Chapter 11: John Wants Boundaries

John wakes up slowly in the morning. The light filtering through the crack in the curtains is still gray with dawn, and traffic is just starting to groan to life out on Baker St. He lies peacefully for a long time, drowsy and content, brain not yet engaged. No worries, no fears. No past. No future.

He inhales Sherlock: morgue and sweat and crisp cotton. Each deep, unhurried breath is synchronized, he notes absently, with the cadence of Sherlock's own. He is poured over Sherlock's left side, ear slightly numb from the pressure of being pillowed on Sherlock's chest, skin hot and tacky between them. He feels the measured percussion of his heart, steady and torpid, at rest.

His leg is thrown over Sherlock's, worked into the space between his thighs and knees, hips canted towards Sherlock. He can feel the prickle of foreign hair on his calves. Sherlock's arm is curled possessively around him, circling under his neck and wrapping around his ribs. The bandaged hand is scratchy, fingers tucked between their bodies, just brushing his nipple. John's left arm is draped across Sherlock, his hand hooked around a sharp hip, thumb resting in the hollow below the bone. The skin here is smooth and taut, and John strokes his thumb in lazy circles, matching the rhythm of the heartbeat under his cheek. He listens vaguely to the growing drone of vitality outside.

Sherlock is lax in sleep, contrasting the growing tension in John. John's cock is pressed into Sherlock's hip, and is very happy about that. John now feels pressured and heavy, more motivated, driven by a burgeoning desire to seek friction. His erection, pleasant and flushed, gently murmurs directives of satiation, and John follows them compliantly.

He tightens his leg around Sherlock's thigh, pressing his erection more firmly, in a languid pulse, to the bony flare of hip against his groin. Indolent, he rubs, and his hand begins to tighten on Sherlock's hip, thumb dragging downward to the crease of his groin. Sherlock stirs underneath him, purrs a prelude to animation, and turns his head to nuzzle against John's hair. He sighs, and shifts, and blunders with his free hand until it tangles with John's.

"Mmm," he grumbles, voice rough with sleep. "My John." He is still not awake and when John goes still, he subsides, sinking again into slumber.

John has frozen. Perhaps it is hearing his name combined with a possessive that has called him into himself. His brain comes back online. And realization comes spilling over him like cold water: he is Captain John Watson, M.D., who has had an utterly strange week, and he is humping the man sleeping next to him.

The man.

Sleeping next to him.

There are so many jagged things wrong with this scenario that John would have staggered if he hadn't been already prone. He is snuggling with a man, basically a stranger, and preparing to initiate some form of morning sex. Now, John Watson isn't gay, he knows that very well. Also, John Watson doesn't shag strangers without some degree of forethought and planning.

The languorous heat of his blood goes cold, and John slowly. slowly! unwinds himself from Sherlock, fighting the urge to throw himself backwards off the bed in shocked repulsion. He eases away, leaving Sherlock sleeping, and heads for the shower, where he has a wank while absolutely refusing to dwell on the smooth skin and lanky body he'd woken up with.

He sits sullenly in his chair, staring vacantly out of the window, clutching the hot mug of tea, and tries not to figure out his life. It's too complex and bizarre. It has had two beginnings and one ending so far, and he doesn't know how to cope with that. It's as if split personalities are being externally imposed on him and none quite fit. Childhood!John is too limited, too immature. John from University is callow, although happy, and knows very little of the darkness in the world, despite a rocky and occasionally unpleasant home life. John of the war saw little other than darkness: blood, fear and the ugliness of human nature. Granted, there were moments of laughter, and bravery and beautiful sacrifice, too, but the balance was grim, and he can feel that built into his nerves and muscles and skin. Hatchling!John is vibrant, learning, eager and trusting. The naiveté of hatchling!John terrifies him, given his new (old) history.

And he cannot tell if his fascination with Sherlock is a weird biological hangover from hatching (imprinting, for god's sake!), or genuinely felt. In the beginning (last week!)when everything was new, following Sherlock was as irresistible as if John were actually being tugged behind on a leash. The invisible bond between them is strong, and even now John finds he has to fight it. He would have rushed out of the flat an hour ago, just to wander and calm himself down, if he could have thwarted the pull between them. He has to fight the desire to be two steps behind and one to the left of his... what? Flatmate? Friend? Fight the desire to observe Sherlock's every action and learn. Resist the feeling of safety and beguilement. He feels as if Sherlock is the only three-dimensional, the only colorful object in any surrounding. That can't be normal. It has to be the result of this whole weird egg-thing fucking with him. Even if it makes the world feel a little grayer in exchange, John wishes he could escape it. John feels manipulated, unstable, confused and angry.

