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. References to previous abusive relationship.

Many, many thanks to my beta, Skyfullofstars, for the help and support, especially with this chapter. You're fabulous, Sky.

Also, thanks to emma de los nardos for the encouragement!

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Chapter 6

My beloved is radiant and ruddy,

outstanding among ten thousand.

His head is purest gold;

his hair is wavy and black as a raven.

His eyes are like doves by the water streams,

washed in milk, mounted like jewels.

His cheeks are like beds of spice yielding perfume.

His lips are like lilies dripping with myrrh.

His arms are rods of gold set with topaz.

His body is like polished ivory decorated with lapis lazuli.

His legs are pillars of marble set on bases of pure gold.

His appearance is like Lebanon, choice as its cedars.

His mouth is sweetness itself; he is altogether lovely.

This is my beloved, this is my friend, daughters of Jerusalem.

– Song of Solomon

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I'm speechless, gazing around a spotless kitchen filled with candles. Sherlock smiles, obviously enjoying my dumbfounded expression. As I stand there, floundering for adequate words, the doorbell chimes. Sherlock leaps for the door.

"That's Angelo's. Hold that thought – I'll be right back."

He charges down the stairs, and I hear him talking to Billy at the door. Then he is galloping back up the stairs, two at a time.

"I got you the lasagna. I know you like the way Angelo makes it. Is that all right?"

"Lasagna's fine, it's perfect. Everything's perfect, Sherlock. I can't believe you did all of this…for me."

"Who better to do it for, John? I'd say you've earned it, after the week you've had." He pulls out a chair at the table, gesturing toward it. As I sit down in the offered chair, he picks up a bottle of red wine, already opened, and pours some into the wineglass in front of me, then pours another glass for himself.

"So, how was lunch with Harry? How much sake did she drink?"

"None at all, actually." I start to reach for the glass of wine with my left hand, remember my knuckles, and use my right hand, instead. Hoping he hasn't noticed, I continue, "We're having dinner with her next weekend. Is that all right?"

"So you told her about us, then?" Sherlock looks dubious as he sits down in the other chair. "I'm surprised she's willing to spend any time with me – she's certainly not my biggest fan."

I set down my wine, reach out to rest my right hand on his. "She had a few…comments…about your personality, but she came around later. She's trying to be supportive. She remembers what coming out was like."

And she was impressed by my pounding your ex into the bathroom floor.

Sherlock nods, looking thoughtful. "All right – I'll try to 'keep my opinions to myself,' as you have so often phrased it."

"That would be appreciated."

He stands up, and goes to open the bags from Angelo's. As he deftly transfers the food to plates, he asks, "How was the follow-up visit with Dr. Sorenson?" He pauses a moment, then adds, "Are you fine to resume all…physical activities?"

How does a perfectly innocent phrase like "resume all physical activities" make butterflies start flapping wildly around in my belly? Maybe it has something to do with it being spoken by a voice that sounds like melted chocolate.

"Yes, he agreed with what I already told you, Sherlock – I'm healing very well, and should be able to do anything that doesn't cause discomfort."

Sherlock sets the plates on the table, and sits back down. Lifting his wineglass, he tilts it toward me in a toast.

"To your very good health then, John Hamish Watson." His eyes twinkle at me above the edge of his glass.

I lift my own glass in a return toast. "And to my fabulous boyfriend, who took such good care of me this week, Sherlock Sherrinford Holmes." I grin at him.

Sherlock sets down his glass so quickly that wine splashes onto the table, spluttering, "Bloody Mycroft! I can't believe he told you that. How long have you known my middle name?"

I'm laughing too hard to answer him. He glares at me for a moment, then his expression changes to a comical mix of irritation and pleasure.

"Is that what I am? Your boyfriend?"

I manage to swallow down the rest of my giggles, and reach out to take his hand again. "Well, I'd say you're more than just a friend, wouldn't you?"

He smiles, lifts my hand to kiss it…and goes completely still.

"John, what happened to your hand?"

