So, this chapter feels a little long... like I rambled too much. PLEASE tell me what you think so that I can learn. Thanks. Enjoy!
There is a flurry of eyelashes. A soft yawn is warm against Sherlock's chest, and the consulting detective can't help but smile. He cranes his neck down, burying his nose in the shorter man's hair. John smells vaguely of peppermint and sweat, but mostly he smells like warm skin. The heat of the doctor curled up against his stiff but happy figure has kept Sherlock contented enough not to be bored through the night. When John rolls over a little, Sherlock realizes there is a wet spot in the place where John's mouth had been. He doesn't mind. He missed John so much when he was away, and now it was like the man could do no wrong in Sherlock's eyes. The gentle warmth of John's leg resting over Sherlock's bare knee makes him feel oddly calm.
When John makes a gentle grunt, Sherlock tenses. His eyes narrow. He purses his lips, watching carefully.
John rustles and wakes, blinking sleepily up at the stony-faced Sherlock. He looks startled and bewildered for a second, slinking away from him. "I..." It takes him a moment to orient himself. "Sherlock, you..."
Sherlock glares at him. "I am what, John?"
"You're still here."
"You've been asleep on me for the last four hours. Where did you expect me to go under your weight?"
John rolls his eyes. "No, I mean..." He looks a bit flustered. "I mean, you're still..." He bites his lip.
"Ah, I see. You expected me to leave because you are traumatized by my previous absence. You are under the childish belief that once a person has left once, you can never trust them, because their past behavior is indicative of their future behavior, right?" John nods. "Well, that is absurd, John. I am not most people, and I did not just 'leave' you, John. I was forced away for your own safety. Mistrust Moriarty, if anyone. Not me."
"I can't exactly help it, Sherlock." John rolls over and sits on the edge of the bed, facing away from him. "It's not childish. It's human. I feel abandoned. For most people, emotions aren't just something you can direct with logic all the time. I know you're not most people, but the rest of us have to get by while wounds pile up to form scars over time. I'm not sure you grasp emotion the same way the rest of us do. Because to you it's 'dull.'"
"Well, it is dull, John, and it is completely irrelevant to what matters."
"So it's irrelevant, is it, that I should miss my friend when he commits suicide? Don't you think that matters?"
Sherlock is silent. He opens his mouth, then closes it again, and shifts forward on the bed to sit behind John's depressed figure. Feeling suddenly inept, Sherlock pats John's back. He sighs.
"I'm..." Sherlock hesitates. Of course John would be miserable. How could he think otherwise? He feels a stab of something in his gut, and almost calls it guilt. He swallows back his pride for now, because John is more important today. John's heart and John's safety are more important to Sherlock than anything else in his memory. It has always been the work; always. But once the work put John in danger, Sherlock felt his insides grow cold in a way they never had before, and that changed his whole perspective on his own heart.
His head is spinning. Everything changes with this realization. "I'm sorry," he sighs. John breathes deeply.
"I know. And... I'm sorry for crowding your bed last night. Did you sleep alright?"
"I was fine," Sherlock says quickly. "You were... warm."
John looks around and their eyes meet. Sherlock feels breathless. A long moment passes. "I, er... I appreciate you letting me stay. Really. It was good to feel you... alive."
"Yes," Sherlock agrees, not knowing what else to say.
The air is tense between them. The room seems to buzz with the disconcerting shift in their relationship, as though the space between them was alive and vibrating. Sherlock is cross-legged behind his friend and John is quivering slightly in response to the closeness. Sherlock can feel the fabric of John's t-shirt on his knee, and sighs, staring at the spot where the cotton meets his skin. He wants to touch him again, remembering the warmth of John's body draped over his, his cheek pressed gently to Sherlock's chest, and the softness of his lips when he had been surprised last night.
Sherlock is lost in his thoughts. He muses over his heart. He is no stranger to physical attraction, but the all-encompassing need for physical closeness that is seeping through his veins now is definitely new. It boggles his mind. He shuts his eyes tightly and brings his hands up to meet his face, blocking out the sight of John which is muddling his brain.
"I almost got married."
Sherlock looks up again. John is looking over his shoulder at him. After a moment, the doctor shuffles around so that they're facing each other on the bed. He looks apprehensive.
