Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Heyyy Sherlock,” John whines, sliding along the kitchen counter. Sherlock, who at this point in time is halfway through slicing through a bronchiole is not best pleased with the interruption.
“John, be quiet. I'm slicing into something really important,” he replies, elongating the really for emphasis.
“Fine,” John continues to whine. Very whiny today apparently. Sherlock goes back to his lungs, dissecting into them and taking in all the different textures. The bronchiole is small, flat when cut, bumpy texture, like the inside of cardboard, it's as Sherlock goes to follow it further down that he notices John’s eyes on him from the other side of the table. He’s sat himself at the breakfast bar, cradling his cheeks in his hands and staring down at the lungs.

Sherlock caves.

“Fine, come here.” A smile breaks out onto John’s face and for a second Sherlock thinks he might be the reason the earth is still spinning. He throws his arm out wide and John slides into it, standing in front of Sherlock so his arms are on either side of John, using all his gorgeous legs to stand taller than John and see over him.

Sherlock hates it when John does this. Well… he loves it really. Loves the closeness, John's body against his, the pressure. He's always so warm and it makes Sherlock's skin feel electric. Sherlock loves John, is in love with him. It's a plain fact. He isn't blind, he knows, he's always known. He laughed at himself as he felt himself fall deeper in love, ‘what was all that about emotion being abhorrent?’ And he hates that he craves normal things like intimacy, it annoys him. He tries not to think about it, tries to be okay watching John from the side knowing that they will never be together. But every so often John does something like this. And Sherlock's such a glutton for punishment that he will take John in any capacity he can, even if it's just standing close. He doesn't want to need John. He's just become a part of Sherlock over time, he's accepted that bit now.

“John, if you really wanted to dissect things, why medicine? You don’t even get full-body dissections here. Why not do Biomed with me or something?”

If there’s one thing you should know it's that Sherlock had always known John wanted to be a doctor. He’d wanted it since they were boys, he remembers how John would always rush to take care of others, couldn't retain information unless it could be related to medicine somehow. That was just John. But once it came time to apply for Uni, John had somewhat of a crisis. He did the classic ‘What if I hate medicine? I'm going to be in training until 40 if I'm lucky, probably longer. And there’s speciality training, five years at uni, Sherlock, five. That’s so long. And I’ll never escape 12-hour shifts.’ Every med student does it, has that crisis. But during this, Sherlock took to trying to convince John to do Biomedical sciences. Same course as him, not only would it be such a relief to not have to fathom dealing with anyone else, and it’d leave so many avenues open to John. In the end, he did go for medicine, but Sherlock still ached to have John in the same course as him.

It’s selfish, he knows it's selfish. To want John to change his lifelong dream in order to be able to stay with him for another three years. John will be here for the next 5, then foundation training for two. Sherlock won’t be down here then, he’ll be up in London again once his course is over. And John will be down here, maybe in London for his foundation years. After that, he has every intention to pack himself up and Join the army.

‘Sherlock, the medicine Sherlock. It's unlike anything else. All this constant adrenaline. Catastrophic bleed after catastrophic bleed, amputations, penetrating injuries. It's the stuff dreams are made of. Well- maybe not the people being life-threateningly ill part but the medicine I'd get to do? You can't do it anywhere else. I need to go.’ Sherlock accepted it. He couldn't tie John down, never could. He didn't want his dreams to dampen John’s. But part of him can't accept that John will be gone, these are the last three years he gets to spend with John the way they are. Being a doctor will change John, being in the Army will change John. They won't ever be the same. And Sherlock hates it.

“Because, Sherlock, scope of practice. I want to help as many people as much as possible.” Sherlock just sighs, because John is the sort of kind he cannot begin to fathom. That lovely, smiley, all-consuming kind. Sherlock continues to dissect around John, trying not to focus on the light he seems to emit with that smile of his, or his smell of warm paper and thyme. Sherlock is wholly focused on the dissection and nothing else.

