John's texts are in italics.
Sherlock's texts are in bold.
I hope this makes sense. I wanted them to be easily identifiable and it seems so silly to have them signed JW and SH. This fic has some passing references to events in some of my other fics. Doesn't matter; this can stand on its own. If you're curious, I have them listed in chronological order in my profile (cuz I'm anal like that).

John took a seat at the bar and ordered a whiskey. Just a hotel bar, like any other hotel bar, full of doctors like himself, here for the medical conference. Three more days, he reminded himself. Just three days. He could do this.

His hand drifted involuntarily to his coat pocket and curled around his mobile. He was not going to text Sherlock. There was no need. Three days. Twelve hours down already. He was going to be fine.

He didn't feel fine. He felt a little panicky and a lot embarrassed. That twelve hours was the most time he'd spent away from Sherlock since the day, six months ago, when nothing happened.

Six months ago, he'd woken up to find a text on his mobile:

On a case. Will be tracked. No communication until further notice.

Sherlock had left his own phone on the kitchen table.

And that was it. Five days of nothing. No calls, no texts, no notes passed through the homeless network, no cryptic communiqués via Mycroft, no secret graffiti or passenger pigeons or carrier owls.

The first day, John reveled in the quiet solitude. Mrs. Hudson was visiting her sister. Even Mrs. Turner's tenants were out of town. 221B had never been so peaceful.

The second, more of the same, though he got restless by evening.

The third, he cleaned the flat top to bottom. That evening, he began pacing through the rooms, flicking lights on and off, wondering at the gnawing feeling in the stomach. He called a few friends, even his sister, but no one was free. So he went out by himself, rambled through a few pubs, and came home drunk enough to go straight to bed. He woke at 4am with a start. Even though they rarely slept together, his arm flew to the left side of the bed. Even though knew it would be empty, he ran down the stairs to Sherlock's room. Then he stood in the doorway, staring at the empty bed and forcing himself to breathe, for several minutes. When his heart rate had slowed, he went to the living room and sat down in his armchair. The chair in front of him was vacant. Aggressively, resentfully empty. John closed his eyes and concentrated on breathing some more. He waited for the sun to rise.

By noon, he'd canvassed the apartment thoroughly and managed to locate, identify, and touch every item that Sherlock had obtained or modified since he returned from the dead.

Three days ago, he had opened this envelope.
Five weeks ago, he had broken this cup.
Two weeks ago, he had torn these trousers. (John set them aside for mending.)
Four months ago, he had bought these shoes and changed this violin string.
He had chewed on this pen.
He had put these fingers in the freezer.
He had lifted this lighter from Greg. (John set it aside to give it back.)
He had framed this photograph.
It went on like this.

It wasn't enough. John went through this catalog of evidence again and again and he still wasn't convinced.

That night, he realized he was actually having a panic attack. What frightened him most, once he had diagnosed himself, was the realization that with everything he'd been through, everything he'd survived, he'd never reacted like this: hyperventilating, extremities numbing, and brain frozen solid as ice.

He gritted his teeth and called his sister.

"Harry. Harry. I need to talk to you. I think I'm going mad."

"Johnny…" He heard the mocking tone in her voice and it was familiar, comfortable. He relaxed a bit. "I think that ship has sailed."

"Harry, listen to me. When was the last time you saw Sherlock?"

"I don't know… It was about six weeks ago I came by your flat, wasn't it?"

"Are you sure?"

"John, what's going on? Is he missing?"

"No. Yes. Not exactly. That's… Harry. Is he alive?"

"What?"

"Did he come back? Did he jump off of Bart's and die, or did he come back?"

"John…" Her voice was soft and hesitant, full of worry and condescension. He felt nauseous again. "Yes. That bastard broke your heart, and then he came back."

John took a deep breath. The iron band around his chest loosened a little bit; he could fill his lungs.

"Are you there, Johnny?"

"I'm here. I thought… It's been four days and I started to think maybe I… I had imagined all of it." He laughed weakly. "It's mad. I know it's mad. I told you…"

"Ok. Ok, I think maybe you should spend the night at my place tonight. What do you think?"

John thought this was awful. He thought he was being treated like a child. But he didn't have the energy to argue. He collected a change of clothes and went to the bathroom for his razor and toothbrush, but got stuck there, staring at Sherlock's razor, turning it over in his hand, trying to remember when he'd bought it. He had no idea, and it seemed like the single most important clue he'd ever faced. If Harry hadn't called again, he might never have moved.

