~xXx~


After Lestrade and John left the building, Sherlock estimated there would be roughly ten minutes before a forensic team arrived on site. Fifteen if he was lucky, and luck didn't seem to be working in his favor this evening. But if he didn't have luck, he would at least have sentiment. Lestrade would have to worry about seeing John safely in a cab before he called Sullivan or one of his other lieutenants, giving Sherlock the crucial extra minutes needed to finish inspecting the bodies and escape the premises undetected.

He ended up receiving eighteen.

Sherlock couldn't remember the last time he felt so relieved by the smell of fresh air. He snapped up the collar of his coat and repressed the shiver that threatened to race down his spine. Clouds were beginning to gather overhead, bringing with them an unnatural chill. Fortunately, the neighborhood's main street was only a couple blocks away, and Sherlock was able to hail a cab within a few minutes of reaching it.

When the cab screeched to a stop the detective practically threw himself into the back seat. His head hurt—his temples pounding as his heart hammered blood though his brain.

"Where to?" the cabbie asked.

"Wellington Park," Sherlock snapped, using a tone that made it quite clear that he didn't want to be talked to on the way there.

Nodding, the cabbie turned his eyes back to the road and pulled the car back into the flow of traffic. A few minutes of blissful silence passed before Sherlock finally allowed himself to settle. He leaned into the door and pressed his forehead against the cool glass, willing it to soothe his frenzied nerves. Small droplets of rain began to patter against the window, but to Sherlock's over-sensitized ears they might as well have been gunshots. Snarling, Sherlock rolled back towards the middle, stuffing his hands in his pockets and burrowing himself deeper into the warmth of his coat. His fingers curled, brushing against the folded Dari letter, and the detective felt his pulse quicken.

John. The connection was John. For some reason, Moriarty was killing off a particular subset of people who had been involved in John's life in some significant way—a subset which happened to include people Moriarty had also known.

Find out what it means.

But Sherlock already knew what it meant. He knew, but he didn't dare allow the thought to fully form in his mind. He couldn't. It was dangerous…too dangerous.

He knew he should be examining the Dari letter right now—dissecting everything he could from the paper and ink, and piecing together the message from what few words he decipher—but he couldn't bring himself to pull it from his pocket. The letter might make his hypothesis real, and Sherlock couldn't afford for it to be real right now.

John. The connection was John.

But there was something else he still needed to focus on. The other thing…the other thing with John was still distracting him, and he couldn't bear the burden of being distracted anymore. Moriarty had given him three days. Three. Tomorrow was the last day, and Sherlock needed to be at the top of his game. He needed to figure this out now.

Baskerville. Something had happened in Baskerville…

Mycroft's name literally opens doors.

No. Fast forward.

Can we not do this this time? You being all mysterious with your cheekbones and turning your coat collar up so you look cool.

The edges of Sherlock's lips twitched up. Fast forward.

Just…just a minute. John leaned forward in his chair, the light from the fire making his hair look like a halo of golden silk. You saw what?

Fast forward.

And why would you listen to me? I'm just your—

Sherlock felt himself stiffen. Fast forward.

Funny doesn't suit you. Stick to ice.

Too far. There was something before this—something important. Rewind.

Sherlock…no. Please, God, no.

Stop. Zoom in. This memory was a bit…fuzzier than the others. For good reason, he supposed, as he had meant for it to be that way. John had stormed out of the hotel lobby after the bloody friend comment, leaving Sherlock quite alone to dwell with his thoughts, and even more importantly, his fear. Fear was not something he dealt with often, especially not when it was accompanied by stillness and silence. Usually the rare bursts of fear he experienced were a direct reaction to a shock of adrenaline pumping through his system during a chase or a shootout…or seeing John in a vest made of Semtex. But there, sitting in front of the fire with nothing but a glass of brandy and his memory, Sherlock remembered why he'd allowed himself to become a victim of substances in his youth.

He hadn't needed any further incentive. He'd made sure to send John a text that would both take him a while to deal with and leave him exhausted afterwards (women tended to have that sort of effect on John). That, coupled with the fact that John had displayed a good number of the signals he usually gave off when he was angry, left Sherlock believing that he would have the rest of the evening to himself.

He'd been wrong.

Sherlock closed his eyes and pressed his back firmly against the cab seat. The memory seemed so distant—so unfocused. It was just a blur of random images and warm colors. He needed to find something to latch onto; a proverbial torch to lead him through the dark moments.

