Author's Note:
In my other life, somewhere across the Atlantic, I am writing a dissertation about the diagnosis of mental disorders. And then, in my spare time, I read fanfiction about Sherlock and John.
At some point it occurred to me that, among the many reasons I love this current interpretation of Holmes and Watson, is the underlying theme of redemption – and healing – through friendship and, quite possibly, love. Sherlock and John are among the "walking wounded" (and who among us is not?), two fragile and flawed human beings who are trying to make sense of their lives in the wake of injury, addition, trauma, and lifelong solitude. That they have found each other is nothing short of miraculous. And that they should be able to help each other is simply sublime.
It has also occurred to me that Sherlock's work – "deduction" – is not that different from "diagnosis," which properly belongs to medicine (and thus to John). In the Greek, diagnosis comes from two words that mean "to know, perceive" ("gnosis") and "thoroughly" ("dia"). Is not the definition of love something similar? To thoroughly perceive, to deeply know, to discern (or deduce) asunder?
I thought so, and thus this fic was created. Accept it as a sequel, of sorts, to my previous story, "(Mis)diagnosis".
I must thank a few people for inspiring me to write another story, whether because of their interest in my previous one, or because of their own amazing writing, or because they said something to me in a convo that got me thinking more about Sherlock and John and the special way that they understand each other. Thanks go to: Lastew (my fearless and flattering beta), EldritchHorrors, Daysofstorm, Skyfullofstars, mazarin, Mirith Griffin, Sfumatosoup, verityburns, MischaLecter, xXx-Ninja-Pirate-xXx, and countless others…
I'm not sure why this John has such a potty mouth, but please forgive the obscenities, as well as any Americanisms that I wasn't able to catch by myself. Just take his language as a kind of study on the many meanings of the f-word. (Though there is definitely a better exploration of this word in the first season of The Wire. But I digress…) Rated M for dirty language, religious sacrilege, and sexual situations between men.
And of course I don't own these characters! They belonged to ACD and now they belong to Gatiss and Moffatt and the BBC. And I certainly don't own anything from the Holy Book (Ha! The very idea!), though Psalm 139 is my very favourite.
~Emma
Diagnosis
Etymology: Latin diagnōsis , Greek διάγνωσις , n. of action διαγιγνώσκειν to distinguish, discern, δια- through, thoroughly, asunder + γιγνώσκειν to learn to know, perceive.
(Oxford English Dictionary)
John had fewer nightmares these days. The limp was gone, his scar was growing paler, and he couldn't remember the last time he had started at the sound of helicopter blades, or air brakes, or an ambulance siren. Actually, he'd got quite used to the battlefield that was London, and recently he had contemplated whether or not to keep seeing his therapist. Ella, he reminded himself. Her name is Ella. Parents of West Indian extraction, educated at UCL, trained in Kleinian psychoanalysis – you could tell by the way she always wanted him to talk about his anger – divorced, two kids (White father).
John rubbed his forehead. He was all too aware that he was starting to think like Sherlock these days, and he didn't know whether or not he liked the habit. Surely his therapist deserved a little privacy, didn't she? After all, she had so carefully cultivated it with him, turning every question he had about her right back onto him.
"It sounds like it's important for you to know my credentials, John." (Bloody right it is, or I won't know if I'm seeing some new-age quack.)
"How does it make you feel to know that I have children?" (And just because I happened to remark on the frames that were right there on her desk.)
"Does it make you feel better to know that I've failed at relationships, too?" (When I never said she had failed at her relationships – I just noticed that she doesn't wear a ring and I told her that I guessed that she was divorced. And what did she mean, anyway, by implying that I'm failing at relationships?)
Ella was almost as good as Sherlock at keeping tight-lipped about her personal life. And she was almost as good as Sherlock at making John feel like he had done something wrong when it came to the people he loved.
John sat in the kitchen, spreading marmite on his toast and thinking about a rather pleasant dream that he had had just before waking (for once, it was a dream that he actually wanted to remember). He glanced around the kitchen, which was unusually tidy for 221B, and idly wondered whether or not he would have enough time to shine his shoes before work.
He was feeling just fine, reminiscing over his dream, when Sherlock came into the kitchen and asked him what he had bought Sarah for her birthday.
"Roses? Chocolate?" Sherlock practically sneered the words.
John dropped his toast in shock and looked up at his flatmate, who had traded his usual blue robe for a black kimono. Sherlock smiled down at him.
"Wh—what?" John asked him.
"Sarah's birthday," Sherlock repeated, his mouth turned up into a self-satisfied smirk. "It was yesterday, wasn't it?" He sat down next to John and picked up a stray test tube, examining its contents. "I'll have to buy more hydrochloric acid next time I'm at the druggist. You won't happen to pass by one today, will you? HCl is in such short supply at Bart's these days."
"Jesus, Sherlock, don't change the subject. How do you know it was Sarah's birthday yesterday?" Please please please let him, just this once, be mistaken…
"You wrote it down in your agenda, John. Which I assumed you must check once in a while, otherwise how would the dear doctor keep his appoint—"
"Fuck!" John stood up from the table and fumbled in his pocket for his phone. He only came up with a few spare pence and a safety pin. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!" He rubbed his eyes with his fists and then looked around the room. "Why didn't you say anything, Sherlock? Fuck."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow.
"Sorry," John said. "It's just – I can't believe I forgot her birthday. And I was just saying to Ella that—" Sherlock stared at his friend.
"You're still talking to your therapist about Sarah? I thought that ended months ago. Wouldn't it be more productive to use your therapist to talk about those nightmares that you insist that you don't have?"
