A/N: For the past two weeks I wrestled with this chapter and I had no idea why I was having such a hard time with it. I knew what was going to happen, had lots of scribbles about how to accomplish these things, but something wasn't working. I cut; I rewrote,;I pieced things together by hand; I tried everything and it still didn't seem right. I started feeling like it was the chapter from Hell. It is only as I finish it tonight that I realize it was so difficult because it was so LONG. Like 2-4 normal chapters long. And so my problem was getting somewhere in the realm of 4500+ words right all at the same time. Plus I had not-quite-vacation brain going. I was a mess. :) Started vacation today and voila, I have a chapter to post where I really, really earn my rating. No teasing. Promise. :)

Sherlock alternately raved and sulked the entire way home, filling the enclosed carriage with his unfettered indignation. Nothing John said helped matters. He offered his coat since Sherlock had long been without his and could be cold, but Sherlock shrugged him off. John's suggestions of other avenues of investigation or stopping for a meal were rebuffed with chill rage. He even jokingly offered to be the padded dummy so Sherlock could teach him the rudiments of fencing. Sherlock's rebuff was so scathing, John's face heated and he ceased trying. Silence reigned somewhere in the vicinity of St. Paul's. Each kept to his thoughts for the long remainder of their journey home.

Sherlock burst in the door upon arrival and shot directly up to the first floor, leaving his tight-sleeved jacket at the foot of the stairs to be picked up by Matthews after collecting John's greatcoat. It took John a minute to work off his tight gloves; his left hand had swollen. Donovan must have a face made of stone, and he'd fought the driver as well. The leather gloves had protected his hands somewhat, but the force of the blows had bruised his knuckles.

By the time John had hobbled to the bottom step, tall boots exchanged for comfortable leather shoes, strains of mutilated violin began to shatter down to the ground floor. After a few minutes of random notes, Sherlock began to systematically abuse the strings in a shrieking, Hellish version of scales. John paused a moment, equally annoyed and worried; Sherlock had never played anything but beautifully in his presence. Was this how he expressed upset? That ought to prove vexatious.

"Oh, dear, was it a bad day?" Mrs. Hudson came bustling forth from the kitchen, spied John hesitating at the foot of the stairs. "Oh heavens, look at you. Blood on your face and your collar, and where is your cravat? Come back to the kitchen and I'll set you to rights in a jiffy. No, don't you dare give me that 'I'm a doctor' look, young man. It's best to leave Mr. Holmes to his sulk awhile anyway."

Mrs. Hudson fed John and tended to his minor wounds with warm water and magnesium salts. His mood was buoyed by the older woman's good cheer and apparent motherly adoration of Sherlock, as well as a healthy helping of jam tarts. Still, his leg stiffened after the lazy hour being pampered in the warm kitchen; and he thought if it got much worse, he might not make it up the stairs at all. John hoisted himself up from the straight-backed wooden chair with a bit of a groan.

"Well, I'm going to beard the dragon in his den, Mrs. Hudson. Send tea up with Matthews, please, and a few of the tarts, and I'll see what I can do about Sherlock."

John had been sitting too long and his bad leg was practically numb, but he ground his teeth and stretched the weary muscles. When he felt up to it, he headed to the stairs; but of course, the minute he stepped out of the kitchen, and certainly as he ascended the steps, Sherlock's so-called playing increased in volume. John mused that the catgut must be remembering its former life, yowling a stray song atop a fence.

"Sherlock!" John shouted to be heard over the cacophony that vigorously assaulted him upon reaching their upper sitting room.

"I'm thinking, John," Sherlock shouted back, not pausing his vigorous bowing. John only caught a quarter of Sherlock's ensuing bitter condemnation of Lestrade, Bow Street, London magistrates, punctuated as it was with variously pitched shrieks from the violin.

"You're brooding very loudly, Sherlock. Do sit and have tea, or read, or, heaven forbid, even experiment if you must. You'll drive the servants and neighbors to madness."

Sherlock drew the bow down the length of the strings, the instrument issuing forth an annoyed groan.

"Then what are you doing here?"

