Well, this is the last chapter. I hope you all enjoyed it. Please, give me some feedback on whether or not you would like to read John's perspective on the whole thing so I know if I should start it before moving onto my next idea. Thanks so much for all your comments, kudos, and feedback. I really appreciate all of it.
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The warm feeling of home wrapped around Sherlock when he stepped inside the flat. The pool seemed so far away just then, but he could feel the memory pressing at him, demanding to be analyzed, cataloged. He just wasn't sure he could face it.
"Sherlock, will you please answer me?" John said as he took his coat off and hung it on the rack next to Sherlock's.
"What?"
"I asked if you were okay. You haven't said anything since we left the pool. You even paid for the taxi."
"Of course I'm fine."
"Are you sure? Moriarty... he was... well, he was a challenge for you, right? A game? You enjoyed it well enough, and now it's over..."
Sherlock turned, finally, to look at John. He didn't see any hints of laughter or sarcasm in his expression. It was a genuine inquiry.
"Are you asking if I'm upset that Moriarty, the man who just strapped a-," my voice cracked and I cleared my throat before continuing, "a bomb to your chest is, at this very moment, being processed by MI6?"
John simply shrugged. "You like interesting things. He kept you interested. Nothing has that kind of hold over you."
"You really are an idiot."
John went from shaken, scared, and passive to red with anger in less than a second. "What? What was that?"
"I said you're an idiot. Or blind. One or the other."
"What on earth are you getting at? I know I'm nothing like you, all formulas and deductions and knowledge of just about everything, but I'm a doctor for fuck's sake. I'm not stupid, and I would really like it if you stopped treating me like I was! What are you doing?" The last part came out as more of a strangled noise than anything else.
As he was talking, Sherlock had stepped closer and closer, backing him against the now closed door to their flat.
"I'm never letting you out of my sight again."
"What?"
"Stop saying that. You aren't deaf. Stupid, yes. Blind, yes. But I don't mean those things intellectually. You are more brilliant than most of the people I have associated with in my life. I wasn't expecting it when I first met you. I thought you would be easy to figure out, a puzzle with an obvious solution that would take maybe a week or two to work through. Then you shot a man. I upped the figure to a month. I thought the body parts would be too much, or maybe the poisoned milk. Nope. Perhaps stealing your gun would have been enough to break you? No, not that either. I ruined at least 80% of your relationships, took you on several illegal searching expeditions through peoples' homes, drugged you in Baskerville, got you kidnapped by a madman, and yet... here you are. What does that say about me, John? What does it say about you?"
Before John could answer, Sherlock continued. "It says that I was wrong, John. Do you know how rare that is? And you... It says that you are extraordinary. My entire life has been boring, and then you were here. You never did what I expected. You always threw me off. How can you possibly be stupid enough to think that Moriarty was the only one who had ever enthralled me? Did you really miss the way I paid close attention to you? Did you really not see it? I guess I can't really blame you. It wasn't until after that last date you went on, the one where you mistook my actions as deliberately cruel toward you, that I realized I never wanted you to be with anyone else. I wasn't just jealous anymore, I was greedy. I wanted you all to myself. I didn't expect that to work out, though. I didn't say anything, I kept it all to myself, because that was not something you needed. You, of all people, do not deserve someone as fucked up as I am.
"But seeing you tonight, John? With that vest and the fear in your eyes and the total trust you placed in me to end Moriarty by any means necessary? I can't handle the thought of anyone else having that. Please, John, please tell me you'll stay. I'm not much, I know, but I can try, I'm willing to try, just... please..."
The silence stretched for a solid minute, a little more, before John reached out and put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock raised his eyes, met John's gaze.
"I thought you were married to your work."
"You've become a part of my work. I can't imagine solving a case without you anymore."
"That's doesn't mean anything."
"It means everything. I've never worked with anyone as closely as I've worked with you. I've never wanted someone to stay."
John's pupils were dilated, his breath was faster than normal, Sherlock could see his pulse thudding in his neck-.
