"i watched you as you slept

red arrows fell around us

and before the sea came in

i knew you were the one

we are turning in the circle of the sun

we are falling into our new forms

i feel light i feel sent

catch me racing

across the skyline"

"Red Arrows (John)" - Gem Club

For real though, if you heed nothing else I say, please go look up Gem Club. They're astoundingly beautiful and they set just the right mood for so many chapters of this story.

This chapter is for FuseAction because of her agreement to take me on as a smut-padowan. Consider this a test of the waters.

John didn't quite understand how it happened.

They'd gotten to Sarajevo just fine, in a comfortable yet slightly wound tension. Both were too uncertain of how to proceed although they knew and anticipated what it would lead to. It couldn't be said, however, that they hadn't tried.

John had offered a quiet kiss in the back of that open-air compartment but didn't like the smoky taste of Sherlock's mouth, still reeking of cigarette. Later, Sherlock had countered with a sudden nuzzling of John's neck as he'd napped, but John had woken with a start, sending a fist into Sherlock's face as he shouted something about 'don't—not there' which degenerated into a mumbled apology about knives and boilers. John had later tried to apologise, although they both knew who was at fault, but Sherlock didn't have the heart to try any other alternative approach.

Then, they'd arrived at their hotel, an unremarkable concrete inn with a rickety elevator and even more untrustworthy stairs. Yet they both agreed it was perfect since the last thing they wanted to do was attract attention. John trusted Sherlock's knowledge of inconspicuous residences since he had seemingly become a connoisseur of them during his global trek.

After a briefly polite explanation to a very baffled but kind lady at the front desk in broken Serbian about how they would be very alright with one bed, they entered the elevator. John thought he'd had a heart attack judging by the way his heart shot into his oesophagus as the lift started, thundering to life with a sound like cannon fire. Sherlock, however, was unmoved.

Their ride was silent, at least until they got to their floor.

One moment they were standing side by side in the lift, in their still silence as they rode upwards, and then, as the doors opened as the elevator jumped to a stop, Sherlock looked at John like he had made up his mind about something, grabbed the curve of John's jaw and pulled him into one of the most beautiful kisses of either of their lives.

John had never thought before to call a kiss beautiful. There were some that had been good or fantastic even, but this, this, was beautiful. The stars-behind-your-eyes, wipe-all-conscious-thought-from-your head kind of beautiful, like looking into the night sky and trying to comprehend your own mortality and insignificance. Except John felt quite significant at the moment.

The lift dinged, as if it was irately reminding them that it had other things to do than serve as their hormonally-charged, private broom closet. With something that sounded like a groan, Sherlock pulled John out and into the hall, but didn't anticipate that John, in his enthusiasm, would push back, sending Sherlock into the wall behind them. The hall was silent save for the sound of their gravid kisses and heavy breathing.

The click of a key. The opening and shutting of a door, and John found himself pressed in the cool darkness between Sherlock and the door.

"Don't think—" His words were broken off by a kiss. "That this—" And another. "Solves everything."

Sherlock drew away as John heard his coat hit the floor, his cheeks visibly flushed in the darkness as he stared down, his head resting on John's.

"I don't."

"Well…alright, then. Good." John finished lamely, the fire leaving his argument as Sherlock kissed the pulse point right in the soft underside of his jaw, next to an assortment of healing knife marks that now looked like someone had tried to connect a constellation.

"However, I anticipate that it might solve a few things—" Sherlock began, but was cut off as John took his bottom lip between his teeth and bit softly, enough to sting but not enough to hurt. The noise that escaped him seemed to John to be god-like, some breath infused with sunlight and warmth muttered from Apollo to Hyacinth, something that was certainly not human, not even remotely close—

The bed was easy to find considering it was the largest piece of furniture in the room. Sherlock soon found his back pressed against it, John looming over him, experiencing one of the rarer advantages of catching Sherlock off-guard. He managed to get his jumper off before crawling over Sherlock, burying his hands in that dark mass of curls as he drew Sherlock's face upwards into a warm kiss that pulsed with love and something tender that felt like blood rushing back into a constricted muscle.

