Archive of Our Own

The hum of the taxi's wheels was a tiresome harmony to the darkness of Sherlock's mood. He had spent the day at the lab tracing through the despicable idiocy of Lestrade's cold case files, proving one culprit after another with a number of simple experiments. The whole thing had been procedural – hardly a challenge. Normally, he wouldn't have bothered, but there was method to the madness of enduring such tedium.

Mycroft had been particularly persistent in his efforts to enlist Sherlock's assistance, and after the last débâcle of petty espionage he had unravelled, he was in no rush to jump to his brother's bidding. At least this way he could prove he had been busy with other priorities, and with any luck Mycroft's “situation” would either dissipate or become too critical to be palmed off into Sherlock's care.

The cab pulled up and, with a sigh, he paid the driver before exiting the vehicle and pushing his way into Baker Street. Instantly, he became aware that both John and Mrs Hudson were home. Their scents lay heavy in the air, their landlady's soft rose perfume overlying the pleasant fragrance of baking bread and a hint of her herbal soothers. John's presence was a more complex olfactory experience: antiseptic from the surgery was a given, but that was a mere treble to the foundation of tea, laundry detergent, spice, salt and something that reminded Sherlock of myrrh.

To a human, home carried a certain smell, one with which they were comfortable. To a Felisian, it was a more three-dimensional input – powerful and deeply encoded into the emotions. Sherlock's muscles relaxed the moment he walked through the door, and the tension headache at his temples began to fade. At least until he took another, deeper breath to appreciate the sensory signature of his own territory and found a note that did not belong.

Mycroft's minion, Anthea: soap, static and neutrality. She had been and gone, but her fleeting presence left a discomforting void in the kaleidoscopic atmosphere of Baker Street. Of course, his brother knew that if he could not appeal to Sherlock's weak sense of fraternity, then he could always rely on John's patriotic nature instead.

'I told Mycroft we don't have time for his bromidic problems,' he called out as he stomped up the stairs, pushing his way into 221B and shrugging out of his Belstaff. The weight of the wool fell from his grasp before he could catch it, tangling his tail in its mass, and he scowled irritably before picking the garment from the floor and throwing it over the armchair. 'Please tell me you've not fallen for whatever stupid ploy he...'

He trailed off, blinking in surprise at John, who stood in the kitchen looking guilty and more than a little bit hunted, like he'd been caught doing something he shouldn't. A quick visual interrogation of their flat didn't show anything obvious that could cause that expression, and Sherlock's eyes narrowed as his gaze fell to the small piece of paper, about the size of a postcard, sheltered in John's hand.

'That's not one of Mycroft's files,' he said, somewhat redundantly, but John's reaction to his arrival – so different from the normal warmth of friendship and affection – had thrown him off. 'What is it?'

'Nothing.' The reply was too quick, and Sherlock flattened his ears, watching John cup his palms closer to his chest like he was protecting something precious. Something he didn't want Sherlock to see.

'That's blatantly untrue. Anthea's been here, I can smell it, not just in the hall but in our flat as well. What did she give you?'

John's lips twitched, his eyes gleaming, and for one horrible moment Sherlock thought the wretched woman had actually agreed to John's vague efforts at courtship. A visceral stab of jealousy twisted his gut, and he concentrated all his efforts on letting neither the angle of his ears nor the motion of his tail give away the abrupt wave of his distress. He was over-reacting. Besides, John didn't exhibit smugness when he managed to make arrangements with a potential lover, not even with someone as elusive as Anthea. He had a tendency to do everything in his power to keep Sherlock in the dark about his romantic attachments, for fear of him gate-crashing the banal entertainments he planned for his paramours.

So, not a date. Something else. Something that made John look like that: amused and happy, now his initial surprise at Sherlock's return had faded. Pleased, but with a generous edge of wariness, like he knew Sherlock would not view whatever he held in a favourable light.

'Mycroft sent it over,' he admitted at last. 'Said he's got a box full and you should remember that the next time he asks for help.'

'Blackmail?' Sherlock asked, frowning. His brother rarely stooped to such obvious lows. Clearly his problem had been more of an annoyance than he had realised. Unfortunately, Mycroft was not lacking in suitable material. Older siblings were always well-equipped to embarrass their younger counterparts. 'What is it?'

He craned his neck, trying to get a better view, but John flattened the object to the front of his jumper, his lips pressed tight and his eyes sparkling. Normally, his joy was infectious, and most readily visible whenever he was in Sherlock's presence. However, the grimace-cum-grin, coupled with John rubbing his nape with one hand made Sherlock certain that whatever it was, he was not going to like it.

'It's not important,' John promised. 'Why don't you just forget about it? Did you solve the cases Greg gave you?'

It was a desperate effort to change the subject, and Sherlock flicked his ears in irritation. 'Of course I did; now stop trying to distract me. It won't work.'

John bit his lip, dithering for a moment before squaring his shoulders. Clearly he was attempting to stifle his apparent mirth as, inch-by-inch, he edged closer to Sherlock's side and tipped the paper for him to see.