"I'm already mad, you see," John replied.

Sherlock ignored him, moving to the window and energetically playing a discordant piece that at least vaguely resembled a melody. John decided that was a tolerable compromise. He went to his room and collected the wooden case that contained his cleaning set. He laid out the items he would need and when Matthews arrived with the tea tray, John sent him back down to fetch his pistol from his greatcoat.

"Do sit and share these tarts with me, Sherlock. I believe Mrs. Hudson has a nefarious plan to fatten me up that we must thwart." John smiled at Sherlock's back, but received no response. "Tea? Everything is improved with tea?" Sherlock might have sighed but it was hard to hear over the inharmonious notes.

Matthews returned and handed John the gun with care, though with no lack of familiarity.

"I could do that, sir, if you wish."

"No, thank you. I prefer to do it myself. That will be all."

John was glad the constable had returned his weapon before he and Sherlock had left. The methodical cleaning process was comforting and the smell of the gun oil reminded him of his father, who had always taught him to take care of his weapons for one day his life could depend on them. John's life had depended on his pistol several times, and Sherlock's twice now as well. John went through the well-practiced motions of cleaning and oiling the pistol, and after a thought, loaded it again.

When John was done, and the items properly put away, he returned to their shared sitting room. The frenzied playing was almost pleasant now, though not exactly relaxing. Still, the noise and clatter of another life in the house was more than companionable. Even if Sherlock wouldn't talk to him, he felt a lot less lonely than he had in a long time.

John paused at the bookshelves during a turn about the room, considering what he might find interesting enough to hold his thoughts through Sherlock's playing (brooding). He pulled out what looked to be a medical text on rare diseases only to flip it open and find the title page written over with a bold, "Wrong!" John smirked; this would certainly prove to be entertaining. He perused the pages, case histories of unexplained deaths, bizarre symptoms, but Sherlock had crossed out many of the conclusions and scribbled in, "Poison – arsenic," "Poison – hemlock, obvious" or "aspiration pneumonia due to botched asphyxiation by cheating husband; honestly, did no one check his shoes?"

John sat in his chair by the fireplace, bad leg propped up on a little footstool and angled towards the fire, and paged through the book. He played a game with himself, trying to read each study as a puzzle and see if he could predict Sherlock's written-in diagnosis. Between each section, he stood and circled the room slowly twice. It was entertaining for an hour or so, until Matthews appeared to light the lamps and stoke the fire.

Matthews vanished downstairs immediately after, probably wondering just how John could stand to remain in the room when Sherlock's playing was so deliberately atrocious. John considered many ways to get Sherlock out of his foul mood, including shouting him down in his Captain voice, breaking the violin and throwing it into the street hopefully to be put out of its misery by a passing horse and carriage, and physically throwing Sherlock down on the rug and shagging the annoyance from the man.

John let a little smile play on his lips; the third option did have merit. Sherlock had been playing without pause for a good two hours. Despite his state of semi-undress, (wearing neither a proper jacket nor his quilted banyan,) he was glowing and the hair curling over his neck cloth was damp. And without his coattails to obscure it, his plush arse was on display. John watched him play in his petulance, moving with emphatic gestures and sweeps of the bow. Had the music been of a more tolerable tone, John would have been completely entranced by the sway of his body, the set of his shoulders, the arch of his back.

"Sherlock."

"What is it, John?" Sherlock replied with no little exasperation, flinging his bow out to one side and whirling to face his husband.

"Does that sound like proper music to you?" John enquired quite seriously. "I only ask because I'd like to ascertain whether or not you were still being adversely affected by the chemicals in the warehouse."

"I am unaltered. The distortions in my vision and hearing returned to the normal range before we left the warehouse," Sherlock answered with flat certainty.

"I'm glad to hear it."

Sherlock turned away and, after a few limbering movements, put bow to strings yet again. He resumed playing but his agonized exuberance was muted. The notes he wrung from the violin were long and pure as if he intended to draw out a two minute piece into ten. John even thought that he recognized the piece.

