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Chapter 23: Suggesting

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"John. I feel dirty. Can I shower?"

John frowned a little at the choice of words, not liking Sherlock calling himself 'dirty' in any way, even though his meaning was surely just physical in this instance.

"Not alone. But with help, yes. I asked the nurse yesterday, just to be sure."

Pursing his lips almost imperceptibly, Sherlock arched an eyebrow.

"I knew you'd ask," John explained, pressing a taunting kiss to his nose. The detective frowned.

"With help? Are you saying I'll have to be assisted?"

Fairly amused at the word, John couldn't help but smirk.

"Oh yes."

Pouting, Sherlock was considering giving up on the shower altogether when his partner added:

"I can massage your stiff neck and shoulders too, if you'd like."

"In the shower?"

"In the shower."

Sherlock tilted his head to the side thoughtfully – or rather, mimicking 'thoughtful' so John would coax him some more into doing what Sherlock already knew he would indulge in. It worked. The doctor leant in and kissed his temple.

"If you're waiting for me to beg you to let me give you a shower, I'm not going to do it," he murmured teasingly against his cheek. Sherlock allowed a small, crooked smile to light up his face. With his uninjured arm, he reached to stroke the nape of John's neck possessively.

"That's fine. You don't need to beg – I'm feeling generous today."

John chuckled and pressed his lips softly to his infuriating friend.

"Good, your magnanimous Highness. Shall we proceed, then?"

He helped Sherlock out of bed, holding his arm in case his wobbly legs gave way under him, but the consulting detective sent him a condescending look and walked alone towards the bathroom, his gait dignified.

John shook his head and followed.

"Do I have to sit in there?" the taller man asked with disgust, pointing at the shower seat which hospital patients used while the nurse washed them clean.

"Well, you can always stand, but if you want me to massage your neck, that might be a bit difficult."

"I really can't imagine why you'd say that, John. Do you believe you are smaller than me?"

"Just shorter," the ex-soldier grumbled before closing the door behind him.

To hide the content smile that was already creeping onto his face, Sherlock decided to keep complaining.

"I look ridiculous in this gown."

"Doesn't matter, you have to take it off anyway."

"Where are my clothes?" he groaned as he tried to strip by himself, wincing in pain because he'd used that damned arm again.

"You mean the very bloody ones? Got rid of them," John declared in an indifferent tone while very discreetly helping Sherlock out. With a few nimble gestures, he'd taken care of the annoying blouse.

"What? You threw them away?"

"Do you realize the amount of blood you've lost?"

"No," Sherlock replied honestly.

John sighed.

"You have lots of clothes at home, I don't see the problem."

"But what am I going to wear?"

"Sherlock, you've got clothes in our suitcase too!"

Sherlock pouted, but John's choice of words ("home" and "our suitcase") was enough to prevent him from sulking.

John started the water and waited until it was warm to test it on Sherlock's right palm.

"How is the temperature?"

"Fine. And stop looking so stupidly happy. It's just a shower."

"Oh? I thought it was a treat? You know, you being all generous."

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably and finally sat down, looking away.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"Sherlock..."

"I said nothing! Will you wash me or are you going to stand there all day?"

John glared, and aimed the spray of the handheld shower straight at Sherlock's face, making him jump.

"What are you... John!"

He shook his head vigorously, trying to get rid of the water, wrinkling his nose and shutting his eyes tightly. His grimace was so adorable that John forgave him and began to wet his hair more methodically in order to wash it.

"Who said anything about the hair?!" Sherlock protested.

"Precisely. You didn't say anything," John retorted. Then, in a lower tone, his voice quieter: "What's troubling you?"

"Nothing," grumbled Sherlock, ever more stubborn.

John's gaze became distant, but since he was standing behind his partner, the detective missed it.

"You know, I've been thinking..."

"Have you?" Sherlock cut in sarcastically.

John resisted the urge to pull the black curls, and took a deep breath to calm down.

"I have."

The gravity of his tone had on Sherlock the effect of a cold shower. Instantly, he became more attentive.

"About what?"

"About the door you closed behind you when I was the one holding the gun."

