Raw, animalistic lust.
Chapter 1
John sipped at his drink as he looked down at the table, away from his new girlfriend Mary.
He wasn't feeling great tonight. It was the two year anniversary of his best friend's death. Sherlock Holmes. It didn't matter how long it had been. It was fresh in his memory and it always would be.
The things he had done with Sherlock made him irreplaceable. Not only was he his best friend, he was also his soul mate. And you don't get those twice.
John sighed and looked up at the blissfully unaware blonde. He scratched at the moustache that she had made him grow, and tried to distract himself, only making him think more. About how Sherlock would have shaved him in his sleep to get it off, and he found himself chuckling.
He avoided eye contact with Mary, and didn't look around as he wanted to avoid the sympathetic stares from the strangers that had seen the papers, and watched the news.
He often felt how he was feeling now; trapped and alone. He considered self-harm to free himself but only just stopped by the annoying habit that Mrs. Hudson had of checking his wrists and other areas for exactly that.
Mary was a distraction, nothing more. It wasn't that he was no longer attracted to women, but he knew he'd always compare the conversations, the jokes, the kisses, and the love making to Sherlock Holmes.
They fitted together, him and Sherlock like he would never have believed. They were like two pieces of the same puzzle, without each other they were useless to themselves and those around them.
John glanced towards the cane that was balanced on the side of the table. He hated that thing, but with Sherlock gone, his psychosomatic limp had come back with a vengeance. 'Damn my leg' he muttered, glaring at himself.
He gritted his teeth and turned to look at a man that had been staring at him for a whole 10 minutes. The man looked at him quizzingly, got up and walked out.
On some days John may have run after him, perhaps it was Mycroft with a message, or Irene with a task, who happened to be alive, he found out thanks to her inability to not go to Sherlock's funeral.
But today was not one of those days, life wasn't helping him, so why should he bother with anything?
He sighed, and realised that Mary hadn't stopped talking all the while he was thinking. He grinned towards her to acknowledge that he was still listening, and stared at her, noticing all the little things.
*hair in a complicated design* - she's hoping to impress me tonight.
*a relatively large diamond hanging down from her neck* - she's asked someone with more money to borrow something so she can make an impression
*she's not drinking the wine* - means she wants to be sober for whatever she thinks might happen
*expensive dress* been resized 3 times, she's eager to please but can't afford it.
*all her tacky rings are off tonight, including the one she always wears which covers half her ring finger.* - she's expecting a proposal.
John spluttered as he realised what he had worked out. Surely she wasn't? it had only been about 8 months…hadn't it?
He needed to get out of this, and quick.
Chapter 2
He quickly excused himself and stood up to go to the lavatories.
As his head turned, something caught his eye. A shock of black hair.
He looked back and saw what he thought he had the first time.
His best friend.
Sherlock Holmes.
John dropped his phone that he had been about to put into his pocket, and it landed on the floor with an ear piercing crunch. What does he do now? He thought, not allowing himself to fully believe what he was seeing.
He walked up to the man that looked like and exact replica of the dead Sherlock, and whispered ' how?'
The man replied ' long story, but I am so, so sorry John.'
John shuddered at the sound of his voice.
'how could you do this to me?' he said, barely managing a whisper. 'how…how could you possibly think whatever the fuck you had planned was a good idea?'
Sherlock grimaced at the thought. He knew what John was feeling, he was feeling it too. And John would never understand why…his thoughts were shattered as a fist made contact with his nose, and he fell backwards.
5 minutes later, he stood outside, dazed. He was standing next to a blonde, around 32 years of age, who was trying to hard to impress John she had clearly put on clothes that were 3 sizes to small, and for no-one over the age of 19.
She didn't say much, but occasionally smiled in his direction, expecting a response, but receiving nothing.
He was waiting for John to come out of the restaurants loos, and he was the only one that Sherlock cared about.
After half an hour, John came out of the wide doors, his eyes red. He kissed goodbye to Mary and sent her on her way in a taxi and the promise that he 'would contact her soon'.
