I woke up the next morning to a foggy looking Saturday. I sat up and rubbed my eyes, feeling Sherlock's empty side of the bed. It was still slightly warm, so he had gotten up... an hour ago? I guessed, not caring to take the time to go through a deductive process. I stepped onto the floor and walked out, peeking into Will's room before entering the kitchen. He was still asleep in his navy blue bed, his small desk filled with papers. I sighed, knowing that those papers were covered in numbers and patterns of numbers. I had to get him out of here for a little while.
Sherlock and I had already talked to Mrs. Hudson and she agreed to take William out for a while. We decided to exclude the part about trying for another baby to both William and Mrs. Hudson, for the sake of questions and embarrassment. We instead told them both that we were doing a dangerous experiment, and didn't have enough equipment to protect all four of them, just Sherlock and I. Which resulted in the "I'm not your housekeeper' speech about not burning down the place, as well as William's well-being. I took that bullet for Sherlock, knowing that he would've boiled over in rage and probably have said something he would regret.

I walked into the kitchen to find Sherlock curled up on his chair in the living room reading a book. I went over to the stove and poured water in the kettle, setting it on the burner. I then went over to Sherlock and sat on the arm chair, peeking over his shoulder. "What is that?" I asked, placing my hands on either side of his shoulders.
He looked up at me and smiled," I've heard you reading William The Hobbit for a while now, but I realized that I haven't read it." He explained," It one of the better books I have read. I like the way Tolkien describes the characters, as well as this dragon," he said, pointing to a drawing of William's favorite character, Smaug," He makes these riddles, which are entirely simple to figure out, but still." he said, his eyes having turned back to the book a long time ago. I smiled," You and Will are more alike than any child and parent I have ever seen." I said, planting a quick kiss on his cheek as I hurried into the kitchen to save the whistling kettle.

After tea (and for William, hot cocoa) was poured, I went back out to where Sherlock was and picked out a book of my own. 'Song for the Basilisk- Written by Patricia A. Mickillip' sounded interesting. Something that William would enjoy reading. I cracked open the book and began reading, my tea on the table next to me, and Sherlock's intrigued gasps as he read, the story filling his brain.


It took William another hour to wake up on his own. By that time, our tea was in our bellies, Sherlock had finished The Hobbit, and I had gotten halfway through 'Song for the Basilisk' He came around the corner and plopped himself in my lap, resting his head on my chest. My hand reached down to stroke through his light brown hair, his breathing still slow from sleep. William looked up at me," Can I please stay with you and dad this weekend?" he asked. I looked down at him, setting my book on the table next to my empty tea cup," I thought it would be good for you to go out with Grandma Hudson for a while so Dad and I can focus," I explained to him," I'm afraid not, love." I said, kissing his forehead. He sighed and sank into my chest once again, a look of disappointment on his face. "One weekend with Grandma won't hurt you, love." I said to him, my fingers combing through his hair.

Sherlock and I helped William pack a small bag of puzzles, clothes and such things. We then gathered William and his belongings and took him downstairs to Mrs. Hudson, who was waiting for us outside of her door. She took William's small hand in hers" You two keep the place clean." She said, allowing William to give both Sherlock and I one last hug before she took him outside and caught a cab, taking him with her to a small adventure for the weekend.
I couldn't help but feel guilty as I went back upstairs. We had never left William for this long since he was born, and now he was going away for almost three days with Mrs. Hudson, a woman he loved, but she wasn't me or Sherlock. I took Sherlock's hand as we went back up to the flat, and I couldn't help but feel my heart flutter in my chest as I remembered why we were doing this in the first place. I didn't want to have a panic attack again, and I just wanted to have a good three days with the man I had fallen hopelessly in love with.