Once done, he puts the scalpel down and steps back from John, peeling the blue rubber gloves from his sticky hands, dumping them in the bin and scrubbing at his palms. Gloves don't feel right, they make your hands smelly and sticky, but you shouldn't dissect without them. Lose lose really, so Sherlock tends to take one for the team in the name of science.

“Right, with that surprisingly intimate experience finished, can I ask you that question now?” John starts.
“Oh, I thought that was it. I apologise, carry on.”
“You know how I'm your best friend in the whole wide world, and you're mine?” Oh god, John only does this when he needs something.
“My only friend. But yes.”
“Well, PrettyPrettyPleaseLetMeUseYourPrinter.”

“If you take a breath maybe?”
“Please, Sherlock? I found these A&P notes online because trying to take notes during the dissection of a fucking finger when you can't see is really difficult.”
“Yeah use the printer all you want, although if the ink runs out you’re replacing it, but more importantly. If you’re doing dissections, why the hell did you stand in front of me? I thought they were depriving you or something?”

John flushed red, not embarrassed red, nervous, awkward. So hiding something, what? Into scalpels or something? No, too weird. So if not that then, oh.
“John if you need an eye test-”
“What?”
“You’re red, nervous red. You have different reds. So there's something you're not telling me and if that's that you can't see the dissections because you need glasses but won't go to the opticians alone then I’ll come with you.”
“That's a lovely offer, however, all I need is the printer."
“Suit yourself.”

Still slightly red, definitely something he won't tell me. New trousers uncomfortable? New pants? Not, both old. John has a habit of letting the tops of his boxers poke out over his jeans, he says it's some kind of message to a specific audience, Sherlock doesn't care to know what audience. And don't for one second say it's not normal to know every pair of underwear your best friend owns, this is Sherlock Holmes we’re talking about. He'd remember it even if he didn't try, the drawer in his mind palace dedicated to the flashes of fabric he's seen over the years don’t mean anything, alright?

Maybe had a haircut? Little hairs in the shirt? No. His hair’s the same length, and he hasn't been out of Sherlock's sight much. Must be something emotional then, Sherlock was never any good at deducing emotions, he barely understood his own let alone anyone else's.

John leaves and bounds up the stairs, leaving Sherlock to trek after him. Despite his short stature, John beats Sherlock everywhere. He does everything at a run. It's like his brain is constantly going at 12,000 miles an hour and he can’t keep up with it. Sherlock has tried to tell him several times that he’d benefit from an ADHD diagnosis but John refuses. ‘Cant join the military if they think I'm fucked in the head.’ Sherlock was not best pleased with his wording, lecturing him about how he’s perfectly normal and loveable as he is, not ‘fucked’ in any sense of the word. He is beautiful.

John grabs his laptop and smashes some keys around for a few minutes, Sherlock hovering over his shoulder trying not to make it too obvious that he wants to know what's happening. He sends the notes to the printer and it starts whirring from the other room. His laptop cover stays open as they both walk through to the printer.
“It won’t print. Sherlock, why won't it print?
“You didn’t press print on the printer…”
“Oh.”
“You know, for someone who uses the printer so much, you are god awful at operating it.”
“Hey!” John chastises, but quiets and shrinks into himself a little as Sherlock throws his arm over and leans on the wall, trapping John in the corner of the room.

In true Sherlock fashion, he is entirely oblivious. John shrinks away, trying not to lean into Sherlock's grasp and wishing the earth would swallow him whole to save him from this.

When Sherlock eventually finishes messing with the printer, he pulls back and stares at John.
“You’ve done it again? You’re nervous red, why?” It's making him uneasy not knowing, but John has no plans to spill. He resends the print job, gets one page through and, hang on-
“Sherlock, there's next to no ink in here. One page, a singular page and it needs replacing.”
“In my defence, this printer was rather expensive.”
“What, you and your trust fund?” John jokes
“Oi.” Sherlock rolls his eyes at his ridiculous roommate. “Guess you’ll have to walk up to Tescos then.”
“We, we will walk up to Tescos. But I'm telling you I have approximately 30 pence to my name at the moment so you’ll have to wait until I get paid.”