Not a postcard, but a photograph.

He had no idea what his face was doing – twisted with mortification and horror, probably – but John was examining the picture again, and this time his smile was distinctly soft at its edges, fond as well as amused. 'As baby pictures go, it could be worse,' he said with a grin, chuckling as Sherlock's tail fluffed up in indignation.

'I'll kill Mycroft,' he hissed, reaching out to snatch the image from John's grasp and glaring when it was yanked back out of his reach. 'After I destroy that. Give it to me.'

'No!' John turned his body protectively. 'No, I'm not letting you rip this up. Come on, Sherlock, it's cute.'

'I am not cute.' He lowered his head a fraction, his tail lashing as he stalked forward, watching John back away, maintaining his distance. The amusement on John's face had taken on a hint of playful nervousness. His eyes were wide, pinned on Sherlock's expression, and his tongue darted out to moisten his lips. He was breathing through his mouth, apparently torn between the urge to stand his ground or turn and flee.

John jumped in surprise when he backed into the kitchen counter, abruptly changing his course and never presenting his back. He was too much a soldier to leave himself so vulnerable.

'Sherlock, what –' His voice cracked in his throat, but it wasn't fear that caused the strain. Uncertainty, perhaps, but the whispering allure of adrenaline that Sherlock could detect was laced with something else, deep and heady. 'What are you doing?'

'If you won't give it to me,' he growled, flexing his fingers like claws, 'then I'll just have to take it from you.'

John's pupils flared, his shoulders rounding and his thighs tensed even as Sherlock's did the same. For one small moment, they were both motionless, waiting for the other to break.

John flinched first.

Sherlock lunged, swearing as he missed John's jumper by an inch and his flatmate took off, dodging the furniture and trying to keep at least one object between them as laughter bubbled in his throat. It was a breathless mess of a chase, more in circles than straight lines as John darted around the couch and Sherlock's armchair before returning to the kitchen table, keeping it and its trove of glassware from Sherlock's experiments as an impromptu barricade.

'Too slow!' he crowed, darting away as Sherlock snatched for him again, his fingers skimming wool but failing to latch on.

With a huff, he straightened up, his arms folded over his chest and his head turned to the side, allowing every line of his body to indicate that he never intended to catch John in the first place. Behind him, he felt the sway of his tail and forced it still, trying to relax his ears into a neutral position so that they wouldn't offer hints as to his plan.

'Giving up?' John asked, sounding like he didn't believe his own deduction. Exertion and laughter flushed his cheeks, and he shifted his weight, watchful and alert.

Slanting a glance at John from beneath lowered lashes, he watched his friend take another step back, not off the defence, not yet, but that didn't matter. This might be half-fight, half-game, but Sherlock had the presence of mind to make sure that John wouldn't get hurt by his actions. It was the photograph in all its embarrassing glory that he wanted destroyed, not their friendship.

One more shuffle of retreat from John, and Sherlock dropped his guise of indifference. His pounce was completely predatory, his palms slamming into John's shoulder and pitching them both back over the arm of the sofa and onto the soft give of the cushions. John's breath left him in a whuff of air, his indignant cry of surprise turning to fresh laughter as he found himself pinned beneath Sherlock's body, his arms stretched above his head in a worthless effort to keep the photo out of Sherlock's possession.

With a quick twist, he reached up, trying to ignore the intoxicating warmth and strong lines of John's body as he finally grabbed hold of his prize and glared at his infant image.

John was right: Mycroft's choices were no doubt plentiful, and he could have chosen something more humiliating, such as a photo of him clinging to his mother with fingers and teeth because of the ever present threat of bath-time. However, this really wasn't much better.

Dark curls already twisted lovingly around the twin peaks of his ears, which looked far too big for him, and the curve of his tail, ridiculously short, was lifted behind him. Worse though was that he was young enough to be crawling still, and someone had caught him in the obvious act of play-hunting. On all fours, his gaze was focussed on something out of shot, his body half-tense and his bare backside stuck in the air as he prepared to pounce.

Such animal behaviour, though expected in infants – even human children often bit others, after all – was still humiliating to have immortalised. Sherlock silently cursed his brother as he gripped the top edge, his fingers tensed to tear it swiftly in half.

Only John's hands over his stopped him, and Sherlock adjusted his focus to take in the man currently sprawled beneath him on his back. He couldn't move far, not with Sherlock's knees either side of his hips and his weight settled firmly on John's thighs, but he'd curled upwards, his abdominal muscles straining to support his weight so he could brush Sherlock's knuckles with his fingertips.

'Don't, please?' Blond eyebrows lifted hopefully over that blue gaze, the brightness of happiness steadily falling into eclipse beneath a wave of earnest emotion.

'Why not?' Sherlock demanded, tipping his head to better read John's expression, trying to unravel the knot of feelings he could make out and failing miserably. 'What could you possibly gain from keeping it? It's served its purpose, to embarrass me and amuse you. Why are you so eager to preserve it?'

