Chapter 24: In Which John Suffers Another Collision (Part 2)
"Sherlock!"
Squishing in sopping socks, dripping river water with every step, a soaking John Watson took the steps two at a time in his eagerness to reach the sitting room. He missed a stair, fell forward, but scrambled upright again until he could see the door, the only thing separating him from the rest of his life.
He crashed through it.
Only to find the room empty.
"Sherlock?"
There was a sudden thunk smash patter from the back of the flat. Heart racing, John whipped his head around to see Sherlock racing through the kitchen. Then his face broke out in delight, because Oh God there he is it's him it's Sherlock it's my Sherlock!
Sherlock skidded to a halt on the kitchen linoleum, and his eyes went wide at the sight of John standing there, hair wet and wild, clothes sticking to his skin. John's heart skidded in response. They stood mute, staring at one another, like they'd never seen the sight of each other before, or never expected to again. John couldn't help himself: He smiled. He laughed. He stood tall and spread his arms as if to say, Here I am.
Then Sherlock, with a face of disbelief, said, "He's gone."
The smile froze on John's face. "What?"
"He lied to me." His voice was flat, each syllable carefully measured, monotone.
John felt like he had walked in in the middle of a conversation. Or like he'd missed another step on the stair. He wasn't quite following Sherlock's train of thought.
"What are you talking about?"
"You're . . . John."
John blinked at him. A feeling of impending dread was swelling in his stomach like a balloon. "Of course I am."
"My John?"
"Yes."
"You're my John. The John of this world. My world. Our world."
"Sherlock, what the hell is wrong with you? It's me."
"So . . . he left. He jumped."
"Damn right he did. Question is, where were you?"
"He didn't tell me. He didn't even say goodbye, so and I didn't know. And I wasn't there to—"
"Oh."
John's face finally fell as the rest of him at last understood what Sherlock was saying. It all made sense. It explained why he had crashed into this world and woken up in it all alone, with no one to pull him from the river or be with him on the shore. Suddenly, his excitement swirled down the drain in the face of the reality that Sherlock . . . missed the other John.
"Oh," he said again.
The heat was rising in his face, from embarrassment at his eagerness, from shame that he had been expecting, even hoping for, a different kind of reception.
What are you, an idiot? What the fuck were you expecting, Watson? That Sherlock Holmes would sweep you off your feet? Crush you to his breast? Welcome you home with tears and kisses? You fucking fool!
"I'm, um—" He fell back a couple of steps, laughed shortly, pretending not to be bothered, even though he was wishing he had drowned in the Thames. He ran a hand through his damp hair, feeling suddenly very itchy and self-conscious.
"John," Sherlock said, barely a whisper.
But John couldn't even look at him right now. He had a sudden and desperate need to escape.
"Right. So. I'm, uh . . . back. And clearly in need of a hot shower. The Thames is fucking freezing. If you were wondering."
He pushed past Sherlock, making a bee-line for the loo. Sherlock didn't even call after him. And just as well. He threw the door closed behind him, locked it, and twisted on the shower head, grateful for the noise that served as just another barrier between him and . . . whatever the hell had just happened. Jaw set hard (to keep his teeth from chattering), he peeled off the cold, wet clothes, left them to puddle on the floor, and stepped into the stream.
Within minutes, however, he was sitting on the floor of the tub, water coursing down upon his head from above, and staring into nothing.
Nothing. That pretty well summed up Sherlock's reaction to his homecoming. Sherlock had been his greatest—and in the end, maybe his only—reason for needing to return. What else was there? He knew he no longer had a job. His sister pretty much couldn't stand the sight of him. He'd even begun to enjoy Alpha Angels and now would never know if Wing Commander Max Hancock would escape the volcano lair where he was being held captive by a native tribe on whose island he had crashed in trying to return to Trixie Sandberg before her litter was born. He had come back for Sherlock. Because he had believed there was something more to come back to. But it was as he suspected. Just as he had feared.
Sherlock had fallen in love with the other John. And that John had gone.
This John had never felt so unwanted in all his life.
Heartsick, he began to cry.
xXx
What. The hell. Just happened?
