John blinked himself awake, enveloped by a warm sense of contentment. He snuggled further under the duvet, closing his eyes again briefly, appreciating the moment of silence before the day truly began. He had a busy day ahead at work, but the dimness of the room told him that it was still early enough that he could take his time getting ready.
With a faint sigh, he sat up, liberating himself from the duvet. The air in the room was cooler but not uncomfortable – Sherlock was not a man who appreciated discomfort in his living environment, and the flat was always at a temperature that suited both of them.
John glanced over his shoulder; Sherlock wasn't in bed, but that wasn't unusual. What did surprise John was the two now-empty water glasses on the bedside table next to him, and the fact that he was in the underwear and t-shirt he'd been wearing the previous day. He normally didn't sleep in his clothing, and had a vague memory that he shouldn't have been wearing clothing at all.
He sighed again, feeling a flash of guilt. Sherlock was good at undressing him, but likely hadn't appreciated doing so while John was asleep or half asleep. His partner was probably responsible for the glasses of water as well. John appreciated the gesture; although he could feel a slight grogginess clinging to the edges of his mind, he wasn't hung over.
A sound in the hallway made him look up as Sherlock stepped into the bedroom, already smartly dressed.
"You're awake," his partner said, arching an eyebrow as he fixed a cufflink.
"Yeah," John replied, extending a hand. Sherlock crossed the room, letting John interlace their fingers. "Thanks for taking care of me."
Sherlock shrugged slightly, as if it didn't matter, but John caught something behind his partner's grey eyes.
"Hey," he said, turning Sherlock's palm so he could place a kiss on it. "Sorry about last night."
"You have nothing to apologize for," Sherlock assured him, leaning down to brush his lips against John's forehead.
"Still," John said, stroking his thumb over the soft skin on the inside of Sherlock's wrist, feeling the slight jump in his partner's pulse. "Let me make it up to you."
"I have work," Sherlock said.
"Yep, and as you've so often reminded me, you are the boss."
"And I'm already dressed."
"Mm," John replied, pushing himself to his feet, "and if we take this to the shower, you can kill two birds with one stone."
Sherlock's hesitation wasn't really a surprise – John knew his partner disliked having to get himself ready more than once, and the doctor had a hazy recollection of Sherlock looking very put together the night before. He'd probably showered and done his hair after getting in from the office, only to have John fall asleep on him.
"Oh all right," Sherlock said, and John grinned.
"Very seductive, Sherlock."
An eyebrow was raised pointedly at him, grey eyes giving him a knowing look.
"Shouldn't you be the one trying to seduce me? You do, as you pointed out, need to make it up to me."
"Hmm, good point," John said, letting his hand skim upward to loosen the top buttons on Sherlock's shirt. The first couple were already undone, the way Sherlock preferred to wear them; undoing two more gave John the freedom to trace his fingers along Sherlock's clavicle, appreciating the feel of smooth skin against his fingertips.
That's strange, he thought, jarred slightly by the sudden realization, pulling Sherlock into a slow kiss to cover his momentary confusion.
He'd never thought about it before, and he was sure that what he knew about whatever had happened to Sherlock in Pakistan only scratched the surface, but John himself had scars from the bullet he'd taken to the shoulder. Presumably his partner hadn't been shot, but something traumatic had happened. Something that probably could have left scars.
John pulled away, resting a hand against the side of Sherlock's neck so he could trace his partner's lips with his thumb. Sherlock's eyes darkened at the action and John kissed him again, letting his hands drop down to undo Sherlock's suit jacket.
He undressed his partner slowly, taking the time to drape Sherlock's clothing over the back of one of the two armchairs in the bedroom, knowing Sherlock wouldn't want to pick out another outfit. John used the motions to cover his real intent, letting his fingers and his eyes skim over Sherlock's skin, looking for any tell tale marks, no matter how small.
They wouldn't be there, he knew. He'd memorized Sherlock's body ages ago – any scars his partner had were small, the result of insignificant, everyday events.
But now that the thought had occurred to him, he found he couldn't dislodge it from his mind.
