Author's note: This chapter is where the fic starts to earn the Mature rating as far as sexual content goes. It's just a small paragraph or so that is slightly graphic so you could skip that if you want, though there will be more in later chapters.
"Are you sure I don't need a jacket and tie?" John fiddled with the collar of his shirt for the hundredth time that afternoon, his eyes going to Sherlock's reflection in the mirror.
"Oh, for God's sake. I'm not wearing a tie." Sherlock let his head drop back onto the arm of the loveseat. He had been sprawled here watching John get dressed for the past half-hour. I am getting him out of this room if it kills me. Out of this building.
"But you're wearing a suit. What if there's a dress code?"
"John, I have passed by that restaurant twice a day for the last month and a half. There is no dress code." He planted his feet on the floor and stood up, crossed the room to stand behind John. He put his hands on John's shoulders and looked at him in the mirror. "It's a casual restaurant, and even if it weren't, you look fine. Let me remind you that I did not eat lunch and am actually hungry."
John brought his hands up to rest on top of Sherlock's and took a deep breath, examining his reflection. "Let me just find a jumper that matches."
Sherlock groaned and pulled away in defeat. "The brown cardigan," he said, and flopped back down onto the loveseat to wait while John tried to postpone leaving the rehab centre just a little bit longer.
At first Sherlock had dismissed it when one of the nurses took him aside and told him that John was refusing to join any sort of excursion outside of the rehab centre. John wasn't the sort to enjoy a group outing to some art exhibition or tourist attraction; that didn't mean he was avoiding the outside world. Then the nurse had suggested that Sherlock take him out someplace himself, and Sherlock had subsequently spent the last week attempting to take John to dinner. There was a restaurant not even a mile down the road that several people recommended; it had a decent wine list and wheelchair accessibility: perfect. And over the last week John had proceeded to be too tired, not that hungry, really looking forward to taco night in the dining room, and absolutely not about to miss the screenings of Casablanca, Star Wars, and something called Gremlins in the lounge. So, yes, avoiding the real world. But it was stopping now. When John started dithering over the sweater, Sherlock threw his coat at him. "Come on. I had the front desk call a cab and it's waiting."
The cabbie got out of the car when they approached, nodded hello and then walked around to the boot of the cab. Sherlock realised what he was doing just as John tensed and said, "No, er, we won't be needing that, thanks."
The cabbie looked up at Sherlock first and then at John. "You sure, mate? The ramp makes it easy."
"Nope. No, it doesn't. I can get in just fine, thanks." John's anger was under control but clear, probably even to the cabbie. Sherlock's impulse was to step in but he had no idea how to do so without angering John further. He glared at the cabbie instead.
The cabbie shrugged and stepped away from the boot. "Suit yourself. You want the swivel chair instead?"
"No." John's voice grated; Sherlock watched as he curled his fists twice and then reached out to pull open the cab's rear door. He moved back as it opened, keeping the chair's movements smooth now, after weeks of practice, and then rolled up close to door. There were yellow grab bars inside the cab; John used them to swing himself into the car, muttering under his breath as he did so.
Sherlock stepped toward the cab and the now-empty wheelchair, wondering if he should put it in the boot, but before he could John reached out and grabbed it. He watched John collapse the frame with a few precise, decisive movements of his gloved hands and then pull it into the cabin of the car with him. That's my John. The odd thought sent a shiver down his spine. Of course it is. Who else would it be?
Sherlock shook himself and then walked around the cab to climb in on the other side. He told the driver where to go, settled into the seat next to John and automatically reached for his hand. John threaded his fingers through Sherlock's and Sherlock relaxed back against the seat; this was how they always sat in cabs. Nothing has changed. Then John started to mutter again, only now Sherlock could hear him. "I learnt how to do that. Sherlock, I am 44 years old and someone had to teach me how to get into a car." He tightened his fingers around Sherlock's and Sherlock knew he was supposed to commiserate or console or something to that effect but instead he just felt the strength of John's grip and remembered the way his arms had looked a moment ago, how the muscles on his wrists had stood out where they peeked from between his coat sleeves and his gloves. He pulled his hand away from John so he could peel off his own gloves and shove them in his pocket, then circled his fingers around John's wrist.
"What are you doing?"
"Touching your bare skin, obviously. Are you objecting?"
"It's a little weird."
"Are you objecting?"
"No." John looked up from their joined hands to Sherlock's face for a moment, then shifted his gaze to look past him out the window. "We didn't need to take a cab, you know. You said it was close."
"Mmm." Sherlock tugged off John's glove and ran his fingers over the calluses that littered his palm.
"Are you listening to me at all?"
"It's cold out and the area is not especially pedestrian-friendly. And look how fast we got here in the cab. Well worth the cost." He let go of John's hand and returned the glove he had stolen. "I don't even mind paying."
