It was wrong. It was risky. Sherlock knew with ever fiber of his being that there was no reason for him to be in this room, at this moment, with this man. There was every reason to be anywhere else with anyone else. If Moran were to find out, somehow, that Sherlock had come here...
But it had been nearly two years and Sherlock had been overly careful to be sure he had not been followed. Or seen. Moving through the shadows had become his best mode of transport and had not failed him yet.
Now he sat in an old straight backed chair. He had already removed his coat and scarf, tossing them over the back of the seat. Silently, he sat in the dark stillness of the tiny room watching the form before him. Only a slant of light filtered in through the window, allowing Sherlock some view. The bed seemed too big with John alone in it. He laid on his back, the sheets twisted around his legs and waist, his arms resting comfortably above his head. Stretched out and relaxed. Breathing. With each slow, gentle breath, John's chest would rise ever so slightly then lower again. The light from outside playing off his skin, highlighting the rise, deepening the shadows in the curves.
He is beautiful like this.
He was always beautiful, thought Sherlock. Right from the start.
John had waltzed into Sherlock's life quite unexpectedly. Despite being able to read every minute detail about everything within a six hundred kilometer radius of himself, Sherlock never expected John. He never expected for John to so expertly, so completely meld himself into Sherlock's life. Into Sherlock's mind. Into his...
Like a thief, thought Sherlock. He crept into my life and stole my heart.
Sherlock thought back to a moment, a mundane moment like any other the two may have shared on any given day. John had been going about his morning routine, preparing himself for some bit of work they had for the day, while Sherlock sat wrapped in his sheet playing the violin. John had just dressed and was eating breakfast when he shot Sherlock a reproachful glare. Sherlock twitched a tiny grin then broke into The Hall of the Mountain King. He started quite softly and slowly, watching John the whole time. As the song began to build in tempo and volume, Sherlock leaned forward playing at John instead of for him. John gave him a confused look but smiled as if he were trying to figure out a joke. At the songs crescendo, Sherlock leapt to his feet, startling John and causing him to gasp and laugh. Sherlock stood, his arms in furious motion and playful concentration danced across his face as he easily played out the closing powerful measures.
That laugh, Johns smile when Sherlock laid down the violin. That had been the moment Sherlock handed his heart to John.
If John were a thief, I was his willing victim.
John's breathing stalled for a moment, halting Sherlock's heart within his rib cage For that split second, nothing in the entire world existed outside of Sherlock's fear at being caught. John, however, gasped a deep breath and moved in the sheets, his hips shifting. The sheets pulled and tugged with every movement. The shifting allowed Sherlock a view of John's left hip. The light highlighting the ridge, darkening the shallow dip, the soft rise to his belly, sprinkled with light hairs.
Sherlock took a shuddering slow breath. his mind displaying images of his own hand hovering close to that belly. His own fingers brushing lightly down the ridge of that hip. His mind supplied an actual memory, the one time Sherlock had handled John.
They had been arguing. It wasn't important about what, Sherlock knew even then that the argument wasn't really about the human heart in the freezer. But he and John had been back and forth and around again until John had lost his patience and was readying himself to leave, as he oft did during arguments. He had stormed to get his coat when Sherlock followed him and pushed him roughly in against the wall. In a display purely of animalistic dominance, Sherlock had grabbed John's hips and pinned him to the wall. He leaned in to John's shocked surprise and growled a threat about how it could be John's heart in the freezer next. John's face became hard and stony, his eyes bearing into Sherlock. He had knocked Sherlock's hands away then purposefully strode out of the flat.
Sherlock wondered now if he had hurt John that day. Hurt him physically, yes, but also if it had hurt him... where it mattered most. He drank in the sight of sleeping John now, regret reaching into the pit of his stomach.
Oh, John. I let you see... the parts of me that weren't ...
Sherlock shook his head. He propped his elbows on his knees, rested his head in his hands.
Those parts of me that were...not good.
Sherlock brought up the memory of that same afternoon when John returned to the flat. He came with a gift for Sherlock. Something Sherlock did not expect, especially after his behavior earlier in the day. John had brought him a book. But not just any book. It was a book detailing the events surrounding a string of murders in Ireland. Sherlock had mentioned in passing his own interest in the decades old case of Maveric Flannergy, the Irish Serial Killer, and John had remembered. Not only had he remembered, but he had thought of it during a time when Sherlock did not deserve the kindness. John had the clarity to see that Sherlock's outburst had been lack of stimulation... not true anger. And in the memory, Sherlock had barely thanked John. John only nodded at the dismissal, accepting it as easily and effortlessly as if he hadn't been just shrugged off by the ass who bruised his ego just hours before. He even went as far to place a forgiving hand on Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock had shrugged that off as well.
A tear slipped down into Sherlock's cupped hands.
With every touch... you tried to fix me.
"Sherlock," John spoke the name clearly, with resolve. The statement was enough to freeze Sherlock in his seat, certain he had been caught. "Sherlock," John whispered this time.
