Exploring Sexuality

A/N: I didn't forget about you guys, I promise! I was just really busy (I only have two days left of summer, and one AP Bio chapter left to do) and didn't have a lot of time to write. This is probably my last chapter before school starts, and then they'll come out even slower possibly, but I promise I won't leave this story. You guys are all so supportive, thank you!

Ch. 12

Sherlock fell asleep again almost instantly, holding John close. John sighed softly and rubbed the other man's back, soothing him when he stirred. He absent-mindedly traced a light line back and forth where the chain of his dog tags now usually hung on Sherlock's neck. John didn't think Sherlock had taken them off once since he had given them to him.

And now they were gone.

John had been wearing them since they were issued to him, only taking them off to shower until he gave them to Sherlock. He had looked so absolutely crushed, childlike, in a way John had never seen him mere minutes ago. And he wasn't sleeping peacefully now, like he usually did when he actually slept. He tossed and turned, and John's heart ached watching him.

"I love you, Sherlock," John whispered into the darkening room. It was the first time either of them had said it aloud, though it was silently communicated daily. That didn't stop the butterflies in John's stomach as he said it however, nor did the fact that Sherlock was passed out in his arms, fretfully sleeping off a drugged high. "I have no plans of leaving you."

He placed a small kiss to Sherlock's forehead, then gently disentangled himself to finish undressing, leaving his briefs on. The slight burn in his arse from not even twenty four hours ago was now overpowered by the aches in his head, stomach, and shoulder. John refilled the glass with water, downing one himself before returning to Sherlock's room, setting the full glass back on the little dresser beside the bed. He called into work too, letting them know he couldn't work his shift tomorrow as he turned off his alarm. They were surprisingly lenient when it came to him taking days off for Sherlock most of the time, and said they would get someone else to cover his shift for him. Then he carefully slid back into bed, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's thin frame. The other man relaxed a little as he did so, curling closer to John.

John decided he could go without dinner that night, and later fell asleep with his head on Sherlock's shoulder. Right there.

John woke the next morning to a relatively weak, yet insistent nudging on his shoulder. "Hmm?" he asked sleepily, tightening his arms around Sherlock's waist.

"Your alarm didn't go off. You have to go to work," Sherlock mumbled a little grumpily, sliding his hand down John's arm to rest on his hips.

As Sherlock spoke, everything that had happened yesterday returned to his head, crashing down on him. "I'm not going in today," John replied, his fingers finding Sherlock's wrist to check his pulse. Normal and even again. "Go back to sleep."

Sherlock didn't question him, just nodded, though both their eyes were still closed. His chest rose and fell slowly as he fell back asleep, something he always managed to do so quickly, to John's amazement.

Meth and heroine. Valium was in the other needle. All "standard" doses. D.I. Lestrade

Sent last night around eleven. John sighed, putting his phone back by the glass of water. Sherlock had come down rather easy then, considering. Looking over him, still partially asleep, John could almost assume he was just sleeping normally. His breathing and pulse were regular, his internal body clock was, if anything, a little fast. His anxiety had settled. And he didn't seem to remember what had happened yesterday.

John could only hope he wouldn't feel the need to relapse. He wondered briefly if those people knew about Sherlock's past drug use. Obviously they had known who Sherlock was, or at least what he did. Was that also why they knew who John was? Or was it because of his tags?

John sighed again, deciding he could use another hour of sleep. His body ached, but as he lay next to Sherlock, he fell into another comfortable sleep, a protective arm wrapped around Sherlock's waist.

John actually woke closer to two hours later, a little before eight. Sherlock was still sound asleep beside him. John thinks this must have been the longest time Sherlock had ever slept consecutively. Certainly since John had met him, even after cases. He was coming up on thirteen hours, plus whatever actual sleep he had gotten before they got back to the flat. To be fair, John had slept more than usual as well, around eleven hours total. He still had a dull throbbing in his head, but other than that he just felt a little battle sore everywhere else.

