Y'aaaalllll! This is the last chapter. I hardly know what to do with myself. I've been working on Shatter for over 9 months, and now it's fully birthed and out in the world, thanks to my midwives ScienceofObsession and SnogandaGrope and duala Mildredandbobbin. I hope you find it worth the time, and thank you SO MUCH for following, for commenting and for encouraging me. Thank you to all the amazing artists for the stunning images you've contributed: I don't think this story would have been as good without your pictures, which inspired me as well as the readers.

Chapter 23: Learning to Dance

John floats in the dark - a weightless, drifting, womb-like sensation. He's not sure if his eyes are opened or closed, but he can hear the beat of his heart, strained and slow. He feels no pain. Except for pervasive cold, he feels… nothing, cannot even orient himself by gravity. The haze of his surroundings has spread to his mind as well: his concern is blunted, his thoughts sluggish and dull, his being is curiously acquiescent, nonjudgmental, submissive.

He does not know why he is here. He cannot remember what happened moments before, and has no idea what to expect next, if anything. It simply does not matter. He floats. Nebulous.

Tha-thump. Tha-thump… tha… thump…

An image flashes in his mind, like a disjointed vintage reel film, crazed and sepia and out of focus: a tall, slender man, full of grace and strength and beauty, dressed in exotic fabrics, layered with paint and jewels, curling his body towards John with a discordant expression of concern. But the conceit fades away, after a brief spark of light, and John passively lets it go.

Tha

thump…

thump…

An echoing clunk, and something that might be a voice, a slither of vibration through the element surrounding him. John thinks briefly about his body: he has one, does he not? Perhaps he should move it? But that effort is beyond him.

He thinks that he might have come to rest on a surface.

Tha…

thump

That's my heart he thinks with clinical detachment. This can't be right.

His chest does not rise and fall, a petrified part of a static body.

Tha…

The echoing noises become more frantic, and John is rocked by a sudden external force, a crystalline, shattering commotion…. But he's focused on his heart:

...thump…

He is violently grabbed, jerked and pulled, but he ignores it as a petty consideration. His heart… is…

thu…mp

Quiet.

The first thing John sees when he opens his eyes is Sherlock, leaning intently over him. He opens his mouth to say I dreamed of you but all that comes out is a series of wretched wheezes and a startlingly painful fit of coughing. Sherlock's eyes dart to the side, and a straw is soon pushed between his lips, which is less than helpful, because he's trying to recover his breath, so he turns his head away until he regains control. When he drinks, he discovers that it is water, tepid and nasty, but welcome all the same.

He hacks again and brings a hand to his throat. Rudely bright fluorescent lights blind him from panels over his bed. The walls are white, the room gently animated with mechanical beeps. An IV drip runs from a stand over his head down to his hand. He is in hospital. "Intubated?" he rasps.

Sherlock nods, but says nothing.

John's eyebrows knit. He can't remember a damn thing. Why is he in hospital? Sherlock looks frightful, hair matted on one side and thoroughly untamed on the other. His face is drawn, colorless but for the yellowing bruising on one side. John's eyes coast downward over bowed neck and sharp clavicles, noting that Sherlock is in a hospital gown, blankets wrapped around his shoulders.

"What-?"

Sherlock pokes the straw between his lips again, and says impatiently, while John drinks, "They had to fish us both out of the pool. I'm fine. Fine. You, on the other hand. Well. You'll be fine as well." He shifts the polystyrene cup to his other hand and then rests gentle fingers on John's chest. His eyes pearly with exhaustion, he looks ghostly. "Your heart stopped. They had to resuscitate you."

John struggles to remember. He recognizes the telltale euphoria of narcotics in his system, which doesn't help with recall. "Pool…."

Sherlock lifts his hand briefly to John's head, strokes so gently over his hair that he can't be sure it happened, before sitting back in his chair. "You don't remember? The doctor said you likely wouldn't for a while, because of the concussion. It was last night."

Now that Sherlock mentions it, John is aware of an oceanic pain in his head. Thankfully, the narcotics render that inconsequential. "What happened, then?" he croaks.

Sherlock leans forward again, face intent, and slips his fingers under John's heavy hand, scooping it into his own, seemingly unperturbed by the intimacy of the gesture.

"Moriarty's men got you, when you went for the shopping. They-" he stops short, and John watches the rapid bounce of his Adam's apple as he swallows. "They… hurt you a bit. Before I could get there."

John sluggishly catalogs his body. Head. Chest. Hurts to breathe. The hand in Sherlock's feels tight when he flexes his wrist. He dredges through the black mire in his mind, but… still nothing.

Sherlock continues to talk. John closes his eyes and lets that stunning voice-warm, accented, rich as melted chocolate-rumble across his skin and soothe his restless, inchoate thoughts. He sleeps, hand secure in the mute amity of Sherlock's long fingers.

John is back in Baker Street, where Mrs. Hudson has come upstairs at least four times a day, delivering tea and soup. She claims that she is not their housekeeper, and John is inclined to agree: she is more like their mother. He spends rather too much time lying on the sofa, waiting for his head to recover. He feels odd when he changes the dressings on his chest, touching the black stitches over vicious cuts with dumbfounded fingers. Tortured. He was tortured. He shakes his head at himself in the mirror. Healthy color is returning to his face, after so many days home from hospital, although the left half of it is still greenish and swollen from all the blows to his head.

The pain is only sharp when he moves quickly, so he drifts through the flat. But his gait is smooth. His leg is strong and stable; Sherlock jokes that it has finally met its quota of danger and is back up to par. John just hums noncommittally. But he believes that Sherlock may be right, and Sherlock knows he believes, so that is enough.

