A/N warning for this and future chapters: Violence, Abuse, controlling relationship, drugs, lots of sex, knife play, gun play, every possible kink you can think of. If you don't like it don't read it. If you do then enjoy. I do not own Sherlock obviously.

This will be a series of stories thoughout John and Sherlock's relationship. It will be dark, angsty, fluffy and very, incredibly porny. Each one was written with Sherlockspipe and will probably be littered with typos. (Mine, not hers. Many apologies in advance.)

John was tired. Well - he was two glasses of wine in and feeling better, but after being dragged around for the past few days by Sherlock, he was -really- tired and in dire need of some relaxation. Away from Sherlock.

So when the sister of their client had looked on, puzzled, and politely asked John to dinner after Sherlock had run off to - somewhere, without a thought, without so much as waiting up for John or sending a text, and John had contacted the Detective-Inspector in charge to learn that yes, Sherlock was fine, had already caught the criminal 'too easily' and was being a bastard about it - John said yes. It had been a lovely dinner indeed so far, and just what John needed - he loved Sherlock but definitely, absolutely needed his own time every so often with people a bit more... well. Someone to share a pint with and watch a match, or in this case, wine and be horribly mundane with, but it was very pleasant. And if the fact that she was very pretty helped him to forget how annoyed he was with Sherlock, well, he was only human.

But there really was no forgetting about Sherlock for John, or never for very long. This point was especially proven when John looked up to see Sherlock striding into the restaurant, eyes darting across the room and settling on him, an odd expression on his face. He had a feeling he wouldn't be getting dessert after all.

Sherlock pushed open the door of the restaurant immediately scanning the room like a hawk. He hadn't slept or eaten in days the case had taken over everything. He was glad to have work and unable to understand the despondence in John's actions and expressions over the last few days. It frustrated him, surely John had known what he was getting in too.

He stormed over to the table sat down on the vacant chair an unfamiliar scent in the air. Floral and slightly sickening - perfume. He looked across at John one eye brow raised.

"Who are you with?"

"Sandra, client's sister. She was there when you stormed off and jumped in a cab and suggested we get dinner, though I'm betting you don't remember."

John's posture straightened in his chair and he noticed he was fiddling with some of his cutlery on the table, so he stilled his hand, dropping it to his lap.

"What are you doing here?"

Sherlock cleared his throat as he looked over John. John was dressed for a 'date' or how he used to dress for them before he and Sherlock had started their relationship. Sherlock's insides seemed to burn and scratch uncomfortably within the confines of his body.

"Wait, I know I am somewhat gifted but I seem to being missing something of some importance John...This...woman, asked you out to dinner and you agreed? Then failed to tell me about said dinner. And then when I find you partaking in such a dinner you've obviously dressed to make an impression. I'm sorry if I'm finding this a little hard to grasp."

"Failed to tell you? I couldn't reach you at all! I had to call the DI to even find out what had happened to you or where you had gone - though I did get caught in the rain, thanks for that, so of course I changed - the DI said you were already finished up and having a go at the other officers, so I thought I'd leave you to it. So yeah, now I'm having dinner. People do that."

John's stomach twisted uncomfortably and the room seemed to grow hotter. He really did not appreciate the look Sherlock was giving him and he felt highly strung, on the defense, and defending against what, after all?

Sherlock's eyes widened and he just sat silently listening to John's quick tirade of words.

"Are you quite finished? I would apologise for not being able to shower you in attention today but I would of thought it was obvious that I needed to focus on the case. That is of course unless your ego is more important that catching a serial killer. I would suggest in the future if you have nothing sensible to say not to say anything. Idiocy doesn't suit you John and it certainly doesn't agree with me."

John sat there stunned, mouth parted, and licked his lips. His hand under the table balled into a fist, relaxed, and repeated the motion several times. Unbelievable.

"I'm the egomaniac here, right. Well. I would say I'm quite finished indeed. Are you?"

It was disorientating, the level of anger he felt at Sherlock showing up here like this, and the way he spoke to him. Sherlock never did pretend to be a kind or remotely polite person, but John had had just one too many insults as of late, thank you, and was fed up with being completely ignored one moment and berated the next. It made his blood boil.

"Sandra had to take a phone call right before you - showed up. I suspect she'll be needing her chair back soon."

Sherlock snorted the tightness in his chest worsening. His blood felt as if it were turning to venom and his hand were shaking. He knew he was heading to a dark and dangerous place. The hot possessive anger would creep it's way in and take a hold. And if he left now...then what...left John with Sandra. His voice was quiet and he tried hard to keep it steady and almost succeeding.

"Yes I think we are finished." He stood up a little violently the chair almost toppling over due to the force. "Enjoy your date." He turned and walked out, willing himself not to look back.

