"Will you leave me, if I do it?"
"I'll never leave you."
"That's the only thing that could have stopped me."
Sherlock raised the gun and fired.
All the timings in this chapter relate back to this moment, which took place in June.
One Minute After The Shooting
John stared at Sherlock, who hadn't changed his position but who was now looking over at John, his face displaying a mixture of defiance and uncertainty.
Defiant because he didn't regret it, and uncertain because he wasn't sure how John would feel about it, John deduced. He glanced down at what had been Moriarty, then back up to Sherlock's face.
"Good shot," he said.
Some of the tension in Sherlock's posture eased and he adopted a much more familiar 'I'm surrounded by idiots' expression. "Really, John - I may not be a marksman by your standards, but even a fool could hardly miss from this distance," he pointed out, turning at last and moving away from the body.
John smiled and took a step towards him, reaching out for the gun which Sherlock surrendered without protest. "Right, that's it," he said. "You are watching Life of Brian, I don't care if you hate it. At least you'll pick up on thirty per cent more of my references, and understand what Lestrade and I are on about - I know how much you loathe feeling out of the loop."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "We should get out of here," he said. "There were four armed men waiting near the hotel to intercept you, they may return."
John cocked his head to one side and looked at him. "Or... we could collect my gun from upstairs and see if they do?" he suggested.
Sherlock smiled.
One Hour After The Shooting
"For God's sake, don't shoot anybody else!" Mycroft's voice was sharper than usual and Sherlock held the phone away from his ear slightly.
"I don't think there is anyone else," he replied. "John is extremely effective." He looked over to where one of Mycroft's team was examining the scrape on John's face and wiping it with disinfectant. John looked bored, until he caught Sherlock's eye and grinned.
"Indeed," retorted Mycroft primly, but Sherlock barely heard him. He felt a powerful desire to be away from all these people and all this fuss. Just himself and John. Together. Alone. Preferably naked and as soon as possible.
"We're leaving," he announced, both to Mycroft and to the Team Leader whose phone he was using, hanging up abruptly and handing the device back. The man caught his arm as he went to move away and Sherlock bristled angrily, tugging himself free. He opened his mouth to protest, feeling a surge of outrage at being manhandled after his experience with Moriarty, but another unseen hand landed on his arm and all his anger drained away. Sherlock was smiling even before he turned around.
"Ready to go?" John asked.
"Not yet," the Team Leader interjected. "I need some more information before you are cleared to depart." His attention was abruptly distracted and he raised a hand to his earpiece, focusing on something in the distance.
Standing side by side, waiting, John nudged Sherlock with his elbow. "Makes us sound like airplanes," he muttered.
"The word is 'aeroplane', John. I've told you before." Sherlock didn't need to look round to be aware of the eye rolling.
"You can talk," John complained. " What about 'It's for bats'?" He referenced the words Sherlock had thrown at Moriarty earlier.
Sherlock shrugged. "Well, I had to say something," he defended. "I hoped it might confuse him. It worked on me."
When the Team Leader turned back to them, they were both giggling.
oOo
It was another hour before they managed to escape, but at least they got a lift back to the hotel.
Sherlock led the way into their room and started to move towards the bed, but slowed to a stop half way there as if his feet suddenly forgot where they were taking him. The adrenaline was fading, leaving him feeling disassociated from his surroundings. He looked around, finding it almost incomprehensible that they had been in this room together earlier on this very same day... it seemed like a different lifetime.
The door clicked and he turned to see John walking towards him purposefully, all traces of humour wiped from his face. Sherlock started to raise his arms, wanting nothing more than to embrace him, but John paused just out of reach. He then stepped forward, stretched up, and very deliberately kissed the side of Sherlock's jaw, pushing both hands into his hair and stroking through it.
Next, he rested his hands on Sherlock's shoulders and moved to his ear, nibbling and kissing all around it. Then he pulled back. "Where else?" he asked.
Sherlock stared at him, feeling a most unaccountable prickling sensation behind his eyes.
"He didn't...?" John glanced downwards, betraying the direction his thoughts had taken.
Sherlock shook his head. "No, nothing like that," he said, shuddering at the idea before cutting off that train of thought abruptly.
He raised a hand to his neck, indicating first the side where Moriarty had licked, then all around his throat. John pulled his collar out of the way but then froze, inhaling sharply and Sherlock realised that the attempted choking must have left finger marks on his skin. Feeling suddenly and irrationally ashamed, he stepped back, pulling his shirt tighter again.
"I'm sorry," John said, his hand falling back to his side and Sherlock turned away, walking to the window and gazing out but not really seeing anything. He raised one hand to the frame, leaning his weight on it.
"It was wrong," he said, his voice low. "It was so, so wrong." He could feel that hand moving over his skin again, sliding down over his chest and touching him. The sense memory was extremely powerful and resisted all attempts to delete it. His stomach roiled in protest.
"Do you want me to go?" asked John's quiet voice behind him. "It's all right if you want to be alone for a while. Whatever you need."
"I need a bath." He didn't move, or say anything more and after a moment he heard John walking away, then the taps running in the en suite. Lucky their room had been upgraded, he thought. Just a shower would have been unsuitable for what he wanted.