John's skin is painted in henna, with a strange blank space on his right hand where the bandage had been. The work is detailed, delicate and very beautiful. His hazy recollections of the young girl who did it are growing more complete. Sherlock tells him that Mycroft had returned Aditi Singh to her family, unharmed. A sweep of the mansion had revealed the terrified captive locked in the bedroom, as well as the body of a man dumped in a basement hallway, knees blown and a neat bullethole in his forehead. John understands that the latter was Moriarty culling dead weight, and is very thankful that the girl survived.

Sherlock tells him how Mycroft had followed Sherlock to the pool, using a GPS signal on his phone, although he was nearly too far behind to be of help. Moriarty and his henchman are dead.

"Sebastian..." John remembers Tank's real name and frowns.

Sherlock nods. "Colonel Sebastian Moran," he agrees. "Used to be with the British Army, just like you."

John's lip curls. Sebastian was a violent, disturbing man, and John wants no commonality with him. He remembers very little of the ceremony at the pool, having been high on the Aquilaria smoke in addition to bruising and swelling of the brain. Sherlock told him a bit about it, how Moriarty's experimental protocol had been carefully crafted for John alone, had not accounted for two bodies in the pool, and two lamps. When Sherlock cast himself into the water at the same time as John, all the parameters of the experiment were too warped to function and the spell had backfired by melting both lamps into slag rather than imprisoning John into the one Moriarty had intended for him. "We're free," Sherlock concludes. His voice is monotone, but his eyes burn and shimmer.

John puts his hand on Sherlock's, weaves his decorated fingers in between the longer, more clever digits of his companion. The henna markings on their skin don't match, yet are complimentary. He smiles and strokes his thumb in circles on the knob of Sherlock's wrist. "You're free," he repeats. "Sherlock, it's amazing."

Sherlock does nothing more than close his eyes. Then he curves forward, until his head rests lightly on John's shoulder, and he says, mouth muffled by the sweater John is wearing, "Yes. Free."

John tilts his head so that they're pressed together, gently still, careful of his headache. The nausea and dizziness have subsided, the swelling in his brain gone down, but blunt trauma takes a while to heal, regardless.

Sherlock's hair is warm and aromatic against his cheek, tickling in his nose, and he feels tension seep out of him at the contact.

It has been two weeks since his release from the hospital, and Baker Street is beginning to feel like home. Mrs. Hudson contributes to their feeding, but Sherlock's idea of stocking the kitchen is calling out for curry whenever John complains that he can't go for two days without eating, dammit, he's trying to recover.

He has already finished the plate of biscuits Harry and Clara brought several days prior. They are his favorite: homemade and crumbly, recalling fond memories of being very small, with his sister, watching cartoons after school. Harry was very pale, with deep shadows around her eyes, and John was never so pleased to see signs of detox, although he deeply regrets her need to mourn Melissa. She grumbled and evaded when he asked about it, but Clara smiled and said they were going to a support group that that things seemed promising.

They left behind a soft new jumper for John and a pack of Larks for Sherlock, which John hid as soon as they left. He's recently got Sherlock to try nicotine patches instead of smoking, and he hopes that will stick. Also, the the blank, flesh-toned circle slapped on top of intricate henna never fails to amuse him. Now, if only Sherlock will stop using so many at once.

Mycroft has stopped by several times, pompous and reserved as always, immaculate in his stuffy brown suits. His concern for and curiosity about his newfound relative are subtle, but evident. Although he and Sherlock often spend these visits staring acrimoniously and silently at one another, John has seen a lot of paperwork exchange hands. Sherlock is now the proud possessor of a documented and marketable past, and a fat bank account.

Mycroft doesn't stick around long enough for thanks, even if that is what Sherlock might have intended to do, which is doubtful.

One afternoon, Sherlock comes back with a violin, and parks himself next to the windows, playing slow, sad strains of music that make John's skin shiver and crawl at the beauty, the richness, the lament and the joy. He lies on the sofa, eyes squinted against the light, and watches Sherlock's silhouette, swaying and sawing, utterly removed from the mundane. They never speak of it, but Sherlock makes it routine, playing softly when John's head pounds too loudly for rest; or breathing hurts; or coughing causes his cracked rib to howl until his vision is floating red blotches shot through with sparks of pain.

Sherlock seems bored by the quiet, and often leaves John in the flat. He'll breeze back home in the afternoons, vibrant from his excursion, cold air radiating from his coat, smelling of food vans, exhaust, strange perfumes, the dank must of winter leaves. He is exploring his city.

Lestrade calls once or twice, and Sherlock runs out to meet him at the Yard, or at the morgue, returning to the flat hours later, electrified, telling John the details of the cases so quickly and excitably that his words stumble over one another and blur together in his delivery. John grins, excited for him, pleased beyond words that he's found his niche, that he's getting the recognition he deserves, that he's being fed the puzzles for his mind which are as important as the more prosaic nutrients that John must regularly insist his body needs.

John is up and about these days, although he still must move cautiously because of the ribs. He will remove his stitches in a few more days, and the angry X slashed across his chest looks like a ragged comet-tail trailing from the starburst of his bullet wound. Sherlock will touch it, at night, when John changes into his pajamas… fingertips gentle and apologetic, eyes burning with guilt and something that looks like fear. He'll unfold his fingers and place his hand flat, palm pressed against John's heart, seeming reassured by the steady tha-thump within, and John wonders if he'd felt it at the pool, when the beating had slowed, struggled, and died.

