I remember my first return to Baker St. It wasn't really my home, not yet. But with Myrcroft's assumption that it was still buzzing around me, I had to admit even to myself that I didn't feel like a stranger crossing that threshold.
Seeing Sherlock on the couch in an obvious state of semi-euphoria was-distracting-to say the least. His dilated eyes, the talk about breathing. He thought breathing was boring then. I know that he does not hold that same belief anymore.
I tottered in the doorway, half-way in and half-way out. I kept my right hand and the crutch behind me. I was already more than willing to throw the damn thing away, although I hadn't found the right moment yet. I wasn't completely distracted from my earlier state of mind. But I was half-way into my new life at this point.
For I see now that Mycroft was more than right. They both were. I did miss the action of war. And the action of the underbelly of London was a balm to my troubled mind. I don't consider myself to be a violent person. I know how to defend myself and won't hesitate to do so. But I don't engage in violence for sport or pleasure.
Well, not for the pleasure of beating someone up anyway.
I have a temper. I know that. And that's fine. I have ways to deal with it. As troubled as my mind and body were by my injury and subsequent discharge from the army, my soul was intact. I know that I am a good man. I am a doctor. I have done more good in this life than bad.
When I took that final step into the sitting room-our sitting room-in Baker Street, I was all in. No looking back.
Handing Sherlock my phone, his long fingers brushed against mine. I had to turn and walk away from him to hide my reaction. Then I watched him basically cradle my phone between those lean hands and under his chin, becoming a part of his pose on the sofa.
When Sherlock first detailed his Mind Palace to me, I had to stop myself from laughing. He was very serious about it and very peeved with my initial reaction. But the idea that he 'lived' in a palace in his mind seemed so ludicrous to a man like me.
My life was visceral. A surgeon. A soldier. I am by no means unintelligent or uneducated (no matter your opinion, Sherlock), but I like food and sex and adrenaline. Sherlock likes adrenaline too. He forgets that even though it originates in the brain, it affects the body most profoundly too.
Seeing him lying there with his 'three-patch problem' while I checked the street outside for evidence of someone else following me, I was struck by the frankly ludicrous turn my night, and my life, had taken. I wonder if Stamford had foreseen half of this.
There's a thought. What had led him to think that Sherlock and I would make good flatmates anyway? Was he just interested in keeping me in London when I couldn't afford it? Maybe he thought the coincidence too delicious.
Why was Stamford so self-conscious about his weight anyway?
I faltered a bit when I realized Sherlock called me all the way across town to send a text for him. Although sending a text to a murderer was more exciting than your usual. Then he started calling me an idiot.
It was right on the tip of my tongue to tell him to go to hell and stalk down those stairs and back to my life. My life consisting of a single cell containing no personal possessions beyond my clothing, my laptop, and my service piece. My life of quiet and solitude.
Stalled by these thoughts, I looked around the Baker Street flat one more time and realized that I liked the clutter. It felt cozy. Granted, rotting food on plates and empty tea cups everywhere wasn't as appealing as the books and papers and assorted artifacts of Sherlock's Work. But I could probably deal with that. I had dealt with the desert.
I even liked the skull. He was very Gothic.
I really liked Mrs. Hudson. She was a definite plus to living here. Like a mum but better.
And then we were off again. Thank god. I was starving.
After Sherlock finished his sandwich and grumbling, he actually picked up the empty plate in one hand, his laptop in the other, and walked to the kitchen. I heard the plate hit what was probably the sink.
"You washing up then?" I called to him and grinned for all I was worth.
"John," came his velvet voice, right behind my chair. God, he was bloody fast! I started a little and blushed at being caught making fun of him.
Leaning forward, Sherlock brought his laptop over my head and into my lap, depositing it there and then placing his hands on either armrest to hold his weight steady.
"Do you see?" he asked me.
"Uh, see?" I answered with finesse.
An exasperated huff was all I got before the deluge of information hit my shoulder.
"The killer was careful, John, but not careful enough. He couldn't control the weather, you see. Oh, no, he thought he could. Thought he had it planned out to the last second. Oh, but he didn't see this coming. No sir."
Sherlock leaned back from my chair, and I heard him cross his arms. I didn't have to see him to know that he had a self-satisfied smirk on his mouth. Whatever. That sort of thing didn't bother me anymore.
"He didn't see the weather coming? Who can?" I asked naively. Sometimes I just couldn't resist.
"Oh! John!" he exclaimed and dropped his hands to his thighs-I could hear them slap down. I waited for the verbal abuse.
But it never came.
What did happen was a sweet touch of his bow lips to the back of my freshly shaved neck. The barest swipe of skin on skin and then the warm breath exhaled on my skin. I felt the prickles rise.
"Are you enjoying yourself?" he asked me with his most sultry voice. I let out the breath that had caught in my throat at his initial touch.
"Yes," I responded. "I am now." My head bowed just a bit in my simultaneous relaxation and arousal.
"No, I think you were enjoying yourself before now," he rejoined. His hands came to rest on top of my shoulders, lightly.
"Mmmmm," I agreed with him. It was true.
It didn't take me long into our relationship to figure out that as much as Sherlock wanted to think he was just a computer hard drive with arms and legs, there was more to him. He had a complete body, a heart, and a cock. Just like any man.
But the route to the other parts always started in his brain. The brain is the biggest sex organ of any person, male or female.
And Sherlock's over-developed organ was so very sensitive and responsive. I loved stroking it with my words.
"Aren't you going to tell me I'm an idiot, Sherlock?" I asked him, cocking my head a little to the side to catch his curls in my peripheral vision. He had angled his head to rub his nose along the vertebrae in my neck, knowing how it sent shivers down my spine.
"You, John Watson," he rumbled against my skin. "Are my idiot."
I smiled and looked at the laptop still sitting in my lap. I gently lifted it and myself up and out of the chair, setting it in its usual place on Sherlock's desk. When I turned around, I took in the sight of my detective still bent over my chair.
"I'm not finished with you yet," he informed me.
I crossed my arms and planted my feet.
"Oh, yeah?" I challenged.
He was momentarily surprised into silence.
"Well, perhaps I'm not finished with you, love," I was quick to assure him. "In fact, my brilliant man, I'm just getting started."
I had let my voice be colored by my arousal this time just to see the shivers run through him.
"I like to watch you from a distance, a small distance, to see how your mind directs those capable hands, those captivating eyes, my favorite lips. I like to see what you look like as my words sink into you," I was laying it on thick tonight. But I felt that we needed it.
This case had been eating at Sherlock-hence his lack of eating. He looked beautiful and ethereal as always, but he also looked strung out a bit. Tired. And too thin. It made my caretaking instincts go into overdrive when I saw him like that. But since he had just eaten, I figured the next step was to get him into bed.
Then he could surrender to sleep.
You know, after. He could use a little un-boring breathing.