Lestrade didn't call or text Sherlock at all. In the morning, out of curiosity Sherlock texted with "?" and got a simple, "no," back. Knowing he was free from any case, Sherlock encouraged John to do breakfast tea and get ready. Like normal, John was distant. Putting it on a shelf in his Mind Palace, Sherlock made a note to use the ride to try getting John to talk.
"You may be okay with having killed a man to save me," Sherlock stated softly as they were on their way. John seemed irate at realizing he'd been put into a corner the moment the cab was off and Sherlock's mouth opened. Out of him came a deep sigh.
"Yes. We've been over this."
"Not that you've distanced since then."
"Distanced? I'm fine, Sherlock."
"You can't lie to a consulting detective."
"You're the only consulting detective, ever."
"Exactly."
John huffed with exaggeration but Sherlock wasn't finished yet. Sherlock continued to stare at John until the man either relented or they showed up at the flat.
"I am not treating you differently, Sherlock. I don't even know how I used to treat you."
"Ever since you shot the cabbie you've looked at me from a distance. You never acted that way even before the memory loss."
John finally turned to Sherlock and looked at him. Knowing that tons of things were going through John's head, Sherlock kept quiet and let the man do his own thinking.
switching to John's perspective.
He knew nothing should have changed between them, but John couldn't get the dream from his head. Was it a warning from his past? Looking at Sherlock, thinking about the stuff he'd learned about the man both new and old. Nothing seemed to connect to the dream in any way, at least not from Sherlock himself. Sally and Anderson seem to believe him a freak. A fanged wolf monster wouldn't be too long of a throw for them.
Relieving the idea of Sherlock with fangs from his third eye, John sighed deep and looked out the window. There was a sharp, frustrated sigh from behind him and John felt bad. To be honest, John knew he owed Sherlock for all the man had done since John first saw him at the hospital. Yet, regardless of feeling the ties that bound them from youth but not in memory, John had a voice in his head that told him not to ignore the dream. It meant something.
As the cab pulled up to the curb of a respectable looking building, John heard Sherlock practically start fuming. John was surprised the man wasn't showing anger in his face as they exited and walked up the front steps. Sherlock pulled out a key and opened the flat. He ushered John first, who ducked in and to the side, eyeing the place.
Absolutely nothing looked right about the room. At first glance, it would seem it were a living room but then with the books crowding nearly every surface it was easy to believe it was a study. Papers, newspaper clippings, notes, and sticky notes littered one of the walls, each piece stuck with a tack against the wall. The couch as well as the chair were both littered with books or papers. Given what John had witnessed during their case, he figured everything on the wall was about a case he hadn't cleaned up yet, or hadn't solved yet. It was hard to tell which likelihood was more plausible.
John moved farther into the mess, which was more of organized chaos than anything, and turned to look at Sherlock. He'd have smiled at the man, handsome as anyone he'd ever seen, but the flash of color in his eyes reminded John of the nightmare and his smile vanished. The stiff way Sherlock stood, his sharp eyes locked on John, it showed he knew John's mood had gone back down even after that split second. What John was certain of was that Sherlock didn't know why. It was possible Sherlock believed John's war memories came back and he had PTSD or some such thing.
Doing his best to ignore Sherlock's facial expressions and general vibe, John wandered the apartment, all of which was tidy, but in a chaotic way. Even after a few minutes of fiddling with things, making sure they were placed back exactly the way they had been, John started to see it. Every piece had a purpose, every paper was important to the books it lay among, every clipping of a paper or magazine belonged exactly where it was.
While John was doing all of this, Sherlock was making tea in the kitchen, which was filled with more science and body parts than a morgue. John stayed out of the kitchen.
It was only a matter of time, and rather quiet a surprise, when John stumbled through one room into another that so happened to have a bed. This room was considerably less clustered, though each room was easy to move around in, and a large globe sat in the far corner of the room. The bed, covered in black sheets and neatly made, had not a single paper or book, or even tool upon it.
Smiling, John strode over and touched the sheet gently. It gave way easily suggesting it was down feather. Out of curiosity, he knelt down, stifling a groan from his shoulder as he leaned over and pulled up the sheets. Underneath the bed, as mess-free as the top of the bed, hid only a few items. John frowned and pulled out what looked to be like a shoe box. Behind that were two more of the same size.
Sitting with his back against the bed, John opened the first box and froze immediately. Wrapped in rubber bands were envelopes with neatly scrawled handwriting. Each "from" section on the letters had his name on it and the area he apparently was stationed. Each "to" section was Sherlock. Every single one in the groups tied by rubber bands had been opened carefully and each one still had the paper inside of it. John undid a package, all seemed to be dated the same month, same year.
Curiously, each rubber band held what seemed to be a month worth of letters each. From the group he'd freed, John saw them all dated from June. He opened the earliest one in the year and carefully unfolded the paper. It was creased heavily like the letter had been opened and closed many, many times.
As John read it, his eyes got blurry, watery, and a few tears rolled down his face. The letter didn't contain much but there was obvious feeling in the words written to Sherlock. John pulled out another from the same month and there was a good chunk of the letter surrounding in how he missed Sherlock so painfully, how he still loved him. The letter got very personal about the physical aspects of the relationship there was no question the two had.
