John napped next to him, flushed and looking well-loved. He was naked, blanket and sheet pooled around his waist, one arm sprawled over his head. Sherlock admired the fine blond hairs scattered over his chest, the thicker, light brown tuft on display under his arm, the lines his muscles created under his skin, the curve of his side from shoulder to waist. He wanted to lay hands on this man, to touch him, needed to feel that golden skin against his own, but he didn't want to wake him. His hand hovered over John's ribcage, the ridge of his pectoral muscle, his clavicle, but Sherlock pulled his hand back with a twinge of worry. A caress along his ribs might tickle; Sherlock wanted to watch him sleep undisturbed.
Sherlock examined John's face, taking in every line etched by his adult years. John wasn't so terribly much older than Sherlock, but he'd had years at war and months of injury and illness. Even strands of his blond hair were starting to silver, Sherlock knew, though in the yellow lamplight, his hair glinted softly like ancient gold. It was softer, finer than Sherlock had surmised, and even now he wished to stroke his fingers through the tousled strands.
Sherlock's eyes followed the line of John's jaw, lightly stubbled, to his lips; lips that would be unspectacular if it hadn't been for their easy ability to curve into a smile. Smiles took over John's entire face, his cheeks, his eyes, his forehead. When John smiled at Sherlock, it was as intoxicating as any chemical concoction Sherlock had ever experienced.
When John had leaned forward to kiss him, Sherlock opened all the doors that lead down halls of pleasure in his head. Things he wanted to do with John, to John, within John, flooded out from where he'd hidden the knowledge. He'd hidden the memories so well from himself that sometimes he'd felt innocent. Once he started remembering, though, he'd considered putting it all away again, so he'd be innocent again with John. Every touch would be the first, every experience new and amazing.
It was like that anyway. Something about the way John kissed him, caressed him, was unique.
Kissing, kissing had never been so… pleasant was such an understatement even if Sherlock hesitated to use glorious – glorious in the earliest meaning, the all-encompassing shining light of God and Love and everything. Glorious, such a ridiculously overblown concept but Sherlock didn't want to slight kissing John, not one bit. Glorious. It wasn't the technical proficiency, the hard-earned skill, the way his lips tasted of sweet jam and tea; it was a sort of tangible, palpable emotion imbued into the act. Glorious. Sherlock felt stunned by the passion in a way he'd never known. Glorious. If he never climaxed again, he would be content with kissing John. He was utterly lost in it. How could that happen? Who was John to possess such… such innate warmth? Surely not everyone was capable of such a thing, not with the grief and murder and harm he saw every day. And certainly no one he'd ever kissed before had been capable of it. Lust was lust and love was… a nonentity.
Love had never been a worry, a consideration. Sherlock had never believed he was capable of such a thing and those around him had not served to inspire further introspection. Love – it had always been a ridiculous illusion at best, a fanciful fallacy, or a dangerous Achilles hell at worst, a deplorable blindness. Sherlock was aware that he was capable of lusting, want, desire, no matter his resolution to deny it. When he'd proven able to deny it, before John.
John stirred, lashes fluttering as if he was waking. He turned towards Sherlock, reached out. Sherlock allowed his body to be captured, tugged against that warm skin. John's arm curled around his waist and his nose buried itself in the curve of Sherlock's neck. Sherlock's fingers alighted uncertainly on John's shoulder and arm in return. He closed his eyes but could not, would not sleep. He concentrated on the warmth of rhythmic exhalations on his clavicle, the brush of John's hair beneath his chin, the exact points of contact between him and this man. For all that he was a naturally observant person, he'd never been so aware of another before.
Sherlock considered what he knew of John. Parents, deceased. Brother, more or less estranged since the wedding and a troubled relationship before. Extended family? None Sherlock knew of. No letters had arrived for John alone. Most of their wedding-related post had been from the Holmes family and Mycroft's acquaintances. John had not been consulted on the guest list, but surely Sir Harold would have invited someone if any family members were nearby. Friends? John seemed readily friendly with Lestrade and he presented as an amiable man. Surely he'd have had friends in service. Must have lost contact with most of them due to shame over financial difficulties, his prolonged illness after injury, the remoteness of the endless countryside.
Sherlock entertained the thought briefly that he ought to encourage John's friendship with Lestrade or Cousin Petrina, or that Stamford from St. Bart's John had seemed to know. But a disquieting pang in the hollow spaces in his chest made him rethink the idea. John would surely find a person he liked better than Sherlock, someone with whom he preferred spending time, someone who wouldn't foul their communal air with petulance and anger. That outcome was unacceptable. Sherlock shook away the thought, for it wrapped around within his chest and squeezed until he could not draw breath.
