A/N: warnings for vomit? idek.
"Come with me, sir."
Of course they were here for me. No matter that I had successfully been in hiding for several months, Mycroft always had the ability to put his thumb right on my pulse whenever he wished to do so. I had long ago been disabused of the notion that my elder sibling was omnipotent, but I had to admit that this was rather impressive.
The female agent smiled politely at me. I took in the sleepless night, the small run in her tights, the two pieces of white cat hair on her sleeve with a bored flick of my eyes. "I'm Agent Moss. This is my partner, Agent-"
I snorted. "Dull." I stood much too quickly and faltered a little as vertigo caused my head to swim. "My brother had no doubt informed you of his wishes." I jerked away from Agent Moss as unobtrusively as possible. Which, given my lack of sleep and the amount of stimulants- all legal, unfortunately- in my bloodstream was not very unobtrusively at all. I barked my shin rather painfully against the small seat. My seatmate, a woman who had been blessedly silent for the entire trip looked up briefly from her novel, meeting my eyes for only a moment before flicking away: the dismissal of the painfully uncurious.
Once the nameless agent saw that Agent Moss had me well in hand, he left to secure transportation. Ridiculous. Where did they think that I would go, if not to my- to John? Using the transportation provided by my brother was the most efficient way possible to reach my goals.
Still, the wait from here to there was indeterminable. The grey streets, the furious tempo of the traffic, the murmured conversation between the two agents, my London seemed tired and tremendously tedious as I waited to arrive at our destination. To John. The male agent's gaze met mine in the rear-view mirror and I forced my leg to remain still, jerking my gaze away to rest on the small rucksack that held my change of clothes and laptop. I suppose it was a testament to my shock that I hadn't remembered even gathering my belongings from the baggage claim. The male agent was, no doubt, a colossal idiot (he willingly worked with my brother after all), but I would give him no further ammunition to report to my utter git of a brother. I took a deep breath, and another, wishing rather feebly for a cigarette.
I was as jittery as I had ever been while using. I touched the small packet in my pocket. Traveling with it on an international flight on my person had been perhaps a bit of a risk, but the comfort was immeasurable: knowing that I could take it at any moment, yet had the willpower to not succumb to my weakness kept me calm. Well. Many had often scoffed at the logic of an addict. Still, it was a heavy weight that allowed me to focus my thoughts on the endless cycle of why and how in which I had found myself since calling John.
It had simply never occurred to me that John would choose to end his own life in such a dramatic fashion. Admittedly, sentiment was not my area- I almost smiled at the obviousness of my inner thought- but with John I had foolishly believed myself to be an expert. I simply could not fathom how the man I had left had sunk to such a state of abject depression. Oh there had been signs, for certain. But I was as guilty as Anderson in this. I had observed, but I had not seen.
And that incompetence was unforgivable.
"Mr. Holmes?"
I blinked. I was not immediately certain of where we had stopped. All I could see from around the Agent's body was the fall of cold rain splashing on the filthy pavement. She held an umbrella over the open door so that I could step out without becoming immediately drenched. I did appreciate the small kindness and attempted to smile my thanks.
The agent's eyes widened behind her glasses at whatever expression I had managed. Ah. I would do best to remember to leave the small, meaningless gestures of comfort to those who knew best how to use them.
It was not lost on me that I was stalling.
I bent back inside the black car to snag the strap of my rucksack and shoved it onto my shoulder, then turned, allowing myself one more deep breath. The fact that my fingers were gripping the strap tightly enough to restrict the blood flow was unimportant.
"Let's go, Mr. Holmes." I quirked an eyebrow at Agent Moss' brusque tone. The shift of her body showed her uneasiness at being out in the open and I complied with her wishes, walking quickly to the nondescript door.
I forced my shoulders from their slump, jerking my chin up into some semblance of a show of courage. Ten steps later I was inside. Agent Moss started to make some comment, no doubt for me to wait for my brother's arrival, but it was easy enough to ignore as I glanced around the room.
Scuff marks on the non-descript beige paint near the bannister. Fingerprints, the hand that had gripped it last had been quite sweaty. Small smear of blood. Perhaps bloodied knuckles? Not enough data. A blink and I was up the steps. It was child's play to deduce where Mycroft was keeping John. Only one door out of the three was shut.
I allowed myself a breath as I pressed my fingertips to the wood of the door. I did not know how to categorize the whirling, utterly useless emotions that caused my stomach to clench with nausea. Frankly, I had no wish to. Naming them only made them more real after all. Yet I could not discount my... apprehension.
I had imagined meeting John after my absence in many ways. He would be angry of course. Obvious. Whatever control that made him the ideal doctor and soldier left him completely when he was furious enough. Early on in our acquaintance, I had attempted to deduce exactly how long it took for John to go from placid apathy to cold fury, but there had been too many unexpected factors that marred that particular experiment.