Bugger. I forgot to use my right hand.

Sherlock is studying my knuckles, then looking over my face, with that laser-like focus that he has on a case. I am silent, well aware that anything I say now will only provide more clues. I really don't want to tell him about the confrontation with Sebastian Wilkes. I was hoping for a romantic evening, a chance to work on taking our physical relationship forward a bit. Telling Sherlock I assaulted his monstrous ex is hardly likely to further that goal. Oh, well.

"John, I asked you a question. Obviously, this isn't from your time with Dr. Sorenson, and, given that you plan on having dinner with her, plus the fact that you aren't the sort of man who would punch his sister, I doubt it's from Harry. So, how did this happen?"

I sigh, stand up, and gently pull my hand free. I move my hand to rest on his cheek for a moment, to reassure him that I'm not walking out. Picking up our plates, I set them in the oven, turn it on low, and then reach for Sherlock's hand again, leading him into the sitting room to sit together on the sofa.

"Sherlock, I have to tell you about something that happened today. I'm sorry – this is probably going to upset you, which is why I didn't say anything about it before."

Sherlock's face is so still, his eyes intently focused on my face. He still holds my left hand in both of his, and his fingers trace carefully over the knuckles, as if examining evidence by braille.

"When I was at lunch today with Harry, I…ran into someone."

I look down for a moment, needing to escape the intensity of those moonstone eyes.

"John." His voice is so deep, so commanding, that I'm startled. I look back up, and meet his piercing gaze.

Right. Here goes.

"I saw Sebastian Wilkes."

Sherlock is one of the palest people I've ever known. His skin is like milk or porcelain, it's so smooth and fair. So, I'm startled to see colour drain from his face – I didn't know it was possible for him to be paler. His lips become pinched and white.

"What happened?"

"Sherlock, it's all right. Don't look like that!" I raise my free hand to stroke curls back from his face, trying to stroke that look off of his face. He tilts his head and sets his jaw in the way that tells me that I need to come clean right now.

"He spoke to me, and made some rather nasty remarks about you. I told him to stay away from you, and…well, I may have used some physical force to drive my point home."

Sherlock looks stunned.

"How much 'physical force' did your point…require, exactly?"

I bite my lip, looking down. "Errmm…I feel fairly certain that I broke his cheekbone. And he almost certainly needed some stiches to his scalp. His back probably isn't doing him any favors, either. And he probably will have a bit of a tender throat for a day or two–"

My words are abruptly cut off as warm lips crush down on mine. I find myself on my back, being flattened into the sofa cushions by a thoroughly aroused consulting detective. His hands are everywhere, stroking my face, running down my ribs, clutching at my hip, reaching around to grip my arse. His seeking tongue plunders my mouth, tangling with my own. Then he breaks away to kiss his way along my jaw to my ear, leaving me gasping.

His voice in my ear is deep and rough, and it sends a thrilling shiver down my spine. "John. You are amazing. No one has ever been on my side, fought battles for me, the way that you do."

He licks and bites his way down the side of my neck, stopping to give me a new lovebite. Then he pulls back, gazing into my eyes.

"May I take you to bed?"

All of the breath explodes out of me in a rush. I cup his face in my hands, kiss him softly, and ask, "Are you sure?"

His just-for-John smile is heartbreakingly beautiful.

"I've never been more sure of anything in my life."

oOoOo

When we step into Sherlock's (our?) bedroom, I'm astonished. The kitchen was nothing compared to this.

At least four dozen more of the little votive candles are glowing softly, and the neatly turned-back bed has honest-to-God rose petals scattered over it. Vivaldi still plays softly. It is like a scene from a romance novel.

I turn to look at Sherlock, and find him smiling at me with a touch of smugness in his expression.

"According to Angelo, candles make things more romantic."

I laugh. "Seems to me that Angelo knew the truth about us long before I did."

"So you like it, then?"

"Like it? It's amazing, you incredible man."

