of the night like a crazed toddler, crowing about murders and criticizing his flat again is testing even his vast patience.
“You’re angry,” Sherlock observes, coming into the kitchen and crowding into his space, hampering his attempts at getting the leftovers out.
“Sherlock...” Darin groans, getting exasperated.
With a manic little grin, Sherlock backs him into the counter and kisses him. “Better?”
Darin, stunned for a moment by Hurricane Sherlock, only nods. The counter is digging into his back. Sherlock is trapping him, the full length of his lean body pressed against him. It’s surprisingly intimate. They have been dating for months now, but physical affection has still been a hurdle. Darin puts his hands on Sherlock’s hips, and can feel his body actually humming from the case-fueled adrenaline. His hair is a wild halo, eyes bright, energized and gorgeous.
Darin’s mouth goes dry. “We should...” he nudges, trying to create some space between them. This won’t progress any farther and he needs to keep himself in check.
Sherlock has a manic gleam in his eye and pushes back harder. Darin makes a strangled sound and they both find each other’s lips. Sherlock is greedy, probes in with his tongue aggressively, and Darin can’t help but match him.
When they part to catch a breath of air, Darin catches his plush lower lip, sucking it until Sherlock whines. Entwined so close with no place to go, he can feel Sherlock’s erection pressing into his belly and the remaining bit of Darin’s composure dissipates. He nips along Sherlock’s jaw, pressing kisses and and licks under his ear. The soft panting sounds Sherlock is making in his rich baritone sends electric shocks through him down to his toes. He bites the long line of his neck, Gods that neck, and Sherlock cries out and reflexively bucks against him.
Darin shifts so he can press a thigh between them and they both gasp at the newly available friction. Darin stops laving at Sherlock’s neck for one more look, to make sure this is really fine, but Sherlock is lost in desire, his face flushed and pupils dark. He claims Darin’s mouth again none too gently and starts rutting against his thigh.
Sherlock feels Darin quickly wrap an arm around him when his thighs start to shake. It happens so quickly that Sherlock cries out in surprise. The pleasure slams into him like a wave, pulling him under. The bliss makes his vision flare white and stutters all thought, his careful control shattered as he fades offline.
Sherlock is limp like a puppet with his strings cut, and Darin can all but hold him up through the aftershocks. When the weight is too much, he settles them both in a panting heap on the kitchen floor. He pulls Sherlock’s head into his lap and runs his hands through his curls, soothingly.
Darin feels dampness on his palm, and looks down. Tears are freely running down Sherlock’s lean face. “All right?” he says, concerned.
Sherlock is still too stunned to speak, but nods. He is vulnerable, unable to reassemble his normal walls. He is unguarded and beautiful.
“It’s okay, just let it out,” Darin murmurs comfortingly and continues to card through his hair, allowing him time to get grounded. Long minutes pass and Sherlock is shivering, his tears wetting his jeans.
Eventually Sherlock wipes at his face with a shaking hand. “I don’t...I don’t know why I’m crying.”
“Probably several things, but it’s just stress and adrenaline. You’re always such a tight wire, you just snapped a bit. Everything you've had shored up made an escape. It happens, sometimes.”
Sherlock hmms and rubs his head into Darin’s hand.
“Besides that looked like one hell of a surprise orgasm. Been awhile?” Darin smiles.
Sherlock opens an eye. “Not really. Three, four months.”
Darin blinks. “Months?”
“It’s tedious.”
“Wow. Well. It explains things a bit.”
Sherlock’s eye slides slut.
“Hey, who is Sir William Ramsay?” Darin asks with a sly smile.
“He discovered the Noble gasses...won the Nobel prize for it....Darin, don’t be stupid.” Sherlock grumbles.
“Well look at that. You are shattered on my kitchen floor, and your intellect is not irrecoverably broken.” He can’t believe that this will be the end of Sherlock’s anxiety, but it’s a good start.
Sherlock just hums.
