They both fell back against the pillows, panting heavily. Sherlock eased into his customary position with his head resting on the back of his outstretched arms and closed his eyes with a satisfied smile. His snow-white body looked like an exquisitely carved marble statue in the moonlight that poured through the bedroom window and caressed his naked form.
John rolled over and drew the covers up under his chin as he hunched into the foetal position, trying to ignore the feelings in the pit of his stomach.
"Have you had many other male lovers John?" Sherlock said after a few seconds, not opening his eyes.
John cringed slightly. It still sounded so... wrong. 'Male lovers'. This wasn't John Watson The Soldier. John Watson The Soldier didn't have 'Male lovers'. He was someone else now. He didn't know that person. Not anymore. Sometimes he missed him. Sometimes he thought John Watson The Solider would be ashamed of what he'd become.
"Never." he murmured softly.
He didn't have a problem with it- his sister had had plenty of same sex relationships. He wasn't homophobic. Was he? Of course he wasn't. Then why did he have this feeling, gnawing away it his insides, tearing away at him like barbed wire? He felt ashamed.
"I thought as much," came the calm reply, "not that it makes a sizeable difference; I still enjoyed it."
He was an object. The sex object of a narcissistic sociopath. A sociopath who got bored.
John Watson The Sex Object.
He felt sick.
Upon not getting a response, Sherlock opened one eye and regarded the huddled form of his best friend. Sherlock recognised from his body language that he was seeking comfort and reassurance. The detective leaned over to plant a kiss on the doctor's shoulder blade, on the raised spider's web of the bullet wound that had left such an ugly scar. He stopped just before his lips came into contact with John's skin, pulled his head back and just looked at it. The healed skin shone pearlescent in the blue moonlight. Sherlock thought this ugly mess was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. He traced it with his little finger gently, no longer seeking to comfort, just to touch. Beautiful.
John tried to ignore the animals biting away at his innards when he'd felt Sherlock's cold finger on his back. Tried to ignore the warm rush of pleasure that flooded through every fibre of his being. He wanted to ignore it. Ignore the voices in his head telling him it was dirty and wrong.
He angled his head and watched Sherlock's look of concentration as he continued to trace shapes on the doctor's back. Silver eyes met Cobalt blue. John stretched his neck slightly and Sherlock made up the distance and they shared a fleeting kiss, which grew deeper as John turned over into Sherlock's welcoming arms. The long pale fingers were running through his hair and cupping his face.
You're mine.
As John relaxed into the embrace, he realised that he wasn't John Watson The Sex Object and he wasn't John Watson The Soldier.
He was John Watson. And he was loved.