Sherlock stood stunned, mute, dumb. He'd been completely and utterly blindsided. In the space of five seconds, he had gone from believing—with great intensity—that he would need to spend the next several days, maybe even weeks, fashioning the perfect solution to bring John home.
And then suddenly, there he was.
His vision whited out. White noise filled his ears. He tried to move, but his feet were stuck; he tried to speak but his throat was stoppered. John. Right there. Right in front of him. His John.
It had been like seeing the aurora borealis for the first time after a lifetime of only hearing about it. It had been like hearing music for the first time after years and years of being inundated with only noise. The sight was so beautiful, he could only stop and stare. He could only freeze and listen. And then, when he spoke again, it was like his mouth couldn't move, and words couldn't form, and ideas were so garbled in his brain that he couldn't order them. He had been reduced to an imbecile.
The other John had lied to him. He had left without saying goodbye. He had jumped alone. So John had returned alone.
". . . and I wasn't there . . ." to catch you, he had been trying to say. To save you, to hold you, to bloody well be there for you upon your return! He was horrified by his utter lack of verbosity. And so, just like that, John disappeared again.
What was he to do? How was he to fix this!
For a few wild moments, Sherlock paced the sitting room, brainstorming desperate and terrible solutions.
One: Throw caution to the winds! Break down the bathroom door, throw wide the shower curtain, and against yelps and curses and a whacking hand, gather John into his arms and confess his love.
No, John would wail on him if he did it like that. So he cast aside the dramatic fantasy of ripping away a towel or steamy bathroom mirrors and came up with—
Two: Write a note, a letter of apology and confession, and pin it to the wall for John to see the moment he stepped out of the bathroom, and meanwhile hide in his bedroom and wait for John to come to him. Yes, that was better. Relinquish the decision-making and put the power in John's hands. And if a knock never came? Why, he'd just never leave the room ever, ever again. Yes, that sounded reasonable.
But also no. John wouldn't respect such cowardice.
Was turning back time not an option here?
So though it made him nauseous, and strangely itchy and self-conscious, he knew what he had to do—
Three: Wait for him, right here in the sitting room, and then . . . talk.
That meant he had only minutes to prepare.
First, he trekked heavily upstairs to John's room. John had hurried off to the bathroom so quickly, he'd forgotten to get clothes to change into, and probably didn't want to traipse through the flat in naught but a towel (an image Sherlock tried to shake from his imagination). So Sherlock grabbed him underwear, pajamas bottoms, and t-shirt, which he knew to be John's favorite to fall asleep in. He also grabbed his dressing gown from off the back of the door and slippers from under the bed. Then he folded it all neatly together and stacked it outside the bathroom door for John to find.
But on his way back to the sitting room, he noticed, there on the kitchen table, a folded piece of paper with his name scribbled across it in John's unmistakable handwriting: For Sherlock.
Curious, he lifted the page and began to read:
Dear Sherlock,
Please forgive me. There is so much more I wanted to tell you before I left, but I've run out of time. I'm heading to the Waterloo Bridge. I'm going home, and I'm bring your John back. I'm sorry I've lied. But this is the only way.
These past few weeks have changed me. You've changed me. I'm going to live a better life and be a happier man because of the short time I got to spend with you. I will always love you for that.
Now it's time to change your own life. John will be home any minute now, and if his time in my world was anything like my time in his, he won't come back the same. Things will be different, but it doesn't mean they won't be good. Be honest with him. Be honest with yourself. You don't have to be afraid, not of him. He loves you. I know, because he's me.
Goodbye, my friend. And thank you.
John
Sherlock heard the door to the bathroom creak open shyly. He folded the letter quickly and slid it under the tea tray.
But John must have found the clothes laid out for him, because just seconds later, the door closed again, softly.
So he waited.
While he waited, he rehearsed in his head what he was going to say. Every word had to be perfect.
And he waited a bit longer. John was taking his time leaving the privacy of the bathroom.
Heart pounding like a kettle drum in his chest, Sherlock went to stand by the window. He needed to calm down if he was going to do this right and not choke.
Be honest, John had said.
It's not that complicated, John had said.
You don't need to hide from him, John had said.
If he had to wait much longer, though, he just might die of high blood pressure and heart disease.