On the fifth day, he went to work directly from Harry's flat, and then went home. He climbed the stairs with a deepening sense of dread, but the moment he opened the door to the sitting room, he knew. A split second later he saw the body stretched out on the sofa, and his reaction was not the swell of joy and relief that it should have been. It was terror. He crossed the room instantly and grabbed Sherlock's arm where it lay across his chest. It hung limply in John's hand as he counted out the pulse. Thirty-eight, thirty-nine, forty. He did it again. Then three times on the carotid artery. Then he knelt and lay his head on Sherlock's chest and listened to the strong, confident beating of that controverted heart. Finally, he leaned back on his heels and forced himself to look at Sherlock's face. Not bloody and still, but placid and childlike, as he usually looked in sleep. Beneath his blue-veined lids, his eyes began to race back and forth as he entered REM sleep. John bent forward to press his lips to Sherlock's forehead.

Then he took a shower, so that he could stand under the stream of brutally hot water, lean his head against the wall, and sob and howl like a wild thing.

When Sherlock awoke from his customary post-case sleep, John didn't say anything. What could he say? I couldn't see you or talk to you, so I turned into a developmentally delayed Labrador and assumed you were dead. No.

He only grumbled, "Next time, give us a bit more information, will you?"

"I gave you all the information you needed," Sherlock answered through a mouth full of toast. John had bit the inside of his cheek till it bled and said nothing. He never hesitated to pick a fight with Sherlock, but on this… what could he possibly say?

That was six months ago, and Sherlock hadn't gone away again. They'd been nearly inseparable, as they had been ever since Sherlock had returned from the dead, they'd both come out of hiding, and John had got out of hospital. John didn't need Harry or Ella or Greg or anyone else to tell him this was odd and not altogether healthy. He might be going mad, but he was not stupid.

So when Matt Duncan, his old mate from med school (who now lived in Vancouver and who he hadn't seen in over a decade) rang him up and said he'd be presenting at this medical conference in Glasgow, he decided to go. This would be just the thing, he thought. A controlled experiment. Someplace Sherlock would find intolerably boring and wouldn't be tempted to follow him. Someplace John might find somewhat interesting and hopefully marginally distracting. A chance to catch up with Matt (with whom he probably had nothing in common anymore, but it could be fun, Matt always was fun) and while he was there he could visit his cousin who he hadn't seen in years. Just a few days apart. Surely he could handle this. Of course he could. And then he would have proven to himself that it was just a one-time thing, he'd beaten it, he wasn't going to go mad, he hadn't turned into Sherlock's lap dog, it was all fine.

He almost had second thoughts that morning as he got ready to leave. The conference might be interesting, but probably not, and certainly not fascinating, whereas whatever Sherlock got up to over the next three and a half days almost definitely would be.

John paused in the sitting room, about to reach for his bag.

"Well…" he hesitated. "Guess I'm off."

Sherlock didn't look up from his laptop.

"Right then. Try not to miss me too much." Bastard won't even notice I've gone till tomorrow, he thought as he trudged down the stairs.

Sure enough, twelve hours (a train ride, a pleasant-enough dinner with his cousin, and a couple whiskeys) later, Sherlock hadn't given any indication of having noticed.

And John was not going to call or text. No need at all. What would he say? Can you take your own pulse for me, please? Just need evidence you're alive. Cheers. No.

John smiled wryly into his drink as he took another sip.

"What's so funny then?"

He turned to find a woman settling into the bar stool next to him. Marginally distracting... yes. Her long hair (he had always had a thing for long hair) was swept up in a loose twist, a few tendrils framing her face. She had large, dark eyes and thick, expressive eyebrows. Deep laugh lines around her eyes and mouth gave her face a knowing, mischievous look that he liked immediately.

"Rebecca Mehrota," she said, extending a hand with perfectly manicured fluorescent green nails.

She was a general practitioner at North Manchester General, but she'd grown up in Bristol and Lahore, lived for several years in Los Angeles, and worked at a teaching hospital in Zimbabwe. She was smart, quick-witted, hilarious, and could match John drink for drink. They argued good-naturedly about football (though they were both Manchester fans) and politics (though they both leaned toward Liberal Democrat).

