Author's note: This chapter was supposed to me much longer but it has been really some time since my last update. So I decided to split it in half. That way you can read the first part already while I finish the second.

John is a different person after opening up so much. When he comes downstairs with Emmi there is a gleam in his eyes, an easiness to his steps.

He is happy.

Seeing him like this fills my chest with the funniest feeling. It might be possible that I am happy myself.

Emmi is the most emphathetic child in the world. She senses the change in her daddy and responds to it immediately. Her focus is entirely on him for the rest of the day. And he does not mind. In fact, he enjoys it immensely. When they come to join me in the kitchen after a while, he is several inches taller than just this morning.

(Just to make it perfectly clear, I am not in the kitchen doing housework because I became a house husband. I am doing the dishes because I am a FATHER and there are things that NEED to be DONE. And I am perfectly willing to clarify that when my parents will return tomorrow. )

(And I will never admit that I do not mind doing the housework knowing that I am doing it so Emmi lives in a proper home.)

Anyway. When John and Emmi join me for dinner, the three of us are just happy for a while. And when John puts Emmi to bed I remain happy. So happy in fact that I can only play light tunes on the violin.

Later, when we go to bed ourselves, John does not hesitate but crawls into my bed with adorable implicitness.

We fall asleep embracing each other and I dream of John and Emmi and me at Baker Street.

So when I wake up in the middle of the night my heart is still so filled with contentment that I need a moment to realise that John has woken me up inadvertently.

He has turned away from me and is showing me only his back in the pale moonlight. His breath is irregular. He is trying to control it, to hide something from me, just in case I wake up.

At first I think he is suppressing sobs or having a panic attack but then I finally understand.

He is aroused.

And trying to hide it from me for some reason. (Consideration, most likely.) Fortunately for him, that does not match my own plans of how to handle the situation.

Before John can react I roll over and spoon him. It has been eight months since we have been intimate but my sensory memory is excellent. I reach for him blindly and find the right part of him instantly.

He turns from half-hard to hard instantly.

"Sherlock," he whispers, ready to stop me, to think about it, to be over-excessively considerate.

I close my hand firmly. That silences him.

"Hush," I whisper back (rather smugly), "don't wake the baby."

He makes a needy little sound and slightly pushes into my fist. (He is unaware of that, his body moving on his own accord.) I have missed that sound, not sure I would ever hear it again.

It is a very encouraging sound.

Two more strokes of my hand and he starts to sweat. One more stroke and he is close to coming. (Apparently he has not touched himself at all.) (He is starving.) But he is John, and he always manages to surprise me. Instead of letting go, he suddenly turns around and kisses me.

Which is fine because I am starving myself.

Our kisses become more intense very soon. His breath is on my skin and his hands are on my arms and my chest and my back and how many arms does he have, really? His hands are soft and my skin is craving for his touch and my lips taste his sweat and then his hands slide down my hips and …

(A memory fires through my brain.)

… find what they were looking for and …

(Big Boy's hands were rough.)

… squeeze a little …

(More memories.)

… while his lips …

(Pain. Helplessness.)

...seek my mouth …

(Fear.)

… and then John stops moving abruptly.

(Damn.)

"Sherlock," he starts but I interject fiercely.

"Not now," I hiss (and wonder if I sound harsh or helpless). John hesitates. I don't.

My need to regain control is almost physical. I (almost) throw him onto his back, shut out my brain and get into action again.

And I am not modest enough to pretend that I am not brilliant. It only takes me a few seconds before John is breathing hard again, and sweating, and lowly moaning with pleasure, and his hips are moving erratically and his fingers are buried in my hair and his mouth is hanging open and he is shivering and God I love him like that and his body rises up against the mattress and then he collapses, boneless.

I feel John's body going limp, melting against mine. My brain refuses to worry about cleaning and becoming sticky and instead focuses on John. I smell his come, his sweat. The hair on his arms are tickling against my skin. His breaths are deeper than they have been in a long time.

Then a low amount of tension returns to his muscles. He is ready to confront me about my current state of mind.

"Sherlock ..." he starts but I cut him short.

"It's all right, John," I try to soothe him. But he is the real John again. He knows I am lying. He knows that part of my mind is still everything but all right.

And yet, he does not venture further down that road. "Okay," he murmurs (and I know that he knows that it is not okay). Then he turns around and takes me into his arms. (Now we will both be sticky in the morning.)

I move closer and he presses a few kisses on my throat and my neck. His lips are soft (when he wants them to be) and the intimacy of it all sends shivers down my spine. I feel myself becoming half-hard again.

We are lying so close that John feels it, too, but he does not force us further. He pulls me even closer and just holds me tight.

He is warm and present and soft and strong. I feel safer than I have in months.

"I don't know what he did to me," I hear myself say (to my surprise). When John shifts in surprise, I go on (speaking a bit too fast), "When he started touching me I went into my mind palace. My dog was there and I held him tight and ..."

I think my voice is wavering, but I am not sure. John's grip is tightening. He does not say a word, just listens.

"Inside my mind palace I heard a few noises, and there must have been some kind of pain but ... I have tried to remember what happened but I can't."

My voice is sounding strange now, vulnerable and childlike. I hate myself like that. John doesn't.

He caresses my scalp and breathes down my neck. "I saw it," he says quietly.

Of course he has. Stating the obvious is one of John's coping mechanisms.

I tell him so (probably a bit too nonchalantly) and he giggles a little. (A wonderful sound. Almost better than his moaning.) Then he sobers up again.

"I could tell you about it," he says.

I move my head a little so I can see his face in the moonlight. He does not want to talk about it but he offers it anyway. I have missed the real John endlessly.

"Not now," I answer. He nods and presses my face against his chest once more. He sighs but only when he thinks I am asleep again.

Author's note: I have the best betas in the world.