John woke late in the night. He wasn't sure what time it was as he left his eyes closed just wanting to drift back to sleep after the past few days. The man in his arms was gone and he reached out a hand to Sherlock's side of the bed only to find it had gone cold. He didn't have time to wonder where the other man had gone as the light scent of cigarette smoke reached him alerting him to the fact that Sherlock was still nearby. He opened his eyes as he turned towards the window. The room was dark besides the lights from London that crept through the curtains. Sherlock sat in one of the windows with his back against the sill. The bright red end of the cigarette glowed briefly as Sherlock inhaled deeply.
"I don't understand you, John," Sherlock spoke up without even looking at him.
"What do you mean?" John wondered.
"Most people want either my mind or my body. They don't care about the other as long as they can take what they want from me. You are different though. I don't understand why that is," Sherlock admitted. John sat up but didn't bother reaching for the light. This wasn't a conversation that either of them could have by the light of day or if they could see each other clearly. They were proper British men and therefore they didn't talk about their feelings even if things desperately needed to be said.
"Because I care about you, Sherlock. I want to see you happy and I know I'm not the only one. Your family cares about you and so does Lestrade," John informed him. Sherlock made a noise with his mouth.
"Lestrade only helped get my body healthy because he needed my mind. He relies on me to help solve his cases and if my mind stopped working he would have no use for me anymore," Sherlock stated before he took another slow drag from his cigarette.
"We both know that's not true. I have seen the way Lestrade is around you and even if he wasn't dating your brother he would still care about what happens to you," John replied. He ignored the customary gagging noise that Sherlock made every time the relationship was mentioned. "Now do you want to tell me what this is really about? I know you have been insecure about me leaving and wanting me to leave but I think I have proved to you by now that I am not going anywhere." Sherlock turned his head and even in the darkroom, it felt as if Sherlock were staring through him, analyzing him. He wasn't sure what Sherlock was seeing as the light behind him made it impossible for John to see his face.
"Mike told me your nickname," Sherlock informed him. John closed his eyes briefly.
"I really wish he wouldn't have," John answered.
"Even if you care about my mind and my body, I can't give you both," Sherlock told him.
"I don't expect you to. What happened to you was horrible and I would understand if you never wanted to have sex with me. I would be perfectly fine just holding you and taking care of myself in the shower if that is what you needed. Or if you would let me, I could help you relearn what it means to enjoy sex," John responded.
"By holding me down and making me enjoy it?" Sherlock seethed his voice low and threatening. There was the edge of fear underneath it also. John didn't have to ask to know that is what happened to the man. Possibly many times before that night. He felt a wave of sadness go through him as he wondered if anyone in the past had ever taken their time to get to know what Sherlock actually liked. If they ever cared whether or not he was getting enjoyment or pleasure out of the act or if they just used his body for their own benefit. John vowed he would never be like those men and even if it took the rest of his life, he would show Sherlock what it meant to be loved and cared for.
"Never. I would never force myself on you. You would be in control every step of the way and the minute you said stop or pulled away it would end, no questions asked. We would work slowly to get you ready to have sex again," John explained. The room went quiet beyond the sound of a lighter flicking as Sherlock lit another cigarette. John sat there watching Sherlock smoke lost in his own head. He thought the conversation was over until Sherlock spoke again.
"How?" Sherlock questioned.
"How?" John clarified.
"Yes, how. How would you help me relearn?" Sherlock wondered.
The first step would be no expectations exploration. I would be as dressed or naked as you want me to be and you would have free range to look, kiss, lick, poke or do whatever he else you want to without any expectations but with the understanding that I also have limits and may ask you to stop or slow down. I may also become aroused but you will not be expected to take care of it unless you decided that you want to," John explained.
"Then you would do the same to me?" Sherlock wondered apprehensively. John shook his head no.
"No, you would be allowed to explore my body until you are ready for the next step. That would be me touching you while you are fully clothed. You would still be in complete control and I would stop or back off whenever you needed me to. Gradually we would slowly remove our clothing and eventually work towards penetrative sex but I would understand if you were never able to get that far. I would completely understand if we had to stop before that point but you don't need to worry about it now. That would be weeks, months, or possibly years down the line. Right now, all we need to do is focus on what you are comfortable with and if that is me holding you as we sleep then it will be enough," John reassured him softly.
"My blood's not clean," Sherlock reminded him.
"You are on medication to control the symptoms as well as flare-ups. We can also use condoms to prevent the transference of the STI as well as to help with clean up if we decide to go that far," John explained. Sherlock nodded as he took one last drag from his cigarette. Sherlock flicked the rest of it out the window as he stood up. He closed it behind him before making his way over to the bed. John felt the bed dip as Sherlock climbed into the covers beside him.
