[Author's Note: So, this was supposed to be a simple little plot-progressing chapter. And then — surprise! 2000 words of smut just popped right up there in the middle. So...enjoy the bonus smut. Whether it seems like it or not, we are actually progressing toward a conclusion here. And thanks for being such wonderful readers!]
John took a deep breath, trying to collect himself. The tremor in his left hand was so violent that he could not fit the key in the lock, the thin shaft of metal scraping and skidding over the keyhole. He shifted the bag of Thai takeaway to his left hand and fumbled the key into his right hand. He had forced himself to stop on the way home to pick up dinner.
Sherlock would be hungry, he had told himself.
Sherlock won't be there, you fool, the voice in his head had said.
The key finally slotted into place and turned, and John found himself frozen for a moment, paralyzed with warring hope and doubt.
He would be there he wouldn't be there he would be there he wouldn't be there...
Finally, he swung the door open and stepped inside. "Oh." The word was involuntary, squeezed out of his lungs with the last of his breath. "Oh, thank God."
Sherlock was sitting on the bed, rumpled in his pajamas and dressing gown, but his eyes were clear and sober.
John leaned against the door, the sudden rush of relief weakening his knees, making him feel sick and clammy. He let the takeaway bag and the keys fall from his numb fingers.
"You're here," he found himself stating dazedly, and then cringed inwardly. He knew how Sherlock despised when people stated the obvious.
Sherlock's face showed no scorn, however. He simply nodded. "I cannot say that I completely understand the vehemence of your objections," he said gravely. "But I do understand that they are real, and that my substance use would cause you pain." He held his hand out, opening his fist to reveal the orange-tipped syringe, still full of a milky-white solution.
John didn't even remember moving but he must have because suddenly he was there, taking the syringe from Sherlock's offered palm. Despite his apparent composure Sherlock must have been gripping the syringe tightly for hours, the plunger leaving a deep white indentation across the fleshy pad at the base of his thumb.
John caught the hand before it could fall to Sherlock's lap, pressing a soft kiss to that harsh mark, feeling his breath puffing shallow and uneven against Sherlock's palm. And then his leg seemed to give out on him because he was suddenly thumping to his knees beside the bed, but it was fine, it was all fine, because from here he could wrap his arms around Sherlock's waist and bury his face in Sherlock's belly and just breathe him in. Sherlock, here in his arms, warm and real and so very loved.
"Thank you," he realized he was mumbling into Sherlock's worn t-shirt. "Thank you, thank you, oh Christ thank you..."
"John." Sherlock's voice was hesitant, almost puzzled. "You had to know that I would always choose you. Over anything." His hand came up to brush through John's hair, gently, tenderly.
John just shook his head and then pushed his face harder into Sherlock's belly, nuzzling against him, smelling his scent and warmth. Sherlock was right. He should have known, and he hadn't, but he did now.
Finally he took a deep breath and pushed back onto his heels, wiping dampness from his eyes with the heel of his hand. The syringe had fallen to the floor and he picked it up, taking it into the kitchen.
He could feel his body settling as he moved quickly and purposefully, pulling the container of laundry bleach from under the sink, opening it up and pouring a healthy splash of it into the lid. He pulled the protective cap off the syringe, placing the needle tip in the bleach and pulling carefully back on the plunger, watching as the substances mixed.
He had one pathetic long-dead plant in his kitchen, a present from Sarah when he had first moved. He tilted some of the soil into a plastic bag and injected the combined liquids into it. He capped the syringe, throwing it in for good measure, before sealing the bag and burying it at the bottom of his rubbish bin.
It was done. He felt like he could breathe again. Sherlock had been leaning against the kitchen doorway, silently watching John's overly elaborate disposal of the drugs. John's eyes met his for a moment, and then slid away somewhat nervously. He reached up into the high kitchen cabinet, fetching down the bottle of whiskey.
He heard Sherlock's grunt of surprise. "Is that really wise?" he asked John calmly.
No, it definitely wasn't, especially on no sleep and no food, but John pulled a glass from the shelf and poured himself a healthy measure anyway.
