Sherlock was about halfway done with a lengthy paragraph describing how it's okay to give favorite foods not as often, just try to keep to the diet beforehand or let him choose, when Mycroft walked around his desk and dropped his phone on the papers in front of him.
What the phone said at first didn't register. Why would this be on Mycroft's phone?
"Tell me, John can become easily lethargic at any given moment." Sherlock said calmly, looking up from the phone to Felicia. "It is written, I assume, but give me the quick version of any major danger this lethargy can create."
"One moment he can be fine. The next he can be barely able to keep his head from hitting the floor. For hours. It's possible that the head trauma has a small blockage of reaction time to the rest of his body as a protection. He may stay away for four days and not feel tired a single moment but he could be walking across the street and pass out before he starts falling."
Sherlock stood quickly and handed Mycroft's phone back.
"If the text wasn't sent from John's address, text me where he is." With that and a swish of his coat, Sherlock left the office.
John tried as hard as he could to stay awake. He had just been fine. It was only a tiny bit of tired. Why was he so tired? His thoughts were slipping from him, his body chilly. Where was he? Last thing he remembered was texting Sherlock for help. Where was that man anyway?
The floor was cold. It didn't feel like carpet. He remembered glimpses of a cabinet, table. The kitchen. That wasn't far from the door, he must have been more tired than he thought. Somehow he knew Sherlock would be worried. How long had it been since he sent that text? It seemed both seconds and hours ago.
There was a loud, deep thump that John felt through his body. He realized with a groan that he was lying on his arm.
"John!" Someone yelled out, the voice still too far, too hazy to know. There were a lot of quick, tiny thumps to follow. "John!" The front door flew open. John couldn't turn his head to see but he knew it was Sherlock. "John," the man breathed as he closed the door and rushed forward. He didn't remove a single item from his person as he checked over John, seeing if any further damage was done. Once determined he was fine, albeit sore and tired, Sherlock shoved John onto his back.
"'lo," John mumbled out, trying as hard as he could to focus on Sherlock but his head throbbed with the beat of his heart. Sherlock had a wild look in his eyes, his hair windblown. He was breathing hard, sitting with his knees up and arms resting upon them. John didn't know what came over him but he giggled a tiny bit.
"Are you in pain?"
"'ub," John managed but not enough to say "numb," successfully drawing Sherlock's eyebrows down into confusion.
"How about if I get you up and into your bed and you scream or groan, I'll give you pain meds?" John smiled in response and Sherlock helped the man to his feet. Together they walked crookedly, John still half asleep.
Sherlock laid him down gently, not a single cry of pain or uncomfortable groan having come from John. He pulled up the covers and brushed hair from his forehead. John was still somewhat conscious when Sherlock's hand turned from his brow to his cheek, fingers gently caressing the skin. John was only somewhat surprised when he felt Sherlock's lips against his opposite cheek. What did surprise him was the sudden and violent desire to want to be awake so he could kiss Sherlock back.
Sleep stole him from the opportunity and his last thought was he hoped if he never remembered anything the rest of his life, to remember the feeling Sherlock's kiss had given him.
John remembered everything, if not a bit fuzzy. What he regretted was the timing was now gone. Sherlock made tea, realizing breakfast was not going to happen, made John's bed and hovered for an hour or so before he informed John that he had a few things to pick up.
"Do you know how long you want me to stay for?" Sherlock inquired but John didn't want to answer. What was between them still hadn't been answered but it seemed strange to have an unknown man in the house regardless that they had a past.
"I'm not sure. We could try until the end of the week?"
"Alright. I will be back. Let me know if you need anything." Sherlock was at the door when he turned and locked eyes with John. "Do not scare me again."
With that half anguished plea, Sherlock seemed to fly out of the apartment. John cleared his throat, sitting on the couch and fiddling with his fingers. How was he ever to talk to Sherlock without the man hovering or being a busy-body? There was always the rest of the week.
John's parents showed up again and he had forgotten they were coming. Thankfully, they had brought lunch. The day was basically the same as yesterday only John took note of how much he was exerting and the exact moment he felt tired, he told his parents he needed to sleep.
When they'd gone, promising to write or at least call, John texted Sherlock that the flat was clear. He frowned when he noticed no message had been sent either last night or any other time to Sherlock. Going to his messages he found the right one and stared at Mycroft's name. In his phone, they were both listed last name first. It was just rather a horrible happenstance that he'd clicked Mycroft.
The man was horrid. How had Sherlock gotten to know John was in trouble? There were no telltale signs he'd been in danger anywhere but in the kitchen where he'd lain. Mycroft must have told him. Smiling, John found himself thinking the man maybe a little less horrid.
Sherlock came into the flat with a suitcase and a bag slung over his shoulder. He eyed John who dozed on the couch, face where Sherlock laid his own. The man looked downright adorable. Quietly, Sherlock put his things on the opposite side of the room and removed his bathroom items. Within the shower, he lathered his whole body in a thick layer of soap. He ran fingers through his wet hair, enjoying the feeling of the hot water coursing over his body like a rivers' current.
Sighing contentedly, he noted that John needed to be put to sleep in his own bed. This would be difficult to begin with, and impossible if John wouldn't wake up. There was a possibility Sherlock would sleep on the floor, which wasn't bad but John would be sore in the morning.
