《Events after The Great Game》vernon

2、第 2 章 Sherl

　　Sherlock lay in bed and contemplated the complete failure of his latest plan.

　　Who would have imagined that John could be so ridiculously pig-headed?

　　John, who would come half way across London to send a text message for him, who had given up his job and his girlfriend to take care of him, who had risked life and limb for him on more than one occasion, who had killed a man to save his life, for God's sake.

　　John who certainly wanted, possibly even loved him. The same John who now adamantly refused to 'take advantage' of him.

　　Sherlock rolled over and thumped his pillow, which produced a gentle snort from the other side of the bed. The other side of the Great Wall of Cushions, more accurately.

　　Admittedly, he had no personal experience in these matters, but Sherlock would have thought that seducing someone who professed to 'lust after'you would be much less of a challenge than this.

　　The most annoying aspect was that he knew full well he only had himself to blame. Himself and his infernal pride, which had stopped him from admitting that he was quite intrigued by John's desire for him, and that things which had never interested him before were suddenly looking, if not exactly attractive, as he had no frame of reference, then certainly worthy of investigation.

　　He would also have to admit that being told he couldn't have something was producing the frustrating result of making him want it more, which Sherlock felt was an irritatingly human reaction.

　　He thumped his pillow again. It was that damn night on the sofa a week ago which had done it. Before that, he had thought that developing a physical relationship with John might perhaps be tolerable; he was willing to try it, if it was what John wanted. The fringe benefit of sleeping together would certainly be welcome and it would resolve the annoying 'new doctor' issue.

　　However, the memory of that night, and one part of it in particular, had kept popping into his mind at odd moments ever since, making him think about things he hadn't wasted time on before, making him wonder about gaps in his knowledge, and whether it wasn't about time that he filled them...

　　Of course, Sherlock had never had any intention of going to his own bed that night. He sat in front of the television, waiting for John to fall asleep. It didn't take long, his friend was exhausted by the stress of the action packed day.

　　Within ten minutes of lying down, John's breathing was steady and he was clearly out for the count. Seeing Moriarty so close to Sherlock at the park had shaken him badly. He had remained completely focused as long as the threat of danger remained, but once they were home, and safe, reaction had set in, although he had hidden it well, perhaps even well enough to keep it from most people. But not from the world's only consulting detective, blind or not.

　　Sherlock switched off the TV and made his way unerringly to the sofa. John was meticulous about keeping the furniture in place at all times and the flat was, of necessity, much tidier than it used to be, although Sherlock had pointed out that he could have learned to navigate the mess just as easily, as long as it didn't move around.

　　He reached out carefully to check John's position, before lowering himself to perch on the edge of the seat. John was lying flat on his back, one arm at his side, the other up over his head, hand dangling over the end of the sofa.

　　Sherlock had known, of course, what his friend was capable of, the sort of training he had undergone and the remarkable skills he possessed. However, experiencing them at first hand, when he himself was so profoundly helpless, had impressed upon him just how competent and dependable John really was.

　　He brought his hand up gently to check the sleeping man's face, wondering if he was relaxed now, or still tense, perhaps dreaming about what had happened. He knew John still had nightmares sometimes, although neither of them ever mentioned it. Though outwardly open and friendly, John was quite reserved in many ways. Not proud, exactly, but reticent, self-contained. Even now, when his 'secret' had been exposed and Sherlock knew how he felt, he wasn't smothering at all, didn't let his emotions leak all over the place. Sherlock liked that. He liked it very much.

　　John seemed peaceful and Sherlock went to get ready for bed, familiar now with doing things in the dark, finding everything he needed exactly where it should be – John's doing again.

　　On returning to the sofa, he discovered that John had rolled onto his side, which certainly made his objective easier. Carefully, he eased himself over John and into the small gap along the back of the seats. It was a tight fit, but he wriggled a little and John shuffled over obligingly, without waking up. Presumably, he already had some experience at sharing a sleeping space.