I draw him to me, reaching up to pull his face down for a kiss. His warm arms circle around my waist, pulling me closer to him. My lips part beneath his, and his tongue slips smoothly across my own. I press up into the kiss, eagerly responding, my hands roving over his long, slim back. I slide both hands down to his luscious buttocks, gripping firmly. Sherlock chuckles into my mouth.

"Pardon me, sir, but you seem to be grabbing my arse."

I laugh. "Can you blame me? You have the most gorgeous arse I've ever seen, ever. It's been driving me mad this week – every time you turn around, or bend over to pick something up, there it is." I give the arse in question a firm squeeze. "Now I can finally get my hands on it. I think you should probably get used to me being a bit handsy for a while."

Sherlock chuckles, then sighs, tightening his hold on me. He pulls me into a tight hug, and I wrap my arms around his waist, simply enjoying being close to him.

"I love you, John," he whispers into my hair. "This thing with you – I never knew it was possible to feel like this. I've kept myself apart from people for so long, and I'm not at all sure I'm going to be much good for you." He laughs ruefully. "We've been together for eight days, and I've already managed to get you stabbed."

I clutch him tighter for a moment, then pull back to look into his eyes. They are a stunning cerulean blue in the candlelight. God, he's so beautiful.

"Sherlock, don't you know that you're the best thing that ever happened to me?" I run a hand over his smooth-shaven cheek, pull him down for a soft, lingering kiss. "I was so alone before I met you, only half-alive. You changed all of that, brought light and colour back into my life. I owe you everything."

"John." His voice is hoarse, breaking. He wraps his arms even tighter around me, then pulls back, to seize my mouth in a bruising kiss.

My body's response is immediate and fierce. Desire pools along the base of my spine, and I insinuate my knee between Sherlock's, pressing against his groin. I can feel a hot, hard pressure rising there, and I groan into his mouth.

Sherlock's hands are between us now, working at the buttons of my shirt. I reciprocate with trembling fingers, and we push the shirts from each other's shoulders. I break the kiss, both of us gasping, and stroke my tongue along his jaw to the shell of his ear.

Sherlock's fingers are sliding over my chest, then he pauses as he reaches the starburst of scar tissue on my left shoulder. His attention diverted, he continues to stroke the scar with his left hand, while winding his right hand around to find the much larger, Y-shaped scar just above my scapula.

Sherlock's fingers tentatively trace my scars, feeling the texture, mapping the uneven terrain. He studies the one below my clavicle closely, with the same razor-sharp focus that he has at a crime scene. His head dips forward, and he kisses it softly, almost reverently. I draw in a shuddering gasp, deeply moved by the tenderness of the gesture.

He whispers, "How did it happen?"

"Our unit was pinned down in a firefight. One of the marines, Danny Foley, was shot in the thigh. I ran to him, and saw that he was hit in the femoral artery, and was bleeding out. I was applying a tourniquet when it happened."

I swallow, closing my eyes against the remembered pain. We're quiet for a moment. Finally, I blurt it out, wanting nothing more than to finish this sodding story and get back to being happy, being lost in Sherlock, who always helps me to put that day behind me.

"It felt like…I'd been hit by a truck. Everything went white for a minute, and all I could think about was the pain. Then my vision cleared, and I realised I was face to face with Danny. He was barely breathing, and the ground around him was soaked with his blood. I hadn't gotten the tourniquet on in time. By the time the medics got to us, it was too late. I lay there, useless, and watched a man in my care bleed to death."

I feel Sherlock's hand in my hair, stroking and soothing. He says nothing, just pulls me into his arms and holds me. For a man who claims to have no social skills, no feelings, he certainly knows exactly what I need. And he's the only person, ever, to have gotten it right.

Every therapist, every doctor, everyone, feels the need to reassure me when they hear this story. They all tell me that I wasn't being useless, that I was injured, and couldn't have possibly done any more.

I already know this. It doesn't make any difference to know, intellectually, that I saved dozens of lives in Afghanistan. It doesn't make a difference to know that I was only shot because I was trying to save another life. I still feel the pain of having failed Danny Foley. I always will.