When the water stopped running he turned around, seeing John hovering uncertainly next to the bathroom doorway. Taking a deep breath, Sherlock started stripping off his clothes, throwing them carelessly onto the bed with the exception of his shirt, which he dumped straight in the bin. He knew he'd never wear it again. Keeping his shorts on for now, he headed towards the bathroom, grabbing John's wrist on the way past and tugging him through the doorway behind him.
Once inside the room, which was already warm and filling with steam, he turned, waving his arm impatiently to indicate the superfluous nature of John's clothing. John rectified the situation with impressive speed, although his hands hesitated at the waistband of his shorts. Sherlock huffed and stripped off his own and John followed suit, although he looked uncomfortable.
"I'm sorry," he said. "But... you're naked; I can't help it."
Sherlock looked down. Ah.
"I don't expect anything, I'm not..." John was still talking and Sherlock cut off his words.
"Bath," he said. "Now."
It was some twenty minutes later, as Sherlock used his toes to add more hot water to the fantastically large bathtub, that he reflected it had actually been easier to tell John about what had happened when he couldn't see him. He wondered if this was because he had first talked about feelings and emotions when he had been blind; while the fleeting thought that they should get a bath like this at home chased across a different level of his brain. He leaned back against John's chest, feeling warm arms wrap more securely around his waist.
"No-one can touch me but you," he announced, very decidedly. "Not ever."
"Not ever," John echoed behind him, and Sherlock could easily identify the possessive note in his voice. He smiled. John's lips brushed cautiously along his neck and Sherlock tipped his head to the side to indicate his approval for the action. The kisses travelled down, pausing at the site of one of the finger marks which he desperately wished he could erase.
"How do you feel about love bites?" John asked, and Sherlock was briefly speechless in awe at the brilliance of his chosen partner, which, of course, reflected well on his own genius in selecting so wisely.
"Ones that mark," John continued. "Not permanently, of course, but enough to cover other bruises."
"Hypothetically and in general terms, I would be dubious," Sherlock replied. "At this moment and for this purpose, I would be grateful."
He hadn't really expected to be aroused by John's actions, bearing in mind their motivation, but there was no denying his body's response as John sucked on his neck. When the time came for him to tilt his head to the other side, Sherlock took both of John's hands and slid them up over his chest.
"Are you sure?" John breathed against his skin. "Don't push yourself too hard, it's fine if you need time." His hands were flat, just resting where Sherlock had left them. "I know you said what happened was minor, I know we've both seen much worse, but this is you, Sherlock. You're not like anybody else."
Sherlock considered. He would have to admit there was a part of him which didn't want to be touched at all, which wanted to be alone, as he had always been alone, wrapped in the familiar layer of isolation which insulated him as surely as his beloved coat. But Sherlock was not about to let Moriarty take this away from him. Or from John. There was no benefit to waiting.
"Only you, John," he confirmed. "Only you, for all of my life." There was no point being coy at this stage.
John stilled behind him, and for a moment Sherlock wondered if he had said too much.
"I need to kiss you now, if that's all right?" John asked, and Sherlock turned his head, raising his face and closing his eyes in acceptance of John's kiss... opening his mouth in welcome, holding nothing back as his arm rose and wrapped around John's neck, fingers tangling in his hair and scratching lightly up and down.
The kiss was wonderful; deep, exploratory, reciprocated. An affirmation. After a while, Sherlock tried to turn into it, the angle being awkward as it was, but John gradually pulled back... gentling his possession of Sherlock's mouth into several kisses with a slight gap in between, the gap getting longer until he murmured, "Later."
Sighing but compliant, Sherlock resumed his former pose, lying back against John once more, head pillowed on his right shoulder. In practical terms it made much more sense for them to lie the other way round, given their height difference, but it was Sherlock who needed comfort right now... and he was not ashamed to take it from John.
John was doing something, he realised, still lying with his eyes closed. He listened to the snap of a bottle top, then felt something soft running along his collar bones. A sponge, he recognised, with some kind of cleaning agent applied to it. He inhaled. Interesting; John was using his own shower gel rather than the brand Sherlock usually favoured, which he knew had been next to it on the shelf. Was it just habit to select that one, or… he breathed in again. No, it was almost certainly deliberate. The smell was one he associated strongly with John. It made Sherlock feel safe.
The sponge was circling over his upper chest now, gradually moving downwards, and John resumed his kisses along the side of Sherlock's neck - gentler than before but still very pleasant. The sponge skimmed lightly across his nipples and Sherlock's toes flexed against the enamel of the bath tub… very pleasant indeed.
John carried on washing him, running the sponge over each arm in turn, lifting his hands and brushing along and between his fingers, circling over his palm then up over his wrist and along the sensitive skin to his inner elbow - always gentle, but with just enough pressure to be soothing rather than ticklish. Back to his chest again, rubbing with a little more pressure this time over one nipple and then the other as Sherlock's breath caught, then the sponge stroked down... but only as far as his waist, at which point John dropped it into the water and slid both hands back up.
Within seconds, all thoughts of Moriarty - indeed, all thoughts of anything - had fled as John rubbed his thumbs over both nipples at once, alternately stroking firmly across, and making circles around them. Sherlock could feel his body responding in an unequivocal manner and he opened his eyes, looking down at the hands which could only be John's hands, which he would recognise among a thousand others, as they touched him.