John enjoyed making her laugh. She didn't giggle or titter. Her laughter was straightforward and sure and made her breasts bounce charmingly in her blouse. He wondered idly if he would ever touch a woman again. It seemed unlikely and increasingly difficult to imagine.

Their conversation meandered on and eventually it took what should've been (would've been, if John had been paying attention) its predictable course. She put her hand on his wrist and suggested they continue in her room.

John realized with a start that he'd been flirting shamelessly. It was so easy, so natural and familiar, and it felt good. But it wouldn't do.

"Oh… I… Rebecca, I can't. I have a… a…" John flailed mentally for the correct term. Boyfriend? Definitely not. Lover? Ew. Partner? Not exactly. I have a Sherlock was the only accurate phrase he could think of, but that sounded like a symptom of a communicable disease.

Rebecca cocked her head and smiled, waiting for him to finish. When he didn't, she raised an eyebrow and asked, "If you're not sure what you have, are you sure it prevents you from coming upstairs with me?"

"Yes. Definitely yes. Very sure about that."

"And are you sure that your… whatever… is equally sure? How do you know she's not going home with some bloke right now?"

"He…" John paused a moment to make sure that sunk in. She nodded just barely, just enough to let him know it had. "… is not. I am sure."

"I see. You trust him."

"Completely."

"Good for you." She sounded sincere and a bit wistful. "And he trusts you."

This time John hesitated. What would he say, even if he wanted to tell her? How could he say, He trusts me with his life everyday, but he would rather make me watch him kill himself than give me his secrets?

"Ah." Her voice went from wistful to sad. "Does he take good care of you at least?"

John laughed. How could he explain this? The toxic waste in the kitchen, the body parts in the sink, the barrage of insults, the childish sulks, the midnight rows that had Mrs. Hudson pounding on her ceiling with a broom. How could he tell her that none of that even mattered?

"Yes," he answered. "He makes me live."

"Good," she smiled. "I think I like you. You seem like you deserve that."

"Thanks. I think I like you too," he answered honestly. "I also think I'm not the man you're looking for tonight. I think that one is." He jerked his chin subtly toward a handsome, middle-aged man sitting alone at a table behind her and a bit to her right. "Recently divorced," (John had overheard him on his mobile in the hotel lobby, arguing about a parenting plan and a visitation schedule; tan line on his ring finger had only just begun to fade) "only here for one night," (the size of his bag made that clear) "a surgeon" (picked that up from the way he unbuttoned his jacket) "so he'll be good with his hands, and he's been looking at you since he walked in." He raised his glass and winked. "Have fun."

Rebecca grinned and raised her glass in response. They both threw their heads back to finish their drinks, and Rebecca stood and walked to the man's table without a look back.

John paid for his drinks and hers, and went to bed.

In the morning, he stood with his cup of watery coffee in front of the conference schedule posted in the lobby. CANCELLED was scrawled across Dr. Matthew Duncan's name. John checked his email on his mobile and discovered Matt had the bloody flu.

What am I doing here anyway, he wondered. He scanned the list of lectures on the schedule. I don't care about any of this. I don't want to be here. I want to be in London. This is childish, exiling myself in Glasgow just to prove a point? I don't need to do this. I'm doing fine. Sherlock's alive, I'm not having a panic attack, I could get on the next train to London, it would be fine.

He pulled his mobile from his trouser pocket and fired off a text.

Good morning. Miss you.

There. That wasn't so hard. A minute later, a reply came in.

Busy. On a case.

Well. There you have it, John. He's busy on a case. Alive, you see? And busy on a case.

He refilled his coffee and shuffled into the plenary room. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Rebecca come in, looking tired but happy, and, two minutes later, the recently divorced man from last night, the same glazed, slightly glowing look on his face. John smiled, glad that someone was getting what they wanted.

The day dragged on. Plenary, lecture, lunch, lecture, tea, lecture. It wasn't an utter waste of time, he picked up a few things, was glad to have someone package and deliver the main points of the latest research for him. Now that he spent all his free time solving mysteries and taking care of Sherlock, he made no effort to keep up with the research himself. Hadn't done for years, really. But he was so very bored.

In the evening he went to his cousin's house again, and discovered within fifteen minutes that they'd completely run out of things to talk about. Dinner was painful, and he returned to the hotel as quickly as he could.

