A/N: One but last chapter :) I hope you enjoy this one! Reviewers are loved ;)

( NB: To those of you who review to ask for an update of other stories – thank you, I am very flattered that you would go to such lengths to get more chapters; and since most of you probably aren't reading this story, it might be useless for me to answer here. But since I cannot PM you, I will repeat myself: I haven't given up on any other stories. I only want to finish this one first. So please be patient! I'm doing my best. )

...

Nutrisco et extinguo: "I feed upon it and extinguish it"

Crede quod habes, et habes: "believe that you have it, and you do"

Warnings: Rating for this chapter is M.

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Chapter LI: Crede quod habes, et habes

Palm of your Hand, by Ingrid Michaelson


oOo


Oh boy, it's over, you got me
You shot me right between the eyes


The first thing you feel is the wetness of his lips. John is still drenched, and you can smell the rain on him.

The second thing is warmth – unexpected, overflowing warmth, and you realize it is because he has opened his mouth in surprise. But he does not kiss back. He lowers his hand holding the hairdryer and puts the other one on the nape of your neck, stroking it with his thumb.

But he does not kiss back.

You shiver and step back, breaking the kiss. He looks you in the eye. His gaze is inquiring; it searches yours, trying to see whether you have come to your senses or not. A small smile lights up his face.

"Welcome back," he murmurs. "How do you feel?"

"Wet."

John chuckles. "No wonder. Come here."

Gently, he pulls you down towards him and starts drying your hair with a towel, the warmth of his hands spreading to the white fluffy fabric. "We can use the hairdryer afterwards. And take off your trousers. You can just put them in the bathtub, we'll take care of the laundry tomorrow. You sure you don't want to take a hot shower?"

You nod voicelessly.

"Your coat is drenched," he goes on, putting it in the bathtub as well. He rubs the towel behind your ears, then along the line of your hair in your neck and above your brow. You want to ask him whether your kiss was any good. It probably wasn't, since he did not kiss back. You try to deduce what he thought of it by observing him as he dries your hair, but he keeps rubbing that towel on your head and over your face and it makes you want to bite. You frown and shake off the idea. He is just trying to help.

You glance at him and catch his eye. There is warmth there, too; but you can't read anything else. Were you any good?

Without warning, you pull him into another kiss. If that's what it is. Pressing your mouth to his. Maybe people kiss each other when they are stupid and do not know what else to do with their mouth. When they do not know what to say. When the ability to speak suddenly fails them. When they are confused and exhausted and still want to convey something, but cannot formulate any coherent thought, not to mention a coherent sentence.

John's mouth moves slightly against yours, as if shyly – unsure. Well. You're not sure what you're supposed to do either. But John should. He must have kissed countless times.

Or perhaps it repulses him but he does not dare voice it. Abruptly you break the kiss and step back.

John is flushed, still standing there drenched, his gaze glazed. His pupils dilated.

So not repulsed. You frown. John swallows.

"You should take off your trousers," he says again, his eyes never leaving yours, clearly trying to keep some composure.

"Is that an invitation?"

You have no idea where that came from. The moment you've said the words, your eyes widen in surprise and mortification. You've spent too much time with Seb. John flushes even more and looks away.

"Of course not. But you'll catch a cold if you keep wet clothes on. I'm sure you have other pyjamas somewhere."

Of course not. That was a little sharp. Well, it's a good thing, though. Naturally. It is much better that way. Desire is messy and irrational anyway. Not your area. Relationships are dull.

Fine, not all relationships. Friendship isn't dull. Just dangerous. And dangerous is...

"Sherlock?"

"Mm?"

John eyes you strangely. "Did you want it to be an invitation?"


I'm sober, I'm over the haze of never knowing
If I can still feel what is real
Will someone punch me out?


You blink.

"What? No! No."

Quickly you take off your trousers and put them in the bathtub, only realizing afterwards that you have nothing to change into. You repress a groan.

But John seems to have regained his composure and comes up to you with a smile. And a towel.

"That's enough!" you growl, snatching the towel from him. "You're still wearing your clothes."

John blinks. "Yes, but I–"

"Just take them off."

His face reddens again and he fumbles: "Sherlock–"

"And please stop blushing."

You did not mean it in any deep sense. His blushing just made you feel awkward. But when he looks down in shame and falls silent you wish you hadn't said anything. You feel cold. So cold.

"John. Please take your clothes off. I'm cold."

"I don't see how–"

"We'll both feel much better dry."

You don't know what you're saying. You want John to change so he can use that hairdryer on you, possibly all over your body because you feel terribly cold and you are beginning to mind. You did not think it would bother you. It did not before. Not until you came back. But since John has touched you, the cold seems all the more unpleasant. All the more engulfing.

"Sherlock?"

"I need something to put on," you say, looking around. You become aware of just how exhausted you are.

Looking down, you see that your hands are still grimy from the digging. There is dirt under your nails. You shiver. "Am I losing my mind?"

John takes a step towards you and replies firmly, putting a hand on your arm: "No, you're not. You had a night terror. It's all right."

"It's not."

"It's nothing too serious, Sherlock. It can happen in adults with PTSD–"

"But I'm not traumatized."

"...Right. Well, it doesn't matter. I'm here. I'll try to catch you before you can take a cab next time, but even if you do, I'll follow you, and catch you eventually. It's fine, Sherlock, it's all fine."

"How is it fine if I go digging my own grave in the middle of the night?"

John's gaze lingers on you. "I did that, too. Dig your grave. In the middle of the night. And I threw up afterwards."

You look at him. "Did you have night terrors?"

He shakes his head with a weary smile. "No. I just..." He swallows and averts his gaze. Then he lets out a little laugh. "I suppose I was a bit mad, yeah."

"John." There is warning in your voice. And perhaps a bit of pleading too, though you don't really want to admit it to yourself. You know he doesn't think he was mad. He was just grieving. And hurting, badly. Hurting because of you.

"I missed you," he lets out at last.

Your eyes widen. He forces himself to look at you again. "I missed you, and I suppose something did snap in me. I never went again. For more than two years after that, I couldn't visit your grave."

"Well considering I'm not in it, it isn't such a bad thing."

You attempt a smile. His grip on your arm tightens until it is painful for you.

"John–"

"Here. Put on your blue gown. Don't walk around naked, you'll really catch a cold."

He strips and since he isn't looking at you, you allow yourself to look at him. Out of curiosity. Out of fear. You do want to touch him, but in a strange way that has nothing to do with hormones. You do not crave him. When his hand is on your arm, somehow it is enough. You can feel a void the moment he turns to take off his clothes and his skin is not longer against yours. But you do not feel desire. You close your eyes and swallow. Images flash in your mind. John's fists clenching on white sheets. John's voice begging, his gaze pleading, his back arching. Images that you saw on a TV screen and do not know what to do with.