Something had happened, and it should have showed.
But the only outward indication were the dreams that occasionally disturbed Sherlock's sleep.
Maybe it hadn't been all that bad.
Then why the sleeping meds? he asked himself.
"Come on," he murmured, lacing his fingers through Sherlock's, leading his partner into their bathroom, where John stripped out of the clothes he'd slept in, kicking them aside. He adjusted the water to a comfortable temperature and tugged on Sherlock's hand lightly, guiding his partner into the shower.
"No," Sherlock said, resisting when John pulled him forward slightly. "I don't want to get my hair wet."
John smirked, giving his head a small shake.
"Don't mess it up, either," Sherlock warned.
"You're the boss," John replied, grinning when Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes.
John pulled him into another kiss, enjoying the way the steam was starting to cling to Sherlock's skin, making it slick. He ran his hand up his partner's bicep, then switched to fingertips, trailing them lightly from Sherlock's shoulder to his hip before pinching lightly with his thumb and forefinger.
Sherlock gasped softly, pulling out of the kiss, and shifted somewhat, as if trying to move away from and into the touch at the same time. John relented, pressing his thumb in deep circles where he'd pinched, heightening the sensation without making it sharper.
"Come on," Sherlock said, fingers wrapping around John's wrist. John stiffened the muscles in his arm, resisting his partner's attempts to move him.
"Patience," he murmured.
Sherlock made an annoyed sound, shaking his head.
"Fuck patience," he growled, and John managed to repress the shudder that wanted to course up his spine. Sherlock cursing in his deep, posh baritone always did something to John.
And Sherlock damn well knew it.
"If that's how you want to play it," John replied, reaching for the lube they kept in the shower. Sherlock followed the movement, grey eyes bright with impatience. He made a "get on with it" gesture with one hand, and John gave him his best captain's glare.
Normally that worked, but today Sherlock looked unabashed.
John coated his hands, before sliding his right hand up Sherlock's spine to his neck to pull him into another kiss, letting his left hand drift down to tease and fondle Sherlock's balls. Sherlock made an impatient sound into their kiss, the sound sending John's blood south. His partner shifted closer, and John took the hint, wrapping his slicked hand around Sherlock's cock, stroking slowly.
"John," Sherlock growled. John gave a theatrical sigh, increasing the pressure and the speed, the sensation of Sherlock's growing harder doing the same to him. He kissed Sherlock again, digging his fingertips into his partner's back, deliberately ignoring the lack of damaged skin that had been distracting him earlier.
Sherlock made a small noise between them as John flicked a thumb over the slit, his hips picking up a definite cant. John released his grip for a moment, disregarding Sherlock's wordless protest, and caught both of them up, stroking quickly. He pulled Sherlock back down toward him, resting their foreheads together. It wasn't entirely comfortable, given the difference in their heights, but it would work well enough for now.
"Come on, then," John murmured. "You're the one who didn't want to wait."
Sherlock wrapped his hands around John's hips, fingers tightening as John focused on the heads, using his thumb for added pressure. He bit his lower lip, eyes squeezed shut, the sight nearly undoing John.
"Now," John whispered and Sherlock tipped his head back with a gasp, cock pulsing in John's hand, the sensation pushing him over the edge. His hand stuttered before he managed to keep going, making Sherlock shudder as the last of his orgasm swept over him.
John let them go gently, taking a moment to get his breath back. Sherlock was watching him with a slight smirk, as if he'd done all the work and had something to be proud of.
"Arrogant ass," John muttered, softening the words with a grin. Sherlock rolled his eyes, a smile still playing on the edges of his lips. He reached past John to grab the soap, lathering up his hands before cleaning himself off.
"Hey now," John protested – normally they would take care of washing each other.
"I'm in a hurry," Sherlock said, brushing a kiss against John's cheek. "And you're too soppy after sex."
"Soppy?" John scoffed. "May I remind you which one of us turns into the clingy sloth?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes again, giving his head a small shake.
"I really do have to go," he said, passing the soap to John. "I'll see you later."
"Tonight?" John asked.
"Yes, I think so," Sherlock replied. "I'll text if not."