He was relieved to see Rebecca in the bar again. He sat next to her and bought her a drink.

"Where's your boyfriend?" he asked.

"Just like you said, he was only here for one night. Had to run back to Carlisle this afternoon. You were right about everything else too, how did you know?"

He shrugged. "I can be observant sometimes. Observed that mark on his collarbone this morning."

She grinned. "I like to leave a souvenir when I can."

"Tag your quarry before you release them back into the wild, eh?"

"At least I release them."

"Yeah?" He winked playfully. "Or is it that you can't keep them?"

"Now you're just jealous because you only had a date with your hand."

He laughed and teased her some more, and they moved on to trading A&E war stories. Some were hilarious, some were horrifying, and some were both, and that was life, wasn't it? They talked about how they'd ended up there, in the A&E, in this profession, in this silly bar. He told her a bit more about Sherlock, but not too much (after all, anyone who hadn't met the nutter would think he was mad and making it all up). She told him a little about her exes; no one recent and she was delighted to have just celebrated her fortieth birthday single.

"Who's on the menu tonight then?" he asked, peering around the bar.

"Oh get off, John. I don't need a new man every night. I'm not 25 anymore. Anyway, that surgeon wore me out, to be honest. In fact, I'm going to bed right now." She kissed his cheek and paid for both their drinks.

If the first day was dull, the second day was excruciating. John nearly packed up his laptop and left several times during the lectures. But he'd paid for the bloody conference, he was going to get his money's worth. And besides, he wasn't going to use boredom as an excuse to go running home to Sherlock like a lost puppy. Alright, he was exiling himself in Glasgow to prove a point, what of it? Apparently the point needed to be proven.

He sent another text mid-morning:

How's the case coming along?

But there was no response. That infuriating git is alive, he reminded himself repeatedly. He is obsessed with a case and ignoring you completely, which means everything is normal, and normal is good, he's alive.

Late afternoon drowsiness set in. As the presenter dragged on about heart disease prevention, John sipped his earl grey and poked at the stale croissant in front of him. Tomorrow, he thought. Tomorrow I will have survived this and I can go home and see for myself, he is alive. His mobile vibrated. That's not Sherlock, he told himself sternly as he fished it out of his pocket. Sherlock is alive, but on a case and unless he's forgotten you're in Scotland, he is not texting you. He looked down at his phone.

And nearly choked on his croissant.

It was a vivid, perfect picture of Sherlock's pants, his erection straining against the blue cotton.

John felt his face flame and suddenly realized he was holding his mobile up in front him. He shoved it into his lap. But the image was branded onto him now, and not only that, he remembered, he could practically feel the heat of it, his fingertips dragging across the fabric as Sherlock pushed forward and moaned…

He took a deep breath and typed out a text.

Hello! Solved your case then?

No. Still working. And thought of you.

Thought of me. John's heart pumped harder and faster, and that was just as well, because more blood was being diverted south. On a case and he thought of me. Cut it out, he told himself sternly. Stop acting like a lovestruck schoolboy.

His mobile vibrated again. John was careful to keep it below the table this time, as he opened the message.

Another picture.

This time, just the tip of his cock, poking out above the elastic band of his pants, the tip glistening with precum. John licked his lips before he realized what he was doing.

In the next picture, the pants were gone completely. John remembered the soft, smooth feel of that skin against his lips and the way Sherlock's shudder would echo all the way down his body.

What are you thinking about, exactly?

Among other things, your mouth.

John clenched his jaw and closed his eyes. This was insane. He should stop this. It was too late to get up and go to the loo; anyone would see he was hard. He was in a room full of doctors, for god's sake. He should just stop looking and get a hold of himself.

The mobile vibrated again.

John took three deep breaths and glanced around. No one was looking at him.

A long finger, pale against the darker skin of Sherlock's cock, traced a line of precum down the shaft.

You are destroying me.

Please don't stop.

That same finger pressing lightly against Sherlock's lower lip – and John knew exactly what color his lips were when he was aroused – his tongue just touching the fingertip.

And then a trio of pictures: those fingers wrapped around the base, then further up the shaft, then pulling back the foreskin. John could hear the sound of skin and lube, feel Sherlock's fingers wrapped around his own length and the heat building inside him.

