John was reading in his usual seat the next evening after work, massaging his muscles every now and then, with Sherlock pacing agitatedly from boredom. The tension between was palpable. They hadn't spoken one another the entire day, which was on John because he was typically the person who broke the silence of the flat by asking what the detective had done that day or convincing the man to eat. That day, however, John had been too drained to do anything but retire in his chair and pick up a book, acting as if the other man hadn't been lazing about all day in his robes.

Sherlock apparently had had enough with John's stubbornness, for before John knew what the other was up, he was kneeling in front of the doctor. Without saying a word, Sherlock took John's leg and began to massage it himself, kneeling the muscle expertly.

"What are you doing?" John asked cautiously, though he didn't have it in him to take the leg away. Lowering his book, he stared curiously and suspiciously at his flatmate.

"Your muscles are sore. I'm helping you relax them."

He was about to protest, just a little more than unsettled by the unpredictability, but couldn't when strong fingers kneaded his calves with the expertise that the man did most things. Rather than speaking, John was too busy biting back a pleasurable moan.

Why was Sherlock doing this? What had crossed his brilliant mind to lead him to the conclusion that this was what needed to be done?

Sherlock, of course, could read the questions on his face as he glanced up to observe his blogger's expression, his hands slowly moving up the leg, taking the time to care for each expanse of lean muscle. "I meant what I said the other say. I am truly sorry for the consequences that my actions had on you." His vibrating voice was as soothing as his ministrations. "I had been obsessed with taking down Moriarty then and there, of protecting you and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. It had not occurred to me that my prolonged absence would have this effect."

John frowned. "You must have been moderately aware that your absence would have an impact on me." He had certainly behaved as if John's life would have just paused without Sherlock - never mind that that was what had happened.

"I thought you would stay here, going about your life as you would have without the addition of dealing with criminals. I thought you would be here for me to return to, waiting for things to go back to normal." As he spoke, it was clear that he had realized his error in deductions and was ashamed of his miscalculation.

In this moment of openness and intimacy, John admitted, "I was waiting for you."

Gray-blue eyes were soft, more vulnerable than John had ever witnessed. It was a mesmerizing sight. "But I was dead, with no hope of coming back." He seemed to have come to this understanding just that instance, which was creating a dark churl in John's stomach. How was Sherlock just realizing this now? "Which makes the waiting a bit more…"

John couldn't hear the word. Couldn't have the situation spoken to life to that extent. "But you did return. So everything is good."

"No," Sherlock shook his head, eyes locked on him fingers still gliding up his leg. "Everything is not good. And it's my fault." He seemed to move even closer. "So let me fix this."

John swallowed at the intensity of sincerity. "You don't have to fix anything." He tried to reassure. "I just...I just need time to adjust." By that time kneading fingers were on the inside of John's thighs. "Sherlock."

The man leaned into him, pressing himself between John's legs. "John," he practically whispered, the sound causing goosebumps to appear on the doctor's skin. "Let me do this for you." And he moved in completely, his soft, perfect lips touching John's.

The second velvet lips were on his, John lost all rational thought...or at least the little bit of rationality that he had left. A part of him knew this was a bad idea, that he would end up being the fool and getting hurt, but he couldn't help but melt into the intimate pressure.

Sherlock obviously observed this, and took advantage of the now pliant body that he had beneath his fingertips. Gracefully, breathtakingly elegant, he lifted himself from his knees to place himself upon John's lap, keeping the majority of his weight on the chair at the other's man side.

Against his will, John found himself bringing up his hands to rest upon Sherlock's waist. The feeling of Sherlock pressed against him was...John couldn't describe it. Something good. Something a bit not good.

Whatever it was, it was too much. John became lost in sensations, a mess of nerves and rushing blood. No coherent thought available, except the weak warning that this was wrong.

The detective was surprising god at this. Or maybe not so surprising. He did after all have a perchance of knowing and excelling at the strangest things. He was passionate in the way he pushed into John, grinding against him with just enough force to make John needing to tighten his lips to hold in erotic whimpers. Calloused fingers left barely there caresses upon John's cheek and neck, and his tongue gently pried past chapped lips for access.

As the intimacy between them heated, John couldn't keep himself from trying to chase Sherlock anytime he gyrated away. He needed that friction now that Sherlock had decided to gift him with, and he was going crazy from the teasing touches that he was afraid to take more seriously.

Minutes later, Sherlock pulled his lips away, grinning ever so slightly, only to attach them John's neck, sucking into the skin with the occasional love bite that had the man beneath him writhing. It was a little after that (or possibly a long time after that - John couldn't keep track of time at the moment), when those talented hands went down, tickling his sides pleasurably. Each second those fingers traveled further and further down.

At first John took gratification from the intimacy, but then suddenly it became too much. The kissing, the touching, the grinding. John brought his palms to Sherlock's chest to gently push him away.

When he had the ability to open his eyes it was to see a hurt and unsure Sherlock peering down at him, still sitting on his lap. "Did I do something wrong?"

"Um, no. It's just, I'm, I wh…"

"We are going too fast," Sherlock finished, gracefully removing himself from his lap. There was something in the air that made John think he should explain himself, give further explanation for stopping their...fun. But Sherlock didn't find further explanations necessary. His expression became once again that stoic mask that he was so fond of wearing. "I understand. Of course you need time. You'll need to process this information. We can try again tomorrow."

As soon as he was finished speaking, he pivoted and headed into his room, shutting the door quietly behind him. John stared at the empty space that Sherlock had just left. It was only after the detective was out of sight, giving John the opportunity to gather his thoughts properly, that he was able top come back into himself.

What had just happened? What had Sherlock just done? What had John just allow to happen?

The ex-soldier found out hard to breathe. Obviously it was still trapped by the lips of a certain detective. What had Sherlock said in the beginning? That this was to "fix" things? To fix John? Did Sherlock think him broken?

John dropped his head into his hands. Of course Sherlock thought he was broken. He could deduce those type of things. It wasn't even a new development. John had been broken for years, even before meeting Sherlock.

It was the type of brokenness that had made him unable to return to civilian life after returning from the war. The broken shell of a man that couldn't get rid of flashbacks and the empty pit of his chest. A brokenness that had him experiencing insomnia and limping from a non-existent injury.

The only thing that had helped him get over it, to patch up the broken cracks of himself, was meeting Sherlock. Sherlock , who had taken one look at him and had known it all. Who had baited him into a wild chase and miraculously cured him.

Those first years spent with Sherlock had been amazing, turning a broken soldier into a doctor made whole.

From an onlooker point of view, John was practically a lap dog, following after the genius, waiting to be told what was needed of him. It must have made him look like a pansy the way he endured Sherlock's insults, dropped everything the man, and tolerated his tantrums. They certainly thought he was head over heels for the man, mocking their relationship.

The truth was much more meaningful than that. With Sherlock, John had a purpose. He had someone to take care of and to protect. He may not have been the hero of the story, but he was damn glad to be the trusted sidekick. Because with that sense of purpose, all those things that had broken him apart had suddenly mended.

The problem was, how was he supposed to be fixed this time? Because as much as Sherlock wanted to help, he couldn't possibly fix John when it came to this. For while he had done a miracle when first meeting John, that miracle had come because John had felt need. Now, though, there wasn't a thing in the world to convince John he still served a purpose.

That had been clear enough when Sherlock had appeared of nowhere with a cocky grin on his boyish face. Their previous relationship came to equal nothing upon the realization that Sherlock had never truly needed John, because Sherlock had never trusted John. If he had trusted him, he would have informed him of his genius plan to thwart Moriarty.