Prompt 39: Shirt
A/N A little lemon for y'all to break up the hiatus a bit!
After the incident with Mary, John had turned up outside Sherlock's door, suitcase in hand with a sheepish look on his face. Sherlock had stood in the doorway in a shocked silence - John must have changed his mind since the last time they saw each other because at that point he'd been set on hashing things out with her - and John had simply waited awkwardly for him to say something. Which he didn't. "I um... I don't have a key so I knocked and I wasn't sure you were here... Can I... That is... would you mind if I... you don't have to say yes of course but I just thought that maybe we could be flatmates again. Here. Mary and I aren't going to work out. I asked Mycroft if he could send our divorce papers through the quickest channels and he actually did it which I was quite shocked at, you know Mycroft, only really does the cloak and dagger sort of thing but he seemed eager to help. Off topic. Can I come home?" John continued to babble as Sherlock stood there in the stoop, just staring at him. They hadn't been back to being friends when Sherlock had unmasked Mary, in fact they hadn't spoken since, a reality that had caused ructions in his mind palace and his life in general. Admit it though he never would, he had missed John like nothing else for two years, and was still missing him now. The introspection only stopped when John asked to come home. Baker street was their home, and that lit something in Sherlock that had long since been extinguished.
"Of course you can John. I- Mrs Hudson has been missing you terribly, she's been forcing her inspid television programs on me, it's been torture." John heard the slip and smiled that little half mouth smile he had "I've missed you too, and Mrs Hudson of course. Can I come in or are we going to give the neighbours something else to talk about?" Sherlock started and moved back into the hall and John slipped in behind him. Despite the enormous capacity of his mind, Sherlock couldn't quite get over the fact that John was there, really actually there to stay.
Living alone again had been awful, constantly forgetting that he was alone and talking to a John that wasn't there had taken its toll each time it happened, but in his mind the punishment was one he deserved. He'd let John down time and again and this last betrayal had been two years long. He deserved to be alone.
John popped his suitcase down in the sitting room and grinned at the familiarity of the chaos; sheets and books scattered from wall to window, the harpoon stuck ostentatiously in the corner of a shelf, various jars and bearers littering the table next the the bunsen burner and just for kicks he opened the fridge. No food at all, just three human feet and a pig's head that had turned a startling shade of yellow. God had he missed this.
He'd loved Mary, he had, he'd loved going on dates that didn't end in kidnappings and taking trips to places like the planetarium and not being almost murdered by giant Eastern Europeans or picking up the phone and knowing that he'd hear a voice instead of a number of pips and an explosion. Really he had. It had been nice. But nice paled in comparison to his life with Sherlock, nice didn't even begin to cover it and when Sherlock had given him that one last miracle of being alive John realised so quickly that he didn't want nice. Nice was boring. He wanted the thrill of the chase, blood singing in his veins, just the two of them against the feet of the world. And then Mary had turned out to be someone else, something else entirely than what he'd thought, she'd shot Sherlock and murdered Magnussen. Sherlock had died for a minute on the operating table and she, whoever the hell she was, put him there. He didn't need any other reason to leave her than that.
Mycroft had been the biggest surprise of the affair (after A.G.R.A), when John asked for his help the man had seemed... relieved. Thrilled even behind his mask of company manners. John was unsurprised when he'd received the final word this morning that he was no longer married. It sickened him a little bit to find that such a relief. He had always considered himself a loyal man, but John was first to admit he'd made a bad decision putting that loyalty, that trust in Mary. He felt more badly for the way he'd treated Sherlock. Ignored and pushed away, hardly the treatment one gives their best friend, the person they love the most in the world. Still, he was home now and he was damned if he was leaving Sherlock again.
