Silence enveloped them when John closed the front door, the quiet, unpatterned kind that meant it was just the two of them, that Mrs. Hudson wasn't at home.
That was Sherlock's doing. The detective had (none too subtly) arranged that she go see her sister. John hadn't been party to that, but he'd figured it out in short order when she'd told him of her travel plans for a long weekend in Dorchester – that just so happened to coincide with Sherlock's appointment to discuss his latest x-rays.
The knowing look in her eye had made had John blush – it still did, even after all this time, and he thought it probably always would – and she'd given him a quick kiss on the cheek, admonishing him to enjoy himself.
At the time, he'd promised he would.
Now, he half wished she were here, bustling from her flat to fuss over Sherlock, who was finally, finally off the crutches, some of his weight born by the NHS supplied cane that the detective had muttered about and vowed to replace at the earliest possible opportunity.
John would count himself lucky if his husband didn't turn up with a sword cane, or one with a skull for a hand grip. Knowing Sherlock, it would be both, and the detective would (rightly) point out that he was skilled with a sword, making it both practical and useful.
"You okay on the stairs?" John asked, wishing he could retract the question as soon as he'd asked it – not because it upset Sherlock, but because it was stupid, and he'd only asked it for something to say. The look he got from over a shoulder was answer enough; Sherlock had been navigating the stairs on crutches for weeks, and for most of that time, he'd been doing so only on one leg.
John fell into step behind Sherlock – something he'd always done, but after the crash, it had become necessary, lending support when it was needed, ready to catch the detective if he lost his balance. That had never happened – thank god – but John hadn't given up the habit even when Sherlock had been able to put weight on his injured leg with the help of the crutches.
It probably would never stop, he told himself with a wry smirk. Sherlock led and he followed – in everything but dancing, where neither of them were willing to give way.
John realized he was distracting himself by letting his mind wander and by unconsciously counting each slow step as they ascended, feeling a stab of anger at the sudden tightness in his chest, the shallowness of his breathing.
Get a grip, Watson! he admonished himself with a faint scowl.
It was stupid and completely unwarranted, but he was nervous.
It wasn't as though it was their first time – John hadn't even really been nervous then, too surprised by Sherlock's sudden revelation and desperate for something he'd thought was never going to happen.
It wasn't even the first time they'd had sex since the crash. Not really.
The day Sherlock had been released from hospital, the detective had insisted on trying; John hadn't been surprised when it had been too physically demanding for his husband's injured body – too much energy, too much movement, all of it leading to discomfort and exhaustion.
After that, John hadn't pushed. It had been hard, but getting Sherlock to accept his limits was even harder, and he needed to recover. As bruises faded and injuries mended, they'd tried a few things, but it generally resulted in Sherlock helping John through it. Once, he'd been able to get Sherlock comfortable enough to suck him off, holding thin hips carefully to keep the detective from putting weight on his broken leg. It hadn't lasted long, and Sherlock had looked more stunned than sated afterwards, an uncomfortable combination of pain and relief.
John knew Sherlock well enough to know that it hadn't been pleasurable enough to warrant trying again soon.
But now… Now Sherlock was making his way up the stairs, shifting his balance from one foot to the next, using the banister for support, the cane hooked over his forearm. Now Sherlock had, if not a clean bill of health, at least an acknowledgment that he could begin returning to life as he'd known it before the crash.
John wanted that. Desperately. He wanted the Sherlock who pulled him out of bed at all hours to race down some fetid alley, who led him over rooftops and fences, through other people's gardens and into on-coming traffic. Whose mind moved a mile a minute, dragging John in its wake. Who buzzed around the flat, bouncing between monologues, demands, complaints, playing his violin, shouting for Mrs. Hudson, sulking on the couch. Who pounced on John the moment he got home from work, not even giving him the chance to take off his shoes or coat. Who had – on more than one occasion – made an appointment to see him under a fake name, to steal fifteen minutes while John had real patients waiting.
He wanted all of that back so badly he could taste it, feel it down to his fingertips.
So why, he asked himself, are you being such an idiot?
He closed the flat door behind them, ignoring the faint warning flare that he was closed in now, that he was trapped. That, he told himself firmly, was an unwanted leftover from Afghanistan. He'd never felt trapped here – Sherlock had never made him feel trapped here.
Not even on the worst days after the crash, when there was too much pain or too much frustrated rage. Even then, John had wanted to be here.
"Want help with your shoes?" he asked, out of habit. When the cast had come off, replaced by a thin brace, Sherlock had still found it difficult to bend over comfortably to unlace his shoes. He could do it easily enough sitting down, but John suspected his husband enjoyed having someone do the work for him.
Sherlock gave a distracted nod, and without thinking about it, John knelt down, a faint but sharp inhalation stopping him before he'd even begun.
