Work Text:
It’s nearing ten when John signs off on the last chart of the day. His entire body feels like a dried out rubber band and his eyes are parched and stinging, but despite his exhaustion, he’s fulfilled. Truth be told, he needs this position just like he needs to keep working alongside Sherlock. This job—his life as a doctor—is part of him, and this position at the A&E keeps him on his toes. The pay is good, and it’s locum work so it’s not much of an issue balancing his healing nature and his playing detective.
Or, the sidekick to the detective. Or the sidekick boyfriend to the detective. But really, more like partners.
Partners, in every sense of the word. Christ.
John ponders that a moment. Good thing we don’t have a human resources department, he thinks with a chuckle to himself. Pretty sure on-the-job partners aren’t supposed to be sleeping together.
He packs up his beaten but respectable leather case and shuts off the lights. As he heads out the door, he bids good night to the overworked triage nurses, who spare him only floppy, half-aware waves in return. It’s understandable how they feel; it’s been a hell of a day. Hell of a past three days really despite the dearth of cases, and he’s had to work doubles covering for a doctor whose flight was grounded in Japan.
All John is truly wants tonight is for Sherlock to have the Indian take out that John had asked for this morning ready when he gets home, and a single glass of that scotch he keeps on hand both for celebrations and nights like this. Maybe he’ll get really lucky and find that Sherlock has washed the sheets like John had asked. A foot massage wouldn’t be refused either, but he knows better than to hope for that. Sherlock is only affectionate in that manner when Sherlock wants to be, and that means Sherlock is affectionate for roughly five minutes after they wake up or are finished having sex, or if John can manage to get him into bed for a cuddle.
And that’s a tall order indeed.
It isn’t that Sherlock isn’t clear about how he feels about John, it’s just that he’s a bit of a whirlwind. Sometimes it seems he doesn’t have time for affection. Not casual affection, Sherlock is phenomenal at that: a hand squeeze as they’re about to get off their stop on the Tube, a kiss to the back of John’s neck as he’s frying eggs, a pinch on the arse as he climbs into the shower with John.
It’s that he’s not one for allowing the moment to last. Cuddles can happen, but they’re brief, because Sherlock either gets restless and gets out of bed, or he succumbs to sleep. John takes advantage of him in that state–with a certain measure of guilt–in order to steal said cuddle.
And besides, John muses as he jogs down the steps to the Tube station, he shows his affection in other ways, less obvious way s. Ways that would cause any other sane human being to cautiously distance themselves. Sherlock explains some of his most complex experiments patiently to John. He purchased an annual subscription to the New England Journal of Medicine for John, just because. He found the one ear in a bag of ears–John doesn’t ask why or how or when Sherlock got them, just to please not let the bag drip all over the new lager he bought–that looks just like John’s ear.
And yes, he can be careless and strange, silent and standoffish, but John loves him, and so he manages to deal with idiosyncrasies that might have annoyed him in anyone else.
He puts up with it because Sherlock knows how to take care of him, and because Sherlock loves him back. John smiles wondrously to himself, remembering that. Sherlock loves him back. Who could have predicted that? Sometimes John is absolutely blindsided by the fact that he and Sherlock managed to find one another at all.
He allows his eyes to fall shut for a bit; the ride back to Baker Street usually takes him about thirty minutes and he’s done in. He calculates that he’s managed only fifteen hours of sleep over the past three days, and he’s hoping for a lie-in tomorrow.
Yes: scotch, his favorite Indian takeaway and a lie-in, hopefully on cool, clean, just-laundered sheets. Maybe he can convince Sherlock that spending a little more time in bed than is strictly necessary is actually what he wants to do.
But right now, all he can think of is that curry, and taking his damned shoes off. Thoughts of lamb and coconut fill his mind and he very nearly feels like he can smell it; his stomach gives a growl and he begins to salivate. His stop cannot come fast enough. During the ensuing wait, John busies himself with tidying up his phone, deleting old texts and voicemails, and soon he’s bounding off of the train at Baker Street, famished.
There aren’t many people out at this time of evening on Baker Street, so he doesn’t bother paying much attention to his surroundings as he locks his eyes on the front door of 221 and makes haste towards it. Once inside, he jogs up the steps, finding the flat open and a fire raging in the hearth. Sherlock is lounging on the sofa, left leg and arm dangling down to the floor.