Your eyes snap open.

"Sherlock?"

"I'm sorry."

"What?"

"I..."

What are you going to say?

He asked nothing of you.

He did not kiss you back.

You look him in the eye. Perhaps you do not understand desire. But you felt it, once, with the Woman. Maybe you can simply no longer feel it at all. Maybe you can no longer desire anything. You did not desire her in the little cottage; you felt nothing when she kissed you.

Do you feel something when John kisses you? When you kiss John?

You don't know. For you to know he would have to kiss you back.

"Sherlock?" he asks again, even more gently, putting his hand on your arm once more. He is still wet, and stark naked. You look at him, up and down. You feel cold. Through the fabric of your blue gown, his hand is burning you. Slowly, you lean in, and press your lips to his again. It vaguely makes you think of a dog, the way they always come back and lick their master's hand. It never made sense, the dog just came, and insisted on nuzzling your hand and licking it. Or your face. Whichever was closest.

This time, John lets out a moan and kisses back a little. He smells like rain and shampoo — the one you too used this morning. You had never noticed, but living together, your scents must become similar in some ways. Different in others. John did not use the same aftershave as you three years ago. You try to remember what brand he used, but cannot pinpoint it. He doesn't smell like aftershave; he didn't shave this morning, and his skin prickles against yours. He tastes like mint — his toothpaste — and something else, something that is more him, but you're not sure, and he doesn't give you time to explore. Abruptly he turns his head so your lips crash onto his cheek. You collide with his scent and unshaven skin. To make up for his sudden gesture, John kisses the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, and the spot just underneath your ear. There, he stops, and simply hugs you.

But still you see it for what it is: a rejection. That is, until you feel a hardness against your thigh, not very hard, but not as soft as you expected, and you have to revise your assessment.


And oh boy, I know, boy
I need a breakdown


"What are you doing?" John asks quietly. He steps back to look at you.

"What do you want to do?" you counter.

His eyes are locked with yours, but his face is so close you can feel the warmth of his breath on your throat. For a few seconds, you think he will give in. His breath is short, his face, flushed. You watch a drop of sweat – or is it still rain water? – trickle down his temple. His lips part and you think he will lean in again and truly kiss you this time, and you can find out how your body reacts to it. But he smiles and shakes his head.

"Let me dry myself a bit and I'll take care of your hair."

You do not point out that you could take care of it yourself, and you watch him as he swiftly rubs his towel against his own body before slipping on his bathrobe. John was somewhat aroused by your touching him, but you are just as limp as before. And you feel just as cold.

"Come here. Sit on the rim of the bathtub, will you?"

You almost smirk. Almost. John is too short to blow dry your hair if you are both standing. Somehow you find the thought more amusing than you should. Then you remember the cemetery and the rain and the manic laughter and the screams and you forget to smile. You simply comply, feeling colder than ever. But you jump when John turns on the hairdryer and hot air blows in your hair. He tousles your curls gently, a smile on his face. He looks ridiculously happy. His fingers brush the nape of your neck, then the back of yours ears, and something flutters in your chest. You realize it is simply warmth. You try to concentrate on his scent, on the drops, sweat or water, trickling down his throat, on his lips, on the skin of his chest visible under his loose bathrobe. Nothing.

"You've always liked women," you say as if that could justify your lack of arousal.

"What?" John asks, stopping the hairdryer. You cast your gaze down, embarrassed.

"This isn't my area," you mutter.

Slowly, John sits down on the rim of the bathtub next to you.

"What do you want, Sherlock?" he asks quietly. "You don't have to do this if it isn't what you want."

You arch an eyebrow. "Is that why you refuse to kiss me? Because you think I'm just indulging you?"

John looks away awkwardly. Spot on, then. You frown.

"You're wrong. I just wanted to see..." Right. This might not be the best thing to say.

"See what?"

This time you are the one who looks away. "How my body might react to it." You swallow. "John, I'm sorry, I think I might just stay cold."

John gives you a puzzled look. Even you must admit you don't make much sense. Images are haunting you. John contorting on your bed after having inhaled heroin. John strapped to a wheel and screaming his lungs out as Moriarty cracks the whip on his torso; screaming as Moriarty tears off his skin with the scalpel. A wave of nausea hits you.

"Sherlock! Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," you reply dizzily. John gives you a look. He furrows his brow and caresses yours. "Sherlock, I want to help. But you must tell me how this whole turning cold business came about."

"I told you. I deleted memories."

"But you said they came back to you all at once."

"They did." You keep your eyes on the floor, but John waits for you to go on. "But I remained cold. It didn't matter. I didn't pay it much attention."

John's hand on your brow has fallen to your left ear, then to the nape of your neck where his thumb is rubbing those circles again. You shiver.

"All right. Your hand was warm when you held mine all night, right?"

You nod voicelessly.

"Will you let me try something?" he asks.

You nod again.

"OK. Come on then."

He unplugs the hairdryer and leads you down the corridor to the kitchen, then to the living-room, and into the staircase. You give him an inquisitive look, but he merely smiles and walks up the steps to his room.

"The bed isn't done. You'll have to help me," he says.

The moment you step into his room the smell hits you in the gut and memories of the night you spent there on the day Lieutenant Charles Benjamin Redford died invade your mind. You stand in the doorway, stunned. A flow of images and sounds washes over you. John calling your name from his nightmare. John laughing brokenly when you told him that he should not jump after someone in a chasm because there was no chance that he could save them. John's voice saying in the dark "I'm not leaving, you know".

"Sherlock?"

Right. The bed. You step into the room and allow it to swallow you, with its smell and overflowing memories. Just like the previous night, you help John make the bed. You do not point out you could have slept in the room downstairs, where the bed was already made and slept in. And so here you find yourself in the middle of the night, not completely dry, making a bed in a room you never thought you'd see again.

"There we go. Just lie down and relax, will you?"

"What are you going to do?" Your tone sounded a bit more defensive than you intended it. But John gives you a little smile as he pushes you down onto the bed.

"Trust me, I'm a doctor."


Can you crush me
In the palm of your hand?
There's nobody else who can.


You scowl at him but do not resist him. "And a soldier. Who had bad days."

John chuckles and plugs in the hairdryer next to his bedside table, on which he puts it down. You eye it warily.

"It's not a gun, Sherlock, just a hairdryer."

"I know."

John walks to the door again, closes it, and turns off the light. You feel your muscles become tense at once.

"Relax. I'm just turning off the light so we get a chance to fall back to sleep."

"I'm not scared!"

"Never said you were."

