The black car is not uncomfortable, but it's been a while since John has ridden in a proper vehicle. It feels strange. What makes it more unusual is that Mycroft is seated beside him. Riding back to 221B.
"Is he there right now?"
"What would your guess be?"
He lets out a sigh. "Don't, Mycroft. I really need… You knew I didn't want him there, you knew that."
"And you should know that I did everything I could to keep him at bay. To keep him estranged and distant. At least, physically distant."
"How did you fail to control him this time, then?"
"He had a passionate but admittedly childish fit and refused to be removed. Even brutally injured one of my men in the process."
"Brutally injured? What, has he gone rabid?"
"I wouldn't say rabid, Dr. Watson. But then again I wouldn't know what to say. The Holmes' have never specialized in the ways of human desire."
John scoffs. "Desire. Is that your word or his?"
Mycroft smiles and peers out the window. John feels frustrated. He doesn't understand why Sherlock has to be so disrespectful. After everything he's been through—for Sherlock, at his own expense—he would like a bit of time, in his own flat, to sort through his things and figure out where he wants his life to be. He had no future without Sherlock and now he wonders if he can re-envision one with him. Is it possible? Does he still love Sherlock in the same way? At all?
The door of the flat opens before Mycroft or John even reach out for the handle. Sherlock looks manic, as though he hasn't slept in days. Thin, pale and alarming. Eyes like holes of light. Normally when he was in this state John would drop everything and tend to him. It always had something to do with a case that needed to be put to rest. Right now John is the unsolved mystery, the uncontrollable outcome. And John pushes past Sherlock and heads for his bedroom, a place he hasn't seen in almost three months. On his way he notices how put together the place looks. It seems artificial, in a way. To be honest, he doesn't remember what state he left it in. He is thankful it's clean and chokes back embarrassment for what Sherlock may have seen upon entering. There would have been so much information for those holes of light to take in.
When he enters his room he shuts the door behind him and sets his bag down on the bed. Sherlock has erased all traces of Mary. While he puts his clothes away he looks through the closet and drawers. There are no forgotten garments or even stray blonde hairs. Sherlock was extremely thorough. John solemnly realizes that he was serious about bringing things back to exactly where they were before Moriarty, before the fall. Maybe the whole thing really was, somehow, to protect him. But then, how could he be so important to such a vivid man?
The small mirror mounted on his wall bears minimal dust. He looks at his reflection, looks around at his room, back at himself. Still looks the same, he thinks. Same as before I went under. Funny, that. Barely anything has changed at all. What's changed is how I see him. Mycroft is right, of course. My commitment to Sherlock hasn't changed. I am just… so afraid. To go back to that place, to be vulnerable. To let myself be swept away by him a second time. Danger. But, God, hasn't danger always felt right.
After some time to himself, hearing the soft murmur of voices outside, John hears silence. More than hears. He feels the silence, and it brings him to stand up and open the door.
Sherlock is sitting in his chair.
Sherlock. Tapping his fingers and toes. He sees John and becomes motionless, as if awaiting a sentence. A wave of relief comes over John and he realizes his gratitude for this man. Alive. Waiting upon him.
He crosses the room and climbs onto Sherlock, straddles him, takes his face in his hands and kisses him with full abandon. Sherlock responds immediately and without pause. He shifts John's weight against him and stands up, carries him into the bedroom, lays him gently on the bed. Swiftly he yanks John's pants down about his feet and throws them on the floor. Then he stands and undresses his own lower half quickly, takes his turn to climb on top of his lover. He wants John to know his importance and his worth. Sherlock wants to pleasure him until he falls apart and never let him go.
They fuck until they come to conclusion. All of the things that John was so afraid of losing, he never lost at all. What did I do to deserve this?, he thinks. All of this terror and beauty.