John abandoned the book on his lap, though he idly turned pages without looking at them. He shifted in his chair to more comfortably watch his husband. He could admit that he felt more than just attraction to this man – there was quite a bit of affection. But Sherlock eschewed his touch more often than not, leaving John uncertain as to how to approach him. He pictured himself pressing against that long, straight back as Sherlock played, feeling the ropey muscles move against his chest. He could press his nose just under the curls at Sherlock's nape – surely he was tall enough to reach – and John could memorize what Sherlock smelled like, tasted like.

John remembered their abbreviated kiss earlier that morning and sighed. Not more than a tease, a touch, a warm feeling that lingered. How long would it be before Sherlock would kiss him like that again? What would it take to distract Sherlock from his pique, from his mysteries, and entice him to display some proof that he did indeed desire John in return?

Would it work if John was pressed against his back, if John stroked his hands over Sherlock's hips? He saw his thumbs finding the little hollows above Sherlock's buttocks and his fingertips curling around to brush his pelvic bone. Then if he slid his hands forward just a bit, he'd find the gap in the fall of his trousers; he could tease his fingers along the edge of the fabric, slip them inside.

Maybe this would distract Sherlock from his violin. Maybe he'd have to stop playing, need to lean back into John's embrace. Maybe John would press the erection he was developing into that arse, discern whether it was soft and lush or tightly muscled. Maybe Sherlock would open that gorgeous mouth of his and utter a moan in that honey-rich baritone of his.

John heard that moan. His eyes leapt back into focus as he realized the sound had been a long, low note drawn from the violin, but also that Sherlock had turned and was considering him carefully.

"We could do worse things with this insipid afternoon than consummate our marriage, John."

"I beg your pardon?" John sputtered, when he should have just stood and said, 'God, yes.' What was wrong with him?

"You heard me. I do loathe repeating myself, John."

John had heard, but he wasn't entirely sure he wasn't hallucinating. Could Sherlock read his mind? The way those eyes penetrated him, John had little doubt that he could. "Right now?"

"You've been watching me, John, for at least a quarter of an hour. And your thoughts have been of an increasingly lascivious nature."

John wasn't surprised to be caught out in his lingering admiration for Sherlock's backside. Had it really been that long, though, that John had been lost in his fantasy about his husband?

"How…?" he stuttered, with just a hint of blush.

"The windowpanes reflect nearly as well as mirrors as the darkness falls outside and the lamps are lit within. It was quite elementary to observe your attention. And the way you're shifting the book in your lap is a rather schoolboy method for hiding evidence of an erection."

"Ah, well, I suppose I'll have to learn to be more discreet." John's face deepened in color.

"Don't bother."

John wasn't certain what Sherlock meant by that, whether he needn't bother because he could not hide from Sherlock's heightened awareness or if Sherlock simply didn't mind.

Sherlock reached for a cloth from his violin case and began to wipe down his violin. He laid the instrument in its case with care then proceeded to wipe down and loosen his bow as well. John took this to mean he was not playing any more tonight. The heavy quiet beat in his ears. Or maybe that was his thundering pulse.

"So by your lack of refusal, am I to understand you would be willing?"

John shivered at Sherlock's sly tone of voice. It would have been seductive, if he wasn't so inclined to bluntness. Of course he was willing, but…

"Have I not properly expressed my resolve to not neglect you carnally, no matter what my intentions previous to our introduction might have been?"

John's blush spread to his ears and down his neck. Even the small of his back felt suddenly hot. A pulse of blood ignited those "neglected" areas to fresh awareness.

"John."

When had Sherlock gotten so close? And since when did firelight reflect in his dark hair like that, giving him red and umber highlights? Those eyes, though, they were the same, piercing John with their uncanny precision.

Close, so close.

Good God, Sherlock was going to his knees. In front of John. Moving the book to the floor. Sliding his hands up John's thighs. If John hadn't been hard before, the intensity in Sherlock's eyes, focused on him and intending… intending to…

Sherlock's fingers found the buttons to John's trousers, deftly working to open the placket and bring John out right here, right now.

John's hands covered Sherlock's forcefully stilling them.