Sherlock sighs to himself, feeling bad for his perpetually broke, beautiful blonde roommate and once again, caves.
“Fine. If you come with me I’ll pay for it.”
“I can pay you back in about a week. I promise.”
“Oh don't be stupid Watson. After all, ‘trust fund.’” The two giggle to themselves. Sherlock catches John looking at him, his eyes dropping up and down Sherlock’s face. Is he? Is he looking at his lips? Hang on- Is John ‘not gay’ Watson about to kiss him? Sherlock keeps giggling for far longer than is comfortable, the giggles awkward and slow, fading out in that terrible way they do when unnatural.

“Well.” John darts his tongue out and drags it along his lip, Sherlock watching it very attentively. “Maybe I can pay you a different way?” and then John has his hands on Sherlock’s collar. One million thoughts race through the taller boy's mind. He’s never been kissed before, what’s he meant to do? When’s the appropriate time to pull away? In fact, should he do it now? Confirm John wants this and isn't doing this solely as payment, confirm that this isn't going to leave Sherlock pining and desperate, more so than before. But the second John’s lips graze his he forgets it, all of it. For the first time, there is not a thought in his head.

The kiss is slow and tentative, delicate with a hint of desperation. Sherlock leans into it, desperate for something more, reaching out to touch John the way he’s craved for years, as he does, John pulls away. Looks down, laughs a little, runs his hands through his blonde hair before eventually looking up at Sherlock, and his expression is heartbreaking.

Open and vulnerable, his eyebrows furrowed in fear. And his eyes, they hurt. So much adoration and warmth and pain and ache all in one. It feels like someone has put their hands between the gap in Sherlock's ribcage and wrenched it open, leaving his heart open for the world to see. He can’t let John look like that, it wouldn't be right. So this time he kisses John, and this time all the delicacy has gone. It's fervent and desperate, hands flying everywhere and Sherlock has never felt such a need for touch before. He pulls John close but it isn't enough, he feels almost like he needs to absorb him. John’s hands are everywhere not on him enough all the same time. He’s wanted John for as long as he can remember, now he can't hold back. It’s like Pandora’s box, and it's just been torn open. The kiss seems eternally long and all too short at the same time. Sherlock could freeze time, live in a photograph, he doesn't ever want this to change.

It has to, eventually. Ventilation is essential to human survival. John looks up at him, a much more hopeful expression, eternal gorgeous as always. Clears his throat, swipes his hand over Sherlock’s cheek, before planting a gentle kiss on it.
“Ink?
“Yeah. Ink.”

Chapter Text

John doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. What did that mean? To Sherlock more than anything. Was the pink in his cheeks blushing or embarrassment? Had he ruined everything they’ve built? He just couldn’t slow down, his mind racing with questions as he twiddled his thumbs.

“For god's sake John, do stop thinking.”
“Wha-” he doesn't even get to finish his sentence.
“If I was annoyed about it, do you really think I'd volunteer to come to Tesco?”
“Well-”
“No, I’m not completely stupid in this department, love is not a complete mystery to me.”
“No, that's- I wasn't- Just-.” fell from his mouth, but all he could think was, love. Love. Sherlock and love, Sherlock and me and love.
“John, I'm joking,” he assured, and brushed his left hand against John’s right, clasping at his pinky before grabbing John’s whole hand.

The younger boy can’t quite decide what to do with himself. Not let go, that's all he’s certain of. He grabs onto Sherlock’s hand like it's a lifeline, like if he lets go he might lose him. Part of John fears he might. S

They get in, grab the ink, get out. The whole affair is quick and streamlined, Sherlock telling John which one to grab whilst he queues in the ever-growing lines. Except once they get home, John realises he has no idea how to change the goddamn ink cartridge. He pulls and tugs at the empty one, willing it to come out because calling Sherlock up here means facing what happened and he’s not sure he’s quite ready yet.

