Roots (Part Three)

"Where are we headed?" John craned his neck to get a better look out of the window. "What are we doing?"

"We," Sherlock thrummed, fingers flying on his keypad, "are frolicking."

A frown creased John's forehead. "Hmm?"

"We're going back," Sherlock said, frustratingly cryptic. "Quite a long way."

"Is this a childhood throwback I don't know about?" John asked, suddenly antsy. "Because if you've scheduled a cheery reunion with Della Harbret, I'm jumping out this taxi right now."

Sherlock's eyes widened in panicked sympathy. "Not that far back."

John caught Sherlock's eye and tilted his head away as he laughed.

"She was a right pain," John said sincerely. "Do you remember-"

"-how she'd snort louder than a tuba when we hung out? Course." Sherlock shuddered at the onslaught of memories. "Poor girl. Truly believed you and I were a match made in heaven." He chuckled, although if John had listened well, he'd have heard the discomfort in the low baritone.

"She was pitiable," John agreed, not meeting Sherlock's eyes as he examined the outside world, which used to terrify him before he joined the army.

Looking into the eyes of Sherlock Holmes made that fear shrivel up and die like a wilting leaf.

The awkwardness in the taxi so was so strong that the cabbie probably felt it and got them to their destination in record time. John's eyes scanned their location, his jaw forgotten as it began to drop.

"Sherlock, that's the London Eye."

"Yes, John, brilliant. Good to see evidence of your fully functional brain."

"Isn't that where-"

"-your mother wouldn't let us go for your birthday because we had to take Harriet if we went and she was too scared? Yes." Sherlock had climbed out of the cab, walking briskly towards the huge wheel in the middle of London.

"So, what are we doi-" John's steps halted as he started to follow the Sherlock, who turned around with that glint in his eyes. The look that made John brave or foolish enough to do anything.

"Seriously?"

"I mean, it is your birthday."

John didn't know what to do with his facial features, so he looked mildly paralyzed for a second or two.

He almost laughed, until he was pinned by Sherlock's eyes, hovering six feet above the ground.

"You're in-" credible, "-sane. You're absolutely insane."

"Tell me something I don't know," Sherlock grinned, falling into step with his best friend.

"Can't, really." John shot him a lopsided smile, trying to hide the way his insides squirmed when their hands brushed.

"Shame," said Sherlock, pulling out tickets. "Here we are. One for you-" he exaggerated the motion of handing John a ticket, "-and one for me."

"You know this thing is slower than my grandmother's brain and mainly for observational purposes?"

"But there's so much to observe, John, don't be derogatory to our city," Sherlock feigned heartbreak.

"Shut up, you loon," John said, stepping past Sherlock and into the little compartment. "Get in."

~

The wheel was probably halfway to the top, moving excruciatingly slow. You could see the bustling city, and a smoky gray horizon, and the cars on the other side of the universe, and Sherlock still refused to sit down.

"So," said the detective, hands clasped behind his back with a faraway look in his eyes.

"So." John honestly didn't know what else to say. Oh, I haven't seen you in nine years and you're still gorgeous.

John's train of thought came to a screeching halt.

What?

"You were in the war." Sherlock turned to John.

"You're in the papers," John shrugged, chucking his thoughts in a mental trash can.

"You survived." Sherlock's usually stone cold tone gave way to something stronger, something older, something deeper in the ground. The emotion curled around John, sending shivers scuttling down his spine, though he couldn't explain why for the life of him.

"Yeah, barely." John clenched his jaw as he rolled his shoulder subconsciously.

"Mm." Sherlock seemed very skittish all of a sudden, like he had half a mind to throw himself out of the car.

"Always wanted to see what all the fuss was about, people make a huge deal about this ride," John turned and pressed a palm to the glass behind him, gazing at London. He was actually shocked at how high up they were, though he had to admit the view was pretty spectacular.

"I know," came Sherlock's voice, almost from right above him.

John turned around to see Sherlock standing right in front of him, breathing visibly. "You alright? Need to sit down?"

"Might be a little better if you stand up." Sherlock scratched his forehead spasmodically with the nail of his thumb as John stood up, unsure of where Sherlock was going with this.

"What's..." John searched for the words in Sherlock's eyes, finding only traces of fear, confusion, and...something harder to distinguish, more flammable. "...on your mind?"