As John and Sherlock got in the taxi together, neither of them said anything, and they avoided looking at each other.
They soon reached 221B Baker Street, which Sherlock had rented out again, and as they entered the living room, it was ghostly still. Everything was in its correct place, and the only thing that was different was the warmth of the room. It had faded out as John's hope for Sherlock living had.
Sherlock perched on the arm of his chair, and gazed at John, waiting for the out-burst. It didn't come.
John was staring at Sherlock, and he burst into tears again. 'If you weren't dead….why didn't you just leave…me a sign…so I didn't…have to go through so much…shit?' john whispered between sobs.
Sherlock had never felt this guilty in his life.
He couldn't explain this to John, the secret was to stay between Mycroft, Molly and himself, yet he couldn't think of a way to explain this, so he leapt up, and guided John to his bedroom.
They sat on the king sized bed for hours, just holding each other, almost as if they both believed if they let go they wouldn't be able to find each other again.
John was nestled to Sherlock's chest, his shirt now damp from the tears that had almost constantly fell from Johns grey eyes. They were like one, and it seemed that if one moved, the other moved in unison.
As John fell asleep, Sherlock closed his eyes, and prayed that when he woke up, he wouldn't find out this was all a dream.
Chapter 3
Sherlock woke up first, and only just stifled a yawn as to not wake up John. He slid out from underneath him, and went downstairs to make coffee.
He shoved from his mind everything about clearing his name to the public, and concentrated only on his one love, John.
At that moment he heard a scream, and then Sherlock heard his own name being called in between cries. He ran upstairs and towards the bedroom, to reach John.
As he entered the room he saw John, wide awake panting; he had woken up to find himself alone, with memories of sleeping with a dead man, what did Sherlock expect?
When John saw Sherlock in the doorway, he let out a huge sigh of relief, and grabbed him, and pushed him onto the bed. 'I don't care what fucking happens, Sherlock. Never. EVER. Leave me again. Even if it means us both dying don't do it. Okay?' john shouted as he landed on top of Sherlock.
Sherlock, surprised by all of this, only managed to nod before his John's lips were pressed against his, urgently, unlike ever before. They stayed like this for a short while, before their hands began to roam.
In less than minutes they were both undresses, and john rolled over, and whispered 'no preparation, do it, now' and Sherlock obliged, plunging into him with all his strength.
As john stopped himself gasping his pain, the pleasure overtook him, and he began moaning Sherlock's name with each thrust. Sooner that planned John came, and Sherlock kept pounding in, bringing him to second, third and fourth orgasms.
Nothing was between them, no lies, and no disguises. They were one. Soul mates reunited.
The time for soft, slow love making was not now.
What they both needed was confirmation of what they were feeling. Love and pure, raw, animalistic lust.
As Sherlock finally came, they fell onto the billowing duvet with a soft thud.
They both breathed heavily, and Sherlock did not pull out.
They layed as one for hours, feeling no need to see or talk to anyone else but each other.
John told Sherlock about everything that had happened while he had been gone, and Sherlock told him the few details about Moriarty and the death, that he needed to know.
John sat up, and took Sherlock into his mouth, without warning.
Sherlock gasped and pulled at John's thin hair, unable to resist.
John had noticed that Sherlock kept going, bringing him through several peaks, but he had only had one himself, and this was time to make it even. John swirled his tounge over Sherlock's long erection, and swallowed every drop as he came.
After hours of talk, and sex, john grabbed the phone.
'won't need counselling any more' he said into the mobile, 'cancel all appointments, won't be needing them'.
He then texted 3 others;
Mrs H – 'Hi mrs.H, Sherlocks back, don't come up to 221B for abit, tea and biscuits would be nice'
Lestrade – 'S.H's back, start clearing up his name, be around tomorrow'
Mycroft – you little shit. Next time tell me when your brother pretends to kill himself. I don't care how many action men he dissected, you owe it to his future husband.