He tilted his head back, looking up, Sherlock's grey eyes meeting his. The tension along his jaw, the downward pull of his lips were at odds with the familiar glint in his eyes that widened his pupils slightly. Sherlock swallowed, lips parting as if he was about to speak before pressing together again, silencing him.
It took a moment for John to place the expression as reluctance; when he did, relief and disappointment clashed, and he tried to displace them both, tightening his hands into fists before relaxing them deliberately.
"Look, Sherlock…" he trailed off, suddenly unwilling to continue, steeling himself to do so. "We don't have to…"
The change in expression was instantaneous; reluctance vanishing for confusion that pinched the corners of Sherlock's eyes, furrowing his brow. Then hurt, as muscles relaxed, unwillingly comprehending.
"You don't want to?" Sherlock asked.
"Of course I do!" John shot back, startling Sherlock slightly, giving him a moment of deer-in-the-headlights look, and John softened his tone. "Of course," he added, surprised at the sudden conviction behind the words, how much he did want it – good god, did he want it. "It's just– if you–"
"If I what?" Sherlock demanded, and John winced at the brittle edge in his husband's voice, shaking his head to negate it.
"Sherlock, you were in a serious accident. Things might be… difficult."
Sherlock closed his eyes, a protracted wince, and John almost pushed himself to his feet – but something kept him where he was, as if the action would be read as a rejection or bringing them face-to-face might shut Sherlock down.
"John, I know– I know I won't look… I know how I must look–"
"Christ, Sherlock, no," John interrupted, realization dawning, shaking his head vehemently when Sherlock's eyes opened, bright with surprise. "It's not that– it's not ever that." He settled his hands on Sherlock's hips for emphasis, drawing circles on prominent hipbones – he watched Sherlock's weight like a hawk, yes, but as a doctor, not as a lover. "I'm not– believe me, it hasn't put me off one bit."
A smirk tugged at the edges of Sherlock's lips, vanishing almost as soon as it had appeared.
"All those times since the crash…" John said, arching an eyebrow. Sherlock's features relaxed, but guardedly, as if he were waiting for some other shoe to drop.
"What then?" he demanded.
"I don't want to… push you," John said. "Make you think you have to do something you don't really want to."
Sherlock heaved a sigh, shoulders rising and falling dramatically.
"Because I've been so inclined to do so in the past," he commented dryly. John's lips split into a grin, a chuckle escaping him.
"Good point," he conceded, sitting back on his heels.
"And since you're down there…" Sherlock drawled, arching an eyebrow. John flicked a finger against Sherlock's thigh, earning a mock scowl.
"You wish," he said.
"I rather think I was strongly hinting at it."
"You're on a cane. You might fall over."
"What would it take to convince you?" Sherlock huffed.
"Honestly?" John asked, sitting up again, running fingertips up the sides of Sherlock's thighs. "Not much." Sherlock was definitely steady enough on his feet to stay up right, and John had no intentions of keeping them there for long anyway.
He unlaced Sherlock's shoes, letting the detective kick them aside, skimming his fingers upward again. Sherlock met his eyes, pupils dilating even more, shifting slightly to let the cane take part of his weight. John smiled; Sherlock worried his lower lip with a hurried nod.
"Patience," John murmured. He'd consider it a miracle if he got it; patience wasn't one of Sherlock's strong suits at the best of times, and it had been over two months.
But he didn't want to wear Sherlock out, either.
He undid Sherlock's belt, tugging his shirt from his trousers. John hadn't protested the entire new wardrobe Sherlock had bought – his old clothes would fit again, but for now they were too loose, making him look like a child playing dress up in his father's clothing. He knew what it felt like to wear ill-fitting clothing, and how it only added to the discomfort. Sherlock needed to feel like he looked good.
John had every intention of helping him with that.
He skimmed his hands upward again, smirking as Sherlock widened his stance to accommodate the fingers moving up the insides of his thighs. He felt rather than heard the faint hitch in his husband's breathing when he drew his hands away, letting them trace the back of Sherlock's legs.
"John," Sherlock warned, and John clucked his tongue reprovingly.
"Shouldn't have worried about me being pushy," he commented.
"You talk too much," Sherlock growled, lacing his fingers into John's hair; John braced himself against the push that never came, and he smiled, rewarding Sherlock by nuzzling him, inhaling a familiar but long-denied musk. Hands skimmed back up, brushing Sherlock's balls, thumbs pressing in lightly. Sherlock inhaled sharply, the quiet sound somehow loud in the silence of the flat, shooting straight to John's groin.
He sat back a bit, keeping up the light massage with his right hand, using his left to undo Sherlock's trousers, chuckling at the choice of black silk boxer briefs. That had been just as deliberate as Mrs. Hudson's "holiday" – Sherlock knew full well they were John's favourites.
