Chapter 9: The Passionate Patient

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The first few kisses the two men shared were tender and affectionate. They took their time, enjoyed exploring, discovering, and caressing each other.

Soon, though, those gentle kisses weren't enough. For Sherlock especially, impatience and fervour soon entered into the embraces they exchanged, but John was also hyperaware of having another body close to him after the long months of abstinence. When Sherlock's hands slid nervously and with a certain degree of hesitance over John's arms – up and down, up and down ... stroking, demanding – John finally released his lips for more than a breath from Sherlock's sinfully delectable mouth.

"Sherlock... I know..." he whispered in an attempt to calm his beloved, but the hoarse sound of his quiet words apparently only served to egg Sherlock further on, as he began to attack John's neck with his lips, tongue and teeth.

"God...Sherlock! This ... is a ... hospital," John stammered. Both heat and cold swept over him as Sherlock honed in on every single one of his erogenous zones (at least the ones on his neck and throat) and stimulated them mercilessly. "We can't..."

"Oh yes, we can," Sherlock breathed out over John's kiss-damp skin. "We can and we will." It almost sounded like a growl, making the fine hairs on John's arms stand up with a delicious shiver.

John was overcome by the frustrating feeling of wanting but not being able to. How long had he felt this way about Sherlock? Always, he answered himself. He always had. He'd just never given in to it. He'd cut off his own emotions, denied and suppressed them. He'd only dated women in order not to give in to the temptation to sexualise the male body – which would have included Sherlock. He'd thought he could steer his sexuality, forget about his bisexuality – or bury it, as Sherlock had done often enough. How wrong he had been!

"Sherlock ... I don't think I'm really able to right now," John pointed out. Good God! If he didn't keep a cool head, he was liable to forget himself, despite everything... John bit his lip. It was bloody difficult to think rationally while Sherlock's unexpectedly hot hands were rubbing over his body, leaving a burning trail of desolation behind. "My leg... I was shot, in case you've forgotten," he reminded him, mildly chastening.

Sherlock looked into John's eyes, causing John to shudder under the intensity of his gaze. There was a slight flicker of a guilty conscience, but also a dark appetite paired with deep longing.

A turbulent light shone in Sherlock's pale eyes.

"John..." he whispered. "Please.. I... want to... be close to you." He bit down on his lips. Wanted to take the words back, say them differently. But even after feverish reconsideration, he couldn't think of anything better. It was the quintessence of his desire. He wanted to be close to John. After nearly two years of being separated from him, the yearning for physical closeness was almost unquenchable. Sherlock wondered now how he'd managed to do without him for so long. Without John, who had shared his life so reliably, no ifs, ands or buts, who had always been at his side, who had always grounded him and been his moral compass.

The emotions were strangely familiar. It was almost like during puberty – that incredibly horrid phase when his head and his body had pulled him in completely opposite directions. That phase when desires and needs had arisen that neither his brain nor his heart could keep up with. Re-experiencing those irritations as an adult was confusing. His body wanted things that his intellect would normally disclaim. But what he felt for John wasn't even close to anything he'd ever felt for anyone else. He'd also never met anyone like John before ... he was unique. And as such, the exception to the rule he'd made for himself. The rule that said he would only dedicate himself to the Work. Now he wanted to dedicate himself to John. Without ulterior motive, without a safety net or escape route.

He wanted to feel John. To be one with him. No matter how.

He got up from the bed on unsteady legs and rummaged through the drawers and cabinets in the hospital room, his hands trembling.

"What... what are you doing?" John asked.

"We're in a hospital. There must be... ah, gloves... perfect... And this? Ultrasound gel. I think that..." Sherlock turned around to face John and fell silent.

For a few heartbeats, time seemed to stand still and stretch out forever.

Their eyes met ... sank into each other ... stored the image of that most precious person, and locked it irreversibly into their memories.