He turned his head to glance up, only to see that John was looking also... and Sherlock felt that gaze on his skin, following it down until they were both watching as John's fingers pinched together and pulled at him, seeing his nipples grow hard and elongate under the attention, feeling the heat building in his groin as the fingers rolled and rubbed and watching them do it, knowing that John was watching too.
Eventually, Sherlock's head fell back, toes curling at the edge of the bathtub, and John's left hand slipped away, shifting Sherlock's body slightly sideways and tilting his face so that John could lean round and kiss him, which he did... deeply and hungrily. He wasn't aggressive, exactly, but certainly more forceful than normal. Sherlock felt as if John were re-establishing his rights in the wake of Moriarty's claims to be his 'perfect match', demonstrating how well he knew and understood every physical reaction and Sherlock didn't fight him, didn't compete for dominance, just kissed him back and let John secure his place once more.
After a few minutes, John's hand moved purposefully down and soon Sherlock was gasping into the kiss, making no attempt to restrain himself or hold back at all, words spilling out of him and he just let them go because John was here, and Moriarty was dead, and they had survived, and he loved John, and John wasn't perfect but he was perfect for Sherlock... absolutely perfect for Sherlock in every way.
One Week After The Shooting
"What would you have done?"
The question caused John to raise his head from the newspaper, but Sherlock wasn't looking at him - he was staring down at the screen of his laptop, sitting in his chair with his knees pulled up as if he were a Jack ready to be stuffed into the box.
"Concerning what?" John queried, but Sherlock didn't answer. As usual.
John knew, anyway, but Sherlock wouldn't actually talk about it... he just kept popping out these tangential questions then shying away from them again. John sighed.
"Well, I would have broken his neck rather than shooting him," he said. "That would have raised less questions."
Sherlock looked up, an arrested expression on his face. "You could just break his neck?" he asked. "Really?"
John shrugged. Shock value certainly seemed to be more effective than the softly, softly approach.
Sherlock was staring at him, gaze moving down to his hands, then back up to his face again. "Come here, John," he said, his eyes gleaming in a way which made John's pulse race. "Come here right now."
That wasn't quite the result John had being going for, but he'd take it.
oOo
It was much later, and John was almost asleep when Sherlock's voice spoke into the semi-darkness of the bedroom.
"I don't regret it," he said.
John's level of alertness shot up, but he kept his breathing rate slow and spoke cautiously. "I know you don't."
"I would do it again."
John didn't doubt it. "Of course you would," he said.
It was quiet for a long time and John wondered if that was it.
"Do you see me differently now?"
John sighed and rolled over. "That would be rather hypocritical of me, don't you think?" he replied.
"That's not what I asked."
"Then, no," John said firmly. "I don't believe you should advocate something unless you're willing to do it yourself." He looked up at Sherlock, who was staring at the ceiling.
"You shouldn't vote for the death penalty unless you'd be willing to throw the switch," he said "or eat bacon if you couldn't kill a pig – not that everyone has to go round killing pigs before tucking into a 'Full English', but if you can't stomach even the thought of doing something yourself, then you shouldn't expect other people to do it for you."
Sherlock was silent.
"You must have known your argument was specious," John pressed on. "Moriarty would never have gone to prison. If you hadn't killed him, I most certainly would have, or the task would have fallen to Mycroft." He stretched out a hand, just resting it on Sherlock's shoulder. "You did it yourself. I think that was... brave," he said.
"He said it was what he would do," Sherlock pointed out and it struck John that this was the heart of the matter. This was the concept that was sticking in Sherlock's head and throwing him off his game, just as Moriarty had no doubt intended.
"That may be true," John replied. "But would he have lost sleep over it afterwards?"
"I'm not losing sleep." Sherlock sounded defensive. "I never sleep much."
John tried to gather his thoughts into something coherent. "Look, in the movies the bad guy always pulls a gun at the last moment, so the hero is miraculously justified and the whole thing is self-defence," he said, remembering the interminable 'Han shot first' rants one of his comrades always used to go off on after his fourth beer. "But real life isn't like that. Sometimes you have to make difficult choices... and then you have to live with them afterwards."
Something in his tone seemed to catch Sherlock's attention and he turned his head, regarding John intently. "I haven't even asked you," he said, sounding dismayed with himself. "The guards round the house… Seb… Helen… are you all right?"
John made a face. "Of course I'm all right," he said, but he looked away, rolling onto his back. "They were all the enemy, all armed, all dangerous, all standing between me and my objective."
"Which was me."
"Which was you." That helped. Nothing was more important than Sherlock.
The thought gave him pause. Perhaps his customary stoicism was not helping Sherlock at the moment? John sighed. He might be a lot more open than Sherlock in most areas, but this was one topic he usually kept well under wraps. He raised an arm, pushing his fingers through his hair.
"I feel a little badly about the woman," he admitted eventually. "Which is stupid and Harry would give me an earful, but there it is."
He could feel Sherlock's eyes on him. "She was your first shot in the house? The one which caused Seb to go looking?"
John nodded.
"But she was armed?" Sherlock checked.
"Oh, yes." John remembered the surprisingly large revolver the woman had produced and aimed at his head. She had been very fast.
"And she would have killed you?"
