John was sitting in his usual armchair, staring at the wall with the holes in it. He didn't know how long he'd been sitting there. He did this a lot, ever since the fall.
He kept replaying it in his mind. And every time, it sent him into panic attack mode. The nightmares had returned as well. He couldn't walk anywhere without his cane.
"Damn it, Sherlock," he muttered, leaning forward and resting his head in his hands. That was when he heard the lock on the door start to click, like it was being picked.
John had taken to locking all the doors and windows. He always felt like he was being watched.
He jumped up and grabbed his gun from the end table. He never had it far away. The gun cocked just as the door banged open and John nearly dropped it.
Sherlock gave him an "are you kidding me" look and huffed as he hung his coat on the hooks, like he'd never been gone.
"John, really. A gun? Use your imagination. You could've gored the intruder with the fire poker. Much more fun. Guns are boring."
John had forgotten how to form words, how to breathe, how to move his legs. He stood there staring at Sherlock until his brain kicked into overdrive.
"Two...years, Sherlock. TWO YEARS!" He shouted, making Sherlock jump. "You DIED. I SAW you die. The...the blood and the doctors and the ambulance..." He faltered and realized he was still pointing a cocked and loaded gun at his best friend. He quickly disarmed himself and dropped the gun on the end table.
He looked back at Sherlock. The man who'd just returned from the dead had a funny look on his face. It was almost like remorse, sadness, guilt...and here John had thought sociopaths didn't feel. John opened his mouth to yell some more when Sherlock crossed the room and nearly tackled him, engulfing him in a bone-crushing hug. At first, John stiffened and started to pull away, until he inhaled and his defenses melted away. There it was...the faint cigarette scent, the hint of lavender that always accompanied his presence...the Sherlock smell.
It was so faint that John almost didn't hear it. "I missed you, John. And I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." John gave himself over to the hug and buried his face in Sherlock's chest, wrapping his arms around the taller man's torso, noticing that he'd lost weight and was bonier than ever. They stayed like that for a few minutes, not moving, just reveling in the physical presence of each other.
Finally, Sherlock pulled away and looked around the room. All of a sudden he was all business.
"John, you moved my skull." He looked slightly put out. John was still slightly lightheaded from the intoxicating scent of Sherlock and the intense range of emotions his bran had cycled through in the past five minutes. He focused his eyes and realized Sherlock was rambling on about his experiments and how they'd been consolidated to his bedroom. Sherlock's crazed speech was stopped short when John grabbed a handful of his dress shirt and pulled his face to his. Their foreheads rested together for a few seconds and Sherlock began to protest that John was wrinkling his shirt when John pressed his lips to his. Almost instantly, Sherlock stiffened and placed his palms on John's chest to push him away, but John tightened his hold on Sherlock's shirt and parted his lips, asking for entrance to Sherlock's mouth. A gasp escaped Sherlock and his hands went up to John's face.
A warm curl of heat started in John's toes and snaked up his legs. He felt his cock harden and it pressed into Sherlock's thigh.
Sherlock all of a sudden stiffened and shoved John away. He stared at John, his pupils blown and his face flushed. He opened his mouth as if to say something. John glanced down and saw that Sherlock's anatomy had also responded positively to the kiss.
"I...you can't just..." Sherlock was staring at a spot above John's left ear and seemed to be having a hard time forming a sentence.
"Sherlock, I'm sorry. I didn't mean that...I'm just happy you're alive, that's all." John realized what he'd done and straightened his jumper, which had become bunched up. His cheeks turned crimson and he stared at the floor.
"Yeah...yeah." Sherlock said distractedly.
John didn't see him leave.
Three hours later, the sun had fallen behind the horizon and the flat was freezing cold. Sherlock, however, didn't notice. He was standing in the middle of his room, facing his bed, fingers steepled under his chin. His mind was whirling. He couldn't pin any one thought down and it was driving him up the wall. He was usually so calm and collected.
Around 2am, John was lying in his bed, staring at the ceiling through the crushing blackness, pretending he could see the whorls on the ceiling and not just nothing.
He'd definitely crossed a line when he'd nearly attacked Sherlock. I mean for God's sakes, the man was a machine. He didn't have feelings...at least John thought he didn't.
