I'M POSTING EARLY BECAUSE I JUST BOUGHT HAMLET TICKETS FOR 2015 AND I'M SO EXCITED!
Chapter 5 – Where Loyalties Lie
Notes: A little helpful information: The Reformists own London north of the Thames, the Traditionalists the part south of it.
xXx
"Moriarty?" Sherlock sounds as if he knows the name. "You're the one who made the cabbie kill those people."
"Yes, that was an exciting one, wouldn't you say?" His dark eyes land on John and turn cold. "Of course, our soldier had to come and ruin it. I had such great plans for Sherlock here. I've wanted to give you a glimpse, Sherlock, just a teensy glimpse of what I've got going on out there in the big bad world. I'm a specialist, you see… like you!"
John glances at Sherlock again, whose expression changes to something akin to amazement.
"Consulting criminal. Brilliant," he breathes out, but how he drew this conclusion, John cannot fathom.
Moriarty, meanwhile, is smiling proudly. "Isn't it? No one ever gets to me – and no one ever will."
"I would have."
"You would," Moriarty admits. "Now you're in my way."
"Thank you."
"Didn't mean it as a compliment."
"Yes, you did."
Moriarty shrugs. "Yeah, okay, I did. But the flirting's over, Sherlock… Daddy's had enough now!" he adds in a high-pitched sing-song voice that makes the hairs on John's neck stand up.
"Why?" John finally asks. "We're at war, what has Sherlock got to do with anything?"
Another malicious laugh. Moriarty's eyes are on him now. "You see, it's not only about Sherlock here, it's also about you. If I let you return to your comrades, they will rejoice, grab new hope, yadda yadda yadda, and the civil war is over before the fun has really started."
"That's a good thing!"
"A few nations disagree."
"Of course," Sherlock breathes out. "An unstable Empire brings a lot of people a lot of money."
"I knew you would understand," Moriarty smiles and John wants nothing more than to wipe it off his face.
"People will die!" he shouts instead.
"That's what people DO!" The last word rings loud in John's ears but Moriarty is already smiling again. "Like you will, very soon. Any last words?"
John's mind is reeling, has been for the past minutes, desperate to come up with an exit strategy, though he doesn't know how fast the sharp shooters will react if he moves.
He has lowered his gun but he still has it; he could shoot fast, but probably not fast enough. Then he sees it.
Sherlock is talking, yet the words don't register as John maps out their escape.
"Well, I'd better be off," Moriarty announces, bouncing on his heels.
"Not so fast," John says, raising his hands with the gun turned to the side. "I have one last question."
"Now or never, John."
He catches Sherlock's eyes and prays to whatever Gods are out there that the man catches on quickly.
Then he whirls around, aims, shoots, ducks, grabs the sleeve of Sherlock's coat and drags him to the floor with him as the gas from the fire extinguisher fogs the apartment in thick, white smoke, clouding everyone's view.
Together, they crawl towards the hallway, as quick as they can. They jump to their feet and hurry down the stairs, John constantly checking if Moriarty is following them.
The second they are out of the front door, John freezes. Another shooter, dressed in black, is aiming a gun at Sherlock and John has a split second to register that the man's trigger finger is moving and to make a decision.
He pushes Sherlock aside and takes a shot of his own, knows before his bullet makes contact that it hits the man's heart, then falls to the ground as pain erupts somewhere near his left ribs.
The shooter is down, John sees, but the pain tells him that the man had time to pull the trigger. He scrambles to his feet, sees Sherlock do the same after he fell due to John's push but he seems unharmed so they are off again, John running after Sherlock who turns two corners and enters a garden. At the back of the house is another shaft, already opened - John suspects Lestrade's involvement - and they are climbing again, John's hands steadier this time.
John hurries after Sherlock until the man stops inside what looks like a very old Tube tunnel.
He collapses against the wall, not really feeling the pain but fully aware of the blood soaking his shirt.
Sherlock is suddenly in front of him and crouches down to take a closer look.
"There's a lot of bleeding but it looks like it just grazed the skin."
"That's good," John breathes out heavily.
Sherlock pulls his scarf off and presses it against the wound, placing John's hand over it to hold it in place.
Sherlock rises, meeting his look with soft eyes, then averts his gaze again. "That, er… thing that you, er, that you did; that…" He clears his throat awkwardly. "That was… good."