"Most definitely."
Sherlock didn't say anything more, but he was no doubt confused. John sighed again. "I could have just incapacitated her," he said. "Gone for the shoulder, taken her gun. I almost did."
"But?"
"But I didn't know how many more there would be and I was on my own. Even an injured opponent is potentially dangerous, can raise the alarm, might have other weapons on them which they're still capable of using. It's a risk and the odds were too high."
Sherlock was quiet for a while. "What about Seb?"
John snorted. "Oh, I won't lose any sleep over him," he said. "Creepy little fucker." He paused. "Sorry."
"No, that's fair," Sherlock said, with feeling. "He wasn't your biggest fan. Called himself Moriarty's 'Doctor', because of you."
"His Doctor? Really? That's… weird."
"Indeed," Sherlock replied. "He was angry over our relationship. Said you'd taken liberties."
John huffed. "Probably just jealous," he said. "After all, Moriarty didn't seem to give a flying… care that he'd vanished."
Sherlock was silent and John rolled over again to look at him. He was still staring at the ceiling but he looked slightly less tense. He turned his head and smiled at John.
"That's true, isn't it?" he said. "Seb may have been loyal to Moriarty but the reverse wasn't the case at all." He rolled over so they were facing each other and draped his arm loosely round John's waist. "I am no more like Moriarty than you are like Seb," he decided.
He was asleep within minutes.
Three Months After The Shooting
"You're staring at my chest again," Sherlock commented, still typing on his laptop. "Any particular reason?"
His peripheral vision picked up the way John froze in place, leaning against the kitchen doorway where he had been absent-mindedly wiping a mug with a tea-towel. "Sorry," he said.
Sherlock looked up. "You've been doing it on and off for a week," he observed. "And whatever you've been trying to wipe off that mug for the last five minutes is presumably either gone for good or there to stay."
John looked down at the cup in his hand as if it had personally betrayed him, then he shrugged.
Sherlock waited, one eyebrow quirked.
John squirmed. "Fine," he said, abandoning the mug and moving to his chair. "I was thinking about what it would be like if you had your nipple pierced."
Sherlock was startled, which rarely happened to him around anyone but John. "And why would I want to do that?" he asked.
"You're very sensitive," John pointed out. "It could be… stimulating. And it… appeals to me, on some level," he admitted. "It's the only way I'd ever get a ring on you, after all. You hardly seem the marrying type."
Sherlock grimaced.
"Not to worry," John said. "Just a thought." He smiled. "You could bear it in mind if you don't know what to get me for Christmas."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I'm confident I can think of something suitable which will not require me to mutilate myself," he said, and went back to work.
oOo
A week later he found the conversation popping back into his head as he made his way to the morgue. Was he actually considering such an odd procedure, just to make John happy? He shook his head and lengthened his stride, putting the idea out of his mind. Ridiculous.
Sherlock's steps faltered as he drew level with the viewing window overlooking the autopsy tables. Not what it looks like, his mind announced immediately, reminding himself that John had arranged to meet him here and knew he was on his way. Furthermore, loyalty was one of John's most dominant character traits. He would never be unfaithful - it was out of the question.
Neither of these facts made the slightest impact on the churning sensation in Sherlock's stomach as he looked down on John and Molly, locked in an embrace in the room below. Even as he watched, John pulled back slightly, but then raised one hand to Molly's cheek, smoothing her hair behind her ear.
Sherlock found that he was gritting his teeth, but checked his initial impulse to turn around and leave. Instead he continued on, down the stairs and round the corner, banging open the door with no more than his usual abruptness; his face carefully blank.
John glanced round and smiled at him, but he didn't release Molly. "Look, he even fooled Sherlock," he said, turning back to her. "What chance did we mere mortals have?"
Not this again. Was the bloody woman never going to get over it?
John stepped back, gripping her shoulders. "Come on, chin up," he told her. "No-one blames you." He turned to Sherlock, one arm still around Molly's shoulders. "Do they, Sherlock?" he asked.
Sherlock opened his mouth. Then closed it again. He looked at John's face, so open, showing nothing but honest concern. He pictured how that face would change if he gave vent to the words in his mind. "No," he said. "No-one blames you, Molly."
oOo
Later that evening, he brooded in his chair until John stopped banging around in the kitchen and sat down opposite.
"Out with it," he demanded. "What's got your knickers in a knot this time?"
Sherlock curled his lip. "Really, John. Where do you dredge up these dreadful expressions?" he queried. "You watch far too much television."
John tipped his head to one side. "Are you going to go ahead and talk to me or do we need to take this to the bedroom?" he asked, which wasn't quite the proposition it sounded like. John had a theory that important or difficult conversations should take place in bed as often as possible, and preferably naked so that neither party could storm off in a huff too quickly.
Sherlock frowned. Talking. The big relationship downside as far as he was concerned, but John wouldn't let him get away with anything, had actually sat on him more than once and refused to let him up... and there was no breaking one of John's holds when he didn't want you to. Although Sherlock had managed to successfully distract him that last time, he remembered. Seeing him helpless certainly seemed to push some of John's buttons, which was odd as he appeared perfectly happy for Sherlock to top almost all of the time. Interesting. He filed the thought away for later consideration.
"You're bi-sexual," he said, eventually.
