Chapter Ten
"I'll be fine Sherlock." Lestrade smiled. "Go take care of John, alright?"
"Yes." Sherlock hesitated. "Greg. Thank you."
"No worries, just next time I decide to visit you; I don't expect you to bite my head off, okay? He is pretty special alright, but it's obvious he's completely gone on you, you know."
Sherlock flushed and lowered his head. Lestrade gave a weak chuckle at this rare sight as he was loaded into an ambulance and sped on his way to the hospital.
Sherlock had not let John out of his range-of-sight for a second while the obligatory police work was being completed. John sat quietly in the cathedral's narthex with a shock blanket wrapped around him; insistently put over his shoulders by Sherlock.
Now finally, the church almost empty of others, John saw Sherlock approaching him and all but glowed; radiant with happiness that Sherlock was unharmed and as confident and commanding as ever, if not more so due to his satisfaction at having solved a difficult case. Sherlock, his eyes on John's face couldn't reach him fast enough; his long legs gracefully vaulting three chairs in succession on his way to where John was sitting. From there it was difficult to say the order of things, but arms reached to hold, eyes met and then slid closed as eager mouths found and clung to one another. There were two blissful moans, one deep and resounding in the now empty church and the other a little higher, a light sound of pure joy.
Then Sherlock's knees buckled. John was pressing eager kisses onto his face and mouth, seemingly unaware of what he was offering; his kisses unconscious, fresh, innocent even and they set Sherlock alight like dry tinder. And dear God, this was alarming: Sherlock was taking enough Alpha suppressants to take down an elephant and yet John's kisses were setting his blood on fire…he panicked.
"John, please, just stop for a minute, please! I'm not sure I can handle this, I'm not used to…"
John fell back as if stung. He put a hand to his mouth and his face burned with embarrassment. "Oh God, Sherlock, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have. Please forgive me! I acted without thinking, I'm just so glad you aren't hurt or dead, that I…"
"John! John, that's not what I meant," Sherlock reached to stroke John's cheek reassuringly. "I meant that I'm not used to feeling…er…aroused and I'm afraid I'll do something that hurts you or scares you." He looked down at his feet, "I'd rather die than harm or frighten you." He looked up at John again, a plea in his eyes.
John smiled at Sherlock, who watched fascinated; John's smile was like the morning sun emerging from a rain cloud. Sherlock wanted to bask in the bright rays of it for the rest of his life…but John was speaking, what was he saying?
"You, you want me, Sherlock?"
Sherlock looked at his feet again. "I think it's something else John, actually."
When Sherlock looked up the sun had disappeared behind the cloud again.
"Oh, uh...I understand Sherlock, of course. I'm sorry…I wouldn't ever expect that you, you know…would think of me that way…I'm sorry for presuming it, I really am. After all that you've done for me, I'm just grateful…and actually, I was thinking, now that everything is over, that you need your space again, you know, to do your work. You've been very kind to me, so kind, Sherlock!" John paused and looked up, his expression transparent with awe, but then quickly looked away. "Anyway, it's time for me to think about leave−"
He got no further.
"No!"
It was a bark accompanied by a fierce growl and a lightning-fast pounce. John was propelled backward, letting out a sharp yelp of surprise as he felt himself fly through the air, fully expecting to hit the cold marble of the wall. But that isn't what happened; rather, the back of his head was caught and settled into the warm firm palm of Sherlock's right hand and his back supported by the iron strength of Sherlock's left while a very insistent thigh was inserted between his own, effectively pinning him to the wall. He thought vaguely, I should be terrified…why am I not terrified? It was bewildering.
"No, John."
Sherlock's voice was a growl in his ear which interrupted John's internal monologue. And was that a light nip on the side of John's neck? It was. Presumably to get John's full attention; which was completely unnecessary at that point.
