I got this feeling
I'm losing you
Got my heart reeling
I need a clue
Got my heart pounding
I lost my spell
Can't see you turning up
This looks like hell
Maybe it had been a lack of general distractions, or a semi-serious deadline he set for himself before meeting up with Mycroft, but John had been more productive than he'd been in a long time. He'd done more than just managing his day to day work as a doctor, he'd also managed to sit down in the afternoon and complete the manuscripts he'd been putting off for quite some time. The blog he'd kept on Sherlock and his adventures with the consulting detective had been off the air for a long time now, but its rise in popularity got him a job through a local publisher to turn it into an anthology. Not that anybody read physical books these days, with every available reading material available through digital means, but there was a small fervent cult following that would adore physical copies of Sherlock's best mysteries as told through the eyes of his best friend, John H. Watson.
His best friend -at the time-. He wouldn't allow his current feelings towards the man seep into the pages and ruin some of their greatest memories. And honestly? The more he wrote about the two, pulling both directly from the blog as well as his memories of those great, challenging, dramatic times, the more he seemed to disolve into missing the man rather than hating him. They did still speak on occasion, though it took every ounce of control in John's body to not lash out at him in anger. He was hurt; it was a perfectly normal feeling to have after a major breakup, after all. However, he admitted to himself one night, that he wasn't handling it in a healthy manner, and he thought less of himself for how he'd been acting. The two could remain friends, if nothing else. There were reasons they weren't together anymore, but there were reasons they were together in the first place, and he'd much rather think about why he cared about Sherlock than why he couldn't stand him.
I can't fight this feeling
It's not in my head
I know it was something I did, baby
I can't fight this feeling
I'm out of control
Got to get back to the life that I know!
That night, after having spent the afternoon writing almost nonstop, he found himself laying in bed thinking about Sherlock. It had become a rather guilty pleasure of his to touch himself thinking about the younger man, and there was an emphasis on the guilt for sure. He would never admit to anyone that he still jerked it to the thought of his ex. But as unhealthy as it was, he found himself really unable to get off any other way, and he needed as much destressing as he could get. And somewhere in the middle, he heard his phone going off. He couldn't imagine who'd possibly be calling this late into the evening, but he stopped and looked at his phone. Sherlock.
"Hello?" He picked up, slightly annoyed at being interrupted, but he would, admittingly, always pick up when Sherlock called.
"Are you up?" He skipped the pleasantries and got right to the point, as is his nature.
"Am now." John sat up a bit. "What do you need?"
"How mad are you at me right now?"
He didn't like the way Sherlock sounded. He was very nonchalant but he was incredibly quiet.
"I'm not mad. I mean, I get upset with you sometimes but I'm not mad." He stopped himself fro rambling. He lost his ability to properly lie to Sherlock, or anybody else, ages ago, and he felt the need to go into great detail about how he was okay, but not okay, and not mad, but disappointed, and hurt, and so on and so forth and what have you. The fear of being misunderstood was strong.
"May I come up? I'm outside and it's rather nippy." Perhaps that's why he sounded off.
"Yes. Give me a minute, I'll come down and get you." He hung up and threw on a bath robe. He didn't want Mrs. Hudson to get startled by someone letting themselves in downstairs, and he sure as hell didn't want her to see Sherlock coming to see John in the dead of night when there was nothing between them now. He padded down the stairs quietly, yet quickly, and silently thanked god that he chose not to wear slippers. He would've fallen down the stairs otherwise.
He took a small vial of oil and an eye dropper he kept about the door's frame and carefully applied it to the hinges, a small trick he learned from Sherlock to prevent doors from squeaking when you opened them. And Hudson, bless her heart, was too short to see anything on the door frame.
And sure enough, when he opened the door, there stood Sherlock, his tall, pale figure illuminated by the golden street lights and hair gently tossled by the breeze. John stepped aside and allowed Sherlock to walk past him, both men making their way upstairs in silence so as not to disturb Mrs. Hudson's rest. Once upstairs in the common area, now dimly lit by two table lamps on either side of the room, Sherlock removed his coat and sat in his chair; yes, John still referred to it as Sherlock's chair, despite the man no longer living there.
John sat across from him, on the edge of his own chair, arms folded in front of him as he spoke in a hushed tone. "Is everything alright?"
"Yes, everything is fine." Sherlock replied in an equally hushed voice, an unreadable expression on his face. "I want to have sex with you." Right to the point.
John was a bit taken back by the statement; of course they'd had sex before as partners, so it wasn't completely out of line, but…
"What about Lestrade? I thought you two were-"
"We are. Look, I love him and I want to have a future with him. But with his work schedule and everything… I don't get to see him as often as I'd like to, and I have needs whether he's there or not." Sherlock stood for a brief minute before kneeling in front of John, hands crossed over the older man's lap as he looked up into his eyes. "It wouldn't mean anything, it would just be two guys blowing off some steam. I know you need it too."
John hated how badly he needed it; even if they were no longer together, the mere proximity to the younger man made him ache, and he was worried that Sherlock could feel his pajama pants tenting underneath him.
He didn't need to answer: Sherlock could tell. "I need you to promise you won't tell anybody about this."
"I won't." John said quietly before reaching out, feeling the cold air still tangled in the curls of Sherlock's hair. Sherlock nuzzled against his hand a bit before standing up, helping John to his feet, and leading him back to their previously shared bedroom, the room John couldn't clean out but couldn't bring himself to sleep in anymore. It was -their- room, and without 'their', he couldn't do it.
John's military background made him great at two things: Taking orders, and receiving orders. There was no in between for him. And Sherlock loved to bottom, so he assumed he'd be the one giving orders tonight. That is, until Sherlock pinned him against the bed, straddling his chest, telling him that "actually, I think you should be submissive tonight."
And he was. Sherlock had him so tightly wound around his finger that he would do anything to feel this close to him again. He wrapped his arms around the younger man's legs and undid his pants, pulling down every layer of fabric that separated Sherlock's body from the cool night air, quickly working his tongue over every inch of Sherlock's pale flesh. There was something satisfying in tasting the parts of Sherlock that the light of day never witnessed; he felt much more important and worthy than the sun itself in those moments. Maybe tonight had been about helping each other relieve some stress, but John knew it meant Sherlock still needed and wanted him around, and that meant the world to him.
I'm not freaking out
But it feels like time is running out
How did this shit come about?
I'm not freaking out
But I'm afraid
Afraid of losing you
