John slumped down gratefully into his armchair, the short forced exhales and the sweat on his brow testament to his exhaustion. He pursed his lips as he looked around the living room of 221B, his relief at being home a tangible thing almost growing like a bubble in his chest, threatening to burst open at any second.

"How about I make us some tea?" Philippe asked as he came up the stairs again with John's bags.

"Yeah, that'll be great," John said gratefully..

It had been a busy morning.

The hospital physiotherapist had insisted on one last session which lasted for an hour. Removal of his sutures, hospital discharge paperwork, organising discharge medications, visits in turn by all the specialists who had looked after him.

Just when they were about to leave, Sherlock took off on an errand to find special waterproof protectors that he could wear over his plaster cast, as directed by Philippe. There was no reason on earth why one of Mycroft's ubiquitous minions who had hung around the place couldn't have done the job. John suspected that Sherlock engineered his absence during John's return to spare John the embarrassment of being seen as he was virtually carried up the seventeen steps to 221B by Philippe. It was not an event that John would have wanted Sherlock to witness. And as per course, Sherlock seemed to have pre-empted the situation and presented the solution, eons before the thought had even crossed John's mind.

He rested his head on the back rest and almost growled with pleasure at being home, in his favourite spot and wished desperately that Sherlock would hurry back.

"Woo-hoo!" Mrs Hudson's cheery voice called out as she knocked on the open door. "John, welcome back! It's good to have you home again!" She came and stood before him, looking down at him with her arms folded in front of her chest. "Now the real recovery will begin," she nodded. "Let me get you a cuppa."

"Thanks, Mrs Hudson, Philippe is making one already," John gestured as Philippe exited the kitchen.

Mrs Hudson got busy with organising the biscuits and cakes to go with the tea as she prattled on.

"I've stocked the fridge, as Sherlock asked me to do, so there should be enough food to go around for a while." She placed the plate full of biscuits and tea on the coffee table as she perched herself on Sherlock's chair and Philippe sat on the sofa.

Philippe took a long sip. They sat munching the tea and biscuits as they talked about the exercise regime that Philippe had planned.

"John, the OT and I have made a few changes. Put on railings at the sides of the corridors, anti-slip bathmats and the like. Most importantly though, Sherlock and I have moved all your stuff to his bedroom. So that you don't have to climb two floors. We tried to arrange your clothes and books, you can have a look later. He's moved his stuff upstairs."

Mrs Hudson shook her head as she picked up the empty cups, "Oh, I don't think Sherlock will be sleeping upstairs. Knowing him, he'll park himself on the sofa, so he can be close by should you need anything, John."

She patted John's shoulder as she came back out of the kitchen. She walked to the door and looked back at John, her face solemn.

"You concentrate on getting better, dearie. I'm sick to death of seeing that look on Sherlock's face. You get better for him, you hear me."

One day later…..

John sat on his chair, almost dozing off in contentment, the television remote slipping from his loose clasp. The silent television screen flickered in the background. Home….I'm home….what time is it? Must be close to one in the morning….don't care….don't have to work tomorrow….

Sherlock slept on the sofa, covered with a throw rug, exhaustion and many days of sleep deprivation finally having caught up with him. His arm was flung over his head, so that only the mop of curls and the pouty, slightly parted lips that sighed with every exhale were visible. Lanky limbs were tangled in the throw rug spread all over the sofa.

John put one hand on his tummy as a wave of cramps passed through his gut. He looked at Sherlock to check that he was still sleeping.

Wish he would move so I could see his face. Tired….he's so tired….Gosh, Philippe really pushed me this afternoon…..push, stand, balance, walk, bend, straighten…..never ending fucking exercises…..every muscle hurts…..thank God for pain-killers…..but that fucking morphine has bunged me up well…..how long has it been? Five days? No….no, I went three days ago….wasn't much though….hope the bisacodyl works by tomorrow…..don't want to have to take anything stronger…..fuck I'm starting to get cramps…..