“Hello then,” John says, and drops his bag beneath the coat rack, shucking his outerwear in record time. Sherlock says nothing, just glances up at John with a distracted wave. “Case on or just rearranging in there?” He makes his way through the sitting room into the kitchen and, noting no takeaway bags on the table, opens the refrigerator.
There he finds nothing new, save for a small, blue Tupperware marked “Do NOT disturb” in Sherlock’s scrawl. John chuckles half-heartedly to himself as his stomach gives another hopeful rumble.
John takes one last look at the kitchen–he doesn’t want to disturb Sherlock unduly if he’s in his mind palace–but finds no bag of takeaway. John takes a deep breath, feels his ire prick up the back of his neck, heat his ears. He glances around the sitting room too, just for good measure.
“Sherlock.” His voice is deadly calm, a tone John only uses when he needs it for maximum effect. Sherlock only sits up and glances over, one brow raised just so. He waits a moment, gives Sherlock the benefit of the doubt.
But when Sherlock says nothing, he grits out, “Did you forget to pick up the food?”
Eyes narrowing, Sherlock frowns and tilts his head, regarding John as though he hasn’t a clue in the world what he’s talking about. “Food?”
“You said you would pick up takeaway. You promised me you’d pick up dinner.”
“Oh. Forgot,” and he waves it off as though it’s nothing. As though John hadn’t been looking forward to dinner all day. Because this is just another thing, isn’t it? Sherlock is being inconsiderate again. John had really only asked him to do one thing, just the one; sod the sheets, he wants curry.
It all culminates, in that moment: John’s lack of sleep, his hunger, Sherlock’s thoughtlessness again, especially since he’d just been waxing poetic about Sherlock in his head. He’s hungry, he’s exhausted and he just can’t find it in him to rein himself in. Jaw clenching, John turns, fists balled at his sides. “I’ve been at A&E all day. All day. The past three days.”
It is silent, Sherlock makes eye contact with John, the tone having pricked his ears. “Yes? And?” Sherlock says, innocent and unassuming.
It sends John’s blood boiling, because he thinks it’s fine, sometimes, to just forget what John has said. He disregards John’s requests, makes John feel wrong-footed and naggy even to have asked, and he hates feeling that way. He shouldn’t have to feel that way, shouldn’t have to remind his significant other more than two times to just pick up goddamned dinner.
John glances around the room at the clutter that wasn’t there that morning; he sees one of the spy novels he’s been reading on and off, and it’s torn in half. One of his sweaters, one that had been draped over the back of his chair, is now on the floor. Suddenly, seeing the mess, it’s not just about the curry anymore. It’s Sherlock’s complete and utter disregard that sends him over the edge. “You complete,” John takes a breath, he doesn’t want his voice to waver with the barely restrained rage. “And utter prick.”
That causes Sherlock’s eyes to widen, as though he’s not sure of what he heard. “Excuse me?”
“I asked you to do one thing, one bloody thing,” and John finds his fist landing harshly on the surface of the table, sending beakers rattling.
“Two, actually. The sheets,” Sherlock says, all prim and poised and condescending.
John takes two steps into the sitting room, hands still balls at his side. “So you did remember, and just, what, chose not to do as I asked? You told me you would! You agreed !
Sherlock swallows, and John watches as he deduces how to proceed. This could go one of two ways: Sherlock could apologize–highly unlikely, but it has happened, as they’re both shit at navigating how to do this; or Sherlock could throw up his defenses, and Sherlock’s defenses are usually horribly vicious and pointed comments.
“So I’m at your service whenever you choose? Do you do everything I ask, then?” There’s a challenge there, in the words, and John does his best not to rise to it.
“Sherlock,” he retorts, surprisingly finding some semblance of calm. “Asking you to pick up food for me because I’ve had to work the past three days and I’m tired and we have nothing in is a far cry from being asked for a semen sample just because.”
“Ah, well-”
“And don’t try that I don’t understand other human beings or how to act like one myself business, because you know it’s bullshit and I know it’s bullshit and it’s insulting that you think that you can still pull that with me. That you’ll think I’ll fall for that.” John’s chest is heaving again, his lungs feel full to bursting, his is face hot and he feels horrible, knows that nothing he’s saying is helping the situation at all, but he’s angry. He’s so angry and he feels unimportant, like he’s just an afterthought to Sherlock, and it hurts
“Pick up your own damned takeaway if you want it so badly, I’m not your errand boy.” Sherlock pivots to standing, dressing gown fluttering out behind him.