"Dutch courage," he said, trying for a grin and no doubt failing miserably given the concerned look it elicited from Sherlock.
"Courage?" Sherlock's keen eyes raked over John assessingly. "For what?"
John took a long sip of the whiskey, feeling it burn down his throat and warm his belly. He rolled his shoulders, and then forced himself to meet Sherlock's gaze squarely.
No more secrets, he told himself firmly. "Come sit on the bed with me." He took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. "I'm going to tell you why I was drinking."
John sat in silence, trying not to fidget. If only he could tell what Sherlock was thinking. He had finished his explanation of the lucid dreaming several minutes ago, the words tumbling out of him in a somewhat jumbled confession, interrupted only by hurried sips of whiskey to bolster his flagging courage. Sherlock had quite uncharacteristically remained silent the whole time, listening intently.
By the time John had finally stammered to a finish Sherlock's eyes had grown distant and unfocused, hands steepling beneath his chin, a small furrow gathering between his thick brows. He had remained like that for what seemed to John to have been centuries. Finally, John could bear the silence no longer.
"I understand if...it's all very odd, I know...if you want me to...I mean, I know I can't actually go anywhere, but I could try to give you some space...if you feel uncomfortable, I mean..."
His fumbling words seemed to snap Sherlock out of his ruminations, the luminous silver eyes suddenly focusing on John's face.
"I could just...ummmfph." His startled exclamation was muffled by Sherlock's mouth crashing into his, tongue tangling with his own. John's hands hovered uncertainly for just a moment before landing on Sherlock, pulling him closer even as Sherlock was scrambling and fighting and pushing to get as close as he could possibly get to John.
Sherlock seemed frantic, fevered. He bore John back until he was sprawled across the bed at an awkward angle, heaving himself on top of John. He seemed as if he were trying to crawl right inside of John, kissing him as if he were the only thing he had ever wanted out of life. Sherlock's long fingers scrabbled under layers of clothing to reach bare skin, urgent little whines escaping him as he licked deeper into John's mouth.
John felt himself suddenly burst into an answering flame. All of the sickness and worry and exhaustion and relief of the past day seemed to ignite and tranform — a flashpoint of insatiable need that consumed him.
This body is mine, he had told Sherlock earlier in frustration and rage, and now he felt the overwhelming compulsion to prove it, to mark his claim on every inch of Sherlock's tender skin. Sherlock was his, body and soul, just as John was Sherlock's, and nothing short of utter and complete possession would satisfy him now.
They pushed and pulled at each other, vying for dominance, tugging erratically at clothing to reach naked skin. Sherlock's fingers were more dexterous, and so despite all of John's layers the last item of clothing left was Sherlock's t-shirt. Working in concert for once, John straddling Sherlock's hips, they both pulled on the fabric. Sherlock raised his arms above his head but instead of pulling the shirt free, John smiled wickedly, wrenching the fabric with a sudden twist, tangling Sherlock's wrists in the short sleeves.
"Dammit, John..." Sherlock muttered, and in answer John twisted the fabric a few more times, forming a tail of cloth that he rapidly knotted around one of the bars on the headboard.
Sherlock's glare was softened somewhat by the way his pupils dilated further, eyelids drooping in pleasure as he tugged against the binding. "This isn't actually going to hold me, you know."
"I know," John said. "But you do look lovely this way." He ran one hand from Sherlock's bound wrist, down the taut strength of his forearm and tricep, admiring the flex of tendon and muscle beneath the milk-pale skin. Sherlock shuddered underneath his touch. "Trust, me, if I want you immobilized, I'll do it right," John rasped. He nipped Sherlock's collarbone in emphasis, glorying in the hushed moan that elicited. He smiled against Sherlock's damp, flushed skin. "Right now I just need it to hold you long enough for me to do this."
"Do wha —...oh, oh Christ!" Sherlock's voice broke as John moved smoothly down his torso and then suddenly swallowed him down. Without prelude or teasing, John began to work Sherlock with his hand and mouth, hollowing his cheeks and sucking him in deep, brutal strokes.