John draws a deep breath which shudders on his unsteady lips. "I met someone," he begins, looking Sherlock firmly in the eyes. "You were dead." Sherlock bites his tongue. "And she was..." John's eyes glaze over dreamily.
"Her name was Mary. She was amazing. Just... really great in all respects. She was sweet and dainty and neat and clean and nothing like you, but she loved my stories about you. She was a fan of my blog before we even met. I was in the worst place when I first met her, I mean, I was on the verge of... I mean... Well, I wasn't doing so well. I visited you... I mean your... Jesus, what did we even bury?" John's eyes are very wet. Sherlock feels a tug in his chest. "I visited your grave every month for nearly three years. Before Mary, it was every week. She helped me heal. She gave me peace. I asked her to marry me. Broke her poor heart when I realized that I..." John glances down at his hands which are squirming together in his lap. "Well, I... I couldn't go through with it." He shakes his head. Sherlock squints at the pained expression twisting across John's soft face, trying to understand the specifics. "I never thought I'd be that guy. God, I... I'm not that guy. I loved her, but I..."
"I don't understand." Sherlock's eyes are searching the lines of John's face desperately. He is anxious and racked with emotion that Sherlock cannot define. "Why would you...?"
John glances up. Sherlock notices that he is quite pink at the ears and just below his eyes. The pointed manner in which John's lips tighten says volumes to Sherlock's keen powers observation. He leans back slightly as it hits him.
"Oh," he says. "I see."
A flush creeps up John's neck. "What?" he sputters. "What do you see? I don't..."
"It's because of me, somehow. It's my fault. Somehow your grief for me prevented you from loving Mary to your fullest capacity. I don't see how, but obviously..." The press of John's lips tightens, and Sherlock remembers the momentary chaste brush of lips from last night.
"Oh. You have feelings for me."
John goes suddenly from quite pink to extremely pale as though drained of color. "Sherlock," he croaks, and the detective can't help but watch his mouth as it moves, his mind stuck on the feel of them. "You're too clever for me to deny it. You'd see right through me in seconds. Doesn't matter anyway. I've come to terms with it. Went through a serious time of it at first, but... I guess I've accepted it, now, but it's still weird. Weirder now that you're..." John's eyes are darting everywhere but at Sherlock. "I... I mean, I... Well, when I realized it, you were dead. I was a mess thinking that I would never be able to... but anyway. Now you're here and I guess I... God, I don't know." He rubs his eyes. "I can't think. This is so confusing."
Sherlock nods, trying to express the appropriate sympathy. "It should be. If it weren't, I imagine you would not be 'normal,' would you?"
"I don't know." John shrugs. "Maybe not. Nothing about us was ever normal, though. I mean... is. God, I can't believe you're real! It's still so incredible. Every time I close my eyes, I think you're..." Their gazes meet again, and silence falls. Sherlock's breath catches, and John sucks in a rattling gasp.
"I love you, Sherlock. I don't know how long I've loved you, but I do. I really do, and I'm okay with it to the point where I'm not so ashamed to admit it. I know you won't reciprocate my feelings, though, and that's okay, Sherlock. I'll never push anything. Last night was..." John pauses. "A fluke. I have better self control than that. Last night was just so overwhelming, I didn't mean to slip up like that."
Sherlock suddenly realizes that he has been biting his lip. He doesn't know for how long. His lungs ache in his chest, but the empty sinking feeling in his stomach lessens that pain a little. It rumbles, loudly enough for John to hear it. He can ignore the hunger, but John can't, not even in this state of anxiety.
"Sherlock," the doctor says, his voice a little chastising, "you need to eat. When's the last time you did?"
"Yesterday morning."
"And what did you eat?"
"A carrot."
John breathes a groan of amused frustration. "Well that's something, isn't it."
For a second, everything is as it was. Their faces lighten into gentle smiles, and all the tension seems to expel from the room in a heartbeat. But the beat passes, and John's face falls. Sherlock clings to the curling smile on his own lips, not wanting to let go of the moment, but John's gaze has retreated to the space on the bed between them. "You should eat," he says quietly.
"I should," Sherlock says, "But I don't need to, and I can't leave this room."
John blinks, looking a little flummoxed. Sherlock waits a second for the truth to dawn on his friend. "Oh. Because if what's-his-name..."
"Because if Moran spots me through a window, you and I will both be in considerable mortal danger. Yes." Sherlock narrows his eyes, observing John's fleeting reaction. He catches a faint twitch of the eyelids and a minor pursing of the lips, but cannot decipher it. This bothers him.