And Sherlock liked the sensation of silk against sensitive skin; the quiet groan he gave as his head dropped back loosely was proof enough of that. John kept his touch just light enough to cause a reaction, feeling a similar tightening in his groin in response.
He nosed beneath Sherlock's shirt, letting his tongue dart out to taste warm skin, tracing the faint trail of hair that disappeared tantalizingly into Sherlock's pants. Sherlock made another small sound, hips tipping toward John's mouth before he steadied himself with a deep breath.
A quick, dextrous movement had Sherlock's trousers puddled around his ankles. John dragged short nails up his husband's bare thighs, the hand in his hair tightening as he nipped lightly at the skin just above the black silk, reaching up to unbutton Sherlock's shirt. He kissed his way up as the fabric fell open; it was awkward but he didn't care. He pulled his husband into a kiss, pushing the shirt from Sherlock's shoulders. It caught on his wrists where the cuffs were still buttoned and John chuckled, pulling away to dispense with them.
It left Sherlock in his pants and John fully clothed, eyes raking over a thin body, tracing downward from the flush on his cheeks and chest to the faint bulge in the black silk.
He met Sherlock's eyes again; the detective licked his lips quickly, distracted, giving a hurried nod. John took his time, stroking with fingertips at first, deepening the touch into slow, firm strokes as Sherlock grew harder against his palm. With his free hand, he pulled Sherlock into another kiss, open mouthed, tongues sliding over one another.
The clatter of the cane on the floor snapped him back to reality, hands steadying at Sherlock's waist, thumbs smoothing small circles to displace the sudden uncertainty on his husband's face.
"Come on," he said, lacing their fingers together. "Let's go to bed." He kept slow pace with Sherlock's limp, not missing the flash of relief when the detective sank onto the mattress. Long fingers wrapped around his wrist when John began to undo his jeans, and Sherlock shook his head.
"Let me," he said.
It was all John could do to stay standing, one hand curled around the bedframe, as Sherlock divested him of his jeans. He let go when his jumper was tugged upwards, freeing himself quickly as long fingers undid the buttons of his shirt.
"You wear too many bloody layers," Sherlock muttered, and John grinned, tossing the shirt aside as his husband scrambled backwards, stretching his lanky body across the mattress. John followed, reaching past him for the lube, heart suddenly thudding hard, almost painfully, in his chest.
It was the same tube they'd had before the crash.
John knew it was ridiculous in the face of everything else – everything Sherlock had gone through – but if Moriarty hadn't tossed a delivery truck carelessly in the way of Sherlock's cab, they would have used this up by now.
All that time, he thought, fist tightening unnoticed around the small plastic tube. Moriarty had taken so much – Sherlock's eyesight, his health, his energy. Their lives. Robbed them of this – and not just this but all of the little moments, and the big ones, that were stolen by fear and exhaustion and pain.
"John," Sherlock said, his voice reaching the doctor as though from a distance, and John was tugged back more sharply by the feel of fingers curling around his tense, fisted ones. Sherlock pried the bottle from him, eyed it critically. "I give it thirteen days, at best."
The laughter was unexpected; John felt it bubble up, unable to contain it. He rolled away, covering his eyes with one hand, and Sherlock followed, stretched out on top of him, the familiar snap of a cap catching his attention.
"Come here," John murmured, weaving fingers into Sherlock's curls, pulling him into a kiss. He caught a small moan, and Sherlock's fingers tightened on his shoulders, tugging gently. John took the hint, rolling his husband onto his back again, one hand drifting down to find the lube, managing to squeeze some onto his fingers. He left a slick trail over Sherlock's skin, dipping down beneath the silk pants, stroking gently until Sherlock was breathing hard beneath him, cheeks flushed and eyes bright.
"Lift," John murmured, and the sight of Sherlock planting his feet to raise his hips almost undid him, if only for what it meant. There was no hesitation, no flash of pain or discomfort, just two white teeth catching a lower lip, worrying it.
"God," John managed as Sherlock slumped again, kicking his pants away. He manoeuvred a pillow under his hips and John had to close his eyes, dropping his head. It didn't help when he buried his nose in short curls, inhaling the musky smell of Sherlock and sex. Sherlock squirmed, John bit the insides of his cheeks, sucking in another deep breath through his nose.
A hand fisted into his hair, tugging impatiently. John slicked his fingers up more thoroughly, drizzling a line of lube down Sherlock's cock, the way it twitched making his mouth water, sending another shock straight through him. Sherlock groaned, head pressed into the pillows, when John rolled his balls in his palm, digging his thumbs in.
He eased his other hand up the back of Sherlock's thigh; his husband took the hint, pulling it to his chest, opening himself up. A deep breath, held for several seconds, kept John from losing it altogether. He trailed his fingers downward, teasing Sherlock's entrance, feeling the muscles pucker and flutter against his skin. Sherlock bit his lip again, letting it go on a hard gasp.