John let his hands fall away, his chest heaving in a sigh as he wrinkled his nose and attempted to explain. 'Because it's part of your life, Sherlock. Part I wasn't there for and never thought I'd get to see. It's –' He looked like he was trying, and failing, to find a suitable substitute for his next word. 'It's important, all right? Maybe not to you, but to me. Isn't that enough?'

Sherlock frowned, distinctly aware that, while John's speech may hint at manipulation, it was undoubtedly true. He had protected the photograph to the best of his abilities, and was now appealing to Sherlock's conscience not to decimate the hateful thing.

The temptation to ignore his pleas was almost overpowering, but something stayed his hand. Not the expression on John's face, nor his softly spoken words, but the strange pleasure to be found in the realisation that it was not just his adult-self – his brilliance and his deductions – which John sought to protect and document in that wretched blog of his. Even this, a moment so far removed from both of them in time and place, held value for him.

He saw Sherlock as more than a stunning mind, and that in itself was a rarity.

With a sigh, he reluctantly surrendered the photo, rolling his eyes and folding his arms when John beamed at him. 'Just so you're aware, I think you're being ridiculous,' he pointed out. 'That's little more than an echo. It's not a rendition of my current character; it's an image of the blank slate of infancy.'

'Bullshit.' John said it happily, as if he were taking delight in Sherlock's aggravation. 'The expression you have on your face in this? You get the same one when a good case comes along. For God's sake, you were wearing it when you pounced on me a few minutes ago. Maybe you just see a kid, but I see you, clear as day. That's why I don't want you to get rid of it.'

'Sentiment.' Sherlock sniffed, his pride prickling as much as his vanity as he grudgingly admitted, 'I look ridiculous.'

John's laugh was as bright as a bell, and he wriggled his legs so there was enough room for him to sit up, his knees still pinned under Sherlock and one hand splayed behind him on the unstable cushions. 'That's what this is really about, isn't it?' He shook his head, and the delight that crossed his expression when he took in the details trapped in the glossy paper's boundaries again was unmistakable. 'You look adorable, Sherlock, gigantic ears and all.' He reached up, tweaking one of the appendages in question. 'You grew into them pretty well in the end.'

Pursing his lips, Sherlock allowed his shoulders to slump in defeat. 'If you show it to anyone else – Lestrade, Stamford, anyone – I'll burn it,' he warned, trying not to fidget at the unexpected gratitude on John's face.

'So I can keep it?' he asked, wary, as if he thought Sherlock were playing some kind of trick and would snatch it away as soon as he let his guard down.

'If you must.'

John's fingers, still hovering near the summit of Sherlock's ear, stroked down the sleek fur and into the twist of hair at their base, a bold, unapologetic caress that made Sherlock's nerves sing and steadily eased the tension from his muscles. On the surface, it was a reward – positive reinforcement – but he knew John well enough to know that he did it for his own pleasure, as much as that of Sherlock.

People wanting to touch him was not unheard of. Between the ears and the tail, they often thought petting was somehow acceptable, at least until Sherlock reminded them otherwise with the sharpness of his words. John was the exception. He had restrained himself in the early stages of their cohabitation, despite his obvious urge to the contrary. He respected Sherlock's choices and his personal space, even as the boundaries between them began to blur and change.

Allowing John to reach out like this never caused him regret. To others, it would probably appear intimate, far beyond the bounds of friendship, but then, their relationship rarely obeyed conventional parameters. As inexperienced with such things as he was, even Sherlock understood that there was an edge of desire to this affection: an option for sexual intimacy, should the hour ever come when he possessed the courage to ask for it.

Today was not that day. In his solitary moments, Sherlock wondered what it would be like to breach the frontier of friends to lovers with John. However, when the opportunity arose to broach the subject, such as now when the air practically hummed with potential, he found himself too afraid of losing what he already had: John's gentle touches and unflinching loyalty.

'You've been hunched over the lab bench, haven't you?' John asked softly, his knowledgeable touch seeking out every physical tell that ingrained itself in Sherlock's flesh, thumbing the notch of his vertebrae before tugging gently on Sherlock's neck. 'Come on, get down here.'

Slowly, like melting wax, he sprawled forward, his hands bracketing John's ribs and his face rubbing at the wool of his jumper. The threat of a purr rumbled in his throat, and he let it husk free as his eyes slid to half-mast, whorls of languor ensnaring him in their grasp. He could hear John's heart beneath his ear, pounding out a soldier's quick march, and a breath of fond laughter stirred the air as John's hands continued to move in innocent worship, ruffling dark hair and drifting, light as a butterfly's wing, over the smooth skin of Sherlock's upturned cheek.

John thought the photograph was something to be treasured: a glimpse into Sherlock's past life. However, it was this that Sherlock found truly valuable: John's touch a promise to accept him, not just for the man he was now, but for all he had ever been and all he would one day become.

In that captive moment, Sherlock knew what it meant to be cherished.