Hallway Confessions

Chapter 1: The Drunk Returns

John was angry at himself. He had allowed himself to drink too much. He’d already made the bad decision to drink in the first place. But he’d needed to clear out from 221B for the evening. He’d needed to forget for a moment who his roommate was. He couldn’t stand to be alone in the apartment with Sherlock. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to be there. It was that he was afraid Sherlock would see.

When they were on cases, working clues, or involved in their own individual projects, it was fine…Okay, it wasn’t fine. John was nervous even then that Sherlock would figure it out…or worse, had figured it out. He knew that Sherlock was always hyper-focused when a case or experiment had his attention. But he wasn’t so stupid as to believe that Sherlock wouldn’t notice his attitude change. Thus, the reason he’d vacated.

Sherlock had been sitting on the sofa, laptop on his crossed legs, staring over the top of the computer at John. John had tried to studiously ignore Sherlock and focus on writing up the notes from the latest case they had finished. But Sherlock’s attention had gotten the better of him, and he’d suddenly jumped from his spot at the secretary.

“I’m going out,” he’d said as he’d walked over to his jacket hanging on the hook.

“Where?” Sherlock asked, his focus suddenly on the computer in his lap as John pulled his jacket on.

John checked to be sure his keys were in his pocket before he said, “Just out. Don’t wait up.”

He had moved down the stairs and out the door so quickly that he doubted he would have heard Sherlock’s response even if there had been one.

Now he stood on the landing, debating with himself. He could go upstairs to his bed and sleep off his drunk, or he could go into the kitchen where Sherlock was working on his latest experiment and tell him how he felt. He had more than enough alcohol in his system to say what he wanted to, but his brain was still in enough control to remind him that the subject of his rumination was Sherlock.

Sherlock was the one who loved puzzles, theories, and experiments more than any human being. Sherlock was the man who had once told him he was married to his work. Sherlock was the one who John knew would mock him for weeks to come if he knew how John truly felt. John sighed and turned to head up to the next level. His foot had barely hit the first tread when he heard his name.

“John,” Sherlock said from the other room, “Could you hand me a pen?”

He sighed again and then almost growled before he stepped back onto the landing.

“Why don’t you bloody well get it yourself?” he asked as he stepped into the parlor to look for a pen.

He didn’t expect an answer. He never got one whenever he asked the question. So he was stunned when Sherlock was suddenly standing in front of him, an angry scowl on his face.

“What the bloody hell is your fucking problem?” Sherlock nearly shouted.

John blinked at him. Sherlock very rarely swore, and for him to swear so vehemently shocked John.

“What do you mean?” John asked dumbly.

“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.”

John stood in shock for the second time in as many minutes. He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know what to say. He watched stupidly as Sherlock stepped closer.

“Sherlock, I-” John hesitated. He reached out and touched Sherlock’s arm to reassure. He felt Sherlock’s arm tense under his hand, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, John,” he responded. John heard the hurt in his voice and frowned in confusion. Sherlock stepped even closer, invading John’s personal space, “Just tell me what I did,” Sherlock begged, “so I can apologize and we can go back to what we were before.”

John inhaled deeply, trying to clear his head. He was beginning to think he had imbibed even more than he had initially thought. He inhaled again. He smelled the mix of pungent chemicals that Sherlock had obviously used for the experiment that sat forgotten in the kitchen. He could smell the combination of tea and tobacco that seemed to permeate Sherlock’s skin. He could smell the ale and whisky on his breath. Most of all, he smelled his own arousal at Sherlock’s nearness. He took a small step back but couldn’t force himself to release Sherlock’s arm.

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

He watched Sherlock’s consternation and confusion change to understanding.

“Don’t,” John said sharply, stopping the words he could see Sherlock forming, “Just…don’t, Sherlock.”

He knew he couldn’t handle it if Sherlock mocked, or worse, laughed at his feelings. He felt the heat rising in his face and looked away into the dark of the room.

“John,” Sherlock whispered.

John’s eyes snapped back to Sherlock’s face. John saw all the signs of desire, but he couldn’t discount the alcoholic haze buzzing around his brain.

“Sher- I-” he tried to breathe and couldn’t. He used the only physical connection between them to push Sherlock away, “Don’t,” he said again as he side-stepped to the doorway, “I’m going to bed.”

He turned and moved back to the steps to his room, but never made it. He found himself flipped back around and surrounded by Sherlock’s arms. Sherlock’s mouth crushed against his as he was pressed against the wall. 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 Sherlock’s erection pressed against him through his jeans. He didn’t know who groaned, but he felt it vibrate through his entire body.

“John,” he heard Sherlock say, “John, please.”

He sighed at his name on his breath.

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

He felt Sherlock’s hesitation before he suddenly pulled away. John felt the loss immediately and steeled himself against the whimper of pain that bubbled under the surface as Sherlock stepped back and turned away.

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

Suddenly, it all fell into place for John. The buzz of alcohol that had made all of this seem like just a fantasy was gone. He knew. And suddenly, all of his own fears were gone. He stepped closer to Sherlock and gently grasped his arm to turn 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, and John gasped.

“Sherlock,” he whispered in awe. Everything he felt, everything he wanted, he saw reflected in Sherlock’s eyes. He couldn’t bring himself to ask the question directly, so he asked, “Sherlock?”

The fear crept into Sherlock’s eyes, and John hated it. He quickly stepped closer, his hand sliding up to his face and cupping his cheek to hold him still.

“Sherlock, love,” he 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.”

John felt himself tense and forced himself to relax. He reminded himself who was speaking. Sherlock was often more machine than human. Sherlock was the man whose form of showing affection was playing a lullaby on his violin. Sherlock was the one whose emotional development was so stunted that he couldn’t express himself emotionally to save his life.

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

The look of awe on Sherlock’s face was priceless, and John would have laughed had the moment not been so profound.

“You do?” he asked incredulously.

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, the look of disgust at himself and the utter awe at the implication of John’s feelings mixed on his countenance.

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 held on tight, mentally shaking his head. Being Sherlock’s friend was not easy. Being the man he loved would only be crazier and more convoluted. As he hugged Sherlock even more tightly against him, he thought, ‘Look out, world! Sherlock Holmes is in love! This is going to get interesting!’