They didn't just perceive the outward shell (the flushed cheeks, the moist, parted lips, the shining eyes still betraying their astonishment, the unruly hair, the barely visible throbbing of the jugular), but they also caught a clear glimpse behind the facade. Of wounded souls, injured feelings, unfulfilled desires; of old scars and fresh scabs. Unwittingly, they entered into a solemn promise that bound their hearts to each other and gave them – still unable to fully comprehend their luck – an assurance they had never known before.

"John," Sherlock whispered softly, closing his eyes to commit this moment to his memory palace forever. He only opened them again when he heard John's whispered "Yes" in return.

A shudder ran through Sherlock's limbs, causing him to tremble. He became distantly aware of the items he was holding in his hands, and he returned to John. He held out the gloves and the gel, and John took them.

"I think you know..." Sherlock began, but couldn't bring himself to complete the sentence.

"Yeah, I have a vague idea," John responded dryly. The slight twinkle in his eye was enough to calm and encourage Sherlock, despite the mocking tone.

Sherlock removed his shoes and socks, and took off his leather trousers. His pants followed quickly thereafter, adding to the pile of clothing on the floor. Naked from the waist down, he climbed back onto John's bed and knelt to sit over his lap.

A dual sigh filled the room as their erections touched, hesitantly rubbed against each other, and the desire for closeness and tenderness was slowly but surely overtaken by arousal and lust.

Their slow, sensuous, circular movements filled both men with increasing desire.

"John..." Sherlock sighed, leaned forward and sealed John's lips with a remarkably hot kiss that finally set John's passion free.

"My God, Sherlock..." John moaned when Sherlock released his lips and enclosed both of their erections with his hand.

John gasped for air as Sherlock's gentle strokes caused feverish tingles of arousal to shoot through his groin.

The first proof of their desire gathered at the tips of their erections, to be massaged into heated skin with a careful thumb.

The pressure from Sherlock's fingers increased, his massaging motions became faster, his respiration increased, and a faint redness rose to his cheeks.

It was an incredible sight, and an even more incredible feeling, and John was lost in both. He was gripped by a deep, unsettling longing, and he put his hand on the back of Sherlock's neck to pull him closer. He licked across the full lips, which opened readily to him, and then he kissed Sherlock with a hunger he had never felt before in his life.

He was distantly aware of unsteady fingers pressing the forgotten gel and a glove into his hand.

"John..." Sherlock whispered into their kiss, and John heard himself whisper, "Okay," in return.

Without ending the kiss, John put on the glove – with a bit of difficulty – and smeared some of the gel onto two of his fingers. Carefully, he stroked Sherlock's thigh and slid his hand up until he felt his opening through the thin latex covering his fingertips.

Sherlock broke the kiss and held himself stock still. He was breathing in and out deeply, and closed his eyes, biting his lip. John watched him, completely enthralled. He felt a slight pressure pushing back against his fingers and then felt the muscles relax and give. Both of his fingers slid without difficulty deep into Sherlock's silky soft interior, and Sherlock sighed in contentment. His hand – which had stopped moving – resumed stroking lightly over both of their erections.

"Oh my God," John groaned softly, and pressed his head deeper into the pillow he was lying on. He could feel Sherlock's pulse in time with his motions. The heat surrounding his fingers only served to increase the fire between his legs. He could feel Sherlock's stiff member throbbing against his own cock, and his hips jerked forward automatically. With his free hand, he reached under the scrub top that Sherlock was still wearing and rubbed over his chest.

Sherlock threw his head back and let out a long moan.

Passionate desire raced through John's entire body. Individual flames blazed and flared up, higher and faster, until he thought his lungs would burst and his fingers would either melt into Sherlock or break, so tight was the grip of Sherlock's musculature on them.

Then a tremor ran through Sherlock's slender body.

John felt the halting jerks around his fingers, which were still deeply buried inside Sherlock. Once, twice, three times ... a gasping breath that sounded like a sob ... a broken voice whispering, "John," ... and white semen spurting onto John's body.

John bit down on his lip, his own climax just a hair's breadth away. Sherlock's fingers wrapped around John's cock but when their motion resumed, it was almost bashful and weak.

John groaned. It wasn't enough. His free hand closed around Sherlock's fingers automatically, guided them in a faster rhythm up and down over his hard shaft.