"They've really got a lot better, Sherlock." Sherlock's eyes widened, disbelief sketched across his face. "Wait, what am I saying?" John mused out loud. "I don't have to discuss my therapy with others, Sherlock, least of all with you. And don't get me started on my dreams, they're none of your business. Only – I'm fucked. Really and truly fucked."
"My apologies for asking," Sherlock said smoothly. A bit too smoothly. John could swear that his roommate was gloating. "But I thought you were just friends these days. Or is the on-again-off-again thing now on again?"
"And wouldn't you like to know, you flaming sod!" Sherlock cringed, ever so slightly. Poor choice of words, John thought. But he couldn't help himself; he was pissed. "And here I was thinking that I'd lost my agenda again. You royal fucker. You stole it!"
"I borrowed it, John."
"You borrowed it? Absconded it, more like it. And don't tell me that you had no idea what was coming up. You knew that it was her birthday. And you didn't say a thing to me about it."
Sherlock shrugged, and the kimono slid off one shoulder, baring an expanse of pale skin. He didn't move to adjust it, just gave John another cold stare.
"I'm sure she'll forgive you, John, if you tell her that I was the one responsible. That is, if you want to be forgiven."
"Of course I want to be forgiven, Sherlock, you arse! But that's not likely to fly this time, Sherlock."
"Oh?"
"Yeah, how many times do you think she's heard that excuse already? 'So sorry, Sarah, I'm 40 minutes late because Sherlock needed someone to chop and dice a body at the Morgue.' 'Oops, forgot to call because I was tied up by some ruffians in the West End.' 'Can't spend the night, Sarah, Sherlock has a cold.' I think I've used up all the excuses in the book. And all of them have to do with you," he said, resentfully.
Sherlock grinned, obviously pleased with John's admission.
"So bring her flowers. Wine her and dine her. Make up for it with La Perla. Isn't that what boyfriends do?"
"I think I'd get a punch in the face if I thought that bringing her lacy undergarments would atone for missing her birthday. Especially since we're not an item anymore, Sherlock. I'm her friend. I need to grovel at her feet, not imply that I want to bang her senseless. You really know nothing about women, do you, Sherlock?"
Sherlock stiffened and turned away from John, busying himself with the teapot.
"You know that's not my area, John," he said softly.
"Right," John muttered. "Not your area"—he said in a mocking voice—"and yet, so conveniently, you manage to get me to do absolutely every thing that a man shouldn't do to a girlfriend. Stand her up for dinner. Get her kidnapped. Forget her birthday. Well done, Sherlock."
"I thought she wasn't your girlfriend anymore, John. I'm sorry."
Sherlock turned to face John again and leaned against the stove, his arms crossed. He bowed his head and John could see that his hair was particularly riotous that morning. The kimono was still loose around his flatmate's shoulders, revealing two perfect clavicles. John envied those collarbones, straight and unscarred. Like John's used to be, before…
"I'm sorry, John," Sherlock repeated softly, looking up from under his curls. His grey eyes looked moist. Crocodile tears, thought John meanly. But then again…John had been living with Sherlock for half a year and he had never heard his roommate apologize for anything in earnest. Not for leaving a limping John in the middle of a crime scene on the first night they'd worked together. Not for tagging along on John's date at the circus. Not for letting John get kidnapped by Moriarty. Sherlock had never apologized before, and even if the tears were disingenuous, he had said he was sorry. That had to count for something, didn't it?
"Sherlock—" John started. "Sometimes I just can't understand you."
Sherlock scoffed in the back of his throat. Then he said, in a voice so rich that John thought he must be putting it on, "You're not the first one to tell me that, John. But I had expected more from you. You know me better than anyone." Sherlock adjusted his kimono, putting it back on his shoulders at last, and strode out of the kitchen, humming to himself. He went into the living room and opened his violin case, rosined the bow, and tipped the instrument up under his chin.
John followed him out, brushing the toast crumbs off of his shirt. He grabbed his coat from the rack, looked down at his shoes before deciding that the shine could wait until tomorrow, and nodded at Sherlock as he headed down the stairs. He could just hear the first lines of Bach's "Ciaconna" as he walked out onto Baker Street.
He didn't see Sarah all morning. She had arrived at the surgery before he did, and apparently she was booked with patients until noon, because the secretary told him that she had come in, but he never saw her leave her office. It wasn't until lunchtime, when John was determined to face her and own up to his mistake, that Sarah ventured by his office.
"John?" she asked, pleasantly enough. "Can I get your advice on something?"
He looked up from his desk and tried to look happy to see her.
"Err…hello, Sarah! So nice to see you, I thought you'd never be done." She smiled wanly. "Look," he continued, "I am such an idiot. Such a complete idiot. Can you forgive me? I can't believe that I forgot your birthday. I'm so sorry. It's just unpardonable."
"Yes, it is," she said softly. "But, John, that's not why I came in here. I just wanted to consult with you about a patient."
"Yes?"
"Female, 26 years old, recent immigrant from Pakistan, unmarried, underweight by one stone, denies anorexia but can't seem to gain weight. I thought that, given your experience in that part of the world, you might have a better idea of what tests to give her."
"Hmmm," he said, going quiet. "Dysentery, bacterial infection, worms—any of those can lead to wasting." He frowned. "You know this, Sarah. Is there something else?"
"She's from Lahore," she said. "Not from the countryside. Says the water there is safe to drink."
"Is she pregnant?" John asked.