“I was at-” John is prepared to shout, shout Sherlock down, shout until he can’t shout anymore, when Sherlock interrupts, deadly calm.
“At work? Yes, why the A&E? You have a job, John. You have a job here, not that you’re strictly needed, but it pays well enough, does it not? Is it not stimulating enough for you? Can’t hold your interest? Or are you fearing you’re becoming a bit out of your depth, as far as my work is concerned?” The my work stings, it stings badly, but John just stands there and takes it, because he can’t believe Sherlock is saying it, not now. “Trying to find out if you can still hack it as a doctor? What’s the verdict, then?”
John is stunned, his throat thick, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. They’ve had rows before, they've said things that have hurt one another. They’ve cut deep and it’s taken days to find their bearings around one another again. But Sherlock has never said anything this purposefully hurtful before. God, he knows that Sherlock isn’t as emotionally mature as most people, knows that he resorts to petty deductions of insecurities to hit people where it hurts, but John never thought he’d be on the receiving end of it, of something so vicious.
He feels betrayed. He feels lost. He feels unloved and disrespected and completely and utterly naked and raw.
They stare at one another, John shell-shocked but still upset, and Sherlock smug and unforgiving. An impasse.
“You…” John begins and finds that he feels suddenly as though he wants to cry. His lips don’t want to move, words are difficult to comprehend though all of the static that’s suddenly inundated his head. “Utter bastard. You utter fucking bastard. You don't… you don’t care that it’s important to me. Helping people, putting my skills to work to ensure that… but you don’t care that I need that just like I need this.”
Sherlock says nothing, but his face smooths out, the smile slowly receding. Sherlock licks his lips, looks far less sure of himself as he says, in a taunting voice, “Your insecurities are showing again, John. It bores me.”
It lands like a blow to his solar plexus, and John feels all of the air leave his body in a violent, wheezing rush; he feels himself go entirely cold. For a split second he wonders if he was wrong to confront Sherlock about being inconsiderate in the first place, because it’s Sherlock, but after a moment, he reminds himself that he was in the right here, that Sherlock was the one who’s taken it too far. Far too far. John deserves better ; he deserves better than being an afterthought, someone who is only desired when it’s convenient.
And although John knows deep down, in the depths of his soul, that this isn’t how it is, that Sherlock doesn’t think of him like that, he feels like it, right in this moment.
John finds it within himself to heave in a breath, then a second, then a third. He glances down at his shoes and then immediately raises his head to look Sherlock in the eye. “Fuck you,” he says, crisp and clear, waits for it to land, grabs his coat and heads back downstairs.
Numb, he stumbles out into the night, finds the wherewithal to check that he has his wallet and keys, and takes off. John finds himself in Regent’s Park; he shouldn’t be there, the park is technically closed, but even the short walk there has drained him. Finding a bench, he collapses, and finds his rickety defenses collapsing, too.
For the first time in a very long time, John cries. It’s silent, stinging little wells of tears clinging to his lashes before trailing down his cheeks. Back ramrod straight, hands splayed on his thighs, he sits like that for a while, until he feels drained, until the paths of moisture on his neck have cooled and dried.
The problem is, he doesn’t know what this is; he hasn’t walked out during a row since university, and that resulted in the end of his relationship. But John knows if he’d stayed, he would have found a way to serve Sherlock some of his own medicine, come up with something so destructively hurtful he wouldn’t have forgiven himself for it.
Ambient sound from the street filters in, the infrequent passing of cars on drying asphalt, and it occurs to John how late it’s getting. He can’t stay in a public park much longer, if only because it’s growing cold and he’s still starving. Scrubbing his hands over his face, he stands on wobbly legs and finds himself headed east, towards one place he knows will be open at this hour.
It’s clichéd, he knows, to find solace in a pub after a row with a significant other, but he figures dinner and a drink here will fulfill at least one of his goals for the evening. As soon as he pulls open the door, the scent of fried food and stale ale assault him; it calms him a bit. Even knowing his family’s history, he’s always felt quite at home in pubs.
John settles on a stool and orders a Boddingtons and some salmon dish he thinks might be palatable, though he knows regardless of what he eats, he won’t actually be able to enjoy it. There are a thousand things he wishes he’d said, and there are a thousand ways he wishes the situation had gone. There are also dozens of hurtful things John’s vindictive side reminds him he could have lobbed at Sherlock. He’s horrified at even thinking them, but somehow a slightly vindicated thrill runs through him as he does.