"John...oh God...oh fuck...John...wait..."
John hummed inquiringly around Sherlock's cock, making Sherlock's hips stutter and buck up hard into his mouth.
Sherlock was panting now, but still trying to force words out. "Going to...come...stop John...want you...inside me..."
John pushed Sherlock all the way to the back of his throat, swallowing around him, before pulling off. His hand took over the rhythm as he growled out his response.
"This first. Going to make you come this way, have you all lazy and languid. And then I'm going to wind you up again until you're ready for me, and the second time you come it'll be around my cock." Christ, John had never spoken like this to a bed partner, but with Sherlock it seemed to come naturally, the words spoken with utter conviction. He knew exactly what he wanted to do, and he wanted Sherlock to know as well. Sherlock's low keen of pleasure showed how much John's words were affecting him.
With ruthless efficiency John returned to his task. Sherlock must have freed his hands at some point — John could feel the slim fingers brushing through his hair, and then dipping down to the curve of his jaw, pressing lightly as if to feel the muscles work. The small, exploratory touches were more arousing than John would have ever dreamed, making him groan around Sherlock's cock.
"John!" John could feel every muscle in Sherlock's body wind tight. He shifted his weight, pinning Sherlock's hips with his chest and arm, teasing the very tip of his cock with his tongue for just a moment before pulling him in deep again. Sherlock cried out, hoarse and incoherent, and John swallowed around Sherlock as he came. He rode out the little bucks and shudders of Sherlock's hips, not stopping until he keened with oversensitivity. Only then did he finally pull off, gasping in ragged breaths, open-mouthed against Sherlock's hip.
Sherlock's hands were tugging at him, trying to pull him upwards, and John acquiesed. Sherlock's mouth met his in a messy kiss, and he let Sherlock snog him lazily for long minutes, smiling at the way Sherlock's tongue chased his own taste in John's mouth with a purr of satisfaction.
Finally John pulled back, still a little breathless. Sherlock was every bit as languid and loose-limbed as John had anticipated, and seeing him looking thoroughly debauched like that sharpened the ache in John's groin.
"On your knees, love," he said. Sherlock gave John a petulant glance, his half-hearted grumbling as he complied making John chuckle.
"Lazy," John chided affectionately, giving Sherlock a nip to the arse that earned him a sharp glare over Sherlock's shoulder.
With one hand firm on the nape of Sherlock's neck and another at the small of his back, John guided Sherlock until his torso was down over his folded knees, forearms braced on the bed. "Like this, I think," John mused aloud, his voice dark and covetous. "Just lovely."
Despite the lust gnawing at him, John had to take the time to appreciate the sight, ruffling the dark curls and then bumping his slightly-calloused fingertips down the knobs of Sherlock's spine, stretched in a graceful arch. Sherlock's head was turned toward him, eyes wide and clear as he watched John's face, and it must have been John's imagination that those unearthly irises changed from blue to silver to green with every touch.
Suddenly touching wasn't enough. With a muffled groan John pressed his lips to Sherlock's spine, his left hand tickling along the edge of the healed knife-wound, making Sherlock shiver. Then, as Sherlock watched, John slowly and deliberately slicked his hand before running it down the cleft of Sherlock's arse.
He teased Sherlock at first, mouthing at his neck while running his finger in shallow circles until Sherlock began to press back impatiently with little huffs of frustration. Then he pushed in, one finger and then two, slowly working Sherlock open as he licked and sucked at the soft skin between his flexing shoulderblades. He gritted his teeth, ignoring the keen edge of his own need, waiting until Sherlock was fully hard again, rolling his hips in a wordless plea for more before sliding a third finger in. He twisted to find just the right spot to make Sherlock sob breathlessly, biting his own lip.
"Now...now, John...please...now..."
"Christ, yes," John breathed, a high whine escaping him at the first touch of his own slick hand on his neglected cock. He wound his other arm around Sherlock's chest, pulling him upright and holding him close as he pushed forward. He pressed his forehead hard against Sherlock's spine, sweating with the effort of restraining himself as he felt Sherlock's body yield to his for the first time.