No, he couldn't risk drawing any conclusions from what he was seeing. What if he was wrong?
What if he was right?
"Oh, you idiot," John half breathed.
Then there were lips pressing against Sherlock's and his entire world flipped itself on its head. He hadn't actually been expecting it to go well. He had expected John to leave, to walk out, to never return.
This was infinitely better.
Sherlock recovered from the shock quickly, taking control of the kiss and properly pushing John back against the door. He really was an idiot. He thought it would all be like it was when he was using, fast, hard, disgusting, boring, but this sort of kissing, this sort of feeling was so much more than anything he had done before. How could he have not known that he wanted this so badly? Wanted John so badly?
It wasn't until John's fingers had started at the buttons of his shirt did Sherlock realize that his suit jacket was on the ground. He played catch up quickly, taking off John's jumper, undoing the buttons on his shirt, pulling it off to reveal a t-shirt underneath, the sight of which made him growl.
John chuckled into the kiss. "Jesus. What are we doing?"
"Hopefully each other. Soon."
John pulled back then, his hands at Sherlock's elbows where his shirt had gotten bunched up before John could pull it off all the way. Sherlock expected him to laugh, that had been the point, but instead he was met with a very serious expression. "Are you sure about this, Sherlock? Really sure? I don't want you to be doing this because you feel responsible for Moriarty's actions. I don't want you to regret this."
Sherlock brought a hand up to cradle John's jaw, the other around the back of John's neck, pulling him close so their foreheads rested against each other. "John, I haven't regretted a single second of my life since I met you in the lab at Bart's. This won't change that."
That time when they kissed, it was a slow burn, not the blaze that had ignited the first time. Sherlock's shirt made it to the ground, John's hands explored the newly bared skin, and Sherlock tugged at the hem of the t-shirt that was still obstructing his view.
John's body had gotten softer since he had left the military. There was still the faint outline of the muscles that were once defined, faded scars left over from brushes with insurgents, and the mark that had brought him limping into Sherlock's life. The web of scar tissue blossomed out from his shoulder. Sherlock knew there would be a matching exit wound, but there would be time to explore that later. For now, he was content kissing the one he could see, outlining the divots and dips with his lips and tongue. John's deep sigh was all the confirmation Sherlock needed to know it had been far too long since someone chose to explore the man properly. He couldn't wait to fix that.
"Bedroom?" came John's hesitant question.
"Yours or mine?"
"Yours is closer."
"Good choice."
They kicked off shoes and pulled off socks and undid belts and flies by the time they made it to the bed. They also had to stop twice, once for John to press Sherlock against the wall and kiss him thoroughly, starting an exploration of his collar bones with a hot flash of tongue and teeth, a second time for Sherlock to trail his fingertips just under the edge of John's pants, brushing the light dusting of hair that sat there as he kissed down John's neck, leaving the first of many faint marks. When they did stumble into bed, they were down to just their pants. John rolled Sherlock onto his back and paused, looking at Sherlock intently enough for him to start to get uncomfortable.
"You have no idea how long I've wanted to do this. Just wanted to touch you. You're absolutely, maddeningly beautiful. You know that right?"
"It's nice to hear someone else say it," Sherlock said half a second before he realized that it actually was nice to hear someone else say that and mean it.
"Well, I promise that I will never stop saying it, okay?"
Sherlock wanted to ask if that meant that John saw himself staying forever, but the slow drag of John's lips against his own made the words evaporate. Those same lips traced Sherlock's carotid artery, over his collar bones again, down his sternum, across, and-.
"Oh," he gasped, sucking in a deep breath as John's lips then teeth started their exploration of his nipples. He forgot how much of an erogenous zone they could be, it had been far too long.
John's fingers trailed over his ribs, counting each one and tutting slightly in a way that made Sherlock smile.
"Ever the doctor, John."
"Someone has to look after you."