"I thought you wanted this. This morning you said…"

"God, Sherlock, I do, but are you sure you're ready?" Was John imagining that Sherlock sounded slightly dejected underneath all that frustration?

"We are neither of us simpering misses, John. We don't need to wait for some poetic moment. You are quite obviously aroused and it will distract my mind from the events of earlier quite effectively."

"Well, some brilliant man did say I was exceedingly distracting." John's voice, as well as his attempt at humor, was weak.

"Yes," Sherlock agreed with just a hint of a smile. His hands resumed their efforts. John almost lost his conviction at the warmth of Sherlock's hand cupping over his cock as the other disengaged two buttons. And then he squeezed just a little.

"Sherlock, not like this, on your knees," John gasped. "Please, I want more."

Sherlock blinked up at John, studying him, the question 'More? I'm offering everything,' obvious in the tilt of his eyebrows. John let go of Sherlock's hands, moving one of his own to curl around the back of Sherlock's neck, stroking behind Sherlock's ear with his thumb. John shifted in his chair, leaned forward, and pulled Sherlock's mouth to his. The kiss itself was simple, a press of lips slightly parted, breath mingling.

"Let me take you to bed, Sherlock. Let me pleasure you, kiss you, touch you." John would have given anything to know what thoughts flew through Sherlock's mind in the minute before he rose gracefully to his feet.

"Very well, John." Sherlock took up a taper and went ahead to light the two lamps in John's bedroom. Their bedroom.

By the time John struggled to his feet and followed, made awkward by an unflagging erection and half-unfastened trousers, the room was glowing. The soft light would look quite well on Sherlock's bare skin. The thought almost made John stumble.

Sherlock kicked his shoes off before crawling onto John's bed. Their bed. He sat against the headboard, plumping a pillow behind his back. His eyes never stopped watching John, who divested himself of his coat and waistcoat. Sherlock's fingers hovered above his own buttons, fussing with them rather than unfastening them. That was fine. John made himself as comfortable next to Sherlock as he could, straightening out his bad leg and curling the other around for balance. John noticed that Sherlock had chosen the far side of the bed, which would allow John to lie on his uninjured side facing Sherlock.

John wrapped a hand around one of Sherlock's, pulling it to his lips and lightly kissing each knuckle. When he was done, he guided that hand around his waist, leaning in closer. He stroked the fine brocade of Sherlock's waistcoat from shoulder to just below his ribcage, feeling Sherlock's heartbeat below his fingertips. John couldn't believe he was allowed to touch this man, that somehow, unbelievably, this man wanted him in return.

It took both his hands to unknot Sherlock's cravat, but before he finished, Sherlock's lips were upon his and John forgot momentarily how to untie a knot, unfasten a button, and breathe. Sherlock's lips pressed against John's with a violent desperation very unlike the languid passion of the morning. John held his own, though he needed to clutch Sherlock's shoulder to steady himself.

The kiss eased in pressure and John took the opportunity to nip and suck at Sherlock's plush lower lip. Sherlock's tongue joined the game and John felt a thrill at the gentle tasting that shot all the way down his spine. He surged up against Sherlock, one hand tangling itself in the damp curls at Sherlock's nape.

Sherlock dragged his lips away, leaving John to pant as he pressed his nose and mouth into John's open collar – John had not replaced his lost neck cloth, feeling no need of it in the privacy of their own home. The exuberant attack on his neck, the licks on his collarbone, the nips on the skin under his jaw introduced a few soft gasps into the quiet.

Sherlock rent John's shirt open instead of sparing the moment it would take to sweep the fabric over his head. John sighed, though even he wasn't sure whether this was caused by the loss of a perfectly good shirt or the glorious way Sherlock was sucking a mark onto his neck just there. It didn't occur to him until Sherlock paused that his husband had suddenly become aware that it wasn't only John's leg that was scarred.

"John, how did you survive?" Sherlock murmured into the thick scar tissue that crawled up from his hip and up to his bottom rib. His tongue followed one of the pink ribbons, making John shiver. "Can I see all of it?"