John’s food comes and he forces himself to eat every last bit; he needs it, he hasn’t eaten since late morning and he doesn’t want to black out after one drink. Because he intends to have more than just the one drink.
He tunes out the noise from the other patrons and allows his thoughts to overcome him. From the moment he and Sherlock had become…
Become what? John thinks. What exactly have we become?
Since they’d gotten together, John knew that something like this was bound to happen. Sherlock is difficult, even on his best day, but John’s put up with that since the day the met. And he’d thought–truly thought–that he knew Sherlock, right down to the marrow. But now he’s second-guessing that. He knows that Sherlock doesn’t have a filter, and didn’t expect that to change about him, but he’d never anticipated having to hear such derisive words aimed at him from Sherlock’s mouth.
It’s the why of it all. He just doesn’t understand why it had gotten as far as it had. But then, John acknowledges, sometimes these things aren’t ruled by logic, sometimes temperament is the only thing that rules one’s actions in a situation. Maybe there’s no explanation to it at all.
Maybe they’d been waiting to be that awful to one another for a long, long time.
And maybe what people say is true: don’t talk about the little things and they build up until ‘forgetting to pick up dinner’ becomes the match that lights the powderkeg.
But how does he even begin to pick up the pieces and put it all back together, because at the moment, John feels completely blown apart. John finishes off the pint and motions for another.
His elbows plant on the bar and he sighs. The truth of it all, the reason why he feels so flayed open is no one has ever meant to him what Sherlock means to him. He’s never been loved like Sherlock loves him. It’s almost frightening, the way Sherlock loves. He loves like a five alarm fire, like a tsunami, he makes John feel like he’s precious and he’s never felt that way before.
He doesn’t want to be without that feeling. Ever.
God, even if he had been in the right, even though he’d been more pissed off than he’d been in quite some time, he regrets becoming so upset about it. Fingers tighten on the glass until he fears he’ll break it, and then he eases off.
Christ. What a mess.
As he brings the pint to his lips, he hears the tell-tale screech of the unoiled door to the pub swinging open and the hair on the back of his neck pricks up. John senses Sherlock before he sees him, but that’s how it’s always been for them.
They make brief eye contact in the mirror that’s partially hidden by liquor bottles.
“The Beehive. You made this rather easy,” Sherlock says and takes up the stool two down from John; he leaves a space, which to John means that Sherlock is unsure of himself. John would relish the sight if he didn’t feel so entirely defeated at the moment. He makes a motion to the bartender, orders a scotch and rests his forearms against the bar.
There’s barely anyone in at this hour, but it’s a bar that’s frequented by cops, so there are some of Scotland Yard’s finest in the back playing darts. Otherwise, it’s just the two of them at the bar; they don’t have to speak with much volume to be heard.
“Don’t… don’t tell me you knew where to find me. Don’t try and make it… about you knowing me better than anyone. Because it’s not- I already know that and it won’t do a thing to- Just don’t.”
“I am,” Sherlock begins, hands wrapped about the thin glass of the tumbler, “a bastard. And. You knew that. And I…”
John waits, stares straight ahead at the mirrored wall. He knows this isn’t easy for Sherlock, but he doesn’t want to make it easy. Let Sherlock figure it out, for once. John is silent and still, save for the moments he brings his drink to his lips.
The words die, and they just sit there, both staring at the mirror.
“I didn’t… I don’t know why I said that. I…” Sherlock stutters, falters, fails, and then he’s speaking a mile a minute, not to John, but rather down into his glass. “I didn’t mean any of it, you have to know that, I was just, you were at the A&E and I was alone and I thought, it didn’t make sense, but I think, all the time, constantly what this will be like when I say the wrong thing. The last wrong thing that you’ll ever put up with. Because I will say the wrong thing. And then I just said all of those things, wondering, hoping that would be it, that you would leave. That I didn’t have to wait any longer, that I’d finally said it. Not hoping you would leave, I didn’t… want that.”
Still, John says nothing, just shifts his gaze so he can see Sherlock in the mirror. “I am horrid at this. I am not… what you need. And I don’t know how to be the person who is deserving of you. And I try to… not be how I am, all of the time. But sometimes I can’t. And sometimes I think this is the time when you’ve had enough. And tonight I…”
Sherlock hangs his head.
