Warnings: Sherlock/John. Slash, slash, slash. If guy-on-guy is not your cup of tea, then for heaven's sake, go ahead and avert your eyes now.

Trigger warnings for this chapter: Explicit references to previous abusive relationship, non-con, sexual assault. Mild Violence.

Please read and review!

xXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

Chapter 4

The watchmen found me as they made their rounds in the city.

They beat me, they bruised me;

they took away my cloak, those watchmen of the walls!

Daughters of Jerusalem, I charge you—

if you find my beloved, what will you tell him?

Tell him I am faint with love.

– Song of Solomon

xXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

After our first public appearance as a couple, Sherlock and I say our goodbyes to a still-stunned Lestrade and company, and walk out to catch a cab back to Baker Street. As we're riding down Marylebone Road, fingers companionably entwined, Sherlock suddenly speaks to the driver.

"Can you stop at York Bridge and Outer Circle, rather than Baker Street?"

"Sure thing, mate." He pulls off to the side, and Sherlock springs lightly from the cab – leaving me to pay the cabbie, as usual. I pay the driver with a sigh. Guess that won't be changing, either.

I can't really complain, of course. Sherlock also regularly pickpockets me, slips a bit of cash into my wallet, and returns the wallet later. He thinks I haven't noticed, but really, how many sources can there be for randomly appearing £50 notes? Yet another example of the secret gooey center inside Sherlock's hard shell.

Sherlock stands on the walking path on York Bridge. As I catch up to him, he smiles and extends his gloved hand. I slip my hand into his, and he pulls it toward him, tucking both of our hands into his coat pocket for more warmth. The wind has died down, but there is still a significant chill to the air. We walk across York Bridge toward Regent's College, then turn to walk along the footpath by the lake.

The setting sun streams through the trees, turning the edges of Sherlock's riot of curls a fiery auburn. Our conversation is easy and companionable, and Sherlock seems…almost playful. He has always had a whimsical, capricious sense of humor, but I've never seen him so relaxed and cheerful. I'm so chuffed to see him like this, and to think that I had a part in making him feel this way.

We reach the center of the deserted footbridge. Sherlock has stopped walking, and he turns to lean against the railing. I lean alongside him, still holding his hand, and look up at him enquiringly. He is silent for a moment, looking toward the rapidly fading sunset. Finally, he turns and meets my eyes.

"Do you remember stopping here a few weeks ago, John? We were talking about the Qing vase case?"

I nod my head, surprised that he has mentioned that particular afternoon. It was a pivotal moment for me, although I didn't necessarily recognize it at the time. I had looked into his incredible eyes, and felt the most intense connection to him, but the moment had slipped away, and I hadn't even recognized it for what it was until weeks later. Three nights ago, while wandering in Regent's Park, I stopped at this same spot, remembering that afternoon and that was when I had my moment of epiphany. Can it only be three nights ago? The moment of realisation that I love Sherlock feels so long ago, as though I'd always known. Of course, on some level, I suppose I had.

"We were talking, and you were looking at me like I was the most amazing thing you'd ever seen. The way that you look at me sometimes, John, when you say I'm brilliant or amazing – I could never, ever get tired of that look. You make me feel about ten feet tall."

"Maybe I shouldn't do it so much then," I joke weakly. "You're already a bloody giraffe. If you get any taller I won't be able to reach you to kiss you."

Sherlock bumps me reproachfully with his shoulder. "I say something nice for once, and you insult me? I'm wounded, John."

"I'm sorry…"

He turns to loom over me, closing the distance between us as I turn to face him. "Besides, even if I did get taller, I'd always find a way to kiss you."

Grinning wickedly, he suddenly stoops, snaking arms around me, and picks me up to kiss me soundly. Furious, I splutter and struggle, and he's forced to drop me to my feet again.

"Wanker!" I grab him around the neck, getting him into a headlock. "Don't you ever pick me up again! I may be short, but I can still kick your arse!"

Sherlock laughs uproariously, his rich baritone laugh carrying across the water, echoing in the trees. Despite my indignation at being hoisted around like a bloody child, I find myself joining in, giggling even as I manage to get Sherlock's arm locked behind his back, and push him against the rail.

"All right, all right!" he laughs. "All right, John! I'll never pick you up again!" I release his arm, and he turns, leaning back against the rail, to face me.

I realise that, because of his slouched position, our faces are almost level, and I find myself crowding into his space, insinuating myself between his open legs, and pressing him back against the rail. We're still laughing, but something else is unfolding between us, something smoldering and rich. I take his face in my hands, stroking with my thumbs along the stubble on his jawline, and I slowly move in for a kiss. Sherlock's arms slip around my waist, curving down to cup my arse and pull me closer to him. I deepen the kiss, stroking my tongue along his full lower lip, then into his mouth. Our tongues slip softly against each other, and Sherlock hums with pleasure.