“No sleeping like this. Come on, clean up and get to bed.” Darin scatters light kisses on his face until he bats him off, annoyed and starts moving.
####
I haven't seen you in two weeks, I’m sorry. I hate it when grant proposals are due.
It’s fine. Molly had a batch of eyes for me to work on! -SH
Ugh. Still meeting my sister Natalie Thursday?
Unless I’m on a case. -SH
I miss you.
Irrational sentiment. You text me all the time. -SH
Not the same.
####
Darin feels loose and languid, sprawled in Sherlock’s bed, drifting in a post-coital haze. Sherlock is tracing patterns on his skin over and over with his finger, which is hypnotic. His mind is probably far away and turning over some problem already, Darin realizes, but that’s alright.
Darin still can’t believe that such an amazing mercurial man is his. It shouldn’t work. They both have intense work schedules and only meet in the times between, and it’s fine. Sherlock is, to put it kindly, a challenging person. Yet Darin has a thick skin and is not a pushover. He also has always been extremely patient and willing to forgo short term gain for long term advantage.
It has taken several months for them to work out lovemaking, but since it took weeks to just get kissing down, this is no great surprise. Like the rest of his functions of transport, Sherlock simply doesn’t need frequent sexual release any more than he seems to need regular meals and eight hours of sleep. What he really loves is taking Darin apart; watching him dissolve and reassemble under his intimate ministrations. When Sherlock finally does need, it’s an intense, beautiful thing which Darin cherishes even more because of its rarity. So somehow the orgasm inequality is fine, probably because they still have this quiet time, which really is the most important part anyway.
“Ah!” Sherlock exclaims, and snaps out of bed. Darin watches him pull on his lounge clothes and dressing gown in a flurry. “I almost have it. Just one more piece to the puzzle!”
Darin just smiles and closes his eyes lazily, listening to Sherlock mutter to himself in the parlor. Several minutes later, he hears him grinding away some frantic bits of a concerto on his violin. Sibelius- it’s going to be a long night. Darin stuffs a pillow over his head. Before he drifts off to sleep he thanks the universe for the existence of the man in the other room.
He’ll never know that moments before picking up his instrument, Sherlock stops deducing just long enough to feel the same gratitude.
####
“Good Morning, John! Ready for the tour?” Darin chimes, opening the door to 221b Baker street.
“Lead the way.” Construction materials clog the entranceway, and John has to let an electrician squeeze past. John hasn’t been there in the last couple of months since the initial work started.
Darin grins and points down to the basement. “Lab first?”
John whistles when he reaches down the bottom of the stairs. The lower apartment has been completely gutted. A miniature lab is in its place, all modern equipment, shining chrome and glass.
“I can only do a small fraction of my work here, but it will mean a few less nights sleeping in my office.” John waggles an eyebrow and Darin colors charmingly. “Well, em. Anyway, Sherlock has his own biohazard freezer now, so poor Mrs. Hudson won’t find his experiments in the crisper.”
“Good luck with that, mate.”
“Oh no, that’s one of the new Rules. Nothing poisonous or decomposing in the kitchen. Upstairs?” Darin practically skips up in excitement.
“This is more familiar,” John says, and then points at Sherlock in prayer position at his desk with Gladstone snoozing at his feet.
“He’s been away from this world all morning.” Darin nods fondly. “You know how he is. Anyway, Sherlock didn’t want to change much in here. My sister Natalie and her design team wanted to have at it, but he put his foot down. We had the built-in bookshelves put in, matched up some of the wallpaper a bit. It looked like Mr. Hudson did the whole place in samples. Sherlock wanted the black flocked pattern above the sofa to stay, so she found the supplier and had it replaced.”
“Without the bullet holes,” John notes.
“That’s another new Rule. So the carpet and drapes are new, and of course we sent you your armchair. A leather highback with nailheads is on order.” Darin pats the human skull on the mantle as he passes through and takes John into the kitchen. “All done in here now, counters, appliances all new. We kept the table, which we just had refinished, and salvaged some of the old tiles Natalie was fond of. We had Mrs Hudson’s kitchen redone as well, one of the agreements when we bought the house and I started nesting.”