"More. Now, John..."
John could sense Sherlock's movement before he made it, and he braced his hand on Sherlock's hip to prevent him from pushing back too quickly.
"Hush, love. Slow. Take it slow." He kept the pace tortuous, flexing his thighs to slide incrementally forward, until finally he was entirely surrounded by that incendiary tightness. "Ah, Christ, love. You feel..."
Then words left him as he rolled his hips gently, the press of Sherlock's body making sparks fly beneath his eyelids. He could feel Sherlock trembling now. "Okay, love?"
"Move, John," Sherlock snapped, pushing his hips back against John's grip. And wasn't that Sherlock to a tee, his voice sharp and imperious even with John's cock up his arse? John smiled even as he nipped the skin over Sherlock's shoulderblade, tasting his sweat. Then he cradled Sherlock's slim hips in his hands, holding him still — as always, guarding Sherlock from his own reckless impetuousness.
When he finally began to move it was slow and deliberate, short small rocks into Sherlock's body, feeling him adjust and ease, and then a new tension slowly building in them both. John pressed down against Sherlock's shoulderblades and Sherlock let himself be guided, canting his hips back and arching his spine as his forearms rested on the bed.
"Oh!" he said, deep voice rich with discovery as they found the right angle. "Oh, Christ, John...just...just there..."
And now John couldn't help but focus on his own pleasure, feeling it build and build with the strong, steady rhythm he was setting. Christ, he wasn't going to last long, and he wanted, needed, Sherlock to come with him.
He braced himself on his good arm, the shift of his weight pushing him even deeper, his chest draped over Sherlock's back. Sherlock was slender enough that it was no difficulty for John to curve his left arm around Sherlock's waist. Wrapping his left hand around Sherlock's cock, he began a slow slide. It took a moment to coordinate his movements and then it clicked, his hand working Sherlock in concert with the movement of his hips as he fucked into him slowly.
"John!" Sherlock was bracing himself, head hanging down, shuddering as if he didn't know which way to push.
"Yes, love..." John nipped and licked at Sherlock's skin, a raw sharp noise escaping him with every exhalation. "Come on, love, now..."
A few more desperate thrusts and he felt Sherlock tighten all around him, his cock pulsing in John's hand. John pulled his breath in on a harsh moan and then he was coming too, pleasure so sharp it was almost pain, an electric current that spiked through him, leaving him utterly spent.
They collapsed together, John hauling himself up Sherlock's limp body after a moment until he could pull him close to his chest.
"Christ, love. That was...beautiful."
Sherlock hummed thoughtfully. "It was a very...novel experience."
It took a moment for Sherlock's words to penetrate John's satisfied haze. "Novel? That's..." He eased his shoulder out from under Sherlock's head, trying to see his face. "Hardly...complimentary."
"Shush, John. Compiling data." Sherlock's eyes were closed, his fingers steepled under his chin.
John swung his legs over the edge of the bed, running a frustrated hand through his hair. His post-mind-blowing-sex euphoria had turned to disappointment and irritation.
"Bloody hell, Sherlock. Really?" he said, knowing even as he said it that it was useless. It was Sherlock, after all, and he was a fool to have expected...
John started to stand, and found his wrist caught in Sherlock's slim fingers. Those grey eyes were open now, watchful beneath a furrowed brow. Sherlock looked puzzled, as if he couldn't figure out what he had said wrong, and the expression softened John's ire.
"I...I need to remember that, John. I cannot lose a moment for waiting." Sherlock's eyes slipped closed again, and John thought he was done. He started to rise again, but the grip on his wrist only tightened.
"You were correct, what you said, John," Sherlock said, so softly that John could barely hear it. Sherlock's eyes were still closed, but a new flush of pink tinged his cheeks. "My body is yours. And this...this is as well." Grip firm on John's wrist, Sherlock slid John's hand, up over the sheets, grazing it over his own ribs and up his sternum to settle on the left side of his chest.