There was a long pause before the final picture: Sherlock's hand, still holding his cock, come dripping obscenely over his fingers.

John put his mobile screen-side down on the table, licked his dry lips, and stared blankly ahead of him. He was rock-hard and surrounded by a sea of medical professionals. The lecture was scheduled to go for another twenty minutes. On the bright side, it would be difficult to imagine anything less erotic than this wheezing old man droning on about heart disease, which might actually make it possible for John to stand up and return to his room at some point. And he was going to need to do that. Desperately.

Jesus. Do you know how hard I am right now? Will call you in a few minutes. Answer.

Of course I do, and no, I'm on a stakeout, can't talk.

A stakeout. John stifled a laugh. He wasn't exactly shocked. After all, the time waiting for a suspect can drag on, and the two of them had occasionally found creative ways to pass it. John thought back to a certain supply cupboard. They'd had to sneak in before the building closed, but it would be over an hour until dark, so there they were, confined in a small space and, well, of course John had his gun with him. He had waited until Sherlock was ignoring him, absorbed with his phone, and then he had gently placed the gun at the base of his skull and pulled the safety. He knew exactly what that soft 'click' would do. Sherlock had exhaled, stood up straight, slowly put his mobile back in his jacket pocket, and waited, so very patiently. What does it take to inspire patience in Sherlock Holmes? John knew. He had counted out a full minute in his head, then nudged Sherlock with the gun and started whispering against his ear, his words sweet and polite, but his tone menacing. Sherlock had complied with every request, stood there with his ass bare and his legs spread wide, fingering himself, moaning quietly as John traced the gun across his ribs and up and down the inside of his thighs. And then John had found a bucket to turn over and sit on, freed his own cock, and pulled Sherlock down onto his lap. John remembered watching Sherlock's ass ease down onto him, the tightness as he entered him and the sound (the only sound) of Sherlock's ragged breathing. When he was all the way in, John had grabbed Sherlock's hair with one hand and shoved the gun against his throat with the other and watched him writhe (putting the safety back on as quietly as possible while he was distracted). Sherlock had gripped the shelves in front of him (thank god they were well bolted to the wall) as he rode John to climax, and then John had pulled Sherlock's head back against his shoulder, held him there by his throat, shoved the gun in his mouth, and told him to come. Which he had done, pumping his hand furiously, biting down on the barrel of the Sig to silence his own orgasm.

So, yeah, this sort of thing wasn't unheard of. And, John admonished himself, that memory really was not helping the situation. John briefly toyed with the idea of calling 999 and reporting a fire in the hotel. Maybe in the ensuing confusion he could escape and make it up to his room or, fuck it, just to the loo. He hadn't needed a wank this badly since he was a teenager.

John gritted his teeth and refocused on the lecturer, his thinning hair and sniffly voice. He thought very hard about coronary arteries, which are not sexy at all. Except that made him think of cadavers, which made him think of Sherlock, and one early morning at the Bart's mortuary… No. No, just concentrate on the lecturer.

It felt like a superhuman effort, but eventually John was able to regain control of his body. The lecture was almost over, but he wasn't going to wait for the end. He packed up his laptop, grabbed his jacket off the chair, and left the room as quickly as he could without drawing attention.

He'd drawn someone's attention though. As he waited impatiently for the lift, Rebecca appeared at his side.

"Well," she smirked. "At least someone in there was having fun."

He felt his face flush. "Don't know what you're talking about," he mumbled.

"Someone…" she taunted, "was getting naughty texts on his phone. Or was it pictures?"

His face went even hotter. "Was it that obvious?" he groaned.

"Only to me, I think. I can be observant at times." She winked and laughed. "So…. You're going right up to your room to call him? Or video chat maybe?"

"Ah… no. He's on… he can't right now."

"Well that's a shame. Just a wank then?" She at least had the decency to whisper, though no one was around. There was a ding, the lift opened, and she stepped in right behind him.

John punched number 17 and stared at the buttons as though they (and most certainly not the mobile in his hand) were the most fascinating thing in the lift.

"Give us a look?" Rebecca asked teasingly. "Just a little peek."

John smiled and looked at her out of the corner of his eye. He knew she wasn't serious. "No, love. I don't think you can handle this."

"Oh my!" she exclaimed in mock horror. "This man of yours is that dangerous, is he?"