You glare in the darkness towards him. John sits down and you feel his weight on the mattress. He takes your hand and rubs his thumb against your palm.

"I'm going to try to make your body warmer, Sherlock."

"By having sex with me?"

He remains silent for a second, clearly baffled by your bluntness, then breaks into chuckles.

"No. I'm only going to use the hairdryer and my hands. Nothing sexual though."

"But you're aroused."

"Yes, and you're not."

"Well how am I supposed to if you don't let me try?!" This came out more curtly than you meant it. You catch John's hand in yours at once, stopping the movements of his thumb, and squeeze it. To your relief, John gives a little squeeze back.

"Don't try. We'll see how it goes."

"What about you?"

"We'll see how it goes."

Before you can protest any further, he turns on the hairdryer and blows it in your face.

"What the...!"

"Stop arguing. Just let me try this. Please." He lowers his weapon and blows it in the nape of your neck, sending a shiver down your spine. He aims it towards your head and gently tousles your hair again. This time he did not put the hairdryer on maximum; the air is blown more lightly, and you can hear yourself speak. But you remain quiet, and let John do whatever he wants. The smell of the room keeps sending you back to that night, the only time you slept in John's bed. It smells of wood and clean linen and peppermint.

John first blows the hot air on your hair, then your neck and your collarbone. He unfastens the knot of your bathrobe, and stops.

"Can I?"

You nod. Perhaps he saw the movement of your head. Or he just took your lack of response for a positive one. In any case he goes on, opening your bathrobe more in order to blow hot air on your shoulders, arms and chest. Sleepy. You actually feel sleepy. What time is it now? You can't remember when you left the flat. You were too obsessed with your goal: getting to the cemetery. And when you came back... Since when have you become so inattentive? You can't even tell at what time you came back in the flat, even though there is a clock in the living-room, and you have gone past it twice.

"John?"

"Mm?"

"You should dry your hair first."

"I'm fine."

"You're not being logical."

"Well nothing new, then."

You give up and slacken on the mattress with a silent sigh. Fine, then; if he wants to be stubborn. The hot air feels strange against your icy skin. John lowers the hairdryer and the warmth hits your stomach. Your breath catches in your throat, and your body must have become visibly tense, for John stops the hairdryer.

"You OK?"

"I just came back from a night outing in a cemetery, drenched, and am being blow-dried by..." You waver,, then finish awkwardly, "my flatmate.".

"Glad you finally consider me like that."

"What?"

"When you came back you said this wasn't your flat anymore. I think it's a big improvement, if you see me as your flatmate."

You stare. He seems sincere.

"Do you mind the hairdryer? I can stop if you want. But see..." He puts his palm down against your chest, and you shiver. "...your skin is much warmer where I used it on you."

"Nobody blow-dries their whole body. Nobody gets blow-dried by someone else."

"If it works for what we want, I don't see the problem. Now, if you don't like it..."

"Just get on with it," you mumble, the drowsiness and the nervousness increasing, making for a rather strange combination. You imagine John rolling his eyes as he turns on the hairdryer once more and goes on lower: your stomach, your lower abdomen, your thighs... You notice how he does not linger on your groin, making it part of the eclectic body zone lower abdomen-groin-thighs-knees.

"Is it you or Mary who wants to get a divorce?"

If he's surprised by your question, John doesn't show it. Why do you keep talking? You wish you could just fall into a deep slumber, one without nightmares or dreams.

"It's a decision we both agreed upon," he says, blowing hot air on your shins and ankles.

"But who suggested it?"


You know, you crush me
In the palm of your hand.


The hairdryer stops going down and hovers above your left ankle, as if stuck. It starts burning your skin, and you move your leg slightly to get away from it, snapping John from his thoughts. The hairdryer moves down to your left foot.

"She did."

"And you agreed?"

"I asked her why, first."

"So you didn't want to divorce her."

"I do, now."

"Are you sure?"

John moves on the bed and switches to your left foot, then to your ankle, and slowly goes up. Shin, knee, thigh...

"Yes, Sherlock, I'm sure. I was even before you suddenly came back from the dead."

"Technically I didn't–"

"I know. Turn on your stomach."

You comply sleepily, and hear a chuckle in your back.

"Take off that blue gown, Sherlock. I need access to your skin."

"That's such a peculiar thing to say."

"Well I am doing a rather peculiar thing now, aren't I?"

You don't think this calls for an answer, and so you remain quiet, simply getting rid of the gown. John starts blowing hot air on the back of your head again, running his fingers through your curls, then brushing the nape of your neck as he lowers the hairdryer.

"Sherlock?"

"Mm?"

"How do you feel about Mary?"

"How am I supposed to feel?"

"That's not what I'm asking. How do you feel about her?"

You try to decipher what he means by that from his voice, but it tells you nothing. His tone is serious, but truly inquiring; a real question, then. John is asking, and not trying to make a point. But why the question? What kind of answer does he want?

"Well, she seems to be a nice person."

Even to you this doesn't sound convincing. John's hand strokes your elbow and you shiver at the touch, coupled with the hot air.

"That's not what I'm asking."

Of course, John knows you. He knows how you are when you meet someone. "Nice person" isn't something you deduced from your first meeting with Mary Watson. But then again, you don't exactly want to tell John what you saw this afternoon: a brave but unhappy woman doing her best, loving and natural towards her child and husband, dealing with what life throws at her like it must be dealt, energetic, positive, but, ultimately, alone: and all the information you have on her, and which you had even before meeting her, only corroborates your observations.

"She loves you and your child," is the best you can come up with to avoid both lying blatantly and saying too much.

"I mean, how do you feel about me having her and Blake in my life?"

"Oh."

The hairdryer and John's hand are on your back now, going down your spine; when he reaches your lower back, John removes his hand, but continues to blow hot air on your body; first the left buttock, then the right one.

"It's your life."

"I know. That's not what I'm asking."

When the hot air reaches the back of your right knee, John's hand comes back on you, accompanying the warmth. He brushes his fingers down your calf, and the hot air follows. You shiver.

"You've moved on. It's only natural."

"So you feel that I've moved on."

"You have."

"No. I haven't."

You repress a groan, wishing you could just sleep or have this conversation in less awkward a position, ideally with John in your field of vision.

"I've learned to live with your death. That's different," John finishes quietly. You don't know what to say to that. Except the obvious.

"But I'm not dead."

"Exactly."

This time you roll on your back and turn to look at him. You cannot see his eyes, but at least you feel more comfortable discussing whatever it is that you are discussing — you're not quite sure.

"What are you trying to say?"

"Nothing. Only that I don't have to live with your death anymore. I have to live with you."

"You don't have to."

"I want to."