They sleep as they always have, tangled in one another, although Sherlock has to curl carefully around John, since he is generally only comfortable flat on his back. Sherlock's gusting breath in his neck, waving the hairs around his ear, is reassuring and familiar. Even after many showers, with the lamp a lump of molten metal ghoulishly displayed on the mantel in the livingroom, Sherlock still smells of incense and spices, of oil and rust, in addition to his very human warmth and skin.

Their henna is unfaded, even after so long, which John is beginning to wonder about. Sherlock has had a shower every day, he is as finicky and meticulous about cleanliness as a cat. John… not so much, lately, as it is painful and difficult. But even so, the ink applied so diligently by Aditi should have faded by now. John licks his thumb and rubs it briskly across the back of his other hand. Nothing.

Sherlock sits across from him, perched in his armchair by the fire. He is staring hard, trying to make John read his mind and go brew him some tea. John knows what he wants, but is amused to ignore him.

"I believe it's permanent now, John," he says.

John looks up in surprise, ceasing the scrubbing motions of his thumb. "The henna?"

"Yes. Well. Mine certainly is. I've tried removing it with soap, water, hydrogen peroxide, alcohol and exfoliants." He pauses and holds his arms before him, staring at the jarring sight of deeply detailed henna covering his hands, extending from the gray cuffs of his suit. He throws his head back, staring at the ceiling, and John looks at the henna crawling around the sides of his neck. Just as vivid as it has ever been. John puts his hand to his own neck, as if he can feel the vibrancy of the markings there.

Sherlock tilts his head back down and casts him a luminous look, sidelong and serious, hands pressed together in front of his chin. "It is… profoundly fortuitous… that more of Moriarty's spell didn't take," he says quietly. "I could only surmise that our premature and simultaneous entry into the pool would foil the flow and efficacy of the ritual." He's silent for a moment. "It was the only thing I could think to try," he admits.

They're both quiet, staring down at their laps. John bites his tongue and suppresses a shudder. So close. So fucking close. He can't even think about it. Permanent tattooing is a small price to pay indeed.

Sherlock suddenly jumps up, gives John an unexpected smirk, slips off his suit coat, and begins to sway. He is wearing a white shirt, bordering on indecently translucent. John can see the shape of his nipples underneath, the darker shadow lining down the center near his navel. His trousers are soft over his slim waist, flat belly, and tattooed hands rest on effortlessly swiveling hips. "I've got more than a few remnants of my time as a genie," he says. And rather than painted in the shadows with which he has always spoken of his incarceration before, now his face is light, open in such a way that it broadcasts amusement. He blinks his feline eyes at John; they are green with interest, absurdly light in the dim room, framed in short sooty lashes, held at their exaggerated tilt by impossibly angled cheekbones, as exotic as anything John's ever seen. Invitation is clear in his gaze, and John cannot help but rise from his chair.

"Yeah?" he asks, stupidly, breathlessly. "What else have you got?" Although what he's got is clear, the hypnotizing movement of his hips and sinuously twisting body is making that quite obvious. Sherlock scrutinizes John thoroughly, eyes travelling saucily from top to bottom and back again. Then he snaps one hip to the side, planting his feet flat on the rug, rolling his spine until his shoulders swing, twisting his head on a neck that is all limber sinuousness.

For several minutes he does a dance, rhythmic and beautiful in the silence of the room, utterly anachronistic in his sleek suit and sophisticated leather shoes. But John's riveted to the flash of his hennaed hands, the ripple of clavicles, bone and hollow, the mesmerizing bob of his throat, as vivid green eyes savagely pin him in place: a helpless, ardently prurient observer.

Sherlock glides closer, whisks his body until he's behind John, hips pressed to the small of John's back, hands stroking down the woolen front of his jumper. Soft curls tickle his cheek as Sherlock lowers his head and whispers. "And you, John? Can you dance as well? You've got the henna…."

Long, hard fingers crawl around his waist to tangle in the beltloops of his khakis, and Sherlock's metronomic thighs are tight against his arse as he is moved in slow circles. John tries to relax, a challenging prospect since sudden lust has hit him with unstoppable momentum, but the painkillers certainly help him to loosen up, allow Sherlock's hands to guide him.

However, he feels no different than he ever has dancing. Except that he is gasping for breath because of the rib, a duller pain, now, but still, there. He is no more limber, flexible, or knowledgeable about belly dancing than he ever was. He frowns, laughs, and colors in embarrassment from his few attempts at jerking his hips in a lame simulacrum of Sherlock's skillfully carnal dance.

He pulls to a stop, dropping his chin, feeling the bandages catch on his vest, and snorts. "Sherlock. I most certainly did not turn into a genie when I dunked myself in that damned frozen pool."

Sherlock hums a little, trails his palm down John's arm until he can capture John's hand and bring it up to his shoulder, kissing his knuckles lightly. "I will have to teach you the old fashioned way, then," he murmurs.

John turns in his arms, feeling uncertain. There has been very little touching since hospital, excluding their sleeping arrangements, which are comforting, but not in the least sexual. He tilts his head, wanting to ask, but afraid, so afraid, of what the answer might be. For the past week, Sherlock has hardly been in the flat, although he has been attentive to John's needs, and gravitates to the room where John is when he is going to throw himself down for a sulk.

He has money now, John knows. A tremendous amount. He had nearly choked at the beginning balance Mycroft had mentioned was in the account, with monthly stipends of nearly as much deposited from a trust fund. Sherlock will not have the title, which does not bother him in the least, as he never wanted it, but he is certainly invited to share in the fortunes of his family estate.

Lestrade has already invited his input on two puzzling cases in the past 10 days. Although Sherlock is consulting gratis in this case, since income no longer matters, it is satisfying and fulfilling and a career, for god's sake. Talk about landing on your feet.