　　That left Sherlock lying full length, but he still didn't quite know what to do with his arms. The right one was no problem, that was free and could just rest along his side, but the left was squashed under his body uncomfortably. He bent his elbow and propped his head up on his hand while he considered the problem.

　　It occurred to him that this was probably the closest he had been to another person during the whole of his □□ life. He was aware of John's body against his all the way from his chest down to his feet – in fact, John's feet were resting on top of his own, he could feel his friend's toes flexing gently as they settled into their new position. Sherlock pulled the throw rug off the back of the seats and covered their legs; he didn't want John to wake too soon due to being cold.

　　Although he had been pushing John to sleep with him for a week now, he had still been slightly concerned about feeling claustrophobic with someone so close to him, invading the space which he usually defended so rigorously. It was pleasing to discover that there were no such negative feelings involved in this experience with John.

　　Indeed, being wrapped around John was surprisingly pleasant altogether; he was most definitely not like other people. Sherlock was aware that something was different in their relationship since he woke up from the coma, quite apart from the obvious blindness related dependency. There had always been some sort of connection between them; John had stood out from the crowd almost immediately, but it was much stronger now. It was almost as if John was no longer an entirely separate entity. Perhaps it was due to his head injury, decided Sherlock; he certainly seemed to be getting terribly fanciful.

　　He turned his attention to the current problem. He was getting tired, and he needed to resolve the issue of his left arm. Using his right hand, he carefully checked John's position again, and realised that there was a perfect space for his arm, just under his friend's neck. Sitting up slightly, he supported his weight with his right hand on the edge of the sofa and slowly started to edge into position.

　　The procedure was going well and he was nearly up to his elbow, when John started to stir. Sherlock froze where he was. If John woke now and found Sherlock leaning over him, he would not be happy. Not happy at all. The detective stayed completely still as John rolled slightly on to his back, until his weight was leaning against Sherlock, rather than just lying next to him.

　　After another minute, Sherlock moved his arm a little further – just a few more inches and he could lie down. Almost there... John stirred again. Sherlock kept going, too late to stop now, then he felt a hand at the nape of his neck, a hand with no trace of hesitancy or diffidence, a hand which gripped firmly and pulled him down, and down, guiding his head with total precision and competence, until he found himself in a new and completely unexpected situation.

　　John was kissing him. He didn't seem to have woken up, but he was kissing him just the same, lips moving smoothly and slightly parted so that Sherlock could taste a rather different flavour of toothpaste to his own, together with something he could only identify as 'John flavour'. Sherlock didn't know what to do. His instinct was to relax his right arm, which was holding him up, and lie down on John, but this seemed an extremely odd and dangerous impulse, so he resisted it.

　　John's body was relaxed, his right arm just resting along his side, so he definitely hadn't woken, but he was still kissing Sherlock, holding his head in place so their mouths were pressed gently together, the tip of his tongue now just brushing against the detective's bottom lip. Sherlock tentatively returned the pressure, allowing his lips to part a little and, oh... that felt... really very interesting indeed.

　　John's hand was loosening, he was drifting off again. Their lips parted and for a moment Sherlock found himself seeking John's mouth once more, following his head as it settled back down and stealing two more kisses, until John breathed a sigh and murmured "Sherlock," against his lips, before turning and rolling back onto his side, settling into slumber once more.

　　Slowly, Sherlock lay down behind him, his left arm now firmly wedged under John's neck. He bent his elbow so that his hand rested over his friend's chest and eventually fell asleep, soothed by the regular beat of the steadiest heart he knew.

　　Now, a week later, Sherlock was annoyed to find himself,yet again, spending precious time debating whether or not to tell John about the kiss.

　　On the one hand, if he told John what had happened and that he had liked it and wanted to explore it further, then surely that would go some way to persuade him that Sherlock was not just asking out of some sort of combination of pity and indebtedness, which he currently seemed irrevocably convinced of.

