"Sherlock," he chokes, before turning his face into the pillow and gripping the mattress, sobs shaking his suddenly small body.

Chapter 3

He's crying. Real, wracking sobs that shake his whole form, hot salty tears sliding down his cheeks as he tries to stifle any more shouts, and he's hiding it all in his pillow. Hiding it all from Sherlock. John doesn't want Sherlock to see him cry.

And Sherlock knows that though it is mainly a case of Being Ashamed, and of Protecting His Masculinity, it is at least partly a case of Making It Easier For The Flatmate.

And because of this, because he can see in the curve of the other man's back and the set of his shoulders that he's adapting to Sherlock's social leprosy even whilst in the throes of a breakdown, because he knows, Sherlock carefully hooks his arms under John and pulls him slowly up into a hug. Because John is his friend, and John is so strong, and because he hates hugging people but John probably doesn't.

And when John knows (because he always knows, always figures out, can always just see what Sherlock's trying to do with him) that this is really happening and that Sherlock is going to let it happen, going to engage and try and probably not vomit, he winds him arms round the taller man and clutches desperately at the soft linen of his shirt back, his face trembling against his sharp collar bones. Sherlock is gripping back, one hand round his back and up onto his shoulder, the other arm up under his arm and resting gently on his neck, the pulse point thrumming with sorrow as his own hums with nervous energy.

It isn't pleasant, but somehow, it is inexplicably warming, the knowledge that they have this new unspoken agreement, yet another facet of mutual respect and understanding to add to their acquaintance. John trusts him to feel his tears, and Sherlock trusts John to accept the inner turmoil that comes with his generous hug. It isn't pleasant at all.

John isn't wearing a shirt, his skin flushed and clammy with cold sweat, and he smells, of sleep and sweat and possibly tea. He's sniffling against Sherlock's lapels, completely undignified, and every now and then he nestles further into the nook between shoulder and neck, as though he'd like to hide forever in hard, white angles and soft, malleable skin, some perfect human representation of simplicity, minimalism, monochrome. Because it's clear cut and it's ambiguous, it's painful and it's actually calming, on both sides, and it's the most complicated moment of Sherlock's life, because it's just too simple.

One hand is actually in John's hair, a thumb swiping at the stretch just above his too-big ears, the other fingers unmoving and closer to the scalp. And sometime later, still with salty water dribbling half-heartedly down into his shirt, still with a now cold male fisting his hands in the material behind him, Sherlock feels the crying man smile through his tears, his ridiculous chapped lips curving the tiniest bit in the crook of his neck, his breaths slower but heavier.

Sherlock lowers his head and pauses with his lips millimetres away from grey tresses, thinking that he's challenged enough barriers for one night.

END

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