Earlier that day Mike Stamford had dropped by and at John's request brought some laxatives for him. The narcotic analgesia was causing some significant constipation and John was tired of feeling uncomfortable and full all the time. The lack of mobility was further compounding the problem. He'd taken two of the pills instead of one, hoping for fast and effective release. Although going by the way Philippe had worked him for more than two hours this morning, this was not going to be a problem for too long.

John wiggled his bum and readjusted himself to a more comfortable position, coaxing his tummy to settle down.

He'd slept on Sherlock's bed, in Sherlock's room last night. It was huge and comfortable and Sherlock's! For the first time in days, John slept through the night, undisturbed by nightmares, a soothing dreamless sleep. As though his subconscious recognised the essence of Sherlock pervading the room, as though his mind grasped on to the feeling of safety, belonging…..home.

Sherlock had insisted on sleeping on the sofa outside, in case John needed him through the night.

Wish I had had the balls to ask him to sleep next to me…..and just hold me…..but he'd have refused…..and he'd be right….how can I expect anything when I've given him nothing…..in his mind, I'm now an invalid…..but it's not sex that I want….just the comfort of knowing that he hasn't washed his hands off me…..

His tummy grumbled and cramped again. He bent forward, trying to compress the pain away. Damn, wish I hadn't taken two of them…. I need to go now. But I can't wake him, he's passed out…..must be so tired….never once showed any impatience, any irritation…..just gentle rock-solid support….and this is the man I thought I couldn't trust! If not him, then whom?

He could feel the waves of aborted peristaltic movements moving through his gut as the cramping intensified and he clamped down viciously on his sphincter, absently looking around, one hand now gripping his cane, computing his chances of walking with his cane, without any other support all the way to the bathroom. Fuck it, I'm not going to wake him for this….as if he has nothing better to do than play nurse-maid…..I can do it, will just go slow and steady.

Pushing the tip of the cane more firmly into the ground, his other arm digging into the armrest of his chair, he hoisted himself up, breathing through the shooting pain in his back. He waited as he stood on both feet for his balance to stabilize. The numbed sensation, the tingling and burning of his legs and feet had been steadily improving since the surgery, but by no means back to normal. And the plaster cast on one leg already made things more wobbly.

Slowly, tentatively he took the first step.

The shuffling sounds of his feet and cane sounded loud in the dead of the night, and he glanced at Sherlock to make sure he stayed undisturbed. He took another step gingerly. I can do this….toddlers do it! Just slow and careful now….

The pain in his gut intensified as another wave of worsening cramps hit him. Fuck, fuck…..buggering fuck. He stood, the hand on his cane trembling as he put his entire weight on it, the other hand desperately clutching his middle, as he bent over grimacing. His anal sphincter fluttered open and shut as the urge to evacuate fought with the volition to close it.

Face twisted with pain, he looked around desperately. The bathroom was less than a dozen feet away, but in his condition it seemed like an insurmountable distance. He looked back in panic at his chair, but the urgency to seek the toilet bowl was too intense. His back felt like someone was stabbing knives and twisting them inside of him. Oh God, no…please no…he thought as he straightened with a grim determination….fuck it, you're a soldier, you can do this. He took one resolute step forward.

And fell.

His legs gave way under him, as he crashed on to the floor, his hand twisting his cane into a semicircle, while the other tried to desperately break his fall. Waves of pain were ripping through him, as his sphincters gave way and he felt it-The trickle of watery diarrhoea, overflow from around the hard accumulated stool in his rectum. The gush of warm urine as the intense pain triggered his autonomic nervous system which overrode the commands of his higher brain. In stunned disbelief he lay there in a heap, a grown man, with his pyjamas soiled with his own watery excrement and urine.

He sobbed with disgust, his gut twisting with mortifying shame, even as his body felt intense relief at having being able to finally let go.