John didn't particularly think Sherlock found the scarring attractive, intriguing maybe, but neither did he seem disturbed by it. He may as well be allowed to see all of it. John pushed his braces off his shoulders and tugged his destroyed shirt off. Sherlock's hands were at the buttons of his falls again; then he urged John to lift his hips so he could tug the trousers and smallclothes down.

Soon John was naked, doubly so under Sherlock's blatant appraisal. He ought to have been chilled, naked in a cold bed, but he felt nothing but rushing heat when calloused fingertips traced each mark of his healed wound.

John opened his mouth to make a comment about how ugly the scars were, but Sherlock grumbled, "Be quiet, John," before he could speak. John was quiet, then, watching Sherlock's face as the man memorized every whorl and twist where the stitching had been rough and hasty. Sherlock pushed John onto his back to accomplish this, leaning over him still fully clothed.

"It's incredible, John," he breathed. "There are spots where the line is so delicate one might have carved your clay with a knife." Sherlock ran his tongue along one of these places, just beneath John's ribcage. It tickled and John twitched, making Sherlock hum. He ran his mouth down over John's waist, where he could barely feel anything, and over to just below John's navel, where he most definitely felt everything.

When he pulled back, John groaned.

"You said you didn't want my mouth on you, John."

And if Sherlock's tone wasn't so matter-of-fact, John might have thought he was being deliberately teased.

"Perhaps I've changed my mind." John's voice was low and a bit gruff, but it caused Sherlock to smile.

"I had no idea you were so changeable, John." Sherlock finished unfastening his cravat with adroit fingers, tossing it to the floor before slipping out of his braces and untucking his shirt. John watched Sherlock tug it over his head with avid interest, the long, narrow torso stretching overhead. Sherlock exaggerated the movement as if he noticed John looking, but of course John would look. Sherlock was simply stunning.

"You ought to be a statue in a museum."

"If I were, I suspect you'd be arrested for indecently groping priceless works of art in public."

John laughed, surprised at Sherlock's joke.

"I like your laugh." Sherlock rushed now, rolling away to divest himself of all clothing below the waist. When he returned, he pressed up against John's side and kissed his still-smiling mouth with fervor. John let his hands explore since Sherlock wasn't patient enough to let John investigate with his eyes. He found a smooth chest with sparse soft hairs in a diamond shape in the center. He found flat nipples that pebbled up as soon as his palm brushed over them; a bit of gentle attention there made Sherlock's dexterous kisses stutter.

Further explorations revealed a flat stomach with a thin line of hair leading down after circling his navel. John curled his hand around the narrow waist, searching for and finding that lush arse. Taut and muscular as if he rode horses all day, every day, it gave his backside an alluring curve. John pulled Sherlock more atop him, so he could squeeze with both hands. Sherlock gasped, his muscles clenching under John's grasp, and pressed his hips tighter against John's. This made them both groan.

John could feel his husband's cock hard against his own and he shifted his hips to introduce a bit of friction. Sherlock took up the movement, the gentle rub and pressure desperately wonderful. John pushed his hips up while pulling Sherlock closer, lost in kisses and the sultry heat of Sherlock's body.

"Wait, John, wait," Sherlock gasped, rolling away. John blinked, bereft and lust-blown, but Sherlock was only reaching for a nearby drawer to pull out a small jar. It was the same small jar John had left with Sherlock during his unfortunate dosing with an aphrodisiac. The contents were somewhat depleted, but there was enough for this.

Sherlock opened the jar but now John stopped him instead.

"Not yet. It doesn't taste as good as it smells." The glint in John's eye stopped Sherlock cold.

John pushed Sherlock down onto his back and kissed him again because kissing Sherlock was simply irresistible. But having Sherlock splayed on his back beneath him was even more inviting, and he wanted to know every inch of him. John's lips moved downward. The dip between his collarbones was sensitive to a flick of tongue. He was a bit ticklish around the sixth and seventh ribs, but only on his left. A fingertip tracing a straight path south from the navel was a surefire way to get his cock to twitch, as was a deliberate lick along the underside.