We went upstairs and sat on the couch, turning on Telly to see the news broadcast for the coming week. Sherlock had his arm wrapped around my shoulders, my head resting on his right shoulder, and our fingers intertwined. I could feel his steadiness. His breathing, heartbeat, pulse. Everything. It relaxed me to a point where I almost fell asleep.
After watching a little more Telly, it was around 9:00 at night. Sherlock turned to me and brought me closer to him so that he could steal a kiss," I can almost feel how uneasy you are." he said, his thumb brushing over the palm of my hand. I felt a blush creep up over my cheeks, and I turned my eyes away from him, feeling embarrassed," John, I'm going to let you make the move. You need to take this at your pace, okay?" he said, tilting my chin so that I was looking up at him again. I smiled and nodded, feeling much better. This was Sherlock. This was Sherlock. He is my very definition of safety. He loves me, and I love him.

I took a deep breath and moved my mouth up to his, holding the kiss for a few moments before beginning to move my lips. My heart beat went crazy, and I almost wondered if Sherlock could hear it. I moved up to sit on my knees, kicking the blanket that had been covering us moments ago to the floor, hearing the soft fabric slide against the floor. Sherlock wrapped his arms around my waist, pulling me closer to him as we kissed each other so passionately I could cry. He was such a kind person when he wanted to be. A hard shell, but a soft interior. I placed my cold hands on either side of Sherlock's rib cage, feeling his muscles move as our lips danced together. He pulled back and looked me in the eye, asking for permission to take over. I nodded, my eagerness for him growing.

He scooped me up in his arms, taking the both of us into the secluded space of our bedroom. He carefully laid me down on the bed, his hands caressing my back as if I were a child. I couldn't help but feel something large rub against my leg, and saw that it was Sherlock's own arousal, now a small bump in between his legs. After he laid me down, we resumed our kiss, our hands now exploring each other. I eventually rested my hands in the first button on Sherlock's shirt, undoing it slowly. I did that all of the way down, sighing as I let the lest button loose. Sherlock then shrugged the shirt off of his shoulders and threw it onto the floor, his hands returning to my hips.
Sherlock did the same thing to my shirt, except he could no longer contain himself on the last two buttons and tore the shirt open, revealing my bare chest. And something else I didn't want him to see.

On my left shoulder, I bore a mangled, jagged scar from where I was shot during my time in Afghanistan. It was too late to tell Sherlock to stop, to leave the shirt on, and I felt my breathing quicken. That scar was the reason I wore a robe after I showered, or refused to sleep without a shirt on, even in the hottest conditions. I looked away from him, too embarrassed to look into his stormy eyes.
But what he did next shocked me. He never looked away in disgust or pummeled me with questions I didn't want to answer, like I expected someone in his position to do. Instead, he leaned down and kissed the piece of me that I hated so tenderly it made me shiver. I arched my back and helped Sherlock remove the rest of my shirt. We traded off in removing our articles of clothing. His trousers came next. Then mine. Then his pants. Then mine. We did this until we were looking at each others bare body, and until that moment, I had never realized just how many self-abuse scars Sherlock actually had. I looked to his thighs to see them covered in thin white lines, some older than others, though none of them more than eight years old. We took some time to just simply see each other clearly for the first time. I drank in Sherlock's appearance. His scarred, bony legs. His ribs that stuck out so much I could count each one of them. His hip bones; and I wondered what it was like with his childhood. Being bored in school all of the time, dealing with parent's who didn't understand his ability, going through anorexia, and then having people bully you because your life already sucks? It made me furious.

In my case, I can say that I never had any self-harm scars; but that was only because they were inflicted by someone else, and they were planted on my back. I was hurt by people I never thought would hurt me. My father, my best friend in high school who beat me until I couldn't see straight. And then there were those who I didn't care about who left their marks on me. Jim Moriarty, for example.
Sherlock and I both had our scars, but it wasn't until now that we learned just how much the other had suffered. We took time to caress, kiss, and touch each other. Nothing sexual, just the comfort of someone who accepts us no matter what. I felt Sherlock's long fingers brush over the scars on my back and chest, while I traced over the scar on his right hip where a taser gun had been held to his bare skin for a little too long with gentle kisses, then going over every line of Sherlock's scars on his thighs with my fingers, hearing him sigh against my chest as he rested his head there while I touched him with a love so clean and pure that we could only understand it for each other.