"Right." John slides into a standing position with a surprising amount of grace for a man of his age. "I'll bring you something. And I'll, er..." He looks down at himself. "I'll get dressed."
Sherlock smirks. "Whatever for? You're not going outside today."
"How- no, nevermind. You always know everything. I shouldn't even be surprised anymore." John glares, shaking his head. "Still, Sherlock. I'd like to feel dignified by at least putting on trousers."
"You're wearing-"
"I mean something other than old sweats, Sherlock." John exits.
When he returns, Sherlock is still sitting in bed, sulking. He has thrown his old blue dressing gown around him so that it covered his bare legs and t-shirt. He is holding himself like a child, and looks up eagerly when John pushes his way into the room with a tray of food.
John is now dressed in a faded pair of jeans. Two plates of eggs and a pile of bacon and toast come towards him, and Sherlock sniffs the air hungrily like an abandoned dog waiting for his master. John's little breath as he places the tray on the bed in front of Sherlock is worth all the frustration of having him out of the room for that much time. "I knew you wanted food," John mutters. "Go on. Eat." When Sherlock does not make a move, John crawls onto the bed to sit across from him with the tray nestled between them. "Eat, Sherlock, or I will feed you."
"That will not be necessary, John." He loves saying the name. John. He could repeat it over and over again and feel at home every time. As he reaches for the fork to shovel a mouthful of egg, the two men exchange a shy smile. Then, both are lost to the eggs John provided.
The smile on John's face splits into a grin as Sherlock begins to scarf down his plate. "Some things never change."
"Like your cooking," Sherlock snarls through a mouth stuffed of egg. "Still as ordinary as ever."
"Oh, shut it."
Again, things are good. Better than good, Sherlock considers. They never used to eat meals in bed together while Sherlock was trouser-less. This is a new addition to their home life, one that Sherlock finds... comfortable, if not emotional the way John clearly does.
He glares a little while they eat, trying to figure out John; trying to deduce what John meant when he said, 'I know you won't reciprocate my feelings.' How could John know a thing like that? He couldn't. If Sherlock doesn't even know what his own feelings are about John, how could the average-minded doctor know something Sherlock doesn't? Conclusion: he couldn't. What John says he knows is merely an assumption, and a bad one at that.
When John moves on to his bacon, he begins to look contemplative. Sherlock wonders which dimension of his emotions he is analyzing now.
Swallowing his last bite of egg, John suddenly begins to speak hurriedly. The break in the silence is not surprising to Sherlock, though it might have been if he wasn't so clever. "I went through extra therapy after you..." He interrupts himself with a mouthful of bacon, as though he is deciding he is saying too much.
"Yes, I know," Sherlock growls impatiently as he fingers the crust on a piece of toast. "I get it, already. You were hurt by my disappearance. I imagine you went through a lot. But you must understand, there will be time to dwell on that after Moran is beaten, and he must be... if we ever hope to return to our lives."
"My life has been going on without you for almost three years, Sherlock. I don't know if I can return to our life we used to share. I'm not sure I know how."
"Preposterous," Sherlock rasps. He feels a great twang in his heart that he cannot identify. It makes him feel choked and in agony. "Of course you can. We did it for years before, and..." His voice is oddly strained. How ridiculous. "I don't know how to live without that anymore." His words crack on their way from his throat. "It's why I came back to you before the danger had passed. I..." He swallows and draws a deep inhale. "I missed you."
John nearly chokes, but his eyes look warm. He finishes chewing, and swallows in a rush. His lips are parted and moist. His cheeks are flushed. His breathing seems to be elevated, and Sherlock can deduce that John is being affected by his feelings of love. Sherlock wants to ignore this, to pretend it's not happening, to simply continue convincing John that they could easily return to their old lives, but he cannot deny his own heart racing or the warmth pulsing in his cheeks.
He wants to ignore his body the way he always does, but this is not just gnawing hunger or itching eyelids. This is making his brain foggy, his motivation skewed, and his heart ache. That could prove dangerous. If he ever hopes to take down the hit-man Moran, he could not go on with this nagging feeling. He wishes John would respond. Then...
"You look like you've seen a ghost," John says humorlessly. He looks utterly miserable.
"What do you mean?"