John feels his throat constrict so he simply nods, chest tight. It occurs to him that he could easily have died when he pushed Sherlock aside, a possibility that his brain had surely registered but ignored completely when it decided to make his body jump and shoot.
He reaches out without thinking, dips Sherlock's chin up so that their eyes will meet and just looks because he doesn't know what to say, has no clue what one says when you realise you are ready to take a bullet for someone.
He does the only thing that makes sense – he kisses Sherlock, hoping it will express everything he is trying and failing to say. After a brief hesitation, Sherlock kisses back, eager and passionate, taking John's breath away.
Eventually they have to pull apart; they are not safe yet, still on the run. John smiles and nods, adrenaline thrumming through his veins, a sudden sense of euphoria making him dizzy, and they continue on their way.
xXx
Sherlock knows he should be watching their surroundings, listen for sounds of a possible threat, yet his eyes wander back to John sleeping next to him, snoring faintly, head resting on the bloodied scarf.
His brain scrambles for words to describe his feelings, but then feelings have never been his strong point. He can read other people's emotions, sure, but his own were always a mystery. It was easier when there was no one in his life he interacted with regularly except Mycroft and Lestrade and perhaps Molly from the morgue, but those relationships were always clear, never confusing.
Hell, John is confusing. The man is a paradox, full of contradictions. He is a soldier to the bone, a good one, too, can kill with swift efficiency but has learned to heal as well. He likes order, yet fights in a civil war that throws the country into turmoil. He kidnaps Sherlock, brother of the Reformists' worst enemy, then shows kindness.
His scent makes Sherlock feel safe, secure, it is addictive and Sherlock can't seem to get enough of it, recognised it the moment Anthea brought him in, couldn't stay away from him then.
Sherlock remembers how his heart did something strange when he saw John hanging from the wall, remembers something akin to panic overcome him when he heard Mycroft was planning to execute John, remembers the sweet kisses neither his nor John's biology had excused at the time, remembers how his heart stopped for a moment when he heard the shot and thought that John had died, killed by a bullet meant for him.
His hand, developing a mind of its own, winds its way into John's hair, stroking softly, and he hears the man hum in his sleep.
Sherlock smiles down at the sleeping figure and wishes he could curl up next to him, bury his face in the crook of the neck that accommodates him perfectly.
Physical proximity used to put Sherlock off, still does, but it is different with John – with John he is yearning for it.
xXx
He lets John sleep for a few hours before he wakes him and they continue on their way. Sherlock can see their progression in his mind, knows which turns to take and when, where the soldiers probably are, where they could be.
"How did you end up at Mycroft's?" John asks out of the blue. "Lestrade told me you came to him first."
"I returned to my flat shortly after. I wanted to grab a few things but my brother was already waiting. I miscalculated."
"How did they treat you?" Sherlock can hear the unvoiced questions in the inflection, can imagine John's body language even without turning around.
"Fine. I had to work for Mycroft constantly. It was tedious."
"They didn't hurt you?"
Sherlock shakes his head. He knows that some wanted to, but Mycroft still believes in treating slaves with respect.
Respect. Slaves. That bloody collar.
Sherlock's hand feels his neck, checking that it is really gone even though he knows it is.
They encounter a patrol, only two men but proof that they are getting closer to the unofficial border.
John takes them out efficiently, then searches their bodies and appropriates the ammunition while Sherlock retrieves their radios, which pays off soon. They manage do dodge two more patrols before their luck runs out.
They turn a corner and stumble over two soldiers taking a break who scramble to their feet the second they are in sight. It comes down to hand-to-hand combat and both John and Sherlock survive with minimal bruising while they leave the men behind, one bleeding out from his own knife, one with his neck broken by John's bare hands.
xXx
John guesses it is late afternoon when they finally cross underneath the Thames, having circled wide to avoid the strongest patrols. Sherlock found a set of deserted tunnels in the end and is sure that they will be able to walk on undisturbed.
A few hours later, John's knees buckle and he crashes to the floor.
"I vote for a break," he pants, aware that Sherlock is already on the floor next to him helping him up.
"Let's look for a dark corner where we're hidden from view."
They settle deep in the shadows, Sherlock positioning himself in a way that he can play lookout again, but John is having none of that.
"I'm a light sleeper, come on, I will hear anyone who comes near us." He pulls Sherlock down, pleased when he complies.
"If they cut our throats, it's all on you," he snaps but there is no real bite behind it. The way he snuggles up against John's chest also doesn't help his case.