I did not care for it when John was angry at me. Our flat, which at all other times had seemed perfectly adequate for our needs, would shrink to an almost unbearable space where John's presence was too big, too disapproving. Oh, there had been moments where I could ignore his fury, and goodness knows I was not reticent at defending whatever action had set him off, yet the tensions in the too-small flat would make me... uncomfortable. John's livid gaze would follow me to my Mind Palace, and any work I did there was nearly impossible to complete with my usual brilliance. After only a few moments, I would find myself attempting to make amends for my oversight, disgusted at my own need to fix whatever I had cocked up, eager to make John's face relax into the fond amusement that usually prevailed.
I could not fathom how this man had such a hold over me. So, anger. Expected. Likely.
Deserved.
I flexed my fingers on the door and took a deep breath, reaching slowly for the doorknob.
When the door jerked open under my grip I was completely unprepared. I flinched, my whole body jerking in place as I my gaze tried to take in every single nuance of John at once.
Wet trainers; cuffs. Just in out of the rain then. Not at this location for long. The jeans were baggy on his too-thin frame. He wore a t-shirt and ancient-looking RAMC sweatshirt, ratty and stretched out at the elbows and collar. So, worn for comfort. I had been correct about the bloody knuckles. The second distal interphalangeal joint on John's right hand had a contusion that was bleeding slightly from split skin. His eyes were wide, his face perfectly blank as though he was unsure if what he was seeing was quite real. Lip swollen. Eyes bloodshot, exhausted circles under his eyes. Hair was flat on one side, as though forced to lie in one position for...
I flinched again as John shifted, expecting a punch, only to freeze in place when John's arms came around me, jerking me to him with an abrupt movement.
Oh god.
John's touch. My throat was burning, swollen so tightly that I couldn't make a voluntary sound if I wanted to. I could smell him; feel the heat from his body as my arms came up to clutch at his back. It was too much. Too much data. I shut my eyes and hung on tighter, unable and unwilling to sort through the multitudinous amount of information with which I was presented.
I heard an echoed strangled sound and John clutched me tighter to him, almost jerking me off-balance with the strength of his embrace.
Touching him after so long, after so much worry and confusion... I could not categorize how necessary this man's presence was to my own continued existence. I could feel his rapid heartbeat against my sternum. It was unfathomable to me that I had only fantasized about touching John in exactly this way, that this was only our first embrace. Lost in my own imaginings, I turned my head so that my lips brushed against the collar of his jumper, skating softly over the warm skin there.
John jerked in place. I felt his arms tighten in reflex then fall to his side. It took quite a few seconds before I could make myself do the same, before I realized that John's rigidity was not the same relief that I was feeling but the cold, infuriated anger from before.
Fuck.
I was here clutching him to my bosom like some mad heroine and John...? A blink settled some of the whirling data to where I could comb over it at my leisure. I dropped my arms, feeling tediously awkward. Blood flooded my cheeks. This was Sebastian all over again; me missing some social nuance that caused others' amusement.
Only, John? John was far from amused.
The fist came out of nowhere. I was so overwhelmed at the onslaught of my reaction that I was utterly unprepared for the sharp shot to my lip. I staggered back, dropping my rucksack and tripping back over my own feet in a gangly sprawl that sent the back of my head rocking sharply against the wooden frame of the door.
Another jerk on my hoodie and I was pulled inside, dizzy and confused, yet completely unable to defend myself. Unwilling. This was the least of the apology that John was owed for everything that I had done. All of the reasons- Moriarty's plan, Moran's thumb on the pulse of the three people that I cared for the most, jumping from St. Bart's- that I had clung to like some sort of righteous absolution faded in the face of his anger.
Dimly I heard the door kicked shut as John manhandled me inside. My arms and legs refused to work properly, my hard drive completely offline as my back slammed up against the now closed door. John kicked at my feet, his grip on my wrists brutal as he pressed them into the hard surface behind me, slotting against me so that my pelvis was pressed against his hip.
John's mouth was open just slightly as he clenched his teeth, his breath hot against my lower jaw as he held me in place.
My mind was blessedly blank as I licked at the blood on my lower lip, nervously waiting for John's anger to tip over to something more savage; something that I would have to defend myself against.
I was utterly floored when John's gaze dropped to my mouth, before jerking guiltily back up to my own. I opened my mouth to speak, only to close it when John tightened his grip on my wrists. I swallowed hard, the two of us staring at each other, neither willing to speak.
I was humiliated to discover that I was completely hard and throbbing in my jeans, pressing unflinchingly against John's hip. I shut my eyes, afraid to move or react. This was so, so out of my depth.
