That's all… Thanks for all the incredibly nice reviews!
Sherlock was silent as the grave as the cab bumped along the streets, and John couldn't help but steal glances at him the whole way. But Sherlock was staring, unmoving, out the window, and John had to satisfy himself with watching his messy head of curls.
When they got out, John paid the cabbie quickly, noting with a wince that the blood from the cut had stained the back of his flatmate's shirt.
Sherlock stood in front of the door, stiff and unseeing, as John twisted the key. He stepped inside slowly, wobbling a bit, and John almost grabbed his arm. But then Sherlock was inside, walking up the stairs, and John hurried after him.
As soon as he was inside, Sherlock regained a bit of his old spark, pacing around the flat and muttering angrily, throwing his hands around like he was giving a presidential speech.
John stood there warily. He didn't want to leave, but he was sure Sherlock wouldn't react well to what he scoffed at as "coddling." Anyways, John wasn't the best coddler- he was a soldier, for God's sake.
The doctor settled for a simple, "Are you all right?" He crossed the room and plopped down wearily on his armchair.
Sherlock was still wandering aimlessly, clenching his hands on and off and blinking furiously. John watched him with concern.
"Sherlock."
The detective continued to pace, throwing a "Yes, fine!" at John. The doctor sighed, and got up. He was going to bed. It had been a long night, after all.
He shuffled tiredly towards the stairs, mumbling good night to Sherlock. "Wash the cut with warm water," he added, brushing off the motherly instinct to make sure the wound was taken care of himself.
"John."
He groaned, turning around. But Sherlock was standing, hands behind his back, face almost apprehensive. John frowned, taking an uncertain step closer.
Sherlock fidgeted, swallowing. "I- I want to thank you." He reached a hand up and tugged at his hair uncomfortably. "For coming."
John's throat tightened. He sighed. "Well, let's hope we didn't leave any evidence," he murmured briefly, wanting very badly for an intense moment to fold the other man into his arms.
He turned again, closing his eyes. Maybe tomorrow it would all be normal again.
But Sherlock said his name again, this time with a bit of desperation.
"John!" He strode towards the doctor with anxiety in his eyes. "I can't-" Sherlock stopped, pressing his lips together. "I can't reach," he muttered, eyes on the floor.
John bit his lip. "Alright," he said quickly. "Come up to my room, I've got my kit."
Sherlock hesitated for a second, and John wanted to scream, "What do you want from me, you crazy man!"
Maybe he saw some of this in the doctor's eyes, because he just said, "Alright."
John climbed the stairs with a strange sort of trepidation, feeling the other man behind him. It was cold and silent, his steps clattering and his friend's smooth and noiseless like a cat's.
They reached John's bedroom, and John left Sherlock with the explanation that he was going to get some warm water from the bathroom. He wetted some cloth, staring into the mirror and wondering why his heart was beating so loudly and strangely in his chest.
When John returned, there was a shirtless Sherlock sitting on the edge of his bed. John stared, mouth open, taking in the expanse of alabaster skin, the hint of ribs poking through. He was impossibly smooth, and John had a strong urge to shout "Magnificent!" like he did at crime scenes whenever Sherlock spouted some preposterously amazing thing, waving his hands like it was stupidly obvious.
Sherlock was staring back, hands at his sides. His gaze was challenging, a little determined, and a little self-conscious, John thought. He swallowed carefully and sat on the bed behind his friend, crossing his legs awkwardly and studying the bright line of rusty blood in front of him that looked so out of place next to all the whiteness.
He brushed gently at the dried blood, alert for any cringes or flinches of pain. But Sherlock was like a creamy statue, the only living thing about him the steady rise and fall of his breathing.
John smoothed on a bandage, almost as pale as the skin around it. He hesitated for a moment, at loathe to move, because that would break the spell of the silence and the warmth and the fact that Sherlock was on his bed. John was trembling a little. He wanted acutely to lean forward, kiss the long neck in front of him, trace the line of the man's shoulders with his tongue, reach his hands around and map out the skin of his chest-
"John," Sherlock's voice was ragged, soft against the quiet. "Please."
And John let out a little puff of what was either despair or delight, because he was sure that was permission to lose himself in the body in front of him.
He was slow at first, tentative, barely willing to breath. He placed his hands lightly on Sherlock's shoulders, like the other man had done to John what felt like a lifetime ago. They were hot, and he felt sharp bones sticking out at the ends.
"You need to eat more," he breathed against the spot where Sherlock's shoulder met his neck, simply inhaling, and John felt Sherlock scrape out a whimper, letting his head fall back.
"You're an idiot," the other man whispered without any bite, falling back.
The first time they kissed, it was a curious brush of lips against lips, electric and teasing, too little and too much.