"Sherlock Holmes, cuddler. Who'd have deduced that." Sherlock freezes, but John squeezes him with the arm around his back. "I like it."
"Oh," Sherlock comments, voice soft. He nestles his head in the crook of John's neck, a perfect fit, and John allows the spicy-sweet scent to fill his lungs.
They don't manage more than a few hours but it is enough for John to regain some of his strength.
xXx
Their pace has been slowing down, gradually but it has, and it is his fault entirely, John knows it. The bleeding has stopped but the wound still hurts, and he tires quickly now. They have no more food left so they press on.
Sherlock's strides have become shorter, John notices, and he is grateful for it because he doesn't have to hurry so much to keep up.
John told Sherlock everything about where the Reformists have put up camp, where they defended their part of the city and he trusts Sherlock's skills to guide them somewhere they can make contact.
They have gone west, crossed the Thames somewhere near Vauxhall and are now heading further northwest. If they were above ground level, John would probably recognise where they are but in the darkness of the Tube tunnels, it is anyone's guess.
"There's a door coming up on our left," Sherlock says suddenly. "It leads to the District Line."
"Which station?"
"Earl's Court," Sherlock answers without missing a beat.
"You are brilliant." It escapes John before he can stop the words and Sherlock turns toward him. He almost looks incredulous, as if no one had ever said these words to him.
"Of course I am." Sherlock aims for arrogance but John can hear the slight hint of insecurity, can see it in those blue eyes that are boring into his as though looking for the answers to the universe.
"You truly are."
They continue looking at each other until John realises they have a decision to make, then belatedly catches up with the fact that Sherlock left the decision up to him.
He clears his throat.
"We should take it, go through the door. We have patrols there."
Sherlock nods, turns away and walks on.
xXx
John hears footsteps before he sees the men they belong to. His left arm stretches out to stop Sherlock, who has fallen into step beside him rather than in front of him ever since they passed through the door.
He can feel Sherlock's pulse quicken underneath the thin fabric of the shirt.
The noises indicate a patrol of four, it is their designated number of men per team, so John is fairly certain they are dealing with his men.
"Who's there?" he calls out and the footsteps still around the corner.
"The future," a voice John recognises shouts back. He feels elation course through his body when he realises who they've run into. "Who's there?"
"A supporter of the Triumvirate," he calls back instead of following protocol, hoping that Lubitsch would get the joke.
Silence. Then, "What's your name?"
"Captain John Watson, First Officer of the Reformists."
"Prove it," Lubitsch commands and John can't help the proud smile. He taught his men well, it would seem.
Sherlock next to him is following the exchange with faint interest.
"The last time we had time to have a beer, you told me about your crush on one of the nurses - Emily, I think -, waxing poetry about her eyes and hair. Shall I go on? Because you told me a lot more embarrassing things that evening."
He glances over at Sherlock, who – John can hardly believe his eyes – is laughing quietly.
"John? Blimey… You can come around, sir, we won't shoot you."
With a jerk of his head he indicates to Sherlock to follow as he approaches the corner of the Tube tunnel.
"I'm on my way, but I'm not alone. Don't shoot."
He doesn't let go of his gun but has his arms raised at shoulder height, gun pointed outward, as he steps into his men's field of vision. It truly is Lubitsch, flanked by three men in uniform, weapons drawn, but John can see they are not ready to shoot.
"Bloody hell, it's really you!" Lubitsch lowers his gun and smiles radiantly, as though seeing John is the best thing that has happened to him all day, and he indicates the others to put their weapons away.
John pushes his Sig in his waistband when Lubitsch's eyes catch sight of the man behind him.
"Is that Sherlock Holmes?" His fingers tighten around his gun but John raises his hand and draws himself up to his full height.
"Yes. He is an ally. Don't shoot. That's an order."
Lubitsch obeys without hesitation. If Sherlock were capable of looking impressed, this would be it, John muses as he smirks at the man.
When they have reached the soldiers, Lubitsch sees the blood on John's shirt, dry by now but still visible for what it is.
"You're hurt, sir."
"Just a scratch, it's stopped bleeding. I could do with something to eat, though. We both could."
"Of course, sir. Follow us, there's a base of operations in South Kensington Station, it's not far."
They fall into step with the soldiers and for the first time in a week, John allows his body to relax properly. A glance to his side tells him that worry is still etched in the lines of Sherlock's body and John can empathise – these were the very men that held him prisoner for a week.