I pull away a bit, turning my attention to Sherlock's long, gorgeous throat. Chuckling, I tongue softly over the purple mark that gave the Yarders such a turn. "Sorry about outing you with the lovebite," I murmur against his neck. " I didn't mean to push you into going public before you were ready."

Sherlock groans at the vibration of my voice against his skin. "It's all fine, John. I don't have any interest in keeping this a secret."

The amazing thing is, neither do I. Less than a week ago, I was firmly convinced that I was straight. Tonight I "came out" in front of a large number of people that we work with on a regular basis. You would think I'd be going through more of a sexual identity crisis. Maybe it's all part and parcel of being around Sherlock Holmes – things always move so fast around him that I regularly feel as though I have whiplash. Why should this situation be any different?

Sherlock starts nibbling his way along my jawline, and when he reaches my ear, he teases his tongue just below it, and then murmurs softly against it. "A few weeks ago, John, when we stood here – what was going through your mind?"

God. That deep, velvety baritone against my ear sends shudders through me. Desire pools at the base of my spine. I struggle to keep my brain on-line enough to answer the question coherently.

"I was…nnnnggh…thinking how incredible you are. Guhh," I gasp, as he presses his mouth to my neck and sucks hard, returning the lovebite with interest. "I remember this one moment, where the sun reflected off of the water and lit up your eyes. I couldn't even breathe, you were so beautiful."

He pulls back, studying me. "I thought you only realised your feelings for me a few nights ago."

I laugh softly. "It's funny, Sherlock, that you stopped here tonight. This is the exact spot where I stood three nights ago, when I finally realised that I'm in love with you." I reach out to stroke his face and he turns, catlike, to press his cheek into my palm. "I thought back to that afternoon, and admitted to myself that what I feel for you is anything but platonic."

Sherlock grins at me and pulls me close for another lingering kiss. Then he draws back, and teasingly whispers, "Care to take this somewhere less public, Dr. Watson?"

Oh, yes…

"Oi! Arse bandits!"

I whirl to see where the insult is coming from, as Sherlock instantly straightens to his full height.

Approaching us are two heavily tattooed young men, both wearing red caps. How did we not notice them until they were this close? They are less than 10 meters away. The one who first shouted at us speaks again.

"Are you deaf? I'm talkin' to you, poofters!"

I automatically reach for my gun, then realise that I have left it at home, since it's never a good idea to carry an illegal firearm when meeting with Scotland Yard. Bugger. I risk a quick glance at Sherlock.

He has stepped away from the rail, and has taken a stance that I've seen too many times for comfort. His hands are loose at his sides, and he looks casual, almost defenseless – but there's a tension in the set of his shoulders that I know, from past confrontations with criminals, can turn into lightning-fast defensive moves. I have taken a wider fighting stance as well, and once again, I'm thankful to the army for hand-to-hand combat training.

"Of course we heard you," drawls Sherlock in that scornful voice that he uses on Anderson so often. "It's astonishing how often tiny minds seem to directly correlate to loud mouths."

"Hand over your wallets, you fuckin' queers, and maybe we'll just black your eyes for ya," bites out our charming new pal. A glittering switchblade knife catches the light from the newly-lit streetlights. "Watches, and phones, too."

I immediately slip my wallet from my pocket, and start unfastening my wristwatch. Sherlock isn't moving. "Sherlock!" I hiss. "Give him your bloody wallet!" Sherlock ignores me.

"Don't be ridiculous, gentlemen. There are two of us, and two of you. Why should I give you anything?"

The other thug speaks up now. "Listen, pansy, we could mop the floor with a couple of limp-wristed shirt-lifters like you. Now hand over your wallet, or maybe we'll have a go at your little boyfriend here."

Sherlock steps forward menacingly, suddenly seeming almost twice his size. The taller hood starts to close the distance between them. Sherlock closes with the thug, grapples with him briefly, then grabs the knife-wielding wrist. He twists it up, grabs the knife, then twists the wrist even harder, breaking it. With a cry, the assailant drops to his knees, cradling his hand.

Meanwhile, the other guy closes on me. I block a wild swing from his fist, ducking under his arm to deliver a sharp blow to his midsection. His next swing catches me across the ear, knocking me sideways. As I lunge toward him again, he swings toward me once more, and I feel a sudden searing pain as if a red-hot iron has been pressed to my lower thigh. I press my hand to my thigh, and am shocked to pull away fingers covered with blood.

