Reassurance (Sherlock BBC Fanfic)

AN – once again, by request. Established relationship. Slash, but not graphic. Set after 'Social Boundaries'

John ran a hand through his hair and bit back his anger. It wasn't aimed at the slumped figure sitting with his feet dangling over a far-too-long drop. It was aimed at the idiots that they worked with – a category that temporarily included DI Lestrade – and Sherlock's fool of a meddling brother. Even Mrs Hudson was in his bad books at the moment.

Sherlock had been avoiding him for twelve days now. John hadn't been aware of it at first because there had been a rush on at work – it was flu season yet again – so he'd been pulling long hours. He'd been tired – more so than usual – which had been augmented by the nagging pain in his right wrist. Sprains made themselves known with a nasty, nagging pain that gnawed away at you when you so much as twitched. It was hard to get comfortable, even with it wrapped and supported and the one time that Sherlock had joined him in their bed post-injury he'd knocked his wrist and spat some choice swear words at the limb in question.

It was possible that Sherlock had taken the incident very much to heart, which was not what John had intended at all. His spouse had taken to sleeping upstairs in John's old room, citing thoughtfulness for John's injury on the three occasions John had tried to get him to come to their bed. It didn't help that John had sprained his wrist on this very rooftop, hauling Sherlock up over the edge before he could fall. Sherlock had not been grateful, snapping at John in a sharp manner for letting the criminal (in this case a pigeon with a special harness to carry the stolen jewels) get away. Donovan and Lestrade had both been a bit taken aback by this reaction, but John took it in his stride. He knew what Sherlock was like in the heat of the moment and didn't take it personally.

They'd caught the criminals and their pigeon twenty minutes later. Sherlock had accompanied Lestrade to the Yard for the interrogation and Donovan had dropped John off at the ER. He'd sat through the usual interminable wait, messing about with his phone in boredom – though he had sent a message to the surgery that he'd be off work tomorrow. Sherlock had been waiting outside the ER with a taxi and they'd gone home. His spouse had been subdued, which was to be expected as he suffered the usual 'post case' blues.

It wasn't until three days after the incident on the roof that John realised that Sherlock's distance from him was more in relation to what others had said, than because there was something wrong between the two of them. Sherlock was… tentative with John in a way that he had never been before – not even after their worst argument ever. He hadn't realised quite how bad it was until he'd overheard Mrs Hudson admonishing his spouse for forgetting the milk with the words:

"He can't be expected to do everything, dear. You've got to make a better effort!"

True, John was tired and in pain and not in the mood to go shopping for milk, but that didn't mean that Sherlock's habitual forgetfulness about things like groceries was suddenly going to tip them over the edge into some cataclysmic event. Unfortunately, Mrs Hudson's well meaning interference came on top of some not-so-well-meaning comments from Donovan. She'd aired her opinion of Sherlock as a life-partner in the car on the way to the ER and John had no doubt that she'd continued in that theme back at the Yard. Sherlock had left his phone in the flat one evening (on charge which explained why he was out without it) and John had gone through his text messages, which Sherlock very rarely deleted. There was quite an array from Donovan and Lestrade on the subject of Sherlock's relationship with John – all of them unfortunately of the opinion that John would leave Sherlock at some point due to his many eccentricities. Even Mycroft had weighed in with his unsolicited advice.

They meant well. Sherlock was … more stable, in the words of Donovan… since John had arrived on the scene. Certainly there had been an increase in the amount of work offered to Sherlock from the Yard in the years they'd been together – from DI's other than Lestrade as well. Everyone attributed this to John's influence – which was not exactly incorrect but discounted a very important factor: Sherlock himself.

Despite his selfish, eccentric, egotistical, sociopathic dramatics, Sherlock was not as clueless when it came to mainstream culture as people liked to believe. He understood more about society's expectations than he let on – in fact his disdain for them could only have come about from his understanding and practice of them. John might not have know what he was signing on for when he agreed to be Sherlock's flatmate all those years ago, but he'd certainly known what he was signing on for when he married the man.

Now all he had to do was convince Sherlock of that.

Step one, stop him from jumping off the roof to get away from a conversation that he didn't want to have. Easily enough done – John simply crossed the roof to where his spouse was slumped and sat down behind him, splitting his legs so Sherlock sat between them and passing his arms around the skinny chest. Sherlock squirmed in protest at being pinned, so John wrapped his legs over Sherlock's thighs as well and breathed in his ear for good measure.

Sherlock liked that and subsided with a faint groan of half protest, half request for more. John rewarded him for good behaviour and added a kiss to the pale neck for good measure.

"Interesting view," John muttered, peering over his spouses' shoulder. London was laid out before them in all her glory – an eclectic mixture of architecture, people and light, "You're up here because…?"

Sherlock shrugged, and John hugged him tighter, careful of his wrist. His spouse was apparently worried about that as well, because one long hand came up to cover it protectively. The other was latched onto John's leg, kneading the muscles there absently. Misery was practically pouring off him in waves and John didn't like to see it. Sherlock was a being of confidence and arrogance irresistibly wrapped in charm and grace.

"I had a look at your phone last night," John murmured, pressing the sides of their heads together.

"Not news," Sherlock replied sulkily and John chuckled.

"Of course not," he nuzzled his spouse, "And I'm guessing you're returning to the scene of your crime like some ridiculous telly villain."

Sherlock stiffened in his arms, "So you are angry with me."

The unspoken 'that's what everyone has been saying' hung in the air.

"Because everyone else is always right about the two of us," John scoffed, "Because our relationship is so normal."

"Normal is expected in relationships," Sherlock mumbled and John breathed in his ear again, just because he could.

"Sherlock, you're a selfish, eccentric, egotistical drama queen on a good day," John informed him kindly, "The only time I didn't know that was just before I walked into the lab at Barts on the day we met. I certainly had a fair idea by the end of the Pink case. I definitely knew who I was getting into a long term relationship with when you asked me to marry you."

"Thanks," Sherlock sulked, but he straightened a little in John's grip. Judging that Sherlock was beginning to realise where this was going, John found his spouse's left hand and tugged the leather glove off carefully, holding it up in front of them both so the rose gold ring caught the fading light.

"What does this mean, Sherlock?" John asked him quietly, "Think about it for a moment. Think about how you ended up with this ring on your heart finger. Think about what's on mine."

John would never have tattooed Sherlock's name on his finger if he thought the relationship was doomed. Leaving aside the face that a tattoo could be removed or altered, there was a permanency to the gesture that should have spoken louder than all the other words people had been wasting on their marriage lately. John wasn't going anywhere – Sherlock had just forgotten that.

He knew his spouse had remembered when Sherlock made a quiet noise and leaned back into John's arms. The shorter man smiled and nuzzled his spouse affectionately for a moment.

"You're an idiot," he scolded, "But you're mine – and don't you go forgetting it again."

"I know a way to remember," Sherlock promised.

Which was how John found himself in a tattoo parlour twenty minutes later, watching the artist place his initials directly over Sherlock's heart.

END

Disclaimer – characters and settings as depicted in BBC series not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine.

AN 2 – hope you liked it M!