John woke with a vague sense of warmth and discomfort over his left side. His brain was muzzy, and he wasn't sure of the things he'd been pretty solid on for the past—well, however long dreams lasted, eons or millennia or seconds. It was disappointing, because for a while there he'd been convinced that something fundamental had shifted between him and Sherlock, that there was a profound new warmth, a sense of the New, of the True, out and acknowledged and ripe to be acted on—

Something tickled his nose. His eyes flew open. He immediately saw that he was in a hospital room; his own pulse beeped overhead, and an IV line dangled in the left side of his vision. Yes, the pinch of a needle, right elbow. I'll look like a junkie if I keep getting deducted. An internal giggle sounded through his mind.

He looked down to investigate what had tickled his nose and found the source of his sense of warmth. His heart shuddered at the sight of a mop of dark brown curls spread over his collarbone. Sherlock's ear was directly over his heart. Judging by the depth of the man's breathing, he was sleeping shallowly.

Wonder if he'd be proud of my deduction, John thought to himself as a giddy smile lit his face. He slowly lifted his left hand, free of wires and needles, and lay it gently on Sherlock's head.

Sherlock sat back, just far enough to look into John's face. His pupils expanded as he took him in, and his long fingers curled around John's hand where it still rested in his hair. John noted an extensive wrapping covering Sherlock's right hand.

"Hullo," John said simply. He hoped his smile was calm and reassuring, not giddy, too forward—not so much to scare the man away. Sherlock only continued to stare. John sighed and pressed his head back into his thin hospital pillows. He flipped his hand around and took hold of Sherlock's wrapped hand. "Let's have a look, then."

Sherlock cut is eyes to that simple touch, his hand in John's, and the features of his face tightened with a wave of emotion, then just as abruptly gentled. "It's nothing."

"Let me be the judge of that."

"Four stitches. Nothing."

"Knew I smelled blood on you."

Sherlock gave him a small smile. "Lost more than I thought. Your fellow medical professionals aren't very accommodating. I'm afraid I tested their faithfulness to the Hippocratic Oath by refusing to leave your side as they performed their tedious transfusions."

"Git."

"My name is Sherlock."

"Say I've forgotten." John released his hand and slid his palm along Sherlock's cheek. Again his hand was covered by Sherlock's own, and he leaned into John's touch, eyes drifting shut as more emotion flooded his face.

"John, did you mean it? Because I'm afraid."

"Afraid of what?"

"If you didn't mean it, there's no putting this away. I can't stop it, I can't—"

"Sherlock."

A light whimper, and Sherlock opened his eyes again, fixing them on John. His pupils were blown and his lips trembled. "Say my name again."

"Sherlock."

A shuddering sigh. "John."

"I love you."

Sherlock's smile was rapturous and transcendent in joy. He leaned forward slowly, carefully, and placed a warm, lingering kiss on John's cheek.

"Take me home," John whispered.

"Soon." Sherlock winked. "Paperwork."

"Dull," John groaned.

"Not only that." Sherlock carded his fingers through John's hair, fingernails lightly skimming his scalp and causing a low ripple of excitement to roll down his spine. "Get your rest now, old friend. You won't get it once I get you home." Sherlock's other hand smoothed over John's coverlet, down his torso and over the strengthening bulge between his thighs. Wonder gave way to mischief in Sherlock's eyes. "No rest at all."

John was in the hospital two days longer than he cared to be, Sherlock knew. He was getting antsy, and the stolen moments of intimacy—kisses increasing in urgency, lingering glances, and Sherlock's teasing caresses—weren't doing anything for the man's composure. It was pleasant and lovely and thrilling, watching John come apart at the seams, stitch by stitch. The fact that it was serving the purpose of reawakening Sherlock's own long-denied libido didn't hurt, of course, but this wasn't a simple case of physical craving. This was profoundly more complicated—and potentially intoxicating—than that. He'd never laid hands on someone he was in love with. Sherlock was determined to take advantage of this slow burning sense of want, to draw out the anticipation and feed the fire.

Finally the day came, and Sherlock was able to talk Mycroft—who had caught up with the drug cartel easily enough after the shipping container fiasco—into sending a private car round, this time without his assistant and her watchful eyes.

John drew closer to him, right up against Sherlock's side. Sherlock felt his pulse accelerate and gave his blogger a small smile. "Cases?" John asked.

"I'm not taking any."

"Does Lestrade know?"

"I told him to figure things out for himself, at least for the next few days."

"Mrs. Hudson?"

"On holidays in Cannes."

"Mycroft?"

Sherlock turned more fully towards John. His thumb came up to brush briefly along John's lower lip. "He understands that we need . . .time."

John ducked his head, taking Sherlock's thumb between his lips and running his tongue across the pad. Sherlock gasped. His spine was turning to caramel, and the warmth became almost unbearable when John caught his eyes. He released Sherlock's thumb and whispered, "I want you, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock moaned. A month ago such a frank admission of his own need would have embarrassed him, but things were different now. It was true that he'd become adept at hiding his vulnerabilities from the world and even more adept at defusing every attempt to exploit the few vulnerabilities he had. John was one, but there had never been a doubt that he was also the source of his greatest strength. With John, Sherlock's focus and intuition were sharpened, his genius magnified. He trusted John to never hurt him, because he knew John understood how that would unmake everything.

The car stopped. It was time.

They got out of the car with every endeavor at a civilized pace, but by the time they'd entered the privacy of their flat civility was little but a memory. John took the lead, grabbing Sherlock by the lapels of his jacket and slamming him against the wall of the sitting room.

"Since I met you," John said, pushing the jacket off of Sherlock's shoulders, "I've been repeatedly abducted, concussed, covered in explosives, verbally abused, subjected to experiments of questionable scientific merit, tied up, shot at, thrown out of moving vehicles, drugged, and held at gunpoint." He took Sherlock's wrist in his hands and impatiently unbuttoned the cuff of his shirt. "The only thing that didn't make me feel alive was having to watch you say goodbye to me shortly before you jumped off a building. That made me feel dead. Everything else, every single thing else, has been completely worth it to see the way you're looking at me now." He opened Sherlock's cuff and planted a sweet kiss against the pulse point at his wrist.

"John, please," Sherlock moaned.

"No. We're going to take this first time slow."

First time. "First time."

John chuckled as he turned his attention to Sherlock's other cuffed wrist. "Do you doubt it? We're going to be doing this a lot."

Dear God.