Alright, since last week's update was so late, I decided to upload this early. PLEASE if any of you guys have ideas for how I should continue this, DON'T BE AFRAID TO LET ME KNOW. I desperately need ideas.

Thank you all for your sweet reviews! They make me so happy. xoxo

Warnings: Mentions of drug use, explicit sexual content.

Chapter 14 – Screaming Silence

We never continued our little snogging session.

Lestrade had shown up (we had fortunately been mostly dressed already) to let us know they had suspects in our attempted murder that they were holding in custody. He needed us to identify them.

Sherlock's face was tight and pinched as we walked into the dark space opposite the interrogation room. He had refused to wear the splint any longer, and looked slightly pained. He was silent as we waited for them to bring in the men, and when they did, the detective glanced at me before telling Lestrade "Yes" and then whirling out of the room.

I had nodded my agreement, followed him into a cab, then to Baker Street where he paced restlessly across the creaking floorboards continuously for nearly an hour before throwing his coat back on.

"I need to go."

I had no time to ask him what was wrong.

That had been seven hours ago.

After three had gone by, I'd texted him and received a simple I'm fine in reply. While I understood that this had been upsetting (it's hard to look into the faces of the men who tried to kill you and your closest friend), I was a bit surprised by how hard Sherlock was taking it. I hadn't seen him act this way since Irene Adler, and even still, that had been after he thought she was actually dead. We had both survived this one.

…Did Sherlock…?

Anyway, I'm twitching about nervously when I hear the front door open and shut, footsteps climbing the stairs, our door open, his feet on the landing. He steps through the doorway to the sitting room and again I'm reminded of the Adler case as he looks at me, seemingly cold and detached.

Hope you didn't mess up my sock index this time.

I try not to look overly relieved, though the fear that had been about to choke me, the worry that he had relapsed, had me so tense that just the sight of that stupid coat was enough to make me want to bury my face in it. I had been within minutes of calling Mycroft.

"Alright?" I ask from my armchair, forcing myself to sit still.

He says nothing as he hangs up his coat and scarf. He retreats to his bedroom and I'm worried that I've seen the last of him for the night, but within a few moments he returns, wearing his night clothes and dressing gown.

He stands in the middle of the room, looking lost and impossibly young. He just stands. And looks. Scans the room.

So, yes, there are good ways and bad ways of waking up in the morning, results of which show throughout the day. Rolling out on the wrong side of the bed, out of tea, broken down car, lost house key.

But when living with Sherlock Holmes, there are good and bad days, in a completely different spectrum from how people normally view and come about them.

His mind is his tool, the one thing he relies upon. He considers himself superior, which he is in most ways, intellectually. It runs faster than I can comprehend, notices things that most people wouldn't even begin to take note of. He observes, he thinks, he runs off to his sodding Mind Palace. And most days, it's good. Usually he's fine, he can function, he acts as normal as can be expected of him.

But the bad days? Those are the most difficult times to watch him. His mind devours him, tortures him, flings him around in a tornado of thought and mercilessly drops him onto a bed of spikes. There isn't much to do about it, hardly any way to relieve it. Usually, he either lies on the sofa curled up, or locks himself in his room. Sometimes, if I'm sitting on the sofa myself, he'll curl up beside me with his head against my thigh. That doesn't happen often, but it seems to placate him in a way that nothing else does. It's flattering, in a horrible, I'm-quite-flattered-but-it's-not-worth-seeing-you- like-this kind of manner.

This is one of those shadowed evenings.

It's not crippling this time, as he's obviously been functioning quite well up to this point. He's able to move about, able to think. It's not his worse, but it is certainly not his best.

"Sherlock," I say quietly, to ground him. Bring him back to a small flat on Baker Street in London, with a flatmate (partner, companion, friend, best friend, lover[?]), body parts in the fridge, and a skull on the mantle.

He turns to me, finally. He looks agitated and restless in a way that could lead to a much worse night than it is right now.

So, I hold out a hand, and it takes him approximately two-and-a-half seconds before he steps forward and takes it, and I'm suddenly in possession of a lapful of consulting detective, face buried into the space between my shoulder and neck. He has our joined hands held between us, the fingers of his free one clutched into the sleeve of my jumper.

He starts whispering in the quiet room. He's apologizing, murmuring "I'm sorry" into my skin over and over again.