Delete this, Sherlock. I want you to delete it, do you—

Sherlock's head jerked as he batted the words away. He wouldn't have deleted it if it was about John. Not really. If it was about John, he could find it again. Sherlock hunched his shoulders, shrinking lower into his jacket. He remembered a table, and a hot sour smell…

A rush of heroin washed over him like a warm blanket. He felt his limbs relax, and they seemed to stretch on endlessly as he settled back in his chair, feeling lighter than air. And the numbness—oh the blissful numbness—it coated his brain, making it sticky and slow. Normal. This was what it was like to be normal. To be wonderfully unaware of anything and everything and just sit and be.

Gone now were the fears of the hound and the terrors of the night. Gone now were the feelings of distress and the loss of calm. Gone, gone, all gone. Floating away like smoke from a candle. Light. He felt so light, like if he let go of the chair he would simply drift off Sherlock had understood why John had made him stop smoking cigarettes, and stop snorting cocaine, but this…where was the harm in this? Wouldn't John like to see him slow down? Couldn't he understand that sometimes this was better? And Sherlock was always so careful—he was always so careful with how much he used…

An indiscernible amount of time passed before a door opened and closed somewhere in the distance.

"Well, Henry's psychologist is a dead end now. I think I was getting somewhere before we were interrupted, but—Sherlock? Sherlock…no. Please, God, no."

Sherlock smiled. That was John's voice. He liked John's voice, how brutally honest it always was.

Then, hands were on him. Sherlock didn't realize he'd closed his eyes until they opened to glare at the doctor as he untied the tourniquet around his left arm. John's voice he liked—his hands, not so much.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked, his voice sounding slow and strangely muffled.

"Where did you get these?" John picked up the spoon, syringe, and cloth, waving them in front of Sherlock's face.

The detective batted the utensils away. "I work at a hospital and happen to have a kitchen. Really, John—"

"The heroin, Sherlock! Where'd you get the heroin?"

"What does it matter?"

"It matters!" John sprang to his feet, marching over to the trash and throwing the heroin supplies in. They slammed into the bottom of the can with a loud, metallic clang. "It matters that I make sure you can't get any from there ever again!"

Sherlock snorted, leaning his head back and closing his eyes once more. The room felt like it was moving, swaying back and forth beneath him like a great ship.

"How much did you take?"

Sherlock sighed, tilting his head back and forth against the rocking of the room. "Enough."

He heard the muffled thud of John's footsteps as he neared the chair once more. "Jesus, you're still tripping aren't you."

"John," Sherlock groaned irately, arching his back against the chair. He didn't want to hear John talking to him like this anymore. All he wanted was the calm…the peace.

"Sherlock." Warmth enveloped the detective's face, and he felt the firm pressure of fingers against his pulse. "I need you to open your eyes. Can you do that for me?"

Sherlock shook his head petulantly. He liked this darkness—it seemed so much farther away from the reality on the other side of his closed lids.

"Sherlock," John said, and this time the detective could hear the note of warning in his voice.

Clenching his teeth together, Sherlock forced one eye open, then the other. Golden candlelight and John's stretched worried face flooded his senses, and for a moment he almost sank back into the dark, but John's hands held him steady.

John tilted his head, leaning in close. "Can you see alright?" he asked, and Sherlock could smell hints of Pinot Noir on his breath. The scent traveled up his nostrils and sank down his throat, and Sherlock felt his temper spark.

"So how was the psychologist?" Sherlock questioned. He stared hard at John's face, but his eyes wouldn't quite focus—he couldn't discern his expression.

John blew out a breath through his nose. "A dead end," he replied briskly. "Alright, Sherlock, your pulse isn't—"

"You drank with her?"

"What? What does that matter? I was trying to get her to open up—to help you out if I might add."

Sherlock frowned. "You promised you wouldn't drink without me."

"You're the one who told me to go! And anyway, I never promised—"

"You did."

"Sherlock," John growled. "Stop it. I'm not going to argue with you while you're high. Now, you need to get to bed, alright? Come on. Up." The doctor's hands moved lower in attempt to lift him, but Sherlock was dead weight beneath him. John gave a frustrated hiss. "Sherlock," he berated, "you could at least make an effort to stand."

