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Title: The Things You Hide
Author: verityburns
Series: Sherlock (BBC)
Pairing: WH
Category: Romance
Rating: PG-13/NC-17
Beta: The intrepid Ariane DeVere
Summary: Sherlock and John have been working and living together for nearly a year, each finding the other's friendship to be the one thing they would not risk or want to live without. Until something happens to disturb the status quo…
Author's Note
This fic is totally unrelated to any of my other Sherlock stories, and my first attempt at 'short', written for my lovely friend ledasdaughter. At the end of this chapter you have a choice between two different endings. They're both happy, but they are different scenes.
The Things You Hide (1/2)
"Bugger!"
It was the familiar baritone which stirred John from his doze, rather than the cursing. Although, as he became more alert, he recognised that to hear cursing in that particular voice was unusual in itself.
"Ow! Bollocks."
The fresh outburst brought John up from his chair and he headed for the living room door, looking down the stairs to see Sherlock sitting at the half way point, attempting to roll up one of his trouser legs.
"Are you all right?" John asked uncertainly. Sherlock's head swivelled around and he almost toppled over sideways. John rushed down the stairs to steady him. "My God, are you hurt? What happened?" He knelt on the step and started running his palms over Sherlock's ribs, checking for injury.
Sherlock huffed out a breath and the question was abruptly answered; John stiffened in shock. "You're drunk!"
"Shhh…" Sherlock stretched out a hand and laid a finger rather imprecisely over John's mouth. "Don't tell John," he instructed urgently.
John's emotions cycled through disbelief, concern, and the inclination to laugh like a hyena. The roulette wheel was still spinning on a definite decision when he forced himself into doctor mode.
"Right, we need to get you up the rest of the stairs before you fall down these ones," he said firmly. "Come on." He pulled Sherlock's arm around his shoulders and got to his feet, using the considerable strength in his legs to force Sherlock up, then practically manhandled him to the top. Briefly debating the merits of the sofa, he decided to press on instead and get Sherlock straight to his room, where he attempted to drop him down onto the bed.
The plan worked fine, except for the part where Sherlock's long fingers had threaded themselves into the loose knit of John's jumper, forcing him to follow or risk dislocating them.
"What have you..." John was left kneeling awkwardly on the edge of the bed and craned his neck to peer at his own shoulder. "I need to put the light on," he said, but Sherlock made no attempt to extricate himself.
"Fine." John shrugged his other arm out of the sleeve and pulled the jumper off over his head, leaving it in Sherlock's hands as he got up to switch on the lamp.
He turned back to the surreal sight of Sherlock Holmes sitting on the edge of his bed, peering woefully at the empty knitwear in his hands.
"What happened?" John asked. "You were going out to check out a suspect… how did you get like this?" He waved his arm to indicate the advanced level of inebriation before him.
"There was..." Sherlock abandoned the jumper, "... a bar," he finished, squinting up at John. "The subjuspect…" He stopped, frowning, as if aware that there was something wrong with that word but unable to put his finger on the problem. "Bar," he said again.
"OK, so I'm getting that there was a bar," John agreed, kneeling down and unlacing Sherlock's shoes.
Sherlock watched these proceedings with interest. "Shoes," he announced.
John pulled them off, then removed his socks too, Sherlock's toes immediately flexing into the pile of the carpet.
"Bedtime?" he asked.
"It is for you," John agreed, getting to his feet again. "So what happened at the bar? Did the suspect buy you a drink?"
"Lotsh of drinks," Sherlock nodded emphatically, nearly falling forwards with the motion. John steadied him, but didn't push him back – it would probably be easier to get his clothes off while he was sitting up.
"He tried to… tried to…" Sherlock seemed to lose the thread of his sentence, as John's hands tightened on his arms.
"He tried to what?" All trace of humour had gone from his voice.
Sherlock's eyes opened indignantly wide. "He tried to kith me!" he complained.
John stared at him, only partially distracted by the lisp. "Is that all he tried to do?" he asked, debating whether a broken nose would suffice for this stranger, whom he would be tracking down as soon as Sherlock could safely be left on his own, or whether more serious measures would be called for.
"That'sh enough," declared Sherlock firmly, as John started to ease his jacket away from his shoulders. "I told him…" he tried to raise his arms, presumably to make one of his usual expansive gestures, but found that they were pinned to his sides by the jacket. This seemed to confuse him and he struggled a bit until John finally got the jacket off, at which point Sherlock threw both arms around him. "Told him... no good," he confided, turning his face into John's neck and inhaling deeply. "No good."
"No, you don't like that sort of thing. I know, I understand," John agreed, disentangling himself and starting on the shirt buttons.
"No good if not John," Sherlock mumbled, his head lolling forwards again.
John's fingers paused in their work, certain he must have misheard, or at least misunderstood. He looked down at his hands and waited until they were steady again. Then he finished his task and tugged the shirt free, throwing it in the direction of the laundry hamper.
"Don't tell John," Sherlock insisted again. "Can't tell John. Spoil everything." His eyelids were drooping.
"Don't worry," John reassured him, reaching for the T-shirt he slept in then pulling it over his head, guiding his arms into it one at a time. "Come on, lie back. You need to get some sleep." He pushed and Sherlock lay down obediently as John picked up his legs and swung them onto the bed, wondering what on earth was going on in that sozzled head.
He sat down on the edge of the mattress and leaned forward to rest the back of one hand against Sherlock's forehead, picking up his wrist in the other and checking his pulse rate, eyes on the bedside clock as he counted.
After a few more seconds, Sherlock sighed. "John doesn't want me," he announced sadly.
John lost track of what number he had reached. Then he reminded himself that Sherlock was drunk and mentally added '... to keep body parts in the fridge' on to the end of his sentence. "I'm sure you can compromise," he replied, starting his count again.
Sherlock's expression became even more forlorn and John let go of the wrist he was holding and frowned, finding that his other hand was now smoothing over dark curly hair. He had no recollection of deciding to do that. He reached for the quilt which was folded over the footboard and spread it out, then moved to get up, but Sherlock's voice halted him.
"Stay." His eyes were wide and guileless, and John gave himself a moment just to take in the sight of Sherlock with his defences down and his thoughts streaming freely. He opened his mouth with a world of questions on his lips... but then stopped and turned his head away. He would not take advantage of his friend, however overwhelming the temptation.
Sherlock rolled onto his side, curving his body around John. "I want more," he murmured into the semi-darkness as his eyes finally closed.
