JohnLock

He shakes his head, "Wrong again, love. Wrong, wrong, wrong. I hardly do anything, all I did was say a few words. That's what I do. You, on the other hand-"Sherlock presses his lips to his jawline, "You smiling like that /alone/ blows everything I do out of the water. So you don't have to keep trying to one up me. Though I do enjoy it very much."
He doesn't want John to feel like he's not enough. Because even at his worst, he is the most brilliant human being and there isn't anything better. He's full of surprises, he confuses Sherlock, but yet he has such a set personality and he's just so...
"You are more than I could ever ask for, alright?"
 
He's doing it again. Saying things so utterly sweet and touching that it makes John unbelievably grateful to have him. Who knew that this sort of thing would come from Sherlock Holmes, of all people? And that he would be the one to witness it, to be the recipient of it? He presses his forehead to Sherlock's, closing his eyes. "You underestimate yourself, love," he murmurs, then chuckles. "Bloody hell, who thought I'd ever be saying that?" he teases, opening his eyes back up to smile at Sherlock. "It's true, though, all joking aside."

He brushes a stray curl away from Sherlock's forehead. "For all your confidence in your intelligence and yes, sometimes your conceit," he smiles indulgently to soften the blow, "when it comes to valuing yourself, all of you, not just your intelligence, you just... you don't see it. You don't see that it's not just your brilliant mind that's worth something." He takes a deep breath. "And it's fucking tragic," he breathes. "Because I see you. I see all of you. I see your brilliant mind," he kisses Sherlock's forehead, "and your beautiful body," a mischievous grin and a quick peck on the lips, "but most of all, I see your heart." He places his hand over Sherlock's chest tenderly. "I know you think it's not worth anything, but I see the way you take care of Mrs. Hudson, and I see the way you look at me, and I know that it's worth absolutely everything. I know you are worth absolutely everything."

He caresses Sherlock's face, studying him for a moment, watching those beautiful blue eyes. "I see right down to your soul, Sherlock Holmes," he whispers. "And I know that it's a good one."

((PLOT WHAT PLOT THERE IS NO PLOT WHEN THERE ARE FLUFFS THIS GOOD. Also I apologize for the delay! Mom had me doing chores all day. XP))
 
He doesn't move. He doesn't even speak, he just lies there, under John Watson. He won't look away, because he can't find the words to respond to that. How do you act when someone you care about says they see you? That they can look past any layer or wall and still find something good in you? Sherlock doesn't remember the last time anyone had ever said that to him. They probably never did.
So he lays there, his gaze unwavering as he mutters the only thing he can.
"It's only good because of you." he can feel his throat tighten as he speaks, "You make me...human."
He blinks, talking with his eyes as much as his words, Thank you for this.

(Fluff or Fluff? Both, both is good. :D. Love you, hedgehog.)
 
He frowns. "You already were human," he insists. "You were human before me and you'd be human even if I wasn't here. Don't you ever doubt that." He shakes his head in disgust. "Whoever told you that you weren't..." he makes a face indicative of the sorts of things he would do to those people if he could. The thought that someone could have convinced Sherlock he wasn't worth anything, that he was less than human, makes him want to throw something.

He sighs and forces the tension to drain out of him. He looks his love in the eye, wanting to impress upon him how utterly important this is. "Sherlock, you are the best man and the most human... human being that I have ever known, " he says, and in those words are the kind of conviction you usually hear from those affirming their belief in God. "Don't ever​ let anyone tell you any different."

((I'M SORRY FOR THE SUDDEN SPIKE OF REICHENBACH FEELS I JUST THOUGHT OUR JOHN SHOULD GET A CHANCE TO SAY SOME OF THOSE THINGS HE NEVER SAID PLEASE FORGIVE ME OTTER DEAR))
 
(ALL MY FEELS AND CREYS, IT'S OKAY MY LOVELY KATEY, WE'LL GET THROUGH THIS TOGETHER!)

"It doesn't matter what they say," he feels John's gaze piercing him, his utter belief in his words is just so strong. Because John doesn't care what they say. He doesn't let anything but his own decisions impair his thoughts. This man, this unbelievably beautiful man, how on earth did he find himself unworthy?
"I have you now." Sherlock clings to him tightly, "That's all I need." It's all he wants as well. For John to need him, to care so deeply in him that he has some purpose other than solving cases. He'll fight John Watson's war and he'll do whatever it takes to protect him. After all, he's been his soldier for long enough and Sherlock would always repay him.
Because they love each other truly irrevocably, no matter how angry or how low they fall, they'll always come back to one another. Whether it be two days or three years, at least their belief will never die.

