[Author's Note: It's been a little more than a week since my last update (this one did not come easily), so I'm going to post it hot off the presses and reserve the right to edit it later. :-D It was a tricky one, but I think sets us up nicely for the rest of the fic. It's going to get smutty all up in here, so the rating will likely change with the next chapter. As a reminder, when it does, the story will no longer appear under the default search, which shows stories K through T. Thanks!]
John felt unbelievably light, like he could just float away. All the anger and uncertainty of the past few days seemed to have melted away, leaving him buzzing with simple happiness. Sherlock wanted him. Tomorrow he might worry again, knowing that Sherlock was skittish and changeable and easily bored, but for tonight he just wanted to hold this knowledge close to him, to savor it.
He gave Sherlock's wrist a final squeeze. "I'm fair knackered," he said, "and you must be too."
He pulled back the duvet and fumbled over to the other side of the bed, drawing Sherlock down with him as he lay down.
"Sleep is inefficient," Sherlock grumbled, but John could sense the half-heartedness of his complaining. He was already nestling into his pillow, his breath turning slow and soft with relaxation.
John smiled, pulling the duvet up over both of them. They lay side by side, and yet John couldn't help himself. His hand strayed out until his fingertips were just barely brushing Sherlock's wrist, finding the tender skin there still slightly damp from his mouth. Sherlock's pulse beat warm and vibrant beneath, and it felt like every delicate oscillation of Sherlock's pulse echoed in John's own heart. Suddenly, the slender tendons beneath his hand pulled taut and twisted. With the flexibility of his violinist's wrists Sherlock brushed his fingertips down the back of John's hand, from wrist to fingertips, without dislodging John's touch on his pulse. He did it once, twice, and a third time, each gentle stroke sending sparks through John's body.
John sighed in happiness, the beat of Sherlock's pulse and the stroking of his fingertips a gentle accompaniment to their soft breaths. He let the brush of Sherlock's touch lull him into sleep, beguiled with visions of what else those clever graceful hands could do.
He woke sometime deep in the night, wrapped in a luxurious warmth. As he slowly surfaced toward consciousness he realized that he and Sherlock were tangled together again. He raised his head slightly, taking in their relative positions. Hard to tell if one of them had gathered the other in; given that they were squarely in the middle of the bed they more likely had both moved toward each other, drawn as if by complementary magnets.
A sudden twitch from the body against his sharpened his attention. This must have been what woke him. He watched Sherlock's long, lean body closely in the dim light. There it was again, a twitch and a muffled whine. And then another and another, small smothered sounds of distress and aborted little jerky movements, as if Sherlock were dreaming of running, or fighting. Or falling, his traitorous mind supplied, stopping his breath for a moment.
"Shhh..." John breathed, gently tracing his blunt fingers through the shaggy hair. "It's okay, Sherlock. You're safe." Another few twitches. John felt unbearably protective as he looked down at the too-thin face, so vulnerable in sleep — sharp cheekbones and lush lips exaggerated by the dark shadows, a slight furrow of distress marring that wide, pale brow.
"Hush love," he heard himself say, his voice the barest whisper in the silent room. "You're all right now, Sherlock. You're home." He traced his fingers through the soft hair again, feeling Sherlock start to ease against his body. The pale brow smoothed, and Sherlock seemed to unconsciously push into John's touch. John smiled and pressed a kiss to the soft skin at Sherlock's temple before lying down again, gathering him close.
When John woke again the bed was empty. He could hear the gentle tapping of Sherlock at the computer keyboard. When he lifted his head, rubbing his bleary eyes, Sherlock was sitting fully dressed at the desk chair, his back stiff and straight, apparently engrossed in the computer.
"G'morning," John mumbled. No reply.
John hummed to himself, his happiness not diminished in the least by the morning light, and went into the loo. A shower and shave later and he felt much more awake. He was off today, the benefit of having worked a Sunday shift yesterday, so he changed into jeans, a t-shirt, and a soft jumper before wandering into the kitchen to make two cups of tea and two plates of toast.
He left tea and toast by Sherlock's elbow, moderately certain that it would still be there, ignored, by lunchtime. He brought in the paper, and since Sherlock had commandeered the only chair he settled down on the bed to read it. He sipped his tea, leafing through the paper, resisting the urge to call out headlines to Sherlock of what might be interesting cases. God, he would be happy when they got Moran out of the way. He wondered idly if they could find a way to re-let Baker Street. Maybe Sherlock could simulate a black mold infestation or something to encourage the current tenants to leave. He didn't think Mrs. Hudson would mind...