John watched in astonishment as he got what he wanted - or what he thought he wanted, as Sherlock turned and left. He didn't feel any relief for it. Damn it, there was no way on earth he would be able to enjoy any of the rest of his evening, and the two of them certainly weren't 'finished' with this. And surely he couldn't really stay at this table any longer, not in this emotional state, and not with Sherlock sneering the words "enjoy your date" over and over in his head. Ridiculous. Childish. Obnoxious - as was the part of him that said 'it kind of was a date' because no, it absolutely wasn't.
So he got up and left a message with the waiter to please tell the lovely young woman he had been dining with that he was so sorry and had a lovely time, but had to leave due to a madman emergency - she'll know what you mean - and headed for the door to run after Sherlock, not really wanting to find him at all.

Sherlock was walking. For once he was paying no attention to anything. He had no idea which direction he was heading in or his destination. He knew two things: he was not going home and he was not going to find John. When he thought of John sitting at that table waiting for that woman his stomach churned and he felt sick. She had no right to even talk to him. John belonged to him and he didn't give a fuck if that was considered 'a bit not good'. He kicked his foot against a stone on the street and watched it bounced along the pavement and into the road.

John exited out onto the pavement and... had no idea which way to go. He could see Sherlock in his mind - upturned coat collar, scowl on his face, absolute disregard for everyone in his way - but couldn't picture which way he'd gone. So he just started walking and pulled out his phone. He just knew Sherlock would never answer his call, but at least with a text, he'd see the message. He ignored all of the more unsavory things he'd like to say to Sherlock right now and composed his text.

Left the restaurant. Which direction? - JW

Reply required, or I'm asking for coordinates from CCTV. - JW

Sherlock felt the buzz of his phone against his hand resting in his pocket and yanked it out almost viciously. He blinked at the screen and sneered. Very mature, in essence it said 'give me what I want or i'll tell your brother.' He considered ignoring it turning his phone off or even throwing it at one of the goddamn CCTV cameras. No, add a Mycroft to any situation and it becomes a thousand times worse and he wasn't sure he could deal with this being any worse. He pushed down hard on the keys having to delete the message several times due to typos he was making in anger, finally he sent it.

Piss off. Hope reply is satisfactory. - SH

It took longer than he expected but John was glad to have received a reply - or he was until he actually read it. Nice, very mature. He reasoned to himself that maybe a bit of a break from each other would do them both good, calm them down, and later at home they could discuss this like mature adults. He actually laughed at himself as he walked down the street, searching for a cab. Thing never turned out that way, the longer it festered, the uglier and blacker it got later. And Sherlock responding like a mature adult? That would be the day

Right. As you wish, see you at home. - JW

It was never a date. - JW

Sherlock growled at the new text. Why was John so blindingly stupid, as if that was even the point. He had thought John understood. But no. He laughed bitterly to himself and saw a young couple shoot him a weary look, he shot dagger at them with his eyes and they looked away quickening his pace.

I don't care. - SH

John sighed and pulled out his phone. Sherlock could never, ever not have the last word in anything. He chewed his lip and really, really shouldn't answer. Fighting through text messages was pathetic and would never come to any good. John came up with more reasons to not continue texting than he knew what to do with.

You very, very obviously do. - JW

Sherlock was getting more and more frustrated. he didn't want to talk or did he...fuck he had no idea what he wanted to do. He wanted it all to fucking fuck off. And this was why he hadn't invested in emotion, in getting close to another person because it was all a load of...fuck. He stood still his body shaking from anger or shivering in the cold he wasn't sure which. He looked at his phone.

What do you want?. - SH

It won't go away until we talk about it, that's just the way it is. - JW

John looked around at his surroundings and thought he might try his luck at asking Sherlock to meet him. There was a cafe as a landmark not far off, and an alley where they might shout at each other for a bit without being disturbed. He texted the location to Sherlock and waited, anxiety building with each passing second.

Sherlock rubbed a hand against his face and sighed. He wanted this to go away but had an unpleasant feeling that if he saw John now the anger would get to much and he would say/do something he was bound to regret.
He continued walking for a few moments before quickly turning back in the other direction toward where John had told him to meet him. His sighed and mumbled to himself as he turned a corner and saw John leaning against a wall.

John tried to prepare himself for this, to be able to talk it out, but something about the sight of Sherlock stalking over towards him, already glaring, just made the anger he had felt earlier flare up again. He didn't smile at Sherlock or say hi, he simply stood there looking him over until finally...

"All right. Out with it."

"Out with what?" He spat our practically seething. Just the sight of him standing there made something in him twist and burn. Sherlock was close enough to smell him now and he turn his face away as he caught the scent of her perfume.

"You wanted to meet. You wouldn't leave me alone and you threatened me with Mycroft so say what you have to say so I can leave. Or...is it that you don't trust me. You think I'll do something stupid?"

He knew John would know what he was getting at, that it would upset John to have to even contemplate it but he just didn't care.

"Christ, calm the fuck down a minute - and you're already doing something stupid."

John's adrenaline spiked as he listened to Sherlock's irrational ranting and - oh, did he really just go there? John was losing his grip of civility fast.

"Did you really just taunt me - with that, of all things? Don't you dare. You say I'm the one having trust issues right now? - you're having a laugh. I'm not the one who is so transparently insecure that I can't handle my partner spending an hour with a normal person for a change."