"Sherlock?"
Sherlock whirled. "John, I can explain," he said at once, and was ready to launch into prepared remarks when John, who stood at the edge of the sitting room in the clothes and dressing gown Sherlock had picked out for him, lifted a hand to forestall him, appearing unexpectedly composed.
"I want to say I'm sorry. That was . . . unkind of me."
"What?" Sherlock felt like he had walked in in the middle of a conversation. Or like he'd missed a step on the stair. He wasn't quite following John's train of thought.
"I was being insensitive. I should have asked: are you all right?"
Sherlock blinked. All he had planned to say, all he needed to say, was popping like soap bubbles in his brain. "Am I all right?"
"I realize how you must feel about . . . him. The John you lost. I mean, what you two had together—"
"Please . . ."
"—it was special. It must have been, for you to want to . . . That is, it must be really hard to give that up just so I could come back. So I'm . . . really sorry about that."
John was speaking with utmost sincerity, but he was unable to make eye contact, as if his every word pained him to speak.
"I need to say something," Sherlock said. He swallowed hard. God, his throat was dry. "Yes. I loved him. Because he helped me—"
"In ways I couldn't," John finished in a rush. "It's fine. You don't need to explain."
"No, I do—"
John shrugged, a tortured smile on his face. "It is what it is, yeah? Don't worry about it."
"I need to explain why I loved him."
"No need, no need. I told you before, it's aaall good." He laughed forcibly and rubbed the back of his neck, a clear sign that John Watson was troubled. "Shit, is that the time?" He looked at his wrist. He wasn't even wearing a watch. "Jesus, Sherlock, I'm knackered. It's been a while since this body's had a proper night's sleep, I can tell."
"I really think we should talk about this."
"No." He said it like a command, and for that moment, the feigned ease slipped away and his face hardened. He couldn't take it anymore, and he wouldn't. "Please. Not right now, I can't— I need to sleep." Sherlock heard John's throat tightening with emotion, and John heard it too. His face flushed with obvious embarrassment. "We don't have to do this tonight. Let's just . . . go to bed and worry about it in the morning."
And with that, John made an abrupt about-face, marched back through the kitchen, down the hall . . . and straight into Sherlock's bedroom.
Sherlock stood at the end of the hallway and stared. There was John, in his bedroom, tossing his dressing gown into the corner, kicking off his slippers, and pulling off the pajama bottoms because, evidently, John Watson slept in his boxer shorts. Then he disappeared from view, heading to the bed, and Sherlock heard the covers being pulled back and the sigh of the mattress as John crawled in.
Flabbergasted, he as much as floated down the hallway and stepped cautiously into his own bedroom, like it wasn't his own. John was on side farther from the door, lying on his side facing out, with the covers gathered up around his shoulders. He had left a wide space on the other side of the bed for another body to occupy.
Sherlock's internal debate raged. What was happening? Was John claiming this room as his own now? Was Sherlock expected to go sleep on the sofa? Or . . . did John mean for him to . . . join him . . . in the bed . . . for the night?
What. The hell. Was happening?
Slowly, keeping a weather eye on John's back and preparing to bolt from the room at any moment, Sherlock began to undress. Socks first. The least intimate of articles. Then he unbuttoned his cuffs and shirt down the front, removing it carefully, then his trousers, until he wore only an undershirt and pants. But he grabbed some pajama bottoms and slid into them quickly. At last, he folded back the sheets, waited another breath, but when he received no objections, he slid under the covers and held perfectly still, staring at the ceiling, wondering what would happen next.
"Lights," John mumbled.
He clicked off the lights.
xXx
Two hours and eleven minutes later, Sherlock observed that John was dreaming.
At first, it was the little twitches: a restless foot, an agitated shoulder, a head that seemed to be shaking back and forth, saying no.
Then came the little noises in the back of his throat. Glottal stops pushing air from lungs to mouth, then the panting, the whimpering. The bed shook as John started to tremble. This wasn't just a dream. It was a nightmare.
Sherlock knew John had nightmares. He heard them, sometimes, through the ceiling. Some nights, they wore themselves out and John continued sleeping. Other nights, he shouted himself awake. Once, he even fell out of bed. Because John never brought them up, neither did Sherlock, and so both pretended like there was nothing wrong. But Sherlock never felt right about that. He had always felt like he should be able to offer some sort of help.