"What's our status?" John asks, eager to learn news. It is good news, as it turns out. They still haven't gained an inch of London, but more supporters keep joining them every day, either from the surrounding area or from across the river. They are strong in numbers and with Sherlock's knowledge of his brother's strategies on their side, John feels they might even win this war soon.
If Sherlock cooperates, that is.
"Sir, what happened to you? We heard nothing, no ransom demand, not even a threat." It is one of the soldiers; John is sure he has seen him before but he can't recall his name.
He sighs and wonders how often he will have to tell the story of his capture during the next hours. "They took me to a sort of hotel, tortured me for information. When they finally realised I wasn't going to talk, they decided to kill me instead."
"Is that when you escaped, sir?"
"Yes. Sherlock broke me out. I couldn't have done it without him."
The soldier stares quietly, eyes darting from John to Sherlock, whose stoic expression doesn't change except for his eyes: there is warmth in them when they meet John's.
"Oh, thank you for bringing him back to us, Mr Holmes!" the man says with a blinding smile.
Sherlock opens his mouth, trying to find the appropriate answer.
"Just say you're welcome already," John chuckles and gives Sherlock a playful shove with his shoulder.
"Er, thank you," he mutters, but the soldier seems happy enough about it.
xXx
South Kensington Station welcomes John like a hero, cheering when they see him, expressing their happiness that he is alive, firing questions at him while at the same time handing them a sandwich each.
Lubitsch has disappeared into the communication room to inform their HQ at Charing Cross about John's return and reappears with a car and a patrol at hand that will take John and Sherlock to the Triumvirate.
"I bet they're dying to hear your story," Lubitsch says as he sends them on their way. He is in charge of the base, he explained, and has to stay with his troops.
It feels like a cab ride, with Sherlock and him sitting in the back, a soldier in the front driving an appropriated police car, and a heavily-armed van right behind them. It is nice to catch a glimpse of the London above the tunnels for a change.
"You've been awfully quiet," John says to break the silence, turning towards the man on his left.
"I didn't have anything to say."
"Bollocks, you always have something to say."
"I wasn't sure the observation that Officer Lubitsch has been sleeping with that nurse Emily for the past few weeks would sit well with him in the presence of his subordinates."
A laugh escapes John.
"No, you're right. Anything else I should know?"
"Only, if you care for trivialities like which soldier ate what for breakfast, who keeps feeding stray cats and dogs, who has a hidden crush on one of his fellow officers or who has a severe case of OCD. Other than that, no."
John bursts into laughter and it feels perfect, freeing in a way because he hasn't laughed like that in a long time. "Brilliant, absolutely brilliant," he manages. "But no, not that important."
"I gathered as much." The tone is flat but John can see the corners of Sherlock's lips curling upward.
"Listen, Sherlock," John begins, now that they are alone and he doesn't know how long it might last. "I have been thinking. About what you are going to do when we reach HQ. Do you think you can help us? Devise strategies, come up with a plan? I'm sure you know a lot about Mycroft's movements and his weaknesses. You could help us win this war pretty soon, avoid a lot of bloodshed."
Sherlock's eyes are on him now, boring into his in that particular way that makes John feel like he is being x-rayed.
"And why would I do that?"
"I don't know, because it would save a lot of people?" Sherlock looks unimpressed and with a jolt, John realises he is approaching the topic all wrong. This is Sherlock Holmes he is talking to. "Or consider it a puzzle. A challenge. Finding a way to undermine the Traditionalists, prove to everyone how clever you are. How about that?"
He hit a nerve with that, he can see in in the way Sherlock's spine straightens.
"You can show your brother what you're capable of, too."
Sherlock is smiling now, and John knows he has won.
"That sounds interesting. But I have one condition."
"Anything."
Anything I can convince Adler, Bhabha, and Thoreau of, that is, John adds in his mind.
"Mycroft stays alive."
"Oh, of course, he's your brother."
"That has nothing to do with it," Sherlock snaps immediately and from the tone, John knows he's sincere.
"Then why?"
"His death would upset Mummy."
John stops the laugh halfway up his throat and reins in his expression.
"Alright. Deal."
He knows it will be a lot to ask for but at least he can count Bhabha on his side.
xXx
As soon as they reach their new HQ – a hotel at Charing Cross Station since Westminster is too close to enemy lines and the buildings have been bombed – John and Sherlock are led to the council chambers where the Triumvirate awaits.