"I'm aware," replied John, and Sherlock frowned. "Sorry," John added. "Go on."
"So you enjoy sex with both men and women."
John looked at him oddly. "Not any more," he pointed out. "Now I only enjoy sex with you."
"But won't you miss women?" Sherlock asked. "Being with women, I mean. If that's a part of your nature, your sexual identity, won't you want it again at some point?"
John looked surprised, and a bit hurt. "I would never be unfaithful to you, Sherlock," he said. "Surely you know that?"
Sherlock waved his arm. "Don't be ridiculous, John. Of course I know that."
"Then what's the problem?" John asked, looking bemused.
Sherlock felt a little uncomfortable. "It's not enough," he said.
John just looked at him blankly and Sherlock gave an awkward half-shrug. "It's not enough that you won't betray me," he admitted. "I don't want you to want to."
"Bloody hell!" exclaimed John. "You take possessiveness to a whole new level, don't you?" He shook his head. "I barely even see anyone else when you're in the room... it's takes all my energy just to focus on anything that isn't you. Bloody awkward at a crime scene, I can tell you."
"What about when I'm not in the room?" Sherlock couldn't help asking, thinking back to the scene with Molly.
John huffed. "Then I'm probably admiring your arse as we chase down a suspect," he said. "Sorry, backside."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I think I can cope with 'arse' by now, John," he said.
"What's brought this on?" John asked. "Is this about running into Andy the other week? Oh, but no, you said women..."
He was clearly thinking but Sherlock's attention had already been diverted by the mention of John's ex. One of John's exes. A very chatty and outgoing character who'd had half the pub laughing when they encountered him on an ill fated social outing. Short blond hair, brown eyes, muscular, not too bright. About as different to Sherlock Holmes as it was possible to get. He had loudly announced that any man who snared John Watson was a lucky bastard and John had pushed Sherlock out of the door and taken him home before he could start on the blistering character assessment he had lined up.
The unvented words still rankled. "I don't understand how you could go from someone like him to someone like me," Sherlock objected now, making John jump. "He's an idiot."
John sighed. "He's an architect, Sherlock. Not an idiot at all."
"He let you go, didn't he?" That seemed fairly definitive.
"Not by choice." John sounded vaguely regretful, but then he shook his head. "So, is Andy the problem?" he asked. "Or is it something else that's bugging you?"
Sherlock bristled. "I wasn't the one who wanted to talk," he said.
"No, you were the one brooding like an overgrown chicken," John retorted. "Don't give me that, Sherlock. You've got something on your mind so spit it out."
"I don't want sex as much as you do."
John froze for a moment. "Is that a complaint or an observation?"
"The latter."
"So you're not unhappy with how we are right now? You're not finding me too demanding or wishing I would back off?"
"No."
John smiled. "OK, then," he said. "So, you have a lower sex drive than me. That's not exactly startling news. You seem just as keen as I am when you do feel like it, would that be fair?"
"Yes, definitely. But you seem to want it all the time. When I'm involved in a case I don't want to be distracted. Or sometimes I just want to play the violin. Or kiss. I like kissing and sometimes that's enough."
"Can I come over there?" John asked. "I'm feeling a powerful urge to kiss you right now."
Sherlock smiled, and it was some time before the conversation was resumed. By this point, they had relocated to the sofa and were stretched out together.
"What about my always wanting to be on top?" Sherlock queried, as John's kisses trailed down his neck. "Don't you miss doing that more?"
John chuckled against his skin, then raised his head. "Bloody hell, I don't care," he said. "I'd have you upside down, sideways, or swinging from the ceiling if that's the only way I could. It doesn't matter."
Sherlock cast a glance at the ceiling dubiously, then dismissed the idea. "You feel like that now," he said, "but if we're going to be together for a long time…"
"Which we are," John interrupted, kissing him again.
Sherlock hid a smile. It was almost too easy. Then he carried on, "Ultimately, wouldn't you miss it?"
John shrugged "I don't know. I won't miss it enough to look for it elsewhere, I can promise you that. If it becomes an issue we'll talk about it, OK? Hell, you'll probably know before I do."
He dropped his head again, kissing Sherlock's mouth this time, hands pushing into his hair, and Sherlock found his thoughts drifting a little out of reach until John pulled back again.
"Look, there's no point worrying about my past or what I may or may not want in the future," he said. "As long as we talk to each other, we'll be fine." Sherlock must have looked unconvinced, because he pressed on. "If you're going to go down this road, then I could mention that you don't even know what you might want in a few years time."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow, unclear as to the point, and John regarded him steadily. "Not that I'd be in favour of this but, scientifically speaking, shouldn't you try sex with other people than me?" he asked. "With another man? With a woman? With more..."
"Stop!" demanded Sherlock, feeling nauseous. "You've made your point." He pulled John down into a hug, wrapping his arms around him tightly. "No-one but you, John," he said, pressing his face into John's neck and inhaling deeply. "Not ever."
After a few minutes, he started thinking about John's request again. Well, not request exactly, but statement of interest. He decided it was best to nip that one in the bud and establish the obvious problems.
"My shirts are very fitted," he pointed out, loosening his hold on John, who propped himself up on his elbows.
"I know," he replied, smiling.
