A/N: I'm reposting this chapter after making some edits. Goblins infiltrated and gave me weird verb tenses and a typo in the very first word that I somehow overlooked twenty times.
A/N2: This is where we earn our Mature rating, folks. Finally. Sorta. :)
A/N3: I almost didn't want to finish writing this chapter, because it makes me squee! And apparently I shouldn't have finished so soon, given author note 1. :)
Sherlock gripped himself firmly once John's footsteps down the stairs ceased to be audible. His hand worked his cock quite efficiently, taking only minutes to relieve the pressure that had built up. Momentarily, the pleasure whited out his mind. When his eyes blinked open again, Sherlock felt more ireful than sated. He cleaned himself with the soft cloth John had left for him then threw it across the room. That Mycroft was downstairs proved Matthews was a well-paid minion of Mycroft's, though that was no surprise. Let Matthews find the defiled cloth in the morning.
Previously, Sherlock had always felt much more amiable on the drug – of course, he had never deliberately denied himself pleasure while imbibing, either. The effects of abstinence were insufferable. However, the thought of indulging was inconceivable.
So, intermittent self-release was clearly the only course of action. This is infuriating, intolerable, unforgivable, Sherlock seethed. The aftereffect of climax in his condition was a blessed moment of clarity, a brief respite before the agonizing desire ramped up again. The cold lucidity wouldn't last long, however, and in between, he'd soon begin to deteriorate into little more than a mindless beast.
This was the very reason Sherlock had deliberately shunned Victor and his drug – the constant arousal, the senseless drive of lust, the glee Victor had displayed when preparing the injection. Sherlock had seen himself becoming little better than an animal, consumed by a maelstrom of carnal lust and rutting between any set of legs Victor opened before him. It had taken too long to recognize Victor's depraved divinity over Sherlock, the puppet for pleasure. He'd been so stupid.
But John, John tended to him, stubbornly ignoring every shout, every insult, every declaration that Sherlock wanted to be left alone. He didn't see this loss of control as entertainment or a sign of Sherlock's weakness. He understood how this is an attack – how it had always been an attack even when it was self-inflicted. And most importantly, he was not taking advantage.
Mycroft, his own brother, would have simply locked a couple of prostitutes in the room and let Sherlock shout abuse at them or indulge as he saw fit. He would not have been caring. He would have been disappointed in Sherlock's failings. He was likely downstairs voicing his disapproval this very minute.
Why was John behaving as he was? Concerned. Doting, even. Sherlock pondered John's own recent illness. Clearly he recalled his own need for comfort in his distress, appreciated being cossetted, cared for. Still, it seemed a trifle unlikely; John had burst out in a temper when Sherlock had pandered to John's bad leg too much. So what was the reason?
And John was being so insufferably kind. Really, it was the most horrid thing.
But John's presence was comforting; it was the only reason Sherlock had not yet gone mad. John's gentle voice distracted him from the burning in his veins, the heartbeat that seemed to throb outside of his body, the desperate feeling of dozens of hands all over his body. The cool water John bathed him with eased the feverish symptoms, if only slightly, and made Sherlock feel warm in an entirely other way.
And why was he thinking about John anyway? It was unlike Sherlock for his thoughts to be consumed by another person – not a criminal or a puzzle, that is.
It's the drug, it's all the drug, Sherlock tried to convince himself. He wasn't really enamored of John. He didn't really require John to smile at him, to assist him, to work by his side, to listen to his deductions. He certainly didn't want invite the man to his bed, rut with him insensibly, hear his moans and gasps of pleasure, hear that soothing voice crack when panting, "Sherlock." No, he didn't want that at all; he needed it.
Sherlock heard John's footsteps pause outside the door to his room. John was apparently listening since the pause between his final footfall and his soft rap at the door was more than generous.
"It's fine, John." Sherlock was in his finest sulk. Not only was he stuck in bed, useless and unable to focus on anything but the sensations fogging his body, but he was embarrassed. He was never embarrassed. Annoyed, yes. Indignant, wrathful, incensed, even, but not embarrassed.