And none of these musings even begin to take into account the absolute biological impossibilities of the knives and wings. John doesn't entirely know how to start assimilating this change. Whereas it was normal and unsurprising to hatchling!John, all prior Johns are reeling in shock and privately wondering if any of this is actually happening. ( With the exception of childhood!John, who is wild with excitement.) He stares at his hand with sick interest, and flashes the knife across it. Given that he's remembered his past, he now recognizes it as an analog to the combat knife he'd been issued. He wonders listlessly why it couldn't have been his pistol instead. Perhaps his body can't assimilate an inanimate object with moving parts. What would happen to the shot bullets? What would spark the gunpowder? Huh.

Sherlock has awakened and strides about the flat, long robe flapping around his heels, demanding tea, and begins several hours of researching on his laptop. John hasn't made eye contact once this morning, and Sherlock appears too distracted to have noticed. John slouches in his chair and glowers. The tea is not noticeably helping. Nor is Sherlock's oblivion.

John watches him sidelong as he sits hunched over the laptop, body jittering with energy and impatience, heels clattering an irregular volley on the floor. He's curled into a frenetic comma, eyes darting furiously back and forth over the screen, fingers flying as he seeks more information. He's so vibrant that John sometimes tires just watching him.

But then his focus slips down a smooth throat, catches thoughtfully on the small beauty mark there, travels further to linger in the suprasternal notch, shadowed and enclosed in a fragile cave of tendons, collarbones like small sentries on either side. Soft, dark hair, standing out in a wild morning halo (not helped by the periodic worrying tousle) catches a stray beam of sunlight through the window. He is long, whipcord lean, and John can see rendered muscle, the tiny pith of male nipple and the bandage he taped over last night, all outlined through the thin cotton T-shirt. John's mouth is dry, and a catholic guilt rises within him. He looks away, clears his throat.

"Sherlock, I should look at those injuries."

"They're fine," Sherlock says curtly, not looking up.

John scowls, and hauls himself up from the morning's reverie. "I'll be back with supplies," he warns. When he returns, Sherlock tolerates his attentions, but keeps his eyes and one hand on the laptop. Conveniently, the gash is on his left hand, so John can sneak it away long enough to peel off the bandage. There is minimal redness around the stitches, he is pleased to see, and the skin is pressed together in a neat seam, so scarring should not be excessive. He cleans it up and puts on fresh plasters. He moves around to Sherlock's other side and then pauses for a moment, touching his shirt, waiting for permission or refusal, but Sherlock just twists away a bit and ignores him completely.

John sighs, irritated that he appears to be so insignificant, and lifts the shirt, tucking it up under Sherlock's arm to keep it out of the way. He carefully removes the bandages. He can count ribs, six distinct ridges, bisected by the long laceration. It is a minor wound, all things considered, and John is very grateful he didn't do more damage. His warm fingertips hold Sherlock in place as he cleans and recovers it. And he utterly fails to ignore the enticing expanse of skin, cool and breathing, six inches from his nose. Dammit. Sherlock stays focused on his screen, only grunts when John pulls away and tugs the shirt back down. John assumes that translates into "Thanks for taking care of the wounds you inflicted on me in the first place." There is no answer to that, so he stays quiet.

Early that afternoon the sound of the doorbell shivers through the flat, and Sherlock lifts his head, scrubs his fingers through shower-damp hair. "Lestrade," he announces. They hear the murmur of Mrs. Hudson's voice, and then Lestrade thuds up the steps. He pokes his head around the door.

"Afternoon, Sherlock. John," he greets. He's neatly dressed in a loose gray suit, brown eyes warm and bright. John looks sourly at him. Lestrade knows himself. He knows who he is, and where he belongs, and what he's supposed to be doing, and John feels like that is terribly unfair at this point. Lestrade looks mildly taken aback at John's expression, but turns to Sherlock nonetheless. "I've got a warrant for the nightclub, if we'll be needing it. I thought it better to be prepared. I'm heading there now to see what I can find. We've ID'd the victim, name of Jazmine Arat, 24, did nails at Tips and Toes on Mount Street."

