A/N: Well I hope this chapter will make it up to you! I know! That was mean but I needed to end there to fit with the lyrics/chapter titles. Yeah, that's right, I did! Oh and it was fun! Sure got some interesting reactions from you lot!
Lots of swearing and what you have been waiting for, possibly, maybe? Smut. Lots of it. I think I am trying to earn that explicit rating I gave it on AO3. (Sorry tda and Lucy – your version is in the mail – lol!)
8 I Will Run For Shelter
"Who?"
The word reverberated through the air and was greeted with silence. Sarah and Mike looked at each other as if this was not unexpected.
Sherlock watched with barely tolerant bemusement. He wondered what the two doctors were wanting from him. He did not know or remember this person they were talking about, he did not understand the air of concern that ran between the two of them and he was, in theory, not really interested. In theory.
He would admit that the phrases 'your brother requested that we not speak to you directly' and 'he felt it might be detrimental to your recovery' were mildly interesting. Perhaps if he didn't have the urgency to go out and destroy Moriarty's web running riot in his head, he might have been intrigued enough to consider the two doctors before him as worthy of his attention, but…
He smirked, bored enough that he didn't mind telling them the facts of the situation, surly enough and in discomfort and frustrated from his broken leg to be a bit of a shit.
"You have come to appeal to my better nature. I do not have one. I have no regrets informing you I have no interest in helping you. I could not be more indifferent and considering the fact that I am immobile, I will not be able to assist you. You should leave before my brother decides to return. If he has advised you to let me be, I suggest you follow that advice. He has a habit of making people who annoy us, have uncomfortable lives."
Feeling that he'd done quite enough to dismiss the pair, he turned and stared out the window, assuming they would scamper off.
He assumed incorrectly.
The male doctor, Stamford, puffed up and ineffectively sputtered a bit, but apparently the female was alpha enough to march over to Sherlock's bedside and glare in his face.
"You insufferable, arrogant bastard! Do you have any idea what John did for you? Do you have any concept of how difficult, how dangerous it was for him? You selfish, contemptuous prick. John is lying in a hospital bed, unconscious, because for some reason, he lost his way back after helping you and you can't be arsed enough to give a flying fuck about him. You have no idea of what you are doing to one of the most generous, compassionate men, one who found you interesting and complicated enough to help you. Go fuck yourself!" And she slapped him. Hard. She turned to march out the door, stopped and whirled back to return.
"Here's something to contemplate while you are lying here, bored and discomfited by inaction. Yes, I read your file. I know how driven you are, how much you need and crave puzzles and riddles to keep the relentless ennui from consuming you. Let's see what you make of this." She reached into the pocket of her lab coat and pulled out an apple. She placed it upon the tray where Sherlock's latest meal lay untouched.
She leaned into his face, anger and grief snapping like electricity around her.
"This is what John used as an anchor to remind himself he was dreaming. I know from his notes that he told you. I know you used a watch that belonged to your grandfather. Maybe, in spite of the obvious brain damage you are experiencing, maybe that will make you feel something, you machine!" And she turned once more to go.
Sherlock, slightly stunned and unprepared for both the physical and verbal attack, blinked to clear his vision.
He stared at the apple, his brow furrowed, a sense of familiarity tugged at the back of his mind. He blinked again and rapidly a series of words swept through; anchor, apple, watch, bee, bison skull, tree, Moriarty, kiss, John!
Sherlock closed his eyes as wonder and awe flooded him. Images of a meadow, incongruously decorated like his flat, an apple tree growing under an open sky and a short, compact man, with a kind, warm, astonishing face standing there, smiling at him, worry replacing the well worn look of open friendliness, as he reached up, Sherlock's face in his hands, strong, capable hands, and kissed him, kissed him in a way that even now took his breath away.
How could he have forgotten?
It took less than a moment, less than a thought, Dr. Sawyer had not even reached the door when he called out, apprehension, hope, confusion, and finally anguish rolling through the sound of the word, making the shortness of the one syllable stretch between the two of them.
"Wait!"
Dr. Sawyer stopped, anticipation evident in her slight frame. She turned to the man in the bed. He looked at her, his face looked young and vulnerable.