Time seemed to be at a standstill as his panicked desperate mind tried to think of options, but it was only a couple of seconds before Sherlock's voice called out, even as he kicked off the throw run and rushed to John.

"John!"

John looked up with miserable, humiliated eyes into the alert concerned eyes of his friend.

"Just….just leave me alone," he cried with desperation even as his body cowered and tried to make himself as small as possible. "I'm fine. Just, GO AWAY."

Sherlock looked at him, observant eyes taking in at a glance, the body trembling with pain, the wretchedness, the soiled pyjamas with enlarging stains on the front and the back, the smell of urine and faeces…. His voice was a mixture of bitterness, concern and frustration as he hissed, "Stop it. Just stop it, John."

John looked up in surprise at the hurt shining in the hazel eyes.

Sherlock's voice was strained as his anger built, "Tell me. Tell me, that if it were me in your place, in pain and covered in piss and shit, you would leave. Tell me that and then I will leave."

John's focus shifted from his trembling hands braced against the floor as he tried to sit up, to the hurt and anger on Sherlock's face. An image of Sherlock, hurt and disabled flashed through his mind and his heart clenched.

"No…no, don't ever say that," he cried out, his voice plaintive, as he fought to erase that image from his imagination.

Sherlock's voice was grim, his jaw set, "Then why? Why won't you let me help you? Do you think I care about this?" he waved his hand vaguely over John's lower half. "Why do you insist on behaving as though your brand of affection is in some way superior, deeper than what I feel? What more do I have to do to prove that I care? How much longer do I have to keep proving myself?"

They looked at each other silently, both breathing heavily, naked emotions on their faces, the moment of communication stretching like a bridge between them.

Why? Why do I keep hurting him? Why don't I ever get it right? He's right. If the situation were reversed I'd give anything to keep him comfortable…..why do I take away that from him? After all the care he's shown, why do I keep behaving as though he doesn't care? What more does he have to do?

John's face twisted as he mumbled, "Sorry, Sherlock."

Sherlock heaved a sigh and his lips quirked up briefly, relief and resolve in his eyes. His tone was brisk, pragmatic as he stood up and bent down to pull John up, "Come on, let's get you cleaned up."

John wobbled on his feet, even as he allowed Sherlock to pull him up. He swayed and felt a strong arm around his waist.

"Do you trust me?" Sherlock asked, eyebrow raised.

Silently John looked at him, aware he was answering more than just the posed question.

"I do."

Sherlock came closer and bent to brush his lips briefly on his forehead and then without warning lifted John in his arms. Strong arms cradled John's head to his chest and tucked under the legs as he carried him the last few steps to the bathroom. He bent down to open the toilet seat cover and gently placed John on it. Nimble fingers opened his pyjama bottoms and started to tug the bottoms down. John wasn't wearing any pants, he couldn't with the plaster cast still on. After some fumbling the bottoms were off.

John snorted, "This is not how I'd imagined you'd see me naked."

Sherlock gave a short chuckle as he spread a towel over John's groin.

"It's nothing I haven't seen before, John," he said drily as he bent down to pick up the soiled clothes. "Penis, testicles, anus, urine, stool, sweat…..it's all transport and the egestion functions of the transport."

John pointed at Sherlock's t-shirt. "Well, it's managed to stain your clothes too!"

Sherlock shrugged, "We'll bin the lot." He pulled off his t-shirt and looked at John. "I'll leave you alone so you can have some privacy." He held the bundle in his arms as he left, "I'm right here, call out if you need me." He pulled the door close, without shutting it completely as he strode out.

John sighed and bending over, finally let go, sighing with blessed relief.

It was over five minutes later that Sherlock knocked gently on the door.

"May I come in?"

"Yeah, yeah….I'm done," John replied.

Sherlock walked in with a heap of fresh towels and a package in his arms. His eyebrow raised, he asked briefly, "All good?"

''Yeah, all good," John replied, as he placed on hand on the sink edge and tried to stand up.

"John, you need a wash. Will you let me help?" Sherlock asked.