Sarah sighed. "I was hoping you weren't going to ask that. It's always a possibility, of course. Not one that I'd like to bring up with her, though."
He looked up at her. "Oooh, I see," he said. "She's unmarried, right?"
"Right. Engineering student, lives with her uncle and aunt."
"Well, just tell her you need a urinalysis, say it's to test for bacteria, and tell the lab to throw in the other assays for safe measure." He paused. "Really, that's what you wanted to ask me about? Or can I take you out to lunch and you'll tell me more?"
Sarah seemed flustered. "John—I would like to—but—" she paused. "I'm sorry, John. I know we're colleagues now, and you've said that alright with you, but I don't want you to think that I'm just waiting around for you to ask me out again."
"It's not like that, Sarah," John began. "I just thought I'd take you to lunch—I missed your birthday, didn't I? It's the least I can do to make up for it." An image of Sarah in La Perla passed through his head and he tried to ignore it. Damn it, Sherlock, he thought. This is not what I should be thinking about right now.
She nodded. "Yes, but there's no need to be so upset about it, John. We're not together. I didn't expect anything from you. In fact, I need you to know that I'm seeing someone else."
John blinked, surprised. Of course, he should have known that someone as attractive as Sarah would eventually find someone else to date, but it didn't make the news any easier to hear.
"How long has it been?" he asked, jealous despite himself.
"Oh, a few months, more or less," she said off-handedly.
John made the calculation in his head. What did she mean by a "few" months? It was April now. They had stopped seeing each other for the last time in late February. Did she mean…had she been…? He looked at her face and saw the telltale signs of guilt in the tremor of her lip. Trust Sherlock to teach him how to spot guilt; trust John to use that knowledge now, to put two and two together and figure out that his ex-girlfriend had been cheating on him.
"More or less?" he asked, quietly.
"Oh, I don't know, John," she said, flustered. "I can't remember exactly when it started."
"Do you remember if it started before or after you broke up with me? Can you tell me that much, Sarah?" His voice was dangerously low, but she mistook his rage for sorrow.
"I'm so, so sorry, John," she whispered. "I never meant to hurt you." She reached out to touch his hair and he pushed himself back in his chair, nearly turning the chair over as he did so. As he righted himself, she kept talking. "Gerald is my sister's colleague. We met at Jenn's birthday party." He cringed – birthdays again, always birthdays! What was it with women and birthdays? "She always told me that he would be a great match for me, but Gerald's in finance and he spends most of his time in Geneva, so we hadn't got the chance to meet until then. And then he asked me to show him around London—he's from Manchester originally—and then when he came back from Switzerland again, you and I had already broken up—"
"Please don't make like I had anything to do with us breaking up, Sarah," John said, a little more loudly now.
"What?" She gaped at him. "Seriously? I can't believe you're saying that. You can't blame me for any of this. You're the one who never invited me over to your place. You're the one who had to run off to rescue your flatmate anytime we were getting anywhere close to an intimate moment. You're the one who fucking forgot my birthday yesterday!"
"That was Sherlock's fault, actually," John blurted out.
"You're hopeless, John Watson. Hopeless. You know that? Go ahead, blame it all on Sherlock. He's an easy one to stick the blame to, isn't he?"
"What do you mean?" John asked icily, feeling suddenly protective of his flatmate.
"Sherlock the addict, Sherlock the deranged lunatic, Sherlock the sociopath—"
"He's not a sociopath," John interrupted. "Or a lunatic. And he doesn't use, anymore. He's a little bit histrionic, that's all." He thought of the conversation he and Sherlock had had, several months ago, about his mate's purported diagnosis of sociopathy. It was all bluster; the man was about as sociopathic as Mother Theresa, and probably did the world more good, come to think of it.
Sarah began to laugh, and if he hadn't just mentioned "histrionic" and "Sherlock" in the same sentence, he would have used that same term to describe her.
"Go ahead and keep telling yourself that, John. Keep telling yourself that he's normal. That it's normal to have a flatmate who stores body parts in the fridge and does dissections in Armani. That it's normal to leave your girlfriend's flat just as she's about to give you head, in order to bring said flatmate his cough medicine. That it's normal to risk your life and your job by prowling around town at all hours of the day and night, just to be at his side. Go ahead, John Watson, and just tell me that this relationship with Sherlock is normal and then I'll be the one to apologize for going on one flipping date with Gerald before we officially ended things—for the third time, I might remind you. And if you think that your unhealthy obsession with Sherlock had nothing to do with that, then you're more daft than I thought."
"You think I'm obsessed with Sherlock?" John asked, trying to show a disbelief that he didn't really feel. Ella had pointed out as much, on more than one occasion. If only Sherlock knew how much time he spent in therapy discussing their relationship…
"I don't think it, I know it, John. And he's a bit more than obsessed with you. He acts like a lovesick puppy every time you're in his presence."
"And how would you know he acts any differently around me than around anyone else?"
Sarah rolled her eyes. "Please, John, don't act so dull. The man clearly has never had a friend before you. And though he is eminently shaggable, I doubt he's ever been in love before, either."