There was a knock on the door.
John sprang away from me as though electrocuted. I swallowed hard, wincing when I heard Mycroft's uncharacteristically chipper, "Sherlock, do join me downstairs when you and the good doctor have..." The tubby ponce actually chuckled. "Caught up."
The idea that Mycroft had actually made his own way up the steps in order to further humiliate me should not have come as a surprise. He had people for that after all. I stood there, feeling every single place John had touched me tingle and burn and tried to exert some small attempt at controlling myself.
Sanding here with a highly inappropriate erection with my brother on the other side of the door like some smug, fat spider was not exactly something with which I had any practice. As calmly as I could I walked to the window. The blackout curtains let in no light, but it afforded me some pathetic illusion of privacy as I focused on nothing. The click of the door opening and the furious flurry of John's footsteps as he ran down the stairs should not have come as a surprise. Mycroft's slower, heavier step followed, leaving me along to collect myself.
I was left alone, reeling with such an influx of data that I had very little recourse. My fingertips brushed against the baggie of powder in my pocket and I hissed out a breath as control slowly returned. I walked to the attached en suite and splashed water on my face, ignoring the two bright red flags of colour high on my cheekbones. My mouth was indeed bleeding, and the cool water felt lovely against the heated, bruised flesh. I pushed back the hoodie and ran my wet fingers through my unwashed hair, attempting some order. There was a glass near the tap and I filled it, drinking, watching in the mirror as my hands slowly stopped trembling.
Downstairs, John had obviously moved from livid to resigned as he stared down at a file of information on his lap. My idiot of a brother hovered behind him, swirling a small finger of whiskey in the tumbler like one of the overly-dramatic villains in the Bond films that John had insisted I watch with him, months before I had left.
I did not fool myself that either man was unaware of my presence as I crossed to the chair furthest from John and flopped down in the dramatic sprawl, refusing to wince when my bruises met the uncomfortable upholstery. John became almost wooden as he froze in place, staring resolutely down at the file.
"Well. Isn't this cosy."
Mycroft would do well to remember that the hard-won skill set from the past months now included the best way to hide a body. I huffed an annoyed breath. I caught the roll of Mycroft's eyes and the small spasm on John's face- the aborted smirk before he remembered that he was furious at me.
The silence continued, dragged on until I was considering saying some offhand, acerbic comment just to break the tedium. It was strange that I found myself unable to settle, to ignore my brother and John's presence enough to filter through the barrage of data presented to me from the last... I checked the time on my cracked phone.
No. Surely not. I could not have only been here for twenty-three minutes.
Mycroft straightened his shoulders, lips twitching in a sickly smirk. "Well. Sherlock. I am certain that you will find the Doctor's story... intriguing. No doubt the two of you have much to discuss. However given your... companion's proclivities for using his fists, I believe I shall just continue to work on a small matter over here."
"Laters," I muttered, not even close to being under my breath. I noticed Mycroft's pained twitch and almost looked to see John's reaction, before the fact that he was sitting painfully still in the armchair registered.
John blinked at me, his gaze going from my bruised mouth, sliding slowly over the thin hoodie and tattered jeans. My own trainers were filthy, covered in the muck and detritus from god knew where. He had a good view of them from my ungainly sprawl, and I had to check my first reaction, which was to curl up in a less open position. I had to check my second reaction too, which was to start to beg forgiveness for everything.
And my third which was to strangle the fucking stupid bastard for daring to attempt to harm what was mi-what I had done everything, every. thing. to keep safe. I kept my gaze on the carpet, unsure I had the acting ability to keep my rage off of my face. Not for this. Not for someone, something so important. I was just exhausted enough, confused and sick enough to do something so much more than a bit not good.
Only my brother could make the act of sitting down and texting someone sound disapproving. His small, discreet cough was fooling no one. Git. Still, it kept me on my side of the room instead of blubbing at John's feet like an utter idiot.
"Someone tried to blow up Mrs. Hudson's flat." John's voice, once he finally spoke sent a shiver up my spine. It wasn't his normal speaking voice, but a lower, much more tense sound that made no bones about how fragile his emotional state was. Even I could deduce that with my laughable understanding of sentiment. My neck popped when I turned to look at my friend. He did not meet my eyes, looking instead down at the plain folder on his knees with an unwavering gaze.
I opened my mouth, speaking before I had thought through the ramifications. "Yes, yes. I am aware."
John's gaze jerked up to meet mine as he worked out that I had been watching him. I knew that there was no way, no way that John could know exactly what I had been doing, but the embarrassment from my act, the remembered rush of sexual gratification I had received from watching him made my own cheeks burn with shame.
