A/N: Now an attempt at a second chapter. I doubt I'll always update this quickly or regularly, for which I apologise, but I will try.

Again, there are major spoilers for Series 2 – particularly Episode 3 – and Sherlock/John smuttiness although not as much in this chapter as the last one. If you don't like this, it's probably best that you don't read, although constructive reviews are appreciated! :)

Speaking of which, thank you muchly to power0girl for the lovely review of Chapter One!

Back From The Dead Because Of You

Chapter Two

John Watson knew what hell was. Hell was seeing your best friend, the love of your sodding life, sprawled out, broken and bleeding on a pavement. Hell was watching them fall to that pavement. Hell was hearing the sickening crunch as they landed.

John Watson also knew what heaven was. Heaven was seeing your best friend, the love of your sodding life, walk back through your front door, alive and well, explaining that they did it all to protect you, that they had pretended to be dead in order to keep you alive.

So what was purgatory? Purgatory must be the weeks following that – the time spent happy that they're alive, but angry at them for putting you through it in the first place.

John was, then, only just emerging from purgatory. After John had finished with the initial euphoria that accompanied Sherlock's return from the grave, he had punched him. Twice. John had wanted Sherlock to experience even just a tiny fraction of the pain that he had while the detective had been "dead". But John had reasoned that stabbing the taller man repeatedly with a kitchen knife would probably defeat the object so punching him hard in that stupid, handsome face of his would have to do.

John had been devastated when Sherlock had "died" for so many reasons. He owed the detective for saving him from his depression and post-traumatic stress, as well as for saving his actual life on more than one occasion. Sherlock was his best friend and greatest confidante. He amazed and annoyed him in equal measure, but most of all he made him smile. John knew that without Sherlock, the world would be that bit more lonely and grey. But most of all, Sherlock's "death" devastated John because of the realisations he had begun to make in the days leading up to it.

When John had been worried about the press turning on Sherlock, the detective had asked him why. At the time, John hadn't answered, not knowing the right words, but now he knew that the answer he had wanted to give, that he should have given, was "I'm worried because I love you." When John had punched the Chief Superintendent in the face, it hadn't been simply because he insulted his friend, it had been because he had insulted the man John loved and because John had decided that if Sherlock was going to prison, he was going too. When Sherlock had told John to take his hand as they ran through London, John had wilfully accepted delighting at the feel of Sherlock's hand in his own and, not to put too fine a point on it, getting very inappropriately turned on at the handcuff situation. And when Sherlock spoke to him on the phone in the moments before his "suicide", John had wanted more than anything to tell him how he felt, but the detective had jumped before he could.

In therapy, John had been asked to let out what he hadn't had the chance to say to Sherlock. But that was private. It was between him and Sherlock and saying it to a virtual stranger was not going to help him in the slightest. John had decided that he would never say those words out loud until he could say them to Sherlock himself. He wasn't sure if he believed in an afterlife, but he could hope for one, couldn't he?

So when Sherlock walked through that door, John went from disbelief to elation to anger in a very short space of time. He was angry that Sherlock could've put him through that torment, even if it was for his own good. He was angry that Sherlock had been logical and methodical, apparently without a sense of feeling. He was angry that he loved a man who cared so little for his emotional wellbeing that he allowed him to believe him dead. The anger lingered for days, weeks even, before slowly turning into apprehension. John knew that he couldn't keep his feelings inside forever and he wanted so badly to tell Sherlock how he felt. He knew that it could destroy them if Sherlock didn't feel the same – and God knows John had no idea how Sherlock felt at the best of times – but John knew now what it was like to lose someone without ever telling them how he felt and he'd be buggered if he went through that again now he had a second chance.

Of course, John was well aware of what would happen if Sherlock did feel the same but John was more than ready for their relationship to become a sexual one. For all his protestations that he wasn't gay, John knew that it wasn't strictly true. He preferred to think of himself as straight but flexible. He had had male lovers in the past, particularly during his time in the military. He had never sought a relationship with a man – which was why he didn't particularly consider himself bisexual – but he had sought and enjoyed many different sexual encounters with members of the same sex. He found men attractive, he had just never wanted more than a fling or a one night stand with one until he had realised his feelings for Sherlock. John had often wondered idly if Mycroft was right and Sherlock really was a virgin. Even if he was, John knew better than anyone that Sherlock was a fast learner and would probably be a master of seduction in no time flat.

So, yes, John knew what he was doing if Sherlock returned his feelings… But what if he didn't? John knew it would make things awkward for him, but he could quite easily imagine Sherlock carrying on as normal, telling John he was married to his work and that was that. So maybe it wouldn't be so bad. If that happened, maybe John could get over it in time and they could just continue their platonic relationship as if John had never said anything.

John returned home from work at the surgery late that evening. Wondering how to judge when the right time to talk to Sherlock would be. Perhaps when he had a case? Cases were slow coming in at the moment as word that Sherlock was alive and not a fraud was still spreading but they were bound to get one soon and then Sherlock would be keen and excited and happy and perhaps more receptive to John's advances. Yes, he'd wait for them to get a case.

He walked into the living room of 221B and was at first alarmed by the lack of Sherlock, who rarely left the flat when there wasn't a case to be found. But then he heard soft snores emitting from the detective's bedroom. Thank God he's sleeping, thought John. His friend rarely slept and it wasn't good for him. So John crept quietly to his own bedroom, careful not to make any noise to wake the sleeping detective.

ooo

The next morning, John awoke, still able to hear the sounds of his friend's snores. Even his snoring is elegant, John mused, smiling wryly. But really he was just glad that Sherlock had slept the whole night and decided to make him a cup of tea to wake him. Pulling on a t-shirt over his boxers, John went to the kitchen and made two cups of tea. Sherlock liked his strong with hardly any milk and no sugar, it was sure to wake him up and prepare him for the day ahead.