John enters first after trying to smile encouragingly at Sherlock which he is pretty sure he failed to do. Bhabha is in front of him before he realises it, pulling him into a tight hug.
"John, we were so worried!"
It has been a while since John last saw the omega, two or three weeks before his abduction, and his eyes widen as they take in Homi Bhabha's shape. He looks ragged, still clad in a suit but that and the dark circles under his eyes don't distract from the fact that he has lost a lot of weight recently.
"Jesus, sir, are you okay?"
"Don't worry about me, John, it comes with leading a civil war. You're the one who's been captured."
"We're glad to have you back, Captain," Marc addresses John as he rises from where he has been sitting.
Irene Adler's eyes, meanwhile, land upon Sherlock, who lets his eyes slide casually up and down her body. John would love to hear his thoughts on the woman.
"Lubitsch told us you were bringing him." Her voice is cold; she is not happy.
"He saved my life," is all John says but before Irene can argue, Bhabha gestures to the table.
"Please, let's sit, I'm sure you two must be thirsty."
John's eyes fall on the bottles of water – and is that tea? – so he obeys immediately. Sherlock takes the seat next to him and accepts the water as well as the cup John passes him.
Marc is waiting, even John can see that, so he drinks quickly and turns to the leader, raising his brows expectantly.
"I think we need to hear the full story." Marc crosses his arms in front of his chest and even though John feels like being interrogated with part off the Triumvirate looming over him – save for Bhabha, who took a seat as well – he begins.
He is almost entirely truthful, yet if he doesn't know what it is that Sherlock and he share, and no one else needs to hear about it.
"And you expect us to simply accept Sherlock Holmes as one of us now?"
John meets Marc's eyes with a steady look and rises to his feet.
"Yes, I expect you to welcome him without any hard feelings."
"Are you sure he isn't working for his brother, that he -" Irene starts but there is no way John is going to let her finish that train of thought.
"No, Irene. His own brother basically abducted him when he returned to his flat, his own brother collared him. And I'm not your First Officer because I'm a bad judge of character. If I say he is trustworthy then you will believe me." He is bordering on angry now, hot emotions bubbling to the surface because they are accusing Sherlock of – the mere thought is unimaginable.
Bhabha sighs that teacher-like sigh of his, like they are all just unruly children.
"I take it you have a plan, Captain?"
John lets his smile become more of a smirk when he turns to Mark and Irene.
"Yes. I heard from Lubitsch that we are stronger in numbers than ever. Let's use that to our advantage. Sherlock will help us come up with a strategy to take on the Traditionalists." He can see Irene opening her mouth to object, but at his raised hand she bites her tongue. "Sherlock knows the layout of the Tube tunnels better than any map, he even knows those out of service. He knows how his brother operates and the make-up of what's left of the Empire. With his help, we will win this war with a minimal amount of casualties. His only condition is that we keep Mycroft alive, but I doubt that will be a problem." He eyes the Triumvirate briefly before concluding, "Do we have an understanding?"
"Let that tyrant live?" Marc bellows. "Are you out of your mind? He's behind most of the pro-slavery legislation, he is the Empire!"
"He'll be flattered to hear that," Sherlock quips and everyone turns to him. Sherlock snorts derisively before he, too, stands up.
"Please. Mycroft standing trial and sentenced to a life in prison is a much better example for your followers. Aren't you advocating civil rights and democracy? It always slips my mind," he adds sardonically, pacing the room, and if there weren't so much at stake, John would laugh.
"Besides, only because you like the war so much, Mr Thoreau, doesn't mean you have to draw it out if it needn't be prolonged. As for you, Miss Adler," Sherlock turns on his heels and focuses on Irene, radiating with Alpha hormones, "it's sad to see that one so devoted to the cause keeps reverting to Alpha physiology to intimidate the only omega in your group. I'm glad to see it's not working." He smirks at Bhabha, who – if he hadn't been on board with John's plan to begin with – would probably have reconsidered now.
"As to your questions: No, I'm not working for my brother, he is a power-hungry Alpha with a superiority complex to rival that of yours, Thoreau. I, on the other hand, don't care much for politics, yet I thrive on the prospect of proving to Mycroft that I am, in fact, of superior intellect than he is despite my biological disadvantages. I assure you, lady and gentlemen, I am the world's best consulting detective and without my help, you will lose hundreds of soldiers. Thousands will suffer while Mycroft tries to regain his footing and in the end, you might even lose. Make your choice."