All Sherlock wants to do is have that conversation. His entire being is craving it. He loves John, he does. And he’s almost as good as told him that. That’s what holding John’s hand was for, all of this. He worships the ground John walks on, would give that boy every single part of himself bit by bit if he asked for it.

He hears John call him from upstairs.
“Sherlock, I can’t work out how to swap the cartridge, help” He screams down the stairs, and the detective doesn’t even answer, just rushes up the stairs in anticipation, landing extra harshly on his feet so John knows he’s coming.
“It’s not that hard John. Or you could just read the instructions.”
“There are none, you absolute spoon.” Sherlock points as he starts to fiddle with the cartridge still in the printer.
“Oh.” John using his eyes isn’t his forte, but that's alright, because Sherlock does enough of that for the two of them.
“Yeah, alright Mr Consulting Detective.”
“Sorry, what's that Doctor I-can’t-see-anything Watson?”
“Oi.” and the two boys find themselves giggling again, and that alone is enough to restore John’s hope that everything is as it should be.

John’s queued print job starts to cascade through as they make their way downstairs. No use waiting for Anatomy and Physiology notes to print, they’d be standing there an age if they did. The years of ache start to build in Sherlock’s chest once there’s nothing to distract them. He thinks of every time he had to watch John go on a date with a girl, had to listen to him gush about them, the way they walk and talk and laugh and how beautiful they are, all whilst wondering why John never looked at him that way.

“What did you mean by that earlier, John?”
“Mean by what?”
“Oh don't be obtuse, kissing me. Us kissing. What- what was that?”

Oh, John had been doing everything he could to avoid this.

“Okay, let me start with an easier question. What was wrong earlier, why were you so red, are you okay?” Sherlock braced himself for the worst. Braced himself for John to call him a freak, or something that the rest of the world does, something that he truly believes has never crossed John’s mind, perhaps until now.

“Only that I wanted to kiss you.”

What? John had, he truly didn't mean it just to ‘pay Sherlock back’, he actually did want to kiss Sherlock? Sherlock Holmes who was an asshole to everyone and he could admit it, Sherlock Holmes who would verbally flay people if they upset him, Sherlock Holmes who lays everyone's dirty laundry out to air, and the person he is lucky enough to call his best friend, John Watson, actually wanted to kiss him.

“But why, John? Why? Why do you want me of all people? John, why do I feel broken? Healed but forever fractured? Like an internal part of him has glued itself back together but so many walls have fallen down.”

“That's intimacy. God, I can't believe I'm the sounding board in this relationship. That feeling of being broken, intimacy, vulnerability. That feeling of being fixed, requited love. Because I do love you, Sherlock. I love you.”
And at that, Sherlock thinks he might die. John loves him, and he loves John. And John wants him and loves him and that knowledge alone makes every nerve in his body spark to life, he can’t truly believe this has just happened.

“Oh come here already.” And John storms up to him, wrapping Sherlock in his arms and kissing him with the most intensity Sherlock believed possible. He wraps his arms around the boy he adores so much, and feels as he melts into John, kissing him back with tears welling up in his eyes. He has harboured so many feelings for this boy, felt so much heartache. Every brush of their skin felt like torture, and now it feels like he’s being sewn together again.

“John?” he pulls away questioningly, “Can I ask you something?”
“Yeah.”
“What's with the underwear?”
“Oh god, Sherlock.” And John erupts into a fit of giggles, his arms still wrapped around Sherlock's neck, hands rattling against the nape as his chest cradles the laughter.

“Consulting detective and you couldn't spot that, not so genius now are you?”
“What, what did I miss?”
“It's a trend, Sherlock. Amongst gay men. I'm not gay per se but I assumed you’d get the underwear, hoped that if you wanted something it’d give you the courage to take it.”
“John, can I tell you something?”
“Yeah.”
“I love you so much.” And he kissed John this time, and it felt simultaneously earth-shattering and world-building. The first time he’d ever kissed John and he already felt like he could do this every day for the rest of their lives.