Leaving his own mug in the kitchen, John carried Sherlock's down the hall to his bedroom door and knocked gently. The snoring continued so John decided to nudge the door open, and go wake Sherlock, who he imagined to be lying on the bed, probably still fully dressed with some kind of case data in his hand.

As it turned out, it was all John could do not to drop the tea.

There lay Sherlock Holmes, spread-eagled and very naked, dried come splattering his lean stomach and chest. His dark curls were messed up atop his gorgeous head, presumably set askew during the throes of passion. The fingers of his left hand were still shiny with what John decided must be lube, considering the bottle on the bedside table, while his right hand was covered with what looked like more dried come. It didn't take a genius to work out exactly what Sherlock had been doing the night before, but nonetheless, the detective would probably be impressed by John's deduction skills.

John, meanwhile, couldn't help but stare. It was the sexiest thing he had ever seen in his life: Sherlock Holmes completely undone. John imagined the detective lying there, stroking his beautiful cock and fingering himself until he lost all control and came so hard that he couldn't even get up to wash himself. He wondered who's name he'd moaned… Had it been his?

It dawned on John that staring longingly at a naked, come-covered Sherlock was more than a little creepy and quickly retreated to the living room, desperately trying to think unsexy thoughts to calm his own raging hard-on which he did not fancy taking care of with Sherlock only in the next room. As quiet a man as John was in his day-to-day life he was not quiet during sex or masturbation and he did not want to risk Sherlock hearing him screaming his name as he reached orgasm. He popped Sherlock's tea down in the kitchen, fetched up his own and began to read the paper that Mrs Hudson had left for him, blushing a little while later as he heard Sherlock stirring down the hall.

ooo

Sherlock awoke in severe discomfort. He was naked. He was cold. He was covered in the dried remains of a spectacular orgasm. He needed a shower. Pulling on his favourite dressing gown, he rushed to the bathroom and allowed the warm spray of the shower to cascade over him. He knew John was around the flat somewhere – he never worked on Saturdays – and he wasn't sure how to face him. How could he be his usual, distant, cold self when he kept replaying his incredibly vivid masturbatory fantasy and feeling the pleasant soreness in his arse left by his fingers?

Maybe today should be the day to tell John how he felt? Tell him that he wanted him, needed him, loved him, that he couldn't live without him. Maybe today would be the day that he could take John urgently on the Chinese rug. Or maybe today would be the day that John finally ran away in fear.

As he finished washing and turned off the water, Sherlock, once again, chickened out of telling John anything. The risk of losing John was too great – he needed to be sure of how the doctor felt before he said anything. With this in mind, Sherlock dried himself, ran a towel over his wet curls, pulled on his dressing gown and walked out to the living room.

"Morning." John greeted him, without looking up from the paper.

John shoving his monster cock into Sherlock's tight, virgin arse and fucking him so hard he could see stars.

Sherlock shook his head to clear it of the unbidden fantasy. "Um… Erm… Good morning." He hurried to the kitchen where he spied a mug of tea on the counter. He glanced back at John who had an empty mug resting on his thigh. "You made me tea?"

John looked up and Sherlock saw something cross his face... Confusion? Embarrassment? "Er… Yes, Sherlock. I heard you getting in the shower so I made it for you."

Sherlock picked up the mug and took a sip. It was almost cold. That can't be right, thought the detective. I was only in the bathroom for around seven minutes. If John made the tea when he heard me go in then it wouldn't have time to go cold. He must have made it earlier. About twenty-five, thirty minutes ago I'd say since John always pours the water on as soon as it's come to the boil. So why would he lie and say he made it when he heard me in the shower? Unless…

Sherlock felt his cheeks grow hot with shame, not a familiar feeling for a man who didn't care what people thought of him. Unless he made it to wake me with. That's just the sort of thing he'd do if he hadn't seen me about. He would've knocked on the door and worried when he didn't hear me stir so he'd have just let himself in. Why wouldn't he? When I do sleep I fall asleep clothed. He knows that. So he'd have let himself in and he'd have seen me. Seen me like that. Naked. Covered in come and lube. Probably still with his name on my damn lips. That's why he lied. He probably meant to throw the tea away but forgot. So he lied to cover up when he'd made it, forgetting I'd notice the temperature.

Sherlock glanced back at John who was staring fixedly at his paper, clearly not reading it, just staring at it to avoid looking at Sherlock. His colour was heightened but Sherlock couldn't tell if it was from embarrassment or excitement and the newspaper was covering the doctor's groin so Sherlock could not tell if he was aroused. So why would John not want Sherlock to know he'd seen him? Sherlock could only think of three reasons. 1) He was being a good friend and did not want to embarrass the detective, 2) he was repelled by what he had seen and did not want to have to discuss it, or 3) he had liked what he had seen and did not want Sherlock to know in case he rejected the doctor.

But Sherlock didn't know which one it was and Sherlock didn't like not knowing. He was Sherlock Holmes. He always knew. But here was this man – this astonishing man – and he had the great detective completely befuddled. This was why Sherlock avoided relationships, stayed away from sex. It confused things, it messed up the brain.

At that moment, John got up to head back to his room, presumably to get dressed, and Sherlock caught side of a firm backside clad in charcoal grey boxer briefs.

Yes, sex messed up the brain. But Sherlock would be damned if he'd be deleting this.

A/N: So, I do plan to have Sherlock and John get together eventually, but I'd like to play with the sexual tension a bit more while they go on a case before I let it happen. So sorry if I'm teasing anyone!