He skimmed through the classifieds, looking for the crossword. A flash of color caught his attention and he turned back a page. Someone had intercepted the paper and circled one of the ads in thick red ink. It looked like a standard legal notice regarding settlement of an estate, the kind of thing John would never have looked at twice. He set his teacup down and folded the paper, bringing it to Sherlock.
"Look at this."
Sherlock flicked his gaze over and his mouth pinched with annoyance.
"You know what it means?"
Sherlock nodded briefly, pausing all the video feeds running along the right-hand side of his screen, and doing something incredibly complicated to what seemed to be a window full of computer code that was taking up the majority of the rest of the large laptop screen before turning his attention more fully to John.
"It's Mycroft being whimsical," he said, with such contempt in the last word that John snorted in laughter. Sherlock slanted a glance up at him, a glint of amusement in his eyes. "This is how we communicated while I was away."
"So it's a code?" John rested his hip on the desk, looking at the ad in interest. "It looks just like the others."
"Exactly the point. It's not optimal for speed of communication, although now that The Times has put their advertisements online it is quicker than when we first established this contingency. But it is virtually impossible to crack. One would have to know which notice is false, and then know which book is needed to decode it. And the book we chose is such a rare edition as to be almost unobtainable."
"A book code, like the Black Lotus used?" His brow wrinkled. "But we can't decode it without the book." He was very aware that Sherlock had arrived at his flat with only the contents of his pockets — a wad of bills in a dozen different currencies and about five different passports, none of them in his actual name.
"Don't be ridiculous, John. Mycroft and I established this contingency as young men. We would hardly rely on carting a rare edition of a novel about with us everywhere. We both memorized it."
"Oh. Of course. Obviously." John rolled his eyes. He had a vision of Mycroft and Sherlock as young men, poring over some obscure volume, preparing for God only knows what mysterious circumstance that would require a coded exchange of messages. Christ, to have been a fly on the wall of the Holmes household as those two were growing up. "So, what's it say?"
John watched in fascination as Sherlock's eyelids fluttered, apparently accessing the book from his memory, crossing out numbers as he went and stopping every few moments to write a few words in the margin of the paper in his fine, spidery script. John started to see the pattern; the words were apparently inconsequential, the numbers paired in grouped in threes — apparently a three-digit page number and a three-digit word number. Sherlock got to the end and John squinted at the writing more closely.
"French, no less," he teased. "You poncey bastards."
Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John before translating aloud. "Flat four two zero, send your doctor to retrieve."
"That's down the hall," John remarked, hiding the little frisson of pleasure that ran through him at the term your doctor.
Sherlock nodded. "It appears Mycroft has sent us a package. Would you, John?"
"John-of-all-trades and general fetcher of things, at your service," John answered good-naturedly.
The box was big indeed, addressed to the woman in 420. John had often noticed parcels outside her door so the delivery had likely gone unnoticed by anyone watching the building. You could not fault Mycroft's research.
John wrestled it back into his flat and opened it up. Enough clothing for Sherlock that John would have to clear space in his wardrobe, a few non-perishable foodstuffs that Sherlock might be tempted to actually consume, and another external hard drive.
John brought the hard drive over to Sherlock, who fell on it with a glad exclamation. He immediately hooked it up and started skimming through the contents in yet another window. John puttered around contentedly, stowing everything away. He put a few of the chocolate biscuits on a plate, swapping them out for the untouched cold toast, and settled back in to do the Sudoku.
As lunchtime approached he considered his options, pulling a few different takeaway menus from his drawer. He cast a glance at the apparently unnoticed plate of biscuits by Sherlock's elbow and decided there was no point in asking Sherlock what he would like. He would order from the restaurant that gave the biggest portions, and see if he could force the leftovers on Sherlock for dinner at least.
He had just pulled out his mobile to call the Indian place when Sherlock spoke.
"So you've changed your mind, then?"
"Hmmm?" He looked at the menus he had put away. "About Thai? I didn't think you had a preference."
"Not about Thai. About...us." John raised his head in surprise, belatedly paying closer attention. Sherlock's eyes were fixed on the computer screen, his voice carefully neutral and his posture stiff and guarded.
John carefully put the menu and mobile down, and walked over to Sherlock's side.