Sherlock inhaled softly as John walked by to inspect the kitchen. The smell was warming and cosy, a smell he'd come to associate with contentment and laughter, a scent he had yearned for the past two years and never been able to recreate. He couldn't describe it accurately to anyone who hadn't smelled it. It was warm and earthy, like a wood fire burning in the living room in the winter, with subtle notes of sweet marmalade and gun oil and the herbal scent of tea, all eclipsed by something that was entirely John's own. "We could do with a shop seeing as there's nothing here that you can put in your mouth safely" John laughed as he rifled through presses, bypassing petrified dishes and only looking into other receptacles before dismissing the contents as inedible with a fond grin. "There's biscuits." Sherlock said contrite, producing a half empty packet of chocolate digestive that definitely belonged to Mrs Hudson out from under a pile of stuff. John huffed another laugh and pulled out his phone. "Chinese or Indian?"
Dinner was a quiet but jovial affair (Sherlock opted for Chinese, a little anniversary slap for the fall of the Black Lotus ring 18 months prior, not that John knew that) Mrs Hudson had joined them for a while, embracing John tightly and dabbing her eyes as she trilled over having her boys together again before leaving for her herbal soother. The general silence wasn't awkward in any way, both men were happy just to be in each others company.
Mycroft had a courier deliver the rest of John's belongings to the flat with a short note welcoming him back to the battlefield. Sherlock examined each of the feet in the fridge and dribbled an unidentified liquid over the pig's head. John squished a few bits and pieces of his onto shelves and into cupboards. Sherlock drank the tea John made and snorted at the reappearance of the RAMC mug. John moved his suitcases to the foot of the stairs. Sherlock lay on the couch and reorganized his mind palace for a while. They swept about the flat in harmonious parallels, and if Sherlock noticed he made sure John was in his eyeline at all times well he wasn't going to read too much into that, and if John realised he kept shooting glances the detective's way well that was just a regular thing he'd always done. The evening wore on and rolled into night, and soon John was yawning and Sherlock was actually exhausted and they parted ways to go to sleep.
John marveled at his own inability to fall asleep as he lay tucked into bed in the dark, staring up at the ceiling for lack of anything better to do. All his books were in the boxes downstairs and his laptop was in one of the suitcases which he was not in the mood to be searching through, plus he really was so tired that turning on the light didn't even seem remotely possible so he just lay there in the dark and listened. 'Maybe' he thought to himself 'it's like the late night at home before a holiday, all that excitement and nowhere to put it. Maybe I just really need to concentrate on something other than the fact that I'm here.' Unsurprisingly that realisation didn't help, if anything it made it worse. John couldn't help but wonder what Sherlock was doing on the floor below.
Sherlock tossed in his sheets, sweating as he dreamed. John in the lab during the HOUND case, only this time Sherlock was the hound, and he was out to get John, who was whispering Sherlock's name like a prayer for help that would never come because Sherlock was already trying to get him. John wrapped in a coat and a semtex vest with a gun against his head and Sherlock being forced to set it off. John's screams of agony as he clawed at the harpoon that flew into his gut, blood spiraling out to darken his shirt in the shape of a lotus flower. John on the roof of St. Barts with Moriarty. John on the pavement just outside of St Barts, eyes glassy and pulse already gone by the time Sherlock reaches him. Mary shooting John instead of Sherlock. Moriarty kissing John and walking away hand in hand with him. John dying in a sand dune, crying out for Sherlock to help but there's a canyon separating them. John in pain. John leaving. John dying. John hating him. John forgetting him. Sherlock cried out again and again, he would save him, he would.
John's ears pricked up, he thought he heard a voice calling his name but it was far away, almost a whispering. Then again, and again, louder now, unmistakably Sherlock's voice and he was up and out of bed, flying down the stairs and across the sitting room and only breaking his stride as he made it to Sherlock's bedroom door. Sherlock was calling for him, his voice strained tight, each call louder than the last and John had to go in, he couldn't leave the man to face his nightmares alone.
