Sherlock was dreaming. He knew he was dreaming, but he was still blind in the dream, which he felt was distinctly unfair.
He was alone. There were other people there, he could hear voices; Mycroft, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, even Mummy (who'd let her out?), but he was alone. He was working, there was a case; people were talking, they talked to him and he responded, but he was still alone.
He jerked awake, opening his eyes automatically before focusing his remaining senses on the surroundings. Smell of discarded Chinese takeaway boxes – living room. Familiar material under his hands – sofa. Low traffic noise – night time; correction... rattle of a milk float turning the corner – early morning. He listened, stretching his hand across the seats to be sure… no John.
It was three nights and two full days since Anthea had dropped off the file. They had stayed up all the first night while John read the reports aloud, going through every document, which took him most of the following day also. He read until his voice was hoarse and he could barely focus on the words, then spent the night dozing uncomfortably on the sofa while Sherlock replayed everything in his head, looking for connections, trying to join the dots, occasionally waking John to check a fact or repeat a statement.
The next day, yesterday in fact, as it was now early morning, John had spent going through all the pictures, describing people, scenes, sketches, everything, before finally announcing that he was going to bed, absolutely not to be disturbed except in case of a non-file-related emergency.
Sherlock had scorned the need for sleep in his usual fashion but it seemed his body had betrayed him; it was harder to stay focused without actually being able to visually focus on something. Perhaps he still needed more sleep than normal in order to recuperate, as he was certainly feeling a powerful urge to go to his bed right now, which was odd as he was usually happy to nap on the sofa when working on a case.
No doubt he could also blame the food which John had forced him to eat, flatly refusing to touch the pictures again until Sherlock's forty-eight hour fast had been broken. Arguments, sulks and harsh words had all been useless; John could be incredibly stubborn. If anyone else had been authorised to read the file, Sherlock would have called on them rather than give in, but there was only Anthea, and that would just... no.
Without really making a conscious decision, he got up, then wondered if John might have returned upstairs now that Sherlock's symptoms, other than the blindness, seemed to have abated, and especially after some of the insults hurled during their dinner debate. He may as well check his own room first, as it was closer, Sherlock decided. He would need to change into his pyjamas anyway.
John was there. The room felt slightly warmer than it did when it was empty and he could distinguish John's warm 'home' smell as soon as he crossed the threshold, then hear his steady breathing as he approached the bed, sitting cautiously on the edge and reaching out with his hand.
John was lying on his left side so his back was towards Sherlock. His right arm was thrown out across the other half of the bed, resting palm down over the place where Sherlock would normally be. He was fast asleep, not stirring at all as Sherlock's hand finished establishing his position, but continued moving over him, stroking up his arm and over his shoulder, then gently running through his hair.
There had been no developments in the physical side of their relationship since that afternoon in the chair, when John had come to pieces so dramatically. As soon as they had started on the file, Sherlock had thrown himself into the case, absorbing all the information John relayed, building up a network of facts in his head, a complex, cross-referenced database which he kept turning over and over, confident that if he just held it at the right angle in his mind's eye, hidden links would reveal themselves.
He had been aware, though, that however much he tried to focus all of his attention on this problem, there was always another level of his brain which was replaying time spent with John, the still secret kiss, the massage, waking up together, holding hands in the taxi (John often held his hand, so why did that time stand out so much?), and the time in the chair... John's reaction, the sheer force of it. Overwhelming.
Sherlock thought about it again as his hand stroked across John's back, absently wishing he wasn't wearing his usual T-Shirt. Although he had professed himself keen to explore this area with John, he couldn't really imagine giving up his control to that degree; the thought of it definitely made him uneasy. He also resented the brain power which was being diverted from the case by this distraction. He had never experienced it before. The case was everything. Always. Everyday details like eating, sleeping, the mundane ongoing tedium of life, they faded into the background when he had a case... especially a case like this one, a bright, shining, interesting case, which warranted his full attention.
