Goodness, I feel like I'm on a roll again. I know this chapter is a bit short when compared with the others, especially those published recently, but it felt like a good place to stop, and I didn't want to have one giant installment. I hope you enjoy the seventh chapter of 'A Study in Leather'. As always, please leave me some feedback, through a comment or review. Cheers
John worked quickly, hands manipulating the bath's tap so that warm fills the basin. "Sit on the toilet seat for me while I grab some things, ok, Sherlock?" John asked, his hand tilting the detective's chin up to see his face.
Sherlock nodded and leaned heavily against the sink basin, turning his head to watch the bathtub fill.
John hurriedly made his rounds around the flat, grabbing a bottle of bubble bath from his room, turned on the kettle, and snagged a few fresh towels and Sherlock's dressing gown from the clean laundry basket before returning to the bathroom. The dressing gown is hung on the hook on the back of the door, and the towel is spread out on their small towel heater. John flicked open the bottle of bubble bath and squeezed a liberal amount into the running tap. Sandalwood and pine fills the bathroom and John feels his body relax. He hoped Sherlock found the scent relaxing too.
"Can you undress and get into the bathtub?" John asked, shaking Sherlock's shoulder. He got no response from the detective. With a sigh, John reached for the button and zip of Sherlock's trousers, carefully undoing them and shucking them off alongside his socks and pants. John averted his eyes and guided his flatmate into the bath, only surveying him once he knew there were enough bubbles to cover everything.
One by one, John catalogued the welts, still angry and red across Sherlock's back. The detective whimpered when the hot water hit the first raised welt, and for a moment, John was worried he had gone too far. One look at Sherlock's face calmed those fears; how could he have taken things too far when Sherlock had so obviously enjoyed it. Closing his eyes, John remembered each whimper and plea Sherlock had uttered, remembered how his flatmate had squirmed and danced under his touch, remembered how he had asked for more and achieved orgasm just from the riding crop… It was impressive, and John couldn't deny that he was impressed and very aroused.
Shaking his head, John attempted to dislodge those thoughts. Right now, he couldn't think about his very hard, very interested cock throbbing in his jeans. He had to focus on Sherlock and insure that he came up from subspace safely. John picked up a flannel from their linen closet and dunked it in the water. "I'm going to help you wash, ok, pet?" he asked.
Sherlock blinked owlishly at him, eyes losing some of their glaze. "John? What's happening?" he asked, his voice rough from overuse.
"You're coming up from subspace, Sherlock," John explained, reaching for the detective's body wash.
"Not that one," Sherlock said, reaching forward to wrap one shaky hand around John's soap. "I want to smell like you. It'll help, I think."
Obligingly, John set the bottle down and lathered up the flannel with his soap. He started at Sherlock's shoulders, gliding back and forth, his touch feather-light on the raised skin. He frowned as Sherlock hissed, the muscles in his neck tensing in pain. "I know, pet. But clean skin means you'll heal faster," John said, digging his fingers in on either side of his flatmate's neck. Little by little, Sherlock relaxed and leaned forward, allowing John room to work freely.
Once Sherlock's back was clean, John moved to his arms, starting first with the left one. He soaped over the limb once, rinsed it, and lathered his hands. Starting at Sherlock's wrist, John rubbed small circles into his skin, easing any tension he felt. Once he finished with Sherlock's left arm, John rinsed it again and repeated his ministrations on the left arm, kissing the inside of his wrist when he was done.
"Time for your legs now. Prop one up on the side of the tub for me, Sherlock," John instructed. One at a time, John repeated the routine with Sherlock's legs, only washing up to the middle of his flatmate's thighs. "Think you can get the rest? Then we can wash your hair in the sink if you'd like," John asks, turning his face to look at the sink, a futile effort to hide the blush streaking across his cheeks.
Sherlock nodded, and took the flannel from John's hand, their fingers brushing against each other briefly.
"Ok then, I'm going to go make a cuppa. Would you like one?" he asked as he stood.
"No thank you," Sherlock murmured, working the soap against the flannel.
John nodded his head once before beating a hasty retreat. Once in the kitchen, he placed a teabag in his favorite mug and covered it with hot water, leaving it on the counter to steep. Heading to the fridge, he pulled out a bottle of water and set it by his tea mug. Even if Sherlock didn't want tea, he was going to drink something before he went to bed.