　　On the other hand, Sherlock feared that it would be a 'big deal' to John. To know that he had taken Sherlock's first kiss but would never remember it, that might upset him. Sherlock didn't know. Perhaps it wasn't important, perhaps it wouldn't matter to John? How could he tell? People worried about such odd things. But Sherlock had a feeling that it would matter, and he couldn't quite bring himself to risk it.

　　The sensation was quite a novel one. There were other people he cared about, of course, he wasn't completely inhuman. His brother, he supposed, Mrs Hudson, even Mummy, although she barely remembered him anymore. But he couldn't think of anyone else for whom he would be willing to censor his own behaviour.

　　Angrily, he rolled onto his back again and determinedly switched his mind onto more important matters, at least until John woke up.

　　Sherlock was already awake; John could tell before he even opened his eyes. He could feel the waves of plotting emanating from the other side of his barricade.

　　"Good morning, Sherlock," he said immediately, as he always did. Sherlock started attacking the cushions at once, throwing them far and wide. He seemed to be aiming high today, perhaps thinking that if he got some on top of the wardrobe, John wouldn't be able to reach to get them down again.

　　When they were all gone, both men turned to face each other. John raised his hand to his friend's cheek, and Sherlock took a deep breath then opened his eyes. After a moment, he shook his head. Nothing.

　　They stayed like that for a little while, Sherlock presumably resigning himself to another day of darkness, and John just watching the play of light over his face. Eventually, Sherlock sighed and rolled onto his back, while John sat up and stretched, before twisting to put his feet on the floor.

　　"So what's the lesson plan for today?" he enquired, in a resigned tone.

　　Sherlock chuckled behind him. "Do I get an apple?" he asked.

　　When the proposal of teaching him to 'observe' had first been made, John had reacted with alarm and dismay. He had brought up Sherlock's somewhat scathing response to his last attempt in that direction, and demanded if the phrase 'you missed almost everything of importance' rang any bells.

　　Sherlock had just laughed. "No, no, John,you misunderstand me," he said. "I'm not expecting you to master my skills. Certainly Moriarty would have little to fear from your deductions," he added, somewhat unkindly, although John found being treated like an idiot strangely reassuring in this situation.

　　"But you've got eyes, haven't you,you can see?" Sherlock continued. "If you can learn to observe accurately, and pass that information on, then you can leave the deducing to me."

　　John still had reservations; many of them. He doubted his ability to provide the level of detail that Sherlock required and he was deeply concerned about the two of them going up against Moriarty with only his own observations to rely on. John had no problem leading when necessary, in situations where he was confident in his own skills, but to have Sherlock relying on him in matters of deduction felt all wrong; it was not the way they were.

　　However, seeing the detective so much himself again, alert and interested, John did not have the heart to object. He had already been worrying about Sherlock's apathy, his general disinterest in coming to terms with his situation. If Moriarty's appearance had shaken off his inertia then perhaps some good had come of it. Just so long as it was a good long while before they encountered the psychopath again, preferably at a time when John had his gun and all he needed to observe was the direction of the wind when lining up his shot.

　　One side effect of Sherlock's plan had been the resolution of the sleeping together issue. When he'd promised Sherlock he'd 'think of something', John wasn't sure what he was going to do; vague ideas of setting his alarm early flitting through his mind at the time.

　　However, the knowledge that Sherlock planned on going up against Moriarty once more, even at some distant point in the future, left John barely able to stand having him out of sight at all. Suddenly the sofa seemed a ridiculous distance from Sherlock's room, and he had followed the detective to bed that very night without a word of protest.

　　He hadn't gone empty handed, however. One night squashed together on the sofa was certainly not definitive proof that Sherlock was a cuddly sleeper, but there was no way John could risk waking up like that again.

　　Sherlock had looked bemused as the cushions started landing on his bed – John had gathered all he could find from the flat, and cleaned out Mrs Hudson's lounge to boot. The resulting haul had been impressive and now a dense row of cushions divided the bed right down the middle.