John closed his eyes and willed himself to go to sleep when he heard his bedroom door creak open. His muscles jerked as if to go into the defensive position with his gun cocked, but he told himself it couldn't be anyone but Sherlock. He couldn't seem to breathe until Sherlock said "John?"
"Yes? You nearly scared me to death. It's...it's a quarter past 2. Why are you still awake?" John knew it was a useless question the moment he said it, but doctors are always concerned. He sat up and squinted in the darkness.
"I...I couldn't sleep. I've been alone for the past two years. I...I missed you. I couldn't imagine me missing anyone ever, not even my own family. Can I sleep in here with you?"
"Of course." John said, and he was shocked at the warmth in his voice. "Come here." He shifted and he felt Sherlock slide in beside him.
Neither man had ever slept better.
When John woke up, he knew he'd slept late. His heart thudded when he thought he'd missed his shift at the surgery, but them remembered he had today off. He glanced over to the other side of the bed, which was empty. Had Sherlock really come back? Or was John dreaming, again? The only dreams that weren't terrifying were heartbreaking.
His heart was beginning to skip in fear when he noticed Sherlock standing against the doorframe, holding two cups of tea. He was impeccably dressed as usual, with his blue scarf wrapped around his neck.
John suddenly felt exposed and pulled the bedclothes around him. Sherlock chuckled. "Fancy a cuppa?" He said, walking over to the bed and placing a cup on the bedside table.
"Y-yes, thank you," John said, clearly surprised at the nicety in the gesture. Sherlock never made tea.
"So, John, I think we need to talk about last night." Sherlock said, folding himself down onto the bed, his long legs crossing into Indian-style.
"Yeah, we do." John agreed.
Sherlock then proceeded to explain where he'd been the past two years, killing off Moriarty's men and making sure no one ever came near John or Mrs. Hudson or 221B ever again. John sometimes interrupted with a question, and Sherlock patiently explained. It was the most John had ever heard him talk.
"So...after all that...you're just able to come back here? There's nothing left to do?" John asked, incredulous that after all Sherlock had done, he'd chosen to come back to 221B.
"Yes," Sherlock said. "I'm assuming what happened last night was an anomaly, a result of the pent-up loneliness and grief. I'm perfectly content with just forgetting it."
John was silent for a while, staring down at the blanket he'd managed to shred. "What if...what if I don't want to forget it?" He was afraid to look up at his best friend. He could feel Sherlock stiffen and he was sure that he'd gotten up and left when all of a sudden, his nose was accosted with the scent of cigarettes and lavender, a scent that hadn't left his memory since last night.
John forced himself to look up and almost jerked back when he found his face mere inches from Sherlock's.
"I've always believed that caring about anything is nothing but a deterrent. As I've said before, sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side."
John's brain had to sort out what Sherlock had just said, since it was said very quickly, in the space of an exhale of a breath.
"Every day of those two years, I wanted to come back to you. But I knew I couldn't until I was absolutely sure you were safe." At this point, Sherlock's long fingers fisted into John's sleep shirt and pulled him even closer with surprising force.
"So...you're really back? For good? Don't lie to me, Sherlock, I'm not an experiment." John's voice was shaky, and his hands went up to Sherlock's scarf and stroked it, a mindless action while he waited breathlessly for an answer.
Instead of an answer, Sherlock pressed his lips to John's. John reacted almost immediately, clutching Sherlock's scarf and pulling him down hard. John rolled them over till he was sitting on Sherlock's chest. He pulled his face away, breathless, and stared into Sherlock's eyes, the icy blue/grey pools that seemed to never end. In them he saw a mixture of anticipation and fear.
"John…" Sherlock hissed.
"What?" John asked innocently, slowly unbuttoning Sherlock's shirt.
"You know damn well what," Sherlock growled, nearly ripping John's grey t-shirt as he pulled it over his head, a difficult task seeing as he was pinned under John.
John grabbed Sherlock's face and crashed their lips together again. All at once, it was a frenzy of fabric and frantic fingers, until Sherlock had nothing on but his boxers and John was clad only in his red pants.
