Warning: Spoilers for Series 3, Character Death (offstage), Slash Sex.

Disclaimer: I wish I owned Sherlock!

~Enjoy!

John:

When you grab his coat collar, you're sure it's to punch him, strangle him, head butt him. Make him hurt. "Again?! How could–?" Always lying. Always keeping you out of the loop. "Why didn't you tell me, Sherlock?"

You can see his form shaking and you can't tell through the haze whether the movement is coming from you or from him.

"Why–?"

It's only when you register the way your voice cracks that you feel just how unsettled you are. It's been years since you've felt your frame crumble completely out of your control. You try desperately to reach back through your memories, claw at some vestige of military dignity and discipline. You fail. You fall.

Your knees hit the ground and you wish the pain of it was stronger, something worth focusing on, something to jolt you out of this sudden onslaught.

You should have just punched him and left. You shouldn't have started this, you know he has his reasons. You can't trump his reason. But most of all, you know that you should never have put yourself in this position in front of him.

You're crying.

How? When was the last time you cried? When he died. When you thought he was dead. That's the last time you cried. That thought alone makes it so much worse. And maybe he knows, maybe he can tell that that's what you're thinking. Wait, of course he can. He's Sherlock bloody Holmes!

He's Sherlock Holmes and he's got his long arms wrapped around you in an instant. The coat is warmer than you ever expected it to be. His scarf is soft against your cheek and it's wet though it hasn't rained today and…. Oh right, you're crying in the arms of Sherlock Holmes.

Losing someone was never this difficult. Not in the war, when your friends were blown to bits all around you. Not at Barts, when you'd hear the flat line that'd signify your complete and utter failure.

No. This was worse. Death happens every day at a hospital. Death happens every day in wars. But when you watched Mary walk down the aisle you never expected you'd have to watch her die slowly from a gunshot wound less than a year later. But the pain of Mary's betrayal had muted out that grief, held it at bay. In all fairness it wasn't even her betrayal that had stung worse.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

It's a dangerous train of thought you're on. Maybe, just maybe, if he'd told you… maybe you could have….

"She was my little girl, Sherlock. She was my baby. And now…"

It hurts too much, this pain. This feeling of having your lungs squeezed out of your chest, your heart bursting. You look up at him because you need to. You look up at him because you need him.

It's the tears in his eyes that get to you. Through all the pain and confusion, it's his tear-stung eyes that render it all still. For one glorious second, everything stops.

That's when you kiss him.

Sherlock:

Kissing him back is the easiest thing you've ever done.

Through it all you never let yourself believe it could get to this point. You imagined, you wished, you dreamed. But you could never really convince yourself that someone like him could ever look at someone like you.

Then he became your friend. In return you lied to him, faked your death and ruined his life. But of course, John forgave you. Because John was kind. Kinder than you ever deserved.

Then he became your best friend and you became his best man, and somewhere in between the word love snuck in through the back door, taking the stage with full force at what was supposed to be his wedding.

He became the man you loved, the man you were hopelessly in love with, the only human being ever to have your heart. In return, you lied to him again, hid the true allegiance of his wife and ultimately caused the death of his child at the hands of a criminal mastermind. A criminal mastermind you were supposed to be protecting the world from. A criminal mastermind you couldn't even protect one little girl from. John's daughter. John…

And here he is, kissing you. Kissing you because the kindest human being in the world is broken and it's all your fault. Kissing you because he needs this. Miraculously, he needs you.

More accurately, he needs to forget.

You know what this is as he tugs off your coat grabs at the buttons of your shirt. You know this isn't about you. But who cares?

This is the least you can do for him. You try to still the part of you that's rejoicing at his touch. You try to quite your beating heart every time his fingers caress your skin. You can't afford these feelings. Later, it will hurt.

But in the wake of John Watson, your reason never had a fighting chance.

There's a certain measure of cruelty in the way he drags you to your room and pushes you down. There's a brutality in the way he digs his nails into your skin and bites at the softness of your neck and the sensitive skin around your groin. Not even in your most depraved fantasies did you imagine him fucking you like this.

You imagined his infinite kindness. You imagined love. Even with a whip or two, you never imagined this sheer amount of violence. A violence in his spirit, every action filled with anger, even hate. At you, at God, who knows? Probably both.

There is no love for you to have here, and you'll take what you can get. A tear roles down your cheek and you clench your jaw tight to quell the pain. Your face crumbles only when you know he can't see, when his face is buried in the pillow next to yours as his body moves savagely above you.

John Watson is done being kind with you.

Just when you think your heart can't take any more of this – You deserve this, you tell yourself. You deserve more – he whispers in your ear.

"Sherlock," he whispers. There's a desperation to his voice. "Sherlock," he repeats with the same intonation, like a man who's been holding his breath for a very long time. Too long. The sound ripples across the surface of your skin and seeps right into the core of you.

His voice changes everything.

You reach for either side of his face and kiss him deep and hard. For the first time in your life you understand the meaning of true passion. It takes him a moment too long to react and suddenly you've got him on his back and you're kissing every inch of his face with childlike abandon.

"John," you whisper as you stare into his eyes. There are more words to go with that. Other words. Words that go unspoken, but leave him breathless all the same.

For the next couple of hours you make sure that he can't think a single coherent thought, let alone remember.

You collapse a while later. The lull of sleep reaches you through the thick scent of sex and sweat, over barely whispered nothings. You faint, pass out, fall against the blissful tides of sleep, sink into the warm place beside the love of your life.

In the morning, you wake up alone.

You leave the flat immediately. You only realize three blocks later that it's raining and you've forgotten your coat.

No matter, it's the perfect day for a walk in the rain.

A/N:This is my first Sherlock Fanfic and I really love this fandom! Reviews would be great. If I get enough feedback I might even continue with this, even though it's intended as a oneshot. So please tell me what you think. Thank you so much for reading!