Even as the words were spilling out of John's mouth, a part of his mind lit up saying that this was a fantastically terrible idea. But then there it was. Sherlock's face for a split second at the word 'normal' - though it quickly disappeared under his mask again - It was a horrible look and John had been the one to put it there. Something in him made him want to do it again.

Normal...and there it was in one word. He bared his teeth and growled the pure animal-ism of it shocking even himself. The volume of his voice was rising he wasn't quite shouting but it was close.

"Normal? Would you like me to be normal John, would that made you happy. You knew what you were getting into. How many people told you? warned you off. You should have listened."

His voice was shaking he had never been so completely consumed by anger before in his life and even now the hot white jealousy he had felt at the restaurant was only adding fuel to the fire. He wanted to bring John down and tear him apart so that he would realise how much he needed and belonged to Sherlock.

"I went there because it's true. Did you think you just owed me a favour 'I'll get Sherlock clean because he got rid of my ridiculous psychosomatic limp and then we'll be even.' I don't even know why I bothered if you were just going to use your new ability to move properly to run off with someone else."

John could hardly process the words he was hearing. His blood was hot and thrumming with adrenaline, absolutely seething from these accusations. He didn't think about his next action, it seemed to happen on it's own. John slapped him. Across the face, hard as he could.

"How - dare - you say something like that! To me, of all people. How dare you say that to me, and why? Why would you say that, you can't possibly - you would have to be insane to believe that. Absolutely mad - " John's hands were balled up into fists at his sides and he took a step closer to Sherlock, sneering. "Want you normal? It wouldn't be you anymore then, would it?"

"I thought that was the point." He hissed through gritted teeth. His body tensed as John moved closer preparing his body for whatever John was about to lay on him. He didn't care, he half wanted John to hit him again.

"I'm not leaving you, you idiot! Though god only knows why I don't, if I had any sense I would!"

John ran a hand over his face, exhaling sharply.

"Jesus, you're a bastard. You can't ignore my existence for a week, oh, except when it's more convenient for you to insult me - you've gotten away with that bullshit all your life so far, Sherlock, but I won't have it, not like that. And you can't have some massive psychotic freakout when I take a break to interact with someone simply because they're not you! It was not. A. Date."

John punctuated his last point by taking a step forward, jabbing a finger into Sherlock's chest sharply. His voice had gone from shouting at the beginning and moving down into something colder and lower, his eyes still wild.

"Don't pretend you didn't know how this would be. You knew I would ignore you for days at a time, that I would insult you and shoot the wall and lie to you and run off. You knew all of that ALL of it. You didn't enter into this with false expectations John."

He turned away taking a few steps toward the road before turning back sharply. He wanted John to be angry, furious to shout at him, to make him feel like his anger was justified.

"Can't you understand? Or do you delight in being an idiot. I don't care if it wasn't a date. You shouldn't need other people. Your mine, I'm yours isn't that what you've been telling me. Or is that just the usual post-coital nonsense you've told everyone you deem worthy of a fuck."

"Good god - do you have any idea what you sound like? What you're saying? Loving someone and treating them like some - some prized possession are two totally, totally different things. Yes, I need other people in my life! I'm not like you, with some mad idea that I'm better off with one out of control obsession, meanwhile alienating everyone else around me, constantly!"

John, enraged and insulted, took a few long strides toward Sherlock, who was making to start walking away again, and yanked him back by the arm.

"I'm your lover, Sherlock, not your prisoner! Christ - "

Sherlock stumbled back slightly and ripped his arm away from John's grasp turning fast and pushing out at him the look of surprise on his face as he also stumbled slightly gave Sherlock a sense of hot satisfaction. He took a few steps closer grabbing hold of John's coat and slamming him hard against the alley wall. His voice was rough, quiet and dangerous. He wanted to scare John, to have him know what he was capable of and how dark of a place his mind really could be.

"Lover? Don't make me laugh. Is this love? Because if it is I don't want it, you can have it. You really have no idea do you - none whatsoever. And if I told you, I know you couldn't look at me the same way again. If i stood here and told you I want to cut you open and be inside of you, and know what your organs looked like because it makes me angry that they're hidden away. That's the kind of thing i'm not meant to say isn't it. That I'm jealous of your bones and skin and blood because they're more of a part of you than I will ever be. I'm not meant to say that either am I." He pushed John harder against the wall gritting his teeth.

John - saying he was stunned would not be doing it justice. Shocked, angrier than he'd ever been in his life, insulted, frightened by Sherlock's cold impassioned delivery and the full meaning behind his words that John wasn't sure would ever fully sink in, and yes - incredibly aroused by the rush of it all. The adrenaline and intensity of their fight had been one thing, but this threatened to tip over into something completely else, something unknown and darker than he had ever willingly looked at before. Though he still wanted to punch Sherlock in the face more than anything.
He tried to push against Sherlock, to scratch at his grip on his arms. His mouth was open, panting hard, and his eyes were glaring up at Sherlock's horrible, terrifying face, unwavering.

"Sherlock."

"Do you understand now John, You're always telling me I need to open up, well there you go."

Sherlock smirked at him the look of terror on his face sent pulses of pleasure right through his body and it didn't bother him. He knew how wrong he was, how twisted and abnormal. He let his hands drop and took a few steps back his arms open in some sort of strange offering.