John shrugs. "You look pale, and your mouth's hanging open, y'know..."
"Ah." Sherlock presses his lips together so his mouth becomes a thin line. What could he say to that? He was not altogether shocked by his physiological reaction to John, but he was certainly surprised by its effect on his heart.
In the past, he'd admired John's bare chest partially covered in a robe, but he'd never allowed himself to feel anything about it other than distant admiration. It is as though his prolonged distance from John had made suppression unbearable. Suddenly, he doesn't really care about his reasons.
He splits into an awkward smile.
"What?" John squints at him as Sherlock starts to laugh. "What? What is it? What's so funny?"
Sherlock snorts. "Nothing," he says. "Really."
"Then why are you laughing?"
"Because I've realized something startling."
"What?"
"I have discovered that I missed you, and that over the course of these two years, ten months and fourteen days without you, that I have become utterly useless. I feel like less of myself without you, John, and that is... completely and utterly mad. Ridiculous. Thoroughly amusing."
John looks stricken. He is leaning forward on the bed unconsciously, clutching his knees as though they would anchor him. "Sherlock, why are you saying this? You're not making things any easier. I'm trying..." He is swaying as though dazed. Sherlock can't help but laugh harder. "...So hard to resist my feelings, Sherlock. I'm trying so hard not to just kiss you right here, because... God, it's so hard when you're right there, you're really alive, after all this time, and I just..."
Leaning over the tray and causing it to tip slightly on the mattress, Sherlock places his hands on either side of where John sits, and kisses him.
Time almost stops. The world around them slows to barely a crawl.
At first, John does not react. He blinks a few times as Sherlock's lips gently press against his own, but is so dumbfounded that he is rendered momentarily frozen.
A little confused (though Sherlock would never admit that), Sherlock retreats. He sits back, his heart pounding beneath his ribs. "I'm sorry," he says, not really meaning it as he basks in the lingering taste of John. "I thought you wanted..."
Suddenly there are warm hands on either side of his face. The heat of the touch spreads like a poison in his veins, and his eyelids flutter closed at the sensation. Then there is a thin mouth against his and a hot tongue pressing between his lips, and the involuntary groan Sherlock lets out is one he would deny later that day. John's gentle whine of victory is impossible to ignore, however; the vibration of it against Sherlock's angular lips sends a shudder right to his groin.
When John withdraws, Sherlock is completely aware of how silly he must look. He refuses to open his eyes for several long moments. He is panting, his lips parted. He imagines that his mouth must look red and raw. John smiles at the sight.
"You're gorgeous," the doctor mumbles.
"Don't be boring," hisses Sherlock, but there is a smile toying at the corners of his kissed and swollen mouth.
A long minute of quiet smiling lengthens between them. Then John shakes his head and laughs lightly. "We knocked over the food."
"Oh."
So they had. A few pieces of toast and bacon are strewn beside them. John gathers it back into a pile on the carrier with a chuckle. Both men look completely dazed and a little flustered. "So," John begins.
"So... what?"
"Er... so... are you just going to stay in this room all day?"
Sherlock bristles. "I was hoping I wouldn't have to," he sneers. "I was hoping we could take down Moran so that we could get back to..."
"The way things were?" John finishes the sentence for him. Sherlock looks crestfallen and downcast as he nods. "I just... feel like that won't be as easy as you think it will be."
"I don't understand why not."
"Because, Sherlock," John sighs, gesticulating with his hands, "with... the way I feel about you, and now that you're... it's just... it's going to take a lot of getting used to."
"Why can't you put that aside until after Moran is captured and the danger has passed?"
"Damn it, Sherlock!" John throws his hands in the air. "I'm not like you! I can't just delete things or... save them for later like a... like a machine." His voice falters. He looks suddenly tragic and drained.
"What is it?"
"I called you a machine the day that you..."
"That is irrelevant now. Snap out of it. You know that I am not a machine. I have proved it to you with the knowledge that I did what I did for the protection of my friends. Friends protect people, John. You told me that on the same day."
"And you remembered it."
"I remember everything." They blink at each other. Sherlock's stomach is churning feverishly. "I remembered everything about you every day that I was gone."
John is breathless when he speaks. "And I spent every second you were dead remembering you, Sherlock. I thought about you constantly. Mostly I thought about the way you looked that day... marble white and spattered with blood. You looked... beautifully fragile, like porcelain. It was sick." His eyes snap shut, and he digs his thumbs against his eyelids. Sherlock wonders if he's trying to delete the image of his falsified corpse, and he knows it is useless. John does not have the mind power for that.