"Yes, well, Sherlock did insist on keeping a rather keen eye on you, Dr. Watson." He paused, deliberately. "Much to our shared relief, in fact. Or your Mrs Hudson would be cleaning your grey matter off her rather alarming wallpaper." He crossed his legs, tapping away at his phone. "Continue."
Mycroft's placid reminder did rather take the wind out of John's sails. I'm certain that defending me was physically painful, but it didn't seem as though he'd need to remove the stick jammed up his overlarge arse in order to enjoy the small triumph he'd scored on John.
John winced and sighed, pinching the top of his nose. The last time I'd seen it was when his sister had called him, drunk and sobbing. It made my stomach give a funny sort of wiggle which I resolutely ignored.
"Two weeks later, I received a post in the mail. Fairly innocuous, nothing too spectacular. A phone. Not fancy. In fact it didn't even allow texts. I hadn't even realized that the bloody thing was there until Mrs H heard it ringing and brought me the package." John shifted in his seat. There was only one number in the call log, and I was... curious enough to press it and see."
Of course he was. The John from right after I jumped had been heartsick with grief. The same bit of intrigue I had offered him, the same hint of danger must have called to him like a siren. My own eyes narrowed as I waited for him to finish.
"A recording. It." John tilted his chin up staring from me to Mycroft with the fearless, brave gaze of a soldier reporting actions unbecoming. "He told me that I had a week to off myself. That Mrs Hudson, Harry and Mike Sanford would be murdered if I did not comply with his wishes."
What?
No.
That was... no.
My whole body went hot, then cold. My heart, such as it was, stopped in my chest as I stared, wide-eyed at John.
John wasn't quite meeting my gaze, staring at a spot on the wall between both Mycroft and myself. "He called it a trade. A ... final solution. The people I cared most about in the world would be... safe. And I would be..."
"John."
Was that my voice? Even Mycroft looked slightly startled at the unrestrained sentiment that I could not control.
I felt it before I saw it. Months of keeping myself on edge paid off in a reflex that was so ingrained that I had slammed into John's chair, sending both of us arse over teakettle before it happened:
A low whummmmmp that sucked the air out of the room, igniting the oxygen in blue fire as the safehouse exploded around us.
Chaos. I heard screams, furious orders barked out with running feet pounding into the lounge where we sat. A bright burst of pain in my head as something struck me. The heat was oppressive, burning my lungs from the inside out. The last thing I heard was John's scream of my name as I collapsed on top of him.
-Now-
The voices were muted, almost indistinct as though John were listening from the opposite end of a long corridor.
"Absolutely not. It's laughable that you actually think that I will ever be able to-"
"Sherlock, I am afraid that this is non-negotiable. You are more than aware of how many siblings I posses. I will simply not allow-"
John shifted slightly on his bed, trying to keep himself absolutely still by instinct. The voices got louder, then softer, the two men's low hisses slowly becoming more and more distinctive. John's head felt muzzy, packed in wool. He recognized the feeling of being drugged to his eyeballs and enjoyed the floaty feeling for a moment before Sherlock's tight hiss made him refocus.
"I am certain that I do not need to remind you of what you allowed to happen-"
"Yes. A regrettable-"
"Regrettable!"
John couldn't help the slight snort at Sherlock's outrage. It was such a familiar sound. The voices stopped immediately. There was a footstep, the sound of something scraping on the lino floor as it was shoved unceremoniously out of the way, and John felt Sherlock's cold fingers wrap themselves around his hand.
At least he assumed they were Sherlock's. Certainly they weren't Mycroft's.
Ugh.
"John? Can you open your eyes, John?"
John wasn't entirely certain that he could, actually. It seemed as though once he opened his eyes, he would have no choice but to acknowledge the incipient panic that was lurking just out of reach; a wave about to crash onto the ocean. It was much nicer to just let it all wait, to feel Sherlock's clammy grip against his own. He was so dreadfully tired.
John's eyelids felt much too heavy, like lead weights pinned to his cheeks.
The second time he awoke it was to violent spasms and helpless vomit.
The nurse was practically wringing her hands, unable to get close enough to John to assist him. John was aware of Sherlock's furious spew of words as he belittled the poor nurse.
"-really could you expect from a bare graduate from the local night-college? Did they actually teach you to read a medical chart? Or are you unable to fathom simple English you utter useless-" Sherlock clamped down on the rest of what he wanted to say as John lurched, groaning.
John's stomach cramped again. He could tell from the position of Sherlock's voice that he was behind him, supporting John's frame as he sicked up into the provided bin. Sick as he was, he could diagnose himself. Allergic reaction, compounded with nerve damage from the electrical current.