John walked into the room, moving first to the fireplace where he shifted the coals around. The firelight haloed him from Sherlock's perspective. He had removed his jacket while he was gone, left it in his room with Matthews most likely, and now exposed his shirt sleeves and his cream and gold waistcoat to Sherlock's hungry eyes. The winking golden threads reminded Sherlock of John's hair, fair and glinting in the sun. Sherlock saw himself bracing John against the wall, the man glowing in front of him like an idol. He knelt behind him, worshipping him. He could almost feel John's firm arse in his hands. He could feel the curve of it against his cheek as Sherlock poked his nose underneath that waistcoat to snuffle at the small of his back.
Sherlock blinked rapidly and took a deep breath. The vision faded away and John stood there with a rather worried expression.
"I'm fine," Sherlock assured. "Hallucinations starting."
John hid the worried crease of his brow, ducking his head, and moved to the desk to write this down very carefully.
"What did you see?"
"Irrelevant," Sherlock answered.
John did not respond. He carefully checked Sherlock's temperature with his hand before laying the cool cloth on Sherlock's forehead out of their established time frame. Sherlock didn't argue.
Sherlock went over the hundreds of details of the found and missing people in his head, trying to keep his mind occupied, going over and over each detail of the body parts being strewn so deliberately along the Thames, until the symptoms became too much. Then he tried cataloguing each symptom and its intensity, dictating to John a scale of numbers which John dutifully recorded at the little writing desk. Hopefully his observations wouldn't be a hopeless jumble by morning, the ranting of a madman.
He ignored the needs of his body as much as possible, trying not to writhe against the sheets to pacify his over-sensitive skin, trying not to feel the discomfort, nor respond to the soothing pleasure of John's repeated cool bathing of his forehead, neck and shoulders.
John read aloud for a while, and that was pleasant, when Sherlock could not direct his own mind anymore. He could focus on that soft voice, the delighted hum that he added when something was amusing or ridiculous. But there came a point in the night when even that was too much and the innocuous words seemed to float over his skin and the voice caressed him, blew softly in his ear, entered the most vulnerable parts of him. He tried to beg John to stop, to be quiet, to leave him to his sensual misery, but he wasn't sure if John heard him or if he'd just been babbling and moaning.
Sherlock wanted John in here with him, except that he didn't. Really, his mind was so horribly abuzz, how could he know what he wanted? John gave Sherlock periods of privacy once an hour, discreet even in the leaving of a small jar of silky lotion on Sherlock's bedside table. Sherlock missed his calm presence when he was gone. Still, he wouldn't meet eyes with John when he returned, ashamed in his lucidity. They did not speak of what happened in the interim.
Sherlock dozed for a short while sometime after the downstairs clock struck eleven, and when he woke, he demanded of John, "Have you been checking every fifteen minutes, John?"
"I let you sleep. It seemed to… disturb you if I touched you too much. You need to rest."
John laid a cool hand on Sherlock's forehead again before bathing away the heat and sweat. Despite the sweat, he felt dry, so dry, like every drop of liquid was being forced from his body. John made him drink each time he checked his pulse, but Sherlock imagined he would have to take a bath and let every inch of his skin drink in the water from the tub before he'd be satiated from his thirst.
"I'm awake now." Sherlock imperiously held out his arm for John to take his pulse. When John had recorded his results and checked Sherlock's pupils with the aid of a lamp, he bathed Sherlock's forehead with fresh, cool water which Matthews must have brought up while Sherlock was asleep. The radiating chill and clean scent overwhelmed Sherlock's senses for a second. If he reacted outside his own head, though, John showed no sign of it. He merely wiped the sweat from Sherlock's face and neck and replaced Sherlock's damp, flat pillow with a cool, fresh one. John's pillow. Sherlock buried his face in it and breathed in the scent of his husband. He wanted nothing more than to do the same to John himself.
Sherlock tugged the sheet loose from the other covers and rolled himself up in it. The fabric pulled tight against his skin – if he shut his eyes and let his mind truly wander, he could imagine it was another body pressed against his. John's. No real point fighting it, though he still tried.