John had always been an asset before, and of course he was this time too, there was no denying that Sherlock would be helpless without him at the moment. But sometimes John would say his name and Sherlock would hear his voice sounding very different, breathless and panting. Sometimes Sherlock would hold his hand and remember holding something else. Sometimes the urge to just throw himself at John and demand… something, he didn't even know what, would actually inhibit his ability to absorb information and he would have to ask for repetition of whole sections of a report. It was unacceptable, and Sherlock didn't know what to do about it.
Combine that with the frustration of not being able to study the file himself, the flow of information into his brain being limited by the speed of John's reading, and Sherlock had been just about ready to explode when John had insisted that he eat. The resulting argument had been their most serious since Sherlock had woken from the coma and had given him the perfect opportunity to blow off some steam.
It hadn't really been an argument, though, if he was honest. John had stated his position and refused to budge, while Sherlock had ranted and raved, becoming increasingly unkind as time went on and John still would not give in. If he had thought John would be easier to manipulate now, with his feelings out in the open, then Sherlock had been very much mistaken. He had behaved poorly, he knew, taking out his frustration on John, the last person in the world to deserve it.
He stroked his fingers through John's hair again. To his shame, he had been remote and sulky all evening even though, after they had eaten, John had started going through the photos again without comment, not gloating over his victory, continuing much later than he no doubt wanted to, until Sherlock's demands finally wound down and he had taken himself off to bed. Sherlock skimmed his hand under the covers exploratively… no pyjamas. John must have just stripped down to his shorts and T-Shirt and collapsed in exhaustion.
Sherlock felt bad; which was another new sensation and one he did not like at all. What was happening to him? Why did he have all these feelings now, which he couldn't remember having before? Were they a side-effect of his head injury? This connection with John, the bond which was making him feel so guilty, it could just be dependency, based on the fact that he couldn't manage on his own. How much was real and how much would fade when his vision returned and he could get back to normal?
He wanted to explore the physical with John, sometimes he felt it was all he wanted to do, and perhaps now that he had got all the information into his brain, they would have time; but John had been right with what he had said in the taxi, Sherlock still wasn't sure.
Gradually, he became aware that he was just sitting there, stroking his hand through John's hair. He got up, shaking his head; he must be more tired than he had realised. He took off everything but his shorts, not bothering with his pyjamas, and got into bed, picking up John's hand and sliding underneath, so that it settled on his chest. Moments later, he was asleep.
John came awake from one heartbeat to the next, suddenly on full alert. It was morning, daylight poking round the heavy curtains and silhouetting Sherlock's shoulder and arm as he lay with his back turned; skin warm under John's hand, which was resting at his waist. He was trembling.
John blinked a few times, clearing the sleep from his eyes. Sherlock's breathing was harsh and he was definitely shaking… was he crying? John had seen him cry several times, crocodile tears which vanished as quickly as they had appeared once the desired result had been achieved, but he couldn't imagine him breaking down to that extent in reality. Not that Sherlock was anything like as emotionless as he pretended, but he would be far more given to shooting holes in the walls than allowing himself such a human outlet as tears. Perhaps he was in pain?
John tried calling his name, but there was no response. He moved his hand up to Sherlock's shoulder and pulled, trying to roll him onto his back, but he just curled up tighter. He was moaning now.
His worry increasing, John slid out of bed and padded round to the other side. Sherlock was almost in the middle of the bed as usual, so there was plenty of room to climb in and now John could see his face. Sherlock wasn't crying, but he was clearly distressed. The flickering of his eyelids indicated REM sleep; he was having a nightmare.
John edged closer and put both hands on Sherlock's face, calling his name and telling him to wake up. After a few repetitions, Sherlock did just that, his eyes shooting open abruptly, hands flying to clutch at John.
"It was just a dream, you're OK, it's all right," John murmured soothingly.
"John?" Sherlock's voice cracked on the name. "John, I…" he broke off, straightening his legs from the curled up position he had woken in, then rolling over, pushing John onto his back and moving to cover him. He raised his right hand to smooth his thumb over John's forehead, stroking it back and forth, as if checking for something.