John growled, grabbing the back of Sherlock's neck, and kissed him again, slipping his tongue in and twisting it around the other man's. He felt himself falling, too, onto his back. He opened his eyes and found black ones looking back at him, full mouth wet and slightly open.
"Beautiful," he said in a low voice, deep and husky. Sherlock shuddered against him, lowering himself down. They fit together perfectly, John clasping Sherlock's sides with tight hands, moving them down haltingly to explore his arse, rewarded with a wordless moan.
At some point Sherlock took it upon himself to rid John of his clothes, and peeled down his own trousers. They stared for a long moment, each at that terrifying place between laughter and tears. Then Sherlock sunk down again, exhaling noisily into John's neck.
They moved slowly against each other, intoxicated by the scent of skin sliding together. John felt a crescendo rising in his ears, fueled by the sharp sounds Sherlock made as John snuck a hand down and grasped their two cocks.
He felt himself gasping and moaning, whispering nonsense and 'Sherlock', hearing his own name bit out in an involuntary chant, over and over. He held the other man close and arched up suddenly, coming into the close, secret space between their two bodies. Sherlock shook one last time, violently, and did the same, collapsing onto John's chest.
Neither spoke for a long time, because it was a noiseless place, the place they were in.
But finally, Sherlock rolled over into the space beside John, curling himself into a little ball, face pressed against the pillow. John turned onto his side, and reached out and stroked his cheek in awe.
Sherlock shuddered into the pillow, but shifted his head so he was staring at John. They looked at each other again, and John leaned over and kissed him briefly on the mouth. He tasted of sweat and hotness and Sherlock, and John smiled uncertainly against the other man's lips.
He withdrew, and Sherlock had his mouth open, staring at John. His eyes were bright and shiny, John saw with horror.
He cursed himself. "I'm sorry," he whispered, wondering what he had done. "I'm sorry."
For a second, Sherlock's face contorted into complete misery. His mouth twisted, but the expression was gone in an instant. He threw himself off the bed, grabbing at his shirt and trousers angrily.
John was baffled. "What did I do?" he asked, thoroughly confused.
Sherlock was struggling with his pants, face set in anger. John scrambled off the bed.
"Sherlock!"
The other man pressed his lips together furiously. "It doesn't change anything," he spat out bitterly. "You needn't be so worried, doctor. I don't want anything from you."
John grabbed at Sherlock's arms, holding them tightly. "What the hell are you on about?" he demanded, glaring. "I don't want anything from you, you stupid git!"
Sherlock was frowning harshly. "The why did you feel the need to apologize?" he inquired icily, trying to tug his arms back.
John laughed in disbelief, keeping a tight grip on his hands. "I- I wasn't trying to- erase it, if that's what you mean!" He squeezed the other man's forearms. "You were bloody crying, for God's sake!"
Sherlock blinked, mouth falling open a bit. He just stood there, and John could practically see the gears working in his brain, trying to remember each and every second of their encounter accurately, and analyzing them for anything out of place.
"Oh."
John smiled weakly, realizing suddenly there were tears threatening to fall from the corners of his eyes. He clasped Sherlock's hands in his own, rubbing his thumb over his palm, grinning wildly.
"I love you, you big idiot," he whispered, leaning in and pressing a chaste kiss to Sherlock's nose.
The other man simply studied John, blinking. Finally Sherlock smiled timidly, asking, "Not good?"
John shook his head, smiling. "Bit not good, yeah," he admitted ruefully, folding the other man into a tight hug. He kissed the detective's neck in a rush of affection.
"Let's get to bed." The doctor drew back and chuckled at the mutinous expression on Sherlock's face.
"No," John said, giggling like a little girl. "You are going to sleep- now," he added for good measure, trying to look serious. How the man could go through all that and not want to just fall into bed was beyond him.
Sherlock took a step back, and John suddenly felt cold. The detective pressed his lips into a thin line. "Good night," he said stiffly, looking at the floor. He straightened up, and some of his old haughtiness came back.
John gaped at him as he strode out of the room. "Sherlock!"
The man turned imperiously, a bit of anger glimmering in his eyes. "Yes, John?"
John stared for a moment, puzzled, then understood. "Oh." He reached out and took Sherlock's hand. "I meant mine- if you like," he added awkwardly.
Sherlock gazed at him, and John's throat was dry. He swallowed.
Sherlock nodded, and John felt a wave of relief. He coughed and magnanimously gestured to the loo. "You can go first," he offered, trying to stifle a grin.
Sherlock smiled slowly, and brushed past John into the bathroom. "Please try to keep from snoring, John," he remarked over his shoulder. John gawked at the closed door.
"I do not snore!"
"Yes, you do," was the bored reply.
John considered this for a moment. He shrugged.
But then: "Hold on, how do you know that?" John shouted, alarmed.
He imagined he could hear Sherlock grin above the noise of the shower.
-End-