Oh yeah... there it was... John's eyes closed, his mouth opened in a silent cry... His hips jerked, thrusting over and over into the narrow ring formed by his and Sherlock's fingers, and finally the wave of his lust broke over him and he emptied himself, pulsing over their intertwined hands.

It took a while for either man to show any sign of life.

Sherlock grimaced when John pulled his fingers out of his arse.

"Ouch," he complained softly, and glared at John through his exhaustion.

"What about me," John nipped any further protest in the bud. "You almost crushed my fingers."

Sherlock's expression as he stretched seemed to say, 'So what – it was worth it.'

"Was it at least adequate?" John asked, amused. "Did it meet your usual high standards?"

A broad grin appeared on Sherlock's face – so broad that even his eyes gleamed.

"More than adequate," he stated easily.

"Was that praise I heard?" John teased. It only occurred to John at that moment that Sherlock was lying on his leg, and that it hurt like hell. How could he not have noticed that before? Oh, right – endorphins.

"Ow, bloody hell, Sherlock! Get off..." At the sight of the bloodstain on the bandage, John sighed.

Sherlock stood by the bed, stricken, still wearing only the borrowed top, and murmured guiltily, "It's bleeding again. My fault... I'm sorry."

John carefully felt his leg. At worst, the stitches had torn.

"No, you're not," he replied absently. "You'd do it again."

"I don't regret it," Sherlock agreed. "But I am sorry. I shouldn't have... This is all my fault."

John lifted his head and saw Sherlock looking dejectedly at the floor. All of a sudden, it all seemed so absurd - Sherlock's naked legs sticking out from under the nurse's top, his gunshot wound, the fantastic sex they'd just had – that John broke out in snorts of laughter. Sherlock responded with an uncertain, slightly irritated smile and a furrowed brow. Apparently he didn't understand what had caused John's fit of lightheartedness.

"Your fault – or your credit," John giggled once he'd gotten himself halfway under control again. "Depends on your point of view. Come on, get dressed. I want to ring for a nurse. The bandage needs to be changed and the wound looked at. And then we have to..." John sighed. What he was about to say was certain to ruin the mood, but he didn't have a choice. "We have some things to discuss," he said firmly.

"Like?" Sherlock pulled his leather trousers up over his hips as his eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"Oh, there's the small matter of my fiancée!" John retorted somewhat louder than he'd intended. "And I have a bone or two to pick with you over my wedding. Don't think that you..."

Sherlock had been watching him intently, and interrupted him now with a cry of annoyance.

"Wedding?! That's just..." Another searching, calculating look. "John? Oh, no... John!" He paled. "You're not really going to get married?!"

John cast a stubborn glance at his beloved, his arms crossed in front of his chest.

"Yes, I am. I liked the idea."

Sherlock shook his head vehemently. "Absolutely not!"

John pursed his lips. "We'll see," he said lightly. "I'll ask you at some point, and you'll eventually say yes."

Something like uncertainty flickered across Sherlock's face in light of John's assertiveness, but then he got himself under control again.

"Only if you wear a blue négligée," he said in reference to one of John's earlier remarks.

"I don't think so," John laughed. "I wouldn't look very good in it. But you'd look fetching. Maybe even better than..." John paled. "Oh God! Mary! Sherlock, we have to..." John's guilty conscience was written all over his face.

"We?" Sherlock asked coolly, raising one eyebrow.

"All right, fine – me," John allowed, irritated.

Sherlock's lips curled up, slightly disgusted.

"You were the one who wanted to get yourself into this whole mess! Now you'll have to get out of it yourself as well. And don't muck about too long. I'm not going to stand by for days on end and watch quietly while you try to break it to her gently..."

"I'll break it..." John interrupted Sherlock's tirade, annoyed, but then he fell silent in the middle of whatever he was about to say, as the sound of footsteps and loud voices drifted in from the hall.

"Speak of the devil..." Sherlock said – again with that unpleasant smile. Then he went to the door and took the chair away.

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To be continued...