That got a snort of laughter, and Sherlock reached forward to pay the driver, watching from the corner of his eye as John exited the cab, again sure and steady in his handling of the wheelchair.
He held the restaurant door open for John. I don't care how independent he wants to be. He cannot possibly object to me holding the door for him; it's just common courtesy.
John didn't seem to mind, though he did stop abruptly once they were through the second set of doors and into the restaurant proper. The hostess glanced at them and then asked, "Just the two of you?" She was focused on Sherlock but that was nothing unusual.
Sherlock brushed his hand against John's shoulder and nodded. "If you have a somewhat private table, we'd appreciate it." Though there were numerous people at the rehab centre who had recognised them from the news, everyone there had been extremely respectful of their privacy, and he didn't need that to end the moment they stepped back into the real world. Especially since it had been so hard to get John out here in the first place.
"Of course." She smiled at him and then even more so at John because women had not stopped flirting with John since he'd been hurt; some seemed even more likely to initiate the flirting now. Maybe they see him as more harmless, less of a threat? As if John were somehow less threatening now. Sherlock suppressed his own smile as they followed her to a table at the back of the restaurant.
The dining room seemed to have an unusual amount of space between the tables. Though there was no one else in a wheelchair at the moment, Sherlock realised they must get a fair amount of custom from the rehab centre, and have planned the interior accordingly.
It took a little while, but John relaxed as the meal progressed. He only had one glass of wine, so Sherlock knew it couldn't be attributed to that. We're both sitting and no one can really see the wheelchair unless they look for it. God, how long is this going to last? John would be going home from rehab in less than a week. He can't spend the rest of his life being so self-conscious he wants to hide. Sherlock sighed and ordered himself a second glass of wine, though it was probably going to make him sleepy.
They'd gone out early enough that by the time they got back to the rehab centre there were still a couple of hours before Sherlock had to leave, so he followed John back to his room. There was some sort of vocal performance going on in the lounge, just loud enough for them to hear without quite being able to identify the songs. It sounded like pop music, but John usually liked that sort of thing. "Don't you want to go listen?"
John shook his head. "But don't forget you're supposed to play again tomorrow."
"I won't forget. My penultimate performance." He raised his eyebrows and gave a mock scowl. He'd been playing twice a week since the first time he'd been coerced into performing for an audience. After the first time he'd learned not to ask for requests, though; an appalling number of people here seemed to prefer to hear the fiddle to the violin.
John pulled off his jumper and tossed it into the wardrobe. He stretched and cracked his neck and said, without turning to look at Sherlock, "Thanks. For making me go out. I know I was difficult about it."
Sherlock dropped his coat on the loveseat and shrugged, downplaying John's reluctance. "It was just dinner. You like dinner."
"I know. I had a good time." He turned around and nodded at the bed. "Let's lie down. I miss our little naps."
"I haven't been as tired the last couple weeks." Sherlock slipped out of his shoes and hung his jacket on the knob of the wardrobe.
"No, me neither. But I could go for a cuddle right now."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You can't tell anyone, though. I still have a reputation."
"Oh, please. Everyone knows you're a cuddler. I'm pretty sure it's been on the blog."
Sherlock glared at him and then used that as an excuse to stare while John swung himself onto the bed. At what point did I start finding his inability to walk arousing? That wasn't quite accurate—it's still completely repulsive—but John's competence around his disability, that was starting to appeal.
John rolled onto his side; the movement was never going to be smooth, and watching him pull his legs into position was decidedly not sexy, but Sherlock couldn't help but admire the way his shoulders moved beneath his shirt, the easy grace of his hands. Yes, it's competent John. Gets me every time.
He wanted those arms around him, so he laid down on his side, not facing John, and then eased himself back until their bodies met.
"Mm." John slung his left arm over Sherlock's hip. "You want a back rub?" He skated the fingers of his other hand up Sherlock's spine, too light to be a massage.
Sherlock arched his head back as John reached his neck. "No. Just hold me." He scooted back a little more, spooning firmly against John.
John tightened his arm around Sherlock's middle and pressed a kiss against his neck. Sherlock shivered and slipped his fingers through John's to pull his hand up higher, onto his stomach, because if it strayed any lower this was going to quickly move beyond just a cuddle, at least on Sherlock's end, and he didn't want to pressure John.
John wound the fingers of his other hand through Sherlock's hair. His breath was warm against the skin just below Sherlock's ear, and Sherlock closed his eyes and relaxed into his embrace. He let himself enjoy the weight of John's arm across his ribs and then John inhaled sharply and his fingers stuttered in Sherlock's hair.
"You okay?"
"Er, yeah." John swallowed and lifted his head from the pillow. "I think I'm getting hard."