　　They had lain side by side in the dark that first night, both flat on their backs.

　　"John?" Sherlock's tone was enquiring, and he turned his head to the right, towards his friend.

　　"What?"

　　"Why has my bed turned into a soft furnishings emporium?"

　　"You want me to be here,yes?" John responded, still staring straight up at the ceiling, even though it was so dark he could barely make it out.

　　"Yes, most definitely." Sherlock's reply was immediate.

　　"Then the cushions stay." John was adamant. "As long as I am asleep, or trying to sleep, in this bed, with you in it, then the cushions stay put. There will be no moving, dislodging, rearranging or otherwise disturbing of the cushions. Are we clear?"

　　"But why, John?"

　　"Why?" John was getting fed up with Sherlock's lack of empathy. "Why?" His voice was rising. "I'm pretty sure you were there when we were talking about my feelings for you. What if I molest you in my sleep?"

　　Sherlock huffed slightly. It was an odd sound, but without being able to see his expression, John took it as amusement.

　　"You can laugh now," he said, grumpily. "You won't find it so funny when you wake up in the middle of the night to find me humping your leg."

　　There was a slightly shocked gasp from Sherlock's side of the bed, which John found quite mollifying. That should shut him up.

　　"John?"

　　He should have known better. Nothing silenced the detective for long if he had questions to ask.

　　"What now?"

　　"What if I didn't mind?"

　　John sighed. Sometimes dealing with Sherlock was like dealing with a child, he didn't understand anything at all. "It's not a question of minding," he said, realising that waiting for empathy from Sherlock was entirely pointless.

　　"Sherlock, please just go to sleep. I'm here. I'll be here in the morning. Please don't make this any more difficult than it has to be."

　　There was silence for a while, and John briefly hoped that Sherlock had actually paid attention to his words.

　　"What if it didn't have to be difficult?" the voice was lower pitched, as if he didn't want to disturb John if he'd already nodded off.

　　Even though he knew the lack of light was irrelevant to Sherlock at the moment, John still found it easier to talk into the darkness. It was more intimate, safer somehow to say what he really felt, without feeling embarrassed or shy about it.

　　"It's difficult because I want you and you don't want me," he established, matching his friend's low tone. "At least, not in the same way," he added. "I know that it's not personal, I know that you don't want anybody. But please, this is hard enough for me. No more wandering around in towels, Sherlock. It's not funny, it's just cruel."

　　"But what if I did want you?" asked Sherlock, quietly, after a minute or two.

　　"I'm afraid that ship has sailed," said John, sadly. "Please, Sherlock. I'm doing my best. I can't..." he paused, collecting himself. "I'm here. I will stay with you because I... because you need me and there's nowhere else I want to be. But if you care about me at all; please, just go to sleep." John turned onto his side, his back to his friend. Conversation over.

　　Sherlock had made several more attempts since that night to convince John that he was open to a relationship, but John wasn't buying it. As far as he was concerned, Sherlock had made his position perfectly clear, and John was not about to take advantage of any gratitude or dependency he might be feeling.

　　At least his 'education' had given them something else to focus on.

　　Sherlock had started him off with memory games, pointing out that while it had always been his custom to make deductions as he went along, John may need to retain information for longer in order to pass his observations on, so he needed to maximise his visual memory. It had reminded John of watching 'The Generation Game' with his Mum when he was young. He was confident he'd win a lot more than the cuddly toy after a few sessions with Sherlock.

　　Next, they had dug out some old case files and John had tried to describe crime scene photos sufficiently well that Sherlock could identify which case they were from and then prompt John to look for whatever details had been key to his deductions at the time. This worked well for the interesting cases, which he remembered with startling clarity, but was a dismal failure for anything Sherlock had deemed dull at the time, as he had since deleted it.

　　On the agenda for today, it would seem, was a field trip. Out and about around London for the day, for observing and describing practice. About time too, thought John, who didn't like to be cooped up indoors for too long.

