Hallway Confessions – Chapter 2: The Scientist Makes a Move

John came in more pissed than usual as was evidenced by his stumbling up the first flight of stairs into the apartment. Sherlock heard John pause on the landing and held his breath. He really wanted to finish the experiment sitting in front of him, but he was also curious to see if John would act differently than he had in the past few weeks with more than a few pints in him.

Unless they’d been at a crime scene or engrossed in clues, John had been systematically avoiding spending any one-on-one time with him. Sherlock would never have admitted it to anyone, but he missed John’s calming presence. John’s steadiness and quietness seeped into him, relaxing the fevered insanity that was his brain. A simple word, a gentle touch from John would center Sherlock and put every chaotic thought into some semblance of order that only helped him to work through the puzzles Detective Inspector Lestrade would throw their way…Except one.

Lately, the only thing he could not put onto a neat little shelf of a neat little corner in a neat little room of his Mind Palace any longer was John. He had tried and succeeded in keeping John in his niche for almost two years, but something had shifted not so long ago. John, or more specifically, for Sherlock, who was nothing if not precise, the thought of John as his lover had begun to occupy more and more of his Mind Palace. To Sherlock, that distraction would normally annoy him. However, the thought of John as a lover not only did not irritate him but calmed him even further. He became more hyper-focused on the puzzles, seemingly solving them with lightning speed, in order to try to ignore what he had finally deduced. Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective, had fallen in love with Doctor John Hamish Watson.

But John had been distant in the past few weeks. He hardly spent time with him. He never touched Sherlock anymore, even to emphasize a point as he had been wont to do. Worst in Sherlock’s mind was John’s coldness. He had been sarcastic and rude each time Sherlock had asked a question or posed a hypothesis. Sherlock was afraid John had come to hate him for some reason, and that, more than the distraction of love, frightened him.

Sherlock sat for several long moments waiting for the figure on the landing to make a decision. He heard John sigh and the tell-tale creak of the first tread to the upper level.

“John,” he said quickly, “Could you hand me a pen?”

“Why don’t you bloody well get it yourself?” he heard John mutter from the parlor.

He found himself standing in the parlor in front of John before he realised he had thought to move. The anger that had motivated him had come from the frustration, he knew, but he couldn’t contain it.

“What the bloody hell is your fucking problem?” Sherlock asked loudly, the anger evident in his voice.

He watched as John blinked in shock before he asked, “What do you mean?”

“You haven’t spoken civilly to me in days. You’ve barely spent any time with me in the past three weeks. Any time I ask you something, I get a sarcastic response. I don’t mind, John. I’ve been known to do the same to you. But you’re not me, John,” Sherlock said as he wound down, “but I- damn it, John, I miss you.”

Sherlock stepped closer, trying to find a way to apologize for his outburst, but he couldn’t get over the hurt enough to voice it.

“Sherlock, I-” John hesitated. Sherlock felt himself tense as John’s hand gently grasped his bicep, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, John,” he said quietly as he stepped even closer, “Just tell me what I did,” Sherlock begged, “so I can apologize and we can go back to what we were before.”

He watched as John took a deep breath to steel himself for whatever else he was going to say. He could see so many different emotions crossing John’s face, but he couldn’t read them as fast as they came and disappeared.

“It isn’t your fault,” John said simply, “It really isn’t.”

Suddenly, he understood…at least, he hoped he did. John had feelings that he was trying to ignore, perhaps. Or perhaps he was as overwhelmed by his feelings as Sherlock was.

“Don’t,” John said sharply, stopping the words Sherlock was trying to form, “Just…don’t, Sherlock.”

“John,” Sherlock whispered. He wanted to tell him; wanted to show him that he would never laugh; wanted to tell him how much he desired him.

John’s eyes snapped back to Sherlock’s face, but the hurt and anger Sherlock saw confused him.

“Sher- I-” John started and then pushed him away gently, “Don’t,” he said again as he side-stepped to the doorway, “I’m going to bed.”

Sherlock watched as John turned and moved back to the steps to his room. In that instant, he knew he’d buggered everything and he needed to fix it before John was upstairs or nothing would be right again. He hesitated for three seconds before he grabbed John, turned him, and crushed his mouth against John’s. He felt his body pressed against John’s. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s body tightly and kissed him back. He licked and nipped at Sherlock’s mouth, nibbling on his lower lip. Sherlock gasped, and John invaded his mouth with his tongue. Both of them tested each other, pressing and retreating, battling for dominance while submitting to the other. Sherlock pressed his body into John, and he could feel John’s erection pressed against him through his robe and pajama pants. He didn’t know who groaned, but he felt it vibrate through his entire body. He wanted nothing more than for John to love him, he realised. He wanted John like he had never wanted another man.

“John,” he begged, “John, please.”

“What do you want, Sherlock?” John murmured softly, “What do you want and why?” against his mouth.

He hesitated before he suddenly pulled away.

“John, I-” he muttered and then stopped.

John grabbed his arm and tugged on it. He knew it was the indicator to turn to look at him, but he couldn’t do it. He was worried that this was all a part of his chaotic brain making fun of him.

“Sherlock,” he said quietly. When Sherlock didn’t turn, John stepped around and in front of him, “Sher- look at me,” he commanded.

Sherlock looked at him sadly, and John gasped.

“Sherlock,” he whispered. Sherlock held his breath at the look of hope on John’s face, “Sherlock? Sherlock, love,” John whispered, not realizing he let the endearment slip, “Please…tell me.”

“I tried, John,” Sherlock said, sadness creeping into his voice, “I failed…I failed miserably. I’m sorry.”

He had. He had tried so long to keep John from his mind. Sherlock felt the fear wash over his face. He was exposed, his feelings naked. He hated feeling so vulnerable, even to John. He had tried not to love John, not to place him so high in esteem. Sentiment was for fools. He was no fool, except when it came to John, and he was afraid John would never love him…at least, not the way he wanted John to love him. John was straight. He had made that abundantly clear repeatedly over the past two years. He had tried to let John know that it was okay, that he was married to his work; that he would never try to make a move on John. But here, he just had. He had just forced himself on John, and while John had responded, he also knew John had been drinking. Wasn’t that the whole reason he had decided to confront him?

“Don’t be,” John said gently, “It’s okay, Sherlock. I love you, too.”

“You do?” he asked incredulously. He knew he couldn’t have heard correctly.

John did laugh at that.

“For a genius, my friend,” he said with a smile, “You sure are blind.”

Sherlock threw both his hands to his face, momentarily trapping John’s one hand tightly against his face.

“Why didn’t I see it?” he asked himself. “It all makes sense now!”

He stepped back and began to pace.

“Your mood swings…Avoiding me…not able to look me in the eye…Oh! I’m an idiot!” he said as he turned to look at John.

John grinned at him.

“I’ve told you that before.”

Sherlock laughed loudly and then wrapped his arms around John.

“Yes, you have, John,” he said quietly in the shorter man’s ear, “And I love you all the more for it.”

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock, and Sherlock nuzzled his nose into John’s hair lovingly. John loved him. He loved John. It wouldn’t be easy. Even he could admit to himself that he was difficult to care for. But he would strive to be better, do better if it meant he would have John in his life.

He felt John’s chuckle and instinctively knew what he was thinking:  ‘Look out, world! Sherlock Holmes is in love! This is going to get interesting!’

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