Sherlock peeked through his fingers at John. The sleeping man had become suddenly restless, his body making small movements as if unable to decide what to do but wanting to do something. Once assured that John was still asleep, Sherlock lowered his hands to watch John fully. The man in the bed shifted his hands down by his sides. He pulled his legs together then tugged his knees up nearly to his chest before lowering them again and seeming to relax. He turned his face to and then away from Sherlock twice. Finally, He settled again. One hand resting on his own belly, the other tossed and resting open beside his face.
Now you're talking in your sleep, John?
Sherlock watched as Johns fingers absently curled and relaxed again against his belly, dragging against the tender skin there. Dragging against raw exposed nerves within Sherlock. He held himself tightly in the seat, tensed, unable to react. He thought briefly of trying to engage John in conversation while he was in this talkative sleep state.
What might you say that you would never say to me, John?
Sherlock played over a few scenarios One where John rose from his slumber with excitement and joy realizing Sherlock's return. Another where John solidly punches him square in the jaw. And another more painful option where, once roused, John breaks down because he is overwhelmed with having Sherlock return to his life. He can't live without Sherlock and yet, he would not be able to live with him either. 'I was going to move on, Sherlock. Why would you do this to me?' Sherlock's imagined John pleas of him. 'I've have enough of you. I can not handle you. I can not handle ...this. I've had enough!'
Enough... of our love?
Sherlock stood, his muscles taught with anxious tension. Keeping his eyes on John, he began to move across the room. Stealthy, weightless steps, He ghosted nearer to John until the man stood looking down on his sleeping friend. From this angle, John's face was cast nearly in shadow. The side of his neck brushed in pale light, his chest and shoulders mountains and valleys of light and dark. The slender line of John's clavicle, the pool of darkness it gathered. Sherlock allowed his eyes to settle there, to swim in that pool. He fought the sudden urge to reach and run his thumb along that line. To dip his fingers into that pool. To lean in and brush his lips against John's neck. To press his nose behind John's ear and breathe his scent...
Just give me a reason... an excuse to act on these feelings, John. Anything to unleash these urges.
Sherlock watched as John's restful expression tightened in concentration. His eyes moving behind his lids. REM sleep. Dreaming. Clearly, not a good dream. John's breath quickening for the moment. Sherlock's heart beating a little faster.
Just that little bit was enough. An invitation in his eyes. And if not an invitation, a temptation at the very least.
Sherlock held his hand out over John, halted by sudden indecision. John's dreaming expression nearly painful to witness. Carefully, gently, Sherlock lowered his hand until he was nearly touching John's chest. A current of tension flowing in the minute space between them. Sherlock held his breath while he prayed John would take a deeper breath to raise his chest to meet Sherlock's hand. The hand, he now realized, that was shaking in terror. Finally, shoving aside all reason, Sherlock gently rested his full palm, fingers splayed, on John's chest. His fears subside as John calms instantly in his sleep. His body lifting, pressing into Sherlock's touch. He even hums, a small sound Sherlock finds pleasurable. Sherlock began to breathe again.
He allows his hand to rest, applying the slightest pressure, across John's chest. It feels so intimate. He can feel the smooth texture of John's skin. The meat of muscle and bone. The rush of blood just below the skin. He can feel John's lungs fill and compress with each breath. John is cool to the touch at first, his skin exposed to the night air of the flat, but as he pushes into Sherlock's touch a blush begin to spread, to paint itself across his canvas. Sherlock could feel John's temperature rise. The blush crawling across John's chest beginning to bloom on Sherlock, as well. His own body reacting to the touch, the intimacy, the need.
For that moment, Sherlock felt whole again. He felt as if his entire life hadn't fractured and splintered around him. He felt as if he wasn't living his life a battered shell wrapped in a black overcoat. For just that second... He felt like he wasn't broken. As soon as he realized it, Sherlock ached to recreate the feeling. His fingers curled softly, gliding across John's flesh, causing John to hum again, triggering an arch in his back, where he was lifting himself to meet Sherlock's hand. The detective, the lonely run away, the dead man, the damaged human standing and holding on to the only thing in his life that he ever truly cared about, his heart racing and his mind blank as he reached to cradle John's face with his other hand. In his sleep, John turned into the touch. He nuzzled into Sherlock's palm, the week of scruff on his cheek causing eruptions of warmth within Sherlock.
Sherlock brought up a memory. He and John were at a diner on a case. John was eating. Sherlock was not. John was talking. Sherlock was distracted. He was focused so completely on the task at hand. His mind moving at an astronomical rate, filtering through deductions. John noticed Sherlock wasn't paying attention and stopped speaking mid sentence. Once Sherlock registered the silence, he turned to see what may have happened to draw John off the course of the story. What he saw before him wasn't anything special or extraordinary. It was only John, slightly miffed, working away at his meal. But Sherlock noticed that John had missed his shave that morning. Possibly for the past two or three mornings.
"What is that?"
"What?" John asked between bites.
"That. On your face. You never miss a shave, Captain John Watson."
"Thought I'd try something new is all." John replied without even a glance up.