Perhaps he hadn't understood what Sherlock was driving at. "A piercing would show through," he explained.
John's smile grew wider. "It would," he agreed.
Ah. Not quite the deterrent Sherlock had anticipated. He resorted to what he felt was the definitive problem. "I don't want some stranger touching me."
John tipped his head to one side. "Pity you don't know any doctors who could do it," he said.
Sherlock subsided.
John smirked and kissed him again.
The thoughts swirled around Sherlock's head. He still felt vaguely uneasy. It was all very well for John to say he didn't care and that he was happy with what they had, but that situation would not continue indefinitely. It seemed to him that John was giving up more than he was getting, and that was all wrong. There must be something he wanted that didn't include interrupting cases or perforating him.
The half-formed idea he'd shelved earlier came back to him and, the next time his mouth was free, he asked about it. "You seem to enjoy holding me down?"
John looked startled and began to roll off him. Sherlock pulled him back. "I don't mean now," he said. "Obviously. I was thinking of that last time when you were trying to get me to talk… ah, I see you remember."
John was flushing, which Sherlock regarded with interest. He had been so convinced during his blindness that he would be able to work out all John's fantasies once he could see his face, but actually it was surprisingly difficult. Perhaps the personal involvement was getting in the way.
John seemed willing to talk about it, anyway. "Do you remember the massage?" he asked. "No, don't answer that, of course you do," he continued, before Sherlock could respond. "Do you remember stretching up at one point and gripping the railings?"
"You put your hands over mine," Sherlock recalled. "It was almost as if you were restraining me."
John looked slightly abashed, but it didn't hide his excitement. "Exactly," he said. "Sometimes…" He seemed to be struggling to proceed, but then he took a deep breath and tried again. "Sometimes, I think about tying you up." He ducked his head down as if nervous of Sherlock's reaction, then looked back up cautiously. "But being in control was such an issue for you, I never thought it was worth mentioning."
Sherlock felt somewhat alarmed. He had been on a case once involving this sort of thing and various pieces of equipment, many of them painful looking, were featuring on a slide show in his head. He was almost tempted to go back to the topic of piercing.
"I don't want to hurt you, if that's what you're thinking," John said quickly.
"Then what?" Sherlock asked, endeavouring to conceal his relief more effectively than he had hidden his concern.
John gave him a half smile "I want you restrained and helpless," he said, his hand wrapping round Sherlock's wrist and raising it above his head, holding it there in demonstration.
"I want to be able to touch you wherever I want, with whatever I want, for as long as I want." His voice was dropping, and now he had the other wrist in his grasp.
"I want to take you apart and have you be unable to stop me." He raised that wrist also and held it in place, kneeling over Sherlock now.
"I want you to switch off from everything else and focus only on me." He looked at Sherlock the way Sherlock imagined he often looked at John, with possessiveness and ownership in his gaze.
"I want to be your whole world," he said.
Sherlock swallowed. He stared up at a John who was harder edged than the one he was used to seeing at home, more soldier than doctor.
"I'll think about it," he said.
"That will make two of us," John remarked, exhaling shakily and releasing his hold. He lay down again, but not straight on top of Sherlock this time, more on his side, squashed against the back of the sofa. It seemed he was honouring the 'just kissing' proposal from earlier.
After five minutes cooling off time, Sherlock turned onto his side and got on with that plan. It went very well.
"I have a confession," John admitted after a while, his words ghosting over Sherlock's jaw. He didn't wait for a response. "I like kissing, too," he murmured, against Sherlock's ear this time, his warm breath sending tingles spreading in a radial pattern. "In fact, I love it. It's a big deal for me; I hate it when people treat it like trailers at the movies, just something they've got to sit through before they can get to the main event."
Sherlock was surprised. "You must have regretted that kiss embargo, then," he suggested, tipping his head back as John's attentions moved down his neck. He thought about how difficult he had found it, and it must surely have been worse for John, who had more idea what he was missing.
"Worth it," he replied, and Sherlock made an enquiring noise.
"That was one of the reasons, actually," John explained, nibbling his way back up Sherlock's throat. "I was hoping the deprivation would make you keener later on – like with kids who aren't allowed sweets at all becoming complete sugar addicts when they grow up." He'd arrived back at Sherlock's mouth by this point and delved in again, stroking the tip of his tongue along the edge of Sherlock's. It felt gorgeously intimate.
When he pulled away and edged along to the other ear, Sherlock finally assimilated his words. "So, I was an experiment?" he asked, feeling oddly proud. He'd make a scientist of John yet.
"Not just any experiment," John promised, sucking the lobe into his mouth then releasing it. "You were the most important experiment of my life." He raised his head and Sherlock smirked up at him.
"As I should be," he said.
Four Months After The Shooting
"His face when you…" John ran out of breath - giggling and running were a tough combination, however fit you were.
Sherlock leaned against him on the doorstep, making no attempt to get his key into the lock. "Stop it, John," he pleaded. "I can't breathe."
John tipped forward to rest his hands on his knees. "I've never seen anyone drop a gun so fast," he gasped. "You were brilliant."
"I'm always brilliant," Sherlock replied, and that set them off again until John straightened up, the laughter gradually fading as they stared at each other... then both spoke at once.
"Hallway," they said.
