Where You Gonna Run To?

Chapter 9

You're All That I Have

John awoke in the morning feeling content. His body seemed to be curled up into clouds or something equally soft. It took him a moment to realize that he was not in his bed. It didn't smell right. It smelled distinctly like Sherlock. John's eyes snapped open. The memories of the previous night (or early morning, really) came rushing back into him. He sat up abruptly and realized that Sherlock was kneeling at his feet with one of his legs in his hands, staring intently at the bottom of his foot as if it were the most fascinating evidence of a crime scene he had ever received. John knew that waking up in bed with Sherlock Holmes could never be normal, but he hadn't expected this sight before him. (Shouldn't this bother me more?)

"Sherlock," he said, his voice rough with sleep, "what are you doing?"

Sherlock shushed him and said, "Lay back. You're interrupting."

John rolled his eyes because he wasn't the least bit surprised that Sherlock had returned to his usual, domineering self the morning after sex. He laid back and eyed Sherlock as he set down his leg and picked up the other one. Sherlock grabbed his other leg and bent it as far back as John's flexibility would allow. He stared down at the bottom of his thigh and moved slowly up, eyeing every inch of John's skin. His hands moved up and down, running through the hair, his brow furrowed as if he were dealing with a particularly vexing puzzle.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?"

"Quiet, John."

"It's just a leg, Sherlock."

Sherlock shot John a scathing glare, so he mimed zipping his lips shut in response. Sherlock rolled his eyes in irritation and returned to John's leg, running one hand up his calf. John laid in the mattress, basking in the bit of sunlight that filtered through the slit in the curtains. He was just dozing off again when Sherlock suddenly turned him over and straddled his back.

"Jesus, what are you—"

"John," said Sherlock sternly, "you can have your way with me when I'm finished with this. For now, I need silence."

John huffed but said nothing. The though of having Sherlock wanton and writhing beneath him again was too tempting, so John laid still as Sherlock observed his body. He moved slowly, examining each inch of his back, running his hands over it, lightly running his tongue along an old scar from his youth, kissing a few scars on his arms he had received in Afghanistan. Sherlock scrutinized every inch of John's backside until he seemed to have pored over every inch of his body. John was content to lie in the bed with Sherlock's hand moving all over him, but suddenly Sherlock was rolling him onto his back again. John groaned as Sherlock straddled his hips and leaned down to kiss his lips.

"What was that about?" he asked against Sherlock's lips.

"I needed another mind palace," said Sherlock casually, as his lips moved down to kiss John's neck lightly.

"Another mind palace?"

Sherlock sighed in a way that meant his meaning should have been obvious to John, and he couldn't understand why John was such an idiot. John sat up on his elbows to glare at Sherlock, who rolled his eyes and said, "I needed another mind palace for you, obviously. There wasn't enough in my current one. I needed to devote many rooms to your skin, to the taste of you, feel of you. Your lips alone have several rooms. I need to be able to recall any part of you at a moment's notice."

John smiled. It was the most utterly romantic thing anyone had ever said to him, and Sherlock had been the one to say it. Sherlock didn't appear to understand the sentiment behind it, since he would probably go to his grave swearing such things were beneath him, but John came as close to swooning as he possibly could. His heart swelled, and he cupped Sherlock's face in his hands.

"You're amazing," he said quietly, "you know that?"

"John," said Sherlock, with an irritated sigh, "there is no place for sentiment—"

John grabbed Sherlock by the shoulders and pushed him into the bed, laying atop him. Sherlock immediately craned his neck up to kiss John, who was certain that he would never tire of kissing Sherlock. (How could I?)

"I presume that last night gave you sexual satisfaction," said Sherlock into their lips.

John chuckled and murmured, "Yes, Sherlock. I assume you did, given that you were incapable of talking, except to say my name."

"I found the experience…"

John kissed along his jaw, lips brushing against the stubble. His lips trailed down to Sherlock's neck, where he took the flesh into his mouth, sucking at it. Sherlock's hands came to his back, running down his spine.

"…quite…"

Sherlock's voice was lower, breath coming in faster, as John continued kissing downward. John found Sherlock's chest very interesting, and he wanted to pay it as much attention as possible. He moved his hands up Sherlock's sides as he reached one of nipples.

"…stimulating…"

Sherlock's breath caught in his throat as John took one nipple into his mouth. He sucked on it, pulling the skin, and then rolled his tongue around it, tasting the sweat of Sherlock's skin and the soap from the previous day's shower. He nipped at it and gave it one last lick before kissing further down. Sherlock's back arched, and John smiled into his skin. It was titillating to know that he was doing this to the man who decried sentiment and romance entirely.

"John, what're you…"

Sherlock grabbed at John's hair, fingers tangled, gripping it like a lifeline. John ran one hand on the underside of his thigh as he continued kissing down his chest, laying kisses haphazardly across his skin. He could feel something becoming aroused as Sherlock writhed beneath him, pushing heat through his body, straight to his groin.