Carefully and quietly, John got up and used the lou, throwing on a casual pair of trousers and a long sleeved shirt. Then he headed to the kitchen, putting the kettle on and going through the routine of making tea. He sent a text to Lestrade, thanking him again and telling him Sherlock was asleep, but fine. He made toast and eggs for breakfast, something simple and easy.

He was halfway through his second cup of tea when he heard Sherlock get up, the sound of bare feet rushing to the bathroom, then the bathroom door practically slamming shut. John was up and at the door in seconds, knocking hesitantly. "Sherlock?" he asked. "Are you alright?"

In response, he earned a muffled moan and the sounds of Sherlock retching into the toilet.

John got the glass of water from Sherlock's room and knocked again once before entering to find Sherlock holding his stomach on his knees, looking miserable. "It's okay; it will pass," John said quietly, setting the glass by the sink and kneeling behind Sherlock, rubbing his back. "It's okay," he repeated as Sherlock dry heaved, his stomach empty, and moaned again.

John continued to rub Sherlock's back as his body convulsed, trying to get rid of everything in his system. Sherlock didn't say anything the whole time, just held his stomach and let out the occasional groan. It stopped after about five minutes, and John pressed a gentle kiss just below Sherlock's curls, on the back of his neck. The taller man leaned into him and gratefully accepted the glass of water John handed him, downing all of it as John flushed the toilet. "How are you feeling?" he asked quietly, more or less holding Sherlock in his lap on the bathroom floor.

"Who drugged me?" Sherlock asked instead of answering, resting his head on John's shoulder and closing his eyes.

"What do you remember?" John countered.

Sherlock hesitated, waiting at least a full minute before responding. "Lestrade gave me the case. I took it because I recognized one of the men; he used to deal for me. Lestrade didn't know, otherwise I don't think he'd have let me take it. It was a drug case, not something I'd usually take, but the drugs they were using were odd. More people were overdosing and having bad trips, according to the report and my asking around," he explained, as if he were remembering it all as he spoke. "You were at work, so I texted you the houses I investigated at. The first two were empty." Here he paused, as if not clearly remembering what happened next. "The last one must not have been."

John nodded. All of that matched up to what he knew. "Tall, probably six foot, strong. A gang, most likely, so just a dealer, unarmed. Dark hair, cropped short," John listed off. "That was as much as I could see; it was dark. Lestrade has him."

Sherlock shook his head. "Not him."

"There was at least one other man and a woman, but I didn't see them. Chances are Lestrade has them too, if you wanted to ask."

Sherlock didn't say anything to that, his eyes still closed. His breathing was steady, and he looked as if he were thinking.

"We should get up," John interrupted the silence after a little while, running a hand up and down Sherlock's arm. "You need to eat. And drink, a lot."

Sherlock didn't move from his spot against John. "Javier took your dog tags," he said resignedly after a minute.

John's breath came out in a sigh, and he nodded once. "If that's his name, yeah," he agreed quietly. "And your coat, wallet, and mobile."

"I don't care about all that," Sherlock said firmly, a hint of anger in his voice, which dropped immediately to guilt. "You gave them to me…"

"Oh, no, no," John said, shaking his head. "I already had this conversation with you, even if you can't currently remember it. You are absolutely not allowed to blame yourself for that," he insisted. He took a deep breath. "I'm not mad at you. It's alright; it's just weird now, not having that part of me," John finished quietly.

Sherlock processed that, not speaking again for a while. "I'm going to get them back," he said resolutely.

John smiled a little at the gesture, knowing Sherlock meant it. "Not before you get something good in your system first," he said, giving Sherlock a gentle push off of him. "I'll make you toast; come on," he offered, helping Sherlock up and holding his hand tight. John knew he wouldn't want to eat a lot right now.

Sherlock let John lead him into the kitchen blind and sat at the table with his head in his hands. "Do we have Advil, or Aspirin, or something?" he asked quietly as John put the toast in.

Jon nodded, though Sherlock's eyes were still closed. "I'll get you some," he replied, going to do so. John got two tablets and took one of Sherlock's hands, placing the pills in his palm.

"I take three," Sherlock grumbled, though he swallowed the two John gave him dry.

"The bottle says two; you're taking two," John said sternly. "Do you want tea, or just water?"