All at once the air became heavier around them, and they were both shrouded in silence. The only noise ripping the stifling atmosphere was that of the shower, casual and relentless. Sherlock shivered.

"About the fact that you literally jumped in front of a man to save his life," John went on.

"I didn't!" Sherlock intervened. "I tried to push him because that idiot wouldn't move! I certainly didn't intend to shield him with my own body."

"But that's what you did."

"He wasn't moving!"

"Why didn't you run to Elsie instead?"

"What?" Sherlock said, the meaning of John's words already dawning on him. He swallowed with some difficulty, trying to dispel the unease.

John caressed his scalp while shampooing him gently, careful not to wet the bandaged left arm.

"Why didn't you jump on Elsie to distract her and at least alter the trajectory of the bullet?"

Sherlock had no answer. He remained quiet, feeling colder and colder by the second, even though the water was pouring hot over his skin.

"You had a rather uncharacteristic, protective reaction..." John trailed off.

"Absurd, too," Sherlock dropped in icily.

"Yes. That, too."

Silence. Sherlock was almost ready to snap and tell John to stop the bloody water, so unnerving was the regular, nonchalant noise.

"What are you trying to say?" he inquired instead, his tone colder than ever.

"Nothing. I couldn't reach any conclusion," John answered truthfully. "This is just what I have been thinking about."

"John," Sherlock said abruptly. "What would you do if I became stupid? Useless?" If I couldn't provide the thrill of the cases anymore?

Sherlock wondered grimly since when he'd become more concerned with John's reaction to this kind of situation, rather than his own – the end of the Work simply meaning the end of him. Right now, however, he was more preoccupied with what John had been thinking, and what outcome could possibly be reached.

John tilted his head to the side, perplexed by the question, and started covering his lover's back with soap.

"I don't know. What would you expect me to do? I'm already stupid and useless myself, remember?"

The banter was back in his tone, and suddenly Sherlock felt even colder in contrast, so cold he couldn't stop a very apparent shiver from running down his spine. John was so warm. Yet there was something in Sherlock that just wouldn't stop freezing everything inside, denying him any kind of complete tranquility.

John could be very patient when he'd decided to be; he could remain calm when he'd sworn to himself not to burst out. But even his endurance had limits. As he came back round to the front, washing Sherlock's right arm, he stood before him and looked him in the eye.

"Sherlock. Look at me."

Reluctantly, Sherlock complied, repressing yet another shiver when his pupils met John's. Somehow, he'd never found anybody's gaze so terrifying – and it was utterly ridiculous, for John's eyes couldn't properly see, couldn't be used as a weapon against him, analyzing him, deconstructing him, like Mycroft's or Moriarty's. John intensified his gaze and breathed in deeply.

"Now, observe me. Really observe me."

Sherlock froze, his thoughts crushing into silence for a second.

"You want me to..."

John nodded and completed the other's thought:

"Deduce me."

The consulting detective averted his eyes and squirmed in distress.

"You can do it," John insisted.

"I know I can!" Sherlock barked.

His partner's face became even more serious.

"Are you scared to see, then?"

"I'm not scared!" Sherlock exclaimed, his head snapping back up towards his friend. "I am not scared," he repeated, weighing each word. His eyes were now blazing.

"Then look."

Sherlock couldn't decide whether John was ordering him to, or begging him to. Neither, perhaps.

But look, he did.

Bags under the eyes, didn't sleep well last night – too busy watching over me, thinking of me, having nightmares about me. Resolute expression; not feigned. Military stance – determination. Tensed facial expression – worry but a calm acceptance.

"What do you see?"

Sherlock mumbled something incomprehensible.

"Hmm?" John persisted, coming closer as he knelt down to wash his friend's legs.

"You wouldn't leave," Sherlock repeated in a barely audible whisper.

"I wouldn't," John echoed in corroboration, leaving out the 'obviously', which might have sounded a bit too aggressive. Or mocking. Either way, he wasn't trying to humiliate Sherlock.

"Anything else?" he continued.

But Sherlock didn't answer, mesmerized by the sight of John kneeling down in front of him, washing his feet. Literally. It wasn't so much arousing as incredibly disturbing to him – that anyone would be mad enough to do such a degrading thing. Not that it didn't feel good; but somehow, something wasn't right.