"John," said Sherlock, with a bit more determination, "where are you going?"

"Why don't you make a deduction?" said John softly, his breath falling over Sherlock's erection.


By late evening, Sherlock had grown incredibly annoyed with John, mainly because John had insisted in putting clothes on. Sherlock argued that there was no reason to get dressed, but John told him that he would not be walking around starkers when Mrs. Hudson could walk in at any time. This led to John lying on the couch reading a book while Sherlock put his head in his lap, John's laptop on his chest.

The day had passed quickly for John. He spent the morning in bed with Sherlock, and they took their time, learning each other's bodies, although Sherlock took it a step further. He adamantly asked John to explain the story behind every scar on his body, so that he could learn where everything came from. John wasn't sure why Sherlock was so obstinate on hearing it, but it was nice for John to share without having to worry whether or not Sherlock would find it ugly. Sherlock seemed to regard it as another aspect of John's personality, as interesting as why John preferred milk in his tea, but not sugar. John learned that Sherlock enjoyed kissing, nibbling, and biting on every single inch of his body.

John was contemplating going to bed, and taking Sherlock with him, when the doorbell rang. It was odd, since Mycroft always phoned ahead, and Mrs. Hudson usually opened the door immediately after knocking, so it meant they had a guest. Sherlock immediately sat up, springing up like a cat. He turned to John, slightly confused. John motioned to Sherlock's bedroom. Sherlock rolled his eyes but stood, walking almost silently to his bedroom, shutting the door without a sound. In case they received a visitor, this was their plan to keep Sherlock's return a secret. John opened the front door, surprised to find Lestrade on his doorstep.

"Hey, Greg," he said, "what brings you here?"

"You haven't returned my calls," said Lestrade, "so I came over to apologize."

"For what?"

"Well, last time we-"

"That was two months ago," interrupted John, "and we've spoken since."

"Yeah, but just a couple texts." Lestrade shrugged. "Then I heard you moved back in here."

"How did you here?"

"I went back to your old flat, and you weren't there. I figured this was where you'd gone."

"How'd you find me then?"

Lestrade said, "I do work for Scotland Yard. Not exactly difficult."

"Come on in," said John, moving aside to allow Lestrade through. "I'll put on the kettle."

John snuck a sideways glance at Sherlock's bedroom as he walked into the kitchen. Sherlock was going to be angry and probably sulk even more after Lestrade's visit. It required him to be confined to his bedroom for who knows how long, and Sherlock never took time to think in his bedroom. He never took time to sleep in it either. John used to wonder why he had a bed in there, until Sherlock insisted that John take up residence in it.

"So how are things?" asked Lestrade, taking a seat in Sherlock's armchair.

John remembered the drugs bust, seeing Lestrade sit there so casually as he scolded Sherlock for withholding evidence. He had seemed like an overbearing father, chastising him for being out too late or coloring on the sofa. It had been strange for him to suddenly be flung into their world of crime and insults, like an outsider, unable to fully understand. Now, Lestrade seemed out of place to John, sitting where Sherlock had sat. Even with Sherlock back, and John trying to understand it, it felt like Sherlock and John's world now.

"Oh, fine," said John, taking a seat while the kettle boiled. "Been a bit busy, actually."

"Yeah? With what?"

"Extra shifts, mostly," he lied casually. "How're the kids?"

"Oh, themselves," said Lestrade as he turned his head, and a small smile graced his face.

"What is it?" asked John curiously.

Lestrade pointed to the yellow smiley face and stood, walking slowly over to it.

"He was a nutter," said Lestrade fondly. "Completely out of his mind."

"Yes," said John quietly.

(Does Lestrade love him the way he loves his children?)

"You know," he said as he turned back to John, "I remember-"

He stopped suddenly, staring down the hallway and then to John, looking surprised and concerned.

"Why do you sleep in his bedroom?"

John was taken aback. He had only spent last night in Sherlock's bed. How on earth could Lestrade possibly know? He was intelligent, but not the master of deduction Sherlock was.

"I'm not, and why would it matter if I did?" he asked, slightly offended. He didn't know what it was that offended him. (Is it because I love that bed?)

"Then why is the bedroom light-shit."

John stood as Lestrade reached back to draw his gun. He looked down the hallway and saw that the bedroom light was indeed on. It was also quite obvious that someone was standing in front of the bedroom door, creating a shadow in the crack underneath.

"John, get back," hissed Lestrade urgently.

"It's not a burglar," said John.

Lestrade moved to stand right next to John and said in his ear, "Someone is in there, John."

"Lestrade, calm down, and stay here."

Before Lestrade could protest again, John walked down the hall, and the door opened just as he approached. Sherlock sighed, and John glared at him.

"Good fucking job," he said. "Now we have someone else in on it. You know the more people who know a secret, the harder it is to keep?"

Sherlock said nothing and walked around John, his dressing gown whirling with all its usual dramatic flair. He stood before Lestrade and said, "Nice to see you again."