His fevered, drugged mind took hold of the fantasy and John was right there next to him. Had Sherlock fallen asleep and woken to find John taking a well-deserved nap in his bed? No, when Sherlock opened his eyes, he saw two of him. Hallucination, then. John the doctor had fallen asleep in the chair at Sherlock's bedside, fully dressed with his robe wrapped over his waistcoat and shirt sleeves; he'd donned the robe as the night chilled. John the lover was in Sherlock's bed, bare and smiling. He pressed against Sherlock's back, arm around Sherlock's chest holding him tight, giving kisses and little nips on the back of Sherlock's neck.
Each little touch sent sparks through Sherlock's body. There was no mind now, no thoughts to interrupt the pure feeling. John was pressed up to him; John was kissing him; John's hand was stroking over his chest, his belly, lower and there was only John. Sherlock turned to John, unable to resist kissing that clever mouth, tasting him, swallowing the other man's moans and whimpers of pleasure.
Sherlock touched John like he could never touch him enough. His hands skimmed over bare skin, firm muscle, scars, yes, even the scars on his leg. Beautiful, so beautiful. But John's eyes were the most captivating. Pale blue irises surrounded open, dark pupils. They were crinkled at the corners from marching in the sun and from general good humor. John's eyes fluttered closed when Sherlock kissed him, opened to follow Sherlock as he moved to kiss John's neck, shoulder, chest.
Sherlock pushed him flat against the bed, and John accepted Sherlock's weight above him. Their heated fumblings pushed Sherlock's drawers down over his hips; once freed, Sherlock pressed his erect cock against John's. John's moan of pleasure brushed against him like a sultry summer breeze.
John's thighs rose around Sherlock's hips as he thrust down against John. Splayed beneath him, wrecked with pleasure, whimpering – John was as gorgeous a creature as Sherlock had ever seen. He needed him, needed all of him, needed to be inside of him. Sherlock abandoned his desperate movements to slip a finger into John, then two. John urged him to hurry; he was as impassioned and frantic as Sherlock. Sherlock eased inside with no more lubricant than was provided by his pre-come. John didn't seem to mind. He implored Sherlock to move, that he couldn't hold off, that he needed Sherlock.
Sherlock needed John, too. And now he had him.
John's hard cock rubbed between their bellies as Sherlock rocked into him. Sherlock breathed hard against John's skin, covering him so close and tight that he finally understood the 'beast with two backs.' They were one being together, writhing and grunting and moaning, but most importantly, one.
It ended too quickly, though the climax shuddered through Sherlock for long moments until he thought he wouldn't be able to stand another wave.
"John, John," Sherlock cried out, rutting against the rumpled sheets. The empty sheets. The lover John had disappeared and the doctor John was beside the bed to comfort him.
"Shh, I'm here, I'm right here." John must have woken from Sherlock's exclamations of passion. He was warm and sleep-rumpled, but he stood by the side of the bed quickly. He soothed Sherlock with a cool wet cloth on his forehead, his neck, his chest. What Sherlock wouldn't give for that same treatment by John's lips, but he can't have that. His breathing calmed as John bathed him, stroked light fingers over his brow and along the delicate skin beneath his eyes to judge his temperature – still elevated, but improved. Hopefully, the drug's effects would soon abate.
John untangled the sheet from Sherlock, stripped him of the linen drawers he'd managed to wear the entire night. He cleaned Sherlock emissions most professionally and Sherlock lay still, unable to assist or resist. Then John covered Sherlock with a clean, dry sheet and a thin quilt and sat down, eyes firmly on the pages on the writing desk.
Reality came to Sherlock as he surfaced from the fever-dream. He rolled over, facing away from John's patience and kindness. Knowing John, feeling him wrapped around him, hot and welcoming, had been so gut-wrenchingly real. He wanted John, every bit of John, but he doesn't want this hormone-driven, lust-addled life. He'd put it all aside, filled himself with the purity of the work. The work had been enough, until John. Now it would never be enough.
Despair.