He turns off the hairdryer and unplugs it, putting it down on the bedside table and joining you on the bed. Your heart rate is finally slowing down and the images of the cemetery receding. You let your body slacken on the clean linen, a little rough against your skin, and bask in the smells surrounding you — that of the room, enveloping, and John's, wrapped around you.

"Will I have others?" you murmur.


Oh boy, you wake me and shake me.
I'll break the bullet in my hand.


"Other what?"

"Night terrors."

John's fingers brush some curls away from you brow.

"Maybe. It would help if you talked about it. I can understand if you would rather not talk to me, but-"

"Don't be stupid, John. Who else would I talk to?"

John shrugs and sits closer to you.

"Do you want to talk about it, then?"

He takes your hands in his and starts rubbing them as if you were standing outside in the snow. Then he simply holds them, enclosing one after the other between his own palms.

"But there's nothing to talk about."

"Really? What made you want to go to the cemetery?"

John's hands move to your wrists and embrace them gently, reproducing the same enclosing warmth as for your hands.

"I wanted to take Moriarty out of my grave."

"Why?"

"I felt disgusted."

"Why?"

"Because it felt as if he were inside of me."

John's hands move a little on your wrists, stroking the thin skin of your inner forearm. Then they stop moving and rest there, warmth radiating from their palms and penetrating you slowly.

"You didn't become him, Sherlock. You only took his status."

"I know that."

"Yes, of course. Just reminding you."

The skin of John's palms isn't smooth; but you somehow like their roughness. They move around your forearm, slowly, until every inch of it has been covered by their warmth, then move on to your elbow.

"Is there a reason you felt that he was... inside of you?"

You swallow.

"Voice."

"What?"

"I could hear his voice. Yours, too."

"You hear voices."

"Not like that. Well, maybe. Look, it's just that my mind isn't properly compartmentalised. I tried something but perhaps it didn't work. Maybe I should go back to the palace."

To his credit, John might have tried to stifle his chuckle; but you still hear it.

"What did you replace it with?"

"Archipelagos."

A perplexed silence follows. You pout.

"It wasn't such a bad idea. More flexibility. Quicker connections. But I suppose the overflow of information when the memories came back had the effect of a short circuit and disorganised everything."

John's hands wrap around your arm, just above your elbow. He gently taps his fingers against your skin, brushing it with the tip. You shiver.

"How did it all come back?"

"Mycroft told me you were dead."

John's fingers stop tapping on your skin, then resume their caresses, slowly.

"So, what you remembered..."

"Concerned you, yes. And Baker Street. Or events that happened after I met you."

John falls silent. Perhaps you've said too much. His hands move again and reach your shoulder. You vaguely wonder if you will be able to let him touch you everywhere like this, the next and rather delicate zone being the throat. Even if it is John, your body doesn't respond very well to hands around your neck. Possibly because you've seen too many cases of strangulation.

"Are you going to do this on my entire body?"

"If you're OK with it, yes. I really think my touching you can help with the cold."

"And I really think my touching you could help with your erection."

John's hands freeze on you.

"I'm sorry, if it bothers you I can take a cold shower-"

"No!" That came out louder than intended. "Don't," you say more quietly. You clench your fist on the mattress, trying to avoid trembling again. You feel very cold suddenly.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"But just now..."

"I said nothing, John!"

You pull him down into a kiss again. You have no idea what you're doing; you wish he would just stop talking, stop asking you all these questions, stop prying. A little voice in your head tells you that you're not being fair, and it is your own voice. You stifle it.

John tries to say something into the kiss, most likely a protest, then attempts to push you back; but he is being too gentle, and you can easily turn around and pin him down to the mattress. He bites your lower lip and you gasp in surprise, letting go.


I attack, you fight back
The redder the love, the better.


"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

It could have been convincing, but for the obvious hardness between his legs.

"What do I have to do for you to kiss me back?"

"You don't know what you're doing!"

"Well teach me!"

"Sherlock we don't have to do th—"

"Of course we do! This is what you want."

"How can you be so sure of what I want when you don't even know what you want?!"

"I saw the videos!"

Silence. This isn't what you wanted to say; in fact, you had very much intended never to mention the videos at all. You groan and roll back onto the bed, curling up on yourself, your back turned to John.

"What videos?"

"Nothing. Ignore me. I'm in shock."

"Sherlock..."

"Shock, John! Night terror, remember?"

And to stress your point you wrap yourself in the blanket.

"Stop. Don't do this."

"I want to sleep. And you should, too."

"You're talking about Mycroft's DVDs. What did you see?"

"Nothing, John. Forget it."

Silence. John says nothing, but he doesn't lie down either. For a second you think he might leave the room.

"Is that what you call trying?" he asks at last.

"You won't let me do anything for you!"

"I'm not talking about sex, Sherlock!"

"Well that's what I was talking about!"

"OK, why don't you forget kissing and try to be honest instead?"

"But I am being honest!"

"Bullshit. Tell me what was on those videos."

Maybe it's because you're tired; or because your body is not as cold anymore and it is harder to control your nerves. In any case, you snap and sit up abruptly.

"I heard you telling Mycroft that you would forgive me anything, and that you would always support me regardless of circumstances; I saw you gulping down one and a half bottle of wine with sleeping pills; and I saw and heard you in my room getting off after you took heroin."

For a moment, John just remains seated, speechless. Then in a flash he's on his feet, walking away from you, distressed.

"How in the world..."

"Cameras. Mycroft."

"Mycroft saw...?"

"No, I don't think he watched them."

"You don't think—"

"He didn't, John."

"But you—"

"I shouldn't have mentioned it."

"That's why you... God."

"It's fine, John."

"No wonder you felt disgusted."

"Don't be stupid, I wasn't disgusted with—"

"I should probably move out. Give you some space."

"John—"

"I thought I was helping, but I—"

"John!" You stand up and grab him by the shoulders none too gently. "I'm not disgusted with you. I'm simply not used to this. You must understand."

"I understand, Sherlock. And I'm sorry you had to see this."

"You don't understand."

You regret having said anything at all.

"Why did you have heroin in your room?" John asks shakily, trying to step back, away from you.

"Mycroft put it there. Probably. I didn't."

"No?"

"No."

Slowly, you try to move him towards the bed, but he resists you.

"I shouldn't sleep here tonight."

"Sit down."

"I'll just sleep on the couch."

"Sit down, John. I have to tell you something."


You make it all ache.
I'm breathing, I'm breathing life again.


John takes a deep breath, then straightens into soldier mode. He sits down on the bed stiffly, and you sit next to him, forgetting all about being embarrassed.

"That time when I went to a brothel..."

"On Valentine's day?"

You nod and look down at John's hands, focusing on his fingers, clenched.