After that, it was a fight to open the door, which Sherlock won by dint of picking John's keys out of his pocket and holding them high out of reach, even though that sort of behaviour had clearly been designated as cheating during previous encounters. John decided all bets were off and tickled him, which caused Sherlock to shriek in a range a good two octaves above his normal tones and they both froze as the door swung open, listening for any sound from their landlady.
"Not your best idea, John," Sherlock muttered, but John just grinned and shoved him back against the wall, pushing the door closed behind them.
"I didn't even know your voice went that high," he said, kissing the annoyance off Sherlock's face as he slipped his hands under the coat and started tugging at clothes.
Sherlock flinched away. "Hands!" he objected. "Cold hands! For God's sake, why won't you wear the gloves I bought…"
John shut him up again. Fussy bugger. His hands would warm up soon enough and John fully intended to stick them anywhere he fancied. He smiled against Sherlock's mouth. It was a long list.
There were other hands wandering by this stage, Sherlock adopting his preferred method of bringing John up to his height, which was basically to grab his arse and pull him up onto his toes. John loved it. He leaned forward, resting his full weight against Sherlock and thrusting his hands into the much missed curls, kissing him hungrily until Sherlock spun them around and pushed his thigh between John's legs, rocking against him as they kissed, one hand still firmly holding John in place, the other slipping between their bodies, under John's clothes and up over his chest.
He still had his gloves on, John noticed, groaning at the realisation. The cool leather stroking over his skin felt incredible and when it started flicking across his nipple, John's head fell back against the wall and he had to bite his lip to keep himself quiet. Sherlock was hard and hot against him - this was clearly not a 'just kissing' night - and John put both hands on top of Sherlock's shoulders and pushed down to raise himself higher.
Taking the hint, Sherlock ducked down a little, folded his arms tightly around John's hips, then straightened, grunting slightly under the strain but then leaning forward to use the wall for leverage as he lifted John, who promptly wrapped both legs around him... under the coat, he noticed with the few stray brain cells which still seemed to have a blood supply. Sherlock still had his coat on. John closed his eyes. Bloody hell, he liked that coat. He grabbed the collar to pull Sherlock's head forward then kissed him again, one hand holding onto his shoulder and the other running up from the back of his neck and tangling in his curls once more, while Sherlock adjusted their position until he was at the perfect height and they were grinding together, with John sandwiched in between the wall at his back and the seriously turned on Sherlock at his front. Things didn't get much better than this, he decided.
"Ahem."
John was distantly aware of something being wrong, but it didn't really register until Sherlock pulled his head back, breathing hard.
"The hallway, again?" came the exasperated tones of their landlady. "Really, boys, you do rent your own rooms you know."
She made a disapproving clucking noise as John released the grip of his thighs around Sherlock's hips and slid back down the wall until he was standing, somewhat shakily, back on his feet. He still couldn't see Mrs Hudson and looked up at Sherlock instead, both of them flushed but trying desperately hard not to burst into giggles again.
"This is a communal area," she went on. "Communal. That means shared, you know. Public." She tutted again. "It's not that I'm not happy for you both but really, Sherlock - I don't expect this sort of thing from you."
John raised his eyebrows, wondering what that said about him, and watched Sherlock almost spluttering trying not to laugh at his indignant expression.
"Sorry, Mrs Hudson."
"Very sorry, Mrs Hudson."
They escaped up the stairs, stumbling, still not looking round.
"I'll be away at my sister's next weekend," she called up after them. "Do try to get it out of your systems…"
They made it into the living room, then just collapsed on the sofa side by side. "How many times is that?" John asked, covering his face with his hands and trying to calm down.
"Four and a half," said Sherlock, tipping his head back and exhaling. "We weren't even loud, this time," he added indignantly.
"Do you think she has some kind of radar?"
"God, she's like Mycroft in slippers."
They turned their heads to look at each other, both smiling, their gazes locking... and gradually the atmosphere changed again.
"I love you," said John, stretching out his hand. Sherlock took it, then regarded him speculatively.
"That thing you wanted," he said, and John couldn't help his gaze falling to Sherlock's chest.
"The other thing," Sherlock said dryly, and John looked back up at his face, aware that his own must be filled with a mixture of hope and excitement.
"We can try that," Sherlock said. "If you like."
John was almost afraid to assume, and Sherlock tipped his head to one side. "Yes, I do mean that," he confirmed. "Do you have something you can use? I think I've got some handcuffs somewhere, if you want those."
"Not handcuffs." John shook his head. "I want you to be able to pull against them without hurting your wrists." Sherlock's eyebrows rose and John could feel his excitement rising with them. Calm down, he told himself sternly.
"Where…?" Sherlock started, but then shook his head. "My room, of course," he acknowledged. "Slow of me, sorry."
"Railings," agreed John. It seemed he had devolved to one word sentences.
Ten minutes later, he had Sherlock topless, with his wrists strapped together and attached to the headboard. He sat back on his heels, still fully dressed, straddling Sherlock's hips.
"Bloody hell," he said. "You look completely gorgeous." It was the right thing to say. Sherlock smiled and stopped looking quite so uncertain.
"Right," said John. "Some basics." He closed his eyes briefly, trying to focus on something beyond the real life fantasy stretched out beneath him.