Sherlock's response came in the form of a derisive snort. He was growing tired of this—of John's hands being where they shouldn't, trying to make him do things he didn't want to do. Yes, he'd had quite enough of all that. Hissing, the detective grabbed John's hands and forced them to his sides.

"Sherlock!" John struggled, but Sherlock sat up in his chair and pressed himself against the doctor like a splint. "Sherlock, let me go!"

Ignoring him, Sherlock pressed his forehead into the curve of John's neck and closed his eyes once more. This…this was good. Warm. John's skin smelled of cold wind, pine, and salt. Yes, this was…

"Sherlock, stop messing around." John's voice rumbled, and Sherlock could feel his vocal cords as they vibrated. It sent a pleasant sort of hum through his body, sort of like the feeling he sometimes got when he pulled his bow hard across the G string on his violin. Sherlock arched his neck, aching to feel more of the soothing hum. He pressed his lips—a part of his body that he knew to have more nerve endings than almost any other—against the warmth of John's skin, and sighed as sharp, pleasurable shivers raced across his jaw and down his neck.

John's voice stopped abruptly.

Sherlock hummed, not bothering to articulate that he was displeased by this sudden change.

"S—Sh—Sherlock," John stuttered, his body tensing against the detective. "What are you doing?"

Ah, yes. That felt nice. Why had he never thought of doing this before? John's body was so warm…so sturdy. He felt like a ship being held in place by the weight of an anchor as the stormy sea battered at his sides and the raging wind threatened to blow him off course. He'd always indulged in recreational substances whenever he wanted to escape reality, but this reality—this reality didn't seem like something he should be trying to escape from. There was no fear here—no hound with burning red eyes and fur black as pitch—only the warm comfort of John's body, and the gentle rumble of his voice.

"Sherlock…I'm warning you, stop it." John struggled to break free. "Stop—ah!" Sherlock felt the doctor's spasm of pain like a bolt of lightning. Within a moment, Sherlock was on his feet, his vision spinning and his hands gripping John's arms like a vice.

"Your shoulder?" Sherlock asked.

John winced. "Let go of me, Sherlock."

"Have you been massaging it regularly?"

"Sherlock—"

"Have you?"

"Well I haven't exactly been on leisure lately!"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "That's no excuse."

John shook his head, his lips pressing together. "So it's okay for you to abuse your body, but it's not okay for me to abuse mine?"

"Using heroin and getting shot in the shoulder are hardly two circumstances one can equivalate, John."

"How do you still sound so bloody smart even when you're high? I swear, Sherlock, you're…" John shook his head, trailing off. He dropped his gaze to the exposed skin of Sherlock's arm, and the detective could feel his breath quicken.

"I'm what?" Sherlock asked, not knowing afterwards whether or not he'd actually spoken.

John sighed, and it sounded like defeat. "You're amazing…and you're going to ruin it—all of it—if you keep going on like this."

John meant the drugs. Of course he meant the drugs. At the moment, though, Sherlock didn't care what he meant. "Take off your shirt and lay down on the bed."

John's eyebrows shot up into his hairline in a blink. He stared up at Sherlock with wide, vacant eyes. "Sorry, what?"

"Your shoulder needs tending."

"I'm perfectly capable of tending to it myse—"

"Obviously not," Sherlock interrupted tersely. Growing impatient, the detective traded his grip on John's arms for the hem of his jumper. He gave the material a good hard pull, and found his height advantage allowed him to remove the garment quite easily. John gasped, grabbing for his jumper but Sherlock flung it across the room.

"Sherlock!" John berated, glaring up at him. "What the hell is your problem?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed."I won't have one as soon as you get on the bed."

"You're not touching my scar. And it's you who should be in bed, not me."

"Fine. I'll get in if you agree to join me."

"That's not—" John's cheeks went abruptly pink, though for once Sherlock couldn't tell whether it was because of embarrassment or annoyance. With a deep set frown, the doctor took a deep breath before continuing, "If I give you five minutes, will you promise me that you'll stay in bed and at least attempt to sleep?"

Sherlock rolled his tongue against the roof of his mouth, weighing his options. "John, you know I don't like to—"

"Sleep while you're on a case, yes I know, hence why we're making a deal."

Interesting. Had Sherlock's mind been working at its usual speed, he probably could've come up with at least ten reasons why such a deal was not worth making. As it was, he couldn't even come up with one. Sherlock's lips quirked. "Fine."

John simply nodded and turned around to face the bed. He ambled over to it slowly, toeing his trainers off before sitting on the edge of the mattress.