Fuck, yes…..can't imagine anything better than the feel of hot water running down my body and Sherlock helping me….. Wait, what? What does he mean by help?

John looked up and met his eyes, a quick jerk of his head, "Yes."

"Good."

Sherlock hooked his fingers in his own pyjama bottoms and pulled them down without a hint of self-consciousness. He opened the door briefly to throw the bottoms out and started to open the package, now perched next to the sink.

"These are the water-proof protectors that Philippe suggested I get. Apparently one can sit in a bath fully soaked in water and they would not let a drop in to disturb the cast." His busy eyes scanned the instructions as his fingers worked on the packaging.

John tried so hard, fuck, fuck…not to stare at the delicious contrast of the black boxer briefs that were snuggly draped across Sherlock's hips and the pale ivory of his skin. He tried, oh fuck, fucking hell….to not stare at the bulge between his legs, at the pull on the elastic of the material as he moved. Fuck, I've fantasized so much about this…..seeing it like this….not fair, not fair….

Sherlock bent down to slip the protector on John's cast and fasten it. John stared and stared. As the powerful back muscles moved and undulated, as the strong subtly muscled runners legs flexed and arched. Sherlock stood up and started getting things organised. He lay the towels within easy reach of the bathtub, put the shampoo and conditioner and shower gel in place.

John stared at the vitality, the beauty, the symmetry…..Da Vinci's Vitruvian man come gloriously to life.

As Sherlock left the bathroom again, muttering about massage oil, John looked down at himself. He sat slumped against the toilet seat, exhausted and limp. His skin was dry, there were layers of sagging skin on his tummy from his weight loss. He sat half naked, with only a towel covering his modesty, the longitudinal laparotomy scar still healing. A wave of self-pity and dejection swept over him. Sherlock came back with a glass bowl of warmed massage oil and crouched down next to the bathtub, arranging everything. John stared at the stunning perfection of his face….this… this man….this is whom I aspire for….what can someone like me bring to the table….look at me, why would he ever want me…..

Sherlock, that mind-reader par excellence, looked up at him, eyes narrowed. His voice was soft, and yet the deep baritone echoed with gravitas as he met John's stricken eyes. "Don't indulge in self-pity. You are an exceedingly attractive man, John. It may not feel like it right now. But this is a temporary setback only."

Something in his words triggered a hidden fear and the words seemed to be wrenched out of him before John could stop them.

"What if this is not temporary? What if this is the way it's going to be forever?" His tone was a challenge, whilst his eyes looked searchingly at Sherlock, in desperate need of something.

Sherlock stood up straight, his arms spread wide and responded with simple dignity, a statement of fact, not a reassurance.

"I'll still be here."

Something that had been gnawing away like a noxious pustule inside of John's psyche suddenly burst wide open as he listened to those words and breathed them in deeply. His eyes fell close, as his body shook with relief as though some ugly demon inside of him had been soothed. He'll be there…..he'll always be there…..even when I'm old and infirm and diseased…..he'll not leave. Why did I never see this fundamental truth?

Sherlock crouched in front of him, his head tilted as he pinned John with an intense look.

"Listen to me carefully, John." He waved a hand up and down, "This is the human body. We wring every bit of pleasure out of it when we can, as long as it co-operates. We eat well, we listen to and look at things we like, we wear decadent material next to our skins. We exercise to feel good. We have sex and orgasms. But it is mere transport. The body gets old, decayed, diseased and dies."

He tapped John's head with a finger as he continued, "When I see John, I see what's in there. Not what's outside. Do you understand?"

John's lips quivered, his eyes were moist as he answered, "Yes."

Sherlock lent forward and touched his forehead to John's, a light hand resting on the nape of his neck. It was a gesture of such intimacy that John forgot to breathe for a while as he stared into Sherlock's eyes, could drown in them, can count every single fleck and smudge, what colour are his irises exactly?