Sherlock turned his head to get a glimpse of John's face over his shoulder. "From kissing my neck?"
"Apparently."
"And you can—feel it?" No one had really said much about what John's sex life might be like now, and the research Sherlock had done online had been frustratingly inconclusive.
"Sort of, indirectly, I guess? The rest of my body's got all the signals, I think." He paused, then added, "It's kind of warm."
Sherlock pressed his arse back into John's groin. "You are definitely hard."
John put his face against Sherlock's shoulder and giggled. "I feel like I'm thirteen."
"Did you press your cock against a lot of men's arses when you were thirteen?"
"Not in the least. But, I can't say for sure, but I think I might go off really, really quickly."
Sherlock gave another backward thrust against him and then rolled so they were facing each other and he could catch John's mouth with his. He slid his hand down to press against the bulge in John's trousers, then stopped the kiss long enough to ask, "Can you feel my hand?"
John shook his head and leaned back up into a kiss again. He moaned and Sherlock quickly undid John's flies and slid his hand inside his pants. He wanted to ask if John could feel his fingers now—he wanted to collect every possible bit of data about John's reaction—but John was kissing him too urgently, thrusting his tongue roughly and rapidly as far as he could into Sherlock's mouth.
John's cock felt the same as it always had to Sherlock. It filled the curve of his hand, leaking already. He closed his fingers around it and gave a few quick pulls, felt it thicken even more. Sherlock knew that was probably just a reflex from being stroked, but John had gotten aroused without being touched directly, which had to be a good sign. He brought his other hand up to cup John's cheek and thrust his own tongue back against the insistent push of John's. John gasped and abruptly pulled his mouth away and then Sherlock's hand and John's pants were coated as John's torso trembled against him.
Sherlock pulled his hand out and stretched to snag a couple of tissues from the box next to the bed. "Are you all right?" he asked, tossing the used tissues to the floor.
John nodded and pressed his face against Sherlock's shoulder. He was flushed and still trembling but Sherlock needed to know more about what had just happened. "How was it?"
John rubbed his face against Sherlock's shirt a couple times and steadied his breathing, then pulled back to speak. "Okay. Not quite . . . the full experience, I guess? It's hard to describe. It's more the rest of my body that could feel it."
Sherlock looked at him, trying to imagine what that might feel like, and then licked at John's ear and flicked at his nipple through his shirt.
John shivered. "Yeah. Like that. It was . . . better than I had let myself hope, though." He twisted his torso toward Sherlock, throwing himself over Sherlock's chest. Sherlock caught him and then John was shaking, tears coming heavily enough to soak Sherlock's shirt almost immediately. John had cried in the past few months, of course he had, but not like this, never so harsh and raw. Sherlock had no idea what it meant; he assumed John must feeling some sort of relief, but his reaction was so violent it didn't seem to fit. He'd heard of happy tears but this wasn't at all what he imagined them to be. He wrapped both arms around John and didn't say anything while John bawled against him. Eventually the sobbing slowed, and Sherlock loosened his grip to rub John's back in what he hoped was a soothing gesture.
"Okay?"
John nodded, wiping at his face. "Yeah." He pushed himself up and took the tissues that Sherlock offered. He blew his nose and then eased himself off Sherlock a bit, so he was lying against his side instead of on top of him. "Sorry about the shirt." He flattened his hand over the wet spot, which actually made it more uncomfortable, cold and clammy against Sherlock's skin.
John bit at his lip and slid his hand lower down Sherlock's chest. "I should—do you want me to?" His fingers dipped just below the waistband of Sherlock's trousers.
"Not really," Sherlock said, and pulled John's hand away from his groin, lacing their fingers together. His libido had never matched John's, and the arousal he'd felt a few minutes ago had pretty much disappeared around the time John had started sobbing in his arms. Right now he mostly just felt conflicted. He had a lot to process and sort out in his head; anything related to sex always took up far too much space and time in his mind.
He closed his eyes and held John's hand, thoughts spinning, wishing maybe the wine had reacted just a bit more strongly with the remnants of last night's medication. No, he was definitely wide awake.
After a few long minutes John cleared his throat and said, "Well, I've sort of been avoiding it, but I'm supposed to go to . . . sex counselling, I guess it is?"
"And now you'll no longer avoid it?"
"Erm, you're supposed to come with me."
"Oh." Sherlock paused. "Okay. If you're comfortable with it."
"Of course I'm not comfortable with it. But I think we should."
"It's here, right? Not some outside therapist?"
"Yeah." John spread and then clenched his fingers in Sherlock's hand. "I'll make an appointment tomorrow."
"All right." For some reason the things that happened here in rehab seemed more insular. Safe. He brought John's hand up to his lips and told his mind to stop worrying about things that were good. His mind didn't listen.
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