Certainties

weeesi:

It’s a chilly Monday night in January when John knows.

Not knows, but knows.

Clear as crystal.

They’ve just returned to the flat after a dinner out at Angelo’s (two green salads; a bread basket with dipping oil; Sherlock: pesto gnocchi; John: prawn linguine; a bottle of the second-best dry red Angelo could scrounge up; five bites each of tiramisu plus one extra Sherlock sneaks whilst John is in the gents; and one peppermint that John tucks into the pocket of his cheek as they wait for a cab.)

Back in the sitting room of 221b, Sherlock wings out of his great coat and heaps it over the shambles of what looks like the frayed end of a laptop charger and a laptop curiously missing its screen. John pretends not to notice the cover-up as he digs through the cupboards for the now mostly-empty bottle of Ardbeg Uigeadail that Sherlock had lowered nonchalantly into their mostly-full trolley during a recent spending spree at Waitrose. (Thanks to a client’s generous tip, John had also splurged on not one but two rather posh candles for bathtime. Sherlock, bless his heart, had said nothing and tossed in a packet of Twirl Bites for good measure).

“Want a little?” John gestures with an empty glass.

“A finger.” Sherlock hums, prodding the early burst of flames beneath his hands. A comforting pop shoots sparks up into the dark cool air of the chimney. “Actually give me two fingers.”

John refuses to acknowledge the way the tips of his ears heat.

He pours their shares, spins the cap tightly back on the bottle, and leaves it be on the worktop. Coming over and holding a glass out to Sherlock, he plops down in his chair. “Been thinking more about that cold case.” He lets out a low groan as he readjusts the Union Jack pillow at the small of his back. “It could be argyria.”

“Argyria.” Sherlock’s fingers curl around his glass. He cocks an eyebrow in the way only Sherlock can cock an eyebrow.

“Why not?” John leans forward slightly. “A condition where skin turns an abnormal shade of grey-blue due to prolonged contact with silver salts. Victim worked in manufacturing, something with solar energy stuff.”

“Silver’s used in the photovoltaic conductive ink–”

“–which he produced, didn’t he?”

They stare at each other for a moment. A curve of a smile teases the corner of Sherlock’s mouth. “Well done, John.”

“I’m certain that’s what it is.” John moves to set his glass down on the small table next to his chair. The fire crackles pleasantly at his feet. Sherlock’s eyes crinkle as he lets the smile blossom fully into his features, a slight flush from the warmth of the room colouring high on his cheekbones.

God, you’re beautiful, John thinks.

“I’ll phone Lestrade tomorrow,” Sherlock nods. Crosses then uncrosses his ankles.

“Not now?”

“No, I’m…rather certain.” Sherlock means to glance at the fireplace, John thinks, but he doesn’t, he doesn’t look anywhere but at John’s face. Then his gaze instead flickers to John’s mouth before circling back up.

“I’m quite certain too.” John says a hint too loudly as his grin drops fondness into the well-worn lines round his eyes.

He feels alive. Purely, unabashedly happy and alive.

“You’ve mentioned.” Sherlock lets his knees bounce apart as he eases his bum down further in his chair. A floppy curl breaks free from its twin to grace his forehead as he ducks his chin down to his chest, the whisky rolling amber and loose in the glass still in his hand.

“Have I done?” John nearly whispers. He feels magnetised, unable to look away.

God, you’re incredibly beautiful, he thinks again.

“Yes.” Sherlock’s voice is a low rumble. He winks.

We’re…flirting. And I think he knows.

I know too.

John doesn’t feel afraid.

“There’s a few other things I’m certain of.” The fire snaps a punctuation of sparks in-between his words. “For example,” he feels his tongue dip out between his lips, wetting them, which catches Sherlock’s gaze again, “I’m certain that Angelo brought out that bottle because you asked him to.”

Sherlock nods again, conceding silently, as his eyes flick back up to John’s.

“I’m certain that you already researched the argyria diagnosis and told Lestrade about it.”

Sherlock starts to shake his head, but stops when John raises both eyebrows. Gracefully he shifts into a gentle nod and lets his legs drift even further apart.

John swallows.

“I’m certain that tonight at dinner… It was nice. I liked it, being there with you.” John says. “In a way I didn’t want it to end.”

“I did.” Sherlock never fails to surprise in the least surprising ways.

The thing is, John knows better now. “You did?”

“Oh I’m certain.” A soft smile. “I like this quite a bit more than eating pesto gnocchi in public.”

“Hmm.” John expects for his heart to burst out through his ribs, or for his palms to be sweating, or for his breath to be high and tight and shaky but he feels none of those things, none at all. “Come to think of it, I guess I did too.”

Sherlock asks him the question he’s been waiting for. “Why?”

The moment is perfectly ordinary in the most extraordinary way. Sat in their chairs, fire burning, together, at home.

“Because I was certain of another thing.” John feels a long awaited dawning deep in his core. “I was certain that I wanted to come back here and ask if I could kiss you.”

He waits, searching Sherlock’s face.

It’s the best first kiss John’s ever had.

**

The two glasses of whisky sit, all but forgotten, until John tips them down the sink four days later with a pair of cupid bow lips pressed against the back of his neck, soft and warm just along the edge of his hairline.