"Sherlock, what is it?" John asked, gazing up at the pained expression hovering above him. "It was just a dream. Everything's all right. You're fine." This was the first time he'd seen Sherlock suffer a nightmare; he wondered if it was something that had happened often, prior to his injury.
His breath rushed out suddenly as Sherlock let his weight fall and buried his face in John's neck, inhaling deeply and also... John could feel something wet. He wondered about tears once more but then recognised the sensation of a mouth against his throat, Sherlock's tongue tasting his skin, as if to verify his presence via every sense available.
John raised his arms and started stroking up and down the large expanse of back which presented itself. The large expanse of naked back, he corrected, allowing one hand to drift lower, under the duvet, checking… he could feel a waistband, but one of Sherlock's thighs was pressed between his own and it was definitely not clothed, so the waistband must be for his shorts only.
John had gone to bed angry at Sherlock, feeling hurt and upset even though he could understand the frustration which had sparked the outburst. Since the coma, it had seemed like the two of them against the world in many ways… there had been disagreements, but their connection had never faltered. Now it felt as if Sherlock was fighting that bond, trying to revert to his old self and becoming frustrated when his physical limitations prevented his success.
However, the man trembling in his arms clearly needed him now, and no amount of anger or hurt could make John turn away from that fact. He bent his knee, placing his foot flat on the bed for leverage, then rolled them both onto their sides, bringing his hands up to cup Sherlock's jaw.
"Do you want to tell me?" he asked.
Sherlock lifted his hand, smoothing his finger over John's forehead again. "We were at the pool," he said, his voice hoarse and raspy. "It was just as you described it, so I don't know if I remember it or am just visualising the scene."
"OK, well describe something I haven't mentioned," suggested John. "What about the colour of the curtains on the cubicles – I don't think that was in the report?"
"No, it wasn't," Sherlock agreed. "They were blue and red, alternating."
"Right," John confirmed. "So, do you remember the whole thing now? What about Moriarty? Because that could be useful – so far you've only had 'Jim from I.T.' to go on, and I don't know if any amount of words can really describe what he was like, how… unhinged he was."
"I don't know, John," said Sherlock, slowly. "It seems that part of this is a genuine memory, the setting at least, and yes, Moriarty was there, I saw him briefly; dark suit – Westwood?, white shirt, silver tie clip, but..." He broke off, lowering his hand to wrap his arm around John's body and leaning forward to press their foreheads together.
"What?" asked John. "What's the matter?" He hadn't put down everything that Moriarty had said, only what he had recalled at the time as being particularly relevant. "Are you remembering something that wasn't in the report?"
"I imagine you could say that, yes," Sherlock replied, his fingers tightening on a handful of John's T-Shirt. "We were both shot."
John pulled back to look at him, but his expression was guarded. "We were both shot?" he echoed. "Dead?" he added, then wished he hadn't, as Sherlock flinched and moved his hand to John's forehead again. The penny dropped. "I was shot in the head?" he queried. Sherlock nodded. "In front of you?" Another nod. "What about you?" he asked.
"Chest," replied Sherlock. "I was shot in the chest. That's when I woke up."
"OK," said John slowly, his gaze falling automatically to Sherlock's bare chest, which he hadn't actually touched before; but now his right arm was squashed between their bodies and his palm was splayed across it. "Well, clearly part memory, part imagination with that one," he said, trying not to focus on the warmth of the skin under his hand. Why couldn't the damn man just wear his pyjamas?
John was getting angry at himself. Whichever way you looked at it, it was inappropriate for him to be getting turned on in this situation. Sherlock was clearly distressed and in need of comfort and understanding, not getting poked in the abdomen by a persistent erection. At the same time, after the way Sherlock had behaved the day before and some of the hurtful things he had said, John didn't want to give him the satisfaction of knowing that he was still firmly in charge of John's 'On' button; because once Sherlock realised he only had to drop his trousers to make John forget what they were even arguing about, then he was well and truly buggered... and not in a good way.
Shifting a little on the bed, Sherlock put his right hand on the side of John's neck, thumb stroking along the edge of his jaw. "I want to kiss you, John," he said.
