They stand opposite each other in the war zone of their sitting room. Sherlock has wet hair from the shower and is about to make some sort of snippy remark about John's continued presence at 221B.
"Don't, " he says and it effectively cuts Sherlock off.
John's heart is beating very fast, his breath high in his throat, and he has the strange feeling extremities get when adrenaline is coursing through them. Yes, he is scared, terrified really, because this was never ever part of his plans, but no, it is not the fear that pushes you to run. Rather it is the high of knowing you are going to, come what may. Not because there is no other option, quite the opposite, it is the high of doing it because you chose to in the face of so many alternatives. It is the fear of the unknown in the attack, the sheer risk of it, the type of fear that makes you grin because it will not stop you, it will only make it better. It is terrifying. It is exhilarating.
He walks up to Sherlock, so that he stands behind him, mere inches of space between them. He can see the shoulders in front of him rise as the muscles tense.
"I had never been with a man before, had never even considered it really, " he says softly.
The shoulders rise the slightest bit more, and he hears the intake of breath that precedes objections.
"Shh, " he adds. And very slowly he reaches out his hand and with one finger he slowly strokes the exposed back of Sherlock's neck, from where the hair becomes sparse and has already dried to right below where his seventh cervical vertebra protrudes.
The shiver he feels under his index finger makes his stomach rise and fall.
"I needed some time, you know, and you never give time, do you? " he continues conversationally, while he finger strokes back up Sherlock's neck, to the hollow where his skull and vertebrae meet and his hair is still damp.
"You come here and you just iare/i so much that I don't know where my thoughts begin anymore." His finger is circling in that hollow, twisting around a stand of hair, so he can softly pull it. Ever so subtly, Sherlock lets his head be moved backwards by the pull of John's finger.
"I'm not as fast as you, you know that, so it took me a while to figure it out." John moves his other hand up and traces with the tip of his finger the contours of Sherlock from stubbled chin, over bobbing Adam's apple, to the hollow between his collar bones.
He can feel Sherlock swallowing repeatedly, before he is able to coarsely say "What?"
John moves the tiniest bit closer. They still don't touch anywhere except for the tips of John's fingers, but Sherlock is now close enough to feel warm breath on his skin when John shushes him again.
"You want to know what I figured out?"
Sherlock tries to nod and the strand of hair pulls on John's finger.
"I figured out you were dead wrong, " he exhales against Sherlock's neck.
John lets his arms fall and Sherlock turns to him so fast John feels the air brushing against his face. They are standing very close and he notices Sherlock taking a small step backwards. He has his expression of condescension barely masking the uncertainty below it. It makes John want to reach out his hand and stroke it.
He doesn't. He holds Sherlock's eye showing only the certainty he feels himself in ignoring his nervousness. Then he steps to the side and goes to Sherlock's bedroom.
Mrs. Hudson is sleeping peacefully, looking very small and old. He doesn't quite have the heart to wake her just yet. He watches her chest rise and fall and his own breath tries following the pattern. It calms him somewhat.
A ringing sound is growing louder somewhere in the background. It takes some seconds for John to realise it is his phone in his coat pocket that is making the noise. When he suddenly hears it getting louder, he knows Sherlock has been unable to contain his curiosity and is checking who is ringing. Sure enough, he hears Sherlock clearing his throat behind him. Sherlock is holding out his mobile with his nose wrinkled in distaste.
"It's Lestrade, " he says, like tediousness can be transmitted through aerial signals.
John takes his mobile into the sitting room to ring him back, but of course Sherlock actually answered it, without bothering to say anything.
"Greg? Are you there?"
"John? Is that you?"
John doesn't get the chance to answer in the affirmative.
"What the bloody hell is going on? I get a phone call from your housekeeper about break-ins and attacks and if I can come right away, which I bloody do, even though I am in no way designated first responder, only to find some blokes that I can only guess are secret service blocking my access."
"Greg..."
"No. I am not bloody finished, John. Because then I go to the office to sort out the mess that a fight over jurisdiction is going to be and I find two more blokes waiting there for me. They escorted me home John, where I am right now and they are watching me like hawks, saying it is for my own good and they can't tell me anything just yet. And God knows this has something to do with you and what is going on at Baker Street. I'll stick my bloody hand in the fire that Sherlock's brother is behind this. And right now, I lost my fucking case, and I'm stuck in my house with two buffoons that look very disapproving when I try and get a new beer from the fridge, and I'm being kept totally in the dark about why I need their bloody protection anyway. And I know it has something to do with you, so just tell me what the fuck is going on."
"MI5 is protecting you?"
"Yes bloody MI5 is protecting me. Now I want to know why."
"I'm sorry Greg that you're getting mixed up in all of this. It's all a bit complicated."