"It's right if it's consensual," John interrupted unabashedly. "And it is," he added with a small smile. Sherlock frowned and wriggled his toes just to annoy him.

"Stop squirming! It's hard enough not getting my clothes wet, if you keep moving as well–"

"You're in love with me," Sherlock suddenly said.

John stopped everything he was doing.

"You're helplessly, desperately, pathetically in love with me," Sherlock developed.

"Thanks for the 'pathetically', genius," John groaned as he stood back up. Then he locked his gaze with Sherlock's, and added: "Is that what is frightening you?"

"I'm not frightened."

John sighed and kept washing him absent-mindedly. Washing his abdomen, his thighs...

"Sherlock... Do you think of us as friends?" he asked unanticipatedly.

Bewildered, Sherlock tried to look everywhere but at John, which was rather complicated since the doctor was standing right between his legs.

"Do I have to think of us as something specific and put a name on it?"

John smirked, shaking his head.

"No. That's my point. Whatever you can deduce from observing me should reassure you, not alarm you."

"I'm not–"

"Fine, fine," John cut in preemptively. "Sherlock? Have you noticed you haven't reacted at all even though I've been touching you everywhere for five minutes?"

"What were you expecting? And leave that, I can wash the rest."

"Do you feel comfortable?"

"Not in the least."

John broke into a fit of giggles and pecked his partner's jaw. "Should we make you feel comfortable while you 'wash the rest'?"

Sherlock nodded. John smiled.

"All right."

Slowly, he walked around the naked man and rested his hands on his shoulders, after he'd given Sherlock the shower for him to wash his crotch himself. For some reason, John was very happy that they could be so intimate without sex being involved in any way. He felt truly priviledged to be be allowed such intimacy. Concentrating on the contracted muscles of his partner, he started to knead firmly, intent on making Sherlock relax.

They were both so bad with words, he thought as he massaged his lover's neck. So much was left to be said, to be discussed, and yet neither of them was capable of formulating it properly: Sherlock, mainly because he did not wish to discuss anything in the first place; John, because he was too stupid. Or so he told himself in his musings. There were still so many things he wanted to ask Sherlock, so many things he dared not ask...

Do you dream of him at night? Jim Moriarty?
The terrifying, blinding white pleasure – is it a reminiscence of the Basement, or of every time we have sex?
Do you really like it? Or are you just indulging me?
Did you feel betrayed by what he did?
Are you scared he will use me against you again in the future?
… Are you thinking of getting rid of me so it won't happen again?

"I considered it."

John was too used to this by now to freeze again and pause his ministrations. Still, he checked, just to be sure:

"What?"

"Breaking all ties with you."

Even though he'd used the past tense, John felt something sink in his chest, and he stiffened visibly.

"It is not my intention," Sherlock specified.

A smile played on John's lips for a second, before he realized what had just been said.

"You would have left me without talking things over first?"

At the question, he thought he saw Sherlock recoil slightly under what he probably considered an accusation. However, his answer was blunt.

"Yes. And don't give me the surprised look."

"I'm not surprised."

"Disappointed?"

John leant in and kissed Sherlock's ear gently. "Nope. A bit irritated."

Sherlock smirked, amused, and without being aware of it, leant into the kiss.

"How is the massage?"

"Making me cold."

"Cold?" John repeated, confused. "As in not aroused?"

"No, John. As in cold, un-warm. Heavy, too."

"You mean relaxed," John protested.

"Heavy," Sherlock said obstinately. He washed the remaining soap away, half-standing to rinse his groin. "John?"

"Mm?" John replied somewhat grumpily, wondering how his touch could wear Sherlock down, and unsure as to the meaning of his words. Cold. Heavy.

"Wouldn't you want to have sex with me? I mean, actual sexual intercourse."

John was so astonished by the question he choked on his own saliva and had to turn away to cough.

"Well, that's quite an answer," Sherlock commented gloomily.

"What the... Out of the blue?"

"We could plan it."

"I meant your question!"

Sherlock shrugged.

"Just thought you might be interested."

"What do you mean interes... Oh, screw this."

John stopped his massage and came back in front of his friend.

"Why now?"