Her intimations bothered John. Why did everyone insist that Sherlock was so unlovable? And why did everyone seem to think that he was Sherlock's personal saviour, his bodyguard and his doctor and his priest and his keeper rolled up into one? Lestrade and Mycroft had both hinted at as much, and they had known Sherlock much longer than John had. Still, John found it hard to believe that he was the first one in the world to appreciate Sherlock's brilliance. The man was a true genius—couldn't they see that? Couldn't they see that, when that kind of a brain comes along—a once-in-a-generation phenomenon—someone needs to protect it from itself? Someone needs to coddle it a bit, to take care of it, to love it? And couldn't they see that Sherlock was just the kind of friend John had always wanted, a man who understood that life wasn't worth living unless there was some danger in it; a man who would understand, without John even needing to explain it, why John had kept the Browning for so long (just in case…); a man who found other people exasperating but who always, always, came back to laugh about them with John. That was Sherlock. His friend.
Holy Mary, Mother of God, I'm in love with him. John thought. That's what Sarah is saying, that's what everyone has been saying—they have all seen right through me. They have known me better than I have known myself. Fuck. Fuckity fuck fuck fuck.
"Sarah?" John asked, calmer now. "How long have you known?"
"How long have I known what? That your flatmate is in love with you?" He nodded. Let her think that's what he meant—let her think that Sherlock was the only lovesick fool at 221B.
"At least since Madame Shan and the circus," Sarah said. "Since our first date. God, I can't believe I let things go on between us for all this time!" She buried her face in her hands.
"You knew for that long?"
"Yeah." She sighed. "Look, I'm no genius, but I do know that when a man shows up and crashes his friend's date, it probably means that he would like said friend to be something a bit more intimate than a flatmate. All right? Doesn't take a detective to figure out that much."
"He certainly fooled me," John said softly. "That arse."
"Yes, he has quite the arse, doesn't he? Nice arse, nice hair, nice lips—practically everything you could want in a man."
"Do you think I want him?" John asked, a bit lost. "Is that what you're saying?"
"Oh, John, John, John." Sarah tsk'ed at him. "If you don't know that for yourself already, I don't think I can really help you there. But maybe Sherlock can. Maybe he can deduce something about you."
"I'd love to see him try!" John said, a bit angrily.
"So what are you going to do now?" Sarah asked him.
"About what?" John asked.
"Please. What do you think I'm asking about? What are you going to do about Sherlock?"
"Nothing," John said. "What's there to do? It's like you said—if you're right, and he's obsessed with me, and I'm obsessed with him—which I'm not admitting to, by the way—then the great detective will work that out by himself."
"Oh, he will, will he?" Sarah asked. "Doesn't seem like he's got so far as is."
John looked at his watch. "It's definitely lunchtime," he said. "Is that your stomach I just heard rumbling? Come on, let me take you out, just this once."
"Just this once," she said, before turning and leading him out.
Late that evening, John ran up the steps to 221B. He hoped that Sherlock hadn't gone out without telling him. It would be just like the bastard to do so, John thought. He would have sent him a text message but he didn't want his flatmate to have the satisfaction of knowing that John was looking for him.
Bursting into the living room, fully expecting to see Sherlock with that silly kimono still draped over him, John was startled by the sight of Sherlock asleep on the divan. The last time he'd seen his flatmate take a nap was when they had both come home from the hospital, after the case he had dubbed the "Bruce Partington Plans". Sherlock had not slept a wink at the hospital, and had not been able to sleep for several days afterwards, until Mycroft sent word that Moriarty had been "satisfactorily taken care of" at last. Then, much to John's surprise, Sherlock had slept for two days straight. John had never seen anything like it before—his bony flatmate, stretched out on the divan, chest rising and falling, his face looking as peaceful as a sleeping babe's.
The memory came back to John now, inspiring in him the same tenderness towards Sherlock that he had felt at the time. Then, he had padded quietly around the flat so as not to wake his friend, tucking blankets around the sleeping beauty so he wouldn't feel the chill air of the night, touching his forehead every few hours to make sure that Sherlock hadn't succumbed to a fever.
Now, in the dim light that filtered in from the street, John noticed how smooth Sherlock's brow was, without its characteristic furrow of worry or speculation. He noticed, as he moved closer, the smell of Sherlock's shampoo. So he wasn't sleeping all day, John deduced. He must have showered, after I left him this morning. Yes, he must have done, his cheek's soft. He shaved, too. John smiled and reached out a hand to touch Sherlock's cheek. The pads of his fingers grazed his friend's temples and John thought how, just this once, he hoped that Sherlock would be able to truly rest.
He knew that Sherlock worried an inordinate amount about him, when he was out of his sight at the surgery; he also knew that Sherlock didn't tell him the half of what surveillance Mycroft had put out on them, ever since the incident with Moriarty. And he knew that Sherlock didn't want him to know how much he worried, because Sherlock had never let him ask about why he had responded with such fear and relief when he had finally ripped the semtex vest off of him at the pool. It had touched John that Sherlock had not run when he had the chance, had not abandoned John to Moriarty like John had commanded him, had not left even when the building was falling and John was the one who was injured and Sherlock could have run—no, he had not left, even then. Sherlock had not left him, and now, John mused, his flatmate was eating less than ever, was sleeping more poorly than he ever had done, and was vacillating between Bach's sonatas and partitas in what seemed like a desperate attempt to distract himself when there were no cases to solve.
John stroked Sherlock's cheek again, and suddenly he was staring into Sherlock's gray eyes, and pulling his hand back, but Sherlock caught his hand and brought it to his chest, and now John was trapped there, kneeling on the floor next to the divan, as Sherlock ran his fingers over and over John's knuckles. John shivered and moved to pull away but Sherlock caught his hand more tightly, shifting his position to throw his legs over the edge and sit up, without ever taking his eyes from John.
"John," he said simply. His eyes were brilliant and glassy—had he really been asleep? John wondered. Sherlock seemed so alert, so alive. And he hadn't released John's hand yet, either, but kept it tight to his heart.