Sherlock is the first person to understand the futility of those "reassuring" words. He's the first person who really understands who I am, how I think.

He's a bloody miracle.

oOoOo

Sherlock is gently kissing me again, pulling me back from Afghanistan, back to London, back to Baker Street, back to him. When did Sherlock become the center of the universe? Somehow, I was sucked into his gravitational field, and now my entire existence revolves around this marvelous, brilliant, fantastic madman. And I wouldn't want it any other way.

The madman in question is breathing into my ear now, murmuring, "John," in a voice like warm honey, and suddenly my libido is back in business.

I seize his face in my hands and kiss him hard, tongues circling and tangling. Then I release his mouth, move to his neck, and suck hard at the sensitive point where neck becomes shoulder, and Sherlock gasps as I suck warmth to the surface. I continue licking and nibbling along Sherlock's clavicle as, my hands on his hips, I draw him over to the bed.

I unfasten his belt, then his trousers. He moans as I slip my hands into the back of his trousers and grab two handfuls of his lush arse. When I raise my hands again to stroke them up the smooth skin of his back, the opened trousers start to slip from his slim hips, and I ease them down to pool around his ankles. Now I gently push him back to sit on the bed, and I tug off his shoes, socks and trousers, leaving him wearing only a pair of midnight blue silk boxers.

Sherlock's hands are on my belt now, and he swiftly strips me of my jeans, shoes and socks. His hands hesitate on the waistband of my dark green boxer briefs, and he swallows hard, looking up at me with those incredible eyes.

"John? I…I don't really know…that is, I haven't done this in so long, and…I…I…"

"Sssshhhhh." I cup his face in my hands, and kiss him softly, then I gently press my hands against his shoulders, pushing him back to lie flat on the bed. I take the waistband of his pants and slide them down, and Sherlock lifts his hips so I can pull them off.

Ohhhh. Sherlock's body is exquisite. He is all planes and angles, smooth muscle and alabaster. Feeling rather self-conscious about my slightly softening waistline, I shuck off my pants and move onto the bed. Sherlock's eyes follow me, and the desire and love in his eyes tells me that he likes what he sees, too.

I climb over to straddle his waist, and rest my hands on either side of his head as I lean down to kiss him. As his arms come up to circle my waist, I stretch my legs out full-length, so that our bodies are pressed together, from chest to knee. He feels amazing against me, his warm skin so at odds with its cool appearance.

Damn. He's trembling again. It's the same trembling I saw that first night, where he wound up retreating into his mind when things got too intense. I have to do something to stop that from happening.

I roll us over so that we are both lying on our sides, kissing him the whole time. He groans and tries to pull me back on top of him, but I gently resist, and pull away, trying to break the kiss.

"Sherlock…mmmf…wait a minute. There's something I want to tell you."

Sherlock loosens his grip on me. I pull back, prop up on one elbow, and stroke my hand down his side from shoulder to hip. He hums with pleasure at the touch.

"I've been doing a lot of…well, I guess you could say, research, on…on gay sex. On what that even means." He arches an eyebrow at me, but says nothing, and I continue, "It seems to me that neither of us has any meaningful experience in this area."

Sherlock rolls his eyes at me. "John, I'm not exactly an innocent."

"That's precisely what you are, Sherlock. An innocent. The sum total of your sexual experience has been with a violent, abusive man. You have never been in a romantic, consensual relationship."

Sherlock's eyes drop, unable to meet mine. I gently take his chin and tilt it so that he can't avoid my gaze, looking deep into those incredible pools of blue-grey.

"Never feel like you can't look at me, Sherlock. You have nothing – nothing – to be ashamed of."

He nods, and the look in his eyes…God, I would die for this man. I lean forward and kiss him softly, chastely.

I draw a shaky breath, and continue, "So, it turns out that 'gay sex' is hardly just one act. Forgive me if I'm wrong, but I got the impression that you assumed that…that anal sex was the de facto sex act. Am I wrong?"