John has to lock his jaw to prevent it from dropping open. He remembers the times Sherlock told him about his cases; he was equally reverent then, yet seeing him talking Thoreau and Adler against the wall of the council chamber is another thing entirely.
John closes the distance and positions himself clearly on Sherlock's side. A second later, Bhabha crosses the space between them and joins as well.
Marc holds his gaze for a long moment. John can see the wheels in his mind turning, assessing the risks of taking Sherlock's deal against refusing it, until he nods in grim determination like a man walking to his execution.
They all turn to Irene, who huffs and throws her hands up in defeat.
"Fine. But I'm keeping a close eye on you!" She points and Sherlock, who indulges her and smiles back.
xXx
If John was hoping for a comfortable bed, he finds himself out of luck.
They immediately start planning, Sherlock surprising everyone except for John when he presents them with whole strategies, altering them when he learns about their equipment.
By the time their plan stands it is late but John is full of adrenaline at the promise of swift action.
"Your room is still intact," Bhabha tells him when they conclude their meeting.
"Thank you. I will find something suitable for Sherlock."
It is only when they are falling into step in the hallway that John glances at Sherlock and they both laugh.
"I suppose you figured it out?" John asks, still chuckling.
"If you're referring to your distraction while your true intent was to offer me a place in your bed, then yes."
"Good."
John can't help smiling, not even when they reach his room. Sherlock scans it, taking in the documents on the desk, the bed, still made impeccably from before John's abduction, the laptop on the night table.
"I could do with a shower," John says with an inviting look at Sherlock.
There are a few horrible seconds when he is in the bathroom and the door doesn't open again behind him, but then there is Sherlock, coat left behind in the room, his hands already at the buttons of his shirt. John can see how dirty it is in the bright light from the bathroom lamp.
"Are you sure that your wound doesn't need tending?"
John's stomach flips when he detects a hint of genuine concern in Sherlock's voice.
"It's fine. I'm a doctor, don't worry."
He folds his shirt on the stool next to the sink, hands moving on to his belt. They are both naked quickly and John turns the shower on.
After all the time in the sewers and the Tube tunnels, clean water is a relief and John soaps his body with relish.
"Turn around," John murmurs, soap in hand. Sherlock is hesitant but complies, then relaxes under John's hands when he feels the soap coating his back. John has to reach up a little for the shoulders, moves onto Sherlock's arms, then returns to the shoulder blades, soap firm in his right while the left hand traces its movements.
He dares to touch lower, lets it linger briefly on Sherlock's lower back before he moves the soap over the swell of Sherlock's firm buttocks, half an eye on Sherlock's reflexion in the glass of the shower.
As his hand ghosts over pale skin, Sherlock's eyes flutter closed and John knows he is allowed to continue. He puts the soap back and lays both hands on the tense muscles, massaging firmly but gently until Sherlock melts underneath his hands.
John places a kiss on Sherlock's shoulder as he picks up the soap again, bringing his arms around the lean body in front of him, soaping his chest and stomach. The omega leans back into him and John catches a hint of arousal in the air, though with the smell of soap he cannot say whether it is from him or Sherlock.
John feels his blood rush into his groin when he puts the soap back and returns his attention to Sherlock's front, running his hands over his chest, caressing his sides, thumbing his hip bones.
The smell is stronger now, coming from both of them, and John lets the spicy-sweet musk fill his nose as he places another kiss right on the pulse point of Sherlock's neck.
Sherlock hums and his fingertips start caressing John's forearms that are still tracing invisible patterns on Sherlock's chest.
It is lazy, luxurious even, whatever "it" is, John muses and brushes his fingers over Sherlock's hip bones once more.
Sherlock shifts in front of him, but not out of the embrace. Instead he pushes his lower body back until his buttocks make contact with John's cock and John can't help the moan that escapes him.
Sherlock turns his head, raises a hand to John's head and manoeuvres him until their lips meet with an intensity that has John's pulse racing.
"Take me, John," Sherlock whispers against his lips, eyes half-closed and dark, pupils blown with desire.
John's right hand travels to Sherlock's back, traces the spine until his fingers slip between Sherlock's cheeks and he can feel the slick, slips two fingers inside easily and Sherlock presses back against them, burying them deep inside. John crooks the fingers and explores, his memory guiding him until he feels it, presses against it until Sherlock shouts from the pleasure of it. John withdraws the fingers to add a third when he sees Sherlock bowing his head and his breath hitches at the sight of such a submissive pose.