Suddenly John knows he doesn't want to share the knowledge that Sherlock is alive with anyone. It is too fragile and he wants it to be his, and his knowledge alone. He is just about to brush Lestrade off when the line goes dead. He stupidly blinks at his phone a few times and tries redialing before he notices there is no service whatsoever, barring one message.
-This will be dealt with John MH-
"Bloody Mycroft, " he sputters and tosses the phone on the sofa.
"What did you expect?" Sherlock seems to have gotten both his composure and arrogance back.
He is checking his own phone, and apparently sees something of interest, because it takes him an awfully long time to read it.
John moves next to him and leans in very close to read what he is so absorbed in. Sherlock seems to want to step away and then think better of it. John puts his hand on Sherlock's arm, who pushes his phone into John's face.
"His name is Uday Al-Zahawi. He was head of Directorate 4 of the Mukhabarat in Basra, " he says tightly.
It makes John smile.
"You have no idea what that means, do you?"
"I don't concern myself with petty politics John. If I ever needed to know the internet could tell me." He looks even more disconcerted.
"But?"
"Mycroft has blocked my 3G access." He is full-on scowling now. John tightens his grip on Sherlock's arm and he can see the uncertainty lying deeper in his expression again.
"The Mukhabarat was the Iraqi Intelligence Service and Saddam Hussein's main power tool. Directorate 4 was its secret service. I would assume a lot of people have been looking for this Al-Zahawi."
"And he turns up in Mrs. Hudson's kitchen."
John can see Sherlock retreating into his head and is surprised the rejection he expected to feel isn't there. He lets go of Sherlock's arm, but lets his finger drag over the fabric, rather then just letting go immediately.
Sherlock turns his head to look at John, when his fingers have left him.
"What was I wrong about?"
John can't help the smile in the face of Sherlock's confusion.
"I think it's alright for Mrs. Hudson to go down again, " he tells Sherlock and keeps his gaze as steady as he can. But Sherlock's intent look of trying to figure something out is now aimed at him and it is making his heart thumb in his throat again. He breaks the tension by raising his eyebrows to make it clear he expects Sherlock to deal with Mrs. Hudson.
Sherlock takes the offered escape and disappears into his bedroom. John releases a breath that his heart had trapped in his throat and sits down. He suddenly feels very lonely without Sherlock next to him in a way that is disconcertingly similar to the pressing loneliness he felt sitting in this same chair those first days with every thought concluding in 'he jumped'. The feeling of loneliness demotes stroking Sherlock's neck to a distant memory of temporary reprieve, administered by a different John.
Sherlock comes out half-carrying a sleepy Mrs. Hudson, who smiles warmly and worriedly at him. He sees the two of them together and knows he is choosing which John he is and wants to be. He smiles back warmly, feeling it reach his eyes. Sherlock looks even more confused than before.
He hears them stumbling down, followed by some people talking and then at long last one set of footsteps coming back up the stairs.
Sherlock indecisively stand in the doorway and it doesn't suit him.
"John.."
"Sherlock, shut up and stay still."
John gets up and Sherlock looks so lost and so desperately trying to hide it.
"And why would I do that?" he asks with as much disdain as he can muster, which is still an impressing amount.
John is very close to him now.
"Because you want to, " he tells Sherlock softly and closes the door behind him.
"Don't be absurd John, " but there is a beautiful crack in his voice that John finds forcefully arousing and he stays very still.
John just looks at him, standing, with their bodies almost touching and he can hear Sherlock's breathing speeding up. With his right hand he slowly strokes down Sherlock's arm from his shoulder to his fingers. He can see the instant Sherlock's eyes change from uncertainty to resolve. His mouth crashes down on John's and his tongue tries to find his way inside, but John doesn't let it, doesn't respond at all, expect for very softly pushing Sherlock away. Sherlock stops trying to kiss him, but doesn't move away.
"We are going to do this my way, " he whispers against Sherlock's lips and very softly strokes back up Sherlock's arm. He can feel him tensing under his touch and when John's fingers reach his neck, he tries to pull away. John grabs his wrist to prevent that, but stops his other touches.
"I don't.." Sherlock starts, but John shushes him again.
"You want to know how wrong you were?"
Sherlock almost manages an eye-roll. John tightens his grip on his fist.
"You thought you could redeem yourself through this, because you seem to assume it is something I want and something you don't want to give."
He slowly loosens his grip again. Sherlock is uncharacteristically just listening.
"You think you don't want to give it because it terrifies you and it hurt you."
He has now let go of Sherlock's wrist completely and instead is covering Sherlock's hand with his.
"So I realised two things. First I realised that if sex terrifies you and you choose it anyway, there must be something else that terrifies you more. And I know what that is."
He inserts his fingers between Sherlock's, intertwining them.
"And second. You do want it."
Sherlock's breathing is heavy and loud and then stops and his body is tensing, but not pulling away.
John make his voice low and breathy.
"I'm going to take you to bed."
