Something smooth slid down John's spine. Begrudgingly opening his eyes and squinting at the clock on the bedside table, he did a quick calculation. Forty-five minutes. He'd only been asleep forty-five minutes.
"I know you're awake."
"Mm," John grunted, non-committal. The object dragged slowly back up the notches of his vertebrae. What on earth is he…
"I thought maybe, if you were game for another round… I could take care of you this time?"
John heard the question in his partner's voice clearly. If it'd been anyone else, he would pull the covers over his head and apologize in the morning. But as it was, with everything he had learned in the last two hours, he simply stifled a yawn and resigned himself to insufficient sleep.
Just as the whatever-it-was pressed against his back once more, John flipped over, throwing off the duvet and pinning Sherlock's biceps to the mattress on either side of his head with bruising force.
"Let me be extremely clear about one thing." His voice was a low growl. Sherlock strained his eyes – deducing was nearly impossible in the darkness, useless transport. His mind raced to understand what he'd done wrong.
John lowered his body so they were almost touching. He had maintained his military physique through rote habit; now he was glad of it.
"What I did earlier…" His eyes flickered to the object still clutched in Sherlock's right hand. A riding crop. Of course. How had I not guessed. "When I do that…" He paused again, then decided it was worth the risk. "When I wrap my hands around your red, pulsing cock, when I roll my tongue across it, licking, sucking, trying to devour every inch of you – "
Sherlock's pupils were black holes, velvet discs barely visible in the faint traces of light creeping through the blinds. He was barely breathing. John held his unblinking gaze.
" – that. That is not only for you."
The detective could feel the heat from the body hovering over him, wincing when his unclothed erection grazed John's pants. The doctor gave no indication that he'd noticed, instead turning his attention to the black leather device still clutched tight in Sherlock's fist.
"So tell me. What exactly were you planning to do with this?"
Shifting his weight, John released the arm holding the toy – he forcefully suppressed a giggle at that thought – and dipped his tongue into the muscular divide of those lean arms, trailing upward, forearm, wrist, and, without warning, enveloping two of those long, delicate fingers deep in his throat. Sherlock moaned, involuntarily rolling his hips upward, seeking contact, friction, anything.
Drawing off slowly, cheeks hollowed, savoring every moment of Sherlock's shattered composure, he turned his head just enough to make eye contact.
"Oh, I see. You weren't planning to do anything with it. Lucky for you, Captain Watson is in the mood to experiment," he teased, flashing a soft smile to ensure it came off as a joke. The quick nod of understanding was all John needed before grasping the middle of the handle with his teeth and backing slowly down the detective's body, dragging gasps of pleasure from the younger man as skin glided over skin.
"Tell me," John demanded, gentling guiding the back's of Sherlock's thighs upward until his knees were bent, displaying everything the man had to offer. "What is it you were hoping for, hm? What is it you want?"
"Any – " it came out in a nervous croak. Sherlock cleared his throat hastily and began again. "Anything. Anything you want. Just…" I'm safe here. I don't know how I know, but I'm safe. "Just, please, John. Please."
John smiled again, hearing the sincerity in his voice, the openness, the unusual and incredibly endearing innocence. Not now, Watson, there'll be time for sentiment later. Give the man what he wants.
The tip of the riding crop grazed Sherlock's sharply jutting hipbone, stroked the inside of his thigh, made a loop and moved down, down… John smirked at the way the body laid out before him jumped slightly as he pressed the leather along his bollocks, up the unparalleled length of seriously fucking gorgeous cock, which rose to meet it as it approached the tip.
"One blow job and now you're absolutely gagging for it," he noted with admiration. "You're beautiful like this, do you know that?" Even in the darkness, he could see a flush rising up Sherlock's chest and neck, undoubtedly coloring that perfectly sculpted face. "I want to spend the rest of my life trying to satisfy you… though who knows how long I'll last with a libido like yours." He laughed softly. "You machine."
...
"You machine," he spat. He'd had enough this time. Mrs. Hudson – Mrs. Hudson of all bloody people – had been shot, was dying, and the great and mighty Sherlock Holmes needed to "think." Well he may not be a fraud as a detective, but he's sure as hell a sorry excuse for a man.
...
John shook his head. What was that?
"Um… John?" Sherlock ventured tentatively, not wanting to break the mood. "Are you… I mean, is everything…?"
"Hm? Yes. Yeah, I'm fine," he answered, coughing lightly and shaking his head once more for good measure. "Anyway, where were we… ahhh yes…" He grinned, focus returning to the mile of wanton consulting detective stretched on the bed before him. John leaned forward, pressing his mouth to the lower edge of Sherlock's rib cage. Slowly, slowly, he dragged his tongue up and down every ridge, the rapid rise and fall of breath complementing each undulating movement, punctuated by a deep sigh as nails scraped the skin on the opposite side of that carved ivory chest.
"Tell me," came the stage whisper in Sherlock's ear, "all those years. How did you manage it? You must have some tricks. How did you… handle things… on your own?"
The response was automatic through shallow breaths, "Alone was what I had. In a way, I suppose… alone protects me."
...
"Alone protects me."
After everything, everything that they'd been through in that night alone, this stone-faced denial of friendship, of support, of… of… sod this.
"No," John corrected, storming out. "Friends protect people."
As the blood pounded in his ears, he wondered. This wasn't the first time he had walked out on Sherlock. But if Mrs. Hudson – if she didn't recover – might it be the last?
...
"John!"
The doctor was bracing himself on his elbows. His face was hot, and a bead of sweat rolled down his temple.
