Sherlock & John (A Teenlock Fanfiction)

Chapter Forty Eight - Temporary Euphoria

John

He had never looked at Sherlock this early in the morning, when the sun was still under the horizon, and the wind was still whispering, and the rain was still quiet and soft against the windows.

The sheets smelled like books, and heat, and John couldn't even figure why he was so damned lucky, or why he hadn't taken Sherlock away sooner. They could be so happy here. They could breathe. And John could help him love, help him feel, teach him how to trust again, which was really all John wanted in the first place.

His lips parted when John kissed the softness of his neck, and his eyes fluttered for only half a moment before he fell back into a soft, gentle sleep.

He couldn't help but wonder how many people had seen him fallen apart like this, open and young and features kind and forgiving. Not many, probably, and John felt rather selfish when he realized that he was special. He also felt sad - sad that Sherlock's father had seen him like this, too. Whatever he did, whatever Siger had done, it hurt Sherlock, and John could hardly think about the things that made Sherlock hurt.

He hadn't heard Sherlock cry since the day on the phone. The day John said he loved him for the first time. He still hadn't cried, not this entire trip, and John knew that wasn't good. Sherlock was volatile and much more delicate than he made himself out to be, and John knew that.

John was also frightened. Frightened he would never see Sherlock cry again. Because Sherlock didn't feel anymore. He had barred emotions. He said he didn't have the capacity. The breathing space. The amount of heart for it.

Sherlock stirred in John's arms, and for the first time, John recalled that he didn't remember how he got into Sherlock's bed... he could have sworn he was on the couch before. Maybe he'd sleepwalked his way in. Maybe, even his subconscious was irrevocably in love with Sherlock.

That sounded like a bad thing - even the depths of John's mind couldn't escape him. He was everything... and John didn't regret that a bit.

Sherlock

He woke to John, still and smiling, dreaming about something that made him happy. It was beautiful surprise to find his head on John's chest as it rose and fell, but it also ached. Sherlock hadn't the faintest idea why; they were away. Baskerville was gone. It still hadn't sunk in.

That they were safe. That they were alone, and still breathing... That Sherlock was still alive. He didn't even remember what Siger had done, it happened so fast, but what Sherlock did remember were the screams. He felt like he was still there. Still on the edge of dying.

Sherlock slowly rolled out of bed carefully, trying not to wake John. It was six in the morning, and the sun had finally decided to show itself, rising over top the buildings. The sky was still a light shade of purple pink - the kind that made you think all was right with the world.

Sherlock observed the living space while he tiptoed around, touching the furniture, taking in the smells. There was different wallpaper on every side, the most prominent one being print of a black vine going through a beige background. It smelled like tea (black, no sugar), minty and clean. The ground was carpeted from wall to wall, squishy and warm under Sherlock's aching toes. (Sherlock had slept in his dress shoes, and thus, his feet hurt; it must have been strange for the landlady to see that.)

There was a basket of freshly made cookies on the coffee table next to the leather couch. The note attached stated, "Hope you lads like the apartment. I'll lower the rent this one month, just to help you get started. Fill out the paperwork, and it's yours! Love, Mrs. Hudson." Then, lower, "P.S. Do you need a second bedroom?"