(I keep going ooc, sorry lovey)
 
((That's okay, my dear, it's so cute I couldn't be bothered if I tried! And anyway, I am too. XD))

He's not wholly satisfied with that answer, although the sentiment is lovely to hear. Because he wants Sherlock to believe it on his own, without John having to constantly tell him. He doesn't want Sherlock to base his self-worth entirely on John's word. Because if - god forbid - something were to happen to John in this struggle against Moriarty... who would tell Sherlock then? Who would be there to remind him he's still human?

But John's mind shies away from this sort of thinking, so he lets it pass. He's got time to show Sherlock-

Wait...

He sits halfway up in bed, frowning as a growing sense of unease creeps up on him. "Sherlock?" he asks slowly, warily. "Wasn't there... a countdown going on? Is that still running?"

((Figured I should make John be responsible again. Bleh. I'd rather them just live in a world of happy lovely fluff times, but with our boys, it is not to be. XP))
 
His eyes widen, "Oh. Shit." The curse doesn't feel natural on his tongue. Sherlock props himself up by his elbows, they had gotten carried away, of course he hadn't remembered. Of course he had let the outside world disappear. Hadn't John?
Then again, the army doctor was the most responsible of the too, it made sense for him to remember after it had grown calm.
"Might explain why Lestrade couldn't give us two minutes without the phone going off."
He crawls towards the edge of the bed, reaching for the iPhone, "Unfortunately, this means clothes."
 
A blush flashes across his cheeks at that - which is utterly ridiculous, of course, considering the sorts of antics they got up to last night. He decides to completely ignore that comment. "How long have we got?" he asks instead, rolling out of bed and reaching for his clothes. "Ten hours? Nine?" He groans at the thought. "We've used up over half the countdown!"

He's very careful to say used up, not wasted. That time was absolutely, undeniably not wasted. Even knowing they only have half the countdown left, he wouldn't take back their actions for the world. And as the events of the previous day came rushing back to him, horrible revelation included, he realizes that he needed that. He needed that reassurance. He probably wouldn't have been in a fit state to go in to the Yard if they hadn't done that. Whereas now, he's at least distanced himself from it, which is a start.

He starts getting dressed as Sherlock dials Lestrade's number. They're in for a hell of a scolding.
 
He sets the phone to the sides as he pushes his arms through the sleeves of his purple shirt. He's always had a notion that it was John's favorite, one that he's quite sure is accurate. Sherlock buttons it up as the phone rings, still smirking until Lestrade answers.

"Where. The. Hell. Have. You. Been."
Sherlock cringes slightly, it was too early for this, the sun is hardly up.
"We had a bit of a situation-" he starts, however he should have known Lestrade wouldn't let him finish. "Yes, you did, that was 6 hours, ago, Sherlock!" Only six? Seemed much longer than that. He turns to give John a smirk, but it falters as the DI continues. "I've been calling and texting, and do you know what I got? Nothing! How was I supposed to know if you were dead or-or Moriarty got to you, or something was wrong with John-You left me completely in the dark!"

"Sorry." He didn't honestly know what to say and in his lost manner, he threw John a helpless look.
 
At the lost expression on Sherlock's face, he rolls his eyes and strides over, finishing buttoning up his shirt. He snatches the phone out of Sherlock's hand and puts it to his ear. "Greg? It's John," he starts.

"Bloody hell, John, I would have thought you at least would have thought to call! Jesus, what happened-"

He sighs and quickly cuts him off. "Look, Greg, I'm sorry about that, but for once it was entirely my fault." He shoots Sherlock a look that clearly says you owe me for this, rummaging around for his jumper as he does so. "Listen, an old friend of mine stopped by last night, Sebastian Moran," he grits his teeth around the name, but forces himself to continue, "only it turns out he works for Moriarty. We're fine, we're fine," he says quickly, before Lestrade can interrupt again, "but after that kind of revelation I needed some comfort, all right?" He makes sure to say it in such a way that makes clear exactly what he means by that - just enough to both explain to Lestrade what happened, yet keep him from asking any more questions. It's worth the embarrassment.

He takes a deep breath before he continues, knowing what he has to say. It's only professional. He carefully buries down any feelings towards Sebastian, good or bad, and locks them away. "You'll want to do a background check on Moran," he says in a monotone, his voice flat and dull. Just treat him like any other suspect. Keep it vague. "There's evidence to suggest he exhibited violent tendencies even before he joined Moriarty, and there's no telling what else he might have done in the time we were out of contact," he explains as quickly as possible, before it finally gets to be too much. "I'll let Sherlock explain to you what happened," he says quickly, and hands the phone off, pinching the bridge of his nose with his fingers for a moment before exhaling slowly. He turns to yank on the oatmeal-colored jumper so he can gather himself before Sherlock can read the look on his face.
 