"What do I need to do?"
oOo
Sherlock lay in the bed in the lab, hooked up to various machines and electrodes sprouting over his head like a weird octopus/hedgehog amalgam. He glanced over to the other bed, where a still, colourless form lay. The face he remembered from his dream, lacked the warmth and kindness, looked as if there really was no one there, the shell of a man, a man who had astonished him and aided him.
Someone he may even love.
It had been surprisingly easy to sneak Sherlock down to the lab, which made him wonder. His brother would not turn a blind eye on his comings and goings, he must be aware of the fact that the two doctors would attempt this, but he had not, uncharacteristically, ordered agents to stand sentinel outside his room. The hardest part of the whole excursion had been maneuvering around his broken leg.
He mentally shrugged, being unable at the moment to do so physically. He would worry about his brother and his reactions after the fact. He had never much bothered with Mycroft's thoughts and feelings concerning his safety, why should he start now?
Dr. Sawyer came over to carry out an examine mirroring a similar one which, unbeknownst to him, had taken place weeks go, a lifetime ago. Her hands, remembering the task, trembled slightly. He swept his eyes across her face and noted the fact she was biting at her lower lip in worry and unease.
"Perhaps it would be advisable for you to tell me what you are thinking," he murmured to her.
"We've never let a novice do this. You've had no training. It concerns me in so many ways. There's so much that could go wrong."
The corner of Sherlock's lower lip lifted as a compliment to his customary smirk. "Remarkable time to bring this up. Tell me, Dr. Sawyer, why didn't you or Dr. Stamford try this? Wouldn't it have been logical for you to attempt this since you are the professionals here? Oh wait," His eyes narrowed, "You did. You were unsuccessful. I see."
"We looked for him, but it was all grey and misty, neither of us could get through the fog. I thought…I thought at one point I could hear him, but there was nothing. Mike and I think it has something to do with the fact that he was connected to you at the time. We think he may be lost between the two of you. Limbo, perhaps, if there is such a place. This is beyond our experience, Mr. Holmes. We are not sure how to proceed."
Sherlock swallowed, panic for John lost in murkiness, not being able to find his way out, swirled through his chest. He felt the fear he'd held while confronting Moriarty return, but this was all John. It was sharper, more defined. He knew, intrinsically and with wonder, he had so much more to lose if he couldn't find him. Before, being against Moriarty he might have lost his mind, his identify, but in losing John, he would lose the heart he didn't admit to having, the soul he didn't believe in. He was rather astounded to place value on things that were so intangible and yet so suddenly vital to his existence.
He carefully touched Dr. Sawyer's arm. He looked into her eyes and told her silently it was time.
She in turn stared at the man she had slapped in anger not that long ago and nodded.
oOo
Fascinating. Bart's.
He had vague memories of meeting John here for the first time. He looked at the watch in his hand. Dr. Sawyer had reminded him of the importance of the anchor, particularly after he had filled her in on his remembered conversation with John regarding his speculation that the destruction of his anchor had severed his ties to his physical body.
Sherlock merely glanced around. This may be his brain's idea of a good place to start, he mused, but it didn't feel right. He knew he wouldn't find John here. He took in the fact that the walls of the lab seemed to have lost a defining edge and even though labs weren't known for their colourful atmosphere, everything was in shades of grey, black and white, even the posters about safety, usually overly processed in lurid colours to be eye catching, were muted.
He moved faster than thought through the door of the lab and came out onto a moor, misty and cold. The lack of colour followed through into a twilight world.
He listened intently, but even the wind that stereotypically haunted a place such as this, was quiet, as if waiting for something.
He decided to set off, not knowing if he was going in the right direction, but conscious that logic, as hard as it was for him, had to be thrown out the proverbial window. This was a matter of love not intellect.
He walked for seemingly hours over scrubby grass and past odd rock formations. If he had been a more fanciful, sentimental person, it would have felt like he was on an alien shore, as the feeling of being watched came through. He stopped and looked around. There was no sign of intelligent life, but the feeling persisted. Glancing around, he became thoughtful, not sure whether to trust his instincts in the matters of the heart. He closed his eyes and considered. The feeling that eyes were upon him intensified, but was familiar.
With the recognition came realization.
John.
John was aware he was here, but he didn't know him. He was watching to see if this strange individual in his dreams was friend or foe.
Sherlock opened his eyes and hurried in the direction he knew he would be.