He gave John another quick kiss and then was gone, the sound of his bare footsteps against the tile nearly drown out by the rush of water. John gazed blankly at the soap for a moment, then shook himself back to the present and lathered up, getting himself ready to face the rest of his day.
Mary wasn't in when John arrived at his office. She'd sent him a text saying she was running late and apologizing for it, but rather than be bothered by the delay, John had felt a stab of relief.
As much as he enjoyed her company – not to mention her help in the office – it was easier to have the place to himself again that morning. He was a touch out of sorts, the sensation made worse by the knowledge that a lazy day with Sherlock, most of it spent in bed, would have alleviated it.
But there was no time for that. Not in his schedule and certain not in Sherlock's.
With a quiet sigh that did nothing to break the silence in his office, John shrugged off his jacket and made himself a cup of tea. The autumn weather was turning chilly, and while it wasn't cold enough yet for the heating, having a hot drink made a difference.
He spared a longing thought for the private island in the Bahamas Sherlock had bought for them – even now, nine months on, John had trouble bringing himself to think of it as his, or even theirs. By rights, someone like him shouldn't own an entire island, but he did. Or at least co-owned it.
The idea of being there right now was appealing. Not just for the warmer temperatures, but Sherlock was more relaxed there than anywhere else John had ever seen him. He rarely worked when they were there, and John wasn't sure there was anywhere else that Sherlock felt genuinely at ease not working for long stretches of time.
John gave his head a shake, settling down at his desk, sipping his tea. He glanced down at one of the locked drawers and debated internally with himself before unlocking it and pulling out Sherlock's file. Mary had just started with the digitizing and hadn't had time to get his far yet. John wondered what he should do with Sherlock's file, if he should digitize it himself to avoid her potentially noticing the discrepancies in Sherlock's files from ten years ago.
He flipped the file open to that time, gaze skimming across Mike's notes. Ten years ago would have put Sherlock in Pakistan, but there was no mention of that. Like the scars that must have been there, any indication of what had happened had been erased.
The minor surgery to remove a precancerous mole and a follow up cosmetic surgery sat as mute, accusatory reminders that something had happened. Was that all made up?
He sat back with a sigh, passing a hand over his eyes. He knew bloody well what he was doing – it was like picking a scab when he knew he shouldn't. For everything Sherlock kept hidden – everything he'd lied about concerning the sleeping medications – John knew his partner well enough to know Sherlock hadn't lied about not being able to tell him the whole story.
There was something deeper at play here, and Sherlock had told him plainly that he couldn't know.
So he wouldn't.
John flipped the file shut and put it back in the drawer. He'd walk away from this, he decided. He'd trust Sherlock.
But he still had to figure out what do about the file itself. It was possible Mary wouldn't even notice. If she did, he'd have to have a story ready for her.
Well, John thought, can't be that hard. He'd use the same one Sherlock had told him. It had worked on John, who knew Sherlock better than anyone.
It was bound to work just as well on someone who barely knew him at all.
Cheryl was waiting for him in the car – a not unexpected occurrence, since protecting him was her job, but Sherlock had not been anticipating was rage seared across her features.
Her job required a cool head; even when she'd been angry with him about the sleeping medications, there had been a composed core, letting the anger out as needed, using it to make a point, but never letting it have complete domination control of the situation.
He recognized this immediately – it was the same anger Sherlock had felt when he'd found out about the very reckless man impersonating Gabriel's brother.
It was fuelled by fear, and by a fury at the sheer arrogance and stupidity of other people.
"I saw him," Cheryl said without preamble once Sherlock had snapped the door shut. He appreciated that he didn't have to ask, that there was no dancing around the issue. "The fake Richard. He made sure of it."
"When and where?" Sherlock demanded.
"Not an hour ago. Outside of Canary Wharf. I was out for a run."
Sherlock leaned forward and tapped on the glass that separated them from Gerald. The car hummed to life, pulling smoothly from the underground car park.
"We'll find him," Sherlock said. "And when we do, I'm more than happy for you to fulfill his apparent death wish."