By comparison, John feels old. He feels old and used. He shuffles around the flat, limp-free but wheezing for breath, and the effects of the concussion occasionally crest and break and crash over his head if he moves too fast, slamming him with angry, roiling pain.

The henna may be permanent, but it traces tentatively around a body that is looser than Sherlock's; softening, scarred, blemished on the skin as he is in the soul. John is no more than a man who considers death as an alternative to slogging on. A man who cringes in a clamoring panic because of nothing more than memories of battle. A man who responds to a shoulder wound by limping. Whose hand is too sporadically tremulous for the surgery with which he could support himself. A man living off a scant army pension. Who is as common as dirt.

What can Sherlock - lissome, wildly intelligent and educated, aristocratic, talented and beautiful… what can he possibly want with John now that his freedom is assured, now that he has a meaningful life laid out before his feet?

The henna. The ability to dance. Those are the only remnants of the man who once arguably belonged to John. John doesn't want ownership, really he doesn't. He is not that depraved. But he has to admit to himself that he misses it, the certainty that Sherlock could not go anywhere else while his back was turned. He finds himself genuinely confounded that Sherlock ever returns: bounding up the steps in the afternoons and flinging himself through the door of their flat, demanding tea, and overflowing with his observations of the day.

But Sherlock has no idea all this is going through John's head.

Sherlock pushes him back, arms extended, and frowns over John's shoulder at the fire behind him. "I wonder," he muses, head cocked to the side, balanced on a gracefully curved neck, one eyebrow up. "I wonder what other attributes remain of that time." He closes his eyes, as though examining himself internally. "John, would you try a wish?"

John splinters inside, struck with the sudden fear of losing Sherlock in such a way. He shivers into tiny toothpick shards of muscle and tendon and bone, rigid and fragmented. "No," he protests, so low it's hardly more than a breath. "I know the lamp is destroyed. But. But. It can't be safe. What if…"

Sherlock drops his arms and taps a thumb thoughtfully across one bony hip, thud, thud, thud. "You thought of a wish at the pool," he says. "I saw you thinking, felt… something." His eyes narrow at John until they're only slits of light. "What did you think of?"

John remembers. His memory of that evening is more or less completely restored, all except for when they dragged Sherlock and him out of the pool and those first days in hospital. He locks his jaw and looks stubbornly to the side, eye to eye-socket with a bizarre skull of some kind of cow that Sherlock had swept in with several days earlier. He mutely shakes his head.

Sherlock hrumphs. "John, I believe it's perfectly safe, and you can be certain I wouldn't risk being in a lamp again. I'm just curious if there is any power left in me. Go on, say it." He pokes gently at John's arm and allows one thick eyebrow to crawl slowly up towards his hair. The dare is plain.

John frowns again. "It was. I had wondered if I could somehow make you your own Master. Of the lamp, you know." He carefully words it without the word wish anywhere at all.

Sherlock thinks on that one for a moment, then nods decisively. "Not a bad ploy. Mrs. Hudson and I never tried that." He looks at John and his expression relaxes from focused query into something softer, and one corner of his mouth lifts up. "It's quite generous, John. Thank you."

John flushes and shrugs. His final wish had not worked anyway, without his being able to speak or touch the lamp. They will never know, now, if it would have been successful. And hopefully Sherlock won't ever find out what a difficult decision that was to make. Well, not once their lives were on the line, of course. But the choice to give him freedom, with the likelihood that he would leave John, was nothing short of wrenching.

There is a stretched silence, both men staring at the ragged carpet. Finally, Sherlock says, "Go on, then, John. Say it as a wish. Let's see what happens." He sounds impatient, filled with scientific spirit rather than human timidity.

John swallows and rubs his head. The headache is back, sloshing gently around his eyes, throbbing through his temples until he feels woozy and confused. John says, tangling up his words, cottony and stupid with fatigue, injury and the hazy fear of being left on his own, "I wish you to Master my Lamp."

Oh. Oh, fuck. He did not just say that. Stupid. Freudian. Sub-fucking-conscious. He opens his mouth to retract, but stalls at Sherlock's shocked inhale.

"That is not the wish we just discussed," he says, lingering in cold disdain over each word. John just widens his eyes, speechless and humiliated. Sherlock's fierce expression smooths out a moment later. "Thankfully, there seem to be no wishes left in me. Nothing," he sighs. "I can do nothing."

Then he grabs John's biceps, nettled, fingers closing in on firm muscle, and shakes John sharply, seems to have forgotten John's injuries. "I can master you without making you a fucking slave…."

"What?" John gasps, headache dissipating under a flood of adrenaline. "No. No! That's not what I meant to say-"

Sherlock slowly raises a single sarcastic eyebrow. John watches his pupils expand, growing until they are merely limned in color. He moves quickly, hand shifting to cover the front of John's neck. "But I think you did."

John inhales for denial, but Sherlock squeezes, frowning, making an annoyed hush. He looks at John, looks, as if John is a corpse to be deduced. His eyes rapidly flicker around John's face and body, holding him perfectly still through his grip on his neck. He darts a look around the room, from the sofa piled with pillow and blankets, the empty tea mugs on the coffee table, to the jacket which hasn't come off its hook in two weeks. Narrowly observes the desk under the window, scattered with his new identity papers, a file from Lestrade, the flat rectangle of his phone and his new laptop.

He pulls John closer, so that John has to crane his neck to keep eye contact with him. Sherlock's face is controlled and serious, and his thumb strokes across John's escalating pulse, pushing in just a little too hard against the skin of his carotid. "Stupid," he growls. "I've been so stupid. How could I have missed it?

