A/N: This idea absolutely would not get out of my head until I wrote it... and then I figured that I might as well just publish this, there could always be somebody who will enjoy it. : )
"I'm so sorry," sighed John as his phone rattled the desk drawer yet again. "I'd really better check that."
The woman sat across from him smirked. "Your wife?"
"Husband, actually," he replied distractedly as he thumbed in his passcode. "He's likely just bored but there's about an equal chance he's being hunted down by a sniper hired by a European crime syndicate or something, so I like to check."
The woman laughed, and John didn't bother to try and set her right. He scrolled quickly through his messages and bit back another sigh as he turned his phone completely on silent and deposited it back into the drawer. Christ, Sherlock. He allowed himself to scrub a hand over his face before settling reluctantly back into his well worn Doctor Mode.
"Just bored, it seems," he said. "So, you've been suffering from migraines lately?"
John was already checking his phone for new messages before the door had finished closing behind his last patient. No new messages. Shit. He read more carefully through the conversation as he shrugged into his coat and started heading for the tube.
Fuck me
Fuck me
Fuck me
John, come home and fuck me
John
JOHN
Come and fuck me
Come home
Please come home and fuck me
Where are you?
You need to come fuck me
COME HOME
Please come home
I'm going to die and then you'll never get to fuck me again
Come home
I'll be home in an hour and a half, okay? Why don't you take a nap for now?
Can't sleep before you've fucked me
i'm going to die and it will be your fault
It was no less worrying the second time through. He chewed his lower lip as he typed out a new reply.
On my way home now. Do you want anything to eat?
He kept hold of his phone as he boarded his train, as he stood squashed in with the rush hour crowd, hoping constantly to feel it vibrate in his hand, to get any kind of reply from Sherlock. It was extremely unlikely that Sherlock had actually expired in the past two hours, but that didn't stop John from worrying. Lestrade hadn't had any cases for them in almost a week, and while Sherlock had done a good job keeping himself busy with experiments those first free days, he had spent most of yesterday and the night before lying rigidly on the settee and snapping at John whenever he got too close.
John had been hoping that Sherlock would work himself out of his snit by the time John got home, but from the texts he had received, it would seem not. If Sherlock wanted anything specific, he would just tell John what it was. And if he was actually trying to seduce him, he would have texted in explicit detail what he wanted John to do to him. No, these texts told John that Sherlock had sunk into an even darker place in his mind, and that he wanted John close, wanted John surrounding him the best way he knew. He willed the train to go faster.
Come home
Please come home
John's phone stayed quiet in his hand the whole way home, and so he skipped stopping off to get food and climbed past the flat to their room to strip out of his suit and climb into his most comfortable jumper and jeans before heading back down to the sitting room, prepared to find the worst.
He found it. He slowly opened the door to see Sherlock curled up on the settee. Dark smudges painted his normally bright eyes pale against ashen skin, and the corners of his mouth were pulled down into an ugly frown. He followed John with his eyes as he snagged the blanket off the top of his red chair before making his way over to the sofa but otherwise didn't move. John swallowed down his sinking feeling and smiled softly at his husband. "How are you feeling?"
Sherlock didn't answer, but then, he didn't need to. When John walked in the room, Sherlock always acknowledged him somehow—smiled, smirked, snarled, whinged at him, jumped him—and if he didn't, he completely ignored him, either lost in thinking somewhere in that big brain of his, or completely engrossed in some experiment or other. This blank stare signified one of what John had come to think of as Sherlock's black moods, and every time he saw it, it terrified him more than any armed gunman, more than a certain deceased consulting criminal.
John's chest constricted painfully as Sherlock's eyes slid shut and his frown grew more pronounced. He placed the blanket on top of the sofa before lowering himself onto one knee and brushed one thumb along Sherlock's cheek, kissing him gently on the lips. "I missed you," he murmured. Sherlock didn't reply, didn't open his eyes. John stayed down, stroking Sherlock's curls, until his knee began to protest the prolonged contact with the hard floor. He pressed another kiss to Sherlock's forehead, then levered himself up from the floor. Sherlock made a tiny noise of protest.
"Not going anywhere, just—here. Budge up." Sherlock raised himself up halfway on one elbow. John helped him up the rest of the way, then slid in behind him, arranging them so that his own back was up against the armrest and Sherlock was settled between his legs. Sherlock let himself be manhandled and slumped onto John's chest while John tucked the blanket in around them both. John wound his arms around Sherlock and held on tightly, securing Sherlock in his warm embrace. Sherlock turned his head, burying his face as best he could in John's soft jumper.