And now, he was less than a foot away, witnessing firsthand the throes of bad dreams that too often beset his friend. What should he do? Was it wrong to wake him? Dangerous to touch him?
John's breathing was coming harder now; the fear was escalating. Whatever was happening behind those sealed eyelids, Sherlock had to put a stop to it.
He reached out across the space that divided them and placed a hand on John's back. "John," he whispered.
John sucked in a shuddering breath, and he rolled. He rolled right onto his back, pinning Sherlock's arm beneath his body, and kept coming, until he was almost right on top of Sherlock, curling around him, burrowing his head into Sherlock's chest, and clutching the front of his t-shirt. Instinctively, Sherlock's arms folded around him like wings, locking onto either shoulder, holding him close.
Then he held his breath. What. The hell. Was happening? He was holding John Watson in his arms! His John Watson. His John Watson had just rolled into his arms, and he was holding him, and they were together, there, in his bed, and he was holding the one person in this universe or any other that was more precious to him than his own existence. He couldn't breathe. Breathing would break the spell.
But in that quiet, he realized something: John had stopped breathing too.
As if in slow motion, a fully awake John Watson lifted his head from Sherlock's chest. In the dark, their eyes met. Sherlock parted his lips, having no idea what he was about to say. But John spoke first.
"Oh my God."
Suddenly, he was scrambling. Tangled in sheets and limbs, it was not an easy affair, but John was like a startled rabbit. Sherlock took a splayed hand to the face and a knee in the ribs before John floundered to the floor. "I'm so sorry," John was saying, as he picked himself up. "I don't know what I was think— I'm so sorry." And he bolted for the door.
Sherlock threw back the covers and rushed after him. "John, wait, stop!"
Running down the hallway, he hit every light switch he came to until he caught up with John in the sitting room. With nowhere else to go, John came to a stop by the sofa, facing away from Sherlock in mortification, and in his desperate need to hide, he covered his face with his hands.
"Are you all right?" Sherlock asked as gently as he knew how. Whatever was happening, whatever would happen next, they had just crossed a border, which placed them in new and uncharted, and possibly dangerous, territory.
"Please don't say anything," said John, voice muffled by his hands.
Sherlock stopped himself from crossing the void between them to lay a hand on his shoulder or rub his back, as he was inclined. Instead, he stayed planted, hoping only to say the right thing and ease the torment John clearly suffered. "No need to feel embarrassed. It's just . . . one of those things."
John groaned. The back of his head shook no with remorse. "Crawling into your flatmate's bed and then throwing yourself on top of him in the middle of the night is not just one of those things."
"To be fair," Sherlock equivocated, "you didn't think it was me."
John's hands lowered, and he slowly turned his head to regard Sherlock over his shoulder, like he couldn't believe what Sherlock had just said.
"And you thought you were . . . somewhere else."
"Yes. No. Not exactly. Hell, I don't know." He slowly sank to the couch and dropped his head into his hands to avoid looking at Sherlock. Instead, he addressed the rug. "The other me, in the other place . . . he doesn't have his own bedroom. The two of them are, you know, a couple. They share a room. A bed. And so I . . . for the last however long . . . He insisted, you see, and it was only practical, and I guess . . . I guess I just forgot."
"Well," said Sherlock, "there you have it. You didn't mean it. It was hardly a problem, what happened tonight, but if you don't want me to, I'll never say another word about it. It will be like . . . like it never happened."
"That's what you want, is it?"
"It's what you want."
John's head came up sharply. "That's not what I said. God, Sherlock, can we just not—"
"Why is this so hard!" Sherlock suddenly exploded, shocking even himself. But something had been unleashed, and despite half of him being horrified and begging him to rein it in, the other half was an engine that had just been kicked into life. "Why won't you talk to me? Why won't you let me talk to you? Is it really so terrible, what's happened, here or there, that you can't even look at me anymore?"
"I'm sorry!" John shot back to his feet. "I am! I didn't think it would be like this! I didn't think that so short a time could change so much."
"What has changed? Tell me, what?"