"Just do it John, don't just stand there with that ridiculous look of horror on you're face. just DO SOMETHING. Hit me, run away, knock me down, i'll take it." He was almost laughing and his face was manic. His control was sliding and he just needed a reaction. "DO SOMETHING."

"Fuck you." And like that, something in John snapped. He lunged forward, his left fist connecting squarely with Sherlock's jaw, and his fist was meeting his face for the second time before he had even decided what to do. He
was growling, unleashed like an animal on Sherlock and as they collided in the alley, toppling over each other, both grappling for a stronghold, John didn't know which parts of them were which, but he kept striking out at whatever he could reach.

"Fuck you."

He said it again and again into Sherlock's ear before biting down on it in a fashion he had done dozens of times before, and yet, not at all like this - not with that much force or raw hurt feeling behind it.

Sherlock felt John's fist connect with his face the pain was sharper than he had expected and the force behind it elated him. Finally he thought. Give me everything. He pushed out but just a little too late, John's first had hit him again and the next thing he knew John had slammed into him and they had fallen backward. He had no time to try and co-ordinate a landing and his back crashed painfully against the ground. He growled his arm swinging under to punch against John's stomach momentarily winding him. He felt John's word being growled against his ear and the hard bite on his ear lobe, he hissed, trying to kick out but his legs were trapped.

"You keep saying that John. Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you. Why don't you just fucking do something about it."

He pushed up against the ground but he couldn't move, John had the upper hand, and he hadn't counted on this but he was still pushing it. Christ, what was wrong with him. He let out a laugh.

"You've never had the nerve to just take what you wanted."

Somehow, John freed a hand long enough to slap him again.

"Shut up! You don't care what I want, have you ever? I want you to care about something other than yourself for once, this isn't even about me, not really, or you 'caring' for me anymore, it's about you needing to be a freak - "

John crashed his mouth on top of Sherlock's and it wasn't a kiss, not really, not with that much blood in it. He anger was ugly and blinding, this absolute loss of control. He grabbed a handful of Sherlock's hair, yanking forcefully upwards only to knock his head against the ground.

"You're fucking insane." He growled out, shoving his hips down against Sherlock's, grinding against him.

"Yes John, I'm a freak. I'm selfish and I'm twisted."

He didn't know which one of them was bleeding and he didn't care, he could taste the tang of it against his tongue and it only made him harder and more aroused. He bit down hard against John's bottom lip feeling his teeth break the skin, dribbles of blood dropping into his mouth he lapped at it, addicted. His head was forced back hitting the hard ground and he grunted at the pain disorientating him for a moment before he was brought sharply back by John's hardness grinding against him.

"If I'm such a freak and this is all about me then why..." He reached a hand down roughly cupping John through his jeans. "Are you so fucking hard for me?"

"The fuck if I know!"

John hissed at the feeling of Sherlock's hand on him, rocking his hips down against him, back and forth.

"And the only reason you're not face down, bare assed in the dirt of this alley yet is that I keep thinking it might be more worthwhile to strangle you instead. That's the sick shit you want to make me say, isn't it, you twisted fuck."

He leaned down to press their faces together again, but Sherlock bit him and he jerked away, slapping him again, and again.

"But that's what you like, isn't it, that's all you want me for, why you keep needling and picking at it."

He whimpered as John's hand collided with his face over and over. The pain was so thrilling so overwhelming that his hips were bucking up now rubbing against John's. And he had gotten what he wanted John had broken, become raw and out of control and for a second he panicked considering the consequences. How would they come back from this? His voice became quieter and John let up on his face.

"John..."

"Don't you dare 'John' me - you've had enough now, is that it? You got what you wanted?"

John was breathing hard, his heart pounding, his thoughts all erratic. He could smell blood and the desert. He couldn't feel the stinging in his palms or his knees or his ribs, or the pain from his split knuckles. He could feel the irritating and not-so-gratifying rub of rough fabric between his legs, but even more than that he felt an intense hatred and shame of himself in this moment, and for Sherlock too.

"You've used me to see what it's like and I hate you for doing this to me, for me it isn't over. Can you even feel sorry?"

He stopped rocking against him and just looked down, holding onto Sherlock's wrists tightly, far too tight. He began to shake all over, blinking rapidly
Sherlock swallowed hard. Yes it was his fault and he was a disgustingly terrible human being. And he wished he knew what John wanted because he would do it. If John wanted to beat him he would lay there and take it, if he wanted Sherlock begging for forgiveness he wouldn't hesitate. But he had no idea, no idea what to do. But he knew he couldn't run away from this. His face was aching from the abuse but it was nowhere near how badly his heart was hurting, like it was ripped open inside his chest and he was slowly bleeding out.

"I'd lay here and let you destroy me if that's what you wanted. I wouldn't hesitate for a second. I'd even enjoy it because it was coming from you. And i'm sick in love and twisted in love and I can't change that."