Sherlock made his way over to his suitcase first, stooping down to retrieve the small bottle of lotion he'd procured from the bathroom upon arriving. Lotion in hand, he turned back towards the doctor. His footsteps seemed overly loud as he neared the other man, and John's eyes seemed to be studiously avoiding his own. This agitated Sherlock for a reason he couldn't be bothered to determine.

"Lay back," the detective said, bending to untie and remove his shoes.

John made a strange gagging sort of noise, and Sherlock watched his Adam's apple bob as he scooted himself farther back onto the bed. "Why do I need to lie down?"

"Ease of access."

John made another odd noise, but thankfully didn't argue. He pushed himself even farther back onto the bed, the muscles in his arms straining against his skin as they lowered him gently to the mattress. Sherlock was surprised he hadn't noticed how fit John had kept himself over the past months. His body looked firm and solid, decorated by splashes of the most fascinatingly shaped scars. Sherlock found his eyes scouring them, trying to figure out each one's story. But the scar on his shoulder really went out of its way to shame the others. It was a spidery web of raised skin, stark white against the rest of his chest as it twisted beneath the line of his collar bone like a knot on a tree.

"Sherlock…"

The sound of John's breathless voice broke the detective from his reverie. He met the doctor's eyes, and the peculiar tingle behind his ears hit him like the lash of a whip. Sherlock leaned forward, crawling across the bed before lifting a knee so that he could settle himself over John's waist.

John's fingers flexed as they picked at the loose threads on the comforter. "You do realize what people would say if they walked in on us like this."

Sherlock uncapped the lotion and squeezed a dollop out into his palm. He set the bottle aside and shifted his weight forward. "Nothing they don't already say, I'm sure."

John snorted.

"Now, hold still…this is going to hurt." Sherlock smeared the lotion across John's shoulder and pressed his thumb into the heart of the scar, hard.

John's body arched, a strangled cry pushing past his pursed lips. Sherlock held his thumb down, feeling the muscle tense and coil beneath his touch as he burrowed down into it. Slowly, he began to move, pressing his weight into John's skin. He could feel the torn tissues rippling under his fingertips, and hear how every moment he moved threatened to break the man beneath him.

"You're—you're going on it too hard," John said between gasps.

"You haven't gone on it hard enough. The scar tissue has built up here," he pressed and John bit his lip against another cry. "And here." He pressed again, his eyes immediately snapping to the white arched line of the doctor's neck. It seemed to tremble as John's vocal cords shook.

Sherlock could feel that strange tingling again, just behind his ears. His head felt light and his thoughts fogged, and really, he'd never seen such a neck before. This neck that encased the voice he'd become so fond of—the one that yelled at times, and sounded so softly stern at others, and yet could be as soothing and gentle as a breeze.

Sherlock could feel the final wave of his high cresting over his body, and he couldn't help the shudder that racked him as the euphoric fog drifted across his mind. He felt hot—like he was sitting naked in front of a furnace on a sweltering July afternoon. And, by God, that neck. It was mocking him. It knew how badly he wanted it to be his and his alone—for the words it encased to be only spoken to him and for him, so that no one else would ever be able to hear. He wanted it so badly it hurt—way down deep inside his chest, accumulating to a pinpoint of pain just below his fourth rib. But no matter how he felt or what he wanted, it was impossible. John's voice could never be his. Not like that. But there was one thing that could be. One word that he could have that belonged to no one else…

"John," Sherlock whispered, leaning forward ever so slightly. "Say my name."

The following silence was too long. "W—what?"

"My name," Sherlock repeated, a little more harshly this time. "I need you to say my name."

"What does that have to do with—"

"Just say it."

John looked at him and swallowed thickly. "Sherlock."

Sherlock allowed his eyes to fall shut. Ah, yes. That word. That one was his. "Again."

"Sherlock…I think my shoulder's fine now. You should probably get off."

That word. Oh, that word! He wanted to consume it—to taste the syllables and feel the shape of John's mouth as he spoke them. Sherlock leaned down even farther, so that his chest was pressed firmly against John's, and buried his face into the crook of the doctor's neck. He inhaled deeply through his nose, overloading his olfactory senses with the smell of John's cologne.

"Again, John," Sherlock commanded, groaning as his words spread heat across the doctor's bared skin.

John's body trembled like a leaf in the wind. "You're high."