"I just thought of it since I was washing my genitals," Sherlock retorted defensively. The reply was so silly John would have laughed in any other circumstances, but right now he really did not feel like it.

"Sherlock, we don't have to if you don't–"

"I just suggested it, John. What does that tell you?" he snarled. His tone was so biting John blinked.

"Why are you so angry?"

"I'm not angry."

"Yes you are."

"I am not!"

"And sad, too."

John came closer. Sherlock shrunk back.

"Sad?" he snorted. "Where did you get such a preposterous impression?"

"You said cold and heavy," John murmured, coming closer and closer – Sherlock stiffened in anticipation. "But your body is warm and relaxed."

Sherlock glowered and bit his bottom lip violently to stifle a pitiful whimper as John straddled him. His whole body tensed, but he automatically loosened up when John's hand came to rest on the nape of his neck.

It was warm. So warm.

Gingerly, no longer caring about getting wet or not, John wrapped his arms around Sherlock and enveloped him with his body – not squeezing, not entrapping. Just being there. Surrounding him with a body that did not demand anything. A breathing blanket and pillow all at once.

Something in Sherlock broke, and he did not understand. The warmth he felt did not make sense, nothing he felt made any sense at all: it gave him the impression of being a very small, lost child, and yet John also felt like a child, so small in his arms, sitting on his lap. It was strange and touching, confounding yet familiar in its intimacy. There must have been words, Sherlock thought, words not to describe such a situation, but to be uttered in such a moment.

But he did not know them. They had to exist, for this felt like something every human on earth must have looked for since the dawn of time. But he, Sherlock, did not have them.

"You are the unconditioned," he blurted, memories from university courses on Kant flooding his overly confused brain.

"The what?"

Sherlock tried to think of a clear definition.

"The beginning and the end," he said, quite satisfied with how quickly he'd found such a simple, easy to understand explanation.

"...Right. I love you too," John replied with a smile in his voice, not moving an inch.

Sherlock did not hug him back, but rested his brow respectfully against the ever present chest in acknowledgement.

xXx

"Were you serious about the sex?"

A nurse picked her time to enter the room just when John had gathered the courage to ask his question, making him turn crimson instantly. Sherlock simply looked up from the newspaper he'd been pretending to read, and arched an eyebrow. Completely ignoring the young woman who had brought him dinner (or what they called 'dinner' in hospital), he replied:

"You mean penetration? Very serious, of course. Why?"

John wished he could just disappear into the ground, and he tried to gesture to his partner that there was no way they were having this conversation while she was still in the room.

Apparently, Sherlock did not get the message. He furrowed his brow and put the newspaper down.

"Mr. Holmes..." the nurse began, holding the meal-tray in front of him.

"It was just a suggestion, John, considering you are more used to this than me. Well, not this specifically, obviously, but..."

"Mr. Holmes," the nurse insisted.

"I'm not hungry."

"But..."

"Just leave it. He'll eat it later," John cut in, to prevent the situation from degenerating. The nurse put the tray down with an unreadable look and left without a word.

"Naturally if you don't want to we don't have–"

"No, no, that's not it! I... It's just, I have to prepare myself mentally, you know?"

Something flashed in Sherlock's eyes – disquiet, perhaps; definitely hurt. He looked away.

"Of course, I know you're rather used to..."

"Yes, well." John laughed nervously. "I've got to start somewhere, haven't I?"

The moment he'd uttered the words, he heard Moriarty's echo in his mind and paled.

"But I don't dance. I never have."

"Well, you've got to start somewhere, haven't you?"

"I'm sorry," he said precipitately, standing and walking up to Sherlock as if to protect him in some way.

But he was greeted with a scowl.

"Don't apologize," Sherlock demanded. Then, averting his gaze: "Listen, John, if you don't want me that way, I would perfectly understand, and–"

"No no no, Sherlock, wait–"

"I just suggested it because I thought... But it's really fine if–"

"Sherlock!"

John's sudden outburst made the detective jump and he look up at his friend sheepishly. John sat on the bed close to him, glanced at his hand, wanting to take it, but deciding against it at the last minute because he knew Sherlock wouldn't appreciate the cheesiness. Or being treated like a child, as he said.