Sherlock blushes all over, from his hairline to his toes, which is really rather charming. And diverting. And arousing.

(Keep it together, John.)

"I've also performed oral sex, John."

"Okay. Right. So…any other kinds of sexual experience?"

He shakes his head. I'm not surprised.

"And…you haven't been on the receiving end of either of those two…acts, correct?"

"You really, really know how to set a mood, John." Sherlock laughs. I can't help but laugh with him, but I really am trying to be serious, so I get my giggling under control.

"Sorry to be approaching this like I would a patient exam, but I just wanted all of the facts before we got started."

"Sherlock, there are plenty of gay men out there who never engage in anal sex. At all. Ever. And there are others who only do it occasionally, those who only 'top' or 'bottom', and those who are versatile in that regard. There are many who only engage in frottage. And of course, there's oral sex, as well."

"In other words, love, we don't need to do anything that makes you feel uncomfortable – there are lots of options. And we can always work up to things you're unsure about."

Sherlock's opalescent eyes are wide, and slightly amused.

"Well, John, you've certainly been thorough in your research."

I reach out to stroke his cheek, and let my hand continue on a downward path, stroking his neck, continuing down his chest.

"Well, let's see how good I am at putting research into practical application, shall we?"

I keep caressing Sherlock's body, with long, teasing touches. He tentatively mirrors my actions, running his hands over my chest, my hip, my thigh. We are kissing again, soft, languorous kisses, and allowing our hands to wander over each other's bodies. I love the feel of his string-calloused fingertips mapping their way across my skin, exploring each inch of me as though he's trying to memorize me.

I lightly trace the fine line of dark hair that starts at his navel, thickening as it goes lower. Sherlock sucks in a sharp breath as I allow my fingertips to barely graze his half-hard cock. I'm astonished at the jolt that surges through me as I touch that silky skin.

Very slowly, I reach out and wrap a hand around Sherlock's erection. He gasps and thrusts against my hand. I swallow hard to quell the responsive surge in my own groin.

Remembering what sensations I enjoy, I grip him more firmly, stroking him with his silken foreskin. I rub my thumb over the bead of precome at the tip, and Sherlock moans, rolling onto his back and throwing his head back. I can't resist leaning in to suck and bite at that long, swanlike neck as I continue to stroke him. The volume of the resulting moan makes me devoutly hope that Mrs. Hudson is out.

I move on from his neck, kissing and nibbling my way down his chest. When I lave my tongue across his nipple, Sherlock gasps and starts up from the bed, then subsides with a low moan. I move further south, savoring the salty tang of the skin on his gorgeously flat belly. As I move lower, my tongue making soft circles along his hip, then down his inguinal crease, his gasping moans grow even louder. It's time.

I'm trying so hard not to feel weird about doing this. It's so hard to stay focused on what I'm doing, when my brain won't quit screaming Sherlock's cock oh my God you're actually going to suck Sherlock's cock.

Jesus, John. Get a grip. This is no time for a sexual crisis. This is Sherlock.

Right. Leaning down, I tease my tongue along the exposed glans, tasting the salt of the precome as I tongue his slit. That's different. But…it's nice, too.

As I take the swollen head in my mouth, stroking my tongue along the frenulum, I hear Sherlock gasp out, "John! John!"

I look up at Sherlock – and it's a wonder that I don't come right then and there.

He is so fucking gorgeous. His curly, dark head is thrown back against the pillow, his fists clench in the sheets above his head, and his skin is flushed pink with arousal. His eyes are closed, the black lashes throwing dark shadows on his unearthly cheekbones.

I'm suddenly reminded of a poster of William Rimmer's Evening: Fall of Day* that my university dorm mate had on his wall, and I wouldn't be surprised to see huge, feathery wings sprouting from Sherlock's shoulders. He does look like a fallen angel, debauched and brought down to earth.

Of course, William Rimmer's angel didn't have a (hot, gorgeous) cock.