He takes the phone absentmindedly but his gaze doesn't stray from John. Difficulty, sentiment, of course, that has to be it. There's every indication that John is not okay. Distractions aren't permanent, and if anyone knows that, it's Sherlock.
If he thought it would help, he would wrap John up in his arms and keep him in the flat forever. But knowing the them, that might just make matters worse.
Distractions.
"Sherlock, you there?" After John's explanation, Lestrade's tone has softened. The lanky detective runs a hand through his hair, fingers caught in knots and curls. "Yes, just...Sebastian is your body snatcher, don't bother trying to look for him yet. Moriarty," he hisses out the name, "is going to keep him under wraps for now. The Yard's incompitance will only make things worse."

"Why exactly was he there in the first place?"

"Intimidation. Threats. It's all for the game."

"And John? Is he...?"

Sherlock breathes out, his eyes still on his partner. Lover. Most important person. "Better than last night. Sebastian was in the army with him and...He hurt him. The shoulder. Understandably, the revelation didn't go under well. I tried to help."

He can hear Lestrade clear his throat, "Good. I mean, well, at least you're being good for him. Is everything alright to come to the Yard?"

"Be there soon."
 
He tries to tune out the conversation to the best of his ability. He really doesn't need to be thinking about that right now. It won't help anything, it won't solve anything, and it sure as hell won't make him feel better. Besides, he can see the worry in Sherlock's expression as he hangs up. Dwelling on it will only make it worse, and he can't afford to be weak like that right now. Not in this game they're playing. He has to be strong. For Sherlock.

So he doesn't think about it. He lets it sink to the bottom of his mind, where it can stay until he has the time and the energy to deal with it. So probably never, then. "I'm fine, love," he says firmly to Sherlock - a response to the unasked question in his eyes. "Let's go." He heads past Sherlock into the hall and then to the living room, and is about to grab for his coat before he thinks of something and hesitates.

"Hold on," he says, and quickly runs up the stairs to his room. He makes his way to his bedside table and slowly pulls open the drawer, looking at the gun within. He picks it up cautiously, turning it over in his hands and considering. Worth the risk?

He sticks it in the back of his jeans, under his jumper. Definitely worth the risk. He'd take it through bloody airport security if it meant protecting Sherlock; taking it to the Yard is no trouble at all. In response to Sherlock's questioning look when he comes back down, he shrugs. "Just in case," he explains. He knows Sherlock knows what he means.
 
He wonders which one of them is overreacting; Sherlock or John? Or both? Or none?
They really picked an interesting time to start a relationship, everything is being tested and strained, and Sherlock finds himself falling even faster. They need each other, desperately. He can't even imagine the hellish life without his blogger.
Dependence is something he hadn't anticipated. But it's so obviously there.
So he trusts John. He trusts that somehow, they'll always muddle through, that they'll always make it safe for each other. Sherlock nods, reminding himself not to panic, everything will be fine. John will be fine.
Sherlock pushes the door open, gesturing for John to go through and he follows him downstairs. He glances at Mrs. Hudson's doorknob, she's out again, probably on another lunch date with the tailor. Well, one more person safe.
He'll take all he can get to rid himself of that feeling that today is going to be very, very wrong.
 
Just before they walk out the front door, John stops, turning to Sherlock. There's something they have to do first, something essential, as important preparation as the gun at John's back. The knot of anxiety in his stomach tells him that today is the day when everything starts, and that they won't have any rest from the moment they walk out this door until this is over. And if they don't face this together, united, as one, then they'll have failed before they even started.

So he leans up and presses a firm kiss to Sherlock's lips, a kiss that says I'm here, we're together, we can do this, and much more besides, and by the time he leans away he can feel the determination in his gaze. He doesn't say I love you, because that would feel like a goodbye and that is most emphatically not what he is trying to say, and he doesn't say I will protect you no matter what because he knows Sherlock doesn't need to hear it to know that it's true.

No, what he says, as he holds out his hand for Sherlock to take, is simply, "Ready?" And that open hand and single word say more than any speech ever could.
 
That short word throws him back to the case a few months ago, where they ended up looking for evidence in a theatre. John's blog had been getting rather popular, but still, he doesn't see why that's any reason for photos-and that Deestalker.
Death frisbee.
Ear hat.
But John was there, John has always been there and he will always be. So the second time John asks this question, Sherlock already has his answer.
"Yes." He doesn't mask the worry, but he doesn't upplay it. Everything is already known, all these declarations, all this emotion. Words are just vessels and Sherlock can see everything he needs too in those steadying eyes.
He promises to himself that every morning, he will wake up to the warming look of John, that he won't leave John's side.
Sherlock won't lose this. Not this.
So he takes his hand and squeezes it tightly, puling him close to his side. This is what makes Sherlock's heart beat.
The mind and the heart, together until the end.
 