"You fell in love with him!"
Sherlock felt like the wind had been knocked out of him. So it was true. That's what bothered John the most, that Sherlock had fallen in love with him, and John couldn't stand it. Their friendship was ruined. Sherlock fell back a step, but before he could recover and find a way to fix this, John continued shouting.
"He told me, Sherlock. And I thought . . ." He shook his head and tried to laugh to hide just how serious this was to him, but Sherlock wasn't fooled. "I thought you'd never been with anyone. Ever."
"I hadn't," Sherlock said softly.
"Because you weren't interested in anyone."
". . . I wasn't."
"But you were with him."
". . . Yes."
"Then what was it? About him? What did he say or do to make you fall in love with him in . . . how many days before you—before you two—?"
"Seven days," Sherlock said softly, "before I kissed him. Nine days before we . . . did anything else."
John's face twisted as though in pain, and he half turned away; but Sherlock's accusation that he was hiding seemed to root him from turning away completely. Instead, he tried to school his face. "Two years we've lived together," he said, nearly whispering because of the thickness of his throat. "Two years, and you never once . . . And then, I leave, and just one week later—"
"Because I thought he was you!" Sherlock cried. "He didn't know he was in the wrong world, and I didn't either. I thought he was you. Each time, I thought I was kissing you. I thought I was making love you."
John started, like he'd been jolted with electricity. Or struck by lightning.
"He may have been the one to strike the match, but I was a fuse ready to be lit. Don't you see? The whole time, every time, I thought I was with you, John. The John who always waits two-and-a-half minutes before giving me my tea because he knows how impatient I am and how many times I've scalded my tongue by drinking too fast. The John who scolds me for making Lestrade beg for answers. The John who makes me sound like a hero to a host of online strangers. The John who shot a homicidal cabbie to save my life, after knowing me barely a day. The John I have known for two full years, squabbled with, laughed with, learned from, and . . . been in love with. For two full years. I didn't fall in love with him. I was already in love with you. And thinking you felt the same made it was the happiest week of my life. It was only after that we both realized . . ."
John was covering his mouth with both hands, which trembled with the ferocity of his grip, and he was struggling to stand straight. He looked like he was in pain.
"I'm . . . sorry if this isn't what you want to hear. But that's the truth of it. All my life, I didn't know I was looking for you. Then there you were. And I took that for granted. I didn't really understand what you meant to me until I lost you. And I'm honestly afraid I'll lose you again. But if you want, I'll never say another word about it, ever. Just please. Don't leave. We can still be friends. Can't we? We can go back to how things were, before we collided with other versions of ourselves. I can control myself, John. Watch me. Even now, it's all I can do to keep from throwing myself across the room and snogging you senseless, but I'm doing it, and—"
"Stop, stop," John said, balling his hands into fists and forcing them at his side. Slowly, he breathed, and slowly, he forced his spine straight as he faced Sherlock from the other side of the room.
But Sherlock bowed his head, contrite. "Right. I'm sorry. I know. I'll try—"
"No. I mean . . ." John's eyes challenged him, even as his jaw quivered. "Stop holding back."
Slowly, Sherlock lifted his eyes. Had he heard correctly? Interpreted correctly? Strangely, he felt his heart pushing against his ribcage, as if it had only just learned to beat.
"I can't bear it anymore," John said, voice cracking with emotion, "this wanting you. Needing you. You. My God, Sherlock, if you don't kiss me right now, I'll—"
Sherlock didn't remember giving in. He didn't remember commanding his feet to move. He didn't even remember crossing the room. But suddenly, there he was, and he held John's head with two hands. John. His John. The most precious thing in the world. And then he kissed him.
xXx
John didn't know what was wrong with him.
Having lived in the Wacko World, he knew what it was like to ache and moan and writhe with pain, desperate for relief that only another body, a very specific kind of body, could provide. Occupying an Omega body had opened his eyes to one of the most intense and agonizing kinds of hunger a human could suffer. Frankly, it had been a miserable experience, and one he was anxious not to repeat. He needed out. He yearned for home.
But he simply hadn't known: a person could suffer the very same, fraught yearning in other ways. And it was just as horrifying, just as painful, and just as desperate.