He crested a small hill and there, in an unforgettable looking meadow was an apple tree. The last time he had seen this tree, it had been dropping fruit and the leaves were falling. Now it appeared to be back to full spring, he could almost smell the blossoms from where he stood, a scent that lifted his spirits and filled a hollow space he didn't know he had.
Sitting under the tree, back against it, legs stretched out in front of him, sat John. Even from this distance Sherlock recognized the look of puzzled bemusement on the doctor's face. He watched him turn his head in the detective's direction. John did not know him.
Sherlock felt tightness in his chest. He paused as unfamiliar emotions entered in. He was uncertain how to go forward. He could almost hear John's voice, reminding him about choices, taking chances, doing the right thing. Anticipation associated with an irresistible sense of the miracle of 'what might be' sped through him, pushing out the anxiety.
Tingling with the rightness of what was happening, he walked toward the other man. He could feel his heart rate increasing and a flush develop across his face. His hands clenched and unclenched, as his body registered his reactions to seeing John, reactions he had once dismissed as weak and unimportant. Now he knew that without him, without these feelings for John, he was weak and unimportant. He needed the other man, to be strong and to revolve around him in a mutual need of gravity and attraction. They were the center of each other's universes, could not function without one another.
He reached the doctor's side. John had watched him cross the distance. Sherlock had noted some increase in tension as he came closer, but the shorter man stayed seated and didn't get up. He must have felt secure enough to let Sherlock approach him while in a more vulnerable position.
He finally reached John's side and stood looking down at him. Wariness and uncertainty played behind the blue eyes, paler than before as if the doctor were washed out, faded as he had in Sherlock's dream. There was so much different about him. Gone was the confident man from his previous dreams. Confusion permeated his entire being.
"John!" Sherlock invoked his name like an entreaty.
Head tilted in a familiar, endearing fashion, the doctor looked at the taller man.
"Do I know you?" he asked.
Sherlock was, at a loss of where to start, how to explain.
"Yes. We are…friends. I have come to bring you back home."
John lifted a hand and passed it across his forehead. "Oh. Ummm. I don't know where that is any more. I think I am lost."
Sherlock knelt beside him. "You were lost. But now I have found you. I didn't know right away you were lost. I am sorry it took me so long to get to you."
A puzzled look. "Why don't I remember you if we're friends?"
"Something happened to you. You were hurt trying to help me. You had an anchor and it was damaged and you disappeared. I couldn't stop that." Sherlock noticed that he was having difficulty seeing. It was because tears were filling his eyes. He was a little shocked and surprised. He never cried unless he was using it to manipulate someone. He was not use to having so many emotions overwhelm him like this. It was uncomfortable.
John frowned and reached up, swiping a tear that had tracked down Sherlock's face. He looked down at his thumb, which was wet, his face screwed up as if in pain.
"Why are you sad?" John asked softly.
"Because I didn't know I had almost lost you. I didn't know you were gone. I," and he looked down at his knees, his legs folded under him when he sat beside John on the ground, "I almost threw away the most important person I've ever met before I even realized it. I am sorry."
Still looking perplexed, John sighed, shaking his head, as if to dismiss the man kneeling next to him.
Sherlock thought for a moment and then an idea came to him. A treasured and remembered image.
"Can I try something?"
The doctor looked at him guardedly. "I guess." He did not seem to put much faith in him.
Sherlock hesitated for a moment, gathered his courage and placed a gentle hand on John's chin, titled it upwards. He bent down and placed a soft kiss on the other's lips. He pressed into the kiss, firmly. The shorter man stiffened slightly, moved as if he would break away and then leaned into Sherlock. Sherlock tentatively swiped his tongue out and brushed it lightly against the closed mouth, as if asking consent. John shuddered and his lips parted, giving permission. His own tongue entered into Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock groaned and moved his hand to the back of the blonde head. Hair captured under his fingers, was soft and silky. His other arm reached around and pulled the doctor closer to him, sheltering him. John's hands came up and fisted in Sherlock's shirt. It was slow and gentle at first, each exploring the other, tasting and wrapping their tongues around, rolling waves of passion plunging through and building. Then the waves crashed over them and they began to pillage the other's mouth with increased desire.
Sherlock remembered to breath, which the logical part of his brain found to be ironic as it was after all, a dream, the emotional part of his brain, slightly stunted and underused told him to shut it and kiss John harder. Which he did. Mounting longing swept through him and he pushed the man back against the rough bark of the tree. He broke off a bit, used his teeth and grazed them across John's lips. He then sat back and looked at the man across from him.