"I'm sorry," Sherlock says again.
John waves that off, then heaves a dramatic sigh. "Look," he says through gritted teeth. "I'm just not ready to go back to the way things were. Not yet. I want to, really, but this..." He shakes his head.
"What?"
Suddenly John grows serious. His eyes are dark. It looks to Sherlock that John's eyes are prickling with tears. "Once we're out of danger, are you going to pretend these last three years never happened? To delete what I've told you about my feelings and pretend that we never...?" He looks as though he is in physical pain.
"Don't be ridiculous," says Sherlock, rolling his eyes. "Why would I delete something that pleasant?"
John laughs coldly. "Oh, I don't know. Maybe because it's 'irrelevant'? Because it doesn't 'serve the work'? Your usual bloody reasons." He looks miserable, and takes a grumpy bite of toast.
"As usual, John, you undermine my ability to feel."
John swallows his bite and throws the uneaten toast back down. "You've never given me reason to think you do feel."
"My regrettable actions were my proof that I do! I've told you already, damn it!"
"Your actions sent me to my hell, Sherlock!" John's voice has reached the point of yelling. "Do you know what it feels like to be without your best friend for years? To know he killed himself? To realize you love him and know you'll never see him again because he's rotting underground?"
"I wasn't rotting, John. I never killed myself." His voice is low, and he is attempting a calming tone. "But I do know," he says quietly. "I do know what it feels like. You forget... I had to force myself to stay away from you. I had to force myself away from my best friend, too. Because that's what you are, John. You are my best friend. I never had any friends before you came along, damn it. You are all I've ever had."
John's strangled sob of frustration is high-pitched and gut-wrenching. He moves the carrier onto the floor with shaky hands, and Sherlock watches him apprehensively. When he reemerges from over the side of the bed, John wraps his arms around Sherlock's neck and holds him- just holds him close.
John is warm. Sherlock returns the hug with genuine enthusiasm, and buries his face in John's neck. He can feel the damaged skin of John's shoulder through his thin t-shirt, and sighs against him. John's body temperature is on the rise.
"Pleasant?" he asks cautiously. Sherlock is a little taken aback.
"Hm?"
"You said... 'why would I delete something so pleasant?' So, you... you found it pleasant?"
Sherlock grins against John's soft neck. "I've never felt so comfortable and quiet, or so wanted as I did when you were kissing me, John. No one has ever wanted me before. Certainly not the way you do. And I've never wanted anyone else. In short: it was quite pleasant, yes."
He trails his lips along John's skin, pulling back the neck of John's shirt to gain more surface area. He feels the doctor tremble under his touch, and the power goes right to his head. He loves the control. He draws back his lips and touches John's plush skin with his teeth. John lets out a soft sigh which ruffles Sherlock's hair and warms the crescent of his ear.
"Mm," Sherlock rumbles, pressing his mouth to the warm neck.
A shuddering gasp can be heard right by Sherlock's ear. "This is too good. I don't want this to change," John rasps.
"It doesn't have to."
"Doesn't it?" John's arms tighten around him possessively. Sherlock can feel his nervous heartbeat against his chest. "I know you, Sherlock. You're going to delete it like you do with everything that involves emotion."
"I have never deleted anything to do with you, John, and I would not start now. I missed you. You missed me. We need each other. You may underestimate my ability to feel for you, but I don't. This kind of affection is a perfectly logical next step for us."
John's shaky sigh sends tingles down Sherlock's spine. "And what if this ruins the potential to go back to the way things were?"
"Why should it?"
"I... I don't know, I guess. I just thought... I don't know."
"Sh," Sherlock hissed. "Stop it. It doesn't matter now. We're together again, and we've learned something about our relationship that could improve our lives considerably." He licks up John's throat, but John- despite his tiny whimper- still seems distracted.
"So...Have you ever...?"
"Dull."
"What?"
"That's a dull question, John."
"You don't even know what I was about to ask!"
Sherlock sighs, and pulls back to look John dead in the eyes. "Have I ever been in a relationship? Yes, John. I have. In University. It was a waste of time. I did not love him, and our physical relations were a fascinating experiment, but they were also a useless distraction and a waste of time. No other man has ever made me feel mentally stimulated enough."