"John…" Sherlock muttered against his kisses as John tilted his head back to look at him.

"Hm?"

Christ, those heavy-lidded eyes would be the death of him. Sherlock swallowed harshly.

"I am…nervous."

John laughed. "Nervous? You?"

Sherlock pursed his lips. "I thought that you would notice without my pointing it out."

John leaned back on his heels.

"Sherlock, we don't have to—I mean, if you're not ready—"

John stared silently down into the gaze that looked up at him, into unsure eyes that already gave him his answer. He exhaled softly, and a kind smile, love glowing from every curve, was sent down to the man beneath him, washing away all Sherlock's fears of John's anger at his timidity, at his decreasingly decimal confidence that only appeared with the man above him when he was above him. Sherlock the Virgin, eager to give it up but too afraid to lose it.

"I don't want you to think that you have to prove anything to me." John said gently.

"I don't." Sherlock answered in a quiet breath. Why was it that his affections felt they could fully manifest themselves on a goddamn train, but put them both in an acceptable bed that they turned on their tails and ran for all they were worth? He wanted this, he had thought of nothing but this to keep himself sane during his isolated exile, so why—why— couldn't he act on it?

He let out an unmitigated sigh, letting his head fall onto John's chest.

"Are you sure about that?" John asked.

"Can't I just bloody shag you?" Sherlock groaned into John's collar bone and John laughed.

"Not if you're not certain that's what you want…but I certainly wouldn't be complaining."

"It is what I want. It is. I don't think I've ever wanted anything more, but—" He stopped, moving his face to rest in the negative space between John's neck and shoulder as he wrapped his arms around John's waist. "But I want this too."

John smiled, shutting his eyes as he draped an arm behind Sherlock's neck, his other hand reaching down to let it meet Sherlock's as their fingers intertwined.

"So do I." He said, letting his head fall against Sherlock's. "So do I."

Sherlock woke to the sound of John's voice. He didn't know how much time had passed, but judging by the darkness of the room, not more than an hour.

"They took me somewhere dark…somewhere hot." John muttered.

Sherlock knew instantly what he was talking about, as well as that this was not the incoherent babble of a dream nor the dark dregs of a nightmare. He felt a tinge of jealousy for all the wrong reasons. He had been the one who was going to let John in first, but John, being that brave man that he was, being the soldier, he was beating him to it. But Sherlock's envy passed like dirt swept up in wind as John continued.

"It felt like I was inside a boiler. I guess they wanted me to sweat first, literally and metaphorically." John said quietly. He wasn't sure if Sherlock was awake or not, but it didn't matter. The words were coming out regardless, if only so he could confirm to the fitfully sleeping world what had happened to him, if only so he could whisper it into the currents of time and it could be taken as record instead of sitting as standing water inside of him, slowing tainting itself to stagnation.

He paused, almost expected sweat to start pouring out of him like it was on that night that seemed so long ago but was only a little over a week.

"They started with the whip. I still feel it when I wake up, even though most of the damage is healed over. I—right afterwards, it felt like Afghanistan again, after I'd been shot. I would wake up thinking that I'd passed out during the torture and they'd woken me up. That's why I hit you on the train. I...well, I thought you'd noticed, but then why would you find something you weren't looking for? I understand why you didn't. It's not how you work. Not how you think, either. I think your knowledge of the solar system is example enough." He chuckled, but it felt hollow, a pulse of sound filling the empty gap before he returned to that sharp burning, the crack snapping in the boiling air.

"Anyways," He felt his heart darken, the memory casting shade over it. "I don't know how long they went at it, but it must have been half an hour, maybe more. I tried to use some of the things the army taught me, mainly to avoid going into shock, but mostly just so I had something to focus on other than the pain. After the first ten minutes I couldn't feel any of it and I think they realised it, so they stopped…switched to the knife. Cut the IOU behind my ear, cut some other things too…my legs, the inside of my thighs—the outside too—but they were careful not to catch an artery, which I remember thinking was amusing at the time since I thought they were going to kill me at the end. I thought that right up until they cut me down and dumped me in someone's car. That whole ride I thought they were taking me to some godforsaken patch of earth with my grave dug in it. That whole ride I—" John cut off, his hand clenching and unclenching over Sherlock's shoulder. "I thought of you. Just you. I wanted you to be the last thing I thought of. It was nothing in particular, really, just whatever happened to come up that I could remember. You playing the violin or yelling at the crap telly or talking yourself into narcoleptic state after days of sleep deprivation…" John chuckled, and he meant it this time. "You know, for a doctor I never did you much good, did I?"

