Love is Heaven (But it Can Hurt Like Hell)

Love is Heaven

It was all very simple, how it started.

Sherlock's experiment had exploded, leaving the kitchen a disaster zone. Tiles were chipped; there were craters in the walls. The whole room reeked of chemicals. John's laptop, having been on the kitchen table, was now a mass of wires and glass. Sherlock's laptop was still in the sitting room, resting on his armchair.

Sherlock knew John would be able to tell something was definitely wrong as soon as he stepped foot indoors.

The two men stood staring at the kitchen for a few moments. John was assessing the damage, every nick in the wall or chip in the table adding fuel to his anger. Sherlock was still, guilt eating away at him. He glanced at John, trying to read his expression, but John just stared forward, his jaw clenching.

John had had a terrible day at the clinic. He'd been thrown up on more than once, given too much paperwork, and gotten into an argument with one of the other doctors again. One of his patients had died. He'd received the news that morning. All John had wanted to do was come home, eat dinner, and relax. The detective read all this in a second, but kept staring until John turned to him, his eyes on fire.

Sherlock swallowed.

"What the bloody hell did you do?" John asked calmly.

"I didn't mean to."

"I should hope not."

"The experiment went wrong; one of the chemicals was marked incorrectly."

"You couldn't have at least used your own sodding computer."

"John-"

"I don't want to hear it."

"John, this is-"

"I don't want to hear it!"

Sherlock swallowed down the panic that threatened to rip its way out of his throat.

"What the hell is your problem?" he yelled. "You can't just do whatever pleases you without thinking of the consequences!"

John looked at the decimated kitchen whilst Sherlock kept his eyes on the floor.

"Look at this, Sherlock! What were you thinking?"

"I didn't think it would explode," he protested.

"How are we supposed to pay for this damage?" John demanded. He flung his arm out to the side angrily.

Sherlock flinched. He knew he shouldn't have, and he knew he didn't need to, but he did anyway. He'd jerked back and threw his hands in front of his face.

Sherlock knew John would never harm him. He also knew that in the unlikely event of John ever trying, Sherlock would be able to break him just as easily as he'd broken Victor. But he didn't know if he would have the courage to hurt John.

So Sherlock lowered his arms and stood tall, staring into John's eyes defiantly.

Go on. Figure it out, doctor.

John's eyes flicked from Sherlock's arms to his eyes to his ribcage, where he'd told John he'd been stabbed by a drug dealer in his early twenties. It wasn't entirely a lie, but John hadn't known that.

John closed his eyes and clenched his fists. Sherlock's eyes widened. John wouldn't hurt him. John wouldn't hurt him.

John wouldn't hurt me.

Sherlock sighed in relief as John crushed him to his chest.  He wrapped his arms around John's shoulders and buried his nose in John's neck. The shorter man traced designs on Sherlock's back with his fingertip, humming gently in his ear.

"I'm sorry," John apologized. "I'm so sorry."

"I love you, John."

"I love you, too."

Sherlock was squeezed tighter before being carefully nudged away. He kept his gaze away from John's, knowing what he would see. Sherlock hated pity.

"Sherlock, look at me, please," John asked softly, cupping the taller man's face. He ran his thumb back and forth on the sharp cheekbone and tilted his head upwards.

Sherlock nodded, his eyes finding John's easily. He had expected an abundance of sympathy, but the only thing there was warmth. Compassion. It curled Sherlock's toes. Not for the first time, Sherlock marveled at what John could do to him.

"I wouldn't hurt you. I wouldn't ever hurt you, love. Please, believe me."

"I know," Sherlock replied. "I know. It was instinct. I'm sorry-"

"Don't apologize," John interrupted. "Unless it's about the state of that kitchen. But not for that."

Sherlock barked out a laugh and pulled John closer to him.

"I'm so glad you're mine."

"I know."

Perhaps one day Sherlock would tell John about Victor. Perhaps he would explain that the stab wound on his rib cage was actually from a broken beer bottle. He would admit that that was the night he'd decided to leave. He'd only learned hand-to-hand combat so he could fight back, so he could escape.

He would say that Victor was his first and his only relationship before John came along, and that he'd thought Victor ruined him for good. He would thank John for making him realize his mistake, for making him realize what true love was.

Love wasn't a being woken up in the early hours of the morning for a drunken shag you weren't even sure you wanted. It wasn't every kiss being punctuated by a pinch or a swat on the arse.

Love was having tea at four in the afternoon, looking over, and smiling because the other person was there with you. It was kissing the other's temple before you got out of bed, letting them sleep in because you knew they had a long night. It was looking at all the scars and bruises and only seeing beauty.

Perhaps one day Sherlock would tell John about Victor, but for now he was content to be in John's arms.