"Sherlock," he said gently, as the obstinate man pretended to ignore him, tapping away on the computer despite the color high on his cheeks. John sighed and grasped the desk chair, one hand solid on the back of it and one gripping the seat perilously close to Sherlock's groin. With a giant heave he turned the entire combination of chair and gangly man to face him.
Wrenched away from the computer, Sherlock folded his hands in his lap, frowning down at them intently. John cupped his face gently with one hand, not forcing it upwards, just providing a point of contact. "I have not changed my mind," he stated firmly. "Why on earth would you think that?"
Sherlock raised his head at that, and John's heart twisted to see the surprise and wariness in his light eyes. Those eyes darted around the room, taking in the newspaper, the cup of tea, John's shaven face...
"Ah." John smiled indulgently, the knot of worry in his belly easing. "Too much business as usual?" He traced his fingers behind Sherlock's ear, ruffling the hair there before leaning in. "I know better than to distract you while you're working," he breathed into Sherlock's ear, glorying in the fine shiver that ran through Sherlock's body in response. "If you wanted me to throw you on the bed and snog you silly instead, you had only to ask." He ended with a quick lick and a nip to Sherlock's earlobe, smiling at the sharp intake of breath that elicited.
He straightened back up, watching the calculations ticking through Sherlock's marvelous eyes as the man apparently revised his deductions. "You were...allowing me to work?" Sherlock repeated tentatively, as if testing out the words.
"I know the work comes first," John said, trying to inject as much reassurance into his tone as possible. "And we both want this bastard Moran neutralized. But whenever you want me, Sherlock, I'm here." He leaned in again, watching Sherlock's eyes widen and his breath catch at his proximity. He stopped a few inches away, letting Sherlock take him in, breathing each other's air. "Like I said last night. Whatever you want. For as long as you want." It felt dangerous and exciting, laying himself so bare.
He grazed his lips over Sherlock's jaw, indulging himself in a small sucking bite to that elegant neck that had Sherlock gasping in surprise. John gave a final nip and pulled back to see Sherlock's pupils blown wide with arousal. He smiled wickedly, letting his voice go low and hoarse with everything he was feeling. "In the meantime, I'm more than content to lie over there on the bed, watching you and thinking of all the things I'd like to do to you..." His tongue darted out to wet his lips, and he saw Sherlock's gaze hone in on the movement. He looked mesmerized.
"What would you like to do to me?" Sherlock asked, his own voice gone low and ragged. The words from anyone else would seem like a tease, but John took in Sherlock's openly curious gaze and realized that Sherlock really didn't entirely know.
"In time...everything," John rasped honestly. Now Sherlock licked his own lips and John was the one mesmerized, eyes fixed on that adorable cupid's bow upper lip and the lush pink lower lip, now glistening temptingly. "...But first...Jesus Christ Sherlock, your bloody mouth," he said fervently.
Sherlock studied John's face for a moment, and then gave a quick nod of assent. John leaned in to capture those amazing lips, and...encountered only empty air, as Sherlock slid fluidly to his knees in front of him.
John felt Sherlock's hands fumbling at his belt and let out a very undignified squawk of surprise. Half-laughing in reaction, he tried to raise Sherlock up by his elbows, and when that didn't work John fell rather less gracefully to his knees as well, both of them crammed into the small space between the bed and the desk.
"Sherlock..." he started, still chuckling, his hands pinning Sherlock's at his waist. Sherlock went unnaturally still and John's amusement died.
"Problem?" Sherlock asked sharply, his expression suddenly guarded.
John looked at him with concern. "No. I just..." He felt like he was trying to find his footing on shifting ground. "I just meant — " He tried to smile but he could still feel his own brow furrowed with confusion as he reached out to run a thumb reverently across Sherlock's lower lip. "I just meant that I wanted to kiss you. If that's all right?" he ended uncertainly.
As if to taunt him further, Sherlock's lower lip protruded in a pout. "I told you, John, I'm not an innocent," he said acerbically. "You don't have to coddle me with preliminaries..."
"Preliminaries? Sherlock, if you don't like to kiss, just tell me — " John began earnestly.
He saw the flash of uncertainty before Sherlock could mask it, and felt like smacking himself on the forehead. Dammit, he should have known. How could he have overlooked the significance of that awkward kiss last night?
"You don't even know, do you? Christ, if I ever needed more proof that Wilkes was the biggest clot on the face of the earth..." He shook his head in stunned amazement as a slow-burning anger welled inside him once again. His voice was a low growl when he spoke again. "To have that mouth and not want to kiss it...that's a fucking crime..."