"Obviously, I'm not going to blindfold you. In fact, I'm not going to do anything I haven't done to you before, probably many times." He smiled. "As you saw, I've used a belt to tie your wrists. It's soft leather, so you can pull against it and it shouldn't hurt, but I can release it quickly if you need me to." He thought about that. "Speaking of which - you need a word. A word which, if you say it, means I stop immediately and untie you, no questions asked."
"Why can't I just say 'Stop'?" asked Sherlock, looking puzzled.
"No good," said John. "Because you might say that anyway just if something is intense, without really meaning you've had enough all together. It has to be something you wouldn't normally say in the bedroom."
He thought for a moment, then smiled wickedly. "I know," he said. "If you really want me to stop, say... Mycroft."
"I most certainly will not," said Sherlock, looking disgusted. "I am not saying my brother's name when I'm in bed with you, I don't care what you're doing. Absolutely not."
"Fine, how about..."
"Not Lestrade either, and don't even think about suggesting Anderson, if you ever want to touch me again. Pick something inanimate."
"I'm not sure that you're getting into a suitably submissive mind-set," observed John. "OK, how about… cushion?"
Sherlock's expression turned slightly sour at the mention of the soft furnishings he had come to detest. "The cushions strike back," he muttered, then looked surprised at John's laugh. "Good choice," he acknowledged. "I certainly won't be shouting that unless I have to."
John smiled. "Right then," he said. "Last question."
Sherlock looked at him enquiringly.
"Do you trust me?"
They stared at each other... and John could literally see Sherlock sinking into his role, giving up his control, letting his guard down and placing himself completely into John's hands.
"Utterly," he said.
John had never loved him more.
Six Months After The Shooting
"What is that?"
John turned around at Sally's question, feeling slightly anxious. It was overly warm in the Incident Room and Sherlock had just stripped off his jacket. John hoped the attention didn't make him feel uncomfortable. He should have known better.
"Come, come now, Sergeant Donovan," Sherlock was saying. "Clearly you are no stranger to piercings yourself." He dropped his gaze suggestively. "As several of the husbands in this building can no doubt attest."
John tried not to laugh as Sally's jaw dropped.
"Why always the married ones, Sally?" Sherlock asked. "When the only man with half a brain in this place is single and inexplicably attracted to you?"
He stalked off, leaving Sally open mouthed behind him.
John gave her an apologetic shrug and a half smile. "I'm with him," he said, and followed Sherlock across the room, where he was leaning against a desk, frowning as he waited for the rest of the team to join them.
"From Consulting Detective to Matchmaker?" John asked under his breath, when he caught up. "What's next? Wedding Planning?"
"Shut up, John." Sherlock looked fed up, as he always did after he'd done something which he felt might be out of character. He was still concerned about changing too much because of their relationship. "The yearning is distracting, makes it hard to think," he defended. "It's annoying."
John smiled. "Nothing to do with Lestrade letting you into the Black Museum last week, then?"
"Shut up."
John nudged against him and he looked round, his face softening. Then the door opened and he was off, throwing himself into the case with the profound relief of the emotionally challenged.
John smiled fondly and stayed where he was, letting him get on with it and following the proceedings with interest. Sherlock might not want to admit it, but he had changed. It was unreasonable to expect anything else - everyone is the sum of their experiences, after all. It wasn't terribly noticeable with Sherlock, though. Probably no-one else could tell when he was biting back some stinging retort, and he only did it for John's benefit, not because he'd suddenly discovered civility. No danger of that, John thought.
They'd noticed on the last case, though, he reflected. A serial rapist... very nasty business. Sherlock hadn't slept for nearly a week until they got him and had been unusually gentle with the victims.
"You are good for him," Sally's voice spoke from behind him as she walked up. "I was doubtful, but I can see that, at least."
"Thanks," said John, looking sideways at her before nodding towards the group in front of them. "So, what do you think?" he asked. "About Sherlock's suggestion?"
Sally sighed and shook her head. "There's always been something," she admitted, her eyes following Lestrade as he trailed around after Sherlock. "But married men are less of a threat to my independence and I've worked bloody hard for it."
John nodded. "I can see that," he acknowledged, although he far from condoned her behaviour. Still... it was the men who were at fault really, he considered. They were the ones who were breaking their vows - Sally hadn't promised anybody anything.
"Your heart is less at risk if theirs is already taken," he said, and Sally looked at him.
"You're quite the romantic, John Watson," she said, raising one eyebrow.
John shrugged. "I can be," he admitted.
"I'll think about it," Sally said, and John smiled. That sentence generally led to good things, in his experience.
"So, what about you?" she asked, nodding towards Sherlock, who was waving an image plucked from one of the files and demanding to know why they were employing a visually impaired photographer. "Do you have his heart?"
John smiled again as Sherlock glanced round for one of the 'Where's John?' checks he still hadn't completely shaken off.
"Oh, yes," he said. "I've got that, all right."
THE END
(mostly)
Author's Note
Phew! Well, this is 'officially' the end, but I did go ahead and write an out-take from this chapter (the 'Five Months After The Shooting' segment) while I was recording a podfic of the story - click on 'Next' to read...
Artwork for this chapter (Links on my profile page):
Only You, by Haigidal
Wash, by tigerkatz
The Hallway by K