John's breath caught in his throat, but Sherlock carried on.
"I want to, but I won't, because you were right… I'm not sure." John swallowed and nodded his head, knowing that Sherlock could feel and recognise the movement.
"I want to be honest with you," Sherlock continued. "You deserve that, at the very least." He paused, his fingers tightening. "I'm sorry about yesterday, about the things I said." He really did look regretful, John realised. It wasn't a familiar expression and looked a little as if it had wandered onto the wrong face and wasn't sure what it was doing there.
"You don't really try to control me, that was unfair," Sherlock admitted. "And the other things… I was just frustrated and angry, and I took it out on you because I know that you won't leave me." He frowned. "I must have changed," he decided. "The old me would take advantage of anything like that – I used Molly's crush to get what I wanted from the morgue time after time, then just ignored her." He thought again. "Actually, I would still do that," he added. "Interesting."
He shook his head and John watched, fascinated, as he witnessed Sherlock trying to deduce himself.
"But you are different," Sherlock told him. "Hurting you, hurts me." He looked surprised by this realisation. "I am sorry," he emphasised. "And I will try not to do it again. I do have feelings for you," it was John's heart which was racing now, "but I'm not sure where they have come from, and whether I can trust them."
He pressed closer, ghosting his lips along John's jaw as he spoke. "So even though I very much," his words were interspersed with kisses, "very much want to kiss you properly," he turned John's head so that he could continue his route, "I will respect your request and wait until I am sure." He finished his statement by nuzzling John's right ear, before lifting his head. "Do you still… I mean, will you forgive me?"
John could hardly breathe. On some level he was aware of the question Sherlock had almost asked, and the fact that the depth of his feelings was clearly no secret. However, there seemed to be a distinct lack of blood flow to his brain and he was having issues with coherency.
"Yes," he managed to say, which seemed to cover the essentials and was pretty much his default setting with Sherlock anyway.
"Do you want to get up?" Sherlock asked him, scattering the few threads of intelligence John had managed to gather together. "Only, I need to think, and I'd quite like to do that here, with you, if you feel you could sleep a little longer?"
John drew a shuddering breath, trying to drag his mind out of the innuendo filled gutter and pull himself together. "You mean you want to cuddle?" he asked.
"Is that all right?" enquired Sherlock. "I've got all the data in here now." He tapped his temple. "Thanks to you," he added, pressing another kiss to the side of John's head. "Just need to let it percolate for a while."
John considered his options. He wasn't about to pass up the opportunity to spend a few hours wrapped in the arms of a mostly naked Sherlock, especially after the singular lack of contact over the last few days. However, he was pretty confident that his erection wasn't going anywhere, which would be initially awkward and ultimately bloody uncomfortable.
"That sounds great," he said. "Just let me go and freshen up, have a quick shower; I'll be back in ten minutes."
Sherlock looked doubtful. "It usually takes you fifteen," he pointed out.
John glanced down; for once grateful that Sherlock's eyes couldn't follow his gaze. "I think ten will do it," he said. "Maybe less."
When the call came from Lestrade, John was furious to find himself being woken from a deep sleep. Not furious to be woken, but furious to find that he had slept through over three hours of mostly-naked cuddling, the exhaustion built up over the preceding two nights having caught up with him only minutes after he returned from his 'shower'.
Sherlock, however, had seemed delighted by the call and demanded that John get out of bed immediately and go to put the kettle on. "A change will do us good, John," he had insisted. "You need to get out of the flat for a while."
John had stomped around the kitchen muttering to himself as he sorted out tea and some toast, eventually hearing Sherlock moving around as he got up and dressed before appearing in the kitchen looking immaculate as always.
How did he do that? John wondered resentfully. Even blind, Sherlock looked more put-together and smart than John could manage on his best day. Another open-necked shirt, those collar bones on display again, that long throat exposed; did the man not even own a tie at least? He wondered if he had time for another shower before they left.
"Ready, John?" There was an edge to Sherlock's voice but his face held nothing but polite enquiry and he accepted the toast without complaint, although John would not have forced the issue this time.