He yearned for Sherlock Holmes.
And in the very moment when he believed that his unfulfilled and frantic longing would destroy him, he heard the words I was already in love with you.
He felt like he was breaking apart. It wasn't enough. He needed more. And he said so.
Kiss me.
Sherlock came at him in a rush. His mouth was hot and eager against John's own: the warm slide of slips, the hot breath and needy tongue. There was no shy experimentation or nervous exploration. They didn't follow the normal progression of lips first, then a little tongue, then a lot. John met him with an open mouth, and was met with an open mouth, and they were kissing with a longing grown in secret over two years of living together: walking the same bit of carpet and drinking from the same teacups and bathing under the same stream. They already share these same spaces, just not at the same time. But time and space were collapsing, and John craved a oneness with this man, his best and closest friend, that they had not allowed themselves before.
But as Sherlock kissed him, and as he kissed back, John felt like he was burning inside. He didn't understand. Sherlock loved him, had always loved him. John loved him fiercely in return. So why did the horror of losing him remain?
He didn't know what was wrong with him, or broken inside of him, but even in his inexpressible joy, he was crying.
Without removing his sweet lips from John's, Sherlock brushed the tears from his cheeks and massaged the nape of his neck, like he understood. At least one of them did. He felt unlocked and vulnerable, but in Sherlock's arms, he didn't care. Here, he was safe. This must have been what a proper Omega felt in the arms of his Alpha. Maybe they weren't so different after all. Maybe it wasn't so wrong, feeling that. He craved it. Feeling loved and desired was a balm to a soul he didn't know was wounded, and he no longer felt weak for needing it. The point was, he never wanted to stand alone again. Maybe he didn't have to.
Sherlock's kisses slowed, and a hand dragged down John's back, pulling him closer so that their chests were flat against each other and they could feel each other's breaths in the movement of their stomachs. John raked his fingers into Sherlock's hair and squeezed. Then they fell into an embrace, warm and secure. John didn't let go of Sherlock's hair, but he rested his chin over his shoulder and whispered his desperately unspoken truth.
"I thought I'd never see you again."
"John, John, John."
Could it be? Sherlock as though he were barely in control, that maybe he too was overcome by the raw emotion of the moment.
"The thought of it . . . of being trapped there forever and never . . ." His throat was closing off again at the thought; he couldn't continue.
But he didn't need to. Sherlock took his head once again between two large hands, and he brought their foreheads together gently, eyes closed but a line of wet along the eyelashes. "I'm here," he said. "You're home."
Home. The word had never sounded so glorious.
John tipped his head, and Sherlock opened his eyes, looking at John like he was a wonder of nature that even the great Sherlock Holmes couldn't unravel. Both were amazed by the other, astounded and incredulous that this thing between them that each desired . . . was real. It didn't feel real. John wondered if maybe he were in a dream.
But oh, how he needed him. He pressed forward, and they were kissing again. And John had only a throbbing need to get closer, closer. With arms wound round Sherlock's neck, he sought to dispel even the tiniest bit of space by hooking a leg around his knee. Still, it wasn't enough. Sherlock was crushing his ribcage with the strength of his embrace. Still it wasn't enough. Suddenly, as though they made a joint decision without saying a word, John hopped and Sherlock caught him. With both legs hugging Sherlock around the waist, he was now in a position to tug Sherlock's hair back, force his chin up, and give him the snogging of his life, like he was trying to crawl inside of him to find the place where he belonged, and stay there. His tongue dipped deep and pulled from Sherlock a moan so deep John's whole body quivered with it.
"I want you, Sherlock." He kissed, and kissed, and kissed. Nothing had ever tasted as good as Sherlock's skin, powerful as scent. "I don't want anything but you."
Sherlock growled deep in his throat, sending a current of heat straight into John's groin. Sherlock must have felt it against his stomach, their skin separated by only a thin t-shirt and pair of boxer shorts. He grasped John's arse with one hand while his arm held him securely around the back, and pressed him closer, letting him rub, making the heat spike. John gasped and felt himself going weak. But holding him firmly, Sherlock made an about-face and marched back through the kitchen, down the hall, and into their (their?) bedroom, all the while mouthing at John's neck.