He strode in, rushing his way across the room to sit on the edge of the bed just as Sherlock roared his name and sat bolt upright, his entire body trembling. Wide eyes met John's for only a second before Sherlock was pressed against him, hands fisted in his shirt and face buried in his shoulder as he breathed raggedly against John's neck. Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. The breath blowing across his neck was warm but the rest of Sherlock was cold, and John could feel his heart racing even through his shirt. He said nothing, but he wrapped his arms carefully around Sherlock's back, turning and pulling him gently into his lap, encircling the man with himself because if he was right that's what Sherlock was trying to do anyway. Gently John began to rock back and forth, his hand rubbing big circles across Sherlock's back, ignoring entirely the fact that it was sticky with sweat. Sherlock shuddered and burrowed deeper into him, probably stretching his pyjama top with white knuckle grip he had on it. "It's ok Sherlock, you're ok." John soothed, and wondered what had broken this impossible man.
Sherlock couldn't speak, couldn't force his raw throat to say anything just yet if he wanted to keep some dignity and avoid tears. He'd woken abruptly and forgotten that John was here, that he wouldn't have to go through this alone again, as he had done for a good three months now. He hadn't gotten any better at dealing with it, the nightmares bested him every time. Many nights had turned into days with Sherlock sat hugging his own knees and praying that John was still alive, attempting to send Mycroft a casual text asking for anything about John's current engagements. In the beginning he got a snide comment and a barrage of questions. Later on he didn't have to ask, every morning the cctv photos were there in his inbox, waiting.
This time though, this time John was waiting, and Sherlock didn't care about boundaries or what anyone would think or say, he needed to physically feel John against him so he instinctively just grabbed him and rested his face against his pulse, the place where his scent was strongest, where Sherlock could feel he was alive. When John lifted him into his lap wrapped him in his arms being silent really was all he could do not to embarrass himself by saying something inappropriate, like how much he loved that John just knew exactly what he needed and gave it, always gave him anything no matter how he might feel about what it was, how much he loved him. If he died you'd die too. The realisation had been on the edge of his brain for a while now, but the mere idea brought the remnants of his nightmare back to him. Blood. Mary. Harpoon. Moriarty. Gun. He could
only shudder in response. "It's ok Sherlock, you're ok." The words brought little comfort. "It doesn't matter if I'm ok. Are you ok John?" Sherlock muttered softly into John's neck. "I'm right here with you, of course I'm ok, and it matters to me if no one else. Do you want to talk about it? Apparently that helps but I never found it did."
Sherlock froze instantly, scene after scene overwhelming him. "No no no no Sherlock it's ok I'm here I'm fine calm down, breathe for me, in, out, copy my rhythm, in, out, in, out." John's chest expanding and contracting against him was grounding to be sure, but falling into his rhythm was proving difficult, and the fact that objectively Sherlock knew he'd soon be hyperventilating if he didn't match it wasn't helping. Eventually however he managed it, focusing on the solid body against his own. John continued to rock gently back and forth, waiting for calm to fall once more. "I asked if you wanted to talk about it, not relive it. You don't have to do either if you-" Sherlock cut him off.
"How do you do it John? Forgive me for all the times I have failed you, come back each time I betray your trust, allow me to take over your life again and again when I have proved I'm not trustworthy? It's going to happen again and again because that's what I do: I ruin people's lives, I run them down and get them into situations they can't escape and they end up dead. I don't... I won't let that happen to you, I promised I would leave you alone, let you
live a normal life, no matter how much it pained me I would do it, after Reichenbach I deserved to be alone and you deserved to be happy with your wife but I managed to destroy that too! I am so sorry John, for the moment we met and every moment after that because I have made your life a misery more often than not, two years of pretending to be dead and what I have learned is exactly how much it hurts to lose someone you love and I knew you were alive, I'm babbling I know but that's what the nightmares are about, all the possible ways I could lose you through my own failures and-"
John stopped him. "No, no wait, just, give me a second to wrap my head around this. You think that you deserve to be miserable and all that because you made me grieve you for the past two years? Or was it all the times before that when you supposedly made my life a misery? Sherlock Holmes you're my best friend and yes you're bloody infuriating and sometimes I just want to strangle you but that's just you being yourself and I wouldn't change it for the world! I could never really have been happy with Mary once I knew you were alive, the fact she tried to kill you doesn't even bear thinking about. As for this whole punishing yourself business I forgave you weeks ago, it's time you forgave yourself. In fact I'm sorry, for making you feel as if you weren't a totally necessary part of my happiness, because you are. Nothing you can do could possibly change that." Sherlock moved his head out from
John's shoulder and stared at him in awe.