"You were asleep, Sherlock," John said, looking away from those eyes. They saw everything, those eyes.
"Yes, I was," Sherlock said, smiling widely.
"Did I wake you?" John asked. "I'm sorry I bothered you—I just—I never see you asleep, is all."
Sherlock slowly moved his hand up to cup John's chin, bringing his other hand to rest firmly behind John's neck. The doctor felt himself doubly trapped, between Sherlock's gaze and the detective's long fingers, and he felt that there was no place he would rather be. He closed his eyes, feeling Sherlock's soft breath on his face. Was this really happening? John thought? Why now?
"Sherlock?"
"Shh, John. I'm deducing you." Now Sherlock touched John's cheek, mirroring the motions that John had made just minutes before, when he had believed Sherlock to be soundly sleeping. When Sherlock pressed his fingers into John's temples, John noticed how quickly his pulse was beating, but he didn't want to pull away. Not yet. Not until Sherlock was done deducing him, whatever he meant by that. "I need more data."
"What do you need to know, Sherlock?" John asked shakily. "Just ask, I'll tell you."
"I can't read you, John," Sherlock responded, now moving his fingers along the edge of John's scalp. He pushed his way through John's hair and John let out a sigh. "I don't know you, John," Sherlock continued. "And you know me so well."
John's eyes burst open. Sherlock's nose was a few centimetres from his, no more. He shut his eyes again quickly, startled by the depth of Sherlock's gaze.
John didn't know where to put his own hands; he longed to touch Sherlock but he was aware that his palms had grown sweaty. Instead, he wiped them on his lap and moved, blindly, to join Sherlock on the sofa. His friend guided him, his hands on John's shoulders, settling John so they could sit facing each other.
"You have searched me and you know me." Sherlock whispered."You know when I sit and when I rise."
John let out a strangled gasp as Sherlock's fingers moved inwards from his shoulders, brushing across his collarbones (the good one and the bad, John thought), tracing up his neck and coming to rest again at each of John's temples. Sherlock leaned in and pressed his forehead to John's, continuing to whisper the words of the psalm.
"You perceive my thoughts from afar." A kiss, a butterfly kiss, grazed across John's left cheek. He knew where to put his hands now; he knew that they belonged on Sherlock's hips, drawing his friend in, closer and closer. Sherlock would insist on whispering those verses to him in that husky voice. He would insist on kissing now one cheek, now the other, now the tip of John's nose and—gently, oh so gently—kissing each eyelid.
"Sherlock," John gasped, his voice breaking. "Let me see you—let me—" He struggled to open his eyes but Sherlock pinned one down with his lips, the other with the pads of his finger.
"Hush, John. I need to say this. I need you to listen. You know me, John. You know me like no one else does. Let me know you, too. Let me…" Sherlock's voice trailed off as his mouth flitted freely over John's face, pressing light kisses to his forehead, his eyebrows, his temples, his nose, everywhere but his lips. Oh God, John thought, let him keep doing this, let him never stop. Let him know me like this, let him know me however he wants—whatever gave him the idea that he didn't know me? I'm the one who doesn't know him!
"Sherlock!" he burst out again. But Sherlock was pushing him down now, holding his arms firmly so that John would not struggle, so that Sherlock could gently deposit him on the cushions below them.
"You discern my going out and my lying down," Sherlock whispered, his mouth just inches from John's. Their faces were so close, and yet Sherlock's body arched up and away from John's, as if he were hesitant to let John feel his weight against him. "You are familiar with all my ways."
"Not all of them," John answered. "Not all of your ways, Sherlock. Please—please let me…"
John pushed his chest up towards Sherlock, grasping at Sherlock's hips, pulling him down upon him. Sherlock continued to kiss his face, studiously avoiding John's mouth. Now it was Sherlock's turn to gasp. "Oh—John! John!" he cried, as John gripped his hands more tightly around his hips and pressed his fair head back against the divan. John looked so helpless lying there, so absolutely vulnerable, his white throat revealed completely to Sherlock's gaze. Sherlock moved his mouth down and grasped lustily at the doctor's Adam's apple, the carotid artery, the suprasternal notch, before nipping and sucking his way across his injured clavicle.
"Before a word is on my tongue you know it completely," Sherlock said breathily, shaking John's hands free from his hips and pinning them down at his side. "You know me, John. You know me. Oh, John," he moaned. "John, John." Sherlock moaned and, before he knew what had happened, John shook free from Sherlock's grasp and flipped the detective over and under him, pinning him in the same position that John had been in mere seconds earlier. John is kneeling above, his knees pressed against Sherlock's hips, his hands grazing lightly over Sherlock's chest. Sherlock shook his head back and forth, his curls trembling; the man was an image of Berninian ecstasy. He clawed at John's knees, bringing him closer.
"You hem me in behind and before, and you lay your hand upon me," Sherlock managed to gasp out as John indeed ran his hand over Sherlock's shirt, looking for a button to open and cursing Sherlock for having changed out of that kimono before John came home.
"How can I know you fully, Sherlock?" John asked, leaning over his friend's face. "How can we ever know each other fully? Such knowledge is too wonderful for me, too lofty for me to attain," he quoted, to the astonishment of the detective.
"John!" Sherlock whimpered, as John unbuttoned the last of the buttons and ran his hands up and down Sherlock's chest, his fingers curving lightly around the soft hair at his navel. But instead of continuing his sweet wanderings downwards, John sat upright again, pulling his hands away from Sherlock to rest back on his heels. He stared down at Sherlock, at the fey creature lying underneath him—a miracle, a wonder, a veritable delight.