"You have no idea."

"Well, I've met you, that gives me some idea."

He chuckled and shook his head. "Not even close."

"No? Really?" She narrowed her eyes and scrutinized his face. "What do you suppose he sees in you, John? You don't even know what he sees, do you?"

"I haven't the faintest idea. He sees things no one else does."

"Hm." She cocked her head thoughtfully. "Is that so?" Suddenly she reached out and slammed a button and the lift lurched to a stop on floor 14. Before John realized what was going on, she grabbed the phone out of his hand and stepped out, hitting the close button as she left. "Ta," she called as the doors shut between them.

John swore, frantically hit the open button, and leapt out of the lift on 15. It was continuing further up and he couldn't wait for another lift; he bolted for the stairs and took them two at a time (not a brilliant idea, with his leg) down one floor.

Rebecca was waiting, standing next to the lift with an innocent expression on her face and the mobile in her open, outstretched hand.

He glared furiously as he grabbed the phone.

"I didn't look," she said. "I swear. I just sent one text."

He frantically opened it.

There's a woman here who wants to take pictures of me for you. Please say yes.

And there was already a reply.

Give John back his phone.

John typed out another text as quickly as he could:

I'm back, sorry.

Then he bit his lip and stared at the phone, trying to predict Sherlock's reaction to Rebecca's text. Would he be angry? Jealous? Confused? Or completely unaware and unconcerned? John had no idea what to expect. Should he send another text to reassure him and smooth it over? Or leave it alone and wait to see if Sherlock had a problem?

The mobile vibrated.

If you want to, yes.

John gaped in amazement. That was actually not a response that had crossed his mind. The mobile vibrated again.

No touching, obviously.

John looked up at Rebecca, who was watching him intently, her arms crossed, one eyebrow arched. The left side of her mouth slowly curled up in a wicked smile that reminded him, irresistibly, of someone in particular. She hit the lift call button.

He shook his head and typed out a text.

Obviously.

"Alright," he said as he hit send. "That was an absolute foul, and it should not be rewarded, but I'm in a generous mood and apparently so is he. You win."

She laughed. "You act like you're doing me a favor." The lift doors slid open. "17, was it?"

In the room, he felt suddenly awkward. Extremely so. For just a moment, Rebecca seemed awkward too, but she shook it off quickly.

"Give me your phone," she said, and he hesitated, but handed it over. "Now undress."

"Uh… Is that necessary?"

"Yes. I promise I won't touch. But you do need to be naked, yes."

He started undressing, at first feeling embarrassed and then utterly silly as she began taking pictures.

"I feel stupid," he said.

"Well, you're not," she answered. "As long as you listen to me." That reminded him of someone too. "Now. On the bed, there you are. Here's your phone again, I think you'll want to take another look at what he sent you. I'll give you a moment… Good? Oh, very good… Alright, that's enough, give it back. Now, lie down and close your eyes." He did as he was told and heard her rummage in her purse and tear open a packet, and felt lube drizzle over his hand.

"And now…" her voice was suddenly low, and her breath hot next to his ear, "Forget me. I'm not here. He is. He's standing at the foot of this bed and he's watching you. Right? Just him. Watching you."

This was easy to imagine. Life under Sherlock's microscope… that had been John's "normal" for years now (except for a horrible hiatus when there was no one watching him, no Sherlock at all, just the image of his unseeing eyes on the sidewalk but no, don't think about that now, he is alive, and there is gorgeous, irrefutable evidence on that phone).

Sherlock, alive, standing at the foot of this bed, arms crossed casually across his chest, resting his weight on one slender hip, cool as you please, except for the pulse jumping in his neck and his darkening pupils. (John knew what to look for.) His face smooth and impassive, but his eyes burning, inching across John's body, dissecting him, disassembling him into a million tiny pieces, each one catalogued, labeled, and pinned to a board with a lingering caress.

John touched himself and breathed deeply. Sherlock watching as he stroked himself, noting the speed and pressure, entering it all into some elaborate database; listening intently to every sound that escaped John's lips, recording and indexing to play back later. Hording each piece of information like a secret treasure.