"Shut up, shut up, you sick son of a bitch. I don't want to destroy you, I don't want to destroy anyone. "

John felt - hollow and blank, but no, that's not right. There was plenty of anger and shame in there. Exhaustion of every kind. A great sadness. All of him shook above Sherlock, his body over flooded with adrenaline and now coming down off of it, crashing further than he had ever been before. He blinked and looked - not at Sherlock, he couldn't quite see him, so he just looked down through him.

"Just right now I'd say myself, but you - you've taken care of that nicely."

John released his grip on Sherlock - of his wrists, of his legs beneath him - and slowly lowered his shaking self down on top of him, clutching at his coat.

"I just want you to leave me alone. But you can't do that."

Sherlock's eyes were wide he had always been self destructive set on a path to his own demise. But this...this was too much to far and if John left. Or was that it. He took a deep breath and tried to keep his voice steady and spoke words he never thought he would.

"If you walk away now. If you want to go. I won't stop you, I won't follow or try and find you."

John's bitter laugh came out far too much like a sob, and he found that once he started, he couldn't stop and waves of it wracked his body. His bleeding hands tightened in the lapels of Sherlock's coat and he buried his face against his chest. He wished he could be anywhere but here. He sniffed loudly, but didn't make a move to get up

"How - how could you love me this way? Why? I don't want to be here anymore."

He tried, with little success, to curl in on himself, still lying on top of Sherlock. It was - incredibly uncomfortable, he realized, and at least that bit of sense had come back to him.

"I want to go home."

Sherlock was shaking, he realised how cold it was, how damp the ground was. He looked up at John, his expression so broken and defeated and he felt hot warm tears prick the corner of his eyes. He blinked them away. He didn't deserve to feel his own despair not after this.

"Do you want me to come with you. Do you want me to take you home?"

"Sh - get me away from here, Sherlock."

John coughed and when he did, the pain in his ribcage shot through his middle, startling him - actual, physical pain, that is. He brought a hand up to his chest and belatedly wondered if he had a few cracked ribs. He forced himself to take a deep gasp of air and figured possibly not, maybe it was just bad bruising. He was then aware of Sherlock trying to - do something, he didn't know what, so he finally forced himself to roll over, sprawling out on the pavement and looking up.

Sherlock was desperately trying to get up, to give John some sort of comfort and get him away from this hell he had created but the pressure of John's body on his knees was too much. His body ached all over and his face was practically pounding, he had no idea what he looked like and was glad John probably couldn't see how bad the damage was due to the lack of light.

"John, I'll take you home, I promise I'll get you away from here but you have to let me up."

He felt John roll off him and struggled onto his knees sharp pains shooting all through his body. He took a moment before he stood reaching out for John's hand and tugging at it.

"Come on..."

John looked down at the hand over his as if surprised by it, then glared up at Sherlock and shoved it away, disgusted.

"Just because I'm going home with you doesn't mean I'm going home with you."

He took a deep breath and tried to clear his mind, to feel all of his body, to remember the ground and how to right himself. He stood up slowly, shakily, and that wasn't bad. He took a step forward and swayed a bit, reaching a hand out for Sherlock in spite of himself and leaned against him.

"Well. Forward march."

Sherlock didn't utter a word as they walked slowly toward Baker Street. John was stumbling along beside him resting against his shoulder for support. he couldn't rid his mind of the look of complete disgust on John's face when Sherlock has offered him his hand. Sherlock was having trouble contemplating the idea of being alone again no idea how he would function or survive without John. Perhaps he would just simply cease to be. They turned the corner to Baker Street and reached the door he fumbled for his pockets and slid the key into the lock helping John with the stairs. The stumbled together into the living from and the silence was painful.

The walk home took far too long, took forever. He got through it by resolutely putting one foot in front of the other, trying to ignore the pain he was in and the way Sherlock kept looking at him when he thought John wouldn't notice. Finally, they had made it home, and he shuffled into the living room.

"Thank god." He found his way over to the sofa and sat down gratefully, carefully, and with a grimace he leaned over to switch on the lamp.

It was in this dim light that he looked over to Sherlock, standing in the middle of the living room, looking lost and looking beaten, in more ways than one, covered in bruises and blood and dirt.

"Christ, you look terrible."

Sherlock brought a hand up to his face feeling it gingerly. He didn't care he deserved it. He could feel his lips were swollen and bloody he could only imagine what the rest of him looked like. He looked down at himself covered in dirt and damp, his clothing practically destroyed.

"It's my own fault. Don't lose sleep over it."

He looked away, he could hardly bear the shame of it, the look of John's face, after everything there was still concern in his eyes. Just the doctor in him, Sherlock thought. He'll never want you again not now.

"Don't worry. I won't."

His voice was cold and alien to him, and instead of looking at Sherlock, he busied himself with trying to shrug off his coat and take off his shoes. All of his things were wet and covered in dirt and blood. He hissed when he leaned down to slip off his shoes and sat back carefully with his eyes closed. He started to think about Sherlock's injuries as well, force of habit, but then he was trying to remember where he had hit him the hardest, and well. That wasn't a road he was willing to go down yet. When he spoke, he sounded slightly more himself, but still off, still colder than he cared to be.

"Come here."

