Something that came to me in a wonderfully warped daydream.
Disclaimer: I still own nothing…...but I wish these men were all mine.
John woke, unsure of where he was. His bed was softer than he remembered, and the light coming in through the window was bright and warm. Suddenly it came back to him. Sherlock…it was real. The brilliant, beautiful and infuriating creature really existed, and he was living with him. He had even killed to protect him. He never thought he'd do that again; damn it had felt fucking fantastic. Mycroft Holmes was only half right when he deduced that John missed the excitement of the war. Shooting the cabbie awakened him from a slumber that began when he'd been invalided home. He'd been prepared to never speak of it, to have it be his secret, but Sherlock had known. Not only had he known; he approved! The warmth of that smile had shocked John to his core. Remembering the moment he knew that Sherlock didn't judge him and wouldn't turn him in, made his morning hard on throb. He smiled, wondering when Sherlock would give him the opportunity to kill again.
Sherlock heard John moving around upstairs. He tuned his violin, considering the soldier who had stumbled into his life. Normally, he hated most people, and didn't like to have them too close. Those he allowed some closeness were useful to him. Lestrade gave him access to New Scotland Yard and Mrs Hudson took care of domestic duties with which he couldn't be bothered. His clients were so grateful for his assistance that they fell over themselves to do favors for him and his network was his eyes and ears. Now there was Dr John H Watson. Of course the man was useful to him, incredibly useful. His medical knowledge was superb; he found Sherlock fascinating, which appealed to his fragile ego, and as a former soldier he was skilled in combat and weaponry. What surprised Sherlock, pleasantly he had to admit if only to himself, was his utter lack of reservation in killing to protect a man he had just met. However, Sherlock did not delude himself into believing that John killed just for him. While he was aware of the doctor's attraction to him, and that he admired his genius, he knew without a doubt that Dr Watson killed the cabbie simply because he could. John Watson was most definitely not boring. This fact interested Sherlock immensely. Did he dare extend his involvement with the doctor to include a part of his life which he kept hidden from everyone, well except Mycroft of course but he hardly mattered…