"Let me bathe you, John. Let go, even if just for a while," Sherlock whispered, his voice husky.

John nodded mutely and Sherlock smiled, "Good. That's good, John."

He rose to help John step into the bathtub.

"Sit down."

John sat down, arranging his legs gingerly and sighed when Sherlock stepped in as well, settling down behind John, cradling John's body between his spread legs. He pulled John closer till his back rested on Sherlock's chest.

"Okay?"

John nodded again as his body seemed to melt of its own accord to mould itself against Sherlock's chest. His eyes closed as he felt Sherlock's arms around him, holding him close. He sighed happily.

Dimly he felt Sherlock lean over and grab the hand shower. Hot water cascaded down his hair and gentle fingers ran through his hair. The click of the shampoo bottle, firm fingers massaging his scalp, the pressure of hot water again washing off the shampoo. He turned his face and buried it into Sherlock's chest. This is a dream, don't want to ever wake up…..just stay here….in these arms….feeling his heart beat….never ever want to wake up…..

Another click as the conditioner bottle opened. Long fingers gently moving through his short hair….oh this is the smell, that citrusy fruity smell…He felt Sherlock's firm hands apply the shower gel over his chest, his tummy, his back.

"May I?" Sherlock's husky voice sounded loud in the quiet of the bathroom.

John opened his eyes to look up. Sherlock's face looked soft, unguarded affection crinkling the corners of his eyes, the soft warm light in the bathroom and their physical closeness creating an ambiance of such intimacy, that all of John's misgivings and barriers just…crumbled.

"Yes," he said, confidence in his voice, a feeling of an overwhelming rightness of what was happening engulfing him.

Sherlock's eyes crinkled further as he took some more shower gel and then his hands were between John's legs, cleaning his penis, his balls, his cleft. Not the way I'd imagined I'd have his fingers between my legs, but this still feels so good….will I ever get to feel this again? If I can't have him touching me with erotic intent then maybe I'll just keep being sick, then he'll keep touching me…..you're losing it, Watson, get a grip…

Sherlock's touch was gentle, thorough as he cleaned and then washed. He bent forward to reach John's legs.

"Can't reach. You do them."

John sat up a bit and leaned forward, brisk and quick. Please don't move…..don't move away….want to go back in the position we were in…..

"I've got some massage oil," Sherlock said as John washed his legs. "It'll help with the pain. That is, if you're amenable."

John sat up in response, "Yeah, that sounds…..good!"

Sherlock spread the warm massage oil over his palms and then started massaging his back with firm strokes. He paused as his fingers touched the scar on the back lightly. John turned around. Sherlock looked pensive as he stared. He flicked his gaze up to meet John's eyes.

"I'm sorry, John. If it weren't for me taking you there….."

John twisted his back some more with difficulty, trying not to grimace.

"It's not your fault. It's….just what we do, you know? Could have been you….I'd rather it was me."

Sherlock stared at him in silence for a while longer.

Finally he nudged John back as he resumed the gentle massage. John sighed as the pain in his back faded under the careful strokes. Sherlock's hands were warm as his digits rubbed and soothed the tired muscles around his back and neck and shoulders. John felt drugged into somnolence as he swayed where he sat.

Sherlock made a move to get up, "Let me sit opposite you. That way I can massage your legs."

"NO, don't leave," John cried out instinctively as his hand shot out to desperately clutch Sherlock's forearm. No, please….no….I never want to leave this bathtub ever again….just stay here and feel your touch….forever and ever…..and ever…

Sherlock chuckled, "Okay, okay! Settle down. How about I start a bath? We could sit here and soak in some hot water? It'll be good for your back."

John nodded, embarrassed. What are you, a fifteen year old girl, for fuck's sake…..

Sherlock leaned forward and ran his fingers over the top edge of the water-proof protector to ensure it was still snug around John's thigh. He turned on the tap of hot water and plugged the sink hole.