"Sherlock, I want you. In any way, in every possible way: I want you."

Sherlock gulped and sent quick glances around like a trapped animal. He never liked this type of conversation – too much trouble, and it really wasn't his area.

"But you must understand," John went on, trying to ignore how uneasy Sherlock appeared to be, "I am used to being the dominant one in sex, and never, never did I imagine that some day I would bottom for another man. You understand, right?"

John was trying, really trying to explain what he felt beyond the awkwardness of the situation. Because he did feel awkward and embarrassed to be discussing such things, with Sherlock of all people. But that was the point. Now it should always be Sherlock, of all people.

"Bottom? But John, you're going to top."

John blinked.

"What?"

"I said: you are going to top," Sherlock repeated impatiently. "I will bottom. At least the first time."

"But..."

"I want to."

His tone was so inflexible that John did not dare protest any further. Still, he very much wanted to comprehend this. Coming closer to Sherlock on the mattress, he ended up taking his hand unwittingly. Sherlock did not shake it off.

"You want to?"

The detective rolled his eyes.

"Have you gone deaf, John? Yes, I want to."

"Sherlock, I think it might be a little soon to–"

"I got shot yesterday," he deadpanned. John fell silent, in shock. Content in the result on his partner, Sherlock went on, knowing full well that he was striking a chord: "I might not be so lucky next time."

"Don't say that!" John exclaimed in horror, squeezing his hand.

"But it's true."

Sherlock was well aware his method was rather devious, and John wouldn't approve of it. But he very much wanted to get to the stage of actual intercourse, because supposedly that was the way two people felt the most connected to each other, and any means to get John tied down to him was good enough. Plus, he was curious, too.

"Then why don't you want to top?" John inquired, coming closer every moment without even realizing it.

"Because I want to do it well," Sherlock replied candidly.

John stared.

"You want me to top the first time so you know exactly what not to do when you get to do it the second time?" he reformulated, disbelieving.

Sherlock nodded seriously.

"You're kidding me!"

This time, John burst into laughter whole-heartedly, thinking the timing was just fine. This was so typically Sherlock that he did not see why he should have been surprised in the least. It was true, after all, that he did not have any more knowledge or experience on the matter, and so Sherlock could learn from his mistakes.

Leaning in, John kissed his maddening partner and lovingly ran a hand through his damned alluring curls.

"All right. We'll see to that once we're back in Baker Street."

"Why not tonight?" Sherlock complained, a frown on his adorably dissatisfied face.

"There is no way I'm doing this in a hospital bed. And we need lube, too. It's not like I go around with a bottle in my bag."

"No, you go around with a gun, which is so much more common," Sherlock mumbled, disgruntled. He had thought that surely he'd succeeded in persuading John already, and to have his plans thwarted by such lowly practical details was truly frustrating.

John kissed him again to make up for it, but was pitilessly bitten back. He chuckled, shook his head and stood up.

"I'll go down and get myself a tea at the machine. Do you want anything?"

"Is their tea decent?"

"Not even remotely," John answered with a smirk.

Sherlock sank more deeply into his pillow and sulked.

"Nothing, then."

Swiftly, John stole a peck on his nose and jumped away from the bed before his brooding lover could retaliate.

"That was low!" Sherlock exclaimed as John sneaked out of the room with a grin.

He wondered since when Sherlock's insufferable manners had become cute to him. At first they were irritating (and they still were sometimes), then he'd just got used to it. But now, irritating Sherlock was part of the fun of everyday life. Perhaps because it was reassuring to have him whining and sulking, rather than not saying a word, lost in his own world.

As John bent down to pick up his filled plastic cup, he noticed a man had come up behind him, and for some reason he couldn't quite explain, his scent seemed familiar, although John could not place it. He stood back up, and turned to leave.

But coming face to face with the man, he could suddenly place him very well.

His grip tightened on the cup, and his gaze hardened as the other smiled pleasantly. If John could have remained uncertain of his identity from his face, his behaviour left him with no doubts.

"Good evening, Dr. Watson," he greeted in a honeyed tone.

John glared. What had Moriarty called him again? Oh yes. Sebastian.

xXx

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tbc