"John, what's going on? Are you alright?"
He swallowed. In truth, he didn't know what was going on. Nothing like this had ever happened to him before. It was nothing. He needed it to be nothing.
"I'm fine," he lied. It's not a lie. Ok, well, I'm not certain it's not a lie, but I'm not certain it is either.
"Maybe you should…" Sherlock sat up, arranging some pillows against the headboard. John opened his mouth to protest, but at the anxiety in his – boyfriend's? Oh, who cares right now – eyes, he shut it again and simply nodded, settling himself on his back.
"Close your eyes for a minute. I'm not… well, you've probably surmised that I'm not exactly the 'caregiver' sort, but…"
There was an unexpected but not at all unpleasant pressure on the arch of John's foot. Who would have imagined… getting an unsolicited foot rub from the world's only consulting –
"Mmm. Wow, Sherlock. Where – ahhh – where did you learn to do that?" John could feel the tension in his body fading. For all his years of study and practice, he doubted he'd ever given someone this amount of comfort. At least, not without drugs.
"Oh, just something I've picked up." The final "p" popped dramatically, and John swore he heard the tiniest hint of a smile. "Nothing too special, really. It's just a magic trick."
"No!" John lurched forward, but it was too late. That graceful, clever man had lost his balance. He was going over the edge, limbs flailing to no avail. John could do nothing but watch in horror as the unimaginable unfolded before his eyes: Sherlock Holmes fell.
The breeze seeping in beneath the cracked window mingled with the sheen of sweat coating John's naked torso, raising gooseflesh along his arms and down his spine. He sat as he had so many nights now: lungs constricted, throat rasping, desperate for oxygen in the vacuum of his former life. The heavy blue duvet twisted round his legs. The periodic table kept vigil on the wall, taunting him with its elegant simplicity, its clean boxes of unwavering reality. The blinds had fallen crooked, and a shard of light let itself in, glinting off the empty vial on the bedside table. John glanced over the edge of the bed to where the used syringe had fallen to the floor. This is reality now.
Without thinking, he opened the drawer in the nightstand, wrapping his hands around the cool metal grip of his handgun. He didn't need to think about it anymore. It had become a ritual. Any moment now…
Long, pale fingers snaked their way around his wrist, pushing his hand down onto the duvet until it released the captive weapon, muzzle pointed safely at the far wall. John no longer bothered trying to touch that hand. Several failed attempts had convinced him of the truth. Sherlock Holmes wasn't merely dead; he was a ghost. The ghosts we make for ourselves. Next would be the voice.
"John."
Right on cue. "Sherlock, please. I've tried. I've tried to be strong. I've tried to be honest. I've tried – " he looked once more at the syringe " – I've tried to be seven percent closer to you."
"John."
"I'm ready, Sherlock. Please, this time. Take me with you. I'm ready. I'm ready to let go."
He choked on the final words, although they were nothing new. He had been through this a hundred times by now. Thirty-seven, don't exaggerate. (Please shut up.) The dream, the ensuing conversation, the inevitable requests for release from his pain. It was well rehearsed, a carefully choreographed dance that had to be seen through to its natural conclusion before he could fall into the blissful numbness of dreamless sleep, courtesy of the contents of Sherlock's little black box.
"No."
John sighed. It was always the same answer. If only, just once, he would say "yes." If only he would say anything else, anything different.
He inhaled deeply. Sherlock's linens, washed in Sherlock's laundry soap. Sherlock's shampoo. John had been consuming as much of his former flatmate – best friend – partner – as he could. It was no surprise that by the time he'd found his works, he was ready. Everything in this room was Sherlock. Even the laptop screen, still glowing on a chair in the corner, displayed the tale of their first case. John swallowed hard. He had shed tears willingly for the real Sherlock, but he would never give that much to this specter, this adulteration that haunted his thoughts. He hadn't cried in a year, at least. It was better that way.
Another inhale, not so much to steady his breath as to steady his mind. Sherlock's linens. Sherlock's shampoo. And… something else. John's brow furrowed. Wet wool and… cigarettes? This isn't right. As much as he loathed the dance, he had come to rely on it. Now he felt as though his senses were betraying some bargain struck in the strung-out hours of the night.
"John."
No… that doesn't come next. And that voice. It was wrong, somehow. Thin and fragile, where it should have been insistent and condescending. Like the real Sherlock. Trouble was, the real Sherlock didn't exist any longer. His name had been cleared, but that didn't matter anymore. Despite John's desperate hope, his yearning, his graveside plea –
"John."
"No. Stop it. Stop now." He couldn't take this. Was it not enough that his own mind – well, his own mind with repeated chemical assistance – had conjured a Sherlock that forced him to go on, day by day, alone? Was even that Sherlock turning on him now?
There was only one thing for it. The end of the dance, the final line of the script. There was one answer John had never been able to draw from his ghost Sherlock, one answer he knew he would never receive. Every time, it ended the same way: silence. He steeled himself. This was the part that never got easier.
"I asked you for one more miracle," he announced to the darkened room. "I asked you not to be dead."
The sour scent of damp wool and stale smoke grew stronger. Rough fabric grazed John's cheek as weary arms fell delicately, fearfully around his chest.
"I heard you."
Hot teardrops splashed onto his trembling hand as it grasped the long fingers clutched over his heart – fingers that did not disappear at his touch. And in that moment, John Watson knew everything he needed to know: he would never again be ready to let go. Their lives depended on it. For Sherlock Holmes, he would hold on.