So they walk out their front door as one, united, each making the other whole, and if Moriarty were to see them now he would see the grim determination blazing in each of their eyes saying you will not take this away from me, the hands clasped tight saying you cannot separate us, stances firm saying we are ready. John can't help but think, as he watches Sherlock hail a cab with his free hand, that if Moriarty had any sense, he would be afraid. The two of them united are a threat like no other, and he knows as certainly as he knows his own name that apart they would be twice as dangerous. They would never stop until they were together again, relentless, doing anything they had to in order to reunite. Anything. So either way, Moriarty should turn and run. It's the only sensible thing to do.

Of course, Moriarty doesn't have any sense. He's insane, and therefore wholly unpredictable. But John tries not to dwell on that.

He gets in the cab with Sherlock, waiting until they start driving to speak, and even then keeping his voice low. He'd rather the driver not overhear their conversation. Maybe it's paranoia, but with Moriarty you can never be too careful. "So," he murmurs, "What's the plan?"
 
(Silly John, the Santa Robot cabbies don't work for Moriarty, they work for an alien race set on enslaving the population!)

"Not get killed." he says, a failed joking tone in his voice. Sherlock squeezes his hand tightly, there was hardly going to be time to plan anything after this cab ride, the few minutes of peace they have left.
The few minutes alone they have left. "I don't know what the killer has planned, I don't know what's going to happen when Moriarty and I clash, there have never been as many 'I don't know's floating through my head."

"But I do know you'll be there. Always. So, no matter what, we can't not make it out, because we've just started, and I can't lose this." He kisses John softly and quickly, clutching him close.

"So the plan basically is-" he leans against his lover, "Win."
 
((Well obviously, but he doesn't know that!))

He releases a shaky breath. He doesn't have a plan any more than I do, he realizes. But then again, when does Sherlock ever have a plan? He practically specializes into running headfirst into danger without any more forethought than "I hope John has his gun." Probably not even that much. And it always works out, somehow. Either John saves Sherlock, or Sherlock saves John. They save each other, and they catch the bad guy, and they're okay. So why should it be different with Moriarty?

Because everything's different with Moriarty.

John leans back against Sherlock, quickly ducking his head to tuck it against Sherlock's shoulder, under his chin. "Sounds feasible," he jokes halfheartedly as he winds his arms around Sherlock's waist. If they're only going to have a few more minutes of privacy, he wants to spend them in the place he loves best - in Sherlock's arms, with Sherlock in his. He doesn't care if the cabbie sees him cuddling up against his flatmate, not after they've kissed right in front of him. In fact, he doesn't care about anything that's not enjoying being with Sherlock, memorizing the warm feeling in his chest when Sherlock's arms tighten around him.

"We're going to be okay," he whispers. "We're going to be brilliant."
 
(You know you're a Cabin a pressure fan girl when the word brilliant makes you think of polar bears.)

He makes an affirmative humming noise, biting his lip as he rests his chin ontop of John's head. His hair tickles under his neck, making him crack a small smile.
Sherlock is still learning, wants to learn, every possible variation of interaction they can have. He's not going to waste a single minute of the time he has with him, with this man of paradoxes that he loves utterly.
Because right now, this is what they have. As soon as they step out of that cab, these private moments will be all but gone.
"Yes, we'll be brilliant. And this time," he shifts closer to John. "This time, we really will just come home and I'll make tea and the crap Telly and the kisses on the sofa. All of and more. Promise." he murmurs.
 
((REGARDEZ-VOUS LE BEAR POLAR!))

He smiles a bit at the thought, tucking himself closer to Sherlock. "I'll hold you to it," he promises back.

Here, where it's safe, he lets himself hope. He lets himself think of how it might be, for the two of them to get out of this unscathed. Finally safe from Moriarty, everything the same as before and yet so different. Discovering this relationship they've barely gotten the chance to begin. Waking up every morning in Sherlock's arms, or with Sherlock in his, or even just next to Sherlock. A new routine they've yet to fall into. A life together they haven't even gotten to explore yet. Experiments and blogging. Tea and crap telly. Sofa kisses.

He wants it more than anything. He wants this life they haven't had yet. And it kills him that Moriarty could take this all away from him so easily, so carelessly. That he might never get to know the way it feels to be Sherlock-and-John instead of just Sherlock and just John. But then, maybe he already does.

"And least we know," he says aloud, thoughtfully. "At least we're going into this together," he squeezes his arms slightly to indicate the kind of together he means, "instead of never knowing how we felt about each other." He closes his eyes. "I don't think I could do this without you." Dangerous territory. He redirects that train of thought back to the positive. "I'm glad I don't have to."
 
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