Sherlock paused for a moment. When he touches you make the most of it. Because it's unlikely to happen again because you went and broke everything beyond repair. He nodded more to himself than to John and padded over to him falling slowly to his knees trying not to let the pain show on his face. He wanted to know what John was thinking, he needed to hear the words 'I'm leaving you' He needed to be obliterated by it.

"You're going to leave aren't you?"

"What are you -"

John looked on in confusion as Sherlock approached him like a man heading to the gallows and bowed before him on his knees. He had meant for Sherlock to come sit next to him on the sofa... He sighed, always so dramatic. His hand was reaching for the side of Sherlock's face before even he knew what he was doing. He let it rest there against the bruised, dirtied skin.

"I'm not sorry."

And he wasn't. But he wanted to be, god how he wanted to be, and that was fucked up. He blinked a few times, the air around them full of static, and realised he hadn't yet addressed Sherlock's question.

He closed his eyes against John's touch, it stung but at least he wasn't flinching away. He didn't want John to be sorry the complete weight of what he had done was crashing down on him, it was almost suffocating. He felt his headspinning and reached out for something to steady himself his hand finding John's knee, he let go of it quickly not wanting to force contact upon him and just let him body slump to the side. Too much. This was too much.

"I'm sorry." And he needed to say it, all of it because he thought he might not get another chance.

"I'm so sorry, I pushed and pushed and I was so wrong and i've broken everything. I'm selfish and disgusting. You don't deserve this, you deserve to be happy and if you have to leave to be happy then i'll let you go. Because I can feel John. You. Just you."

John breathed slowly, closing his eyes and letting Sherlock's words wash over him and knock around in his swollen head. He vaguely wished he had a recording of this, to play it over and over, to listen carefully. He swallowed, the movement difficult, and cleared his throat

"You mean that, don't you. You would really let me leave."

He opened his eyes to look at Sherlock, slumped over and pathetic, but as sincere as John had ever seen him. Every part of him ached, and he reached his hand out to Sherlock, it hanging in the air between them.

"Come up here."

Sherlock nodded. "Yes, anything you need."

His head was almost screaming, but please, please don't go. I'll try harder, I'll be better I promise god please don't leave me here alone. But he knew that wasn't right. He wanted John to be happy, it was more important than his needs and wants more important than anything else that had ever or would ever exist.

Sherlock leaned up at John's words, taking the hand which he was offered and allowed himself to be guided up onto the sofa.

"Fuck, you always make things so damn complicated."

John exhaled and closed his eyes, leaning into the back of the sofa and tilting his head sideways, moving toward him until John's head touched his shoulder.

"I don't want to leave you. I don't even want to throttle you anymore, though it may just be that I'm too sore and tired to try."

"To try and throttle me... or to try and leave?"

His heart beat elevated as he heard John's words and felt his touch. If by some miracle he hadn't lost this perfect man how the hell was he meant to make this up to him? He didn't even want to consider the options not until John had slept. In the morning when all the emotion had been flushed out and all he had were plain facts staying with Sherlock may seem impossible. He shuddered.

John bit his lip to keep from making a sarcastic remark - and didn't know why he bothered because that really hurt. He made a pained sound and dropped his hand down to lightly grasp Sherlock's arm.

"I am really, really pissed off at you. And probably will be for quite some time. But I still want to turn down the covers and go to sleep in our bed. Can you fucking believe that?"

He couldn't quite believe it himself, and yet of course he could. He didn't know where to go from here, didn't know where he stood with Sherlock, all he knew was that he didn't want to go away, not permanently, though he had every right too, and if he had any sense...

Sherlock looked up a little alarmed by the sound John made. His lips was bleeding again he reached up slowly to touch it. Horrified that it had been him that had done.

"Fuck. I am so - " He snapped his hand back and stood up. This was all wrong John sitting there, in pain, bleeding. Because of him. His voice was quiet and broken.

"You...you can't stay. You have to go. This can't - I won't..." He shook his head he couldn't even think coherently, backing away from John his eyes wide with horror and realisation of exactly what he had done, what he was capable of.

"Sherlock... Calm down. Just - stop this. You're not going to throw me out, not tonight. We've been through enough today, haven't we?"

He stayed sat on the sofa, looking up at Sherlock with tired eyes, trying to stay calm but growing more anxious - maybe Sherlock was right. But surely not. But maybe... from every angle he could look at it and every way forward he could see, this was going to hurt. He didn't know which path to choose

Sherlock was stuck. He wanted to turn around and run away as fast as he could and do something terrible and risky and dangerous but at the same time he wanted to fall forward. To lean down and kiss John and see what would happen. To see if it still felt right. He padded forward kneeling on the sofa and reaching a hand up to guide John's face gently toward his own stopping it only inches apart.

"John... I need to know..."

He closed his eyes and as lightly as he could managed rest his bruised lips against John's bleeding ones. He remained like that for as long as he dared before moving away not brave enough to open his eyes.