"John Watson you are the most improbable man..." and before John could blink the hands in his shirt were pulling him impossibly closer and Sherlock was kissing him. Sherlock was kissing him. Sherlock. Kissing him. He didn't even close his eyes he was in such a state of shock, dimly he was aware of the fact that he should probably respond, or do something at least, but his brain had short circuited and was blissfully unoccupied with thoughts other than pure surprise. Sherlock broke away and John just oggled at him, all flushed cheeks and lips just slightly swollen from the kiss and looking a bit nervous which for Sherlock meant he was panicked and then he opened his mouth and said "Did I do it wrong?" genuinely looking to know if he was a bad kisser like that was even in the realm of possibility. And as John just kept staring he flushed even more, dipping his face down and away, like John couldn't see that he was quite embarrassed without doing that, after all Sherlock was in his lap, he didn't exactly need the lights to be on to know what was lying against his thigh.
It was when he tried to move away, up and off of John's lap that he finally snapped back and held Sherlock's hip, keeping him in place. He was pink up to his ears now and if John didn't know better he'd have said he looked on the verge of tears. Softly John slid a hand beneath his chin and lifted Sherlock's face up. "Don't, don't hide yourself, your emotions, from me, Sherlock. I want to see when you're embarrassed, or ashamed, or upset, or angry, or lonely, or content or excited, I want to see it all. Everything. Anything you'll give me. Your deductions, your ideas, your observations, your worries, your hopes, your feelings..." John's other hand moved slowly down, caressing shoulder, arm, chest, stomach, hand, thigh and he leaned in so he'd be whispering straight into Sherlock's ear because in this at least he had practice, even if he was still shocked (which he was) seduction? That he could do. "your breath," A warm exhale against the shell of Sherlock's ear elicited a shudder "your body," Slow, careful hands just barely ghosting across tender flesh and Sherlock was vibrating in his skin, his hands trying to rip through John's shirt "your heart," A hitch in his breath "Yourself. Can I have you, Sherlock Holmes?" "John..." A barely breathed plea.
That's when John kissed him. Really kissed him, applying the years of experience he'd gotten into hopefully giving Sherlock everything he deserved from the (most likely) first real time anyone had ever kissed him. He went full pelt, licking his way into Sherlock's mouth and taking, taking every little keen and whine and trying harder, learning what really made Sherlock cry out and shake and pressing those buttons over and over until Sherlock was a mess and only then would he back off, light brushes of his lips against jaw or neck lulled him back to a more manageable level before John ramped up the heat again. "Dear God John, touch me, anything, please, 'm so close." Sherlock moaned into his mouth, begging for release. Looking at him like this, he was everyone's fantasy partner, eager, vocal, responsive, it was hard to believe he was a virgin, how could anyone not want him? Sherlock writhed on his lap, trying to get some elusive friction to finally send him over the edge. John dipped a hand into his pants and stroked him once, twice, marveled at the slick glide of his hand, clearly Sherlock really was enjoying himself, three, four and Sherlock was done with a bellow, spurting into John's hand and collapsing back onto the bed with a euphoric face. His eyes began to droop shortly after and his attempt to reciprocate was gently declined in favor of sleep. "Stay" he murmured as he drifted and John was more than happy to oblige, right after he cleaned his hand. As much as he might love him, there was a line.