Lestrade seemed happy to see them at the crime scene, which was in a deserted office block. "Wish I'd called you earlier over that Au Pair business," he said, his eyes moving over the pair of them. "Could have saved ourselves a lot of time but I didn't realise you would still..." He trailed off. "I mean, we didn't think..."
"Do you ever?" snapped Sherlock, and John offered an apologetic smile as he was pulled forward, Sherlock tugging on his arm impatiently.
"Sorry," he threw back over his shoulder. "Think he got up on the wrong side of the bed this morning."
"I was in the middle, as usual," pointed out Sherlock, not lowering his voice at all as they moved further towards the centre of activity. "It was you who was on the wrong side."
An area of silence grew around them as a forest of eyebrows shot up and 'did he really just say that?' glances were exchanged. John was a little nonplussed. Much as he would love for them to be openly in a relationship, they hadn't discussed this at all and he wasn't sure if Sherlock had considered the ramifications.
"Body, John?" prompted Sherlock, uncaring of the gossip avalanche he had just triggered.
Lestrade stepped forward, casting a quizzical glance at John as he began to explain the problem of the unidentified body found earlier that day.
Once his part had been played, description duties fulfilled, John stepped back and just watched as Sherlock talked to Lestrade and Sally, enjoying seeing him back in his element again until a snide voice spoke from behind him.
"I hear you've been promoted?" It was Anderson, newly arrived at the scene and not at all happy to find Sherlock encroaching on his territory once more.
John tensed. No-one had asked him directly about Sherlock's comment and he wasn't at all sure how to deal with it.
"From dogsbody to guide-dog, I understand?" the slimy sod continued and John exhaled in relief as he realised Anderson had not yet heard the latest gossip, but was just being his usual unpleasant self.
Sherlock turned his head at that point, clearly searching. "John!" he called.
Anderson sniggered. "You know, he says that in exactly the way someone would command Heel!" he said. "I guess 'dog' is about right."
"Piss off, Anderson," John replied, moving forward to re-join Sherlock, whose eyes were narrowing as he approached and whose attention was clearly focused behind him.
"Don't speak, Anderson. It makes you sound stupid," he said loudly, moving in his direction and reaching for John's hand on the way. "Although, judging from Sergeant Donovan, it seems I must thank you for switching to a less obnoxious deodorant." He stopped, right in front of Anderson now, and inhaled pointedly.
"Oh, my mistake," he said, shaking his head. "It seems the congratulations should go to Sally for improving her taste in men, although really..." he turned to Sally, who had a look of horror on her face, "you might want to consider carrying your own toiletries if you're going to have so many late-night case meetings."
Things went down hill from there and as soon as Sherlock had relayed his deductions, John was glad to get him away. The taxi ride home was uncomfortable and Sherlock remained silent, keeping his head down and his hands to himself. It wasn't his 'thinking face' though, John decided. He seemed very much on edge; restless, tightly wound, as if the slightest nudge would produce some unimaginable explosion. After his rant the day before, John was distinctly not in the mood for a repeat performance. As soon as they got into the flat, he closed the living room door and took a couple of steps inside as Sherlock turned to face him.
"Look," he said. "I know you're frustrated by your current situation, I know it's hard." Sherlock's face seemed to twitch at that, but was soon expressionless once more.
"But enough is enough," continued John. "You were horrible to me yesterday and yes, I know you've apologised, but you haven't explained why, not really. Then you were even worse than usual with Anderson, which, OK, I don't mind so much but poor Sally didn't deserve that."
He studied his friend, searching for a clue as to what had brought on this increased irritability and short-temperedness. "What is your problem?" he demanded.
Sherlock's frustration was breaking through the blank visage. His jaw was gritted with tension and John watched as his hands clenched into fists; he seemed to be trying to calm himself. Clearly the attempt was unsuccessful because he took a step forward, until he was right in John's face. "You are!" he exclaimed, swirling dramatically and striding a few steps in the opposite direction.