Sherlock may have been passive, allowing John to do as he wished, but that did not mean he was unresponsive. He murmured his appreciation for John's dedication to detail, and offered little suggestions of preferences when he liked something out of the norm such as being bitten along the curve of his pectoralis major. Those whispers and soft moans, that voice alone, served to make John's cock twitch. So when John worked Sherlock's foreskin back with his tongue and lips, and Sherlock twitched upwards with a rugged groan, John couldn't help but grasp his own cock and give it a few firm tugs.

Sherlock was salty and musky and John wanted to dive into that scent, taste him everywhere. Sherlock obligingly lifted his knee, fully exposing his bollocks and darker places and John's tongue adventured lower.

"If you don't take me into your mouth extremely soon, John, my prick shall permanently turn to stone as if a Gorgon spied me."

"I love the strain in your voice when you are desperate," John chuckled, but shifted to do the task requested. Sherlock's cock was flushed pink, long but of a comfortable girth for John's mouth, with a flared head that just begged for a tongue to swirl around the smoothness of it. John did so, lapping up the pre-ejaculate as if it were the last drop of jam on the spoon. Using his hand to control depth and speed, John moved his mouth down the shaft.

Effusive gasps and moans rewarded each downward movement as John took him progressively deeper. It wasn't long before a ragged breath and a hand tugging his short hair warned him to pull back. He did, but only to look at Sherlock sprawled before him, eyes dark and heavy-lidded, lips parted, chest heaving, and bollocks pulled up tight to the base of a florid prick, glossy with saliva. He had been right; the lamplight did favor Sherlock's bare skin.

Only when Sherlock had calmed a bit did John slick up his hand with the contents of the jar and straddle Sherlock's thighs. He rubbed the cream along his own shaft, a darker shade than Sherlock's, and enjoyed the look in Sherlock's eyes as he watched hungrily. When John scooped up a little more of the cream, Sherlock held out his hand and John slicked up his fingers, giving each digit the same attention he shortly gave Sherlock's cock. They fumbled to get their grips just right, but soon they were both snug in a cage of fingers and slick heat. John used his upper position to rock his hips, thrusting into their grip; the pair of them found a rhythm that would be quick to bring about release. For all John's desire to prolong the experience, every nerve in his body was singing for the apex of it all; Sherlock wordlessly agreed. Sherlock's free hand wrapped around and clutched John's arse, fingertips slipping into the crease between, finding just the right spots to rub as he encouraged their pace.

Sherlock tensed first, grip tightening and his movements becoming frenetic. The arch of his long white neck at the height of his pleasure was simply breathtaking. John was compelled to bite it.

"Yes, Sherlock, yes, let yourself go," John hummed into the crook of that gorgeous neck, as if he wasn't going to be pulled over the edge himself the second Sherlock spilled over their fingers.

A wordless cry, several sharp movements, and Sherlock's prick emptied itself onto Sherlock's belly and John's fingers. The hot fluid, Sherlock's flushed and sweaty skin, the throbbing shaft still pressed tight to his made John push forward twice more before spilling and mixing his seed with Sherlock's.

They didn't move for a few moments, couldn't move. Sherlock's hand fell lifelessly to his stomach, apparently carefree about in what it landed. John caught his breath leaning over Sherlock, braced on both hands pressed to the mattress on either side of Sherlock's shoulders. Sherlock's eyes were closed and John managed to surprise him with a lingering kiss.

"Let me get a flannel to clean you up with, love. Don't move." John shifted off Sherlock, perching on the side of the bed. The flannels and water were across the room, but John had forgotten about his cane for the moment. He still limped, but he made it to the washbasin, washed himself, and came back without needing his cane for balance. "Sorry, it's cold." He cleaned Sherlock's hand and stomach before flinging the cloth back towards the washbasin where it landed with a bit of a splash. He crawled back into the bed and made himself comfortable on his back. One arm curled up over his head; the one nearest Sherlock took the other man's hand in his.

"Did that clear your mind enough to nap a few minutes?"

Sherlock blinked back at him owlishly as John raised his hand and kissed the back of his wrist.