A/N: This is a series of drabbles and short stories written for letswritesherlock challenge 3. I'll put the title and artist of the song each story is based on at the beginning. Each chapter stands alone. Rated M for some sex and language. Enjoy!
Title: Apologies
Song: Apologize, by One Republic
Summary: Sherlock tries to apologize, John doesn't want to hear it, and there is some angry touching.
Rating: M
Pairing: John and Sherlock
Genre: Romance/post-reichenbach
Length: 772 Words
"John."
John, I had to. John, you must understand. John, I did it for you!
"John -"
Drenched in sweat, swallowing any apologies he is trying to offer, John won't let him ruin this.
"John, please -"
Lips swollen from angry kisses, back littered with scratches, dark curls matted to his forehead, John won't let him apologize.
"Stop it, Sherlock. Just let me - let me have this, just for tonight, please -"
Fingers searching, exploring what has finally been returned to him. John might be crying, he might be sweating, he doesn't know and he doesn't care. Sherlock is lying underneath him, shirtless and slick with sweat, reaching out to touch John in places he didn't know he needed to be touched.
"Fuck you, Sherlock. Fuck you -"
And then they're kissing again, tongues battling, and Sherlock is determined to give John an apology he refuses to accept. Sherlock's tongue swipes across John's lower lip after his teeth sink in, and he swallows John's moan.
Sherlock is fighting for dominance, and for once John won't allow him to have it. For once, John takes control, and for once, Sherlock is going to know what it's like to be at someone else's mercy.
"John, please!"
He's begging for something different now, something that John needs just as much as Sherlock, and he wraps his legs around Sherlock's waist, pressing their bodies together. His tongue traces a path from jawline to collarbone, tasting the salty skin and sucking a bruise.
"Let me - please, John -"
He wishes Sherlock would stop trying to talk, doesn't he understand that it's too late for that? It's too late for his apologies and explanations, it was always too late, he doesn't want to hear it, any of it, he just wants to touch, and Sherlock won't even give him that.
"Stop it!" John shouts, wrapping his fingers around Sherlock's wrists and slamming them into the mattress, pinning them above his head. His breathing is ragged, Sherlock is gazing at him, eyes wide and lips parted, and John wants lean down and bite his mouth off his face.
"You can't, Sherlock! You just - you fucking can't do this!"
Sherlock arches his back, pressing their hips together, and John hisses a moan, diving down to attack those plush lips, sucking biting tearing devouring suffocating -
"Never," Sherlock gasps into John's mouth, and John drinks that word, loves the way it tastes in his mouth, "Never again, John, don't you understand -"
He doesn't. He doesn't understand; he never will, he doesn't want to, he doesn't understand why Sherlock ever thought it would be okay to disappear, and now he knows he is crying, the tears are stinging his eyes, and reaches between them, fingers wrapping around Sherlock's cock, and the detective cries out, beautiful and raw and John rubs his thumb over his slit, and Sherlock is bucking underneath him and he wants to taste.
"I can't, don't you see, John, I can't -"
John isn't sure that Sherlock knows what he is trying to say, they're just words, and they've lost all meaning, and the world may have stopped turning, John doesn't know, but Sherlock is moaning and John is crying and it's all so utterly fucked.
"For you, John," Sherlock is whimpering, "Always for you, always..."
John is pumping his hand and his lips are pressed against that silly little mole at the base of Sherlock's neck, and he feels Sherlock coming, spilling over his hand, and he doesn't quite know what to call the sound that comes from his mouth, but he catches it in his own, swallowing and coming back for more.
"Never," John says harshly, burying his face in Sherlock's neck, "You can never - never again, Sherlock, never!"
He doesn't quite know what he's talking about, he's not sure if Sherlock knows either, but he isn't sure he wants to know. He's tangled in pale limbs and grief and anger and resentment and it leaves a sour taste in his mouth, so he washes it away with Sherlock's whimpers, scraping his teeth along his bottom lip and tangling his fingers in that damp forest of curls. He is wrapped up in Sherlock, drowning in Sherlock and sweat and sex and he is still furious with him, and he hates him, and he turns his head and presses his lips to Sherlock's shoulder.
"You took my heart, Sherlock, don't you understand that?"
Sherlock wraps an arm firmly around John's shoulders, and his response is so quiet John isn't sure he hears it correctly.
"John...I took yours and left mine with you..."