John panted, but his eyes were clear navy blue once more, all the murkiness and perplexity gone.
"Sherlock," he exhaled. And he leaned forward and captured the other's mouth and turning slightly, pushed him to the ground. John's hands wandered down the long chest and began undoing buttons on his shirt. Sherlock broke off the kiss once more and spoke,
"Not that I am objecting John, but are you sure you want to do this here? It is after all a dream. Don't you think our first time should be," endorphins were obviously interfering with brain function. He waved his hand vaguely in the air. "Out there."
He grinned at Sherlock. "We'll have time for that later. I missed you, too. And," John's grin turned feral and he leaned down and whispered directly in Sherlock's ear, a whisper that carried itself straight to his groin. "Because it's a dream, we won't need anything." And he bit Sherlock's ear.
Sherlock groaned again, felt his heart rate increase and gave himself up, not even worried whether or not the effects of this would show up in the real world. Part of him chuckled evilly at the other two doctors having to watch.
John is fucking my mind! Or I am I fucking his? And with another shudder he almost came undone.
John had managed to open the shirt all the way and was kissing his way down Sherlock's neck, small gentle kisses at first that became harder the closer he got to his chest. He reached Sherlock's right nipple and swept a tongue across and then lightly grazed it with his teeth. Just as he became use to the sensation, John bit him, hard. He gasped and lifted his head. John was grinning at him wickedly and continued to lavish his chest with attention.
Deciding he was over dressed, he attempted to tug John's jumper off of him.
"Why on earth are you wearing that ridiculous jumper?"
John looked at Sherlock. "I like it."
"Of all the items of clothing one could wear in a dream…"
John's smile, if possible, got wider and he removed the offending piece of clothing.
"You know, since it's a dream, we could just be naked."
Sherlock sat up and grabbed the beloved face again and kissed him. In a rough, dark voice he said "No. I want to undress you. I want to throw your clothes around and leave them scattered between our thoughts. I want you to do the same to mine," and with his teeth, he clamped down on John's shoulder. Crying out, he just managed to push Sherlock's shirt off of the slim shoulders and he flung it behind him.
"Better?"
Sherlock smirked. "Definitely." He began tugging at the belt around John's jeans and he popped the button. He slowly unzipped the jeans and pushed them down. He slipped his hand into his pants, wrapped his long lingers around John, who was hard and hot. John threw his head back and moaned and then bent and kissed Sherlock more as the other man freed his cock from his pants, pushed them down with his other hand and began slowly stroking, now and then flicking over the swollen head. John squeezed his eyes shut trying to prevent himself from coming to quickly. And then opened them again as Sherlock reverently kissed his tender lips.
His voice husky with lust, he whispered, "I want you inside me, John. More than you are already. I want you inside me in all possible ways." He looked at John with eyes large with desire, "Please."
John pushed him down again and removed each piece of clothing slowly, building the suspense between them, drawing it out, making it last. He swept his tongue over Sherlock's cock and at the same time used one finger to tease and enter into him. Because they were inside their heads there was no pain, no discomfort and Sherlock stretched beautifully as another and then another finger was added. John, not being able to keep his eyes off of Sherlock, said. "You are gorgeous. You are the most gorgeous thing I have ever seen. Especially like this, under me, with me inside you." With those words he slipped inside. With a growl, as he took John deep, took him all the way, Sherlock felt complete, more so than he had ever felt before.
The shorter man rocked slowly at first and then built up speed.
"Harder," he gasped at John. "Harder. " As John did, Sherlock grasped his own cock, aching and leaking, and began stroking it firmly, in time to John's thrusts. It wouldn't be long for either.
And with a shout they both came and as they did, colour and light and warmth flooded the meadow.
John lowered his head to Sherlock's chest, eyes tightly closed once more, his own chest heaving from exertion, as he returned to his surrounding. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John, sheltering him, protecting him, safeguarding them both from the sudden onslaught of emotions that stormed over the two men.
John raised a bleary eyed face to Sherlock's, kissed him once more and said,
"You Sherlock, you are my anchor."
Both men heard the call to return home.
oOo
With those words echoing in his head, Sherlock's eyes opened.