John always wondered what was going on in Sherlock's head when he got like this—wondered what kind of demons it took to reduce Sherlock—brilliant, vibrant, irreverent, uncontainable Sherlock—to this silent, still heap of flesh and bones. He had never received an answer to this question, and had long ago stopped asking. All he could do was hold on tightly and hope that he could be enough.
John rested his head on Sherlock's curls, would have been content to just stay there all night, attempting to draw out bad thoughts with nought but lips and skin, but after an hour, the rumbling of his stomach and the impending crick in his neck made him reach for his phone. Sherlock tensed against him when he moved, and John held him tighter still with his free hand while he scrolled through his contacts with the other. He eventually found the number for their favorite Chinese restaurant and ordered a large carton of dim sum. He was more in the mood for noodles, but John was aware that he was likely to have a lapful of Sherlock as he ate, and dim sum had the two-fold advantage of being easy for him to eat one-handed and easy to feed to Sherlock. It was just about impossible to get his phone back into his pocket with Sherlock draped heavily on top of him, so he tossed it onto the the coffee table and rubbed circles into Sherlock's side under the blanket until the doorbell rang.
When it did ring, Sherlock pressed himself closer to John and spoke for the first time since John had walked into the flat. "Let Mrs. Hudson get it," he mumbled into John's jumper.
"No, c'mon, get up, Sherlock. We'll have to move anyway, to eat."
Sherlock reluctantly raised himself up, and John slid out from underneath him, holding up Sherlock's head as he did so, and lowering it gently back down to the couch so he didn't just let it drop and crack his skull on the armrest.
Three minutes later, he was settled back on the couch, Sherlock curled up on his lap, head resting against his shoulder.
The dim sum was slightly too big to eat in one bite, so for every one that John ate, he would take a bite out of the next and push the rest up against Sherlock's lips, and then, after the second, right into Sherlock's open mouth. Even after John was full, Sherlock kept opening his mouth for more – he'd barely eaten anything in two days, despite John's best efforts to force something, anything into him, and so John was all too happy to keep tearing dumplings in half and feeding them to his husband until the carton was completely empty.
The two of them sat there a little while longer, John running his fingers through Sherlock's curls despite the fact that they probably ought to have been washed yesterday. He wished that he could draw take this pain from Sherlock, suffer it himself rather than watch the man he loved crumble under the weight of his mind.
"John." Sherlock's voice was weak and muffled against John's shoulder. "Take me to bed now. You need to fuck me." John held back a sigh, then pulled both himself and Sherlock up off the couch.
"All right," he said. "Upstairs, then."
Their teeth were all brushed, their clothes scattered on the floor, and their feet tangled together under slowly warming sheets. John pulled the blankets in close, hoping that Sherlock could find some peace here, sleep for a little while.
Sherlock clung tightly to John, pressed up against him, cock lying soft against John's thigh"Now. Want you inside me."
John listened to Sherlock's shallow breathing for a few seconds before replying. "Are you sure, love? We don't have to, if you don't want to." His words were gentle, but they caused Sherlock's eyelids to slide shut, the skin between his brows to wrinkle.
"You don't want me." Sherlock made a half-hearted attempt to move away from John before John rolled him onto his back and settled himself on top of Sherlock, pressing him into the sheets.
"I never said that." John lowered his head and captured Sherlock's mouth, invading it with his tongue, trying his best to engage Sherlock but unsurprised and undeterred when it didn't work. He grabbed Sherlock's wrists and pinned them to his sides, securing him, grounding him. He drew back, then lowered his head, pressing his cheek to Sherlock's so that his lips were inches from Sherlock's ear. "I'm going to touch you until I'm the only thing you feel," he breathed.
He trailed his lips over Sherlock's skin, until he reached once again the downturned edges of Sherlock's mouth. He kissed Sherlock then, slow and deep, then pulled away.
"I'm going to take you apart." Put you back together.
He lowered his head again, so that his lips just covered Sherlock's, drawing Sherlock's spent air into his body and replacing it with his own breath.
"Do you trust me?" Sherlock went completely limp under him.
"Yes, John, yes."
"Good," growled John, and nipped Sherlock's ear, but it was just for show. Sherlock was still soft underneath him and lying atop his suffering lover was not turning John on overmuch.
He held Sherlock down and kissed him and kissed him and kissed him, deeply at first, then gentling his touches as Sherlock's breathing became slow and deep until his kisses were just a gentle press of lips to skin.
Reasonably sure that Sherlock was finally asleep, John rolled them over so that Sherlock was pressed to John's chest. He himself felt completely exhausted, ready to drop off any moment. Sherlock stirred slightly underneath John when he pressed one last kiss to the back of Sherlock's head.
"You take care of me, John," he said, voice heavy under the first strains of sleep.
"I'm happy to do it, love," John whispered, and held on tightly to Sherlock even after sleep had claimed them both.