"No other...?"
"No other except you, John. You are the exception to the conclusion I drew in response to all previous experience."
"What-?" John's confused expression is sweet and flattered, but boring.
This conversation is going nowhere for Sherlock. All has been said that could be helpful, he believes. He cuts John off with another kiss that is long, deep, and slow. Sherlock plows John's soft mouth with his eager tongue, and the doctor moans heartily around him. God, this is perfect. This feels so right.
Sherlock sighs into his friend's mouth as he realizes pleasantly that he cannot think. His mind has been quieted by the sweetness of John, and he feels overwhelmed by the stimulus, completely zeroed in on this one physical sensation. How is it possible? How could anything satisfy him as easily as a complicated case or intravenous cocaine? John: the exception to everything in his life. He can barely believe it.
John's tongue explores Sherlock gently and carefully. Sherlock bites back, taking John's bottom lip between his teeth. He sucks on it, applying more pressure when this action elicits a gasp from him. John is weakening in Sherlock's grip, completely melting away when Sherlock pulls the back of his head in to force him closer, to devour his mouth more deeply than ever. John's muscles are relaxed, his arms limp at his sides, his lips soft, and his eyes fuzzy.
When John starts trying to speak, Sherlock pulls away. Both sets of pupils are dilated. They are breathing heavily. Sherlock enjoys John's hot breath on his open mouth, and licks his lips. He stares shamelessly at John's mouth as the man stutters, "I, er... I... Sherlock, I... this..."
"Is something wrong, John?" Sherlock's voice is a husky growl, his lips still touching John's as they exchange their breathy words.
"Wrong?" John seems perplexed, as though he has forgotten language.
Sherlock grins, and presses a kiss to John's nose. "You're okay. Everything's okay. I'm alive, I'm here, you're here, and this is real." He can tell that the sound of his voice is soothing to John, who leans into the sound as though it is an embrace of his very mind.
"Real," John repeats. His voice is dreamy. Sherlock kisses him again. "Real." Another kiss. "Real." This time, when Sherlock presses his shapely lips to John's, he wraps his arms around him and tugs him forward. His fingers are threaded into John's hair, and their pelvises are touching. Sherlock cannot recall at what point their legs became tangled. He can feel John's groin twitching beside his own, and feel his legs quivering through his jeans against Sherlock's bare thighs.
"Yes," Sherlock breathes, running his tongue along John's top lip so that the man shivers. "Yes, it's real."
Sharing each other's oxygen for so long, they are starting to feel a little heady and weak, but neither man dares to move. Sherlock would have described the unusual feeling as hovering in limbo. "John," he whispers, letting his eyes close and his forehead fall onto John's. "John. John."
"Sherlock. Real."
Sherlock can't seem to stop repeating his name, now. It feels so good to have his friend back again, and to feel him in this new way. The new information is swirling in his head, making him dizzy and quite foggy.
"John. John. John."
He puts emphasis on different parts of the name, tasting the way it sounds on his lips when spoken in any way. He loves it. He never wants to let it go.
A groggy and illogical part of his brain wonders if it's possible to swallow the word and absorb it. He wants to engulf all of John- to own him and keep him safe inside every cell of his body.
"John, I need you."
John's face contorts. "God, Sherlock, I..." He looks like he is in pain again. "I need you, too. I need you all the time... the whole time you were gone, I needed you... but you weren't there." His voice cracks.
"I'm here now." Sherlock was so heavy with wanting that his tone of voice was strained with it. "I needed you then, too, John, and I've needed you always. It's why I left: to keep you alive so that I could come back to you in the end because I needed you to be safe. It was worth all the time without you just to return and hold you here. All worth it so that this day could happen. I need you, John. I need you now."
They are joined again in a blur of sighs and flushed skin and lips. Their legs are already locked around one another but as they wriggle to hold each other closer, they topple over and find themselves completely tangled.
Sticky tongues flourish together and an overwhelming pleasure is flooding Sherlock's brain, and God, he thinks, it's just like a chemical drug. He wants to touch John; to kiss him and touch him all over and forever. Sherlock is cursing John's jeans, and John is, too, and they are kicked off of him in seconds. Their bare legs touch and it positively burns, sending fierce heat between their hips.