Gasping, I reel back in time to see Sherlock grab my assailant by the neck and throw him bodily to the ground. He seizes his foe by the hair and slams his head into the pavement, knocking him unconscious.

I drop to my knees, clutching at my thigh, trying not to panic at the rapidly spreading bloodstain on my jeans. Frightened for Sherlock, I look up in time to see him turn swiftly back to the first assailant, who is still kneeling, rocking in pain from his injured hand.

"Sit down!" he barks. The thug whimpers and flops awkwardly down into a seated position. Pulling a handful of zip ties from his pocket, Sherlock ruthlessly yanks both injured and healthy hand behind the guy's back, and ties him securely. This accomplished, he pats him down for weapons, then turns to the unconscious assailant and does the same. Discovering the bloody knife, he whirls around to me in shock.

"You're not hurt, John?" His arms are around me, supporting me as I start to slump over. "For God's sake, say that you're all right!"

It is worth a wound – it is worth many wounds – to know the depth of loyalty and love that lies behind that cool exterior. The clear, silver eyes are dimmed for a moment, and the firm lips are shaking. Once again, I'm seeing a glimpse of the great heart that lurks behind the great brain. I'm overwhelmed.

His lips tremble as he dials 999, informs the dispatcher of our location, and rings off. He gathers me closer to him, pressing the heel of his hand against the wound. He hurriedly works his belt off with the other hand, and cinches it around my thigh. We listen for sirens.

"John, talk to me. Please say you're all right."

I feel extremely dizzy, and my vision is fading to an odd, sparkling grey around the edges, tightening down to a tunnel. He's the only thing I can see now, and I manage a smile for him. "It's nothing, Sherlock. 'Tis a mere scratch – a flesh wound.'" He looks at me, bewildered. I can't help but huff out a little laugh. "Don't tell me you deleted 'The Holy Grail' after all the effort I went through to persuade you to watch it."

"Ridiculous movie," he grouses, but he smiles a bit. He strokes my face, kisses me softly.

Sirens wail in the distance, getting closer. The conscious assailant scuffles about, as though he might attempt a getaway. Sherlock leans forward, fixing him with a deadly glare. "I'd hold still and count myself lucky, if I were you. If you had killed John, your life would be short, and your death very long and painful." The thug subsides at once, and Sherlock turns back to me, stroking his fingers through my hair and watching me intently.

I can feel my eyes getting heavy. "Sherlock…these past few days…"

"Don't." He shakes his head violently. "Don't, John. You're going to be fine, and we're going to be amazing. Don't you try to say goodbye to me."

I force another weak smile. "Bossy wanker…"

The last thing I hear is the approaching sirens, and then the sounds of running feet.

oOoOo

When I open my eyes again, I'm looking up at a hideous green ceiling. Heart monitor…IV line…oooh, blood bag, not good…coarse white sheets…long, graceful fingers twined in my own. Sherlock!

I turn my head to the side, and find myself looking into worried eyes that are almost the colour of verdigris in this light.

"John." A wealth of relief is in his voice.

"How bad?"

"You lost a lot of blood. The knife just nicked your femoral artery, but we got the tourniquet on quickly. They might let you go home tomorrow." He sighs, stroking the back of my hand against his stubbly cheek. "You're not allowed to do this to me any more, John. I…I don't know what I would do if…if…"

"Don't, Sherlock." I repeat his words from earlier. "I'm going to be fine, remember? And we're going to be amazing." I'm rewarded with a watery grin, and he leans in to cup my face in both hands, kissing me softly.

"Budge over a bit."

I slide over, rolling slightly onto my left side, a throbbing pain in my right leg. (Great – now I have a real reason for pain in that leg.) Sherlock eases himself into the bed beside me, slides an arm around me, and pulls me against him to rest against his chest.

He smells of the expensive soap he prefers, plus a hint of chemicals (no doubt from his experiments or the morgue), and a subtle, tangy scent that is just Sherlock. It's a smell that I've come to think of as home. I nuzzle into his neck, breathing deep, and close my eyes with a sigh. I drift off to sleep, feeling safe, feeling loved.

oOoOo

.

.

A bit of canon in this one. "It was worth a wound – many wounds..." and some other subsequent dialogue from ACD's "The Adventure of The Three Garridebs."

Disclaimers: Sherlock belongs to Steven Moffatt and Mark Gatiss, Sherlock Holmes originally belonged to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I own nothing.

As always, huge thanks to the lovely Skyfullofstars for being my beta reader. If you haven't read "There But For the Grace of John Watson," go read it now. You'll be so glad you did.