"Don't leave me now, John! Don't leave me!" Sherlock said.
"How can you think that I would leave you, Sherlock?" John asked, laughing as he bent over Sherlock once more. "Where can I go from your Spirit? Where can I flee from your presence? You are always in my thoughts. Always." He stroked Sherlock's cheek. "How did you know, Sherlock?"
"How did I know what?" Sherlock asked, grasping at John's arms, unwilling to let him sit up again, holding him with his eyes, amazed that John knew that particular psalm, too.
"How did you know about me?" John asked.
"I don't know about you, John," Sherlock said, in frustration. "I told you, I need more data."
"More data for what? To formulate a hypothesis? To confirm a deduction?"
Sherlock cradled John's face in his hands and moved his eyes deliberately across John's features before stopping to gaze at his friend's mouth.
"Sherlock?" John asked.
"John," Sherlock panted. "John—I want—I want—to know—"
"Yes, Sherlock," John said. "You want to know me. I assume you mean in the Biblical sense." He laughed. "Is that it?"
"John…" He moaned and at last reached for John's lips with his own. They panted together now as they caressed each other with their mouths, moving now up, now down, now in and out, tasting and smelling each other, pressing their faces and their groins as close as they could to one another. Sherlock smiled into the kiss and John smiled back; he had been waiting for this, he realized. He had been waiting for Sherlock to invite him in like this. But he would never have guessed at Sherlock's hesitance, at Sherlock's doubt in himself. This beautiful, beautiful man, John thought. He has absolutely no idea what he does to me.
"Sherlock," John said. "You do know me." He kissed him then drew back to continue speaking. "You knew that I didn't care about Sarah, not really." Sherlock smiled and grabbed John for another kiss.
"Say that again, John," he demanded. "Tell me what I know, and what I don't know. I can't bear to be ignorant about anything concerning you. Tell me everything."
"You know it already, Sherlock. You knew it when I handed you my phone, that very first time we met. You knew it when I shot the cabbie for you. You knew it when I told Mycroft I wouldn't spy on you. You knew it when I broke up with Sarah the first time, and the second time, and then you knew it when she broke up with me."
"What did I know, John?" Sherlock asked again. "What did I know? Tell me! Tell me!" He ran his hands through John's hair and would not let go. His white face glowed in the dim light, almost luminous.
"You knew that I saw who you were," John explained, rubbing his cheek against Sherlock's as he pressed his torso firmly against the other man's. "You knew, and I knew—and hell, Lestrade knew and Mycroft knew and I'd guess even Sally Donovan and Anderson knew right from the get-go…"
"And Sebastian and Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock whispered. "And Angelo."
"Yes. That Angelo, he certainly knew," John said, laughing. "Though I tried to deny it so fervently."
"And what were you denying, exactly?" Sherlock asked, curling John's hair around his finger as he fixed his friend with his gaze.
"That we were supposed to be like this," John said. "That we were supposed to know each other, you and I, because—I can't say this without sounding like something out of the purplest of purple prose, Sherlock, so I'll say it as simply as I can. I was waiting for you to happen to me. I was waiting to know you, all those nights when I was out there alone under the Afghan sky, waiting for my patrol to come back so I could count the wounded. I was waiting for someone to answer me, for someone to know me more completely than I knew myself. You are that person, Sherlock. You know me. And even then, before we knew each other, somehow, you knew me even then."
"John!" Sherlock cried, kissing him feverishly, pulling John back to him, kissing and kissing without respite. He slid his hands across John's back at the same time as John reached down between them to unbutton his own shirt. He sat up and pulled it over his head, then leaned down and pushed Sherlock's shirt off his shoulders, twisting Sherlock onto his stomach so that John could pull Sherlock's arms out of the sleeves. He knelt above Sherlock's bare back as he reached under the other man's waist, urging his hips up so that he could unbuckle Sherlock's belt and work at the button and zipper holding his trousers shut. He slid them down and off Sherlock, pulling his pants off along with the trousers, so that Sherlock lay naked beneath him. And then John was naked, too, and pressing the length of his body against Sherlock's spine, his penis resting between the other man's buttocks. Sherlock sighed contentedly and sunk his face more deeply into the divan.
John put his mouth close to Sherlock's ear and whispered the next verse to him. "If I go up to the heavens, you are there; if I make my bed in the depths, you are there." Sherlock's groan was deep and guttural; it made a shiver run down John's chest, straight to his loins. He was hard against Sherlock, had been hard ever since Sherlock had laid him down on the divan and given him those breathy butterfly kisses. "To what depths do you think the poet meant, Sherlock?" John asked, drawing Sherlock's ear into his mouth and nibbling on the lobe. He ran his hands over Sherlock's buttocks, soft gestures to provoke delight and longing. John had been with other men before, and he knew his own body as well; he knew how sensitive the skin was, there where the hamstring met the gluteus muscle, in him and in other men. He hoped that Sherlock would like what he was doing. By the sounds that Sherlock was making, the desperate shaking and panting underneath them, John knew that he had succeeded.
Next he wound one hand between Sherlock's legs, pressing lightly against his perineum before dipping lower to cup Sherlock's balls in his palm. Sherlock grunted and lifted his hips, freeing his trapped erection as he knelt on his elbows and knees before John. John continued to stroke his balls, tugging lightly at the soft hair that surrounded them, before reaching his hand down further to seize Sherlock's cock. His other hand ghosted lightly over Sherlock's back, calming him with one hand as the other continued to glide over his cock.