John watched him warily and stayed very, very still on the sofa, not even daring to breath. And then there Sherlock was, so so close to him, tilting up his face for him. John braced himself for a sting, or for something far worse, but it didn't even hurt - Sherlock's touch against his lips was that light, and as he pulled away, damn him, John leaned forward an inch or two, trying to follow him, eyes shut until he realized it was over.

"Go ahead and open them."

Slowly and a little painfully Sherlock opened his eyes slightly shocked that he hadn't been pushed away or told to get off. He half wished he hadn't kissed John. Because it was still the same, if anything it was more. His heart still swelled inside of his chest and ached and his skin still wanted to melt against the touch and after that he didn't know how he would ever be able to let him go.

"We're a proper mess, aren't we."

John was inwardly cursing himself and cursing Sherlock for this. How on earth he felt more promise in a bruised, bloody, barely there, no good excuse for a kiss than he felt at the idea of walking out that door and into the rest of the world, a mundane normal world waiting just for him, he would never know. So. He cursed under his breath and reached his hand out toward Sherlock, unsure of just what he was reaching for, exactly, but knowing it would do. Sherlock's face fell against John's offered hand rubbing up against it almost cat like. And John was right, they were a mess. What had he even been thinking. He wanted to blame the case, the lack of food and sleep but he couldn't. He was to blame and he had to accept that.

"I wish I could show you - kiss you like you deserve, but I don't want to hurt you anymore..."

"I've had - "

And he stopped himself there, because maybe he hadn't had worse. And he really needed to stop thinking those sorts of things if he was ever going to forgive Sherlock. But that would take time, he knew, but it was still time that they were still together, combustible but still inseparable.

"Don't push your luck, but... I think I can survive a bloody kiss."

John held Sherlock's face and pulled him closer, concerned about digging into his bruises but not concerned enough to stop and fret over them. He pressed their lips together, more firmly this time, and closed his eyes, his heart jumping.

Sherlock winced at John's words. Worse than having one of the only people he trusted force him into fighting until they were both battered in a darkened alley, no he didn't think so. And then he felt John grip his face the bruises aching slightly against the touch but feeling so good and solid and real at the same time. When their lips touched it was like fire and rain. All the hurt and pleasure driving the kiss. The knowledge that it was so wrong that both of them were still here and still able to do this. He wrapped his arms gently around John's body slowly allowing him time to say no, wondering if he was indeed pushing his luck.

John sighed softly against Sherlock's swollen mouth and pressed his body forward into the touch. He ran his hands up Sherlock's arms to his shoulders and across his chest, down his sides and to his waist. He pulled back his lips and kissed along a colorful jaw, tasting dirt.

"I shouldn't still want it..."

Sherlock hummed against his touch the want for more almost overpowering. A battle inside him raging. The hate he felt for himself for what he had done and the need to have John to make him feel that hot pleasure. He wanted to be with him in that way so he could give him something to cut out the pain.

"What do you want John? Let me give it to you."

John cursed under his breath and pulled his mouth away, looking down between them. Fuck, this was so... but he wanted it so bad. He really did, to somehow find some peace and comfort in this, after everything. He needed a different release.

"Take me to bed, Sherlock, help me forget it."

Sherlock shuffled off of the sofa and stood up reaching out his hand for John to take it and guiding him slowly toward the room they shared. His voice was soft and calming and he sat John down onto the bed and placed a hand on his shoulder to still him.

"Let me do this for you." Slowly and lovingly Sherlock undone each one of Johns shirt buttons and carefully slid it from his shoulders and onto the floor. Then he reached up and placed a kiss onto the curve of his neck and down along his chest to his navel.

He rested on his knees against his heals and carefully removed John's muddied jeans letting his fingers trace the cool skin of John's thighs as he went, laying kissing between his finger tips.

John felt in a daze, everything going hazy around him as heat blossomed all through him from the inside out at the feeling of Sherlock's focus centered on him entirely like this. His head fell back and he blinked, unseeing, up at the ceiling, finally at the cusp of feeling something good, really good.

"More of that, yes please..."

Sherlock smiled lightly and nuzzled against John's skin as he finally managed to discard the jeans. He kissed his way up along to John's inner thigh, licking and kissing at the more sensitive skin. He reached a long pales finger up to trace the lines in John's underwear where his already hardening cock was pushing against them.

"I'm going to make you feel so good."

John leaned back on his elbows, eyes closed, and spread his legs further apart. His jeans had only just hit the floor, Sherlock was still clothed and already he was feeling dizzy. His cock twitched, interested, and he let out a soft sigh of a moan at Sherlock's words, at his promise, at the mere sound of his incredible voice. He reached a hand down between them, smoothing it over Sherlock's own hand placed on his thigh before running it back up himself, over his own chest and back down on the bed.

He knelt up letting his kisses run over the cloth of John's underwear, pressing his lips against John's growing erection. He nuzzled against it breathing in the musky smell just unadulterated John. He flattened his tongue against John's shorts letting the wetness and the heat soak through teasing at his cock.

"Tell me John, tell me what you want..." He wanted to fall to John, to give him everything and make sure he did it right. It wasn't about him. Just John.

John's hips twitched up, missing his teases and loving his voice, loving him like this and the way it made him feel

"More, more of this. I want all you can give me, Sherlock. Touch me."