The bath tub gradually filled with hot water. Steam swirled around in the bathroom, scattering the muted light of the lone bulb further. John snuggled to Sherlock's chest, feeling like he was floating on a cloud…..no, no…. like a bubble with only Sherlock and me inside….like no one else exists. His eyes were drifting shut as he sighed at the hypnotic movements of Sherlock's fingers gently running through his hair.

After a while he tilted his head and stared at Sherlock. Soft, moist lips; His mop of hair and sharp cheekbones casting shadows on dewy skin, the faint dusting of hair around his temples, his jaw. Isolated droplets of water precariously perched over the strands of his hair. John's guard was down, his state of being so surreal that he was left with none of his usual sense of propriety or shame. He raised one hand and put his palm against Sherlock's cheek, his cobalt blue eyes moving from one facial feature to the next.

"You're ridiculously beautiful," he whispered.

Sherlock looked down at the naked awe and hunger in John's eyes, their face's so close their exhalations mingled. John arched his face up, lips parted, "Please…..just once," he begged.

Mine….take….claim…..consume….Sherlock's eyes darkened and he felt his cock stir and stiffen, as they breathed each other in for several moments, lips only a few centimetres apart, eyes locked in an intimate gaze.

John's eyes widened as he felt Sherlock's cock thicken rapidly against his arse, his breath hitched. He licked his lips nervously even as a tendril of fear moved through him…fuck that's a lot bigger than I thought it would be…..I'm supposed to take that up my arse….can I stretch that much?

Sherlock looked mortified, angry red splotches on his cheeks, as he felt John fidget. His voice was furious, as he hissed out, "Forgive me. I…..ignore it." He waved a disgusted hand. "Just a biological response. I'm sorry, John." He moved to push John away, but John resisted as with widened eyes he pleaded.

"NO…no please. I…..I don't mind. It's okay."

"Well, I do mind. And it's not okay. It's grossly inappropriate. You're unwell. This is neither the time nor the place."

Sherlock put his head back against the bathtub and stared at the ceiling. "Stupid, stupid," he snarled at himself in recrimination as he covered his eyes with his hand. "Just give me a minute, John," he mumbled.

John looked at him worriedly but stayed in place, watching as Sherlock struggled for control. He felt the rigid tumescence against his arse slowly soften. Not fair…not fair….I can give him pleasure, so what if I'm sick…..maybe he can just rub one off of me…..or maybe I can give him a handjob…or maybe he can fuck me….not like I'd have to do anything….haven't injured my arsehole, have I?

Loose fingers were pressing on closed eyes, as Sherlock lay quietly, jaw clenched.

John's voice was teasing in an effort to lighten the mood, "Reciting the periodic table, huh?"

Sherlock's sudden burst of laughter startled him as he finally took off his hand and grinned at John, "Something like that."

Emboldened by his response, John quipped, "We can't laugh, Sherlock! It's a sex scene."

Sherlock's shoulders shook as he laughed and John giggled along before burying his face back into Sherlock's chest.

Another long pause followed as the laughter slowly died down.

John took a deep breath, suddenly serious. "If you want to, you can have me….you know?"

Arousal subdued, Sherlock pulled John close again. His voice was cheeky, salacious, "I will have you, John. Just not right now."

John looked up, frowning, "How can you be so sure that you will have me? I don't even know if I can ever let go completely the way you ask of me. You make it sound like it's inevitable."

Sherlock gazed back as he murmured, "Because it is. It has been inevitable since you walked into that lab at St Bart's, John." His hand sneaked down to entwine his fingers with John. He brought up their joined hands to his lips and kissed John's hand lightly as he continued, his tone musing.

"Have you ever conducted the experiment with a strong magnet and iron filings at school?" At John's nod, he continued, "The iron filings get magnetised. The scattered domains within the atoms, that were previously pointed in all different directions realign themselves and point towards the magnet." He looked down, his baritone husky with intent. "Every fibre in your being is aligned towards me, John. Everything that you are has been yearning to reach home, surging towards me. An inexorable march towards culmination into oneness with me. Because you are MINE. Your subconscious accepted this years ago while the conscious brain cast obstacles, pulling you in other directions, normal directions as dictated by societal norms and expectations. It is only recently that it has started playing catch-up."

