"God, I'm so sorry, I swear – he doesn't mean it, really, he doesn't know what he's saying!"
"I know precisely what I'm saying, John. This woman cheated on him, repeatedly, and he killed himself. There were other factors, of course, predisposition, depression, and so forth, but overall, it was the realization of her infidelity that made him do it."
The elderly widow's eyes were overflowing with tears.
"We're done here," Sherlock continued briskly. "Nothing more to be said. Case closed. Come along, John," and he strode out the door, flinging his scarf over his shoulder.
"I really am very sorry," John insisted desperately, "please, here – " he handed her a handkerchief " – and trust me, it was not your fault. Don't you for a minute blame yourself for your husband's death." He looked her straight in the eyes. "It will be difficult to be left behind, but you will never be able to move on until you stop blaming yourself."
"It – it was years ago!" she cried. "Decades! I never meant for him to find out, I never meant to hurt him!"
John pulled out a pen hurriedly and scrawled his personal phone number on a napkin.
"Please, call me if you need to talk more. None of this was your fault. He's a complete idiot." He jogged towards the door, calling behind him, "Don't hesitate to call!"
John was relieved to see the widow pulling herself together slightly just before he lost sight of her and caught up to Sherlock. He stormed past the oblivious detective, and did not speak a word to him all the way back to Baker Street.
"All right, John," Sherlock said brusquely, "what is it, what's bothering you?"
"Nothing."
"Come on then, you're acting like a child. Are you upset about how I ended that case? It was suicide, plain and simple, and the motive was quite easily deduced. She wanted to know!"
"She didn't want to know like that, you heartless bastard." John jammed the key into the lock, flinging the door open.
"I really can't see how it's affecting you quite so much; the case is over, he was rather elderly in any case, and she will get over it in time, she has her cats after all – "
John had stomped all the way up the stairs and but at this he paused, seething, in front of the door to the sitting room.
"You can't see how it's affecting me so much?" He turned around to face Sherlock, eyes strangely bright.
"Well, no, John, it's not as if we knew him – "
"You, Sherlock Holmes, cannot see why I am bothered by you telling a women who has lost someone she loves to suicide, that it – was – her – fault." John blinked hard. He ran his fingers through his hair and stared at the dawning horrified realization on Sherlock's face. Sherlock opened his mouth, but John had already stormed into the sitting room, clenching at his hair again, breathing heavily.
"John," Sherlock began quietly, "I never – you haven't wanted to talk about it. You were just pleased that I was back."
"Of course I was pleased," John snapped.
"I figured you were over it."
"Over it." John looked up, incredulously. His hands were clenched into fists.
"Well, yes, since it didn't seem to be something you wanted to talk about – "
"It's something I didn't know how!" John sat down hard on the sofa, only to stand up sharply again, pacing, hoping vaguely that Mrs. Hudson wasn't home to hear them row. "You expect her to be over it soon enough then, is that it?"
"Who?"
"The widow, Sherlock! The one you left thinking it was her fault that he died, that he killed himself!" John realized that was shouting now, and his face felt oddly damp. "You left her thinking that she could have saved him. That maybe somehow, if I had been clever enough, if I hadn't been so bloody dull or stupid, or an idiot, I could have saved you. I could have done something." He lifted his hands angrily, only to drop them somewhat weakly at his sides. "Something. Anything. For three years, Sherlock. I kept replaying it in my head, those last weeks, days, hours, minutes. I should have been able to have done something."
"But – " and Sherlock seemed genuinely surprised that this didn't help " – I'm here now!"
"But I lost three years, Sherlock!" John grabbed at the detective's collar now, walking him steadily backwards. "Three years thinking it was my fault – and I still do. I still think I could have done something to not have lost that time with you, you insensitive, idiotic, self-involved ass." He had pinned Sherlock against the sitting room wall now. Neither of them had thought to turn on the lights when they walked in, and dusk had set in on their way home, bathing the room in a mild blue shadow. Sherlock looked down at John's defiant face, the doctor's lower lip sticking out just a bit, furiously, cheeks damp with tears the man hadn't even registered weeping.
And Sherlock understood, a split second before John kissed him.
It was easy, effortless, almost, though John hadn't kissed someone in over three years, and goodness knows when Sherlock had. John was so starved for Sherlock, so desperate and hungry, a hunger that had been building out of loneliness and love and heartache for so many years, perhaps since the first moments of uncertainty that fateful day Sherlock deduced half of John's life story from his phone and his limp, that it came naturally. The years of watching Sherlock, and even longer, the years of imagining doing precisely this, enabled John to kiss him the way he always pictured Sherlock needed to be kissed.
John bit Sherlock's lips, coaxed Sherlock's mouth open with his tongue. He sucked hard or Sherlock's mouth, letting his passion become contagious, leading the way. Sherlock was only startled for a moment before he kissed back, tentatively but expertly, allowing John to take over.
John pushed him harder against the wall, pulling Sherlock's coat off, his scarf off, tugging at the buttons of his shirt. Sherlock was panting for breath with a helplessness John had never heard before, a need John had only dreamt of, and suddenly it was too hot in the flat, his skin and Sherlock's seemed to be on fire, and he was pulling off clothes as quickly as possible. He burrowed his face in the crook of Sherlock's neck, delighting in the moans Sherlock let out as he sucked possessively on his skin, leaving marks down the detective's throat as he began to unbutton the man's trousers.
