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Chapter 5

Who is this coming up from the wilderness

like a column of smoke,

perfumed with myrrh and incense

made from all the spices of the merchant?

Look! It is Solomon's carriage,

escorted by sixty warriors,

the noblest of Israel,

all of them wearing the sword,

all experienced in battle,

each with his sword at his side,

prepared for the terrors of the night.

– Song of Solomon

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The next week is a bit of a trial, to be honest. Sherlock is doting, caring…smothering. I am so moved by his love, his tenderness, and how willing he is to show that side of himself to me now. But honestly? He's driving me round the twist.

The hospital lets me go home the day after the attack with strict instructions to stay off the leg as much as possible for a few days. Sherlock, who never leaves my side at the hospital, nods vigorously at these injunctions from Dr. Sorenson. He then proceeds to follow them with gusto.

When we arrive home at 221B, Mrs. Hudson opens the door for us, fussing over me. I try to be gently reassuring, but Sherlock fills her ears with the list of restrictions as we approach the stairs. I grit my teeth at the discomfort in my thigh as I raise my foot to take the first step upstairs…and find myself swooped up in Sherlock's arms.

"Oi! Put me down, damn it!" Sherlock ignores me, totes me on upstairs like a sodding bride, and gently deposits me on the sofa. I furiously swat him on the shoulder. "I told you not to ever do that again, you daft git!"

"Special circumstances, John. I couldn't let you strain your sutures."

I growl at him, and he laughs in my face. Bastard.

And that sets the pace for the next few days. Sherlock hovers, making tea, playing my favorites on his violin, cooking – I had no idea he could cook. ("It's just chemistry, John!") We spend a lot of time cuddling on the sofa, or in the bed, but that's frustrating, too – Sherlock is being ruthless about restraining all physical activity. I'm lucky to get a lingering kiss. I must remember to punch Dr. Sorenson at my recheck appointment.

oOoOo

Five days later, Lestrade finally, finally, arrives in the late evening with a distraction for Sherlock, a locked-door triple homicide in Covent Garden. He seems rather startled to find us curled up together on the sofa, my head resting in Sherlock's lap as he plays with my hair, but he manages to act nonchalant after a moment. Sherlock languidly agrees to follow him to the crime scene, then leaps about as soon as Lestrade leaves.

"Locked-door murders are just delicious, John. Lovely! I'll go get a cab, you should…" he trails off with a dismayed expression, all frenetic activity ceased. "Oh. I should stay with you, and make sure you're taken care of. I'll just ring Lestrade and…"

"For heaven's sake, Sherlock, stop hovering! I'm a grown man, I can certainly make myself a cup of tea or fetch my laptop on my own! My recheck appointment is tomorrow morning, and you know Dr. Sorenson is going to give me the all-clear."

I hold up a hand to stop the protest I see forming on Sherlock's lips. "And lest we forget, Sherlock – I'm a bloody doctor. Don't you think I know the limits of my own body?"

He looks so crestfallen that I feel hideously guilty. "Look, love, I appreciate what you've been doing for me. No one could ask for more thoughtful care. But you are getting so restless and fidgety, and here's a chance to get out and do what you do best. So, go – I'll be fine on my own."

His "the Game is on" smile spreads across his face, and he lunges across the room to seize my face in both hands. A fierce kiss, much more passionate than anything we've had since the stabbing, a glorious rush of lips and tongues, and then he is out the door in a swirl of coattails. I sit, breathless, on the sofa, trying to recover from the kiss.

Bloody hell. I think I need to start doing some research. Once I've received the all-clear from Dr. Sorenson, I have a feeling I'm going to need to know something about gay sex.

oOoOo

After grabbing a lager from the fridge, I stretch out on the sofa with my laptop. I want to make sure that Sherlock's first sexual encounters with me are as pleasurable and safe as possible. Being a doctor helps of course, knowing anatomy and the limits of the male body, but they certainly didn't train us in the sexual aspects of anatomy at St. Bart's. So the internet seems the obvious place to start – at times it seems the net is all about sex.

Bracing myself for graphic images, I google the words, "getting started gay sex." I'm actually surprised at the results – not nearly as many links to porn sites as I would have expected. Instead, there are a number of advice columns, blogs, and quite a few companies that sell sexual aids and books. This might not be as horrifying an experience as I had feared.