"It's okay, everything's fine." I place a hand over his shoulder, try to push him back, but he won't move. "Sherlock, we're fine."

"It was the pink nail varnish, the sodding pink nail varnish. How could I have missed it, how? It was right there, right there." All his words are muttered frantically, increasingly agitated and worrying.

I have no idea what he's on about, but he's spiraling downward quickly. "Sherlock, look at me. Look." I finally manage to push him back enough to look into his face. His eyes are wide, almost feral. "I don't know where you were today, I don't know what you did or what you thought about, but you have to stop this. Just stop this." The last sentence is harshly whispered, words I've said before to a Sherlock I thought was dead.

He blinks and the feral look is gone. Dropping my hand, he climbs out of my lap and retreats to his room with a silent click of the door.

I sigh and run a hand through my hair.

I'm rather astonished when he comes to me that night.

He doesn't make a sound as he climbs the stairs, just a silhouette in the doorway as he steps in. I haven't slept at all, and it's nearing on midnight. I can see the shadow of a cheekbone as the moonlight drifting in reflects off pale skin.

My tossing and turning has moved me to the far side of the bed, so he climbs on his hands and knees across it until he's hovering above me. His lips are soft but cold when they meet mine, and a touch to his hand reveals that they aren't the only part of his body that's cold. He's freezing.

With a hand in his hair, I ease him down on top of me, trying to share my body heat.

The kiss is slow and he lets me guide it, his body relaxing as he permits me to roll us over until I'm covering him. I pull away for a brief moment to tug the blankets just over his feet, trying to ignore the plaintive sound that slips out of his throat as I do so. Neither of us says a word as he slides cold hands under my shirt and onto my sides. I hiss in air at the contrast of skin temperatures, but don't stop him, instead bringing our mouths back together.

He still makes noises when he kisses, even if it's slow. I can hear and feel the soft snuffs of his breath as his hand tries to tangle into my short hair. His hand is so large it nearly cups the entire occipital and parietal parts of my skull, and even though it should be me offering comfort to him, it makes me feel cared for by this nutter in a rush of emotion that has me accidentally nipping at his lips.

He nearly whimpers.

"John," he says desperately, throwing his head back and exposing his throat. When I see his face, I nearly choke out a sound myself. His eyes are wide and shot full of desperate need, want, hope, fear; the distressed crease between his brows is shattering.

I cradle his head and brush my fingers over his face. "Do you trust me?"

He nods, hips beginning to shudder lightly up into mine. "Always."

I kiss his clavicle through his t-shirt. Memories from the morning he woke up after sleeping against me by the fire are running through my mind. I made his brain slow once, and I hope to God I can again.

Sliding lower in the bed, I grip the band of his pyjama bottoms, glancing up briefly to make sure this is okay. He's staring back at me this time, eyes wide and seeking in the dark.

Young, so young.

I clasp his hand with my own and tug off the bottoms with the other. He lifts his hips and helps with his free hand. His pants beneath are slightly tented, but I don't focus on that, instead moving back up and pressing my cheek against his, lips by his ear. Slipping my fingers beneath the hem of his shirt, I ask, "Are you going to be cold if I take this off?"

He shakes his head against mine, so I do.

And I'm reaching into the bedside table, and he's trembling. Quivering fingers tug at my own tee and once I've retrieved the item from the drawer, I let him pull it over my head. He keeps it clutched in his hand for a moment before letting it drop onto the bed beside us.

There are concerns, I know, from his years of using. But I was also the doctor to insist that tests be done to prove that he was clean after someone made some nasty accusations. As for myself, I've been checked recently, so I'm not worried.

And I want to feel him with nothing between.

He shivers as my fingers slip down to the band of his pants, and I bring our mouths together in a hopefully calming kiss. We're pressed together, his naked arousal to my clothed one, and his trembling is worse.

"Is this okay?" I ask, pressing my lips to a cheekbone and shifting over so I'm beside him instead of above.

"Yes, John,"he utters quietly, neck arching and breath catching as my fingers lightly dance down the expanse of his chest.

I give his cock a few strokes and he bites back a cry. Leaving the most blatant part of him, I reach behind and run my fingers lightly just there. His hips buck up slightly.

"Oh," he sighs as if he just discovered something, eyes drifting shut.

I pull that hand away, shucking my pants. The lube is cool on my fingers as I prepare them, careful and generous. I'm not going to hurt Sherlock.

