12. Aftermath

John woke to the sound of his watch alarm beeping. He blinked open his eyes to find that he wasn't in his room. "What time is it?" Sherlock asked leaning over to grab John's wrist, "Ah, It's 5am." Sherlock snuggled back down in the bed and pulled the blanket over his head. John was in Sherlock's bed.

There was something under his neck. John pulled it out and looked at it. It was the leather driver's hat. Well at least this time he hadn't woken up completely naked. John looked around the room at the shelves, Sherlock's bug collection, his bust of Gothe, his periodic table, and the wooden chest.

Suddenly the memories flooded back. That tedious going away party where John and Sherlock had sat so far apart from each other. The embarrassing questions Molly asked like, "So how do Mary and Sherlock get along then?"

"We find that we have... at least one common interest." was Sherlock's politic answer.

John had resigned himself to hours of pub 'fun' when Sherlock (brilliant Sherlock!) said that he had a headache and could not do Karaoke. Then John had remembered that he had an early appointment at the clinic and they escaped.

The long taxi ride in silence. Rushing up the steps to their apartment. Sherlock and John were in each other's arms before their coats had hit the floor.

John leaned back in the bed and steadied himself by placing a hand on the headboard. White was forming around his vision again as he recalled it. The popping sounds that the buttons made as he ripped open Sherlock's shirt. The feel of Sherlock's almost hairless chest under his tongue. The sound of his zipper. The smooth skin of his buttocks as John pulled down his pants before pushing Sherlock into his favorite chair. Who could have known how convenient those metal bars were.

And when their first passion was spent, they had moved into Sherlock's room and he had pulled out the chest where he had hidden all those things that Kate had made him buy. John had never seen most of them before, so Sherlock had carefully explained the use of each one.

John's watch beeped again and he turned it off. John sighed. He blinked his eyes several times to clear the sleep out of them, and then turned toward Sherlock, "I'm going to have to go. I have to open the clinic this morning."

Sherlock's curly head popped out from under the covers. He draped an arm over John and snuggled up close, his finger absentmindedly drawing figure eights on John's chest. "Call in sick." Sherlock groaned lazily.

"I can't" John said, "There are patients who need me."

"What about this patient? I need you." Sherlock said as he reached up and stole a kiss.

John snorted, "Patient? And what sickness do you have exactly?"

"I'm lovesick." Sherlock moaned earning himself a dozen more kisses.

John rolled over onto his back and stared at the ceiling. "Sherlock," he began, "About my moving ..."

Just then Sherlock's phone rang. He pulled it out from under the pillow where he had stashed it and answered, "Sherlock Holmes."

"No, I was already awake."

"Really? I'll meet you there."

Sherlock jumped out of bed and pulled on his pants. He put on his robe and tied the strap. "Get up John. There's a murder in a department store. Lestrade can only give us a little time because they want to clean up before opening. Coming?"

"I wanted to be." John said, " What happened to calling in sick?"

"Oh that's right, you had that work thing you had to do." Sherlock said as he laid out his clothes on his dresser. "I'll phone you on your lunch break and tell you all about it." Sherlock went to shower.

John sat up and leaned against the wooden headboard. He thought about asking Sherlock to stay, but he knew better. Sherlock was unstoppable when he was on a case. Obsessed. John would get no more love today. He got up and walked into the living room. While searching the floor for his clothes, he stepped on something sharp. It was a button. John picked up the black shirt and looked at it, then he tossed it into the wastebin.

Sherlock rushed into the room and used a shoe horn to put on his patent leather oxfords. He turned to John. "I seem to remember you saying something about moving. What were you going to say?"

John watched Sherlock put on his coat. He stood exposed, his clothes clasped in his hands. "Nothing." John said, "I have nothing important to say. Go solve your case."

Sherlock turned and left the room storming down the stairs. John sat down in his chair and put his head in his hands.