"That night I had a dream with you in it and woke up with an erection," you say very quickly. John's fingers slacken with surprise.

"You—"

"I was torturing you. No, watching Moriarty, who was torturing you. For me. To make you scream."

John puts his hand on your arm, and so half of his fingers leave your field of vision. The rest of them completely slackens on the sheets.

"Sherlock—"

"I didn't try to stop him. I was enjoying it. I wanted to hear your voice."

"Sherlock." His hand tightens on your arm.

"You kept calling my name, and I liked it. I wanted to hear you scream."

John grabs your arm and pulls you down, crushing your lips together. Your eyes widen. So that's what kissing is. It is wetter than what you expected. Softer, too. John's hands are not soft at all, but his mouth surprisingly is. When he breaks the kiss, you barely take time to breathe, and go on:

"I woke up and vomited in the toilet. Then I took a cold shower and waited. I—"

But John's lips are back on yours, interrupting you. Deepening the kiss. You can't really taste the mint of his toothpaste anymore, only him. When he stops, you continue:

"I never had an erection after that."

"Did you try to have one?" John asks softly, stroking the nape of your neck.

"No, but I could have. I got kissed."

John stares.

"By the Woman. And Seb, too. In my sleep."

"Oh." He lets go of you and sits back. "I'm sorry."

"What?"

"I'm no different than them. Forcing myself on you—"

"I aimed my gun at Seb and turned down the Woman, John. I don't recall having done either of those with you."

"I—"

"The point is, John, I..." You swallow, and look down at his hands again. "I can't give you what you want. There are some things, well, that I can't—"

"I don't want anything, Sherlock. You don't seem to realize—"

"But at least I can touch you. And well, I can... I can let you touch me."

You bring his hand to your chest, pressing his palm down against your skin. John does not take it back.

"You don't seem to realize how much it represents to me that you're alive. And here. I'm happy, just with that."

He is sincere. It isn't logical in the least, but he is sincere. You sigh in exhaustion. You don't even feel sleepy anymore. Only restless.

"I'm going to kill Mycroft," John mutters.

"And I will help you."

"Is the flat still bugged?"

"No. I think he only bugged it for a purpose."

"For you to see?"

"There is no other reason he would do such a thing."

"Do you think I can sue him for this?"

"You could. But I would advise against it. Strongly."

John grumbles something incomprehensible and pushes you down onto the bed.

"What are you doing?"

"Resuming where I left. If you don't mind. I think touching you like this calms me. Does it help with the cold at all?"

"It helps. But careful with the throat. I might bite."

"Mmm, I don't think I would mind."

You give him a look, but he can't possibly see you in the dark. Soon his hands are back on your shoulder, his rough and warm skin against yours, cold and smooth. John moves on to your collarbone. Your body becomes tense.

"Do you want me to stop?"

"No."

"Would it help if I talked to you?"

"Depends on what you want to talk about."

John chuckles and moves his hands to your throat gently, not encircling it, but brushing against it and landing on the nape of your neck.

"There is something I've been wanting to ask you," he says, and you think: again?

"The magpie. I don't get it. What does it have to do with anything?"

His hands fall to your back and shoulders, and you almost stiffen. You breathe in and try to focus on the magpie.


And oh boy, I know, boy
I need a breakdown


"It's an animal linked to folklore. Fairy tales."

"Yes, what about the tale?"

"Didn't I tell you the tale?"

"You did." His palms brush against your collarbone and go lower, resting on your chest. "But I still don't see the point."

"The point is that the turtle-dove was right."

"What?"

"This is boring, John. Find another topic of conversation."

John's palms press a little too much on your chest, and twitch. For a second you wonder if he will pinch you or do something similar, but he doesn't. His hands only cover another zone of your chest, brushing your nipples as they move. You shiver.

"Fine. Let's talk about your notebook then."

You groan. "Let's not."

"Did you ever try to do a tabula recta with ideograms, in the end?"

"No. Never had time."

"You could have tried to do it instead of shooting the wall when you were bored."

"Not as fun."

"Fun? Sherlock—"

"Next."

"What?"

"Move on."

John's hands brush against your nipples again and you glare. "Do you have to keep doing that?"

"Do you find it exciting?"

"No, unnerving."

"Could be both."

"Is this supposed to make me warmer or are you just having fun?"

"Both." There is a smirk in his voice. His hands go on to your stomach. When John doesn't tease, his hands feel like a cataplasm, warm and soothing despite their roughness.

"Why did you write that notebook?"

"I don't know."

"Come on, you can tell me."

"Did you understand the Latin quotes?"

"Yes."

"Then you know I'm not lying. I have no idea."

John falls silent for a while, and starts drawing circles with his hands on your stomach, sending shivers after shivers throughout your body. When you begin to stiffen again, he resumes speaking.

"Why did you want to remember Keith Simpson?"

"For his forensic odontology. I thought it was brilliant. I was fascinated by his textbook, Forensic Medicine."

"You read that as a child?"

"It's a textbook, John."

"For medicine students."

"It was in the Library."

John's hands keep stroking your stomach, lower and lower. He uses them to warm you up rather than to fondle you, yet you can't help but feel the caresses.

"Why is Whewell more useful than Hume?" John asks, and you can once again focus on what he is asking rather than feel awkward about his touch.

"Because of the chicken."

"Sorry?"

"Don't be."

"The chicken?"

"Russell's inductivist chicken."

"Well, tell me all about it."

"I know you're only trying to occupy my mind so I don't stiffen every time you touch a sensitive area."

"And it's working, isn't it? Come on. Tell me about the chicken."

"You don't really care about the chicken."

"Oh yes, I'm sure it's fascinating."

You frown, but play along nonetheless.

"Not really. In the farm the chicken notices that he is fed every day at the same time. But being cautious, he doesn't jump to any conclusion. He waits for more data. After a while, his data sheet is detailed enough for him to confidently make the prediction that the following day, at the same time, the farmer will come and feed him. Unfortunately this happens to be the day the farmer comes and wrings his neck."

"What kind of story is that?" His hands cover your hipbones on each side. You try not to squirm.


Can you crush me
In the palm of your hand?


"It isn't a story, John, it's an illustration."

"Of?"

"Of the fact that induction, unlike deduction, is not truth preserving: it can only produce probabilistic conclusions." John's thumb start rubbing on your lower stomach, his palms still pressed to your hips, going down slowly.

"Right... What does that have to do with Hume?"

"Hume pointed out that in fact, we think induction works because it has worked in the past, which is just another inductive reasoning. It's a logical fallacy, because the reasoning is circular. He even denounced deduction as being ultimately based on induction."

"You've lost me."

"You chose the topic."