He placed another kiss on John's hand, "But John, in a fight between the yearnings of your subconscious and your conscious, the subconscious will always win. None of us can fight our innate nature. It is in your nature to submit, to be of use, to belong. Just as it is in my nature to dominate, to consume, to use."

He fell quiet as John rested his head against his chest and thought about his words.

"Sherlock?"

"Uh-huh."

"When you were furious with my contract…..I went to ask Victor and I did….I mean I understood what Victor explained But I want to know from you…..it's so different from the main-stream consensus…..why do you disagree so strongly with limits and safe-words?"

Sherlock looked thoughtful for a while.

"Think about it, John. Conditional surrender is an oxymoron. I have no problem with other people using it, if it feels safer to do so. But to me submission has always been an absolute. Placing conditions on one hand and talking about Submission on the other is paying mere lip-service to the act itself. It's always felt like cheating."

John reflected on this for a while, frowning even as he placed his head over Sherlock's steady heart beat. Sherlock lay back as he played with John's hand idly, leaving John to his thoughts. The water around them was cooling down, so John started the tap again to fill up more hot water after letting some of the cool water drain out.

As he settled back, he twisted himself to look up at Sherlock again.

"Sherlock…. I've never had….I don't have any experience with…Is it very painful?"

Sherlock pulled him closer and placed soft lips against his temple as he thought.

John waited.

"There is some stretching. And a sensation of fullness. Sometimes, some men feel like they want to evacuate. It passes. You get used to it. But it's also intensely intimate and can be very pleasurable."

There was a long pause.

Finally John mumbled, "I have dreamed about it. I…..Sherlock, I fantasize about you. About us." He into Sherlock's indulgent eyes, "I think about touching you….you know….everywhere."

Sherlock smiled, "I know."

He arched an eyebrow playfully, "You can touch me if you like, John."

John shook his head as he murmured, "I haven't earned it yet." But I will. I'll earn it.

Sherlock pulled him close, his arms around his shoulders, "Get better first. The rest will follow."

They sat in silence, only the occasional splash of the water as they moved, broke the quiet. Sherlock was leaning against the head of the bathtub, eyes closed as John rested on his chest, quiet and contemplative.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmmm….?"

"Will you hurt me?"

Sherlock straightened his head slowly, frowning, his eyes blinking sleep off.

"John, right now the last thing on my mind is hurting you. You've been hurt enough already."

John shook his head, his tone insistent, "But later. When I'm better…..if I….you know, if I do find the courage to submit…..if you accept me as your Sub….will you?"

"Would you want me to?" Sherlock's face was curious as he peered into John's eyes.

John's reply was tentative, "I think I would like you to. But I'm not sure. It's…..intriguing, exciting. But it's also a bit scary, you know? And that makes it more….arousing somehow, more forbidden."

"Hmm…Let's wait and see. Although I expect I will hurt you….eventually. Sometimes for your pleasure, at other times for mine. We'll figure out what you can tolerate, how much you can take…..John, it can get devastatingly intense, the release after such a session can be powerful, all-consuming in its potency. I want you to experience that."

"How can pain bring pleasure?"

Sherlock looked into John's eyes as he took a deep breath.

"Pain brings on acute focus, narrows it down to the here and now. It increases the adrenaline gush. The endorphin release." He shrugged. "All Submissives are different. No two are alike, John. They all need different things."

"Such as…?"