"He. Is. Allergic. To. Penicillin you utter brainless c-"
"Sh'lock." John slurred, miserable. He managed to squeeze Sherlock's hand and Sherlock cut off mid-syllable. He felt a flannel against his lips and was dimly aware that the nurse was running off. He hoped that she would be back with Maxolon to help with the nausea. A sledgehammer to the face. Something. Fuck. John swore through gritted teeth.
Dimly, John felt Sherlock's lips brush against the back of his ear, which was quite lovely actually. Sherlock was muttering under his breath, tensing when John's stomach gave an audible rumble, then relaxing when nothing came from it. John concentrated on not throwing up his kidneys while Sherlock clambered out from behind him, setting the bed so that John could remain propped up.
Sherlock crossed the room with two of his gazelle strides, emptying the bin and giving it a quick rinse, turning and reseating himself behind John before the nurse returned with the doctor. Sherlock puffed up like a wet cat when the nurse stepped too close to John.
He was much too exhausted to police Sherlock's protective behaviour. The doctor's voice droned on for a moment, then there was an injection, and nothing.
The next time John woke, it was to the sound of a crash, a muffled "Shit!" and the sound of a door being kicked shut. He sat up in a rush, sucking in a pained breath as his shoulder protested rather stridently with bright bursts of agony fireworking behind his eyelids.
Sherlock was standing there, motionless, staring at John with an almost painfully joyous look on his face. Now that John's head wasn't so fuzzy, the expression on Sherlock's face hit him almost viscerally; John could probably count on one hand the number of times Sherlock actually showed honest, true joy of that level. The detective was holding a ratty rucksack, his laptop, and what looked like a bag of groceries. Another bag lay spilled on the floor. Sherlock was drenched, looking somehow smaller without the familiar coat and manky scarf.
"John!" Sherlock practically bounded towards him, shoving the groceries in the general direction of the small table before bending over John with a small grin. "Try not to move. Are you thirsty? Stupid! Obvious, of course you're thirsty. I didn't trust the water in the taps, bit too much chlorine really, but I can get you something to drink in just a moment." John noticed that he very carefully did not touch John, although he seemed to have no problems dripping on him.
"Where-?" John's voice was a breathy, wrecked whisper. "What?" Oh god, his throat felt like he had gargled sandpaper with a chaser of broken glass. He took stock of the signals his body was sending him: muted pain, the slick feel of burnt skin under a bandage on his left thigh, the dull throb of various bruises. His shoulder had been popped back into its socket and did not hurt as much, although he could feel the strain of muscles pulled beyond their endurance, like a piece of elastic that had been stretched out too far.
Sherlock's face shut down. John had seen that blank look countless times, when Sherlock was about to say something that John would not like. It was jarring to see Sherlock shut down his facial expressions like that, even now. Even after everything he knew Sherlock was capable of. He winced, pressing on his ribs. Moran had- John jerked, gasping in shock. "Moran!"
Sherlock's large hands curled on John's shoulders, pressing him back down to the mattress. John was terribly conscious of the feel of Sherlock's thumbs brushing against his clavicles, rubbing in cold little circles. God, the man's hands were like ice. "You're safe. I've made certain that he will not find us. Shhh, now John. I'm afraid if you panic I'll be more than a bit out of my element, so I am really going to have to insist that you control yourself."
John felt his heartbeat increasing. His body broke out in sweat. Terrified, he cast his gaze around the small room, utterly confused to realize that he was no longer in the hospital. He'd known this of course, but it hit him with an almost unholy shudder that he was somewhere else, some other place where he was not in control. Like that fucking box.
"Sherlock." He gasped, feeling his chest tighten as a behemoth of a panic attack caused his throat to start to close. He was here, he was here with Sherlock and Sherlock wouldn't let... no, no wait. How was he here with Sherlock? The question caused some of the panic to drain away. His breath gasped out again and John became aware that Sherlock was slowly running his hands up and down John's bare shoulders and arms, trying to calm him down. It was so utterly bizarre that it allowed John to focus on his lungs again, slowing his panicked breathing to something much less likely to make him hyperventilate.
All at once exhausted, John jerked out of Sherlock's hold and collapsed against the bed, shutting his eyes. "I would like some water, please."
There was a pause. The mattress shifted. "Yes. Of course." Sherlock moved away, and John heard the crumple of the bag. His mind was carefully blank. John concentrated on his breathing.
Ella's long-away voice floated to him on the remnants of drug-induced memory.
He took a deep, shaky breath. Another. Breathe in. Hold it. Count. One. Two. Three.
Exhale. Feel it outside of your lungs. One. Two. Three.
"I have questions."
"Naturally." There was the sound of a cap being twisted off a bottle of water and John cracked open his eyes, not entirely sure that he wouldn't be dreaming once he focused. Sherlock held out the water to him, once again carefully keeping his distance. John took a small sip, and then almost choked when his gaze zeroed on Sherlock, as it always seemed to, like he was the only thing of any importance in any room.