John curled his toes and rocked his hips, pushing himself into his hand. Sherlock's eyes hungrily fixing on John's cock, knowing more than anyone ever had and still wanting to know more, ready to pounce and devour any salient detail that might appear. His pulse quickening and his breath catching, but his eyes still locked on John, raking back up his chest, blue-hot lasers burning and scraping away at his skin.

John arched his back as if he could bring his body closer to the heat of that stare. Sherlock leaning in, bending down, placing one arm on each side of his shoulders, hovering over him, never touching. Still taking him apart deliberately, meticulously, inexorably, focusing all the power and intensity of his attention onto John, only John.

He came fast and hard.

The mobile dropped onto the mattress next to him and the door clicked as Rebecca left without a word.

After a few minutes he roused himself to look at the pictures, half dreading what he'd see. They were not what he expected.

There was his belt, pulled taut as he unbuckled it.
His fingertips on his shirt cuff.
His trousers in a messy pile on the floor.
His thumb hooking under the elastic of his pants.
The collar of his t-shirt just before it pulled up over his chin.
Then his hand on his chest, fingers slightly curled.
The flushed skin at the base of his neck and the dip between his collarbones.
His teeth lightly biting his lower lip.
His neck, stretched, tendons straining.
His shoulder digging into the mattress as he arched his back.
His left arm, bicep flexed.
The inside of his left wrist, veins visible.
His right knee, bent against the bed.
The arch of his right foot, extended.
The fingers of his right hand, clutching at the sheets.
The curve of his ear and back of his head, turned to the side.
His eyes clenched tightly shut.
His mouth, wide open.
And finally – the only explicit photo of the lot – his stomach and chest streaked with semen.

He set the mobile on the bedside table, too relaxed to feel strange about it. Then he cleaned himself up and climbed under the covers.

There were two messages waiting for him when he woke.

Case solved.

Pictures were comprehensive, effective. She has an eye for detail.

John laughed and shook his head. Eye for detail. He could hardly imagine a higher compliment coming from Sherlock.

He attended the closing plenary; having survived this much, he felt he might as well see this thing all the way through. In the lobby, he and Rebecca found each other and exchanged contact info.

"Look me up if you're ever in Manchester."

"And you do the same next time you're in London. See you there."

"Not if I see you first."

No train had ever moved as slowly as that ScotRail to Kings Cross, but it arrived at last. As John was telling the cabbie the address, he felt his mobile vibrate. He hadn't bothered to text his ETA; of course Sherlock would know precisely when to expect him.

I'm waiting.

The attached picture made him inhale so sharply it threw him into a coughing fit.

"You alright back there?"

"Fine, thanks, I'm fine. Just… just get me there fast as you can. Please."

He forced himself to walk up the stairs. No need to run, he told himself, at least pretend you've got some dignity. Even if you're not fooling anyone. He even managed to walk through the flat and into the bedroom.

Which was where he found Sherlock, stretched out on his stomach, resting his head on one arm as he scrolled through his mobile. He was naked. His legs were parted just enough so that John, from his vantage point in the doorway, could glimpse what he'd seen up close in that picture in the cab: the glitter of a glass butt plug between Sherlock's cheeks.

Sherlock looked over his shoulder to meet John's eyes and let a smile spread across his face.

"It's good to see you," he said slowly.

Each syllable hit John in the chest like a revelation, as if he'd never heard those words in that particular order before.

He grinned stupidly. "It's good to see you too."

He walked over to the bed, kicked off his shoes, and lay down, covering Sherlock's body with his own.

Sherlock sighed happily and arched his neck. "It would be even better to fuck me."

"Yes. No," John murmured against his cheek. "I just want to kiss you. I just want to hear your voice."

"You realize you can't do both at once," Sherlock mumbled against John's lips. But he turned his head and opened his mouth to let John in, and they kissed as if it had been years. Maybe it had. The passage of time had never made sense where Sherlock was concerned.

John reluctantly pulled away and began inching down Sherlock's back, kissing down his spine.

"I missed your voice."

"Mm… Cervical vertebrae C1," Sherlock rumbled. "Cervical vertebrae C2. Cervical vertebrae C3." John groaned. That particular voice could make him hard just by reading the dictionary. He knew; they'd tested it.

He rutted gently against Sherlock's ass, making sure he just nudged the butt plug. "Cervical vertebrae C4," Sherlock gasped. "Cervical vertebrae C5."