"Go on." He puts his hands on your thighs, near the crotch. His thumbs draw circles on the skin of your inner thighs. You breathe in sharply, and continue very quickly:

"Often the first premise in deductive reasoning is the result of induction, which, according to Hume, makes for rather shaky foundations. For instance, All men are mortal. This statement is the result of inductive reasoning: until now, we have never observed any man who was not mortal."

"Mmm. You've made me doubt that, you know." His fingers brush against your groin. You stiffen and he lowers his touch at once.

"It's fine. You can touch me."

"I am touching you."

"I meant—"

"So what about Whewell?"

"Don't change the subject."

"Actually, you're the one changing the subject."

Taking a deep breath, you grab John's hand and put it on your crotch forcefully. If touching a man's genitals disgusts him, you would rather know now.

"Sherlock!" he protests, trying to wriggle away — but you keep his hand there firmly, his palm and fingers touching you.

"Whewell was clever and focused on scientific investigation alone, not on metaphysics. His theory was that scientific investigation had to start with hypotheses, not observations, because hypotheses tell us where and how to observe. Confronting a hypothesis with the data allows us to determine whether the hypothesis is false or not. This is abduction, or inference to the best explanation."

"Sherlock, let go!"

"Does it disgust you?"

"What? No!"

"Then what's the problem?"

You know what the problem is: you are still limp under John's hand. You suppose this would turn off anyone. But John leans in against you, his whole body brushing against yours, his warmth spreading to you everywhere his skin touches yours; his lips hover above your cheek before falling to your mouth. His kiss is soft and deep. It feels like his face is melting into yours, which is a rather strange sensation. You reaffirm your grip on his hand, refusing to let go. John stops trying to get away and instead wraps his fingers around you. His hand is warm. So very warm. He breaks the kiss gently but rests his brow against yours, staying close.

"You said this was abduction," he murmurs, his nose rubbing against yours, "but your website is called The Science of Deduction."

"Well," you begin, catching your breath, "I call it deduction, because what I do is better." Tentatively, you put your free hand on the nape of John's neck, keeping him where he is. You close your eyes. "I don't infer to the best explanation. I infer to the correct explanation by looking for the only explanation of all the facts."

John lets out a chuckle, and it feels strange against your lips.

"There is nothing funny, John. Surely you can't agree with those who rank modesty among the virtues. To the logician all things should be seen exactly as they are, and to underestimate yourself is as much a departure from truth as to exaggerate your own powers."

"Naturally," he says, but there is still a smile in his voice.

His fingers on you move slowly, up and down, and you can't say it's unpleasant; but you remain despairingly soft in his hand. You swallow. John's mouth curves up against yours.

"What about Darwin?" he murmurs.

"What about him?"

"You wrote Forget Hume. Whewell better. Not to mention Darwin."

"Did you learn that notebook by heart?"

"I just read it many times."

You open your eyes and look at him. Slowly, you pull his face down towards yours until your lips are touching.

"Tell me how to do it."

"Do what?"

"Kissing."


There's nobody else who can.
You know, you crush me
In the palm of your hand.


You press your lips to his and try to mimic what he did. Well. It's definitely just as wet. You're not sure about the softness. Gradually, John relaxes in the embrace and opens up, allowing you to deepen the kiss. When he starts moaning, you know you've succeeded. You break the kiss.

"How was it?"

"Good."

"But how good?"

"Very good."

You frown. "No it wasn't."

John smiles. "Oh yes it was."

He kisses you again, his fingers still wrapped around you, moving up and down. But you remain limp. You try to concentrate on the kiss but cannot help stiffening slightly. What if you don't harden at all? What if you no longer can?

John breaks the kiss but keeps pressing his lips to your cheek, then to your chin, your throat, your collarbone. He stops and sits up. His hand wrapped around you strokes your groin, and the other continues down your right thigh.

"John, I'm sorry I—"

"Why is phenomenology not a science?"

"Stop interrupting me!"

"Stop racking your brain about unimportant matter."

"Unimportant matter?!"

"Yes."

You try to swallow the lump in your throat. "Oh, so you don't care if I can never get aroused with you?"

John's hands stops moving at once, and you can feel his gaze on you.

"Do you?" You try to swallow that damn lump. "Do you care, Sherlock?"

You don't answer. John's fingers on your thigh and groin are burning you. You feel a cold within you, deep down your chest, that you finally recognize as fear; but you do not know what it is that you fear.

"Phenomenology is not a science because it doesn't have any experimentum crucis."

John sighs but doesn't press the issue. "Which is?"

"An experiment which helps invalidate all hypotheses but one, which it thus corroborates."

"You know, the problem seems to me psychosomatic." You swallow. Clearly he's not talking about phenomenology. "I think you're just so nervous about it you can't get excited at all. There's nothing wrong with you, Sherlock."

"Why would it be psychosomatic?"

"Because the reaction you described to me when you woke up with a hard-on was one of shame and disgust. If you've associated those with arousal, then it's only natural you would unwittingly try to avoid it as much as possible."

Now his left hand is on your knee and his right hand on your thigh, simply palming, radiating warmth. He might be correct. But then what could you do about it? Anyone would have been appalled. Anyone would have felt sick.

"Even if it is psychosomatic, I do not see what I can do."

John's hands keep moving down, slowly, stopping regularly just to warm up the zone they're covering. His touch is efficient and precise; fond and gentle, but purposeful.

"We can think of something; I'm sure this can be solved quite easily. But you have to stop worrying about it. Did it feel good? When I touched you."

"It didn't feel bad."

"Well, that's a start."

"Sometimes it felt good."

"Even better."

"But John?"

"Mm?"

"I haven't touched you yet."

"It's fine. I want to take care of the cold first."

"I don't feel cold now."

"Good. That's good."

He caresses his way down your shins and wraps his hands around your feet. You wriggle your toes in protest.

"My feet are just fine!"

"They're not warm."

"But they're not cold."

"Let me make them warmer anyway."

You groan, but let him do as he pleases. This room is very different from the other one, you muse, trying to focus on your surroundings to alleviate the unease. It is filled with a different scent, and different memories. Better ones. You did not usually sleep in beds. The memories of that night you spent here must have been so strong that you actually avoided sleeping in beds at all, or could not fall asleep there anyway. You only started sleeping in beds again in hotels where there was nowhere else to sleep; and then your problem wasn't so much the bed as Sebastian who kept crawling into it.

John's hands on your feet are vigorous, massaging the soles and the toes with something close to conviction. A small smile graces your lips. There is something unsettling about John's devotion to you. Then you remember the screams and the torture and your face falls.


You make me want to be a human again
Can I be your only human again?


"What is it?"

"What?"

"You just stiffened. What's troubling you?"

"Doesn't it bother you at all?"

"What?"

"That dream I had."