John was shocked to see Sherlock pulling off the sodden jumper and toss it haphazardly in the corner, near the bathroom. John blinked, stymied, water bottle held halfway to his mouth. It struck him then, as insane as it had been with the two of them living under each other's thumb at Mycroft's safehouse (or back in Baker Street- god that seemed so far away now), John had never actually seen Sherlock all the way nude. Sherlock undid his zip and button and shimmied out of his jeans and wet pants, kicking them over to the corner. Goosebumps had broken out all over his body. John could still see that his strange, ginger curls were sopping wet, dripping down his naked back. He could no more stop himself from greedily tracking the drops of rainwater with his gaze than breathing. Whatever oxygen he had managed not to expel froze in his lungs as one particular stubborn droplet clung to the sharp wing of Sherlock's shoulder blade before falling to its death in the dimple right above Sherlock's left arse cheek.
John made an odd sound when Sherlock bent over to rummage in a small bag on the chest, then quickly hid his fascination by taking another gulp of water. He couldn't keep from staring at the dark, damp curl of hair around Sherlock's prick, unable to look away from the small rash of stubble growing back from where Sherlock had previously shaved. It was such a small detail that John had to smirk to himself. Sherlock had been rather busy after all; definitely too busy to worry about personal grooming.
"Hmm."
John jerked his gaze to Sherlock when he heard the small, pointed cough. He felt himself flush, but refused to look away as Sherlock raised his eyebrows in an obvious 'hey mate, eyes up here' gesture as he pulled a clean pair of pyjamas from the bag.
"You have no doubt deduced that we are no longer in the hospital. And before you make that face, please know that I was not about to let those imbeciles cause you further harm. My idiot brother was under the misconception that we were going to meekly go disappear in another "safe" house- hah! - and rather than waste time disabusing him of that fantastically ridiculous notion, I simply collected you and... left." He sniffed, like explaining this was beyond tedious. "Simple to call in some favors, child's play to have your doctor friend assist with the medication aspect. She even picked it up from the chemist's."
John blinked. Blinked again. Gave himself a mental slap on the face.
"You." He took a drink of water, watching as Sherlock pulled up his pyjama trousers over his bum, tightening the drawstring with a few jerks. He was shivering as he pulled on a thick sweatshirt, and the sight was so unlike the Sherlock that John knew that John completely forgot what he was going to say. He hissed when he shifted over on the mattress, forgetting for a moment the symphony of agony his sore body had composed. He carefully set the bottle of water on the bedside table.
"John! What are you-?" Sherlock almost tripped in his haste to get to the bedside.
"Look, I want to have a piss and brush my teeth. You are going to eat something and then have a lie-down. You look like death and I'm too bloody tired to deal with this shit tonight." John gasped when he pulled himself to his feet. Fucking utter hell, was he sore. The burn on his thigh rubbed enough that bright sparks of pain lit up his nerves. John stumbled once as his balance told him in no uncertain terms that he was about to land rather spectacularly on his arse. Sherlock had him in an instant; somehow managing to not press against any of his contusions as he steadied John and helped him regain his equilibrium. Sherlock released him the very second John was steady on his bare feet.
John made his careful, slow way to the loo and pissed for what felt like an age. Sherlock knocked once as he was washing his hands, and handed him his toothbrush and toothpaste. John was exhausted, using the doorjamb to balance himself, tired enough to forego his teeth for one night. It was only the fact that his mouth felt like a gritty pub floor that had him balancing on the sink as he began to brush.
John carefully kept his mind blank as he finished, shut off the light and shuffled slowly back to the mattress. Sherlock had pulled the blackout blinds, but had left the lamp on the far side of the bed on its dimmest setting. John could smell the slightly burnt smell of toast in the air and smiled to think of Sherlock making the least labour-intensive meal he could possibly make. John slid back onto the mattress with a grateful sigh, staring up at the ceiling as Sherlock finished his own nightly routine. With a flick he turned off the lamp, knowing that Sherlock's night vision was better than some people's day vision. It was peaceful, listening to Sherlock, seeing the shadow of his movement from the light spilling out from under the door.
John drifted for a moment, sighing.
With a jolt, John realized exactly why it was that Sherlock was being so careful not to touch him. John's eyes snapped open in the darkness. He saw it all again in glorious Technicolor in the way that shameful memories always seemed to creep back in that moment right before sleep.
Before Moran had... taken him, he and Sherlock had fought. Horribly. Partially from being cooped up together with very little to do, partially from John finding out about the drugs. And the... the other thing. John had been so furious, so utterly insane with rage that he had not bothered to check his words, bitter resentment spewing from his mouth with no filter.