Lestrade's mouth opened and closed several times, attempting to form words, before his jaw simply dropped, eyes wide and incredulous. It suddenly occurred to John that he should have told Lestrade to put his gun away.

"You-" Lestrade gesticulated wildly, gun safety seemingly going out the window, since his pistol was still in his hand.

"Me," said Sherlock simply."

"But-"

"No."

"Yes-"

"Clearly not," said Sherlock, taking a seat in his armchair.

"I don't..." Lestrade looked to John as if he would hold all the answers.

"Your reaction is better than John's so far. He fainted, then punch me in the face and chased me around the room."

"I only chased you because you ran away with your tail between your legs."

Sherlock shot a glare in John's direction and said, "You should put your gun away, Lestrade. Wouldn't want any accidents."

Lestrade slid his gun into the holster and then stared at Sherlock for several seconds. Sherlock raised an eyebrow in response, causing the detective inspector to shake his head, throw his arms in the air, and plop onto the sofa.

"Why am I not surprised," he muttered under his breath, bringing his forehead to the palm of his hand.

"You should be. I was very thorough."

"So was Mycroft," said John.

"Mycroft knew long before anyone else did."

"Good to know he earned your trust so easily," muttered John darkly, turning his eyes to the floor. (Can I ever get over this?)

John was certain Sherlock stared at him, possibly hurt, surprised, bemused. He honestly didn't want to know what Sherlock's response to that would be. (Will I ever stop being angry?)

"So how'd you do it then?" asked Lestrade, dropping his hand.

"Molly," replied Sherlock.

"Molly Hooper?" said Lestrade incredulously.

"Despite her naivety, she is a skilled physician."

"I know that, but I didn't think you did."

"Lucky for me, Moriarty didn't." Sherlock sighed and looked at Lestrade pointedly. "John didn't see my body on the ground. He saw a body with my face."

"And where did you land?"

"A lorry filled with trash bags."

"Comfortable landing," said John scathingly, raising his face to stare at Sherlock.

Sherlock looked as if he'd been slapped in the face, but John fixed his gaze on him. His expression conveyed a combination of anger and defiance, as if he dared him to try to apologize again. Lestrade's eyes moved back and forth between them as if watching a tennis match and trying to determine who had the advantage.

"Well, good to have you back, I suppose," he said suddenly, as if trying to break the tension.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, his face returning to its usual disdainful repose, and turned to Lestrade, saying, "That's all you have to say?"

"What else is there to say?" said Lestrade

"Nothing else, I suppose."

Lestrade left some time later, when he had been updated on what their plan was. He had promised to keep an eye out for another case relating to Moran, although John doubted he could do much, especially in comparison to Mycroft. It felt good to have someone else on their side.

"Well, at least we can trust Lestrade," said John, entering the sitting room after seeing Lestrade out. "Better him than others, I suppose."

"You mean others finding out," said Sherlock as he stood and strode toward John.

"Yes, that is what I meant."

"Can we expect any other visitors?" Sherlock stopped walked when he stood right in front of John, leaving just a few inches of space between them. "Unexpected surprises?"

"I doubt it."

"Not even Moriarty?"

"Stop it," said John quietly, feeling the same anger that had been raging through him begin to build again. "I'm not going to keep having this fight with you."

"It'll keep happening as long as you remain angry with me," replied Sherlock, equally angry.

"How else am I supposed to feel?" (Why am I so angry?)

"You tell me."

Sherlock strode toward John, backing him up against the wall. John put his hands against his chest as if to push him away, but they remained in that position. Despite the fact that his heart sped up, John did not want to kiss Sherlock in that moment. He hated how Sherlock called Richard Moriarty, and he hated that Sherlock hadn't brought him in on his plan. He didn't care that it was to protect him, not when he felt he could have helped Sherlock.

"John…"

Sherlock's voice was soft, almost gentle, as he reached out and lightly stroked his face. He leaned down to kiss him, but John put a thumb to his lips, to keep him back. Part of him was still angry, but his anger, and Sherlock's lips, turned him on. He swallowed heavily, trying to push back the lust, but Sherlock was so close to him. (Why can't I think when he's this close?)

Sherlock kissed the tip of John's finger, and John decided to throw all his concerns out the window. He grabbed Sherlock by the neck and pulled him down for a deep, fervid kiss. Sherlock immediately responded, pinning John against the wall with his hips and dragging his hands down his sides. Eventually, they would tear themselves from the wall, although their lips would remain enthusiastically locked together, only because John insisted that he wasn't going to be intimate in the sitting room as long as Mrs. Hudson was downstairs. They would stay in the bed until John had to go to work the next morning, causing Sherlock to declare that employment was not only useless, but irritating, and John would promise to take his clothes off as soon as he got home.


Author's Note: Thanks again to my beta Emily for finding all my mistakes! The chapter title is a Snow Patrol song. Thanks to everyone who has reviewed and put this story on alert. Please review!