After reading the second one, John put them back carefully in place and looked through the other boxes. All three were the same. He found the first set of messages and his hands shook as he took off the rubber band. The absolute first letter Sherlock had kept, possibly the first sent, sat in his fingers.
"I kept every single one." A soft, deep voice rang out and John turned to the doorway. Thankfully his eyes had dried after the shock of emotion that rang so true down inside his soul.
"From when?"
"After you left me. For your doctor degree." There was a pause.
"There's at least a hundred."
"You had much to say." Sherlock came forward and placed the teacup next to John on the bedside table. "Stay as long as you want, read all of them if you wish. I will wait for you." With that, John was left alone.
For the next few hours he carefully handled each letter, seeing each hopefull and happy word play across the page. And the farther he read, the more space inside his brain filled. There was very little information about what happened during specifics in John's days, but John found himself remembering large chunks. Aching muscles, dirty sand everywhere in the clothes, the locals speaking in what sounded like gibberish. There were a lot of memories.
Of Sherlock.
After the last letter was placed carefully back in place and the shoeboxes put correctly back, John stood and walked to Sherlock who had moved the things off the couch and was sitting patiently. From the look upon John's face he must have known something was up. The man, skiny and tall with more than a hint of sexuality, stood quickly and took a step forward. Before he could get much farther, John was pushing him onto the bed. The monster in his nightmare was gone, replaced only by the memories of everything they'd ever done together.
Without a word shared between each other, their clothes were ripped off, buttons spraying over the whole flat. Their breathing, becoming labored quicker than John could push the taller man to the couch. Kisses trailed down Sherlock's chest, the man bucking and groaning against John. Lower John went, surrounding himself in the smell of Sherlock's musk. The first taste of Sherlock's salty length, just the tip, sent both men into a groan. Long fingers dug into John's hair and shoulder.
The deeper he brought Sherlock into his mouth, the more tense the muscles in his legs became. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's waist and held him close, taking him all the way to the back of his throat again and again.
"John..." Sherlock breathed, solidifying John's erection almost painfully. With a soft "pop" noise, John pulled his head all the way back and pushed Sherlock over and onto his back. Sherlock gasped when John took hold of the bottom of his thighs and hoisted his legs up and around his hips as he slid onto the couch.
After positioning himself, John looked down at Sherlock. The man's pupils were so large he couldn't see the dazzling hues of blue and green. His lips were parted in anticipation. This was nothing like the time they'd clumsily undressed in the heat of the moment after John had finally come home. Sherlock obviously could feel the memories John now had. Both men wanted this, craved this as if they didn't think they'd ever have this again.
John pushed himself slowly into Sherlock, letting them both adjust to the feeling. It had been so long since John had copulated. He'd been smitten with Sherlock and hadn't taken a lover since. There was always hope that one day Sherlock would write an actual letter instead of sending a monotone notice as to change of address.
Once all the way in, John wrapped his fingers around Sherlock length, gaining a long and pleased groan from the detective.
"Aahhh."
John pulled in and out slowly, at first, and then attempted a rhythm. Both men rocked their hips gently against each other. Sherlock's hands roamed John's body, anywhere they could reach, memorizing each curve he'd known so well as a teenager.
switch to Sherlock's POV
John felt absolutely amazing. The strength the man had was hidden behind his soft demeanor. There was absolutely no way Sherlock could have imagined his John growing from football jock into a doctor so strong he could probably lift Sherlock off the couch. With each thrust, the man lifted Sherlock's hips about three to four inches. The pleasure after so long, after having wet dreams and steamy showers alone, was blurring his vision.
There was no words to describe how happy he was he had stopped their heated quickie in the bedroom. He had been correct that having done it without John's memory, the way he knew Sherlock's body, would have ruined this moment right here. John held Sherlock's hips and erection just the way he loved it.
He hadn't realized exactly how much he missed John.
Sherlock groaned, wrapping his long and thin thighs around John's hips. He helped pull and push the man into a faster, crazier rhythm. The sounds of John's effort to bring as much pleasure as possible nearly drove the detective to the edge.
"Fuck, Sherlock!" John groaned, leaning down and pressing his forehead against Sherlock's. Their breath mingled in each others' faces as they touched one another everywhere. As the motions sped up and John's hand around Sherlock's length quickened, Sherlock found himself practically gasping. His fingers dug into John's flesh.
"John," he murmured over and over. "John, John, John." Sherlock felt the strong, hard pulse as John finally reached his orgasm, a guttural moan ripping through his lips. Sherlock stared into John's face as he came a second later, the pleasure practically shattering his body. He felt shakes run as deep as his bones the moment his orgasm started fading. It was better than their passionate boyhoods, stolen in the hot shower room or in quick, needy corners of the town. Sherlock would not ever deny seeing white at the corner of his eyes.
"I like my apartment." John murmured, their foreheads resting against each other.
"Mycroft can get my stuff moved in over the weekend."
John kissed Sherlock on the mouth and situated himself into cuddling the man. Sherlock wasn't one for physical touch, especially now that he was older, but he hated the thought of John's warmth disappearing.
"How much memory is there?"
"I'm pretty sure it's everything."
Sherlock paused a few minutes before swallowing hard. There was a lot of time in the war John had, not to mention the whole time before that when Sherlock wasn't around. "Is there anything you need to talk about?"
"No." He breathed, letting Sherlock relax. John ran a finger across Sherlock's lips. "Just move into Baker Street."