"Can we start tonight?" Sherlock asked softly. John yawned he was still tired but being that he wasn't going to participate in the touching this time he thought it would be all right.
"Okay," John answered moving down the bed to stretch out on the firm mattress. Sherlock leaned over him turning on the tableside lamp. His eyes were bright and full of excitement as they skimmed over John's face.
"Will you take your shirt off?" Sherlock questioned. John reached down grabbing his shirt and pulling it up over his head leaving his chest bare. Sherlock knelt up beside him looking down. His eyes glazed over John's body once before locking on to the scar on his shoulder. Fingers reached out hesitantly to press against the edge of the scar and when John made no move to stop him he leaned down closer as he began to explore the bullet wound.
"Of course," John chuckled as Sherlock hyper-fixated on his shoulder. He had seen Sherlock stare at his shoulder many times, trying to deduce what the scar looked like through one of his many jumpers. Now he had been given free rein to finally see it. His fingers moved slowly over every centimeter of the scar taking in the different texture of the skin as well as the way it indented in the middle. The scar was bigger than a typical bullet wound as it had become infected and they had to do surgery several times in order to save his arm and his life. He had never had someone take such an interest in the damaged skin before and he drifted as Sherlock explored muttering softly to himself. He was on the verge of falling asleep when a finger poked him in the side.
"Roll onto your stomach," Sherlock practically demanded. John groaned as he followed the demand. He wrapped his arms around the pillow holding it to him as he laid his head down. Immediately, Sherlock's fingers were on his shoulder again exploring the exit wound this time. It wasn't as large as the one on the front but that didn't stop Sherlock from going over every part of it. He was once again nearly silent beyond the soft mutterings as he cataloged the differences in the textures of John's skin.
"Have you ever had an EMG done on your shoulder?" Sherlock wondered after his fingers finally stopped moving across the raised skin.
"Once, but it was right after the injury occurred and I don't need an EMG to tell me how much feeling I currently have. It is numb towards the middle and it becomes stiff and sore when the weather turns cold," John answered sleepily.
"An EMG would give me better data, John," Sherlock argued.
"You're not performing an EMG," John yawned again.
"Why not? You said we could do anything that I wanted," Sherlock pouted.
"I also said that I can tell you stop or no. Also, we don't have the equipment in the flat to test the nerve conduction. I don't want to go to Barts at this time of the night and I doubt even Mycroft will bring you one.
Now, you can gather as much information as you want using your fingers, your eyes, and even your mouth but we aren't leaving this bed," John informed him sternly. Sherlock rolled his eyes as he muttered something about stubborn flatmates but returned to his exploration. His hands left the scar on John's shoulder as they found a small wound on his side and what looked like a burn mark on his upper arm near the bullet wound. He had John turn back onto his back as he continued to look over his upper body focusing on the scars that he had accumulated over the years. John's trousers and the blanket remained covering John's lower half as Sherlock refused to acknowledge that part of the man existed.
"How did you get this one?" Sherlock wondered as he poked at a scar on John's elbow.
"I fell off my bike when I was nine," John answered with another yawn. The call of sleep was too tempting to resist despite the long fingers that were slowly exploring every scar that he had ever accumulated. Eventually, Sherlock laid down beside him, his eyes almost blue as he stared at John. "Are you done for the night?"
Sherlock nodded. He cuddled next to John tucking his head against John's neck as John wrapped his arms around him. Sherlock's eyes drifted close as his breathing slowed to a familiar pace. He had gone into his mind palace, no doubt ready to catalog everything he learned tonight about John's scar. John wasn't sure how much progress they had made due to the fact that Sherlock had focused on his scars the entire time. John wasn't even sure if he had any interest in furthering their relationship into the more physical side or if he was just taking advantage of the fact that he could finally make John show him the bullet wound scar. No longer as tired, John carefully got out of bed making sure not to disturb Sherlock in the process. As he went out to the living room, his eyes took in the fact that the once destroyed room was now clean.
"Fucking Mycroft," John swore. He barely accepted the fact that there was a camera in the living room but him coming into the clean the flat was just bordering creepy. He made a rude gesture in the same general direction Sherlock usually did as he sat down in his chair. They both had a lot to think about and he couldn't think clearly while the man in question was pressed against his side with his hot breath on his neck.
From the moment he met Sherlock, he was willing to sacrifice everything for the man. He was even willing to give up sex if that meant he could keep Sherlock by his side. He had never felt this way about anyone else before and as much as he loved Sherlock it worried him how attached he was. He meant what he said that he would never leave but maybe a medical conference would give him a minute to clear his head without Sherlock feeling like he was abandoning him. Then the two of them could decide whether they wanted to progress the relationship together or if they would continue on as flatmates.