Sherlock gently tugged against John's shorts dragging them down his legs following them with a trail kisses until they joined John's jeans on the floor. He looker up from where he knelt at John's beautifully hard cock and he would have been happy to kneel their and worship it. He reached a hand up curling his fingers around it and pulling on it slowly, sliding his thumb gently over the tip. He raised himself up on his knees and dipped down to lap lazily at the tip of John's already dripping cock the taste of his was dizzying.

"Oh my fucking god, Sherlock."

Finally there was that touch, and god, that tongue so hot and sliding around him. It was electrifying and no one else ever did this to him, could make his toes start curling before they'd hardly even begun. He opened his eyes and looked down at the sight of this, moaning low and long. He reached a hand out to gently pet at Sherlock's hair encouragingly, but not tugging or pulling at his scalp.

"Oh, yes. No one does it like you."

Sherlock smiled against John's hardness filled with pleasure and happiness by John's reactions. He let his tongue slide from the tip to the base of John's cock and back up sucking softly against the head before taking John into his mouth, he tightened his lips and began to move using his hand to increase John's pleasure. He took John right to the back of his throat concentrating to control his gag reflex. He looked up at John, his eyes wide almost watering and his mouth full of his cock.

"Oh, you're so, so beautiful - fuck"

John didn't even want to blink, it was so perfect. And maybe it was a little cruel, the sight of Sherlock's battered face before him, his bruised and already swollen lips stretching around his cock. It felt glorious, to be taken in that deep, but for Sherlock it had to hurt him, his jaw, his mouth, and the thought sent John's hips bucking up in spite of himself. He didn't bother feeling bad about it now.

"My, how determined you are. I know it hurts, I bet you're loving it too, hm?"

Sherlock couldn't speak, he wasn't willing enough to remove John's beautiful cock from his desperate mouth. but John knew him to well. It hurt but he didn't care he liked the punishing feel. And John knew Sherlock loved him talking like that. He moaned and it came out simply as a vibration within his throat. He answered John by forcing his mouth a little further onto his cock, saliva now trickling from the corners of his mouth. He pulled back up grazing his teeth slightly over John's tip before pushing himself down again and deep as his throat would allow. he repeated the movements slowly at first and then faster his eyes never looking away from John's face.

"Oh, how desperate you are for it, yes, more."

It was getting harder to breathe and soon John was panting, at the mercy of Sherlock's mouth around him. He knew his face would be flushed, the redness spreading out, down his neck, even to the top of his chest. A thin sheen of sweat was breaking out over his skin, and his hips were jerking of their own accord more frequently, and Sherlock just took it, not so much as batting an eye. "

Look how gorgeous you are, you were made for this, for sucking my cock, just mine. Loving it when you shouldn't, when it hurts."

Sherlock tried to answer John using only his eyes, trying to put a lot of things into that look hoping John may grasp at a few of them He was saying, Fuck yes, you're cock was made to be in my mouth, All I want is for you to be happy, I don't ever want to hurt you again and I love you. He added a little more pressure with the hand following the movements of his mouth sliding up and down John's cock, his movements becoming quicker still and with his other hand he reached for Johns hand and placed it onto his head wrapping it in his curls, he wanted John to know he didn't need to hold back or even ask. He could just take what he wanted.

John's head fell back as he moaned, low and gravelly at Sherlock's quicker, wetter, hotter movements, the way he placed John's hand to the back of his head, the look in his eye. It was getting to be far, far too much for him to take much longer, though he wanted it to last foreverL

"Fuck I fucking love you too, your mouth, everything you, you, you. You incredible bastard, look what you do to me."

John burned through and through, grabbing at the back of Sherlock's head and taking advantage of it, his hips thrusting up into his mouth, fucking him like that.

It wasn't that much longer before it was too much, too intense - his body had been through so much that day, as had his mind, but in those moments, he wasn't thinking about that. He didn't have to. There was just that raw need, the yearning for release that burned through him and then it overtook him, his muscles tensing, toes curling and all as he called out Sherlock's name and came in that wonderful, sore mouth.

Sherlock swallowed him down hungrily, the hot bitter taste of Johns seamen warming his throat and burning slightly at his swollen lip. He stayed against John until his body still and gently slide his mouth of of John cock planting one final kiss on the tip. He pulled himself up on hand around John's waist trying to guide him onto the bed. Sherlock kicked of his trousers and got out of his shirt quickly. All he wanted no was to lay close to John and feel the steady rhythm of his breathing as he slept.

John felt exhausted and ached everywhere - mostly in good ways, for now, though he would be sore as all hell in the morning. He was still catching his breath when Sherlock got into bed next to him, drawing the blanket over the two of them, and he scooted himself closer, leaning in for one last kiss.

He draped his arm over his body and settled in, feeling - content for the most part, all things considered... He opened his mouth and closed it again, thinking better of bringing any of that up until a good many hours spent in bed had gone by, so he settled for something else as he nuzzled his face against that pale chest.

"Mm, Sherlock? I get first shower in the morning."

He pressed a kiss to that skin and just... closed his eyes.