Two hours later, I've discovered a lot of really useful information. Thank God for the internet – I would have dropped down dead in the floor if I'd had to try to research this by going to a sex shop and ask questions. I'll still need to do some shopping, but nothing major that would require a trip to Soho.

After making a couple of notes in my diary on brand recommendations, I wipe my browser history. I realise that Sherlock can get around that with ease, but there's no point in making it easy for him, is there?

oOoOo

The sky is just beginning to lighten in the east when Sherlock slips into the bed beside me, curling around me so that my back spoons into his warm chest. His hands and feet, however, are not warm, and I gasp as his cold fingers stroke my belly.

"Jesus, Sherlock! Your hands are freezing!" I tuck his fingers in between my palms, cocooning them in warmth. I press the soles of my feet down against the tops of his feet, trying to warm them, too. Sherlock purrs like a cat and snuggles closer, nuzzling against my neck.

"How was the case?"

"Solved it."

"Mmmm…that was fast."

We're silent for a few minutes, and I'm starting to drift back off when he speaks again.

"John."

"Yes, love?"

"It wasn't the same without you there."

I smile to myself, pull his arm tighter around me. "I missed you, too."

We sleep until nearly 10.00.

After a quick breakfast of tea and toast, eaten companionably together in the kitchen, Sherlock leaves for Scotland Yard to give his statement about last night's case. My appointment with Dr. Sorenson is at 11.30, and then I'm supposed to meet Harry for lunch at 1.00. When she found out about the stabbing, she insisted that we get together, and so I reluctantly scheduled this lunch to keep her from coming to the flat. I love my sister, but our relationship works much better if I can control when our meetings start and end. If she comes to the flat, she might overstay her welcome, try to goad me into an argument, even (God forbid) pick yet another row with Sherlock. The two of them are like oil and water, and Sherlock always…

Hell. I haven't told Harry about Sherlock yet.

This is going to be an interesting lunch.

oOoOo

Dr. Sorenson confirms what I already knew, that I'm healing nicely and can resume all activities. I stop at the chemist afterward, and pick up a couple of items from my research last night. Then I head to the restaurant to meet Harry, now running a few minutes late.

I realise when I arrive at the restaurant that I've made an error in judgment. I chose this particular Japanese restaurant, thinking that they only sell beer and wine, so there would be a limit to how drunk Harry can get. When I arrive, I remember sake, and sigh. While yes, it's wine, it can be potent. I brace myself for a sloshed Harry.

To my surprise, Harry appears to be sober, and drinking a bottled water. Amazing. She jumps up and hugs me when I arrive at our table, looking me over carefully.

"Well, Johnny, you don't look like a man who's been in a knife fight."

I grin at her as we sit down. "I've been very well cared for this week."

She cocks her blonde head at me, bright-eyed and interested. "Oh? Been seeing someone new? Tell us all about her, then."

The timely arrival of the waiter saves me for the moment, and we place our orders (grilled fish for me, sashimi for Harry). Once he's gone, her alert gaze is back on me.

"Johnny? Something you want to tell me?"

Here goes.

"Yes, I'm seeing someone. It's quite serious, actually. I'm really happy about it."

She lets out an excited squeal, causing heads to turn all over the restaurant. Thank God she's sober, otherwise it would have been ever so much louder.

"So, tell me! Who is this mystery woman? Spill it, Johnny!"

"Ummm…well, it's not actually a woman." She goes still for a moment, then lets out another squeal.

"You dog! Mum's going to go spare. There goes her last chance at grandchildren. When did you switch to my side of the fence?"

I roll my eyes at her. "Why does there have to be a 'fence', Harry? Why does everyone feel the need to say, 'indicate your sexual preference here – tick only one box, please'? Why can't we simply love the people that we love, without labels?"

Harry regards me, shaking her head. "I wish it worked like that, Johnny, but you know how people are. Still, I won't tease you about it – for now." She grins roguishly. "I just want to hear more about the amazing man that brought you over to the dark side."

"It's Sherlock."

The grin falls from Harry's face so fast that it would be comical, if I didn't know what was coming. Thunderclouds form across her brow as she leans across the table at me.

"Sherlock! Sherlock Holmes? You're shagging Sherlock Bloody Holmes?"

"Look, Harry, I know you two don't get on…"

"Don't get on!" Harry's mouth is turned down in an ugly frown. "Sherlock Holmes is an arrogant, self-involved, patronizing, rude arsehole, Johnny. You can't possibly think that a relationship with Sherlock can work! He's not capable of that kind of caring. He's only going to hurt you!"