"We need to talk," he declares, and swings John around, hand bumping over cervical vertebrae, still holding firmly, pushing him inexorably through the kitchen to the bedroom that they've shared.

He stands John at the side of the bed, knees pressed to the mattress, large, hot hand wrapped from ear to ear across his nape. "I haven't been paying attention," he says, moving closer, so that his body just touches along John's back. He holds John's shoulders again, loosely. John could move if he wanted, but he's frozen, waiting, thrumming…. Sherlock dips his head and breathes across John's ear, and when he whispers, John can feel the wet swipe of tongue or lip. "I thought you needed to be alone, to heal." He slides his hands down John's arms and weaves their fingers together. "I've been feeling guilt over drawing you into this mess. I've been giving you space, and you've completely misunderstood that, haven't you, John? I neglected to include all the variables in the equation."

John stands ramrod straight, balanced perfectly over his own feet, rigid with uncertainty and shame and anticipation.

"Being left alone was the last thing you needed, wasn't it John? You're a classic case for abandonment issues," Sherlock continues his murmur, the words slipping down John's spine like poison, reaching inexorably for the fear he hides most assiduously.

Sherlock's lips vibrate against the thin skin of John's neck as he speaks, teeth pressed for a flashing moment against the tendon stretching from ear to shoulder. "I've never met someone so alone… who didn't choose to be. Your comrades abandoned you after your invalidation. Your parents abandoned you through abuse. Your sister abandoned you by choosing spirits and hedonism instead. You've had too much time to think, and your basic insecurities are drowning you. You expect me to leave."

Sherlock draws John's hands to the small of his back, close between their bodies, and drops a kiss low on his neck, sucking and pulling, so John can feel the birth of a bruise. "You keep touching your scars, both the old and the new. I see you watching me, beguiled and tragic. You're comparing us, aren't you? And falling short in your own estimation.

"Even the blank space on your hand, where the henna didn't get painted because of the bandages. Even that you take as a sign that you are inferior to me." Sherlock briefly squeezes his hands around John's, strokes a thumb across his palm. "I can see how uncomfortable my family connections make you. The discrepancy of our assets makes you feel unsure. And now you find that I've got a life, means of employment, guaranteed income."

Sherlock turns John again, steps against him until he falls, seated, on the edge of the mattress. "How little you must think of me," he growls. Pink patches spread across high-cut cheekbones and his eyes gleam nacreous and offended. "You assume that all I need you for is financial security, housing? An unsought remainder to keep me warm at night? Now I understand your inability to stop dwelling on the Master/Slave dynamic. It's not ownership which interests you. Not dominion over another person. It's commitment. Voluntary or not. The root of all your fears is abandonment."

Sherlock stares at John, who feels as stripped nude as a rabbit being prepared for a spit. His skin is tight, cold, and his ears roar in the wake of Sherlock's painful revelations. This has happened before, dammit. Sherlock has done this to him before, and John clenches his fists and his jaw, struggling with the overwhelming urge to escape, fighting off an encroaching panic attack. He won't do it. Won't go there. He blinks rapidly, sucks in air, breathes deep, ignoring the twinge from his ribs.

So what? he asks himself. So what if Sherlock knows these things? So what if he knew them even before John? John is certain, in this one thing he is certain, that Sherlock is not going to use it against him. Not going to hurt him. Sherlock's observations are not poison. Rather, if John can just get himself in the right headspace, they could be more akin to draining a wound. Giving him freedom and room to heal.

Sherlock nudges against him, and he scrambles backwards on the bed, until he's kneeling in the center, torn between the need to fight back and the urge to yield. Sherlock crawls onto the mattress in front of him, lowering to his heels, hands reaching out to wrap around John's wrists. He holds tight, and John is grounded by that grip, by the intense face only inches from his own.

"If I owned your lamp, John," Sherlock rumbles. "I would keep you forever." He stops and sighs. "What makes you think I won't when you're not bound to me that way?"

He lifts John's wrist to his face, opens a sinfully sculpted pink mouth, and fixes his bite across John's racing pulse. Hot and wet, lips fold around thin skin, and Sherlock's cheeks briefly hollow as he sucks. John is mesmerized by the piercing eyes, the tamed curls of his hair framing flawless skin. He shudders at the shocking caress of tongue on his skin.

"I have no intention of working out in the world without you, John. I need you with me. I need your skills as a doctor, as a soldier. They've already proven invaluable. I need you as an assistant and… as a… friend. I. Working on these cases with Lestrade: it's dangerous. You love that. We… love that," he bites hard at the base of John's thumb, and John's mouth parts, gasping, in response. "You've got your gun, and I need you at my back. I trust you."

"John," Sherlock husks. "You are a good man. I've met few enough of those in many lifetimes. It makes me… angry… to observe how little value you place in yourself. Your generosity, your commitment. Your love is very pure, very selfless. Your need to protect, to nurture… is unquenchable. You are strong, your moral compass is irreproachable. You glow with righteous violence like a… a paladin." Sherlock uses his hold to pull John forward until they are chest to chest. "You are addictive. How could you possibly think I would give such a thing up, once I'd found it?"

John moves his lips, realizes his tongue has been housed atop them for some time, and reels it back in just as Sherlock lowers his head, holding John still with an uncompromising hand across the back of his head.

John whimpers a bit, he knows he does, and can't even find it in himself to cringe, at the beginning of the kiss. Sherlock is insistent, impatient with John's efforts to reciprocate. He pushes, bullies, works John's jaw open with a darting sortie. He presses John close, sliding both arms around him, holding hard enough to add the arousing tingle of imminent pain from his recent wounds. Pulls him upwards into the kiss, tongue brutally determined, twisting around the interior of his mouth like the belly dancing counterpart of the rest of Sherlock's body. Flittering over teeth, sleek on top of his own tongue, probing, soothing, invigorating all at once.