He has barely entered Sherlock again when the omega whines and pushes back.
"I'm ready, John, come on!"
"So pushy," John chides and grabs Sherlock's cock, head probably wet with precome already but he can't tell under the spray of water. John's fist closes tight around the pulsing flesh, his strokes are quick and Sherlock is panting, head resting on John's shoulder. His left hand returns to tease Sherlock's hole, slipping in, stretching until Sherlock has to brace himself against the glass of the shower because he is shuddering from the sensations.
"I need you to say it," John rasps in his ear, pressing his chest against Sherlock's back, rubbing his cock against Sherlock's arse, which rips a guttural groan from the man.
"Damn it, John," he pants, but it is not what John wants to hear so he merely pushes forward between Sherlock's thighs until he is sure the omega can feel the head of his cock against his balls.
Sherlock's moan sounds almost annoyed, yet his voice is laced with need when he finally speaks.
"Please, John."
"Good," he answers and tongues Sherlock's pulse point again while one of his hands part his cheeks and he pushes inside with a quick thrust.
He grips Sherlock's hips to steady himself as he sets a strong rhythm, adjusts the angle and yes, that's it, Sherlock is moaning now, a constant stream of noises John soaks up just like the smell that fills the room now. The tight heat around his cock is pure bliss, water running down their bodies, and he can't even feel the wound in his side anymore, only the jolts of pleasure that travel through his body and make him shiver.
He reaches around with one hand and strokes Sherlock's erection, almost painfully hard in his grip. Three, four, five movements of his hand and he can feel Sherlock tense for a moment before he arches his back and spills, John's name on his lips.
Hearing Sherlock shout his name in such pleasure is his undoing; he slams in and can feel his knot swelling. Sherlock whimpers at the stretch but he rocks back against John and it is almost too good, too much pleasure and he is coming hot inside Sherlock and just manages to pull out before he would have locked them together in this position.
Sherlock is the one who turns off the water and they dry each other off. John lends Sherlock clothes to sleep in; they are too big but too short at the same time, yet seeing Sherlock in his worn military pyjamas appeals to the Alpha in him enough to make his knot throb at the sight.
They curl into each other automatically, it is so natural how Sherlock fits into his side, head on his chest and an arm wrapped across his torso.
They lie there for a moment, basking in each other's presence.
"John?"
He hums and opens his eyes to find Sherlock looking up at him, eyes clear and open in a way John has never seen them before. Sherlock almost looks vulnerable like this, he muses.
"I may have manipulated the plan a little." John narrows his eyes but nothing in Sherlock's demeanour speaks of ill intentions. "In that we will start the offensive in a week's time and not sooner. I believe I'm going into heat shortly."
"Oh." There is a lump in his throat all of a sudden, a slight panic that this is Sherlock telling him that he doesn't want to spend the cycle with John but he pushes the feeling down. "Do you, I mean, if you want… Do you want me to be there for you?" he finally manages and meets the blue eyes.
"Make a deduction," Sherlock says, an almost evil smirk playing around his lips.
John chuckles nervously. "Well, you came for me during the night while I was a prisoner. You," his voice falters a little and he wills it to sound firm and secure with moderate success, "you kissed me. You broke me out." Another nervous chuckle. "You cuddled with me. And now… My deduction is that you want me to help you through your next heat. Am I correct?" he finishes, daring a glance at the detective.
"I want you for a lot more than that, John," Sherlock breathes out, warm air ghosting over John's chest. "But yes, your deduction is accurate."
The smile forms with sudden intensity and Sherlock returns it. It is the first time that Sherlock has really smiled, freely and with all his face and body and it amazes John more than anything else.
He meets Sherlock's lips in a kiss. It is chaste in contrast to what they have done that night, but it feels more intimate than anything John has ever experienced.
"I want you for a lot more, too, Sherlock," John murmurs.
He can still feel the smile on Sherlock's lips against his chest when he falls asleep.
xXx
End Notes: Got a bit fluffy there, in the end... couldn't help it!
It really makes me sad that I only have the epilogue left, I would have loved to post a few more chapters but the story is almost told, I'm afraid... I hope you enjoyed the resolution!
PS: Yes, there is a sequel :) And 8 chapters of it have already been written; so I will just continue posting them in this story for easier access.