"As a kite. Now. Say. It."

"Sherlock..."

The detective hissed as he felt the word tremble against his lips. His breath seemed to be caught in the back of his throat, but he didn't care. He didn't need to breathe as long as the sound of his name was still ringing in his ears and the warmth of John's body was pressed against his own.

Sherlock could feel himself beginning to rock, back and forth along the waves of heat that radiated from John's skin. He could feel the doctor's breath like a warm breeze against his ear, and it seemed to quiver every time Sherlock's body met his own. Sherlock had the strange urge to bite the bared flesh beneath his lips, and turn that breath into a scream.

John's body was practically writhing beneath him now, undulating every time Sherlock's thumb pressed into his shoulder, and relaxing with a shaken breath every time it eased off. And occasionally, when the detective would work through a particularly rough patch of scar tissue, John would groan. The sound of it would send strange shivers from the base of Sherlock's neck down to the tips of his toes. Something was happening here—something that Sherlock couldn't even begin to deduce. This quiet that lay between them wasn't normal, mostly because Sherlock was truly present for it. His mind was here in the moment, fully focused on John and this peculiar yet fascinating feeling hovering just behind his ears.

And then he felt it. John stirred and something undeniably hard pressed itself against Sherlock's inner thigh. Two things happened then, almost simultaneously. John's eyes flew open, horrified, and his body moved to buck Sherlock off just as the detective grabbed his wrists and used the brunt of his weight to push John back down to the bed. The result was a glorious cacophony of friction that left them both panting as they stared at each other, their noses mere inches apart.

"Sherlock," John breathed. "Get off of me."

"John, don't. It's a perfectly normal reaction for a man of your age—"

"Perfectly normal?" John bellowed, his entire face flooding with a deep angry red. "Jesus! Nothing about this is normal, alright? Nothing about us is normal! And I can't—" he broke off, pursing his lips together.

Sherlock stared down at the other man, his body still humming. "You can't what?"

"Nothing."

But it was something, and John was looking right at him and still Sherlock couldn't see it. His mind was too fogged—his senses too hazed by the heroin that still coursed through his veins.

Pause.

Sherlock shifted in the seat of the cab, adamantly trying to ignore the uncomfortable heat that had coiled in the pit of his stomach.

Zoom in.

He couldn't see it then, but he could now. The look. The look. Sherlock could see it so clearly that it hurt. He brought his hand to his chest, pressing his palm down into his sternum as if he could quell the quick pattering of his heart with a single touch. John's face—a myriad of flesh and blood stretched over bone. No one had a face like John. No one had eyes that were so brutally honest and steady, or a mouth that could shape his name and make it sound perfect. And no one could ever have possibly looked at him like that.

Love.

John was in love with him. Heavily dilated pupils. Flushed cheeks and ears. Elevated respiration. Redirected blood flow. All tall tale signs of lust, but this wasn't just lust. Sherlock knew what this was. Sherlock knew, and for the first time in his life, he didn't know how he knew. There was something more in the curve of his mouth, and the line of his brow. And there was something more in the dark forbidden look in his eyes that the detective couldn't help but want to fall in to.

Play.

"Get off of me, Sherlock."

Sherlock did, rolling over to the side of bed as John pushed himself up and swung his legs over the side of the mattress. He sat there for a long moment with his back hunched and his fingers digging into the comforter.

"Delete this, Sherlock. I want you to delete it. Do you understand?"

"John…"

"Do you understand?" John snapped, and the air itself seemed to crackle.

Sherlock nodded. "Of course, John."

"And I don't want you taking heroin ever again, do you hear? I catch you one more time and I'm moving out. Are we clear on that?"

Sherlock knew, even in his current state, that his flatmate was bluffing, but even so he replied, "Crystal."

"Good." John rose to his feet, wavering. The detective would've lent a hand to steady him, but under the circumstances he didn't dare move. Finally sound on his feet, John crossed the room and retrieved his jumper from the floor. He slid it over his head and Sherlock watched as the last inches of smooth tanned skin disappeared beneath the thick, woolen fabric. "I'll see you in the morning."

And the next thing Sherlock knew, he was gone.

A loud clap of thunder snapped the detective back into the present. Rain was pouring down in angry sheets, slapping against the metal of the car like a drumroll. Sherlock scowled at it, his mind still whirling from what he'd learned.

John was in love with him, and tomorrow was the last day.