"Water. Cold, please."

John smiled a little at the please, a rare gesture and Sherlock's way of saying 'I know I'm being a pain right now, so thanks for putting up with me.' He filled another glass and put some ice in it, setting it down beside Sherlock. The water, untouched, was soon joined by toast with minimal butter, the way Sherlock liked it. "Sherlock, you have to drink, you're dehydrated," John sighed, sitting across from the other.

"If I ask you questions, will you answer them to the best of your ability?" Sherlock asked, head still in his hands with his eyes closed, the unspoken "so I know what really happened" understood.

"If you eat while I'm answering," John agreed, to which Sherlock nodded.

"You brought me home from the third house?"

"Yes," John replied as Sherlock took a tiny bite of toast. Then he gave him all three addresses, just to make sure they were on the same page. Sherlock knew already, but appreciated the thought.

"Have you talked to Lestrade since?"

Another small bite. "Just a text this morning saying you were fine."

Sherlock nodded, thinking, his brains still slow and confused from the drugs. "Do you know what they shot me up with?"

"Lestrade said "standard" doses of meth and heroine, John said sort of quietly, using air quotes. Sherlock tensed a little across from him, eyes still closed. "They had valium in a third needle, but I was there by then."

"You came straight from work?"

"Yep."

"Did I go to the hospital?"

"No."

Here Sherlock hesitated again, drinking half the water in his glass, then holding the glass to his temple, letting out a small sigh. "You fought the man you described to me?"

"Yes. Until Lestrade's men got there," he agreed. "He had the third needle." John knew Sherlock would want to know everything, every detail.

"Neither of you had a gun, then?" Sherlock asked, his brow furrowing a little. His toast was getting cold on its plate.

"Correct."

"Was I conscious when you got there?"

John hesitated a second. "Barely."

"You held my hand," Sherlock said quietly. "You told me that it was going to be okay."

"I did," John agreed with a nod, his voice soft.

"Did you think I was going to die?"

John just blinked at Sherlock for a second, shocked and caught off guard not only by the question, but also the calmness with which Sherlock said it. Then he actually thought about it. "No," he decided after a pause. "But I also knew you weren't yourself." If he had been, Sherlock probably would have scoffed at the reassurance.

Sherlock nodded, taking a couple more small bites of toast, the glass of cold water still against his temple. The left one; the right one had the scar from Brett and Khyle's case. "The next thing I remember was another needle, but you were there, and you were insisting it was fine."

"They had to take blood, to know what was in your system," John explained.

"That was outside."

"Yes. In the back of an ambulance on the curb there."

"But then we went back inside…?"

John shook his head. "No. You thought we did. The medics patched us up, then Lestrade drove us home. You fell asleep in the car, and when we got back here, you insisted you were busy on a case, and that we were still at the other house."

"So I'm assuming Dimmock wasn't really there..?"

"Nope. That was Lestrade."

"Then I don't remember much again," Sherlock admitted, then hesitated. He drank the rest of his water, setting the glass of ice back on the table before opening his eyes slowly to look at John. His face was blank. "You called me "love.""

John felt his cheeks flush and momentarily contemplated denying it, but he knew Sherlock would know he was lying. So he decided to just be very honest instead. "Twice."

Sherlock's lips twitched up in a small smile, and he took another bite of toast, then a very deep breath. "I love you too," he said sort of quickly.

John could still feel the heat in his cheeks, but he smiled genuinely, knowing it was hard for Sherlock to admit his feelings so straightforwardly like that. "I only said that once," he replied, a bit sheepishly.

"I want to hear you say it again."

"I'm surprised you heard me say it the first time, frankly," John mumbled, though he was still smiling warmly at Sherlock. "I love you. A lot, alright? So don't go doing stupid things off on your own again, at least for a while, yeah?"

A smile split Sherlock's face. "Yeah," he agreed, taking another bite of toast. He had eaten half of it. Then he closed his eyes again. "Two doesn't work," he complained.

"Maybe it would if you ate your toast," John quipped, getting up to get Sherlock another glass of water. He added another ice cube. "Other than the headache, how do you feel?"

