John wasn't aware of Sherlock pulling him off the floor and onto his lap. He wasn't aware of Sherlock's arms circling around him, holding him so tight, so tight, so very tight.
John was numb. He was sobbing, screaming, hitting something, clenching his teeth so hard it made his skull hurt; his eyes swollen and so sore . He couldn't feel anything and everything ached all at once. The pain in his body was only eclipsed by the pain of his heart; a pain he didn't think existed but knew all too well that it did. He'd felt it before, and worse; but now was not the time to remember.
And it was different this time. He was married. He had been married to her. Now she was gone.
Sherlock held his friend so close it hurt. John hit him and yelled and fought and raged and Sherlock held him. His blue eyes were filled with emotion, witnessing the pain of someone he loved so much. He wanted to take John's hurt and chuck it out the window. To remove it, to just simply and magically make it disappear and have John forget about everything and have things go back to normal. But Sherlock knew this would never happen.
John's body shook with sobs. His breath came fast and labored and once or twice Sherlock was afraid he would choke. He settled for simply feeling John – the feel of his wool sweater against his hands, the warmth underneath it, the way John's body felt curled onto Sherlock's lap. Sherlock closed his eyes and furrowed his brow. He had no idea what to do. He wasn't used to feeling like this, feeling useless; he despised it and he growled quietly through clenched teeth.
"Sherlock?" came John's watery voice. Sherlock opened his eyes and was met with John's weak gaze. John seemed to not notice or care that he was wrapped around Sherlock like a small child being comforted by a parent.
"John," Sherlock whispered, his heart quickening. John was always so strong. So sure. So dependable. This wasn't right. Things weren't right.
"Sherlock," John managed again, his emotions taking him once more. He clenched his jaw and closed his eyes tightly, shaking his head against the howl that was fighting to come out of him. Sherlock reached for his friend and put a hand gingerly on John's jawline in an attempt to be comforting. John moved into Sherlock's touch and ended up with his face buried in Sherlock's neck. Sherlock held him fast, John's breath causing his skin to ripple with goose bumps.
Oh, how Sherlock had wanted this. For so long. For John Watson to be pressed into him, breathing like this, clutching him; but not in this way. Not in pain. Never pain for John. But here they were.
John abruptly lifted his head and was staring at Sherlock in a funny way. They were so close together, John still entwined in Sherlock's arms, in Sherlock's lap, and the dark detective was paralyzed. John's watery eyes were filled with a manic sorrow that made Sherlock's skin burn.
"Help me," John whispered. "I can't feel like this. I can't live with this. I need to stop feeling. I have to stop."
Sherlock was looking at John's mouth in spite of the situation. They were so, so close together he could see the different flecks of colour in John's eyes, the lines in the skin on his lips, the freckles and pores on John's face. His brain moved into panic mode but he kept it buried for John's sake. "What do you want me to do?"
John's face was rigid. "I want a seven percent fix.''
"John!"
"NO." John suddenly said, loudly. "Sherlock, I need it. I am dying. I'm breaking apart. I can't take this again. I can't go through this again! I only got through it before because of Mary and now she's…" John broke off and screwed up his face once more against the emotion flooding up out of his heart. He stilled and waited before opening his eyes again. They were hard and cold.
"John, I can't do that to you."
"Then give me something else. Anything. Please."
Sherlock's arms hadn't moved from where they were encircling John, holding onto him almost desperately. John was half sitting up in Sherlock's lap, his own arms clutching at Sherlock's purple shirt. They looked at each other, eyes taking in one another at such close proximity, searching, John's breathing shallow, Sherlock's pulse quickening with each passing second, panicking at what his friend was asking of him, John's mouth right there, and Sherlock was undone.
He leaned forward mere inches and pressed his mouth against John's.
John's immediate response was startling. His lips moved to shape themselves around Sherlock's and he kissed Sherlock with such force. Kissed him with abandon. Sherlock was past the point of rational thought. He'd never felt like this before. His heart breaking for his best friend, who was in so much pain, and Sherlock knew that he'd put John through this himself when he pretended to commit suicide. He was ashamed and filled with sorrow and fresh anger at himself. How could he have done that to John. How.
John's lips parted and he hungrily devoured the detective's mouth, his hands sliding up to entangle themselves in Sherlock's dark curls, grip the back of his neck, painfully, and it would bruise later, but no one cared. John pressed his body even tighter against Sherlock's, like he wanted to melt into him and cease to exist.
Sherlock growled into John's mouth and had a mental image of him lifting the wool sweater off of John, gripping his body, feeling his bare skin, covering it with his own, pressing hot kisses on his chest and ribs and stomach; nipping at him with his teeth, leaving red marks all over the man that no one would see but him. He wanted to take his own anger out on John, because John wouldn't notice or care. He wanted to pour himself into John, to make John his. He kissed John, kissed him and kissed him, hands everywhere, not sure where he started and where John stopped, the world melting away until it was just the two of them in their own little ball of fucked up emotions and pain and warped desire.
John broke away from Sherlock's mouth with a breathy moan. "Sherlock," he gasped. "Fuck me."
Sherlock's body responded to the words. Responded fully. His brain was unhinged but he still managed to ask. "What…John, isn't this -"
"Fuck, Sherlock," John interrupted, sitting up fully and pushing him back into the couch, his eyes black. "I said I want to stop feeling. I don't care. I don't care anymore. I want you, right here, now, until I tell you to stop."
Sherlock moved off the couch and took John with him. They were on the floor, Sherlock was on top of John, and the coffee table was being shoved out of the way to make more room. John's empty glass of brandy slid off the table and shattered somewhere. Papers fluttered to the floor and Sherlock's cell phone landed with a thud on the carpet next to the two men entwined and kissing deeply, roughly, their hands gripping each other for dear life. Thoughts as to whether tonight would ruin their friendship swirled somewhere in each of their brains but they were lost to the shadows as clothes were ripped and bodies rolled and passion claimed 221B Baker Street.