John fell back, feeling as if he had been punched in the stomach. He barely had time to dwell on the horrible sensation before Sherlock was in front of him again, reaching out and finding his shoulders, pushing him against the wall.
"You're in my head," he said, his voice tense. "I can't concentrate. I can't focus. I block it out but you break through. I keep remembering..." He pulled his arms back sharply and pushed his hands into his hair. "You're driving me mad!" He swirled away again.
John felt better. Much better. Better, in fact, than he had done for a very long time.
"What do you want, Sherlock?" he asked gently, his eyes roaming over the stiff-backed figure in front of him. If Sherlock's curiosity was turning into desire, the last thing John wanted to do was put him off.
Sherlock was still facing away, but he shook his head. "I don't know, John," he admitted, seeming calmer after his outburst. "What use is my brain to me now? I know I want something, but I don't even know what it is." He turned and sank down onto the arm of the sofa.
"Well, if you want my diagnosis," started John, and Sherlock lifted his head quickly, clearly hoping there was a medical explanation for his symptoms. "I would say you're suffering from a classic case of blue balls."
Sherlock looked blank and John sighed. "Sexual frustration," he elaborated, taking a few steps forward.
"I know you got turned on by the massage, which was…" He had to think back, the last few days being something of a blur in his mind. "Four nights ago," he calculated. "You had a shower after that, did you at least have a wank then?" he asked bluntly.
Sherlock's mouth fell open and a faint pink tinge appeared in his cheeks. "I don't… I mean… I have, but I rarely…" The pink was rising as John watched, fascinated. "No." Sherlock replied finally, shaking his head.
John's eyebrows were approaching his hairline but he managed to keep his tone even. "Right. OK, fine," he said, as if he didn't think that would make the top ten on any man's 'weird' list.
"Then, things were pretty intense on that taxi ride, followed, of course, by you getting me off that afternoon." He thought back. "To be honest, I wasn't totally focused on your reactions at that point," he admitted. "But I was lying back on you and I'm pretty sure you were at least partially aroused - would that be fair?"
Sherlock looked as if he would rather be doing almost anything else than having this conversation, but he straightened his shoulders and nodded.
"And you haven't done anything about it, since?" John asked. "You haven't..."
"No." The interruption was immediate.
"Well, there you go," said John, with the air of a man stating the obvious. Sherlock still looked bemused. Primarily embarrassed, but still bemused. John sighed. How could a grown man possibly be this ignorant? Then he remembered the solar system and rolled his eyes.
"You're winding your body up, but not giving it a release," he explained. "Although," he added thoughtfully, "we haven't done anything these last few days, apart from cuddling this morning, I would have thought it might have worn off by now."
Sherlock snorted. "If anything, it's getting worse," he said. "You slept through this morning - I just found it increasingly difficult to focus on anything but you. Now it seems like I just have to smell you to be…" He broke off, waving his arm vaguely but the words alone were enough to focus John's attention on his groin. He was sitting down though, impossible to tell.
John moved until he was within arm's reach of Sherlock and heard the sharp inhalation of breath. Hands came up to grip his hips and pull him forward, then Sherlock leaned to rest his forehead against John's chest.
"Do something, John," he said, somewhere between a plea and an instruction.
John cupped Sherlock's face in his hands and lifted it, then stepped closer so that they were pressed firmly together, feeling long arms slide around his waist to hold him tightly. Bloody Hell, he thought, as their bodies made contact, Sherlock hadn't been kidding.
He knew his voice would be unsteady, but he spoke anyway. "Well," he said. "Obviously there is an issue, which you need to resolve in order to clear your head, if nothing else." He drew a breath, leaning back so that he could see Sherlock's face - although the action pressed their hips together, drawing groans from both of them.
"It seems the only question is whether you deal with it yourself," PLEASE, NO! He made his thoughts as loud as possible, "or whether you want a hand?" Was that explicit enough for someone as new to this as Sherlock? Best be clear, John decided. "Or, you know..." he added. "A mouth?"
Artwork for this chapter (Link on my profile page):
Do Something, John by Haigidal