Sherlock stands, looking interested. "I've been reviewing my notes on the other four victims," he says. "The knife-work is definitely the same. If you note the locations of the bodies," he steps over to the sofa and indicates the map pinned to the wall behind it, "you'll see that they're all within an 8-block radius of the Viper's Pit. One for certain didn't have the club stamp, I would remember. The second body was badly abraded across the hands, so evidence destroyed. The fourth body was submerged in a skip for two days, after that nightmare rainstorm last month, and the stamp wouldn't have survived the soaking. The third, well, either I overlooked it, or it wasn't there." Sherlock looked very frustrated at this potential incompetency.

Lestrade stands next to Sherlock, hands in his pockets, staring at the wall. His head is tilted attentively, hands clasped loosely behind his back. He nods. "Huh."

In spite of his sulk, John comes over as well, and finds, somewhat to his dismay, that he is just behind Sherlock's left shoulder, as usual. But the pattern shown on the map is interesting, and now that the club has been identified, the random scattering of pins has more cohesion and meaning. His eyes flick to the right, where Polaroids of the different corpses are pinned, string leading from each to a separate pin on the map.

Lestrade says, "Coming with, then?"

"Of course," Sherlock replies, distracted. "Well. We'll be right behind you."

Lestrade grimaces, then smiles and leaves the flat with a nod at John, who nods politely back. This is only his third meeting with the man, but he likes him. He seems steady, thorough and friendly.

Sherlock whirls over the coffee table and snatches up John's jacket. He begins to jam him into it. "Come on, John," he says in an excited rush. "There's no time to waste. We must be off. The case, John..."

John jerks back and snatches his coat out of Sherlock's hand. The pained musings of the morning are spilling out of him. "God, Sherlock," he shouts. "I'm not a toddler. I can dress myself, you know!"

Sherlock freezes, utterly shocked. John continues, "I'm not... I'm not a duckling. I remember what you told the Detective Inspector about imprinting. Just because I've come out of an egg-!" They both pause for a silent moment, examining the patent absurdity of that statement. John continues, "I'm a full grown man. I'm a soldier, for god's sake. I've been on my own for decades. Well, before I. Humph. Yeah, well, before I hatched out here. I'm not your pet!" John is pondering the personal and philosophical ramifications of being both a full grown man and fighting the instinct of imprinting. So John backs several steps away, just to show himself that he can. He ignores the pull in his chest that protests the meager separation.

After his first surprised and hurt expression, Sherlock precisely excises any emotion from his face. He stands, blank and impassive before John, hands dangling along his sides.

John's anger diminishes a little, blowing away under guilt. Sherlock has never done anything as degrading as refer to him as a pet, of course. He's been nothing but kind, patient, eager and painstakingly nurturing. He's never directed the venom of which he is capable at John, although he is occasionally oblivious. John steels himself gentler emotions, trying to hold on to his anger and independence.

Of course, what does that get him? He's legally dead. Possibly dead in every way, really. As weird as the situation is, this could all be some strange pre-death dream in the flaming streets of Afghanistan. Sherlock is certainly a surreal enough creature. It's really not a terrible way to go, he thinks, if this Baker Street life is a dream.

And if it's real, if he pulls away from Sherlock, what does he have? Back to the army to get shot at some more? Endless rounds in sterile hospital halls? Holidays spent trying to figure out reasonable excuses to avoid his family?

And what does Sherlock offer if he stays? Excitement. Unpredictability. Acceptance. John muses on the crime scenes that are such a big part of Sherlock's life. Danger. Criminals. Problem solving. Camaraderie.

Huh.

John's brain doesn't work as fast as Sherlock's. No one's does. So these thoughts take several minutes to chase themselves through his head. By the time he snaps back, Sherlock has dumped his jacket on the table and turned away.

"Wait! Sherlock..." John feels awful, and the invisible tether drawing him after Sherlock is strong and difficult to resist. John follows. "I'm sorry," he begins. He's going to offer an excuse. Growing pains, perhaps, or something like that, but Sherlock doesn't give him an opportunity.

"Fine," he says shortly. "Come along if you wish." His joy and excitement are dampened, and John feels miserable.

"Yes. Yes, of course..." John hurries down the stairs after Sherlock, and slips into the cab behind him, almost as if scared he'll be left behind.

As Sherlock directs the cabbie to the Viper's Pit, John debates where he should sit. Certainly not pressed to Sherlock's side, as he had done for the first few days. But fully against the other door seems too far away. John settles for the middle ground, and looks to Sherlock with a self-deprecating smile.

The skin smooths around Sherlock's eyes, and the tension around them fades away.