“I. Was terrified. Three days, you at the surgery. It doesn’t make sense. It’s not logical. But three days and I thought, perhaps, well, maybe John finds that he really does prefer his time there. Because I am a horrid person.” The words are strained, and it’s doing a number on John, hearing the man with the world’s healthiest ego speak of his own insecurities. But John needs to hear them, he deserves that much.
“I think, all the time, of the worst thing I could say to you, and every day it changes. Every day I think of something more awful to say to you and I... “ Sherlock stops, huffs in frustration and downs the entirety of his scotch. It’s not elegant; he spends a moment sputtering and coughing. “This is profound. What we have. It is profound and I…”
Finally, Sherlock’s gaze meets John’s in the reflection of the mirror. “I’m just waiting for it all to end.”
John considers this, really digests what Sherlock has said, takes it to heart. “Yes. People are… insecure about the good things in their life. Yes. People are terrified of losing them. The fact that you feel this way… yes, I understand it. But what you said, Sherlock. What you said -”
“I know, I-”
“I’m not done.” John says, voice calm but strict. “What you said hurt. You’ve been shot– can’t say if it was the same experience for you as it was for me but–what you said? Worse than that. Worse.”
Sherlock bites his lips, looks unsure of what to say.
“Thanks for not pointing out the melodrama of that statement,” John says, runs the mouthful of warm lager between his lower lip and his teeth. “You’re a dick, Sherlock, but that… that was too much.”
Beside him, Sherlock swallows, rolls his glass between his fingers, and lifts his head to stare at his own reflection in the mirror; John watches and waits.
“You’re… stronger than I am, John.” He turns his head; it’s the tone of Sherlock’s voice, John can’t help it. And even as he berates himself for doing it, he knows he’s helpless to this, to Sherlock in pain.
John clears his throat, licks over her bottom lip, and glances down at his hands. It feels as though there’s coal, hot and merciless, right in the center of his chest. He could just apologize, right now, take responsibility for everything that’s happened tonight, just so it’s over. But that isn’t fair. It’s not fair to him, it’s not fair to the stakes, to their relationship. Sherlock doesn’t just get to be cruel and vicious with no repercussions.
John stops short of thinking that he wants Sherlock to feel exactly how he feels. That would be callous, and stupid, and not something you do to someone you love. And god help him, John really does love Sherlock Holmes. “Doesn’t mean I can’t feel hurt by the one person–the one person, Sherlock, are you hearing me?–I love more than anything in the world.”
Sherlock bites the inside of his bottom lip, and he looks so entirely out of his depth; John can count on one hand the number of times he’s seen Sherlock this unsure and it adds to the pressure in his chest.
“Don’t,” John begins, a harsh whisper, as his left hand curls into a fist on the bartop. “Stop… trying to sabotage this. This…”
To John’s left, Sherlock huffs, gathers himself more closely together on the bar stool. “I don’t know why-”
“This is good. This is the best thing I’ve ever had, so stop trying to make it end. Stop… thinking you’re not good enough. Neither one of us are particularly good, Sherlock.” John knocks back the rest of his drink and hops down off the stool. He tosses a few bills on the bar and buttons his coat. “Just be happy for once in your life, jesus. You can be happy with me, can’t you?”
There’s heartbreaking silence, and Sherlock doesn’t move, doesn’t seem to breathe. “I don’t know,” he manages, but it comes out garbled.
It’s nearly too much, it nearly breaks John. He turns, right hand curling around the lip of the bar and leans into Sherlock, close enough that he’s sure that Sherlock can feel John’s breath on his neck. “Sherlock, do you love me?”
“Yes, and it terrifies me.” Their gazes meet and Sherlock looks so unabashedly lost that it takes all of the strength in John not to reach out and hold him. That Sherlock is being so brutally honest with him about his insecurities nearly makes John uncomfortable.
All this, because Sherlock forgot to pick up the takeaway.
“Well, Sherlock, I can say a lot of things about you, but I never thought you were a coward.” Sherlock seems to understand, then, that there’s an ultimatum in John’s words; he seems to finally realize the gravity of what’s happening right in this moment. His eyes widen and he looks stricken and far too serious.
“I’m going home, I’m knackered. Don’t use this, tonight… not to come to bed. If you think this is done, that you’re not going to fight for this, that I’m not going to fight for this, well… stay on the couch, I suppose. But for all you put me through, for all of the times you’re an enormous, inconsiderate prick, I still love you. I still want you. You should figure out what it is that you want. Because I think you want this, Sherlock. You just have to stop being such a coward and trust that this is good. This is it.”