All of John's irritation and disappointment evaporated, scoured away by the rush of tenderness. He pressed his hand down firmly in acknowledgement, feeling Sherlock's heart thumping quick and steady beneath his palm. He leaned down, placing a kiss on each of Sherlock's closed eyelids, and then one more chaste kiss on his mouth.
"Compile, love," he said. "And when we're old and gray, you can remind me of every moment."
John and Sherlock were settled comfortably shoulder-to-shoulder, both propped up against the headboard. They were eating cold noodles straight from the takeaway containers — John with a fork and Sherlock, the posh bastard, expertly wielding chopsticks of course.
"Lucid dreaming," Sherlock said meditatively. John pushed another forkful of noodles into his mouth, hoping to cover his blush. "I've never experienced the state, which is quite disappointing now that I think of it."
John snorted. "You have to actually sleep before you dream."
"Mmmm." Sherlock dismissed the dig, apparently not to be deterred from his line of thought. "I still don't see why you were reluctant to tell me about it, however." The grey eyes slanted an intense look in John's direction. "If anything I find it...quite flattering."
Christ, they were really going to talk about this, weren't they? John shrugged sheepishly. "I don't know, exactly. I mean...at best it seemed pathetic. Embarrassing enough when I thought you were dead. Once it turned out you were really alive, it seemed even more...I don't know...nonconsensual?"
Sherlock scoffed. "If anything, it sounds like the dream representation of me was having experiences that I would only envy."
He put his noodles aside and insinuated himself into John's space, an arm winding around John's lower back and a gangly leg strewn across John's thighs. John couldn't help smiling at that. He put his own noodles aside and pulled Sherlock closer, settling him more comfortably against his shoulder and dropping a gentle kiss on his head. "It's funny...I kept telling myself that it was so obviously not real because you were so...cuddly, and affectionate. Little did I know..."
He thought Sherlock might laugh, but he simply looked thoughtful instead. "Interesting," he mused. "It may not have been simple wish fulfillment. The subconscious mind is remarkable, it registers input and forms suppositions that the conscious mind resists. Perhaps on some level you were already aware of my feelings..."
Sherlock jolted upright, his shoulder knocking John in the head on the way.
"Oi!" John started, and suddenly then bit back the rest of his words. Sherlock had — that look. Eyes wide, staring at nothing, mouth pursed in that perfect heart-shaped "oh". God, but it was sexy.
"That's it!" Sherlock breathed, those silver eyes focusing on John with a startling intensity. "Your subconscious — your soldier's training, honed in a warzone...it is constantly alert, constantly noticing. How many times have I seen you recognize a threat before even I have deduced its presence? You call it instinct, but it is the workings of your mind. You have the experience to know where a sniper would be positioned, where the sight lines would be best..."
John looked at Sherlock curiously. "I suppose, but if you want someone to analyze Moran's approach you'd want an expert, not me..."
Sherlock gripped John's shoulders hard. "Don't you see? The surveillance tapes were a dead end because they were focused on you, as is Moran. We need the opposite. We need your view of things. Only you would have that knowledge, the assessment of the threat somewhere in your subconscious."
"Sherlock..." John tried to shrug out of Sherlock's uncomfortable grip, and when that had no effect started to pry Sherlock's fingers from his shoulders. "Don't you think I'd tell you if I'd noticed anything? Even a...funny feeling or something?"
"But that's exactly it, John! You haven't noticed it, not consciously. Not yet. But you can — if we make you dream it!"
"What?" John's head snapped up in surprise. "Dream it?"
"Exactly!" Sherlock's voice was elated. "We have to take you back, in your lucid dreams, to the one moment in time when we know that Moran was there, when we know that he had you in his sights."
John felt the first cold shard of fear, felt it spreading through his chest before his mind had even caught up with Sherlock's words. "No," he found himself saying in reflexive denial. "No."
"Yes!" Sherlock's eyes were bright, an incandescent silver flame in his pale face. "We have to take you back to the moment I fell from the roof of St. Bart's."
The very thought of it made John's stomach turn in revulsion. Deliberately going back, in full vivid experience, to that agonizing moment? With Sherlock to witness his every reaction?
John put his head in his hands. "Bloody buggering fuck."
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