Sherlock had had enough. He needed to see John, he needed to feel him, to know him. He turned suddenly, resting on his back again and pulling John to lie down on top of him. This time, Sherlock grasped at John's erection, smirking with pleasure at the expression on John's face.
"I need to see you right now, before we do this," Sherlock said.
"But—Sherlock—we don't have any—I didn't prepare anything for this." John began to protest. Sherlock put a finger to John's lips.
"Shhh, John," he said. "Wait here. I'll be right back. I'll be right back. Stay right here." He rose to leave and John found himself reluctant to release his lover's hand.
But soon Sherlock was back, a bottle of lubricant and a small envelope between his fingers.
"John," he gasped, settling back down on the divan as he arranged himself once more beneath the doctor. Sherlock reached up and cradled John's head in his own. "I want you to know me. First. And you need to use…" He waved his hand absently at the condom and lube on the floor next to them.
"I know, Sherlock," John said, laughing. "This isn't my first time, you know."
"It isn't mine either," Sherlock said snappishly. "But if I may say a few things—"
"Of course," John reassured him, devilishly leaning down and kissing Sherlock's right nipple.
"Ahhhh," Sherlock moaned, bucking against him. "Ahhhh, wait, wait wait, John. Wait." John pulled away to look Sherlock in the eye.
"What, my love?" the doctor asked. Sherlock closed his eyes, whether in joy or dismay John could not tell.
"John," Sherlock stated. "I—I used to use."
"Yes, I know, Sherlock," John stated. "I'm not blind, and I am a doctor. I can see the scars on your arms. I can see where you have a collapsed vein. It's not the first time I've seen that on someone, you know."
If it there were more light in the room, John might have seen Sherlock blush with shame, and would have been surprised that the detective could feel that emotion.
"It was before—before you, John. I hoped that there would be someone like you, someone who could take away the utter dullness and drabness of everything. But cocaine came along first, I'm afraid. And she was a fickle lover, but a lover nonetheless." Sherlock laughed bitterly. "Oh John, where were you all those years?"
"What are you saying, Sherlock?" John asked, suddenly worried. "Are you—are you saying you aren't clean?"
"Of course I'm clean, John!" Sherlock scoffed. "I'm a chemist, for chrissake. I do know how to perform a few simple blood tests for antigens. And clean needles aren't hard to stock, either. I just wanted you to know everything about me. Before we…" Sherlock closed his eyes, as if deliberating. "Before we make love."
John felt his breath catch in his throat. Sherlock had actually said those words. He hadn't said shag or fuck or screw or blow, jump, eat, take, rock and roll, or bang. He said that he wanted to make love. With John. Presumably right now, if the accoutrements lying on the floor were any indication.
"How do you want to do this?" John asked.
Sherlock looked away, uncharacteristically shy.
"I want you to do what you were doing before," he said. "The way you were lying on me…" Sherlock turned so that his stomach was pressed against the divan, his naked backside pale and bewitching to John. That arse, he thought. That glorious, ridiculous arse. "I'll need you to prep me," Sherlock said.
"Of course," John whispered in his ear. "Just lie back and relax, Sherlock." He dragged a finger along the length of Sherlock's spine as he reached down with his other hand and grabbed the lube and a condom. He rolled the condom over his cock and turned his attention to Sherlock. Hell, I would have been happy with just a blow job, John thought. How in the world did I get this lucky?
He spread lube over his fingers, rubbing his hands together to warm the gel before reaching between Sherlock's legs and sliding his fingers around until Sherlock's entire bum was soft and slick. He pulled Sherlock's hips up so that he could reach around and tease Sherlock's cock at the same time as his index finger probed Sherlock's arse. Sherlock arched his back liked a satisfied cat, moaning the other man's name as John softly circled around his opening. John pressed his own swollen erection against the back of Sherlock's thigh, letting the other man know exactly where he was and exactly how hard he was.
"God, John," Sherlock panted. "Just like that, gently, there—" he sputtered as John pushed his finger in half-way, then twisted it slightly. Sherlock could feel a delightful frisson spreading out from the tight ring and reaching into other parts of his groin, his legs, his back, as John worked his fingers in and out of him.
"Is that all right, Sherlock?" John asked with concern.
"All right?" Sherlock replied with sarcasm. "Of course it's bloody all right. Keep going, keep doing that, John, I want to feel more of you, I want to feel all of you, I want to feel you inside me."
"Shh, Sherlock," John said, slipping a second finger in besides the first. "Shh, you're not ready yet. Just let me do this a little more. It'll feel better if you let me stretch you out a bit more." As tempted as John was to just plunge his cock into Sherlock's ready body, he knew from Sherlock's tightness that it had been some time since Sherlock had done this. Sherlock had done this before, hadn't he? John wondered. Of course he has, you idiot, he reprimanded himself. A man who wears those kinds of clothes over that kind of body—a man who isn't interested in women—of course he has done this before!
"John! John!" Sherlock said, as John spread his fingers even wider and Sherlock, incredibly, felt himself loosen and give way even further to John's hand. This was what it meant for John to know him, deeply and thoroughly, to discern every part of him, to sound every dark crevice and secret passage. He wanted this man to know him in this way, had waited months and perhaps years (waiting without knowing that it would be this man, precisely this man, who would render him so willing and eager) to be known like this. And he would not let him stop now, he would not let John leave, not ever, not when he could do that kind of thing to him with just his fingers, and No, he can't be doing it, Sherlock thought, but yes, he IS doing it. John is pressing up to me, he is spreading me again, he is going to take me any second.