John slumps in surrender, skin violently sensitized, so that his jumper, his trousers, the soft fabric of his vest become almost unendurably abrasive. His arms drop to his sides, head lolling back, mouth receptive and body acquiescent. Sherlock growls, basso and broken, into his mouth, and a mirroring shudder runs through both their bodies, goosebumps passing back and forth like a communicable disease. Sherlock's approval radiates in a smug, focused, driven aura, his hands molding John into the vessel he needs. And John burns with it.

Fingers catch on his belt, bump over, and curl around the rise of his arse, cupping under the overhang of his buttocks and pulling fiercely upwards, grinding John into Sherlock's groin. Sherlock groans in time with John, and repeats the motion, once, twice, rhythmically, and then over and over until they are outside of time, lost to sensation, the sensual cadence like being tossed by waves in a dark ocean.

John's ennervated arms regain mobility and incitement at last, and he embraces Sherlock, sleek and undulating. The iron muscles of his arse flex and stretch under John's covetous hands, and he is again diverted by the thought of this bouncing, exuberant portion of Sherlock's anatomy, so different from the lean, asture lines of the rest of his morphology. John clutches and kneads, pulling the stiff column of Sherlock's erection ruthlessly into the soft, welcoming flesh of his belly, the rigid square of his belt buckle.

John's own erection is lower, worked into the dip of Sherlock's thighs, nudging up against his pubis like an exclamation point on each sentence that is their grind. John catches Sherlock's exploratory tongue, suckling forcefully, licking it with his own. He mumbles his thoughts in words that remain unarticulated, and Sherlock hums back as if he knows what John is trying to express.

After forever, and John is frankly astonished that the light in their bedroom is still that of afternoon, that hours haven't passed and transformed their world into night… Sherlock pulls back and begins to manoeuvre John until he is oriented properly in the bed, lying on his back with his head on a pillow. He tugs John's jumper and vest off as he lays him down, careful of the bandages underneath, and stares at him intently when he is exposed. In between swaths of white, the fur on John's chest stands up, doing its job, trying to warm his suddenly chilled flesh in the cool room, and his nipples peak into tips.

Sherlock runs a casual, proprietary hand across John's pectorals, leans swiftly down to plant a kiss over the bandage covering his scar, tracing the X with his lips, solemn and ceremonial. "You got this because of me," he comments, flashing a look up at John. "How should I ever think it makes you ugly or flawed?" He moves his mouth across skin mottled purple and red over the damaged rib, and then noses down the arrow of hair leading into his belt. "I want everything about you, John. I will keep it all. You mustn't fear that I will leave. I need you."

And with this clearly stated promise, John relaxes for the first time in weeks. Not the inertia of exhaustion, of drugs, of the cessation of fear, but a deeper relief from stress and the uncertainty he has carried around for decades.

Sherlock begins to open his belt with his teeth, gets frustrated halfway through, and finishes the job with his hands while John softly snorts. His trousers and pants are unceremoniously dragged off, catching on his shoes until Sherlock makes a wry face and removes them as well.

Sherlock is still in his suit, lithe and sharp. His shirt strains across his chest when he sits back on his heels and works off first one shoe, then the other, lifting partway on his knees, bent enticingly backwards as he attends to his task. The extraneous clothing is swept to the floor, thumps ignored, and Sherlock's stare locks back on to John.

He crawls up the bed, stopping at John's thighs. He presses them into the mattress, and John can only think that his hands are so long they cover two thirds of John's femur. His thumbs draw little infinity symbols on the insides until John begins to open up, unfurling at the promise of pleasure, and Sherlock's face smooths out in satisfaction.

Sherlock shifts his position until he is crouched between John's knees, coaxing his legs further open, knees up, feet pushing hard against the mattress, slipping then tangling in the duvet.

John can't catch his breath, dull creaking of his rib, tight stretching of his stitches.

Sherlock scoops both hands under his thighs, wiggles upwards until he's cupping buttocks, then, embarrassingly, pushes up and out, opening him up; and John can feel cool air on his anus. Sherlock draws back and looks satisfied, wipes one hand across his jaw, watches John and licks his own thumb, slowly moving his eyes down the length of John's body, taking in every detail.

John briefly squeezes his eyes closed, holds still for the examination, pushed apart and opened up. All of him is exposed, while Sherlock, barefoot, still wears shirt and trousers, tented with his erection. It should be unfair, unbalanced. But it… isn't. It is bolstering, in a strange way. And a relief to leave everything in Sherlock's knowledgeable hands.

Sherlock leans back in, noses through the body hair that is free of bandages, lips at it, pulling gently, moving from John's chest to his belly. He runs his hands down John's sides, etching his hungry skin with fire, matched by his burning gaze. John's cock is heavy, turgid, rushing with hot blood and impatient desperation.

John grabs at Sherlock's forearms and then grins, delighted to feel the hard ridges of the golden bangles under tailored cloth, to hear their musical clatter. He quickly skims his grip upwards, searching for the feel of the leather armbands under the Egyptian cotton, and licks his lips when he finds it. Sherlock's right eyelid drops into a brief, deliberate wink, and he flexes his arm in John's grip.

"You like this," he smugly reports.

"Yes," John gasps, beyond shame. His fingers barely fumble as he races to undo buttons at cuffs and collar. Sherlock stretches obligingly forward, floating over John, elongating and undulating his spine as John hurries to divest him of the shirt. At last it is open, satiny skin underneath so pale that only the barest pink blush differentiates flesh from fabric. That, and the faint dusting of soft black hairs, the languid trails of henna, the sharp horizontal delineations of gold and tooled leather.