Sherlock took a deep breath as he slumped further down and rested his head on the bathtub. He looked up at the ceiling and mused aloud, "Well, some like the pain. Some like to feel used. Some like being humiliated. Some need me to be rough with them. Some crave the vulnerability. Most love the act of submission itself, the feeling of letting go, of being looked after, of serving the one they are submitted to." His fingers stroked John's arm lightly as he continued, "It is a powerful dynamic. Nothing like vanilla sex. Every gesture, every word, every intimate act takes on a heightened significance, every pleasurable sensation is magnified manifold. I've heard Subs say it is akin to a feeling of euphoria, of completion. At it's most sublime, when both the Sub and I are in the zone, it's like a primal connection, as though there is only the two of us. The rest of the world ceases to exist. Like tunnel vision with the focus entirely on only the two of us."

Sherlock shrugged, "It's hard to describe." He was quiet for a bit longer.

Gently he lifted John's chin till they were looking into each other's eyes, "Victor says it's like a drug. And he feels like an addict. Craving a fix, craving my attention, my touch, my pleasure. He says it doesn't matter what I do to him, but it is the fact that Sherlock, his Dom is the one doing it. And that if it pleases me, it makes him happy. Because it is all about me, my pleasure. His pleasure flows from mine."

John nodded, "Yeah, that's what he told me as well."

Sherlock's hands were lightly stroking John's arm, up….down…..up…down….round and round….and up…..and down., the bathroom was so warm, the soaking in the hot water, the events from earlier….everything was conspiring to lull him to sleep. John felt curiously empty and yet as though he were overflowing with something, something he had been looking for all his life. He mumbled sleepily, "What about you? What do you get out of it?"

Sherlock was quiet, his expression reflective as he watched John's eyes drooping shut. He sat stroking John's arm, eyes on his profile. Tired….he's exhausted…..

As the water got cooler, he gently shook John awake and helped him get dry and dressed for bed. John was swaying on his feet, the events of the evening finally taking their toll. Sherlock helped him to bed and lowered him under the duvet. As he stooped to switch off the light, John grabbed his wrist and tried to pull him closer

"Sleep here…..just for tonight?"

Sherlock's voice was kind but firm, "That's not a good idea, John. You're tired. Sleep."

John kissed his hand softly as he murmured in a sleepy voice, "Thank you, Sherlock."

Sherlock pulled his hand away and ran it briefly through John's hair as he responded, "Anytime, John. I'm in the living room. Call out if you need anything."

2 weeks later…..

"I must say, John, I wish all my patients were as dedicated and enthusiastic as you," Philippe said as he carried a bottle of cold sports drink to John.

They were outside in the park, working at the outdoor cardio-workout equipment. John was panting as he performed upper body exercises, core strengthening and balance exercises.

"Can't wait to get this fucking cast off though. Want to work out both my legs, not just one."

He paused as he accepted the drink and gulped it down.

Philippe grinned, "Well, it's just over three weeks since the surgery and you've come a long way. Your lower limb functioning is back to normal, apart from the cast. Your balance is back to normal. You're off all strong pain medications. Your appetite has returned and you've almost regained the weight you lost."

John stood, his face lifted to the sun, eyes closed and a smile on his face.

He sighed as he looked back at Philippe.

"Well, I need to work off all the calories that Sherlock has been pumping into me. He's been feeding me up since we came home. He cooked this Spaghetti Marinara last night…..fuck, it was seriously to die for. Never knew he could cook so well, I've been feasting like a king. He's never stepped into the kitchen before this."

Philippe laughed, "Well, my friend, enjoy it while it lasts. He's way too lazy and disinterested in food to keep that up."

He bent down as he provided resistance to John's stretches. John was panting louder as he worked against the resistance, his breath puffing out in short huffs. He glowed with resolve and purpose.

Philippe laughed as John executed a particularly difficult stretch, "I don't think I'll be able to keep up with you when the cast comes off. You're exercising like a man on a mission. Are you getting ready for some event I don't know about?" he teased.

John wiped his face with his towel and then threw it down with a short delighted laugh.

"That may be exactly what I'm doing, Philippe," he said cryptically.

He grinned to himself as he got back on the seat and grabbed the iron bars with determined hands.