　　By unspoken agreement, they turned away from the park and headed into town, where they spent the day wandering around, often stopping for coffees and people watching. To his pleased surprise, John found that he was much more naturally observant when it came to real people than he had been with photographs, a fact which Sherlock attributed to his training as a doctor, which had given him the habit of studying the whole person, in order to make an accurate diagnosis.

　　Sherlock would often make him go up and ask people what they did for a living, or where they had been on holiday, to check how accurate they were being as a team and they certainly improved over the course of the day, although some deductions were still way off the mark, which didn't seem to bother Sherlock as it normally would, presumably because he blamed any mistakes on his partner.

　　It occurred to John that they looked very much like a couple as they strolled around, whispering in each others ears, often laughing at some of the wilder misses, Sherlock's arm through John's as he guided him. John liked that feeling, that people would assume they were lovers. It made him a little wistful, but he shook it off, just enjoying the warm glow it gave him to be out with this man, who had so quickly become the centre of his world.

　　Eventually, they headed back home, Sherlock still doling out advice along the way.

　　"Don't ever just tell me someone has a tan," he instructed. "Always look at wrists and necklines to determine how the tan was acquired – business related will have tan lines, pleasure will not. Look at how dark the tan is compared to what you can tell of their natural colouring."

　　They stopped to pick up a takeaway, then carried on down Baker Street, and Sherlock was still going.

　　"Observing isn't just about what you see – it's about not making assumptions about what you don't see... It's the difference between saying 'Miss Jones washed her hair' and saying 'Miss Jones went out of the room and came back in with a towel round her head'. Do you see, John?"

　　"I see our flat," replied John. "And I see our dinner." He opened the front door, then followed Sherlock up the stairs. Following Sherlock up stairs was one guilty pleasure he did allow himself. It was best on warmer days, when Sherlock sometimes took his coat off first. Today, all the exertion had clearly raised his temperature sufficiently. John walked into the kitchen with a smile on his face.

　　After they had finished eating, Sherlock sat in his chair pondering again how to persuade John that his thoughtless words from the week before had been just that: thoughtless, i.e. without thought, and not his considered opinion at all. Anyway, even if he had meant them a week ago, he certainly didn't mean them now. Weren't people supposed to have the right to change their minds? Or was that just women?

　　He had been very pleased with John's progress today. There had been a couple more points he had been going to make, but John had probably had enough for now. Anyway, there was no point talking to him when they were coming up the stairs, as he knew from previous experience that John wouldn't take in a word that was said to him. Sherlock had been careful to remove his coat first, in order to encourage John's thoughts in the right direction.

　　He could hear the clattering in the kitchen settling down as John finished putting everything away, then he moved past Sherlock, heading towards the bedroom, making some mention of tidying up. Sherlock knew what he meant. He was going to re-install the cushion blockade. Suddenly it seemed imperative to stop him and the detective turned his head. "John!"

　　Something in his voice must have caught his friend's attention, because John halted immediately and returned to Sherlock's side, dropping a hand onto his shoulder.

　　"What is it, Sherlock?" he asked, his tone gentle and sounding worried.

　　Sherlock threw his left arm around John's waist and pulled him close, leaning his head against the smaller man's abdomen.

　　John grunted in surprise and put both hands on Sherlock's shoulders, trying to push him away, without being too forceful.

　　"Sherlock, we talked about this," he reminded, referencing several conversations instigated by the detective's behaviour over the preceding week. "No inappropriate clothing choices, no suddenly deciding to brush your teeth when I'm in the shower, no unprovoked dropping of towels, and no grabbing, other than in exceptional circumstances."

　　Sherlock just held him tighter. Somehow, it seemed very important to get through to John this time. He decided to try a slightly different approach.

　　"John, do you remember insisting that I practice my remaining senses?"