Sherlock moves back to his knees, wriggling out of the shirt and tossing it carelessly to the floor. John pushes himself up, following Sherlock's torso as if they are connected by a very short string. As he rotates to sitting cross-legged, fabric is suddenly pressed against his exposed anus, both startling and arousing him. A distant expression passes over his face, but instead of recoiling, he presses down, and his eyes flare in pleasure.

He grabs Sherlock by his hips before he can settle back down, digs gun-callused thumbs into the delicate artistry of the ink highlighting their jut and sway, then pulls upward, straightening Sherlock's body until his fingers tangle in the soft black patches of hair in Sherlock's armpits. Sherlock arches and preens under his hands, head tipping to one side to smolder down at him, arms limber and gracefully stretched above his head.

"You are insanely beautiful," John whispers appreciatively, and then snaps his jaw shut with a painful clack. He growls, what else can he do, and drops his hands to Sherlock's trousers, unclasping them, and then tongues along the vines of henna as the soft hiss of the zip sounds in his ears. Sherlock isn't wearing pants, of course, and John drops the trousers as soon as Sherlock's cock is free. They fall, unhindered, to Sherlock's knees. But John isn't paying attention to clothing anymore.

He nibbles an inky leaf, sucks a hennaed swirl, traces the tattoo from the sharp edge of Sherlock's hip to the opened crease of his groin. He inhales spicy musk, rubs his face on crisp hairs in a frenzy of self-indulgence, breathing in such warmth and sex and Sherlock that he can taste it. His cheek presses to the alluring hennaed patterns on the swollen shaft of Sherlock's sex, he has to wiggle awkwardly and scoot himself backwards, crouching low over his own knees, to lave the soft skin of Sherlock's scrotum, incautiously sucking in one round, ripe testicle. "I'm mad for you," he mumbles vaguely.

Sherlock bucks and groans, hands grab unapologetically on either side of John's head and wrench him inwards, smashing his face against lovely, primal skin and hair. He sucks harder, tongue swirling, and feels the hot pulsing of the erection against his forehead as Sherlock begins to grind.

John presses one hand flat on the mattress for balance, jams the other between tightly clenched thighs until he can press two fingers into Sherlock's perineum, massaging for the prostate in short, hard circles. He can feel his own arse lifting, back arching, ignoring the twinges from his injuries, body heated and prepared for sex. He spreads his knees as he sucks, rocking back and forth, humming to the flesh in his mouth.

Sherlock jerks him back then, wraps one pale hand around his cock, and points it at John's mouth. John stares up at him as he glides forward, slow and steady, lips brushing teasingly over silken heat, moving down, down the slimly-engorged column, until his nose is pressed to the flat skin of Sherlock's abdomen. He swallows around him, and flashes for a moment to the gun, only a month ago, that used to fill his mouth in such a way, cold and final and unyielding. He is able to find brief irony in the fact that he can go down on his partner without gagging because of all those empty, frightening months of loneliness and despair.

Sherlock doesn't give him time to ruminate, begins driving into him with strokes that are long, powerful and leisurely. One of the hands on his head slips down his neck, along his spine, stretching him as it strokes, emphasizing the dip before the arch of his arse, sliding without hesitation into the divide there, seeking out and pressing against the hole he intends to use.

John groans and plunges backward, teeth briefly unveiled and scraping Sherlock's cock. Sherlock doesn't complain, continues with his thrusting, dropping his hand to cup John's throat, feel it working around his cock, thumb sliding through the saliva that escapes his lips. And the other hand works his anus, pushing and rubbing, circling and spreading, invading until John is spit, with Sherlock at either end, and his vision goes hazy with need and astonishment, skin heating, fever-hot, electrified and twitching, knees spreading wider, lower, cock slapping his belly and bollocks swaying heavily in counterpoint to his rocking.

Sherlock is hot in his mouth, hot in his arse, he tastes of salt and bitters and every warm spice, and John pushes forward until he can no longer breathe in an effort to get closer, to envelop more, to merge their bodies and their souls and never, ever leave.

Of course, that cannot happen, and Sherlock pulls back before John quite turns blue, pulls away with a pop, and an elastic string of saliva joins them, stretching thin before breaking away.

"Turn around, John," Sherlock orders, voice rusty and broken. "Just like that."

John does, easily acceding to orders, shuffling in a clumsy circle until he faces the headboard, arse to Sherlock, twitching one leg around Sherlock's knees, spread out before him. The bed dips and there's the slide of a drawer, a rustle and ragged sound, and in a moment, fingers cold with lube stroke upward from his bollocks. They tease along his perineum, quickly find his anus and push, brusque yet coordinated and assured: circle and poke and soothe and dip and enter. One finger and then another, pistoning and tugging and stretching, stretching John's body wider with a delicious slither and sting.

John rocks back and forth, pulsing and flexing, mindless in his pleasure, lost in trust, yielding and submissive to Sherlock's guidance. Sherlock's other hand is heavy and firm on his hip, thumb sunk in the dimple of his back, conducting his body in a symphony of ecstasy.

John stares at his own hands, braced against the pillow. They are alien and glamorous with the carefully wrought designs. He thinks of Sherlock's view, the twisting, sinuous lines of henna slipping and sliding around John's hips as he writhes, curling around his shoulders, decorating his neck. But the image is quickly subsumed.

He can now only think with his cock, with his arse, brainless with it, melted by his own heat. He chokes off a whine when Sherlock's fingers slide out, oblivious to the slight burn and pull of tender flesh. Sherlock huffs and spanks across John's hip, stilling his movement while he lines himself up, slippery and insistent, pushing his way inside John without further fanfare.

