Sherlock spent the entire day frustrating himself. He was accustomed to ten working fingers; having nine put him at a thorough disadvantage. He dropped his tea once. He fumbled with his microscope. He almost spilled a test tube filled with a compound of his own invention that would have burnt a hole through the thick, wooden tabletop and possibly straight through Mrs. Hudson's ceiling. John would not have liked that.

As the day turned toward dinnertime, he ultimately gave up on trying to function. It was the shower that made him admit defeat. Yes, he successfully washed himself, but that was with his hand wrapped in a plastic bag and a now bruised elbow, what with all the one-handed flailing it took to simply wash his hair. No, he gave up. He slumped on the couch in an untucked light blue button-down and black trousers with bare feet. He pouted horribly.

He smelled the Chinese food even before John opened the front door downstairs. He heard John stomp his feet which made Sherlock realize it was raining outside. Drops fell like little musical notes against the windowpane, underscoring the sound of John's feet on the steps. The door swung open, and there stood Sherlock's Dr. Watson, still smelling of antiseptic and rubber gloves. The entire bouquet was frankly alarming in its sensuality: Chinese food, hospital, and John.

John as an entity smelled like laundry detergent, coffee, and, today, damp wool, thanks to the rain outside. Sherlock had catalogued all of John's varying scents since he'd moved in. He smelled differently in the morning than he did at night. He smelled different before dates versus nights when he went out with Stamford. Sherlock worried, sometimes, that cataloguing John had pushed important crime scene details from his Mind Palace. Other times, he felt thankful for the unexpected distraction.

John's eyes warmed when he saw Sherlock, and he smiled. "Evening." He tilted his head. "You've washed. You didn't get your bandage—"

"No, John, I didn't get my bandage wet." He rolled his eyes. "It's been a horrific day. Who knew one finger was so important? I've a mind to tear the stitches out."

John moved to the kitchen. "And bleed all over the house? You make enough of a mess as it is." He paused. "Sherlock, what's in this test tube, and why is it smoking?"

"Don't. Touch. It."

He heard John sigh before setting bags on the counter. "It's a good thing you're gorgeous."

Sherlock shot forward on the couch. His bare feet smacked across the floor until he stood six inches from John's turned back. "That. Why do you say things like that?"

"Because if you weren't gorgeous, it would be much easier to get angry with you." He slowly unpacked their food. "Hungry? I bet you haven't eaten all day."

Sherlock wanted to tug his hair out, much like he often did when surrounded by idiots—except John was not an idiot. John was playing some sort of game, and Sherlock didn't know the rules. "I demand an explanation!"

John held a carton of fried rice. The evil little man smiled. "You said you wanted Chinese for supper."

"Don't be dull."

John's smile turned to a smirk as he set down the food and removed his jacket. He hung it over the back of a kitchen chair, careful to avoid the smoking test tube. He looked up at Sherlock. Then, quite suddenly, he reached his hands out and wrapped his palms around the outsides of Sherlock's hips.

"Is this about the text message you sent today?"

Sherlock closed his eyes and memorized the tight, warm feel of John's hands on a new part of his body.

"You like when I touch you?"

His eyes opened a bit when John rubbed his nose across the side of his jaw.

"Hmm, Sherlock?"

"You're not … I mean to s-say …."

John nudged his nose under Sherlock's jaw and pressed a kiss to the side of his neck. "I've never heard you stutter."

"I didn't …" He wrapped his fingers in the front of John's sweater and promptly hissed and pulled away.

John let go of his hips and took Sherlock's hand. He studied Sherlock's wrapped finger. "I should probably have a look at that actually. Change the bandages." With his hand on Sherlock's elbow, he led him to his chair. "Be a moment."

Sherlock's skin still burned where John had kissed it. He put his hand up and touched the place to see if John's lips alone had left a scorched mark.

When John returned from the bathroom, he pushed Sherlock's knees apart and sat on the floor between his legs. He dug around in the first aid kit before holding his hand up. Sherlock laid his knuckles against John's palm and allowed himself to be the dutiful patient.

John's touch, as always, was gentle and calm. He unwrapped the binding that covered the splint and inspected the bandage, the stitches. He muttered about how everything looked all right. Meanwhile, Sherlock stared at John's handsome face, rugged and somehow soft in the dim light of their living room.

Before John could re-tape the splint, Sherlock leaned forward and kissed him. John's reaction was immediate, his tongue pressing forward to open Sherlock's mouth until Sherlock's mind spun with the taste of John Watson—coffee, black. John's hand grasped to the back of Sherlock's hair and pulled him closer until Sherlock almost fell from his chair and into John's lap. To catch himself, he grabbed the armrests and actually yelled from the pain of his torn finger.

John pulled back. "Shit." He reached for Sherlock's long-fingered hand and cradled it in his own. "We can't have you tearing the stitches." With his free hand, John ran his thumb across Sherlock's cheekbone and kissed him once, tenderly, on the mouth. "What we need to do …" He licked his upper lip. "Is keep your hand from moving." He stood and pulled Sherlock up with him. The dark glimmer in his eye made John seem much, much taller. "Oh, my pretty pet." He leaned their foreheads together. "Tell me you like when I touch you. Will you tell me that?"

"Yes, John."

"Will you let me touch you some more?"

Sherlock nodded as he breathed John's breath.