John had called him weak. Pathetic.
Sherlock had actually flinched, each insult hitting him like a slap.
Sherlock's face had crumpled for a moment, and like a predator going in for the kill, John had hissed his final, jeering words, throwing Sherlock's hand from his wrist so violently that Sherlock had stumbled, shocked. "You don't you touch me, Sherlock. Just. Don't. Don't fucking touch me, you twisted little fuck."
Then they were ambushed. Kidnapped by Moran. Yet with everything that had happened, Sherlock had not forgotten, and had done his absolute best to comply with John's directive.
God, he felt sick.
He heard the loo flush and the sound of running water. John waited until the snap of the light before he spoke.
"Don't even think about staying up all bloody night." John felt the guilt swim in his stomach as he spoke, keeping his voice low. "Please, Sherlock. Lie down."
John heard Sherlock's shocked breath and waited. What did the idiot think he was going to do, sleep in a chair? Not bloody likely. It wasn't like they hadn't shared a bed before. John bit his lip, remembering how their limbs had tangled together on the small bed. As furious as he had been, John hadn't let Sherlock sleep in a chair before , either.
"I probably won't sleep."
John had his own doubts about that, but was willing to keep them behind his teeth for now. He stayed silent, waiting.
The sound of the sheets being pulled back made John smile in the darkness, relieved. He felt the mattress dip under Sherlock's weight and he carefully allowed himself to relax. It was almost painfully awkward in the dark room as they both listened to the other breathe. Finally, John couldn't take it anymore and reached out blindly, his hand brushing Sherlock's arm before he slid his fingers down to cover Sherlock's.
Sherlock's gasp was as loud as a gunshot, and made John's gut clench with guilt. John squeezed Sherlock's hand, and Sherlock squeezed back, almost too tightly for a moment before he made himself relax.
They held hands, connected in the too-dark room until much-needed sleep took them both.
The sound was terrible. A hideously wet, unspeakably wrong sound of a too-ripe fruit splatting against a hard surface amplified into agony plus heartbreak.
He finally made it to the familiar, broken shape on the cold, damp concrete, collapsing next to Sherlock as though John were a puppet whose strings had been cut. He could see the blood staining the pavement from his crushed skull. It was still warm as he knelt in it, staring at the pale glimpse of Sherlock's face.
Someone was screaming as though they were being murdered, their voice cracking from the weight of their pain. If hopelessness had a sound, it would be this serrated, shredded scream.
John reached out a shaking hand to Sherlock's cheek, turning his face so that John could stare down at him. He had to. Had to check because no, this wasn't Sherlock it couldn't be real please god fucking nonono-
Sherlock's face rippled, changing from Sherlock's familiar angular features to something else, melting and reforming like so much wax until Moriarty leered up at him, pursing his lips in a kiss as John scrambled back, slipping in the blood. There was so much, too much blood, no not Sherlock please-
"No!"
"John..." Moriarty's voice changed, slid into the distorted, mechanical voice that Moran used, and John was back there on the table, feeling his shoulder separate and oh. Oh, it hurt so much, so very badly but he couldn't move as Moriarty licked his lips then slid back to Sherlock cold grin, to Moran dark intensity as he pulled every sound of pain from John's throat and back to Sherlock, slowly pushing himself up and wiping the bits of bone smearing the blood no too much. It was so much bl-
"JOHN!"
"Sherlock! No! NO!"
Pain hit John like a punch, causing his body to arch against the mattress. His shoulder, his leg, his stomach all burned. John felt like he was on fire with the pain. He came awake at once with a gasp, aware that he had been sobbing in his sleep. Sherlock was pressed against him, desperately trying to help, his shaking hands brushing from John's shoulders, to his cheeks. Sherlock must have turned on the lamp, because all at once John realized that he could see, that he wasn't lost in the darkness, wasn't alone. John gasped, pressing his forehead into Sherlock's as he tried to remember what it felt like to breathe normally.
Sherlock's eyes were wide with shock, staring at him with such guilt that John pressed his lips to Sherlock's with a desperate need, just to make it go away. Sherlock made a small, hurt sound as John kissed him, the taste of salt and mint mingling together with the taste of Sherlock before melting against him, kissing John like he couldn't quite keep himself from stopping.
John gripped one of Sherlock's bony shoulders, his other hand clenching in the curls at Sherlock's neck. It was quickly apparent that Sherlock had no idea what he was doing, too much saliva and tongue in the frantic kiss, their noses bumping together twice before John took over. He jerked once at Sherlock's hair, moving his head where he needed it, licking into Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock shuddered against him, relaxing further into John's body from where he half-lay in a sprawl over him, before jerking back so abruptly that John was left gasping, blinking up at Sherlock in shock.