John notices a cluster of potted orchids on the windowsill, obviously Darin’s doing. “Not toxic. Rules.” Darin assures, noticing him looking. “So the toilet down here is done- we installed a warming towel rack, bigger hot water heater, and a heat lamp because Sherlock is a lizard. They are working on the electrical system in the upstairs loo today.”
Darin opens the door to the bedroom. “Not very different in here, either. New wallpaper, bigger bed and I have a bureau on order which should arrive when I start officially moving in.”
“Here are your prints.” John notices, pointing to three framed illustrations of plants above the bed. They are original 1787 botanical plates from Curtis's Botanical Magazine that Sherlock had found on auction during an investigation. Sherlock bought them and presented them to Darin for no occasion, but John remembers it well. It resulted in a flurry of confused text messages from Sherlock asking why exactly would his beau be weeping from a thoughtful gift?
“Let me show you what we did with your old room,” Darin suggests, letting John go up the stairs first. John hears Sherlock’s mobile ring in the background.
“You put a skylight in!” John exclaims when he reaches the top floor.
“Roof access too. I may put in a garden and small greenhouse up there eventually. We will move Sherlock’s desk up here, make an office and a music room, then...”
“Darin. Darin. Darin!” Sherlock calls from downstairs.
“The sleeper has awakened!” Darin rolls his eyes, and he and John return to the sitting room.
“It’s ready,” Sherlock says seriously. Darin freezes in his tracks. He and Sherlock exchange a long look before Darin clears his throat. “Well, then. Let me see how that workman is doing. John, excuse me a moment?”
“Sure.” John cocks his head, confused. “What’s that about?” he asks Sherlock.
Sherlock closes his eyes. “Could you be free next Thursday at 3:00pm?”
“I think so, you know I’m off Thursdays. Sherlock...”
“Excellent.” Sherlock snaps out of his chair and walks to one of the new bookshelves. He tosses something small to John, who just manages to catch it. “Don’t forget that, the humor would be tragically passé.”
John looks into his hand to find he has caught a small satin jeweler’s box. Inside is a pair of heavy, plain platinum bands. He stares at Sherlock, speechless.
Sherlock breaks into one of his rare, true smiles and says quickly, “We need two witnesses to come with us to the Register’s office to sign the civil partnership schedule. Natalie is one and we’d like you to be the other.”
“Yes, of course....really...what?!” John stammers.
Sherlock shrugs. “The house. It would be a more of a bother drawing up the paperwork for the transfer of property and other investments if one of us survives the other. This is the most efficient way. It’s a simple legal matter.”
John blinks owlishly. “This...is....really...you two are getting married?”
Sherlock huffs. “Civil partnership. Oh stop gaping and do keep up. It shouldn’t take long, It’s just the simple signing and ring exchange. Darin wanted to do something afterwards so we have Angelo’s for dinner. Mary can meet up with us there with everyone else. This is not a big to-do like your overly elaborate mating ritual.” Sherlock considers for a moment. “Can you manage to wear something other than your sad old man jumpers?”
Darin appears in the doorway, practically beaming with happiness. “Don’t let him fool you for a moment, John. My clothes horse here has been haranguing every tailor in London for a perfect suit for this ‘simple legal matter’ for weeks.”
“I needed a new jacket,” Sherlock sniffs.
“Oh please. Every shop owner in Savile Row now cringes when you walk in the door.”
“You sure you want to do this, mate? A lifetime with Sherlock Holmes? Escape now, the door is open...” John is overcome with a case of the giggles.
“Not funny,” Sherlock pouts.
“I believe, like you, I am caught in his gravitational pull and it is much too late to escape.” Darin can’t stop smiling. Sherlock’s false scowl fades and transforms into something warm and sweet as they quietly consider each other.
“I don’t think either of us would want it any other way.” John feels his eyes itch just a bit as he reaches out to embrace his best friend in congratulations.