And John shivers under him, nerves jittering and quivering, burning and blaring under his skin, the fullness overwhelming and satiating at the same time. He cannot move, but for the tremors, stuttering "Sh- Sh-" and breaking off with a serrated groan.

Sherlock pushes all the way inside, John can feel the throb and twitch of his cock against the soft inner walls of his arse. When he's fully seated he stops, thighs gently prickling against the backs of John's own, and both hands soothe down his flanks, curl around the wings of his hips, spider to the creases of his thighs and urge them further apart, following him lower. The spread of his legs eases the pressure, the strain, until his body feels lust again, rather than shock.

Sherlock has twined low over his back, murmuring not-words against his neck, into his dampening hair, and begins to fondle his softening cock, tug on his scrotum until he reheats, refills, until he tosses his head back in growing bliss once again, to have his mouth caught by Sherlock's own, and the murmurs fade into messy, authoritative kisses.

Sherlock begins to thrust, rippling against John, balanced on one arm, sucking on his lip, then his ear, then biting the back of his neck as John's head drops down, bucking back against his partner, graceless in comparison to Sherlock's domineering dance, and uncaring all the same. John's body echoes his mind, resists when Sherlock pulls away, sucks him back in with desperate, sharp pleasure when he returns, pulls him into John's heat, and he can feel Sherlock's cock piercing his very soul... harder, erratic and frenzied.

John turns his head, swimming through viscous air, shuddering with immanent release, body too hot and too cold, and strains his eyes to look at Sherlock, pale and panting, sheened with sweat and gorgeously surreal. The golden bracelets sing as he jerks at John, too hard, too fast; John isn't ready, doesn't want it to end-

Sherlock cries out, a breathy sound, escaping his control, low and rough and musical and wanton. He locks into position, John can feel the jolt, the flood of heat, the near-pained, drawn out groan from the rivened man on his back.

And he looks down his chest, down the curve of his belly, sees the shiny, strained head of his cock pummeled to and fro between strong fingers, white skin overlain with rusty designs, and his testicals tighten, pull inward, his body hums and thrums and burns and begins to shake. He falls forward onto his elbows, gasping, choked sounds falling from open lips, head pressing sweaty into the pillow as he roars with a completion so overwhelming and thorough that for a moment it is indistinguishable from pain, the shivering flood of love and lust gathering in his groin and pouring out in scalding bursts of semen, striping the bed, the underside of his jaw, the hairs of his belly and the white bandages across his chest.

Sherlock pulls slowly out, and John can feel the warm dribble of fluid begin to seep down his perineum. The spongy head of Sherlock's cock is rubbed through it, spreading the liquid around, and then pushing it back inside his opened hole, plugging John back up with Sherlock's softening arousal. Out, and dribble, and in, until at last its simply fingers doing the task, and then Sherlock falls beside him, pulling him to his side so that he can rest his knees and elbows.

John pliantly molds himself to the lean chest behind him, slides his hand into the sticky, decorated fist of his lover, pulls his arm across John's waist, snorting a bit as he avoids touching his wet, debauched bandages.

Sherlock presses his sweaty cheek against John's, dragging hedonistically through rough stubble before withdrawing enough to bite him sharply at the juncture of neck and shoulder. "I do not wish to own you, John Watson. We belong to each other. Now and always."

And John is filled with such joy and awe and incredulity that he has two false starts before he can articulate. "Yes," he says, his smile shining and broad. "Yes, that is my wish."

Author's Note:

Thank you. I just want to name some names, here. Besides SnogandaGrope and ScienceofObsession, whose wonderfulness and necessity as betas should be fully recognized at this point, and have become better than sisters to me over the past 9 months.

First, thank you to all the amazing, generous, talented artists who contributed (often MULTIPLE pieces!) to this story and motivated me to do my very best in order to live up to their art: MindPalaceofVersailles (who was the first to draw genie!Sherlock and whose picture has been the background on my computer for the entire process of writing this tale), JillandSarah, CollideIntoSound, Kayjaykayme, BoastsaLot, JustGot1 and Zincesaucier. Thank you so much. You have no idea.

Thank you to all the people who have subscribed, commented, favorited, kudosed and generally made your admiration and support known to me. Some folks have followed along faithfully since the beginning, and it's been a wonderful journey. So, thank you (in no particular order) to LozzaBlueBell, pyxiestix, xZhi-Dux, A.F. WolfSlinx, BlackBulletButterfly,Charles Lee Ray, ContraryMaryBee, Danara, FugitiveSGA, KaylaMarie04, Mangal2012, MomotsukiNezumi, Nekiare, PetrichorRaindrop, Pondwithnoducks, Professor CatEars, Roslein-Snape21, Sher221Locked, TheXDarknessXWithinXMe, ThexHallowsxGirl, TsukiyomiMoon, analisa, barefootabby, catts37, damson1, darkhearted243, deborahscs, flibberdy, johnlockasylum, lovechaos, lunasulstice, maryeliza, phire tigra, unicorndiva, warrioroflite418, and xx-Keks.

And also, a great huge shout out to all my peeps and followers on Tumblr, who are too numerous to mention, who listen to me whine and freak and offer lovely suggestions and advice, and tolerate all the porn on Fridays.

Forgive me if I missed any of you. All in all, this has been an amazing, positive, surreal experience, and I'm delighted beyond measure that you've all shared it with me… and even enhanced the whole deal. Love to you all, and I'll see you, after a short break for my brain, on the next story (the sequel to Murderous Imprint, and a casefic currently called Sherlock Can't Swim.)