Sherlock didn't answer. John paused, listening to his steady breathing.

"Well, the car stopped and someone dragged me out, into another car. I didn't think much other than 'okay, they're not going to kill me yet'. If they were, who would change cars instead of just taking me to some abandon field and pull the coup de grace? By that point I knew we were heading east and I remember thinking that at least they were taking me closer to where you were, at least I could die close to you. I blacked out. Woke up a few hours later with what might have been the worst headache I've ever had. It reminded me of this technique I heard the insurgents in Afghanistan use. It's called 'La Corona' in Spanish and in Arabic the 'Hadeed Tajh'. Both mean 'Iron Crown', but I'm sure it's called something else too. The thing about Third World countries is that their torture tends to share similarities. It's crude, it's brutal, and it's effective. But with the Iron Crown—or whatever name it's going by—you're tied to a chair and put out into the sun with a wet rope knotted around your head, which isn't a problem until the water begins to evaporate from it and it tightens and in the pain you forget where you are, what your name is, if you have family…I didn't want to forget anything, I didn't want to forget you or what you mean to me or who I was, but I—but it felt like I was dying, Sherlock…and in all honesty I probably was. Multiple lacerations, dehydration, psychological torture…it can do a number on someone. So I tried to remember, tried to hold onto things that I didn't want to lose. Most of the stuff concerned you, but I thought about my mum and dad and Molly and Lestrade and even some of the Yarders too. I didn't want to overlook anything. And then—" John sighed. "Then I was at the door and you were catching me and I knew that I'd made it back to you and I could die happy. But I didn't, did I? You and Mikheia saved my life…"

There was silence, still, cool, soft silence like the air that billows out from sheets when they're falling over a bed.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Sherlock's voice came quietly, an inquiring whisper proving he'd been awake and listening.

"Would you have told me?" John asked with a hint of empty amusement. He didn't seem surprised that Sherlock was awake, much less that he had heard everything he'd said. On some level, he'd wanted him to.

Sherlock's silence was answer enough.

He turned his head, pressing it flush against John's stomach.

"I can't lose you, John." Sherlock said and John could feel him shut his eyes. "I can't."

Sherlock felt a small tremor of laughter ripple underneath his ear and lifted his head to see John smiling at him.

"That's a little selfish," John bent down and accentuated the word with a kiss. "Don't you think?"

"Selfish…" Sherlock scoffed, laying his head back down. His hands began idly tracing patterns on John's shirt. "I'm no different from you or the rest of the human race when it comes to selfishness. Everyone wants to hold on to the people they love. Everyone is selfish."

"I thought you weren't made in that mould?"

Sherlock looked up at him again, considering his words.

"Only with you do I change my shape. Only with you does metamorphosis occur."

John stared down at him, smiling with warm eyes. Sherlock felt like when he was a child coming home in the evening from an experiment in the forest and finding that the light out back was still on for him, even though he thought it wouldn't be.

"I suppose this is the part, then, where you sprout wings and fly away from me?" John asked, his hand softly travelling through Sherlock's hair belying his quiet admittance of his deepest, darkest fear.

"If I try to leave you, you may as well just crush me under your foot because it's not going to happen ever again."

"You're too pretty to crush…I think I'd pin you to a board instead. Then at least I could admire your superficial qualities every day."

Sherlock felt himself smile against John as his head gently rose and fell with every breath John took. Combined with his hand, gentle and soothing in Sherlock's curls, Sherlock briefly considered the fact that he may have finally found the cure to his persistent insomnia before he fell asleep, thinking that, of all the places on the Earth, there was nowhere else he'd rather be.