Before Sherlock could object he leaned in, capturing his lips, finding them stiff and closed against his. He nipped gently, sucking on Sherlock's lower lip, running his tongue over the closed seam of Sherlock's mouth until he felt him relax and open underneath him. Then he coaxed his way gently in, soft and sweet and hot, until finally Sherlock made a soft low sound that he swallowed and began to kiss him back.
John wrapped Sherlock up in his arms, pressing them closer until they were crushed together from lips to knees, both of them groaning at the contact of their bodies. Sherlock's kiss was all the more erotic for being unpracticed, John answering his tentative and experimental forays with tender assurance. Sherlock tasted of tea and spice and himself and John was greedy for it, licking his way in deeper with devouring strokes of his tongue, his blood singing with Sherlock's increasingly eager response.
He shuffled in closer, crowding Sherlock back against the bed, slipping his knee between Sherlock's until Sherlock was straddling his thigh, still kneeling. John gripped him tighter, pressing into him with every movement of their mouths, a slow dirty grind in counterpoint to the lazy tangling of their tongues.
John was a quiet man, at heart. There were a lot of things he was still holding back, things that he could not say to Sherlock outside of his dreams. But here, this, this was his language. Everything he couldn't tell Sherlock out loud he poured into his kiss. With the chaste barely-there brush of lips he said I care about you. The lush slide of his tongue into warmth said I want you. The fierce graze of his teeth against Sherlock's full bottom lip said I'll kill anyone who ever hurts you. And the soft, slow exploration, the sharing of breath, the gentle persuading — this relentless tender unraveling of Sherlock's reserve said I love you, I love you, I love you.
When he finally pulled away they were both breathless and gasping. John ignored Sherlock's noise of protest, letting his forehead slide down into the crook of Sherlock's neck. He pulled in a shuddering breath against the damp fragrant skin before finally lifting his head. He would remember this sight for the rest of his life. Sherlock looked completely undone — his face flushed, his eyes dazed and sleepy, his mouth kiss-swollen and lax. He was slumped back against the bed in utter abandon, still straddling John's knee, his hands gripping the shirt at John's waist.
John felt a sudden certainty. With the calm purpose and clarity of mind he had rarely experienced outside of the operating room or facing a gunman in a shadowy alley, he knew just what to do. He squared his shoulders, feeling his heart start to thump a fast yet steady beat.
"Liked that, did you?" he said gently, running his thumb over Sherlock's lower lip again, watching Sherlock's eyelids flutter in reaction. "How long will it take you to review all the footage?"
"Hmmm?" John felt an electrifying bolt of satisfaction as he saw Sherlock struggling to marshal his scattered wits.
"The footage," he repeated gently. "How long?"
Sherlock shrugged bonelessly. "So many variables," he murmured. "Number of hours of footage recorded per day, number of feeds streamed simultaneously..."
John smiled. "Estimate, beautiful," he said. "Factor in six hours per day for sleep," he added somewhat sternly.
Sherlock's face was something to see, a mixture of befuddlement, petulance, and stunned arousal...oh yes, John was reading this right.
"Sixteen point six seven days," Sherlock fumbled out, his eyes wide.
It had been two days already. John nodded once, decisively. "Two weeks then. Here's what's going to happen."
He gently detached Sherlock's fingers from his shirt and moved to sit beside him. He slung his arm around Sherlock's back, pulling him in close. "You're going to let me set the pace here." He could feel Sherlock tensing to object, and carried on obdurately. "You work on the footage and whatever other amazing and no-doubt illegal things you are doing on that laptop, but whenever you're ready for something else I'll be here. We're going to take it nice and slow, and figure out what we both like." He pressed a kiss to Sherlock's temple. "If there's anything you don't like, if you want me to stop, you just tell me. But let me lead, all right? Trust me on this."
"John. You don't need to..." Sherlock's voice was unsteady. Unconvincing.
"I don't need to," John said, interrupting with confidence. "I want to." He pressed another kiss to Sherlock's jaw. "I am going to seduce you, Sherlock Holmes," he rumbled into Sherlock's ear, smiling as Sherlock's breath grew unsteady again. "Not because you need it, but because you deserve it. We both do." He gave Sherlock a squeeze. "Trust me?"
Sherlock's head lifted, those uncanny pale eyes looking at John with complete sincerity. "I've always trusted you, John."
John felt the last bit of tension leaving his shoulders. "Good." He kissed Sherlock one more time, swift and soft — a promise. "That's good."
[Please review! :-D]