I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose with my thumb and forefinger, pursing my lips to hold back the angry retorts that come to mind. Keeping calm is important in dealing with Harry.

"Harry, I know you mean well. And yes, Sherlock can be all of those things at times – particularly when he's around someone that he sees as a threat to my well-being."

Harry glares at me, snapping out, "Are you saying that Sherlock thinks I'm 'a threat to your well-being,' Johnny? Oh, that's rich, coming from the man that got you stabbed last week!"

I hold up a placating hand, trying to still her invective, trying to make her understand.

"Harry, Sherlock sees how frustrated I get when you and I…don't get on. He sees how much it bothers me, and that bothers him. Is it any wonder that he would feel some hostility toward the person that makes me feel that way?"

Harry is still frowning mightily, but she doesn't snatch up her bag and storm out, so maybe we have a chance at working through this.

"Look, I need to go wash my hands before the food arrives – I just left the doctor's office to come here. Can we agree to discuss this rationally when I get back?"

I smile at her, using my sweet baby brother smile that I haven't trotted out in years. It works. She lets out a huffy little laugh, and nods. I excuse myself and go to find the loo.

oOoOo

I am standing at the washbasin, reaching for a towel to dry my hands, when I hear the plummy voice.

"Hello again! John…Wilson, isn't it? Sherlock Holmes'…'friend'?"

Sebastian Sodding Wilkes.

I reach for every ounce of self-control within me, willing myself to think before acting. I turn, slowly, feeling my spine lock rigidly into a military bearing.

"It's Watson, actually."

"Watson, yes, of course." The pompous sod looks at himself in the mirror, making sure his appearance is still sleek and polished, that of a successful banker. "Well, well, well. How are you? Things going well in the consulting detective business?"

I give him a cool nod, clenching my jaw. I can't quite bring myself to speak to him again – I'm struggling too hard against horrible mental images of Sherlock being assaulted by this soulless monster.

He tries again. "How is our mutual friend?"

Is he insane? I am not imagining his emphasis on mutual – this bastard wants me to know that he shagged my boyfriend. I don't know what game he thinks he's playing, but he has no idea how close I am at this moment to murder.

"My boyfriend is in excellent health, thank you." I step closer to him, putting as much menace into my stance as I can. "And Wilkes – if you know what's good for you, you will never, ever contact Sherlock again."

"What's your problem, Watson?" He smirks, eyebrows arching, at my hostile tone. "Oh, dear, did the freak tell you about how he liked it rough, back when he was with me? Is that where the attitude is coming from? He told you how I used to ride him hard, and make him beg for mercy?"

That's it. I have no idea what possessed the fool to open his mouth, but I intend to close it.

Stepping forward, I seize Wilkes by his ridiculous, affected cravat and whirl him around to slam him back against the washbasins. Hooking a foot behind his ankle, I knock him off-balance so that he winds up falling backward against the countertop. He struggles not to slide to the floor, unable to remain standing, thanks to the steep angle of his legs. Still gripping his neckwear, I bend him backward even harder over the basin, and thrust my face next to his, staring him down. Despite our fairly substantial size difference, he is wheezing in fear, cringing under my attack.

"'Liked it rough'? You are actually going to try to tell me that Sherlock wanted to be raped?"

"Raped? He wanted it! The little whore loves rough sex – " I slam the back of his head back against the taps. Bright red blood swirls into the basin, but I'm not remotely sorry to see it.

"Listen to me well, Sebastian Wilkes. You raped Sherlock, repeatedly, and bragged about it to a roomful of witnesses on at least one occasion, even offering them the chance to rape him, as well. There is no time limit on bringing a rape charge against you."

He is nearly purple in the face now, struggling to gain a foothold, and unable to breathe freely, because of the tight grip I have on his cravat and throat.

"You won't be able to prove anything," he chokes out. "It's his word against mine, and everyone knows what he's like. No one would believe a freak like him over me."

The rage surges higher in me. I fight to maintain my control, and if in the process he just happens to bang his head hard against the tap again…well, it could be a lot worse, right?

I manage to keep my voice level. "I think you are aware of the Holmes family's influence – any charges filed will stick. Sherlock works very closely with many of the detectives at Scotland Yard, and I'm certain that, if the story comes out, they'd be very interested to make your acquaintance." I tighten my grip on his throat still further for a moment, and see the fear in his eyes as he fights to breathe. There's a reason that I keep this side of me under firm control. The urge to continue choking him is almost irresistible.