It’s a struggle to turn his back on Sherlock and walk out the door, but he manages, and when he hits the pavement he takes a huge gulp of chilly air into his lungs. John feels like crying again, but doesn’t know if he has the energy to bear it, so he just hails down a cab and goes home.
On leaden legs he climbs up to the flat, doesn’t bother shutting the lights that Sherlock had left on, and pads through to the bedroom. He needs a shower, desperately, so he dumps his dirty clothes in the hamper and takes one, running the water just shy of warm in order to keep himself awake. John can’t think beyond the static in his head and the searing pain between his ribs. He moves robotically; shampoo, conditioner, scrapes a bar of soap across his body.
He’s never been this emotionally exhausted before, and he feels nauseated from it.
When he’s finished, he finds he doesn’t want to get out of the shower, wants to stay ensconced in the small space until all of this blows over. But he knows it’s not going to. That’s not how things like this work. So, with dripping hair, he steps out of the tub and onto the mat, realizing he’s left his towel back in the bedroom.
He senses Sherlock the second he gets out of the shower; it’s been forty-five minutes; he’d have thought Sherlock would take longer than that.
Naked, he pads into the bedroom, only to find Sherlock lying on the bed, fully clothed. John says nothing, just pats himself dry while Sherlock looks on; when he’s through, he finds his favorite sleep bottoms and his oldest, softest shirt, and with only a moment of hesitation, gets into bed.
Sherlock remains atop the covers.
John shifts onto his left side, his back to Sherlock, and does his level best to attempt sleep. Although he’s truly fatigued, his mind won’t turn off. It’s why he’s still awake when an hour later, Sherlock shifts, and shimmies up behind him. He tenses for only a moment, then relaxes, waits.
Cautiously, a hand comes up to rest over John’s hip.
“I will do anything, John,” Sherlock says, in a voice that John only ever hears when they’re in bed together. “I’ve done everything.” And John knows that he’s referring to a rooftop and a bullet and years of anguish, but that doesn’t solve anything.
John thinks about that; Sherlock Holmes really has done everything for him. He’s died for him, for christ’s sake. But it’s not about that, it’s not about that at all.
“This isn’t about me, Sherlock. It’s about you, and how you feel about us. And you’ll do anything to keep me safe, happy, yes, and it’s… you’re the best thing that’s ever… I just want you to understand that I’m getting as much out of this as you are. You’re it, for me. And I just wish you’d trust that.”
“I do. I am. But-”
“All I want. All I want, Sherlock. Is for you to give yourself more credit. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to be, right?”
There’s a long pause, and then a cautious kiss to the back of John’s nape. “You never do anything you’re not keen on.”
“So… give yourself a break. Give me a break, in the meantime,” John finishes, allows a touch of humor in his voice. Sherlock came home, came to bed, and that’s enough for now. It’s enough to go on.
For a time, there’s nothing but the distant clanking of the pipes and car horns down the road. John finds himself settling into the warmth that Sherlock’s body provides and takes solace in it. After a long while, Sherlock asks,“Is this what couples do?” and John feels him moving about behind him, toeing off his shoes, preparing to stay for the night.
Progress.
John finds himself smiling, the susurrus in his head quieting. “Yeah. Sometimes. Sometimes it can’t be avoided. S’terrible, isn’t it?”
“Hmmm,” Sherlock agrees, and slips his arm more firmly around John’s waist. They won’t fall asleep like this, but John finds suddenly that he desperately needs to be close to Sherlock; he tugs on Sherlock’s arm until his fingers are curled just under John’s hip. “I’ll pick up Indian tomorrow night.”
“No,” John says and feels Sherlock stiffen; he can’t help but smile. John makes a concession. “I know you’ve been wanting pizza. Pick up a pizza.”
“Alright,” Sherlock whispers and dots another kiss on John’s neck. “John?”
“Hm?”
“We’re not… better yet. This isn’t fixed.” The fact that he’s acknowledging that these things take time, that he can’t just say a few words and mend all the hurt is incredible, coming from Sherlock, and the pain in John’s heart recedes just a little. They’re not better yet, and Sherlock understands that.
“Not entirely, but we will be, in time. Do you trust me?”
And it’s only a moment, only the space of a breath before Sherlock says, “Of course.”