John ripped off the trousers, and pausing only for a second, Sherlock's pants. The sight of Sherlock's superbly full erection, the first honest indication that Sherlock indeed wanted this as badly as John had, made John weaken slightly from arousal, made him nearly stumble.
Sherlock caught him, stared pointedly at him with eyes glazed from lust and love, and turned them around, pinning John to the wall now. John leaned heavily against it as Sherlock kissed him, nearly delirious from the sensation of Sherlock, actively, decisively, kissing him, Sherlock's lips on his, his breath in John's mouth, his small moans for John, just for John.
Sherlock took his turn in kissing his way down John's body, pulling off his jumper, his pants. Sherlock knelt at John's feet. He flashed a grin up – and wrapped his mouth around John's cock.
John flung his head back against the wall, moaning feverishly, trying to steady himself. His hands scrambled for Sherlock's hair, tugging at it as Sherlock deep-throated him. Sherlock let him hold his head steady, letting John thrust into his mouth, letting John fuck his mouth until he was nearly choking. When John pulled back, Sherlock's porcelain skin was flushed red, his mouth and eyes wet. He ran his hand across his mouth, and grinned.
That cocky grin was all the incentive John needed to grab him and kiss him hard, biting him, loving the taste of his own precum on Sherlock's lips. He slammed Sherlock face first against the wall and kissed eagerly down the man's body, tasting every inch of Sherlock's soft skin, each of Sherlock's resulting moans making John's own cock even harder.
John stood, feeling his whole body quivering in anticipation. He pressed himself against Sherlock's nakedness and breathed, feeling Sherlock's heartbeat pulse throughout his warm body and smiled painfully into Sherlock's shoulderblades.
"I'm here." Sherlock seemed to read his mind. "I'm here, John. I'm alive." He reached back and squeezed John's hand. "And I'm not going anywhere." You're mine. "I'm yours."
John's smile broadened, and in the next instant, he pulled Sherlock's hips back – the man was tall, he could hardly reach otherwise – and eased his erection into Sherlock's body.
Sherlock gave a harsh gasp that made John even harder, but he paused, concerned.
"It hurts."
"I can take it. I want it." Sherlock pushed back on him. "Please."
John sucked in air through his teeth, but Sherlock pushed back against the wall, grinding down on him, and the sight of Sherlock's slender back arching for him, the rising moonlight making the shadows dance along the lines of his hot skin, the bitemarks John had left on his neck and shoulders – John couldn't hold back any longer.
He fucked Sherlock with the passion he'd been containing for so long, with the anger, the resentment, the irritation, the lust, the longing, and the inconceivable amount of love he'd been harboring. The cheeks of Sherlock's ass smacked deliciously against his thighs, and through reveling at the tightness of Sherlock's virgin hole, the way it clenched down on his cock in an intensely delicious way he'd never felt before with anyway, John remembered that the reason he could stand here and fuck Sherlock so hard against this wall was because Sherlock made him realize he didn't need his cane, all those years ago, and John fucked him harder.
"I owe you so much," he let out between thrusts, just above a whisper. "I was so alone, and I owe you so much."
Sherlock was moaning, gasping out John's name as his body was dominated, but he managed: "You owe me nothing. You gave me so much. I'm sorry – about what I said before. About the widow. You know none of it was your fault."
"God Sherlock, shut up," John moaned, thrusting his head back in ecstasy, but he was smiling.
"You're not alone anymore," Sherlock continued, "you won't ever have to be alone anymore."
John bit his lip and whispered thank you, and at that, grabbed Sherlock's hips tightly and thrust into him harder than ever.
With each thrust, John could feel every centimeter of Sherlock's ass around his cock, in and out, in and out. Watching his partner's stalwart body jerk as he pounded into it, John could feel every emotion he'd bottled up come spilling out, and he channeled in all into Sherlock's body, giving him everything he had. Not only fucking him, but loving him, claiming him, confessing to him, giving into him.
Sherlock's body was twisting now, shuddering, and he stammered out John's name, fingernails scrabbling against the wallpaper for a handhold. John fucked him harder, glancing down to see his own cock pistoning into Sherlock's ass, loving the way Sherlock pushed back on him. Sherlock was clenching even tighter around him now, making John's thrusts grow harsh and erratic, and he could feel that somehow, Sherlock was close, somehow, John had found that spot inside him, perhaps from imagining it so many times.
John dug his nails into Sherlock's hips and managed to hold out for a few more thrusts, until Sherlock's clenched down impossibly hard on his cock and Sherlock's head flung back, the normally composed face distorted beautifully in orgasm. John released gratefully into Sherlock's ass, fucking him furiously in those last moments, filling Sherlock with cum so that the detective's body writhed.
John pulled back and marveled at Sherlock's naked wet body, from the contours of his back to his firm dripping ass to his strong, shaking legs, still spread.
"You're fucking gorgeous," John murmured, sliding down the wall. Sherlock sat down gingerly beside him.
"Is that why you've been wanting to fuck me?" Sherlock asked. His voice was quieter, tamer than usual, and he let his head fall to John's shoulder, his fingers entwine with John's.
"Among other reasons." John smiled. "So, so many other reasons." He pressed his lips to Sherlock's sweaty forehead. "Sherlock?"
"Yes?"
"I missed you."
END