There, they fell together onto the bed, John's legs still wrapped around Sherlock's waist and Sherlock's weight pressing down on him. He whimpered, his back arched, and his hips rolled. They met in the middle, a delicious burst of pleasure.
And John's whole being was on fire.
He grabbed Sherlock's face, kissed him again, but pushed off from the mattress and rolled so he was now on top, pinning Sherlock to the sheets. Sherlock stared up at him, eyes widening with excitement, his pupils large and black. Sitting straight, knees on either side of Sherlock's waist, John grabbed the back of his white t-shirt at the neck and pulled it over his head, casting it aside. He bracketed Sherlock with his elbows, kissed him hungrily, then said in a husky voice, "Hold onto me."
Sherlock obeyed, placing arms around John's neck, looking curious, expectant. Then, as John ran his hands up the underside of Sherlock's shirt, rubbing bare skin from stomach to pectorals, he leaned back, bringing Sherlock with him. And as Sherlock's upper body left the mattress, John's hands moved to his back, to his shoulder blades, up his shoulders, and deftly, he slipped Sherlock's shirt over his head and laid him back down.
"Make love to me, Sherlock Holmes."
Sherlock hands were running down John's firm back and slipping under the elastic of his boxers. To encourage him, John hooked a finger under Sherlock's pajama bottoms, catching the underpants below. Their eyes met. Unspoken agreement passed between them. Sherlock lifted his hips, and they were off, the pair of them; within seconds, nothing separated them, not clothes, not time, not space. They moved into oneness.
xXx
They were skin on skin, and John had taken the lead, the way Sherlock had always wanted him to. A master in the bedroom. Here, now, Sherlock was melting into him. They had been moving together with needy thrusts and groan-worthy groping, until Sherlock, desperate for more, spread his knees, took hold of John, and guided him where he wanted John to go. There had been a flash of uncertainty in John's eyes, mixed with longing, but all Sherlock could do was nod.
"Have you . . . ?" John asked, panting, and the sweat beaded on the end of his nose.
Sherlock shook his head no. He had wanted to, before, with the other John, but it had never been right. Not then. But now . . . he was ready. He wanted this. He positively trembled with wanting it. John claimed his mouth, adjusted his knees. He went for the bedside lube, warm, silky, slicky lube, bought weeks ago but barely used. John was generous.
The sensations were incredible: the initial breach, then the gentle push, push, pull and silky friction in the tightest of spaces; the hands that massaged the skin of his thighs and waist and chest while a far more intimate kind of massage was taking place deep within. John's breaths against Sherlock's neck were coming faster and faster, and with each thrust, a tiny whimper of ecstasy sang in his throat, like music in Sherlock's ear.
Clutching tightly to John's back and hanging on for dear life as the pleasure built inside him in a way he didn't know was possible, Sherlock opened his eyes. It was a sight so beautiful he thought he might cry. There he lay, bare legs parted but ankles resting atop John's—and John, perfect John, lying naked between Sherlock's spread knees, bare chests pressed together, and John's flawless buttocks, round and tempting, pumping with a regular rhythm into him—pushing, pushing, softly, softly—striking again and again a sensitive spot deep inside that he never truly believed was there. Until now. This was his John, his perfect and wonderful John, claiming him with a lover's unrivaled passion. This was where John wanted to be—with Sherlock. Just like this. It was too much, and just enough.
Sherlock climaxed. And in that moment of purest ecstasy, as he tried to cope with wave after wave of physical pleasure and emotional joy, he bit down hard into John's neck.
As the skin broke, John gasped and let out a startled cry. Sherlock felt John's cock shuddering inside of him, flooding him with warmth. Yes, yes, he thought he heard John panting, but he couldn't be sure, because he was himself still on a high plane of transcendent euphoria, clutching and grasping and letting himself be filled.
"John, John, John," he moaned. It was the most glorious name in creation.
xXx
John had been awake for almost half an hour, but he barely moved a muscle. Morning sunlight illuminated the room, pushing through the sheer curtains, and the sounds of London going about business as usual floated in from the streets. But John just lay there, staring at the beautiful face of a sleeping Sherlock Holmes. Soft lines, softer skin. Hair deliciously mussed on top and flattened around the brow, where the salty sweat from last night's . . . activities . . . had loosened the curls. His lips were pink and perfect, and the dark eyelashes against his alabaster cheeks looked like the work of a master artist.
