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[logicals]

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Continued from here.

<sub>[ Thirty-six minutes later, and the distinct sound of someone jimmying the key into the lock, followed by the tell-tell footfalls of Sherlock Holmes shuffling through the hallway make themselves known, echoing throughout the quiet flat. He shrugs his coat off and slides it onto the bannister, then he pulls his gloves off and deftly stashes them inside an inside pocket of said coat before he warily begins his ascent on the stairs, automatically kicking his shoes off once he reaches the landing.

He's not sure what to expect, but he braces for the worst, for the inevitable disappointment. There's a quiet searching to Sherlock's gaze as he sweeps over the lounge, carefully calculated even when he's higher than he's been in years.

The ability to function under duress has always stayed with him. When he's high, it's honestly difficult to tell - except John quite obviously knows something's up, so his ability to feign ignorance is hardly going to help him now. Hovering in the doorway is hardly his normal behaviour so he forces himself over the threshold and heads straight for the kitchen, largely ignoring his friend in favour of busying himself needlessly with various different Petri dishes lining the kitchen table. ]</sub>

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[never_bored]

[ The reorientation of certain senses in John's general sphere of awareness comes along with several unsettling observations clicking into place, one after the other. His heart is still hammering loudly in his chest, and it's not at all helped by the light touch of fingers along his side, just above his hip. When did Sherlock even manage to tug his shirt out of his trousers? Probably around the same time as when he slid a thigh up even closer, so close to certain things that John is feeling essentially trapped against the wall, even if there is a certain sort of space between them now.

Trapped. That feels like an especially appropriate word for it. He doesn't doubt for a moment that he could physically push his way out of his at any point, Sherlock wouldn't even try fight him. Sherlock wouldn't have him pinned up against this wall in the first place if he hadn't invited him to do so. What, exactly, possessed him to do such a thing, John isn't sure. He has the distinct impression that something just broke, and he doesn't know yet whether that's a good or a bad thing, in the long run. He's having a difficult enough time with the present situation without trying to peer into the possibilities of the future.

Said present situation has spelled out one thing all too clearly. He is far more attracted to Sherlock than he has ever been willing to admit, even privately to himself, and he doesn't have a single excuse for it. Well, he could probably come up with a few if he tried, but there's no point. that cat is out of the bag, and there's no putting it back in. That realization alone merits some thought, but there's no time to let it settle in the wake of Sherlock's reply to his question.

It's... far more than John was expecting. Far more than he was ready to hear. He almost laughs, just in sheer, weak, near disbelief at just how surreal his life has gotten over the past few minutes, but he resists it with steely resolve. There's an openness to the way Sherlock speaks, to what he's saying, that's almost painfully vulnerable, and that sobers even that brief thought of humour. Instead he stares steadily back up at Sherlock, his hands slowly flattening out on that chest. The fabric is released, but those warm hands stay, firm and steady.

Even when the entire world feels like it's crashing down around his ears, he can focus on this, because this, Sherlock has become a constant. Ever since he abruptly and irrevocably dropped into John's life, like a brilliant, frustrating, and endlessly fascinating storm. Standing here like this, with him, John feels as if he's very much in the eye of that storm, in an oasis of calm where the wind howls just outside. One step too far, one way or the other, seems like it could pitch him back into the worst of it, and they'd both suffer for it. Or continue to suffer, rather, because haven't they both been, lately?

Of course he's committed. They both are, aren't they? They can't just go back to living the way they did before they met. John never intended to, but Mary...

Mary.

That wound is still raw. So many lies, so many questions unanswered. John still can't speak to her, really. He can barely look at her without hurt and anger clawing away at his thoughts and clouding his judgement, and it's horrible. Every time he comes home to the flat, he almost expects her to be gone. Every time she's still there, and they continue their awkward, mostly silent coexistence. Miserable doesn't really begin to describe it. He just doesn't know what to do.

He had hoped, beyond all reason, that there would be room for Mary in this, somehow. For a while, it had seemed like there was, that maybe things would fall into a routine again. Then she shattered all of that with one well-placed bullet.

John takes a deep breath and pushes thoughts of Mary to the side for now. Right now this is about him and Sherlock, and he wants- no, needs to listen. Especially if Sherlock is willing to actually talk, which he does seem to be. This kind of thing just doesn't happen.

Like those hands on Sherlock's chest, John's voice is calm and steady, his expression a bit shocked, yes, but something about it speaks of an intense desire to hold onto this moment of honesty for as long as they can stand to. ]

I... didn't think that you were at all interested in- [ He clears his throat slightly, very keenly aware of the compromising position they're still in. ] you know, anything like this. I never thought that you might have been, but you were abstaining from such things because of me. Have you been, really?

[ If Sherlock really does feel so committed that he's this embarrassed to admit it, then it would follow. ]