John's tongue is tasting Sherlock's cupid's bow when he slides his soft hands under the detective's bathrobe to push it off of him. The blue fabric is shaken from Sherlock's shoulders effortlessly, and winds up on the floor.
Sherlock cannot keep his fingers from crawling beneath John's t-shirt. As his skin meets John's abdomen, the doctor winces as though the caress is painful. Sherlock can imagine it burning like fire, judging by how hot the flesh is under his palms.
The surface of John's stomach is trembling like the rest of him, and Sherlock moans at the feel of his vulnerable shaken body against him. He scrapes his teeth along the line of John's jaw.
"Yes," he gasps as his spindly fingers reach John's nipples, pinching them lightly so that the doctor's breathing hitches. "John. I need you."
John lifts his arms, and Sherlock tears the t-shirt from his doctor aggressively. He is lust-addled and feral, and as soon as the shirt has been thrown over the side of the bed (to land precariously atop of the tray of food which lay forgotten), Sherlock digs his teeth hard into the soft spot at the nape of John's neck. John's resulting moan provokes Sherlock to roll on top of him, grinding his hips into the shorter man's wantonly spread legs.
"Sherlock," John hisses. "Please. Please. I love you. Don't leave me. Don't ever leave me." He is reeling and thrusting upward, twisting in Sherlock's grasp as though out of control of his own body. Sherlock holds him still.
"Please," he says again, desperation bubbling in his on-edge voice. "Your shirt."
John helps him peel the remaining garment off, and the men are now clasped chest-to-chest with their arms around each other. Only a thin layer of cotton separates them now, and Sherlock is furious. He wants to possess John- to sink his teeth into his very heart and consume him; to be part of him, rip him open, and bend him to his will. He wants to love John into submission; to give him joy that one else ever could and keep him safe forever. Safe. John. Safe. Home. Yes.
With a guttural roar of frustration which causes John to flinch, Sherlock dives between John's legs and takes the corner of his pants in his teeth. He tugs hard, trying to tear it off, but John whines and pulls his head back with a gentle hand in his dark curls. "Stop," he says, and Sherlock looks up slowly. "St-stop. Wait." John swallows. "I've never... I mean... Never with a man..."
"I'll keep you safe," growls Sherlock. "Trust me."
"I'll always trust you to keep me safe."
John's underwear is off seconds later, and Sherlock wastes no time.
Heart-shaped lips stretch wide; pallid cheeks hollow; warm palms hold down jittery hips. John is moaning and writhing, his eyes rolling back and his fingers grasping wildly at the sheets around him.
"I... can't..." John rasps. "I can't... I'm too close already, Sherlock. Don't..."
Sherlock releases him, tugging his own underpants off with relative difficulty.
With long soft touches, Sherlock coaxes John into a state of sedated acceptance with his hands, and crawls lithely up John's body. The doctor watches him with a gorgeously raw expression, ready and open. Sherlock straddles John, pulling him up so that they are seated together again with their legs draped over one another.
Their loins are hot and pulsing together and with a single hand, Sherlock grips them both, and works them into ecstasy. They moan together, sighing and gasping into one another's open mouths. Sherlock's vision is blurring around the edges, and when John's hand comes to meet his between their interlocked legs, he comes undone.
Stars burst before Sherlock's eyes, and John lets out a slightly restrained cry as they reach their pleasures within seconds of each other. They are spilling over each other's hands, soiling their thighs and stomachs and the sheets beneath them. "I love you," John groans. "God, I love you, Sherlock Holmes. Please. Yes."
"John." Sherlock is deliberately inhaling John's breath as he clutches the man close to him. He nuzzles the bridge of John's nose. "John." God, that word feels perfect in his mouth. He could say it all day. "John."
The doctor smiles, grins, and finally bursts into laughter. It is the happiest Sherlock has seen him in two years, ten months, fourteen days and however many hours it's been. He feels his heart could burst with relief. This was all he wanted- for John to be happy and safe and with him always.
"Why are you laughing?" Sherlock is laughing, too.
John wipes away a tear, his shoulders shaking with laughter. "Oh, god. I don't know! I'm just so... so..."
"Overwhelmed? Happy?"
"Yes." John's neck slumps and he rests his forehead on Sherlock's smooth shoulder. Both men are still laughing. "Yes. Definitely happy. No doubt about that."