"Listen to me carefully, John." Sherlock purposefully sought John's eyes for confirmation. "First, it is not kindness, nor is it pity that I feel toward you and I certainly do not feel the least bit noble right now. Second, you are not leaving Baker Street. You are not going anywhere. You can move out of your room if you want to, but to nowhere other than my bed and third, you will need to start getting used to the idea that I think of you in that way, John Watson." And with that, apparently the time for listening was over because Sherlock's mouth came down on John's in a plundering kiss that drove thoughts of any sort from John's mind; but his body seemed to know what to do, even if he didn't, and he found himself melting into Sherlock with another blissful moan, wrapping his legs around Sherlock and clinging to him tightly.
When Sherlock finally came up for air, John managed to squeak out only, "Yes, Sherlock, I…." before his mouth was claimed once more.
And so they stayed for some time, lost in one another, in the softly shadowed entryway of the cathedral, secluded from the open nave and intimate for being so; the ideal place for glorious first kisses and whispers of new love.
The moon-dappled silence was finally broken by Sherlock's voice, husky and dark, "As much as I would like to keep you pinned here all night John − the idea really is enticing − it's too cold for you." He leaned his forehead against John's. "I think it's time we repair to Baker Street. What do you think?" He began nuzzling John's throat again and planting light kisses as he spoke, so if he was expecting a coherent answer from John he was to be disappointed.
John said, "I think love you."
Sherlock's eyes burned with blue fire. He lowered his head and caught John's mouth in another searing kiss.
"As I love you, John. Now let us go home."
Outside of the cathedral, Sherlock hailed them a late passing cab and they climbed in, John seeking Sherlock like a homing pigeon the moment the cab door was closed. John pressed close, closed his eyes and breathed: why hadn't he noticed before? Sherlock's thrilling scent of danger and courage and cold mountain winds…like nothing he had smelled before…
Sherlock welcomed him, drawing him close under his arm as he relaxed against the seatback and watched the lights of the city flow by over John's head.
"When did you learn to shoot, John?"
"My father made me and my brothers learn when we were boys. He expected that we would all be soldiers, like him. My brothers are all Alphas. Father was…surprised that I was…different. I…didn't like what they liked. I…I don't like to shoot things, Sherlock."
Sherlock looked down at John with concern and pressed a soft kiss onto his head. "I'm sorry you had to do that for me, John. I'm very sorry."
John looked up in surprise, "Oh! I'm not, not him," he said, "I'm glad I knew what to do. I would kill anyone to save you Sherlock. I feel no regret." Then, by way of an explanation he added, "Greg has the same pistol that my father had; it's a standard, service-issue Glock 17."
Sherlock said, "You terrify me, John," but he grinned and kissed him again.
John pressed closer and laid his head on Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock smiled as before long he felt John fall asleep in the circle of his arm. Sherlock would make him that cup of tea they had missed earlier and persuade him into bed to sleep when they got home. There would be plenty of time, the rest of their lives in fact, for passion. Their relationship was clearly going to be intensely emotional and physical and not something to be rushed. John had not yet regained his health and Sherlock himself needed time to adjust to the powerful new forces driving him. John must be protected from harm, even if that meant from Sherlock himself. He raised his eyebrows ruefully. His days as a suppressed Alpha were obviously over, medicated or not. Modern pharmacology, it seemed, was no match for John Watson. He tightened his hold on John and kissed his hair again. John was an unexpected miracle. One that required nurturing and cherishing and Sherlock was honoured that he had been chosen for the role. It would be the most important work that he would ever do in his life.
End of Part I
Thank you so much for reading and following the story! A special thank you to those of you who commented too!
And an extra special thank you to Squatchlock, my inspiring writing coach and, let's be honest, life coach too.
Part II is in the works. It contains bowls full of fluffy pink love, some T rated spice, little bits of bitter-chocolate angst, coloured sprinkles of humour and a surprise (or two) in the middle. Oh, and just to put a damper on the celebration, Mycroft will make an appearance.