But if Sherlock couldn't treat him the way he so clearly deserved, someone else would. John was a good man, better than anyone Sherlock had ever met. What could he have possibly done to be abandoned to Sherlock's dubious mercy? Why was he so alone?
He was not alone. He had Sherlock, did he not? Or at least Sherlock had him. John did stay even when Sherlock had treated him with bitter words and silence in the carriage, much less of which had chased away any other person. John had climbed the stairs in the face of aural torture and remained steadfast, though he had made several attempts to modulate Sherlock's behavior. And he'd been successful. Sherlock burrowed through the slight haze that still remained in his brain and suspected he might even be feeling shame for his behavior. He'd felt it sometimes when his mind was clearing from whatever drug Victor had provided, but another dose, another drink always cleared that unwelcome feeling away.
Now the only mind-altering exploit he wanted to take part in was kissing John.
Their brief kiss in Irene's foyer – Sherlock had never given an impromptu kiss that he meant in his life – had stunned them both. He'd never kissed out of affection – he wasn't sure he'd ever experienced the meaning of the word. Had opening himself to the much-disdained act of matrimony somehow invalidated all his other beliefs, that conceding to one meant he was secretly hoping for love, that abhorrent soppiness? Perhaps he should have married Victor or Irene, or any of the millions of people that were not John. John wanted love and affection and someone to share a life with and Sherlock was not succeeding in his protests against such things.
John deserved… and that was where all his arguments against broke down. John deserved so much better than he got and Sherlock wanted to give it to him. Sherlock was thinking of John, thinking of John's wants and desires and putting those wants ahead of his own. Of course, it was still for the most selfish reasons possible – Sherlock couldn't bear the thought of John finding happiness and comfort with someone else, even if it meant melting down his metal to remake an edge that wouldn't cut John. And while he professed to believe in neither divine blessings nor luck, John truly was both.
"Did you rest at all, Sherlock?"
Sherlock blinked, annoyed with himself for being once again struck dumb. John gazed up at him with heavy-lidded eyes. If he hadn't yet comprehended that Sherlock had spent the last hour alternately memorizing John and toiling within his own mind, he would soon.
"Come down here." John tugged him down into the covers, tucking him against his side so that John's fingers could stroke through his tangled curls. "I've seen you sleep only once since I've known you, Sherlock. You need to rest." Nimble fingers began combing through his hair, rubbing along his scalp. It was surprisingly pleasant.
"I've slept more than once, John."
"Hmm, I'm not sure I believe that." John's contradictory opinion on this rumbled through his chest and Sherlock pressed his cheek tighter to him to feel it. "So, in lieu of sleep, will you tell me how you knew about the letters, Sherlock?"
"What letters?" How was Sherlock supposed to think about letters of any sort, except the ones he might draw on John's body with his fingers or tongue? Sherlock found himself outlining the Greek alphabet on the soft skin of John's belly before he realized the ridiculousness of it.
John didn't seem to notice or mind.
"Lady Adler's letters, the ones you said she stole."
"Oh, those. I didn't. Good guess, though, wasn't it? I could tell she was hiding something. What else would it be? I would not know jewels and money were not her own, nor was there anyone but her own servants in her apartments. As I mentioned, the Prince Regent has been blackmailed before, with letters he wrote proclaiming his love to an actress in his youth. He later attempted to marry a Catholic woman, despite both law and Crown. So we have a man, profligate with sentiment, and a woman eager to keep herself in style. It was a logical conclusion."
"Amazing." And just as he had done when Sherlock had tricked Lady Adler into fleeing, John began to chuckle. Sherlock lifted his head to watch and his lips curved into a smile as if laughter was catching. "I'm sorry, Sherlock, but I simply do not like that woman," John said when his amusement had faded. "I suppose I am jealous, for she has a history with you, years of acquaintance, and I barely know you. And I want to know you."
You shouldn't, Sherlock thought. Then he was afraid he'd actually said that aloud. He kissed John's chest just once, lightly, which would be an appropriate gesture in either case.
"I want to thank you for this day, Sherlock."
"You don't have to thank me, John," Sherlock said a little stiffly.
"I don't mean for this. Or, well, not just for this." John was flushed and flustered again. He cleared his throat. "I meant for all of today. Waking in your arms, going on quite the unexpected adventure. Granted, a slightly more soothing musical interlude would have been appreciated, but you've made it up to me quite nicely, I must say, though I wouldn't mind being made up to a little more."
The lilting tone of his voice made Sherlock jerk his head up to catch John smiling so irresistibly. John reached up to stroke his thumb along Sherlock's lower lip. Please him, yes, that was something Sherlock could do. He turned and shifted, deliberately sliding his bare chest against John's as he ascended to capture John's lips.