"Is it?"
"Yeah," John's eyes finally meeting Sherlock's. He brushed the side of his face with the tops of his fingers. The movement sending thrills through Sherlock. "What do you think?" He asked.
"It's just hair." Sherlock lied.
Sherlock, gazing down on his sleeping friend as John was nuzzled into the palm of Sherlock's hand, feeling John's pulse quicken and his temperature continue to rise beneath his other hand, Sherlock shook his head. He whispered to John, "It's wonderful."
"You're wonderful."
Without another thought, Sherlock stripped and maneuvered himself into the bed beside John. His own body sliding up against John's so perfectly. John rustled in his sleep but he moved in sync with Sherlock, allowing the taller man to snuggle right up to him. Sherlock was stiff as first, unsure and afraid of waking John but he had reached the point that he hardly cared anymore. He needed this. He needed to be close to John after spending so much time away from him. He needed to connect with him. He needed to feel whole and complete and filled. He needed to feel loved.
Right here, next to John, his palm spread again across John's chest, gathering information and storing it in his palace. Memorizing this moment. These feelings. These complicated and yet so stunningly simple and raw feelings. Sherlock thought, as he intertwined his fingers into John's then lifted John's hand to kiss the back of it, I could learn to love again.
Sherlock sighed as his body began to relax into the bed. He allowed himself to relax into John. He paced his breath on John's. He tried to pace the rhythm of his heart on John's. He had nearly accomplished it when John's eyes fluttered open. Sherlock tensed in panic. He searched John's eyes for recognition... for anything sign of how he should prepare to react. John's eyes flitted over Sherlock's face. He broke out in a huge sleepy grin.
"Hey," he mumbled, his eyes alight with contented happiness. The eyes of a man still half drowsing. He leaned in and kissed Sherlock's forehead. "I thought you'd never come back," he breathed. John then turned on his side facing Sherlock and proceeded to wrap himself around Sherlock. He wrapped his arms and legs around Sherlock and pulled him in as close as he could. Sherlock was still stiff with terror. As much as he wanted to melt into John, into the kiss, into the breath, he was afraid.
"Relax, Babe. I've got you." John drawled. Sleep drawing out his words. Sherlock willed himself to relax. He willed himself to enjoy this moment, however life threatening it could become in the future.
"John, I..."
"Sherlock... Sh...Shh..." John wrapped his arms more tightly around Sherlock.
"I'm sorry, Sherlock." John mumbled, half asleep. "I'm sorry I didn't understand you. I didn't understand you or where you were coming from. I thought I knew you and I thought... I thought that you were..." John's voice trailed off as if he were falling back into a deeper sleep.
Sherlock nudged John to continue. He needed to hear this. No matter what John said, Sherlock needed to hear it.
"I thought that you were fine." He finished. "I thought that we were fine." he amended.
"We had everything," Sherlock whispered, the words tumbling out before he could stop them.
John opened his eyes again, heavy with sleep still, and gazed into Sherlock's. He ran a hand through Sherlock's curls. His fingers tracing patterns on Sherlock's scalp, twisting curls this way and that.
"Your head is running wild again, Sherlock." He sighed. "My precious man, We still have everything." John leaned in kissing Sherlock on the forehead again. "This fear is all in your mind."
Is this happening? Sherlock wondered.
"It's in the stars, Sherlock. You and I. Remember... the solar system?" John rambled in his sleep. "We are there, written in the stars."
Sherlock tucked his head into the crook oh John's neck. He buried his face into John's shoulder. He breathed the musky scent of John. He relished in the feel of their skin touching. He ran his hands along the length of John trying to catalog every touch, every texture, every curve. Sherlock wanted to take John and write him over every scar in Sherlock's own heart. Maybe then he wouldn't feel so broken. Maybe then...
"You've been having bad dreams." Sherlock breathed into John's chest. He felt John nod, his breathing still even, calm. "You know, I'm not really here?" Sherlock suggested, tears welling in his eyes. He felt John squeeze him closer. He felt John nod, just the same. "You know, there is nothing more than empty sheets here, love?" Sherlock couldn't hold in the tears any longer. He held John desperately, the tears falling and smearing into John's chest. He felt John nod.
I'll never stop, Sherlock thought. I'll have you written over the scars in my heart. I'm not broken when I'm with you, John. I'll fix this for us. Our love can be enough.
John stirred in his sleep. A warm feeling bubbling from his belly. He stretched, slowly opening his eyes to the morning light. He looked around the room. Empty. He felt along the bed. Empty. He ran his hands along his arms where he was sure he had just been holding Sherlock. He sat up in bed, tears streaming down his face.
He reached for the nightstand. He pulled out a large bottle of alcohol and a dirty cup. He poured a hefty drink as he choked back a sob.
He tossed the drink back, savoring the burn as he swallowed. Tears dragging down his cheeks. John wiped them away with the back of his hand.
"Nothing is as bad as it seems." he breathed. "It was only a dream..."
He curled back into the bed, wrapping his arms around his pillow and allowed himself to fall completely apart.