"Come here, love." He was vigilant of Sherlock's busted finger as he led the other man down the hall to the bedroom. He only let go once they stepped inside, his eyes combing the room. "Now, we just need to make sure you don't move that one hand, but for aesthetics …" He reached for two of Sherlock's dressing gowns. "Might as well make sure you can't move either of your hands." He pulled the sashes from each and turned around, biting his bottom lip to subdue a grin that sent a rush of shivers up Sherlock's spine.

"Oh," he said, surprised by the low purr of his own voice.

"God, that voice." John hurried toward him and kissed him with all ten of his working fingers tangled tightly in Sherlock's hair. "Lay down." He gestured to the bed, and Sherlock scooted backwards, right to the center, ignoring the pain that shot up his wrist when his finger caught in the fabric.

John stood above him, staring. The two rope-like pieces of fabric from Sherlock's robes hung from his hands. After what seemed like hours—probably more like ten seconds—John straddled Sherlock's waist and gently, so gently, lifted his arms. He tied both Sherlock's wrists to the top of the bed, and well, doctor did know best, because Sherlock found his finger was out of harm's way.

Job done, John leaned back on his heels. "I'm going to take you apart, Sherlock Holmes." He pulled his jumper off over his head before going to work on the buttons of Sherlock's shirt.

However, John moved with an infuriating slowness that had Sherlock tugging at his binds.

John noticed and put his hands on Sherlock's triceps. "It's for your own safety." He winked.

"John."

Something in Sherlock's voice made John stop unbuttoning his shirt, stop kissing every inch of revealed skin as he went. "Sherlock?"

"I don't understand what you see in me."

John's brow furrowed, so Sherlock continued.

"You're not like the other men I've been with. You're not insecure or desperate. You're not cruel. Logically, you require a partner who is loving, kind, and affectionate. As I am none of those things, I feel compelled to ask what you see in me."

John rubbed his eyes. "Sherlock. You really are an idiot."

"I beg to differ."

John chuckled and shook his head. "What do I see in you? Well, in a very literal sense …" He ran his thumb over Sherlock's lower lip. "I see a gorgeous creature I'd like to fuck senseless." He leaned down and whispered, his lips catching on the edge of Sherlock's ear. "I'd like to have you until you can't remember your name, let alone however many kinds of ash there are. I'd like to have you until you forget every tosser who's come before me." He ran his hand down Sherlock's chest and across his abdomen. "I'll kiss you until your lips go numb, touch you until you tire of it."

"I'll never tire of it," Sherlock whispered.

"What do I see in you, beyond this body that's just begging for it?" he growled. "I see brilliance and a kindness that you try so very hard to hide. I see a maniac I would chase down any dark alley. I see a man I would die for to keep safe, a man I would kill for to keep safe."

"You've already done that."

John's mouth closed over his neck and sucked. "I'd do it a million times over. Now, stop talking." He covered Sherlock's mouth with his while his hands unbuttoned the rest of Sherlock's shirt and shoved the fabric aside.

With his hands tied to the bed, Sherlock did feel a certain level of annoyance. He couldn't touch John the way John always touched him. He couldn't do anything at all except feel pleasure.

After removing Sherlock's trousers, John started by using his mouth, which was almost enough to push Sherlock right over the edge—which John apparently sensed, because he would stop suddenly and flash an impish grin whenever he pulled his mouth away.

"Damn it, John!"

"I'm not even close to finishing you off, sweetheart." He smiled some more. "And it's no wonder your ego is so big, what with …" He lowered his mouth again, and Sherlock's lower back arched off the bed.

By the time John lifted Sherlock's knees over his shoulders, Sherlock was a boneless mess of sweat and saliva. Breathing was but a series of gasps in between his parted lips as they made love, but soon, Sherlock wasn't alone in his blissed-out state. He opened his eyes to find John above him, moving with a slow, affectionate rhythm.

The same affection John used whenever he touched Sherlock.

Sherlock wanted to reach up and touch John's face, but with his hands tied, he let his eyes do the caressing. He remembered every wrinkle, every quiver, and filed it in his Mind Palace. He remembered the sound John made as he came, just before Sherlock's own vision went white with oodles of foreplay-induced euphoria that magnified his orgasm to the point of partial blindness. When the little white dots stopped dancing in front of his eyes, he looked up to find John staring down at him, grinning.

"How's your finger?" he asked.

"It wants to touch you."

John reached above Sherlock's head and untied him. "Careful now, love."

Sherlock wrapped John in his arms. John nuzzled his face against the side of Sherlock's neck. His tongue occasionally reached out to taste his sweat, which made Sherlock twitch and John laugh.

"The touching for the past month …" Sherlock said.

John sucked Sherlock's earlobe. "Just a round-about way to end up here. Although half of it was purely medical, you klutzy git."

"I am not klutzy."

"Prone to injury then."

"Dangerous lifestyle."

"Dangerous lifestyle," John agreed.

"It's about to get more dangerous once this finger has healed."

John lifted his head and leaned up on one elbow. "Oh?"

"You'll find the room in my Mind Palace labeled 'Sex' is very extensive and creative."

John chuckled against his shoulder before moving his mouth down and licking the sweat from Sherlock's chest until Sherlock, giggling, begged him to stop.

"I like when you beg," John said.

"I beg you to bring me Chinese food."

"All right, princess." John jumped out of bed and pulled on a pair of tight, black pants. "But I'm eating mine off your body."

Sherlock Holmes may never figure out the mystery of John Watson—not exactly—but he decided then and there he wouldn't mind giving it a shot. For the rest of his life.