After about thirty minutes of this, Sherlock finally turned back to kissing me. He slowly lowered me back onto the bed, shifting himself into a good position in between my legs. I braced myself, expecting pain. But Sherlock made no advances. He continued to shower my face and neck in gentle kisses. I gasped again. I continue to be amazed and awed by Sherlock as this night progresses, his gentleness and sensitivity while handling me in a situation where I feel scared is incredible. Sherlock then pulled away and waited for the signal from me that it was okay to continue. I nodded at him and clutched his shoulders, feeling excited, and very nervous.
Sherlock lined himself up with the entrance to my arse, pushing himself in very slowly, so that only the tip of him pierced me. I clutched his shoulders with all of my might as my breath caught in my throat. Sherlock leaned over to my ear," It's okay, John." he whispered," It's just me love. I've got you." and he wrapped his hands around the back of my neck, pushing the rest of his member inside of me.

He stayed like that until I began to shake with an intense need for him to move. He started slowly, taking time to get a rhythm, and then he gradually sped up. We were both sweaty, writhing messes, my seed spilling long before Sherlock's, spurting over our stomachs. I was actually enjoying myself, the pleasure of the moment almost overwhelming. Sherlock's eyes were wide, and I could feel him about ready to burst inside of me. I wrapped my legs around his middle and held him close to me, our bare bodies intertwined in a sweet mess. " Sherlock." I whispered to myself, not being able to bring my voice to actually speak. He looked into my eyes, almost lazy with bliss. But Sherlock Holmes was never lazy.
Even under the look in his eyes, I could see that he was more alert than he ever had been before, the feeling of this moment affecting him as well. Never before in my life had I had sex this gentle. This tender, and so full of passion. Our connection was beautiful and pure, and this moment showed that.

"John!" Sherlock said, his voice shaking. I felt his heart rate sky-rocket as he rested his chest against mine, his effort to make this last for as long as possible leaving him struggling to hold on. I turned his face to me," I've got you." I said, and that was all it took.
His breath stuttered in his chest as he came inside of me, his seed filling me until I didn't think I could take it anymore. But we laid there, Sherlock on top of me, catching our breath. He eventually pulled out, dragging bits of fluids with him. He scooped me up in his arms and cradled my head against his chest, slick with sweat. He put a hand behind my head and kissed me, the exhaustion of the adrenaline rush taking its toll on both of us. "Did I hurt you?" he said softly, holding me tighter to him still. I looked up at him," No." I said.

Sherlock then got up and changed the bed sheets, throwing the soiled ones into a bag to take to the cleaners as soon as possible. But not right now. Right now, we laid against each others bare bodies on the bed, continuing to whisper into one another's ears until we both fell asleep, happy and safe in each others arms.


Author's Notes:

I have been working on this chapter for longer than I would care to admit. I lost some of the story after my computer had a freak out and shut down on me, deleting half of the story in the progress. Otherwise, I would've had it up days ago!
Anyways, I have been reading a lot of fanfiction with Johnlock sex (It's for research... Don't look at me like that!) and none of it was tender or compassionate. It was all 'Oh god, fuck me now!' sex, and that makes me kinda sad, because it takes all of the pure emotion out of a moment like this. With the past that these two have shared, I would expect some other people to put more effort into it... Even though stuff like this is really awkward to write, and I had to take multiple breaks, because my hands would start shaking and I couldn't function right. And no, I wasn't horny. I get really nervous and panicked over stuff like this because of past experiences, and I just really wanted to do this. But this is very much likely the first and last sex scene in this story... But hey, there could always be part 3.

I hope you enjoyed... And I'm kinda scared about reading comments, but they do help me write, so please... be gentle!
-PerfectMoments