John was clawing at his back in a way that, on other nights, under different circumstances, would make him high with want. It would fill his heart and his mind and his body with so much want that, neighbours be damned, his beautiful vocabulary would be reduced to John, John, John.
Not tonight.
If the man in his arms had been lying still, he would've been filled with dread. But he wasn't. John was withering, whimpering in his grasp and it filled Sherlock with an unknown satisfied feeling. John was alive and well.
But not well. John grasped at his bicep, clinging on as if his life depended on it. It didn't. His limps, his muscles, needed something, anything, to focus on, anything apart from this. The pain, the cold, the urge of need that was attempting to tear him limp from limp. A fascinating sight it would be, to see him whither like a flower, battle and gasp, until the vibrant colours in his eyes would fade and he would be – John would be. John.
John!
That tore him back from his macabre thoughts. He flushed in a guilty shade of red and attempted to pry John's fingers from his arm, to push the desperate body from his chest so he could look. So he could observe, examine. Maybe then he'd know what was going on.
"Hold me. Hold me, Sherlock, please. Just hold me. Just for now," it required effort, a careful rebalance of power, for John to push the words out. To make Sherlock stop pushing him away and just let him be.
Sherlock didn't know what to do. He didn't know what to say. He didn't know what to say, so he listened. And obeyed.
The sussing sounds that made it through to John's ears, through his whimpers and heavy breathing, relaxed his mind. He looped his arms around Sherlock's torso and felt himself being drawn close. No scratching, no nails this time. Just him and his pains.
"John?" Sherlock asked, childlike curiosity pervading his tone. "Alright. Are you alright?"
"Just for now, just a moment. Just –" John muttered, more to himself than for his companion's sake, "Just for now, Sherlock."