I try to take more of Sherlock in my mouth, working my tongue in swirls around the head. I cup his bollocks in my other hand, rolling them gently, and Sherlock moans in pleasure. Then I firmly press a knuckle against his perineum, and Sherlock lets out a howl, arching up off the bed. Encouraged, I try to take him even further into my mouth.

Gah. Gag reflex. Not good.

I back off a bit, blinking reflexive tears back from my eyes, and wrap my hand around his shaft, working it in time with the movement of my mouth. I'm no deep-throat, and this may not be the world's best blowjob (oh, God, I'm giving Sherlock a blowjob – shut up, John!), but Sherlock seems to be enjoying it.

I look up at him.

Ohhhh. He's watching me. The pupils of his wide eyes are blown, dark with arousal, and his sinfully sexy mouth is forming a perfect O. I meet his eyes, looking up at him through my lashes without stopping my movements, and when our eyes meet, we both groan.

"John!" His hands spasmodically clench in the sheets. "I want…I need…something…"

I hum around him, and tighten my grip a bit, stroking faster.

And he comes undone. "John! Joohhnnn!"

Well, this is certainly a new sensation. I don't quite know what to do with this sudden warm mouthful, and finally just swallow it down. I keep stroking Sherlock through the aftershocks, until he gasps and seizes my hand to hold it still. Clearly this is a skill that I'll need to work on perfecting.

Then he pulls me up to kiss me, holding me tight in his arms, and he's crying. Oh my God, I made him cry.

"Sherlock? Are you all right?" I cup his face in my hands, kissing the tears away from his tightly closed eyes, stroking his cheeks with my thumbs. "Sherlock, love, did I hurt you?"

"No, no!" He gulps back a sob. "No, John, you didn't hurt me. I'm sorry – I don't know what's happening to me. My breathing has gone all funny."

"You're crying, Sherlock. Why?"

"I'm crying?" He raises a hand, touches the moisture on his face. "I'm crying."

I smile at the look of astonishment on his face.

"How odd," he murmurs. Then he groans and pulls me closer to him, kissing me thoroughly. His hands rove over my back, sliding down to cup my arse and pull me hard against him.

My own erection, rather diminished by the distress of seeing Sherlock cry, makes a new bid for attention. I find myself grinding against Sherlock's hip as we kiss, and the friction feels amazing. Sherlock's tongue plunders my mouth, and I rock harder against him, moaning in pleasure.

Sherlock feels the urgency of my movements, and he grips my arse harder, increasing the friction on my cock. I move faster still, and then suddenly I'm there, groaning into Sherlock's mouth as I spill across Sherlock's hip in rhythmic pulses.

oOoOo

We lie quietly together in bed (our bed!), Sherlock's head pillowed on my chest, arms and legs entwined. My fingers are carding absently through his silky curls, feeling his sweat dampened-hair gradually drying under my caresses.

One of the things that has been surprising about this whole experience is how cuddly Sherlock is. If I had given it any thought before, I would have assumed he would be the type to leap out of bed for a shower, then charge headlong into the next activity, whatever that might be. It's been a delightful discovery to find that postcoital Sherlock is so tactile, almost clingy.

I hate to break the spell, but I'm ravenous, and I can smell our food still warming in the oven.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmmm?" He nuzzles into my neck, clings tighter.

"As much as I'd like to lie here forever, I really need to visit the loo, and I'm starving. Can we eat the lovely dinner you arranged for us?"

Sherlock shifts, and sits up, smiling down at me. "Should I bring it back to bed, and we'll eat off trays?"

"No, let's eat in the kitchen, then come back to bed…for dessert."

Sherlock grins wickedly.

"Excellent plan, John – I want to explore every inch of you."

"We'd better eat fast, then."

oOoOo

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* Here's a picture of the painting John likens to Sherlock (remove spaces) : www. allpaintings d/ 115264-1 / William+ Rimmer+-+ Evening_+ Fall+of+Day . jpg