Sherlock shook his head slightly, his frown deepening, and his eyelids fluttered closed for a moment. “Everyone leaves, John. It’s all… transit…transitory. Caring is not an advantage.” He shook his head, as though trying to jostle the slurred syllables into place. John could feel his own frown deepening as waves of sadness and affection and a hint of exasperation rolled through him. All he wanted to do was envelop his wreck of a flatmate in his arms again and hold him until he stopped trembling, until whatever was eating him on the inside and making him look so lost was banished. He settled for taking Sherlock’s pale hand and stroking a soft pattern on the back with his thumb. Sherlock’s eyes opened a fraction, flicking down to his hand before refocusing on John’s face. “You,” Sherlock whispered, the fear in his pale eyes heartbreakingly obvious. “You’re in my head, your hands, your eyes, your bloody jumpers are in my head, and—” His deep voice broke, catching on a sob. “And here,” he continued after a moment, gesturing weakly at his chest. “Like it’s going to overflow. Dam breaking, I can’t hold it. Dangerous.” He frowned at John, tears once again trickling over his lashes. “I can’t.” John had had enough of this. Shaking his head, he reached out and pulled Sherlock back into his arms, toppling against the arm of the sofa as the man’s unresisting weight gave in to him. “Sherlock,” he said firmly, brushing the wild curls out of his friend’s face, “I am not going to leave you, not unless you kick me out. And caring is actually okay. I would know, I care quite a lot about you, you know. I promise that the benefits far outweigh any disadvantages. And,” he hesitated, wondering whether this next step would be too far, but he wanted to be sure Sherlock knew what his options were. “And whatever you want, Sherlock, I want it too.” He brushed away a tear that was quivering on Sherlock’s cheek. Sherlock sighed into the touch, reaching up to snag John’s fingers. “I want you,” he said quietly. He brought John’s hand to his lips, the confession hovering in the air as Sherlock pressed a trembling kiss to the tips of his fingers. He let out a long breath, and a moment later John realized he had fallen asleep, his head nestled against John’s chest and his fingers still entwined with John’s. John let out a sigh of his own, trying not to think about what the consequences of this night would be and desperately trying not to let the flicker of hope that had stirred at Sherlock’s words grow into a flame. Drunken confessions were nothing to base any hopes on, he told himself firmly. Who knew what had been going through the man’s mind? No, John would have to just make it clear that he had no intention of leaving Sherlock and try to appease whatever was tormenting his flatmate. Now, the detective’s face was finally peaceful, the fear and confusion wiped away in drunken slumber. John felt his own eyes getting heavy, and he let them drift closed, surrendering to the darkness with his arm still wrapped around Sherlock’s shoulders.
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Sherlock shook his head slightly, his frown deepening, and his eyelids fluttered closed for a moment. “Everyone leaves, John. It’s all… transit…transitory. Caring is not an advantage.” He shook his head, as though trying to jostle the slurred syllables into place. John could feel his own frown deepening as waves of sadness and affection and a hint of exasperation rolled through him. All he wanted to do was envelop his wreck of a flatmate in his arms again and hold him until he stopped trembling, until whatever was eating him on the inside and making him look so lost was banished. He settled for taking Sherlock’s pale hand and stroking a soft pattern on the back with his thumb. Sherlock’s eyes opened a fraction, flicking down to his hand before refocusing on John’s face. “You,” Sherlock whispered, the fear in his pale eyes heartbreakingly obvious. “You’re in my head, your hands, your eyes, your bloody jumpers are in my head, and—” His deep voice broke, catching on a sob. “And here,” he continued after a moment, gesturing weakly at his chest. “Like it’s going to overflow. Dam breaking, I can’t hold it. Dangerous.” He frowned at John, tears once again trickling over his lashes. “I can’t.”
John had had enough of this. Shaking his head, he reached out and pulled Sherlock back into his arms, toppling against the arm of the sofa as the man’s unresisting weight gave in to him. “Sherlock,” he said firmly, brushing the wild curls out of his friend’s face, “I am not going to leave you, not unless you kick me out. And caring is actually okay. I would know, I care quite a lot about you, you know. I promise that the benefits far outweigh any disadvantages. And,” he hesitated, wondering whether this next step would be too far, but he wanted to be sure Sherlock knew what his options were. “And whatever you want, Sherlock, I want it too.” He brushed away a tear that was quivering on Sherlock’s cheek. Sherlock sighed into the touch, reaching up to snag John’s fingers.
“I want you,” he said quietly. He brought John’s hand to his lips, the confession hovering in the air as Sherlock pressed a trembling kiss to the tips of his fingers. He let out a long breath, and a moment later John realized he had fallen asleep, his head nestled against John’s chest and his fingers still entwined with John’s. John let out a sigh of his own, trying not to think about what the consequences of this night would be and desperately trying not to let the flicker of hope that had stirred at Sherlock’s words grow into a flame. Drunken confessions were nothing to base any hopes on, he told himself firmly. Who knew what had been going through the man’s mind? No, John would have to just make it clear that he had no intention of leaving Sherlock and try to appease whatever was tormenting his flatmate. Now, the detective’s face was finally peaceful, the fear and confusion wiped away in drunken slumber. John felt his own eyes getting heavy, and he let them drift closed, surrendering to the darkness with his arm still wrapped around Sherlock’s shoulders.