"No! This is... you're not..." Sherlock trailed off, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, looking both terribly hopeful and agonizingly guilty at the same time.
Oh.
Idiot.
"You idiot." Sherlock actually blinked at John's words, offended. "How someone so utterly brilliant can..." John trailed off, carefully reaching out to cup Sherlock's cheek. Sherlock became very still, as though he were afraid that John would stop if he moved.
"But. You were dreaming and..."
"-And I need you. Look at me, Sherlock. Do you-"John faltered, overwhelmed for a moment. "Do you want me?"
John watched as Sherlock's eyes slowly drifted shut as he nodded. John tightened his fingers and Sherlock met him halfway, their lips meeting in a chaste kiss. He couldn't help the small kiss on the tiny plaster on Sherlock's cheekbone, the mark that John had put there in his blind panic. He pulled back, kissing Sherlock's trembling lips again. When John traced the seam of Sherlock's lips with the tip of his tongue, Sherlock collapsed forward for just an instant, stopping just before he would have aggravated John's injuries.
John slid his hand down Sherlock's back, kissing him harder as Sherlock shivered at the way his fingernails scratched lightly down Sherlock's spine, before slipping into the loose pyjama trousers and cupping the warm heat of Sherlock's arse.
"Oh."
Sherlock's moan rumbled up from his chest and John scraped at Sherlock's jaw with his teeth, searching out more of the helpless little sounds. God, he wanted this. The flavour of Sherlock's skin was addictive and John couldn't keep from Sherlock's mouth, kissing him deeply, desperate for more.
It was John's turn to moan when Sherlock tentatively splayed his hand over John's heartbeat, over the cotton of his t-shirt. John bit and Sherlock moaned again, low in his throat, losing anything resembling tentativeness as he moved his hand from John's chest to cup his cock, hard and throbbing, trapped in his pants. John couldn't help the way his hips bucked, or the gasp of "Sherlock" that fell from his lips.
Sherlock's grip tightened for a moment before tracing the shaft with his thumb and first finger, exploring its shape behind the quickly-dampening fabric. Sherlock pulled away from the kiss for a second to brush his lips over John's face and John couldn't help the shiver that wracked his body when he realized that Sherlock was licking up his tears. "I have to touch you-please-can-I?" Sherlock's whisper was loud in the quiet room, the words falling over themselves in his haste to get them out.
John just lifted his hips in answer, pressing his cock into the curl of Sherlock's hand. He pulled Sherlock's arse to him, grinding his unhurt thigh against Sherlock's prick. John saw Sherlock's mouth drop open in delighted shock at the friction before he was pawing at Sherlock's pyjamas, clumsy and lust-stupid. It only took a moment for John to wrap his hands around both of their cocks, rubbing them together in a desperate rhythm: the wet swipe of his thumb, the press against the vein on the underside, the slide of foreskin, rubbing together. Sherlock shuddered once before propping himself up on his hands, jerking his gaze from their cocks to John's face before shutting his eyes with a low groan.
John wanted to watch Sherlock fall apart over him, and he didn't look too far from it, biting his lip and shaking as he thrust into John's hands. God his shoulder was fucking throbbing in agony, but he couldn't stop, couldn't drag his gaze away from Sherlock's stunned face as his mouth dropped open in an almost perfect O, his eyes fluttering open and piercing John with their blue-green gaze. John felt the first pulse of thick come and jerked his hand faster, tightening slightly as Sherlock shuddered and moaned above him, eyes locked on John's.
From one second to the next John, felt the burst of heat before he was coming all over the both of them, thrusting helplessly up into his own grip.
Sherlock seemed frozen above him, as though he wasn't quite sure what to do. John couldn't help his smile as Sherlock ducked his head, brushing his lips over John's. John arched his neck to kiss him back, wiping his hand against his t-shirt before cupping the back of Sherlock's head, tangling his fingers in the curls, riding the endorphins.
"All right then?"
Sherlock just nodded, pulling away for a moment to strip himself of his pyjamas, hands gentle as he helped John take off his shirt and pants, then curling up against John's side, all without speaking. John wasn't too worried about Sherlock's silence. Sherlock always took a little time to process new data.
John wanted to make a joke about managing to shut the great git up at last, but was too busy pushing his fingers into Sherlock's, hair, petting him as their heartbeats slowed. Sherlock made a completely contented murmur of sound, shifting just slightly further into John's body. John was almost asleep before he heard it, the barest whisper of the three little words mouthed against his unhurt shoulder.
John's eyes popped open in the darkness and even as shattered as he was, it was a long time before he could go back to sleep.
TBC!
Two chapters left. Thanks for sticking with me!