While his tea finished steeping, John bustled around to get set up for after Sherlock's bath. He rooted through his flatmate's dresser, pulling out pants, sleeping trousers, and a soft t-shirt, laying them on the chair by the windowsill. Next, he laid out a clean towel on the bed before trekking up the stairs to retrieve his arnica cream. When he returned downstairs, John carefully set the tub on Sherlock's bedside table before circling back to the kitchen to finish off making his tea. He took a few sips before Sherlock called out from him, and with a smile, he returned to tend to his flatmate.
"All done washing?" he asked, hovering in the doorway.
"Yes. I even managed to wash my hair," Sherlock replied, turning to look over John.
John crossed the room and pulled the plug, staring as the water swirled down the drain. "I'm proud of you, Sherlock," he murmured. "Let's get your back taken care of, then it's bedtime."
Sherlock followed John silently to his room, pulling on his pants and sleeping trousers as soon as he could. Once he was half dressed, he laid out on the towel John had placed earlier, melting into the mattress.
"Is this okay?" John asked, straddling Sherlock's slim hips, the tub of arnica cream in his hand.
"Of course, John. Anything you need," Sherlock replied, his voice soft.
John swallowed thickly as he unscrewed the tub's lid. He scooped some of the cream out and rubbed it between his hands, warming it slightly before lightly rubbing it into the welts on Sherlock's back. John worked slowly, his touch light once more as he worked the cream into his flatmate's abused flesh. He frowned when he could feel the heat radiating from some of the worst ones.
"How does it feel?" he asked, pausing to scoop some more cream out.
"Feels good, John. I feel more grounded than before," Sherlock replied, arching back into John's touch.
John kept rubbing the cream into Sherlock's skin, his hands lingering on his flatmate's back well after every inch of colored skin was treated. He knew he should withdraw his touch, wipe his hands off, and head off to bed, but his chest ached uncomfortably at the thought of leaving Sherlock alone.
"John?" Sherlock mumbled, turning his head to the side to catch John's gaze.
"Yes?" John asked.
"Will you stay with me tonight? Please?" he asked.
John froze mid back-rub and stared at Sherlock, focusing on his eyes. Three times he's been asked to spend the night with his flatmate, and twice he's refused. John's chest clenched at the look on Sherlock's face, the detective's bottom lip pouting out ever so slightly.
"Please, John. I want you here. And you obviously don't want to go," Sherlock said.
"Okay," John agreed, resting his hands on the small of Sherlock's back. "But there will be rules."
"That's fine," Sherlock murmured. "Anything to keep you with me."
John's heart stuttered at Sherlock's words. No matter how he tried to deny it, things had changed between them, and if John didn't admit that it absolutely terrified him, he'd be lying. "Clothes stay on, no sex, and you drink a bottle of water before we sleep. That's it," John said, pulling away from Sherlock's warm body. He wiped the excess cream off his hands and slipped out to change into his pajamas and grab the water for Sherlock.
A few moments later, Sherlock was knocking at John's door, shyly opening it a crack and peering in. "John, can we sleep here tonight?" he asked, only coming in when John told him to.
"Sure," he called from the bathroom, toothbrush in hand. "Drink your water and get in bed. I'll be there in a minute."
A few minutes later, John crawled into bed beside his flatmate, smiling softly when Sherlock turned to face him, their knees bumping together underneath the covers. "Everything okay?" Sherlock asked, fixing his clear, quicksilver eyes on John.
"Yeah. It's all fine. Now go to sleep, Sherlock," John murmured, smiling softly at Sherlock. He stretched out on his back, arms by his side, and closed his eyes. He was almost asleep when he felt one of Sherlock's hands tentatively stroking over the scar marring his left shoulder.
"Does it hurt when I touch you?" Sherlock whispered, tracing the puckered trails of scar tissue, no doubt mapping the twisting pink roads.
"No," John replied, his voice gentle. He heard Sherlock shift beside him, the sheets rustling around his form as he moved. A few seconds later, John felt something soft and wet tickle across his chest and a warm body press against his side. He couldn't help the smile that curved the ends of his lips when he realized that Sherlock was a cuddler. With a soft chuckle, he turned his head to press a kiss against his flatmate's mop of curls, pulling a content hum from the other man.
They drifted off that way, falling into dreamland one after another. For the first time in what felt like weeks, John didn't dream of Afghanistan or the pool encounter with Moriarty, he didn't dream of oppressive heat, gunshots, or soldiers bleeding out, and he definitely didn't dream of finding his flatmate dead with a dirty syringe buried in his arm. Instead, John dreamt of Sherlock and slept peacefully through the night.