John shrugs. "Your mind was a mess, Sherlock. Your day had been filled with sex and violence and crime. It's not like you actually tortured me to get off."

"What if it's the only way I can get off?"

Another chuckle. John lets go of your feet and crawls up to press a light kiss on your mouth. "Well let's try other ways first, shall we?"

"I didn't mean—"

"Turn on your stomach. I'm going to do your back now."

You comply without protest.

"Is that why you stiffened just now?" John's voice comes as his hands come to rest on your shoulder blades. "You were thinking about the nightmare?"

"Mm."

"I think you should talk about it."

"Is that the doctor in your speaking?"

"It's Google speaking. Remember?"

Your lips curve up a little. "Did it do you any good?" John's nightmare had been about Charlie and sand and blood and the army and a chasm; and you. You try to picture what it must have been like. Blood. A wound. A scalpel penetrating the skin. John's screams.

You clench your fists.

"Sherlock? I said talk about it. Not relive it."

You let out a broken chuckle. The warmth of John's hands on your back is spreading to your entire body. His smell is shrouding you. The smell of his room is shrouding you. You feel swaddled by his presence as his hands roam your back, gradually covering every inch of your skin, and you wonder how he could possibly be closer than this. You try to imagine what it would feel like if he were truly making love to you, and fail. There is a sense of respect and a selflessness in his touch that render it all the more powerful – irresistible.

"Sherlock?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"You should."

"Why?"

"So we can find a way to work with it."

"I have no idea what you mean, and I don't want to know," you mumble, sleepiness taking its toll on you once more, John's warmth helping you relax slowly into slumber. His lips in your neck open your eyes with a jolt.

"Tell me."

Your brow clouds. Perhaps he has a right to know.

"Fine. But keep your hands on me. They're warm."

John kisses you again, nuzzling the nape of your neck, and you can feel his smile against your skin. "That was rather the point."

"You were strapped to a wheel and Moriarty whipped you. Repeatedly. He strangled you with the whip, too, until you wheezed. Then he cut the skin of your torso to shreds with a scalpel."

John's hands are now on your lower back, and you do not sense any hesitancy before they fall to your buttocks, although you are aware he carefully avoided to touch that zone when he was using the hairdryer. He doesn't stroke nor press nor brush, but simply puts them there, on the edge at first, then closer to the line parting them, then lower, waiting until the whole area exudes the same warmth as his hands. His silence makes you nervous. You are wondering if you should apologize again when John unexpectedly leans in and presses a kiss on your right buttock, just where it joins the thigh. You feel warmth pool in your face.

"Thanks for telling me," he says, and you can feel his breath on you. You shiver.

His hands go up your back again and then down your arms, slowly, touching where they haven't touched you yet.

"You know," John goes on softly, "what you saw then might well be close to how people look and sound during sex."

"So people having sex look like they're being tortured?" you ask sarcastically.

"They may. What elements really marked you in the dream?"

You swallow. "Your voice in general. You screaming, calling my name... begging." You close your eyes and try to concentrate on the feel of the rough linen under you and of John's skin on you. "The blood. The sweat. The way you thrashed and contorted to avoid the scalpel, quite in vain. I don't want to talk about it."

"You're doing great," John says, caressing your cheek and chin, then down your neck to your shoulder. His hands stroked you down the spine, past the buttocks, and stopped on the back of your thighs. "If what aroused you really is what you just described, then I wouldn't worry too much. And if you ever feel like it, I'm pretty confident we can reproduce it. Mostly."

"You mean without the whip and the scalpel," you remark bitterly. His touch on your thigh becomes more gentle, as if to assuage you.

"We can negotiate for the whip. But definitely without the scalpel."

"Negotiate for the whip? I didn't know you had BDSM tendencies, John."

"I really don't."

You cannot help but smile. His hands, now on the back of yours knees, do not feel like some strange, rather unwanted foreign body anymore. It is as if they were part of the room and the scent filling it and the warmth pervading it. They go on to your calves, then your ankles, and finally the soles of your feet again. You feel whole.

"John?"


You bring me back.
You bring me back in pieces
In the palm of your hand


"Mm?"

"Come here."

He lies on his side next to you obediently, and you turn towards him. You can see his face more clearly now, and he too must have grown accustomed to the dark. He smiles at you.

"How do you feel?"

"Good. I'm good. But you'll have to guide me for this."

"For what?"

He gasps when your fingers wrap around his hardness. As you suspected, it is harder now than it was before.

"God, Sherlock!"

"Just Sherlock is fine."

"You–"

"I must tell you that I am very new to this. I might not be very... talented."

"Oh God."

"I would much prefer you said my name, if you have to say anything."

"Please, you don't have to... aah!"

Your eyes widen at the sound that just escaped John's lips. You see him bite them to stifle a moan, and frown.

"Don't do that. I just told you I liked your voice."

"Sherlock, please, I can't let you–" He stops and buries his face in your chest, resting his brow on your collarbone in an attempt to repress another groan. Around his length your fingers are only mimicking what he did to you previously, without much results; but you feel him harden in your palm. Suddenly he places his palms on your torso and pushes you back.

"Please, Sherlock, listen to me. We don't have to–"

You swallow his nonsense with a kiss. Apparently you're becoming rather good at it. Gradually, you feel your self-confidence coming back.

John is trying to wriggle his way out of the embrace, but soon surrenders to the double onslaught. The wetness of his mouth against yours is soon joined by the wetness you feel on your fingers. His erection becomes slippery and he starts moaning into the kiss. You break it, surprised by the vibration his groans sent in your mouth. The moment his lips are no longer connected to yours his moan seems to fill the space around you, and the noises he makes hit you like a punch in the stomach. You feel a knot forming in your lower stomach, and vaguely wonder if you're getting nervous. But if you are, the tension you feel is rather exhilarating. It gives you a sense of power.

"Sherlock, please–"

He is interrupted by another moan. And another. And another.

"God, you infuriating... If you want blood, you will have blood."

He swoops down on you and bites the base of your throat, near the collarbone. You gasp.

"What the...?!"

His body heat is overwhelming, and soon you can no longer tell whether the wetness you feel all over his skin and brow pressed to your chest is rain water or sweat. He lets go of your throat with a sigh and arches his back as your fingers brush the tip of his hard-on.

"Please, Sherlock, don't–"

His voice is strangely reminiscent of that in your nightmare. The way he moves and the sounds he makes, disturbingly similar.

"I think you were right. I might not have to torture you."

"Sherlock!"

Mimicking him once more, you lean in and bite into his skin with vigour. He arches his back once more.

"Aaah!"