"Awful," Sherlock deadpanned, and John believed him. He was still out of sorts. "Javier knew what I took. Now that I've come back down, I need the high again."

"No you don't," John said firmly, standing behind Sherlock to massage the other man's shoulders. He was tense. "You came down easy; slept right through it." Though his sleep was fitful. "Don't self-destruct on me now."

The hand Sherlock hadn't been using to eat fisted tightly in his curls. "You don't understand. It's like liquid fire is burning through my veins, and only the high can put it out, make me feel right again. I need it, just one more hit, John."

"One turns into three, turns into seven." This was what John had been waiting for, what he had hoped had passed. "You're a genius, Sherlock. Surely you know what that stuff does to your head."

"John?" Sherlock asked, his voice sounding like an odd sort of mix between desperate and afraid. "Two things. I need you to promise not to leave me, not to let me give in," he pleaded, eyes squeezed shut and both hands fisted in his hair now.

"Was already planning on it," John assured, to which Sherlock nodded. "The second thing?"

"Talk," Sherlock said plainly. "About anything, as long as it keeps my attention and isn't about drugs. If you can tell I stopped listening, pinch me. Hard."

John nodded and gently untangled Sherlock's fists from his hair, lacing their fingers with one hand and taking the glass with the other. "Come here," he instructed quietly, leading Sherlock over to the couch. John sat on one end, and Sherlock lay across it, his head in John's lap and their fingers tightly intertwined.

And John started to talk. He talked about Harry, growing up with her. About his parents, something he very rarely did. About his first love and first time, because he had never told Sherlock after he had told John his. About the army, though he had to pinch Sherlock there, most likely because he had slowed down and not because Sherlock was disinterested. That was another thing he almost never spoke about, and a lot of the memories weren't exactly good, but he knew Sherlock liked hearing him talk about it, knowing that part of John's life. He talked about Sherlock, about meeting him and living with him, and eventually being in a relationship with him.

Sherlock listened fairly intently throughout, body tense and hand tight in John's. Sometimes he would stare at the ceiling, or at John, but most of the time he kept his eyes shut. "Sherlock and John."

It was the first thing he had interjected with, and John stopped midsentence about Sherlock having lost his dramatic coat being a shame to look down at him in confusion. "Sorry, what?" he asked, not following.

"You keep thinking about what to call us in your head, how to introduce us together, a label. Boyfriends sounds too immature, too much like high school. Partners sounds too official, businesslike. Lovers is close, but sounds like we're just shagging each other. Plus, I've never much liked labels anyway. I'm your Sherlock. And you're my John. Simple. True. Completely understandable," Sherlock explained as if that had been what John was talking about and it were completely relevant.

John stared at Sherlock for a moment, then smiled, nodding. "I like it," he approved, squeezing Sherlock's hand.

"Keep talking," Sherlock instructed, returning the squeeze as John complied.

For nearly three hours.

He pinched Sherlock nine times.

Sherlock drank four more glasses of water, refilling them each himself as John talked. But other than that, he barely moved. After the fourth glass, he sat up and kissed John passionately. "You can stop now," he said. "Thank you."

"Good, because I was starting to run out of things to talk about," John replied with a good-natured smile.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "How can you run out of things to talk about? There are quite literally billions of things."

"You're welcome," John said with a small chuckle.

Sherlock looked at him oddly. "I said thank you."

"It wasn't a prompt for you to," John responded, shaking his head. "I was replying to your thank you." And cutting his snark off. Sherlock really didn't get social cues sometimes.

But the detective just nodded, looking up at John from where his head again rested in the other man's lap. "I want to go back on the case."

"No," John said almost immediately. "You are taking today off."

Sherlock huffed agitatedly at him. "Then I want to take you out," he said next.

"Where?" John asked, raising a curious eyebrow.

"A club."

A/N: Another long chapter. Maybe my first ones were just exceptionally short and this is more "normal"? Oh well. Hope that can hold you off until I can get the next chapter out and up.

I did some minor drug research, but if anything is too blatantly inaccurate, feel free to let me know and I can change it.