It was so much better than waking up alone.
Might this be something he would always get to wake up to?
Then Sherlock began to stir, first nuzzling his face into the pillow, then flexing his legs beneath the covers. He seemed to sense that he was being watched, because his eyes fluttered open in search of the spectator.
A soft smile appeared on his lips. "Morning," Sherlock said, voice deep and groggy.
John regarded him with exaggerated gravity. "This was a mistake, wasn't it?"
Sherlock hummed in sleepy agreement. "Yes, you should move out."
A beat later, they both started giggling.
"I think you're mistaken on who gets the flat," John retorted, feeling a bubble of glee rising in his stomach. He couldn't stop smiling. This felt so right, so perfect: the two of them, waking up in bed together, and launching into verbal spars. The world had changed, but they were still the same, if only happier.
"I was here first," Sherlock reasoned.
"Barely twenty-four hours."
Sherlock pushed up on his elbow with a sudden energy that defied the morning, then in a swift movement pulled John beneath him and propped himself above. "Shall I wrestle you for it?"
A thrill passed through John's body at the unexpected morning treat. They were both still naked below the sheets, and Sherlock's interest was just as apparent as his own. He couldn't help himself. He started giggling again, feeling euphoric, like he was drugged, like Sherlock was the happiest happy drug he'd ever had. Sherlock caught him in the middle of smile and kissed him, and it wasn't so much wrestling as it was a dance. They were too much in sync with one another, and too eager to submit to one another's pleasure. There, John learned something new and wonderful about Sherlock. Last night proved he was a deeply thoughtful, tender lover. This morning, he showed he could be playful, as well.
Afterwards, well sated for the time being, John reluctantly pulled back the sheets. He needed to use the loo. But also, he was returned to his own world, and he was eager to see what had become of his life over the last month.
"Oh," said Sherlock, sitting up behind him. "Fuck, I'm sorry."
John twisted slightly to see Sherlock's brow knitted in concern. "What?"
Sherlock scooted closer. A soft hand reached for his neck, the fingers brushing across the skin, and that's when John noticed it, the bruising ache, the soreness of broken skin. It was where Sherlock had bitten him last night. He hadn't remembered it being painful, though. Rather, it had been the shock of pleasure that had immediately tipped him over the edge.
John touched the mark with awe.
"I just got carried away," Sherlock said. He gingerly kissed the wound, apologizing. "Let me get the surgical spirit and a bandage. It looks nasty."
"It's beautiful," John said.
"What? Look, right there, I broke the skin. It might scar."
"Mm." John touched Sherlock's cheek, drawing his face over his shoulder for a kiss. "Guess that means you belong to me now, Holmes. You're a permanent part of me. Etched into my skin."
"But I hurt you."
"Not how I remember it."
Sherlock kissed the mark a though to soothe it. He hummed into the skin. 'So what's he like?' He traced a finger down John's spine. 'The other me. In the other place.'
John closed his eyes, absorbing the sensations. 'Kinder than he first appears. And the other John?'
'Wiser.'
He shifted to better face Sherlock now. The white sheets were twisted about his naked body like the marble sculpture of a Roman god. He kissed him again, and he knew he would never tire of kissing him, not if he lived to be a thousand. "It's amazing, Sherlock."
"What is?"
"A chance encounter on a train. The random introduction of an invalided soldier to a consulting detective. How many other accidents, coincidences, or flukes of fate? How many other versions of us in how many other universes? Do we keep finding each other, do you think? In however many scenarios and incarnations, do you think it's always meant to be you and me, a John for every Sherlock, and a Sherlock for every John?"
Sherlock smiled at the thought, eyes roving over John's face from hair to eyes to mouth. "Those are some very lucky Sherlocks."
"I'm serious."
"So am I. A Sherlock Holmes is nothing unless there's a John Watson at his side. Isn't it obvious? The universe knows exactly what it's doing."
And once more, they kissed, happily submitting to a universe determined to get its way.