The thoracic vertebrae took a very long time. As John moved lower, he slid a hand down over Sherlock's ass and placed his thumb on the smooth glass, pressing and rocking it firmly with each kiss. By the time he reached the lumbar region, Sherlock's legs were spread wide and his knuckles were white, his fingers digging into the pillows above his head.

"Lumbar vertebrae L2," he panted. "Lumbar vertebrae L3."

As John reached the sacrum, Sherlock's voice was trembling. At the coccyx, his voice was muffled in the mattress. John placed one hand on each perfect, round ass cheek and pulled them apart. His tongue trace a slow line down between them, until it reached the edge of the butt plug and circled lazily around the edge. Sherlock whimpered.

John slowly pulled on the plug, watching as Sherlock arched his back and pushed his ass up as if to follow it. He listened to Sherlock's little cry as he pulled it all the way out, and then bent down to lick a circle around the edge of the hole. He pushed Sherlock's ass back down against the mattress and held it there as he drove his tongue in further, finding it slick and hot, open and ready.

John sat up and fumbled with his belt. He was still wearing his jacket, he realized with a laugh, and quickly peeled it off.

Sherlock, breathless and covered with a sheen of sweat, was turning onto his back and wrapping one long leg around John's waist.

John had to close his eyes to concentrate on unzipping his jeans, which seemed like an impossibly complicated task with that body spread out before him. Finally he managed to get his cock free, lined it up, and paused. Sherlock lifted his other leg up and rested it on John's shoulder. John wrapped one arm around it as Sherlock's other leg circled around him tighter and pulled him in closer, until the head of his cock was pressing against Sherlock's entrance. He loved this moment. The power of being able to give what Sherlock wanted. The knowledge that he could. The heat of Sherlock's eyes locked onto his, commanding, begging, scrutinizing, adoring, all at the same time. He took a second to try to commit this moment to memory, to scan as many details as he could, knowing it was hopeless, he was no Sherlock Holmes.

He let go, closed his eyes and sank in, gasping at how Sherlock's body took him in, and began moving his hips in small, controlled circular motions, listening to those little whimpering sounds that let him know Sherlock was already losing control. He desperately wanted to open his eyes but knew if he did, he wouldn't be able to hold on much longer.

"It's… fine," Sherlock whispered breathlessly, his words punctuated by whimpers. "We have plenty of time. I want to see you come."

John would never need to be told that twice. He opened his eyes, gripped onto both Sherlock's legs, pulled his hips back, and drove all the way back in. Sherlock shuddered and cried out and but held his stare steady and John was lost in it, subsumed by it, thrusting, exploding under the heat of that stare, and the small part of his brain that was still functioning was ecstatic with the knowledge that he was giving Sherlock exactly what he wanted.

He took a moment to recover and then scooted back on his knees, took Sherlock's cock in his mouth, and slid two fingers into his ass – hot and wet, full of John's own come – and Sherlock groaned decadently and arched his back to press against them. John settled himself under both long legs, wrapped his hand around the base of Sherlock's cock, and began working it up and down, while his fingers rubbed little circles, faster and harder, drawing urgent, wordless sounds until his mouth was flooded with come.

"Don't do that," Sherlock snapped as he walked into the sitting room, toweling off his hair.

John looked up from his mobile. "You can keep the pictures of me, I don't care. They're rather..."

"Beautiful," Sherlock interrupted in a crisp, matter-of-fact tone. "Evocative. Intriguing. Alluring. Erotic."

"Oh. Ah…" John blushed. "I was going to say 'tame.' I mean, they're not all that explicit. Are they? What I mean is, I don't care, keep them if you like. I'm just going to delete yours, of course."

"Don't do that," Sherlock repeated peevishly.

"What? Why not?"

"Never destroy evidence if it can be avoided."

"Evidence? Of what?"

Sherlock gave John that familiar, slightly disappointed, must-I-spell-everything-out-for-you look. "That I trust you."

"Oh." John set his mobile down on the coffee table and stared at his hands. "Oh. I suppose so." He smiled thoughtfully. "Right then. Why don't you tell me about the case? What'd I miss?"

Sherlock flopped down on the sofa, draped his legs over John's lap, and started in on the story, his hands fluttering in the air. John leaned back and watched him, and felt something he'd experienced only a handful of times in his life – the absolute certainty that in that moment everything, just everything, was right.