Moving so I'm straddling his hips again, I urge his legs up and over my shoulders, leaving him open. He covers his face the same way he did last night, forearm over one eye, and his mouth falls slack as I ease just the tip of my index finger in. And then it stops.

"You have to relax," I sooth, rubbing my other hand against the outside of his thigh briefly. "Take a deep breath and let it out slowly."

He nods slightly, sucking in a deep gulp of air and then letting it out between parted lips. I tell him to do it again, and then once more, and on the third time my finger presses farther until it's all the way in.

"John!" he yelps, hips jerking against the intrusion.

I freeze and start to pull out. "It's okay, we don't have to do this, Sherlock."

"No!" He reaches down and grips my retreating wrist. "I'm fine. It just…it startled me."

I press a kiss to the side of his knee. "Okay."

He releases my hand and I continue, listening carefully to his little huffs of air to make sure he's truly okay.

I move carefully and gently until he has completely adjusted to the single digit before beginning to add a second. This time, he lets out a little muffled noise as I press in, but his hips move towards it instead of shying away. I scissor them slightly and his entire body shudders, a soft gasp escaping from the detective's usually slicing mouth. It's the first noise he's truly let out, all others cut off. When he reaches a fist towards his mouth, I stop him.

"No. I want to hear you." My hand has paused. "Please."

He watches me a moment before nodding and letting his hand fall away.

I smile gently, then, hooking a finger, I search for—

"John!" he all but screams, arching off the bed and letting out an assortment of noises. "Ohgodohgodohgod."

During his movement, my arousal had become almost painful. I press the tip of a third finger in, and it goes in much easier than the other two had. He's a leaking, trembling, nearly sobbing mess by now and I don't know whether to be proud or alarmed.

"John, please. Oh god, I'm ready!" he cries, voice broken and pleading as he moves down against my hand.

I move his legs from my shoulders and he hooks his ankles together behind my back as I reapply another generous amount of lube to my hand. It's a relief when I finally touch myself, letting a little of the pressure that had become nearly unbearable ebb away, but it's quickly not enough. I line myself up before grabbing Sherlock's trembling wrist.

"Sherlock, look at me," I say firmly. His eyes are open and pure and heartbreakingly honest. I gentle my voice. "This is different than a few fingers. It's going to be tight and a bit uncomfortable. If anything hurts, anything, you let me know right away, got it? I don't want to hurt you."

With a jerky nod, he holds his arms up and I let myself be pulled closer by the lanky man beneath me. His bones are small and fragile beneath my touch as I place a hand against his hip. And then…

And then I gently push in, just a little, just enough for Sherlock to choke out a near-sob and move back.

"I-I'm sorry," he murmurs, squeezing his eyes shut.

I brush my clean hand through his curls. "It's okay. I'll go slower."

I try again with the same result.

"It's so much," he's whispering. Our chests are pressed together and I have both hands on his face, stroking the dark skin beneath his eyes. "Everything is just," he waves an arm helplessly, "so much."

I'm getting the feeling that it's not just the physicality of it, it's the emotion and letting go, that he's struggling with, so I nod and brush my lips against his chin, nose, eyes, neck, collarbone, sternum. It distracts him enough to push in a little further, just to the point where I can angle differently and hit his prostate…

He cries out and his heels dig painfully into my back. His hips jerk up enough to push me farther in and then he's begging for More, John, please!

As for myself, I'm afraid my nerve endings are about to combust. The feeling of being inside him with nothing in between is incredible. He's tight, unbelievably tight, and I pause for a moment before easing in further, letting him adjust as I go. My arms are braced on either side of him, giving him enough space to lean up and press our mouths together. It's brief, completely uncoordinated, and honestly one of the best kisses of my entire existence, because I'm in Sherlock, and we're not just two people anymore. This isn't just a story about two flatmates that solve crimes together. It's so incredibly much more.

Sherlock drops back onto the bed, breathing erratically, clutching blindly at the sheets until he finds my arm and wraps one hand around my wrist.

I hit his prostate again and the reaction is overwhelming. His entire upper body lurches off of the bed and he grabs me, wrapping his arms around my ribcage and keeping us both vertical, forcing my knees further into the mattress.

"Sherlock, Sherlock hold on," I choke out, nearly overcome from the new angle.

He whimpers and presses his face into my hair.