John's fingers moved lower, over the trail of hair that lead down into Sherlock's pants. Then they were working over the fabric there, brushing against Sherlock's erection, tracing the outline and rubbing a thumb against the small wet spot that had formed there.
"Can I take these off?" John asked.
"Please."
John pulled them off, wrapping a hand around Sherlock's cock as soon as they were gone. Electricity shot up Sherlock's spine making his back arch. He pushed his hips up into John's touch, noting the lips that were trailing lower and lower and then...
"Ah, fuck, John. Your mouth..."
Sherlock felt John smile but soon lost his ability to focus on anything. He tried to gather all the data being thrown at him, the way John's head bobbed, the way his hair felt, the moans of pleasure that were not just coming from Sherlock, but it was a lost cause. When he was close, Sherlock tugged at John's hair, pulling him up and off before he came and flipping John over onto his back this time. He repeated John's same trail of kisses and bites, relishing in the salty tang of sweat and something that was distinctly John.
It had been a very long time since he had used his hands or mouth on anyone, but the noises John made when Sherlock's lips closed around his cock made him wonder why he hadn't just done this with John sooner.
"God, more, Sherlock, please..."
Sherlock replaced his lips with his hand, "What do you want, John? What do you want me to do?"
"Do you, ah, do you have lube here? If not, it's fine, I just-."
But Sherlock was moving already, keeping one hand moving on John's cock as he rummaged around in the bedside table and returning with a tube of lubricant. He stopped stroking John just long enough to pour some onto the fingers of one of his hands and set the tube to the side. Hopefully he'd need it again, he thought as he wrapped his lips around John's cock again. He brought his fingers up, pressing one slowly into John.
"Oh, fucking hell Sherlock. That's... God. I've thought about those hands of yours far more often than I should have."
Sherlock had the opinion that if you could form proper sentences, something wasn't going well enough, so he added a second finger. John whimpered and cursed then dissolved into half formed words and moans when Sherlock curled his fingers and found his prostate. He added a third finger when John was ready, working him open slowly, waiting for John to ask-.
"Sherlock, please, more. I want... I want to feel you, more of you. Please."
Sherlock kissed him as he removed his fingers slowly, adding a condom and more lube to his cock and lined himself up with John's entrance.
"John, please, look at me," Sherlock said and John opened his eyes. "Do you really want this?"
"Yes. Please, Sherlock. Yes."
Sherlock took his time, inching in slowly, not wanting to push either of them too far, too fast. He could see the faint pain etched into John's face, kissed each crease, then his lips, deeply this time until he was fully inside of him. He rested his forehead against John's for a moment before rolling his hips. John's moan had him repeating the motion, harder this time, and again.
It didn't take long for John's hips to start moving to meet Sherlock's thrusts. The feeling, the sight of it... Sherlock knew he wasn't going to last much longer. John- the mind reader that he always was with Sherlock- seemed to know. His hand wrapped around his cock, moving in time with Sherlock's thrusts.
"Oh, fuck. Jesus. Sherlock, I'm going to-."
"Please, cum for me John. God, I want to see it. Please."
John was already cumming, his muscles clenching down around Sherlock, his semen covering his chest, and Sherlock lost himself in it.
He wasn't sure how long he stayed there, slowly softening while John ran his fingers through the damp curls that were sticking to Sherlock's head, but he didn't move until he realized John probably couldn't breathe with him resting on his chest. He pulled out slowly, noting that John still winced, and managed to get the condom into the wastebasket next to the bed before rolling over and sprawling next to John.
"I told you that you're extraordinary, right?" he asked and was greeted by a warm chuckle from John.
"Yes, but I'm thinking now that it was all an elaborate scheme to get me into bed with you."
"Well, now that I can attest to the fact that you are an amazing shag..."
The pillow hit Sherlock square in the face, surprising a rather undignified squeak out of him. Before he could complain, John was wrapped around him, head resting on Sherlock's chest.
"I hope you weren't planning on kicking me out of your bed tonight. Yours is so much more comfortable than mine is."
"Trust me, John, you can stay as long as you like."