I resist it. I loosen my grip slightly, then push my face down even closer, so my nose is pressed hard against his own. I can smell the stench of wasabi on his breath. I speak very softly, making my voice as cold and ruthless as possible.

"One other thing you should remember, Wilkes. Before I met Sherlock, I was in the army. I'm a crack shot, and picked up a few other skills as well, including learning quite a few ways to kill a man. I've killed soldiers before – it would be no effort for me to kill a toff like you. Do you understand me?"

He nods dumbly. I release the cravat, shoving him back harder, so that he slides to the floor. After staring at me for a moment, he scrambles to his feet.

"You'll regret this – "

He gets no further. Swinging harder than I ever have in my life, I punch him across the right cheekbone, feeling the bone crunch satisfyingly under my knuckles. The blow propels him violently back against the mirror. He slumps over the washbasins again, slides to the floor, and lies in a dazed heap on the tiled floor.

I loom over him, and meet his eyes one more time.

"For the last time, stay the hell away from my boyfriend."

I turn, check my appearance in the mirror, smooth my hair, and walk out to rejoin my sister for lunch.

oOoOo

Harry has quite a few arguments against trying to make a go of a relationship with Sherlock. It is hard work to convince her of my sincerity, of my love for this impossible man. How do I explain the quicksilver charm and beauty of Sherlock Holmes? How do I convey what a beautiful heart he has, buried deep under that prickly armour?

Amazingly, the thing that seems to tip the balance in my favour is Sebastian Wilkes, of all people. As Harry and I are finishing our lunch, he passes our table, sporting a rapidly purpling bruise that covers the right side of his face. The eye that isn't swollen shut meets mine, and a visible shudder passes through his whole frame. He averts his gaze, and swiftly makes his limping way past us. Unblinking, I watch him until he's out of the restaurant, then turn back to find Harry regarding me shrewdly.

"I wondered about the abrasions on your knuckles, Johnny. Aren't you a little old to be fighting in the washroom?" She smirks, enjoying the look of surprise on my face. "What – Sherlock's the only one who can deduce things about people? That bloke was cringing like a whipped dog, and you looked like…like…an action hero or something. Completely badarse, my little brother."

I grin at her, then say ruefully, "D'you think there's any chance Sherlock won't notice my knuckles?"

She laughs. "No chance at all. Was that…" she gestures vaguely after Wilkes, "because of Sherlock? Is he the reason that you got into a dust-up in the loo?"

I nod, and say, "Harry, that arsehole back there is part of the reason Sherlock has so many issues. He's damn lucky to be alive right now. I haven't been that close to killing someone in ages."

Harry studies me for a moment. "I hope Sherlock knows how lucky he is to have you, Johnny. Next time I see him, I'm going to tell him so. How does next weekend sound?"

"For what?"

"Dinner? You and Sherlock, having dinner with me?"

I know it will be a challenge, and the evening will almost certainly be a disaster, but Harry is trying to be supportive, and that means a lot to me.

I grin at her. "Sounds great."

oOoOo

The cab halts outside 221B Baker Street. I climb out and pay the fare, then turn to stare at the front door for a moment. Behind that door is the man I love, the man I spent a good part of the afternoon fighting for, with Harry and Sebastian Wilkes.

Now, to face the genius himself, and hope he doesn't figure out what I did this afternoon. I let myself in, and head up the stairs to the flat.

As I walk in the door to the empty sitting room, I peel off my jacket and scarf, drape them over the coat rack. Sherlock's coat and scarf are already hanging there. The sliding doors to the kitchen are closed again, so I walk over and knock softly on the glass, then slide the doors open.

Ohhhhhh.

I'm not even sure I'm in the right kitchen for a moment. Every surface is clean and shining, there are no chemistry experiments in evidence, and the (clean!) table is set for two. Votive candles in glass cups glow on every available surface, and Vivaldi's The Four Seasons plays softly from an ipod dock in the corner by the bedroom door. I stand in the doorway, overwhelmed.

Sherlock steps out of his (our?) bedroom. He's wearing a pair of dark, tight-fitting jeans (dear God, those jeans!), and the purple shirt that shows off his gorgeous neck. The candlelight makes his ivory skin glow, somehow putting me in mind of paintings by Botticelli. He smiles softly at me.

"Welcome home, John."

oOoOo