There was a soft, almost inaudible creak and Sherlock spun around, placing a hand on the wall of the bathroom to help steady himself. John stood, sleepy-eyed and confused in the doorway.
"John, go to sleep." Sherlock tried his best cooing voice but it just sounded gruff and demanding.
"I don't want to, Sherlock." John closed the door behind him and pressed a hand on the shower.
"Don't be ridiculous, John, you're tired. Do I need to accompany you?" The thought of standing naked in front of John was doing horrible things to Sherlock's body that the man didn't want John to see.
"If you want, yeah." John smiled, pulling the handle and letting his bare feet become splattered with run-off water.
"I don't see how this is good for you." Sherlock murmured when John removed the few clothing articles, continuing to effectively block Sherlock's escape route, and stepping into the shower as naked as Sherlock.
"Probably isn't." John agreed. He was staring very openly at Sherlock, but only his face. Sherlock got the distinct impression that it wasn't out of modesty, but trying to find out how far he could go. Unfortunately for either of them, Sherlock had been, up until a few moments ago, been suppressing the memories of their time spent together with heated breath and sweaty bodies.
John moved forward slowly and Sherlock reached up, shifting the shower head to cover just in front of him. He never paused to think of how inviting the warm water was, especially when it seemed to show John that Sherlock wanted him close. John did just that. Barely touching, John stood in front of Sherlock, the water hitting both of them.
"You never told me if I was anything to you." John mumbled, putting the flat of his palms on Sherlock's chest. There was a silent moment both men enjoyed the touch and rise and fall of his chest.
"Our relationship is complicated."
John sighed, rolled his eyes, and went forward that one inch. The heat of the water made it difficult to feel the length of Sherlock against his own but it was there and it felt like the most right thing in the world. There was a whisper of Sherlock's arms around him before they settled around his waist. It was a prompt that led John to press a gentle yet firm kiss on Sherlock's cheek, right where Sherlock had kissed him the night before.
"You were awake." Sherlock remarked with an almost upset timbre to his voice. John smiled fully.
"Always hate to be wrong, you." He mumbled into the flesh of Sherlock's jaw, but then paused when he realized Sherlock had gone stiff. He pulled back and looked at Sherlock's amazed face.
"What did you just say that for?"
"Because it's true. You can't stand to be wrong, you beat yourself up over it each time for days."
"Oh?"
"Yeah." John's eyes widened, realizing that he couldn't possibly know that about Sherlock from the few days they'd been together. "That was a memory."
"Good. That's a good sign. Your memories are not going to hide from me forever." Sherlock declared, grabbing John's face and planting a strong, dominant kiss upon his lips.
John was admittedly surprised, but only for a moment. He grabbed Sherlock upon the ribs, pulling him close and kissing him so thoroughly John was sure he'd pass out. The strong arms that wrapped around his body helped to ensure he wouldn't fall even if he became wobbly. Thankful for this, John shoved his tongue between the man's lips, drawing a low groan.
Sherlock took a step forward, pressing John against the glass wall of their shower. If he cared to look, he could have barely seen John's reflection in the steamy mirror: a perfect indent of a butt and shoulders.
The feeling of John pressed against him once more after so many years, so many letters, drove Sherlock to actually feel. Though he felt around John quiet a lot more than ever, this was actual downright lust. John reached past Sherlock, turning off the water. Both men stumbled a bit as they stepped out.
"We can't wet the carpet." Sherlock pointed out, grabbing a towel and very quickly drying himself. John did the same, but was much slower considering his injuries. Once Sherlock was done with himself, he helped John and then ushered him out the door and into the bedroom. Without further comment, they both laid down on the bed, snug under the covers.
There was a hesitant moment where John wasn't sure if the mood had died. He looked at Sherlock's face, gauging how the man was feeling but knew the likelihood of getting an answer was null.
A soft, questioning hand rose from the sheets and touched John's face. So, Sherlock was curious about this all as well.
"I didn't change my mind." John confessed and Sherlock slipped closer, leaving a trail of quick kisses over John's face, shoulders, neck, and finally his lips.
They didn't take their time with feeling one another. John tried to but Sherlock seemed almost viscious. He touched light, though, and didn't expect John to do much. It was almost as if Sherlock had been wanting to have this intimacy for a while. And John had a suspicion it was longer than the days they had spent, possibly years.
As Sherlock drove them both absolutely blind with passion, he never really fully touched John. When John was ready for anything to happen-anything-he moaned, "Sherlock," and ran his hand up the inside of Sherlock's thigh. Not stopping him, Sherlock let it happen and mimicked the actions of John's thigh.
Without words, Sherlock pushed John onto his back, swung a leg over and sat astride him. John smilled, lids halfway closed and eyes almost completely black, and put his hands on Sherlock's hips. In the moment, Sherlock grabbed John and positioned himself just right.
At the last second, John frowned. Sherlock stiffened, barely able to keep a tremor from his hands when he realized John might reject him still. The thought almost drove him from the bedroom without John saying a word.
"I feel like I've wanted to do this for years." He mumbled, his hands running up and down Sherlock's thighs. In astonishment, Sherlock realized John wasn't unsure about what they were doing, but rather how strong the desire was.