Sherlock breathes in the scent of John's hair. They are surrounded by the smells of sweat and semen, and it overpowers them. Sherlock's senses are full of it. "We... should clean ourselves up," he breathes through a languid smile.
John is still breathing hard as he nods heavily against Sherlock. "This is the messiest I've ever been after sex. And this is definitely also... the happiest."
Sherlock purrs against John's cheek, pulling him back to look him right in the eye. "Oh, just wait," he growls deviously. "I'll have you coming in ways you've never dreamed of."
For the time being, Sherlock has actually forgotten that they are in any danger. But as the blissful fog in his mind lifts slowly, he remembers. John is not safe. "John," he says in a deep, quiet, and remorseful tone. "You said you trust me to keep you safe. You said it when we were..."
"Yes, yes, thank you, I remember." John is blushing a deep crimson. Sherlock finds it lovely, and wants suddenly to lick the color from his cheeks.
Sherlock allows for a pause to admire John's gentle face. Then he heaves a great sigh.
"You must remember, John, that you are not safe here. Not while I'm here. I shouldn't have come, and I have acknowledged that, but I could not resist recruiting you for this last mission. I missed you too much." He strokes John's face with elegantly long fingers. "I couldn't stay away. It was a weakness, but it is done, and I... Well, I need to take him down now. Moran has to pay for putting you in danger."
John sighs, his eyes flitting away from Sherlock's face. He seems to be thinking hard. Sherlock loves how relaxed John appears to be. He wishes John could be this satiated always. After today, Sherlock thinks, perhaps he can keep him that way.
"Tonight," John whispers at last. He looks up, his caring eyes meeting Sherlock's fiercely blue ones. "Wait until tonight."
Sherlock smiles. "That's fine," he says quickly. "That's perfect. The cover of dark will help us, and..." His eyes sparkle as he smirks dangerously. "it gives us the rest of the day to remain hidden in this room."
"What-?"
But Sherlock interrupts him with a deft tongue to his jugular.
The tray on the floor is forgotten completely until the room starts to smell of bacon a couple of hours later. John switches it out for a couple of sandwiches around noon, and before they make even a bit of headway of lunch, they are possessed by lust again.
They are like teenagers that day. Sherlock has always repressed his libido for most of his life, but for John he has become insatiable. John has not gotten off so many times in a day since college.
They cannot keep themselves off each other. John's mouth worships Sherlock's cock for the afternoon, and Sherlocks hands cannot keep off John's chest. His tongue is obsessed with John's throat, and his palms love the backs of John's thighs when he's pushing into him slowly.
John makes the most beautiful faces when he feels the thick flesh pressing against his opening, and sighs in relief when they become completely joined. Their frenzied and impassioned fucking alternates throughout the day between soft and positively violent. It is perfect.
When the day grows dim and slips into evening, Sherlock's heart feels light and his mind is blissfully calm. He has never felt so thoroughly interested in something or someone for so long that is not a case. Is that what love is? He doesn't know. He doesn't voice the thought.
John orders take-away for them, and puts clothes on to fetch it from the door begrudgingly (Sherlock had to remind him that clothes were worth it if it meant his life).
He is stripped instantaneously once he's returned to Sherlock's bedroom, and they eat in bed for the third time that day. Sherlock insists he is not really hungry after all the food they'd shared already, and that all he wants is to devour John's body again; but John laughs, shakes his head, and clumsily scoops noodles into Sherlock's mouth with chopsticks. They are naked, and manage to get food everywhere. It's an utter mess, but a complete delight. Sherlock ends up slurping up a noodle from John's chest.
"Sherlock," John laughs. "That is as un-sexy as it is possible to be."
"I don't care," Sherlock chuckles. "Worth it."
And it really is. Sherlock would not exchange this day for anything except more time. There is never enough time Sherlock decides resignedly as the sun goes down and his bedroom becomes a garden of long, ominous shadows.
He sighs deeply against John's scarred shoulder for the last time and kisses him. John holds his face close, desperate to not let this day end, but Sherlock pries him off.
"After," Sherlock asserts softly, his eyes twinkling. "After Moran is in custody, then we can come right back here. Nothing has to change."
"Are you sure?" John looks concerned, and Sherlock can see the pain dredging back up into John's previously blissful expression.
The consulting detective smiles coolly, his certainty bleeding into John through his next sweet kiss. John feels his confidence in the solidity of his lips.
"I promise."