"Come on, John," he commanded, the imperious tone undone by breathlessness. John nodded, slipping a finger in; Sherlock's body clamped down on him immediately.
"Shh," he whispered, breath warm against the hot skin of Sherlock's hip. "Relax." Sherlock sucked in a deep breath, and John let his tongue dart out, drawing a quick stripe up Sherlock's cock before closing his lips around his partner.
The hand in his hair tightened again, convulsively, nails scraping over his scalp, and Sherlock arched up.
"No," he managed, fingers splaying to push John away. "No, John, I won't be able to– uh–" Relief with a touch of disappointment as John pulled away, focusing on relaxing tense, desperate muscle enough to slide a second finger in and begin scissoring gently.
"It's okay," he murmured, his own voice thick, not entirely steady. "It's all right. Relax." Sherlock nodded, breathing out slowly; John had to close his eyes against the sight of his husband's straining erection, the way his hips were taking on a slow cant in time with John's motions.
He crooked his fingertips slightly and Sherlock shuddered, fingernails scraping over the sheets. John backed off, opening his eyes to meet Sherlock's desperate gaze as he slid a third finger in, stroking slowly. Sherlock planted his other foot, thrusting, and John suddenly couldn't wait anymore.
A whimper of protest made him shiver when he pulled out, reaching for the lube again. Sherlock's fingers tangled with his, coating him hurriedly, lining John up to push in carefully. Shared groans resonated in the quiet room, and John felt his heart stutter when Sherlock wrapped long legs around his waist, squeezing so tightly he couldn't move, and it almost made him come. He clung desperately to whatever restraint he had left, sucking in a harsh breath through gritted teeth, aching and hoping like hell Sherlock eased up because he couldn't find his voice. He could feel Sherlock's erection trapped between them, hot and leaking, and the sensation doing nothing for the last shreds of his resolve. John scrabbled at them, gusting a sigh of relief when Sherlock loosened his grip, easing up with his internal muscles.
"Move," Sherlock groaned, pushing his head back into his pillow. "God, John, please, move."
John managed a nod, bracing himself, trying to hold himself back from too much too fast. Fingers clutched at his back, short nails biting into his skin. Sherlock shuddered with each thrust, erection trapped between them; John tried to bury his panting gasps against his husband's neck, feeling the staccato hammer of Sherlock's pulse when he pressed clumsy kisses against hot skin. He was afraid it was too much – Sherlock was shaking, unshed tears caught in his eyelashes as he tipped his head back, gasping for air – but he was afraid to stop, that he wouldn't be able to, that it would be too jarring, like having a bullet rip through him, like the skid of a car on an icy road and a shower of shattered glass.
"Please– John– J–" John could barely hear the words Sherlock could barely form past the rush of blood, the shared moans, the bright haze at the edges of his vision. He managed to work a hand between them, making Sherlock cry out, trying to jerk away with nowhere to go. He felt fingertips dig into his scar, and his world went white as Sherlock clenched around him, the cock in his hands pulsing as he shuddered through his own orgasm, hips thrusting helplessly.
For a moment, he couldn't see, and understood the panic Sherlock must have felt, the disorientation of not knowing where he was in space, which was up, where the limits of his body were. A singing flare against his nerves resolved itself into Sherlock's hot breath on his skin, still gasping, heart beating hard enough for John to feel it against his own chest.
He groaned, burying his face in damp curls, inhaling, never wanting to let go. You can't have us, he thought at some blurred, distant image of Moriarty. A clumsy hand on Sherlock's jaw turned him enough for John to kiss him, roughly and demanding, the tremors that ran through his husband's body at odds with the ferocity with which he kissed back, teeth digging into John's lower lip, a hand pressing on the back of John's head to keep him there.
The taut moment broke with an exhalation, shared breath in a space barely big enough to contain it, lips coming back together, more softly this time. John felt himself ease into the spaces left by relaxing limbs, fitting himself around Sherlock with practiced habit, as if the past two months hadn't happened, all the spaces between them forgotten and unimportant. Sherlock nuzzled his nose; John kissed him again, using it to displace any discomfort from pulling out. Fumbling hands worked at cross purposes and he chuckled, kissing Sherlock's tired smile as he pitched the flannel away, drawing them gently onto their sides.
"We should do that again sometime," he murmured, feeling Sherlock's lips stretch into another smile.
"Sometime soon," his husband replied, voice thick and drowsing.
"Very soon," John agreed.
"You know, Mrs. Hudson is gone all weekend."
"Mm," John hummed, kissing along a sharp jawline, tasting salt and sweat and Sherlock. "We'd best rest up then. We're going to need all our strength."