Gripping his arse to keep him steady, I quickly pull my legs from under him and stretch them out so we don't fall over before tugging him further up and deepening our connection.

He groans. "John, John. Oh…"

"You're going to have to do this," I whisper harshly, throat constricted with arousal.

Hands pressing into his hipbones, I urge him into a steady rhythm of him lifting off and then back onto me. A nearly ceaseless low sound is vibrating out of Sherlock as he moves. I start moving with him, moving up to his down, and he cries out my name so desperately that it sends me hurtling to a point I had no idea I was so close to reaching.

I slam my lips against his and push him back to the bed as I come, releasing into him, and my mouth muffles Sherlock's scream as he comes too, hard and messy between us. My knees are bent, straddling his hips again and I hold him as his body shudders and comes down from its high. He comes so hard that he lets out several more little cries and a few whimpers before its done and he rests there, exhausted and boneless.

I kiss Sherlock softly for a long, silent moment before he pulls away.

He buries his face in my shoulder, pressing so firmly I am sure he'll crack his nose, and for the shortest of moments I believe he is fighting back tears.

"Sherlock?"

"It stopped again. Oh, god. John, you stopped it again." He lets out a breath on a dry sob and cradles my head in his arms as he wraps them around me.

I hold him as his ribcage shudders and shivers wrack his body, soothing him with fingertips against silken skin until he drifts off into a merciful sleep.

I open my eyes to be faced with the plain white expanse of the bed beside me. There's a blanket and sheets and the escaping duvet, but no curly-haired detective. The glaring numbers on the clock beside my head tell me it's barely three in the morning as I push back the thin sheet covering my legs and pull on my pyjama bottoms before shuffling out of my room and down the stairs.

The sitting room is bathed in silvery moonlight. It streaks across the floor and bounces off the shinier bits of furniture. There, sitting in my chair, rests Sherlock. He's the palest thing in the room, bare chest washed out by the bright light illuminating his skin. The way he's sitting is abnormal for the man. Normally, he'd have his fingers steepled lightly below his chin, leaning forwards slightly, spine completely straight.

Tonight, however, Sherlock Holmes is hunched over. His head hangs low, elbows braced against his pyjama-clad knees. He's found Mrs. Hudson's hidden cigarette stash. I can smell it in the air. The glowing end of the cigarette is dimming as it rests loosely in his graceful fingers.

I wonder briefly if he's fallen asleep like this, but his eyes are open, staring at the floor between his feet. And then he speaks.

"John." His voice is deep, quiet. Broken.

Slowly, I make my way further into the room. I notice the pack of cigarettes lying at his feet, contents spilled out as if it had been brutally torn apart by a desperate creature. My gaze slides back to Sherlock and I know this to be true.

"Sherlock," I whisper, unsure as to what needs doing.

Closer now, I can see the slight tremor in the detective's fingers.

"It won't stop."

I don't ask, and he doesn't tell. He doesn't have to.

His mind, constantly pulling apart the fabrics of life itself until it drives its owner over the edge. Addictions, crimes; they are temporary relief at best.

I move to the edge of the chair, one leg kneeling in the gap between Sherlock's back and the Union Jack pillow, while the other is still braced on the floor. Slipping my hand gently to his fingers, I take the cigarette and drop it in an empty mug nearby before returning my hand and curling my fingers into the gaps between his. He doesn't fight it, doesn't even move. Grazing a hand across his shoulders and onto the bicep furthest from me, I nestle my face in the space where his shoulder connects with his neck.

Placing a gentle kiss on the cool skin I say, "Come back to bed."

I want to help. He needs to know that.

His muscles are stiff and unyielding against my loose embrace. Despite his relaxed appearance, he is tense to his core.

"I can't. It's..."

I'm not sure whether he let the sentence drop because he was finished with it, or because I'd started gently rubbing his shoulders. As I feel his body slowly start to relax, I move my fingers up to his temples, brushing aside silky hair in the process, and gently push little swirling circles onto his skull. Finally, Sherlock's body seems to go limp as he leans back and collapses against my chest. He turns his face into my neck and breathes in.

He moves our connected hands onto my knee. "You're all-consuming silence."

I smile weakly and slide my arms around his torso. "Come to bed, Sherlock."

This time, he comes.

That ended up with way more angst than I meant it to have. Sorry for the heavy burden. XD

Remember, I'd love prompts!

Reviews appreciated. :) -C