The detective looked at him, really looked at him, probably discerning everything about him. Sherlock seemed to be asking a million questions with his technicolor eyes, asking whether John's concern was legitimate, whether he could trust John with the answer, whether John could take the force of his answer.

And then the determination flooded Sherlock's unsure eyes, it flooded his hands to make them stop shaking, it flooded his lungs and the words popped out like bread out of a toaster.

"You have been," Sherlock breathed, his mind desperately searching for purchase, as John's pupils quivered, his own fingertips beginning to pulse with his thundering heartbeat. "You've been on my mind..." Sherlock shifted restlessly, his fingers hovering by John's sides, "...for nine...years."

The look in Sherlock's eyes was so intense John thought he could be blown apart and sewn back together just by looking at them. He began to think of himself as ashes, the result of staring into aquamarine flames too hard for too long.

But he had craved that burn all his life.

He had wanted to point out how irresistible Sherlock had looked the first time he wore a suit and grab him by his lapels and pin him against his bedroom wall. He had restrained himself endlessly on afternoons spent laying on the grass, forcing himself not to roll over and capture those wild curls with his own fingers. He had wanted to kiss away every tear Sherlock ever shed for his beautiful dog, because every sob that racked Sherlock's body tore through John like a cardiac earthquake.

Every revelation seemed to slap John in the face, harder and harder each time. He had lived halfway across the street, travelled halfway across the globe, died halfway and come back, and here he was, facing a chance like a full, bright moon staring him in the face.

John's breaths rattled out shakily, he felt like he had been set aflame on the inside, but his war-weathered fingers were perfectly steady as they stretched upwards. Past Sherlock's brilliant coat, his scarf, his oh so magnificently sculpted lips that made him look like a god. Past his cheekbones that were every bit as sharp as he was, past his eyes that resembled glittering chandeliers and cascading velvety secrets and never ending hallways.

Sherlock didn't move a single muscle all the while, his lips parted in a paralyzed breath that forgot its way into his lungs. His eyes were helplessly hooked onto the man in front of him, who looked every bit as exhilarated as he felt.

Tender, firm fingers wound their way into chocolate curls, palms pressing against Sherlock head softly. An quiet exhale escaped both of them, a fraction of a smile curling the side of John's lips.

"I've always wanted to do that," he whispered, marvelling at the feeling of Sherlock's hair sifting through the gaps in his fingers. A smile worked its way into the confusion on Sherlock's face as his hands came to rest around John's waist, and he pulled John closer, closer; he could taste the breaths John let slip through his lips.

And Sherlock could not wait a second longer.

Perfect lips pressed up against John's own, two noses fitting together perfectly as arms wound themselves into tight coils. One of John's hands was in Sherlock's hair, the other rested on his collarbone, and it was a fireworks display in his head, and it was absolutely divine.

"I thought you'd forget me," Sherlock whispered as they caught their breath, foreheads touching.

"How could I?" John caressed Sherlock's earlobe with his thumb as he spoke.

"I don't know, friends fly away and find new trees to nest in. You're a bird, John, use your imagination."

"No," John smiled, kissing Sherlock again, "but this metaphor is stupid as hell."

"Rude," Sherlock mumbled into John's lips.

"You're my roots, Sherlock," John whispered into Sherlock, all gentle breaths and soft touches. "You held me down, you hold me up and I don't think I could ever let you go. It will kill me. Bullets tried and failed, but..." John laughed into Sherlock's ear, pressing all his affection for his crazy, crazy best friend into a kiss to the spot right below his ear.

"And you lecture me about metaphors," Sherlock commented, holding John close to him, hearing the calm ba-bump of his heart. He realised that this was nothing like the books, it wasn't all thundering pulses and ravenous hungry kisses. This was John, who had known Sherlock his whole life, and Sherlock was never more at peace than when he was with John. His John.

It was the same case with John, apparently.

Sherlock chuckled, the tones nesting in John's heart somewhere, causing his blood to hum contentedly.

They were each other's strength, the very core of the stuff they were made of.

Each other's roots.

And they would grow into something extraordinary.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

yo world

so

Poof that happened

:')

hope you liked it and TYSM FOR THE READS AND THE FOLLOWS

Like my wattpad life is more successful than my real life and I don't even know you guys in person

so I love you 3000

ok peace

~A.M.

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