John eyed Sherlock's stiff manhood through his pants hungrily, then looked back up at his face. Sherlock's eyes flashed down to meet John's. "What?" Sherlock asked, suddenly apprehensive.
"Nothing," John said, grinning, and thumbed Sherlock's tip over his thin boxers. Sherlock groaned and threw his head back. "Please, John…" he whimpered.
"Ah-ah-ah, not so fast," John teased, dragging his nails down Sherlock's chest, leaving a trail of kisses, finally ending at his navel.
John slowly pulled Sherlock's boxers over his hips and off of him, seeing Sherlock's erect cock spring free. He palmed it, watching Sherlock's eyes roll into the back of his head. Sherlock's hands clutched the sheets and he forced his eyes open to glare down at John. "Well, get on with it," Sherlock snapped.
"Leave it to you to be demanding when you're about to experience one of life's greatest pleasures for the first time," John said playfully, using his thumb to rub the tip of Sherlock, effectively shutting him up.
John was finished playing. He engulfed Sherlock with his mouth, eliciting a high-pitched keening sound from his partner. He felt Sherlock's hands tangle in his hair, which had gotten annoyingly long in Sherlock's absence.
John bobbed up and down, causing Sherlock to nearly rip John's hair of out his head.
If he gets this much pleasure from this, imagine what he'll experience when we move on, John mused, the thought making his own neglected erection throb, almost painfully.
Meanwhile, Sherlock was writhing and gasping on the bed, and John knew he was close. Intent on making Sherlock see stars, he took Sherlock as far into his mouth as he could.
"Unghhh...John…" Sherlock groaned, his back arching off the bed. John slowly drew his mouth away, making Sherlock grit his teeth in frustration.
"Really, John…" Sherlock whined. John grinned. "Patience, Sherlock," he said, reaching into the bedside table and pulling out a bottle of lubricant he'd stored there for his own personal use. When his fingers were slick, he began to probe the consulting detective's entrance. He heard Sherlock suck in a breath and he stopped, looking up to make sure he hadn't hurt him.
Sherlock looked down and nodded, closing his eyes and willing himself to relax. Slowly John added two fingers and curved slightly upward, hitting Sherlock's prostate with a surgeon's precision.
Sherlock made a sound that definitely wasn't human, inhaling sharply and twisting down onto John's fingers just to feel that again.
"Please, John…" Sherlock whined.
John removed his fingers and positioned himself and pushed the tip in, and he was planning to go in slowly when Sherlock's lightning quick hands reached down and grabbed his hips and pulled him forward with astonishing force.
Now it was John's turn to gasp. He looked up and saw that Sherlock's hands were now tangled in his curls and his eyes were staring at the ceiling.
Slowly, John began to thrust in and out. Sherlock's breathing was ragged, and his eyes slowly tracked a path across the ceiling, down the wall, and finally locked into John's.
"John.." he gasped. "I-I'm not made of ch-china. Just go!"
John started pounding into Sherlock, and before long, hit that bundle of nerves, making Sherlock clutch the bedsheets and shout his name. John almost lost control of himself seeing Sherlock, always so composed and stone-faced, coming completely undone at his doing. John carefully touched Sherlock's throbbing erection that was lying on his stomach.
The slightest feather of the touch made Sherlock choke on his breath and his back arched off the bed and he whimpered as John began to pump his hand between their bodies, all the while thrusting deep into Sherlock, hitting his prostate every time.
Sherlock forced his eyes open and saw John's control was quickly slipping and within seconds, Sherlock's body bent backwards with the most powerful wave of pleasure he'd ever felt and John collapsed on his now-sticky chest, emptying himself into Sherlock.
John slowly pulled out and crawled up to lie next to Sherlock, both of them breathing hard. When they'd regained the ability to draw breath, John looked up at Sherlock and found him already staring at him.
"How was that for your first time?" John asked, still slightly out of breath. Sherlock twirled a piece of John's hair in his violinist's fingers and left a lingering kiss on the top of his head. "It wasn't dull," he admitted sheepishly. John grinned into Sherlock's chest and they both fell into a deep slumber, only awakening when the sun had began to set