"NOW, John!" Sherlock shouted. "Now! Don't hold back, I need it now. I need you, John." John kept pushing in his slow and deliberate manner, seemingly impervious to Sherlock's pleas. He would take this man slowly if it were the only thing he would do that evening. A first time only happens once and John didn't want it to speed by. He wanted Sherlock to remember this, and he wanted to guard this memory for himself, as well, imprint on his mind's eye the image of Sherlock opening himself up to him, bent over on his elbows and knees, his arse wiggling in the air as John pushed his cock into him. Into his lover, John reminded himself. Sherlock was now his lover. Not his colleague, or flatmate, or friend. His lover. The sight of his body bonded tight with Sherlock's aroused John even further. He began to push slowly in and out of the other man, holding himself up with one arm as the other reached around to caress Sherlock's cock.
And then Sherlock was begging. He was actually begging John to take him, to hurry up, to get it over with. And John would not do it. He would not give up this slow sweetness, this growing burn, for a swift release. He would not let Sherlock have it, not yet.
And so John kept Sherlock there, on the edge, as Sherlock thrashed and pushed up against him, pleading for more with his body and his mouth.
"Trust me," John whispered to him, stroking his cock with unpredictable gestures, keeping Sherlock hot and throbbing but somehow, still, unable to find his release. "Trust me, Sherlock," he repeated. "Tell me the next verse. Tell me it, if you can remember it."
"If I rise on the wings of the dawn," Sherlock began, then groaned as John's hand found a steady rhythm around his cock. "If I settle on the far side of the sea, even there your hand will guide me, your right hand will hold me fast."
"That's right, Sherlock. Feel my hand. Let me guide you. Let go of yourself. Let go of everything." John felt Sherlock's arse close tightly around him in regular spasms, signalling his impending orgasm. Sherlock cried out—he was coming, he was coming, he said—and John let himself go then, too, and pressed hard into Sherlock with all the vigour that he had been holding in. John felt a pulse mount from deep within his own cock, felt the semen rise and then his own release came, in sudden and strong waves, just as Sherlock was coming down from his. John pulsed a few more times into Sherlock before Sherlock dropped his hips and fell, exhausted, to the divan. John held the condom as he slowly slid out of Sherlock, then fumbled at the side table for a tissue to wrap it in. The cushions of the divan were covered with Sherlock's cum, and John shuddered to think of what Mrs. Hudson would make of the mess, but he couldn't even pretend to regret what had just happened between them.
John pressed himself flat against Sherlock's body, his arms circled tight around the younger man. "I love you," John whispered into his ear.
"I know," Sherlock said. "I love you, too." He sighed and rubbed his face into a cushion, out of John's sight.
"That was amazing," John said. "I felt like you were completely surrounding me, like you held all of me. Hell, Sherlock—that was fucking fantastic! You are fucking fantastic."
Sherlock turned his head around, followed by the rest of his body. He arranged himself under John so that they held each other in their arms, their hips and legs pressing together, each cock spent by the ferocious love-making.
"John," Sherlock said. "We forgot a few verses."
"Really?" John asked.
"Well, not the ones at the end where the petitioner asks God to slay his enemies—though I admit those would have come in useful when Moriarty was after us. No, I meant the ones that begin, If I say, 'Surely the darkness will hide me and the light become night around me'…Do you know how they end?"
"I can't remember," John admitted. "Though that sounds like you, Sherlock, always hiding in the darkness, lurking about when everyone else is safe in bed."
"Yes, that sounds like me. Precisely. Why do you think I'd bother to remember these Sunday school verses? And now listen to these lines: Even the darkness will not be dark to you; the night will shine like the day, for darkness is as light to you. This part is about you, John. I am the darkness, and it doesn't matter to you; you turn my darkness into light. You make the night shine when you are with me, and you love me because of the darkness within me."
"That I do," John says softly. "That I do. But Sherlock—that darkness—you're not the only one…"
"I know about the nightmares," Sherlock answers, kissing his lover's lips. "And I know that you're thinking about stopping therapy, because you've been having other kinds of dreams much more frequently." John raised an eyebrow quizzically. "The kind where you need to change your sheets," Sherlock prompted.
"How the hell did you know about those?" John asked. "Never mind, pretend I didn't ask. But yes, I haven't had any nightmares lately and I hope that I've given them up for good."
"And the other dreams? Do you want them to end, too?" Sherlock asked, curious.
"Of course I wouldn't want to stop dreaming about you, Sherlock," John said. "But I have to say that this"—he squeezed Sherlock against him—"is infinitely more interesting than any dreams I might have had."
"Truly?" Sherlock asked.
"Of course, you nutter! I love you and I won't stop saying it, now that you'll let me."
"I'll let you," Sherlock said. "But not in front of Anderson. Or Lestrade or Dimmock. Or Mycroft—I'll kill you if you mention anything to him. And Mrs. Hudson…."
"Stop, Sherlock," John said. "I get it. You don't want me to proclaim my love to everyone we know, even though there's nothing I'd like to do more at this moment. But—I respect that. I respect you."
"I know you do," Sherlock said. "I just need—a little time? That's all. Can you give me that?"
"That and more," his lover replied. "But for now, can we just settle for dinner? I'm starving."
"Indian or Chinese?"
"Chinese."
"You know how to find a good Chinese restaurant, don't you?" Sherlock started. "You look at the handle on the door…"
FIN