　　John seemed to relax a little, presumably relieved not to be facing a re-hash of the argument they'd been having all week. He twisted in Sherlock's grasp and perched on the arm of the chair, resting his arm on the back of the seat for balance.

　　"Yes, of course," he replied. "How could anyone forget rice pudding on toast?"

　　"Well, I need your help with one of them," Sherlock continued, ignoring the reference to what he still viewed as a personal failure.

　　"My sense of smell is excellent, as you know, and I have no problems with taste or with hearing." From his position leaning against John's side, he could feel his friend becoming tense, but he persevered.

　　"I've never really been touched, John," he said. "Nor have I explored the sense of touch with anyone else." He shrugged his shoulders. "To be honest, most of the people I come into physical contact with are already dead."

　　There was silence. Sherlock wished for the thousandth time that he could see, if only for a moment. Just a snapshot of John's expression would be enough to tell him everything he wanted to know. "John?" he prompted.

　　John cleared his throat. "Sherlock, are you telling me ..." he seemed lost for words. "Do you mean you're a ..." Obviously, an entire sentence was beyond him.

　　"I told you that physical relationships have never held any appeal for me," pointed out Sherlock. "Until now," he added, on the off-chance that John was still taking in information.

　　"Yes, well, I realise that the whole area holds no interest for you, obviously," John returned. "After all,you made that pretty clear." He paused for a moment, apparently completely shocked. "But I assumed that you would have at least experimented. I can't imagine a man like you being happy to have an area of ignorance. And how else would you know you didn't like it?"

　　His arm had slipped off the back of the chair and was now resting across Sherlock's shoulders.

　　"Perhaps at university?" he suggested, clearly unsure whether to actually believe that a human being could make it to Sherlock's age without experiencing any sexual curiosity at all.

　　His friend shuddered. "You met Sebastian," he pointed out. "The rest of them were just as bad. They barely tolerated me and I certainly had no desire to get involved with any of them."

　　He twisted a little in his chair, his hand sliding from around John's waist to rest on his hip, and raised his head. They might not be much use at the moment, but he knew John found his eyes attractive.

　　"John, until recently I have honestly never even considered the possibility of becoming physically intimate with anyone." He felt a slight shiver run through John's body at his words, which he took as a good sign.

　　"What I told you last week was inaccurate but based on truth," Sherlock continued, his hand now squeezing John's hip slightly, fingers rubbing in a circular motion.

　　"We do have a connection and you are different to other people; at least, to me you are. Looking back, I think I was aware of this some months ago, long before any of this happened." He waved his hand vaguely in the direction of his head. "I just never gave it any consideration, there was always some case or another, it never really occurred to me."

　　He paused, thinking. "But there were moments, weren't there? Moments when we would look at each other and there was something... I just never recognised what it was."

　　John was silent at first, then his hand slid up to Sherlock's neck. "There were moments for me," he replied, his voice quiet and sounding dazed.

　　For the first time, Sherlock got the impression that John was wavering. He chose his words carefully.

　　"There is time for us now, John," he said, softly. "No cases, no distractions. Nothing but the two of us." His voice was low and hypnotic.

　　John was completely still. Desperate to see him, Sherlock raised his right hand and placed it over his friend's heart. It was racing.

　　"So," John said, eventually, his voice not completely steady. "Try it then? You're sure?"

　　Sherlock nodded, and started to lean forward in his chair, raising his head in anticipation. He was stopped by John's hand on his chest.

　　"Oh, no," he said. "I'm not kissing you."

　　Sherlock raised his eyebrows in surprise and, if he was honest with himself, disappointment. Didn't these things normally start with kissing?

　　"A kiss is far too intimate," John told him. "I'm not kissing you until you're absolutely positive that you want me to."

　　He stood up and took Sherlock's hand. "You sayyou've always avoided physical contact," he observed, "so let's start with something simple."

　　He tugged, until Sherlock rose to his feet. "We'll see how you like being touched," he said, leading his friend towards the bedroom. "What do you think about a massage?"