The tastes of blood and sweat and what must be his shower gel mingle with what you identify as the distinctive taste of John's skin. It makes you light-headed; or perhaps it is the exhaustion. In any case the turtle-dove was right, and the magpie was wrong.

"Sherlock, what are you saying?" John asks hoarsely, a strain in his voice. You blink. Did you just say that out loud? Your fingers between John's legs are apparently becoming more and more talented, as John is having more and more difficulties to catch his breath. You smirk.

"You didn't pay attention," you murmur, barely brushing down his length and eliciting a moan, "it's all in the dialogue. Take two, Taffy, take two-o-o-o."

"God I have no idea what you're saying... aaah!"

"I already told you, just call me–"

"Sherlock!"

"Good." John moans again. "So. That is what the turtle-dove says. But the magpie keeps answering: One's enough, I tell you, one's enough! Still talking about nests, of course."

"Sherlock I swear... aaah! Please."

"You are rather sensitive."

"Anyone would be with–"

You're not sure what it is your hand did, but this time it earns you a scream. You watch, fascinated, as John convulses, his eyes rolling back, then thrashes and cries and babbles: "Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock Sherl–"


There's nobody else who can.
You know, you crush me, crush me


He bursts in your hand. The sudden wetness and stickiness on your palm and stomach surprises you, but does not disgust you. Maybe you're just tired. Or maybe for some reason the whole experience was worth it. Panting, sweaty and unbearably warm, John tries to move away from you. It takes you a few seconds to realize he looks appalled.

"Sherlock, I'm sorry, I–"

"It's fine. We can shower tomorrow."

"No, I meant... Damn I'm really horrible."

"Don't be stupid."

"You didn't have to do this."

"I wanted to."

"But–"

"John, I understand that you must feel this is a bit unfair for you."

"For me?"

"Well, yes. I wasn't the one turned into a begging mess by your touch. But you must understand that there is nothing wrong with your touch, and that I just–"

"God, Sherlock, of course I know that!"

"Then what's the problem?"

"Isn't this your first hand job?"

"Yes. But it wasn't bad, was it?"

"No it certainly wasn't. But that's not the issue! I didn't pleasure you."

"Doing this to you was very pleasurable, believe me." You try to hide the smirk in your voice. John does not answer. Maybe you went a little far. Tentatively, you move closer to him and press your lips to his, lightly.

"I told you I would try. I never said I would be great at this from the beginning. But I've always been quick in improving in most fields."

"Sherlock–"

"Look." You grab his hand with your non-sticky one and bring it to your groin. You feel sleepy. So very sleepy. "You can touch me if you want. But you took care of me. I only wanted to take care of that for you, too. I'm sorry if you didn't like it."

"I loved it."

You freeze. John's face is so close to yours you can feel his breath against your skin, tickling it. You swallow.

"I love you."

This is no news to you, but somehow hearing it stuns you. John's hand on your crotch is stroking, up and down. It doesn't arouse you but it isn't unpleasant. John does not wait for an answer, does not ask for one; he leans in and kisses your brow, your temple, you cheek, your eyebrow, the corner of your lips, your chin, your earlobe, your throat, your collarbone, your chest, your left nipple, your shoulder. He does it slowly and it doesn't feel like an attack; you do not feel besieged nor smothered. Only shrouded in warmth. You relax in his embrace and the drowsiness increases.

"You know," he murmurs, "I've been wanting to apologize to you. For not having seen through it all that day when you called me from the roof."

"But John, that was the point."

He shakes his head. "I should have noticed. I'm sure part of you wanted me to notice."

You remain silent.

"After you 'died' I often woke up to the sound of a violin at night," John goes on, and through your sleepiness you can still tell that now he is mostly babbling, blurting out everything that comes to mind. He too must be exhausted. Slowly, you pull him closer to you, trying to make him settle down against your body for the night. "I caught a glimpse of you in the street every day. Every time it rained, I could smell your scent – I don't know why, you never particularly smelled like rain, and it wasn't raining when you jumped. Every time I opened the door, I would expect you to rush in and act as if nothing had ever happened, as if it had all been a dream. I hated that Christmas carol you played the only time we spent Christmas together – the only Christmas we got to spend together."

"Christmas comes every year, John," you mumble drowsily. "There are still many to spend."

For some reason this truism seems to touch John and he snuggles up closer to you.

"I bought a dummy once. Made him look like you. Bought a wig and a flannel shirt."

"Are flannel shirts supposed to be as much part of me as my hair?"

"Not anymore," he says with a smile, pressing a kiss against your chest. "I beat the crap out of it."

"The dummy?" Oh. Yes. You remember that. A note about a dismembered dummy.

"Yes. I punched it and tore off the flannel shirt, I hurled the dummy at the wall, broke an arm, strangled it, kicked it, and finally tore its head off."

"And I thought I was a sadist."

John chuckles and kisses you on the cheek. "It was only a dummy."

"Thankfully..."

"I stopped watching telly. I stopped putting milk in my tea because it made me think of you."

You catch his lips and try to make him shut up and relax enough to fall asleep. You can't remember ever feeling so sleepy. "Speaking of tea," you murmur, "that mug you broke. I know you liked it. I'm sorry."

"Why sorry?"

"Well, you were trembling and dropped it because of me."

"But–"

"I'll buy you another one."

"Don't worry, I have the one with the chicks on it."

"All the more so."

He chuckles. "Are you jealous?"

"Of the mug?"

"Of Mary?"

You frown. You really don't want to have that conversation now. In fact, you do not want to have any conversations right now. You never felt so warm and so comfortable. John turns out to be the best bolster you ever had.

He runs his fingers through your hair, and with his other hand takes yours.

"I was jealous. The first Christmas after your death, I was incredibly jealous. Of Irene Adler. It was insane and I knew it. But I thought she was dead, and you, too. I felt that she had won you, eventually."

His hand holding yours is warm. He rubs his thumb on your palm; in circles. You close your eyes. As soon as the darkness swallows you, you remember a dream. Someone was talking. You couldn't decipher the words, but the voice was familiar. The darkness was opaque. In the dream it was cold and forlorn, but now you feel warm, shrouded in John's presence. John keeps speaking and you remember that the voice in the dream was his. Like now, he was speaking, and as you drift off to sleep, gradually you cannot quite decipher what he is saying. The timbre of his voice spreads a sense of intimacy within the darkness, making it comfortable and cosy; making it feel like home.

"John?"

"Yes?"

As you slowly fall into slumber, you let yourself drown in the warmth of John's body against yours. He is so close you can't be sure whose heat you're basking in.

"Tomorrow, post on your blog that I'm back."

A small smile plays on your lips.

"I need a case."

You fall asleep before you can hear John's answer; the last thing you feel is that you are falling together.


In the palm of your hand


.

.

.

tbc