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They neither had time nor need for intricacies. John touched and handled him like he had known him for a long time and there was not one single moment of awkwardness or embarrassment on either side. They both were two waves of sands trying to quench their thirsts.
Sherlock had requested John to sleep by his side as he knew that John wouldn't leave him alone and it hurt him to see John crouching somewhere in his own house and waking up in pain. John had thought for a blink of an eye and agreed. He wouldn't be anywhere else. He would stroke Sherlock's hair when he when he woke up in the night, he washes him when he sweated, his proximity provided Sherlock warmth and he slept with a hand pressed on Sherlock's heart reassuring himself that the man was alive and beating.
There was neither time nor need for delicacy or modesty. Sherlock was John's patient. He was a doctor. John changed the sheets, his bandages, his clothes, cleaned him all with the care and precision of a doctor. On the other hand Sherlock gave himself up to John with blind trust.
On the fourth day though the scenario changed.
John was giving Sherlock a sponge bath as he was still too weak to stand and take a shower. John was completely immersed in his ministrations when Sherlock spoke.
"Look at me John."
John was wiping his shoulders. He looked up curiously halting his ministrations and waited.
"No, just look at me."
John furrowed his brows.
Sherlock took John's free hand and placed it on his warm bare chest.
"Feel me." he whispered.
John's demeanor changed instantly. The touch which was clinical till then became sensitive and sent waves of pleasure through him. He was awed by his transition just by one whispered command from the man.
How could he not see it for so long? How could he be so engrossed in only tending to it without touching it warmly? With affection?
This ivory colored silk so magnificently spread in front of him. How could he not immerse himself in it? But then again it could pain the man. But when again he would get a chance like this god only knew. For he was oh so sure that these days of proximity would be again threaded with another long period of wait and longing. These pearls of proximity held together by that delicate thread which was their life when separated. Anyone could perish and the thread would snap scattering the pearls forever.
But what about now? That he was there? In front of him, asking, demanding, commanding. John sitting so close, hoping, fearing, indulging.
Sherlock read the dilemma in John's eyes and put a hand over his on his chest firmly, assuring. Then in one swift motion he was sitting face to face with John.
He took John's startled face in his hands and sunk his lips in his.
It must have hurt. Though the man didn't flinch or gasp yet John knew that it must have hurt. But he couldn't deny the profound feeling. He couldn't pull back from what seemed like a process of both claiming and being claimed. John had never tasted drugs in his life but he was sure nothing like that would come close to this heady nauseating feeling. Sherlock's breath filled his lungs, Sherlock's taste filled his mouth, Sherlock's love filled whatever there was inside that people called soul. Whatever it was that kept living after the mortal being perished now completely and utterly belonged to this man. This man, bloodied and wounded and elusive.
This man John loved.
"John…" The man gasped breaking the contact.
John pressed his forehead to Sherlock's and placing a hand on the wounded man's chest pressed him down on the mattress. They kept breathing into each other's faces, eyes closed. Sherlock was panting lightly with the exertion.
"Can you promise me you won't leave again?" whispered John, looking into the man's eyes with glistening eyes.
Sherlock swallowed and kissed John's forehead but didn't reply.
The question hung heavy in the air.