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Previously:  Sherlock —— The chime causes Sherlock to break focus for just a second, his head whipping around to scrutinize the glowing screen.  John seizes the opportunity, first tossing his own gun under one of the cabinets.  Adding more firearms to the situation wasn’t going to help matters.  Then, one hand on the edge of the table, he vaults over it and launches himself at Sherlock.  The drugs have affected his mind enough that he doesn’t quite reorient himself before John smashes into him.   They tumble to the ground but Sherlock doesn’t lose his grip on the other gun.  John reaches over and clamps his hand down over the slide to impede the action, should Sherlock accidentally - or not - pull the trigger.  They wrestle for a few tense seconds before Sherlock tries to incapacitate him with a wide left hook.  John blocks it easily with his right forearm before landing a blow to Sherlock’s temple with his elbow. “Stop this!  Drop the gun, Sherlock!” Disoriented from the blow and the chemicals, Sherlock finally loosens his grip just enough for John to yank the gun from his hand.  He quickly ejects the magazine and clears the bullet from the chamber, sliding them across the floor towards the kitchen.  They both collapse into a sweaty, breathless heap. “John…” Sherlock’s voice is hoarse and hitches in his throat.  ”The dose.  It was too much… I can’t-“ “Okay, alright.  I’m here.”  John moves into a sitting position, propped up against his chair.  He pulls Sherlock up against him so that his back is against John’s chest and his head is resting on his shoulder.  He wraps his arms across Sherlock’s torso and can feel the feverish sweat soaking through his clothes.  John has seen plenty of addicts in his time, but never one dosed up on eXq and never someone he-  never a close friend.  ”Tell me what you see.” “Shadows,” Sherlock replies.  ”Everywhere.  Skittering.  Always… encroaching.” “They’re not real,” John says. “Perhaps not.  But what lays beyond them?  What are they concealing?  The voices…” John smooths back Sherlock’s damp hair and kisses his head.  ”Nothing.  There’s nothing there.  It’s the drugs.  Push past it, see through it.” “No one ever knows what’s on the other side of the darkness,” Sherlock says quietly. “That’s right,” comes the reply, “no one ever knows.” John recognizes the voice before he even steps into the light.  The glow from the windows lights him from the side, casting half his face in shadows.  Sebastian’s eyes are dark hollows, inky black and betraying no emotion.  John grabs the empty gun and points it at him, hoping to god that he doesn’t know it’s not loaded. Sebastian raises a rifle from his side with both hands and a red target marker floats up over Sherlock’s chest.  John knows that at this range, the bullet from that gun would punch right through them both. “Remember the graveyard, Holmes?”  Sebastian asks, grinning.  ”Something tells me that this time, I won’t miss.” —— Next:  Sebastian

Previously:  Sherlock

——

The chime causes Sherlock to break focus for just a second, his head whipping around to scrutinize the glowing screen.  John seizes the opportunity, first tossing his own gun under one of the cabinets.  Adding more firearms to the situation wasn’t going to help matters.  Then, one hand on the edge of the table, he vaults over it and launches himself at Sherlock.  The drugs have affected his mind enough that he doesn’t quite reorient himself before John smashes into him.  

They tumble to the ground but Sherlock doesn’t lose his grip on the other gun.  John reaches over and clamps his hand down over the slide to impede the action, should Sherlock accidentally - or not - pull the trigger.  They wrestle for a few tense seconds before Sherlock tries to incapacitate him with a wide left hook.  John blocks it easily with his right forearm before landing a blow to Sherlock’s temple with his elbow.

“Stop this!  Drop the gun, Sherlock!”

Disoriented from the blow and the chemicals, Sherlock finally loosens his grip just enough for John to yank the gun from his hand.  He quickly ejects the magazine and clears the bullet from the chamber, sliding them across the floor towards the kitchen.  They both collapse into a sweaty, breathless heap.

“John…” Sherlock’s voice is hoarse and hitches in his throat.  ”The dose.  It was too much… I can’t-“

“Okay, alright.  I’m here.”  John moves into a sitting position, propped up against his chair.  He pulls Sherlock up against him so that his back is against John’s chest and his head is resting on his shoulder.  He wraps his arms across Sherlock’s torso and can feel the feverish sweat soaking through his clothes.  John has seen plenty of addicts in his time, but never one dosed up on eXq and never someone he-  never a close friend.  ”Tell me what you see.”

“Shadows,” Sherlock replies.  ”Everywhere.  Skittering.  Always… encroaching.”

“They’re not real,” John says.

“Perhaps not.  But what lays beyond them?  What are they concealing?  The voices…”

John smooths back Sherlock’s damp hair and kisses his head.  ”Nothing.  There’s nothing there.  It’s the drugs.  Push past it, see through it.”

“No one ever knows what’s on the other side of the darkness,” Sherlock says quietly.

“That’s right,” comes the reply, “no one ever knows.”

John recognizes the voice before he even steps into the light.  The glow from the windows lights him from the side, casting half his face in shadows.  Sebastian’s eyes are dark hollows, inky black and betraying no emotion.  John grabs the empty gun and points it at him, hoping to god that he doesn’t know it’s not loaded.

Sebastian raises a rifle from his side with both hands and a red target marker floats up over Sherlock’s chest.  John knows that at this range, the bullet from that gun would punch right through them both.

“Remember the graveyard, Holmes?”  Sebastian asks, grinning.  ”Something tells me that this time, I won’t miss.”

——

Next:  Sebastian

Previously:  Sherlock —— Several long hours pass and John can barely look at the screen any longer.  He hasn’t been able to find a single thing about eXq, but now he’s pretty sure he could identify at least three dealers in their neighbourhood.  His eyes are fatigued and sometimes when he blinks he has to force them back open.  He pushes back from the desk and rubs his face. Sherlock is still stretched out on the couch; he hasn’t moved the whole time.  His fingers are steepled over his chest and his eyes are closed.  John thinks about mentioning that he’s going to bed, but Sherlock would just dismiss him.  He thinks about inviting him to share that bed, but after what happened when they first got home, he figures it’s best to just leave it. John closes his laptop and stands.  He keeps his eyes fixed on Sherlock in case he gives any indication of acknowledging his movements, but of course he doesn’t.  He walks through the kitchen and up the back stairs to his room.  He manages to shuck his shirt and trousers before he collapses into exhaustion on his bed.  Sleep pulls him under with long, shadowy fingers. # John wakes to the sound of gunshots sometime in the middle of the night.  His heart is threatening to pound out of his chest as he shakes memories of the desert from his nightmarish mind.  He pulls his Sig from the drawer in his nightstand and walks slowly down the stairs into the main part of the flat.  The only thought in his mind is get to Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock. # The kitchen and sitting room are dark when his feet finally reach the tile floor.  The streetlights are casting a dull yellow glow through the curtains, but it takes John a few minutes to adjust to the low light.  The kitchen table has been upended and the chairs are scattered around the room.  He walks with his back to the wall to peer into Sherlock’s room - it’s empty.  The sheets have been torn off his bed but it is otherwise untouched. As he creeps towards the sitting room, John tries to remember where the hell he left his phone.  At the very least, they’ve had a break-in and he needs to get a message to Lestrade as soon as possible.  He thinks he’s spotted it on the desk near his laptop when his eyes suddenly focus on a dark figure standing in the centre of the room.  Sherlock had been standing so still that he’d almost missed him. “Sherlock, thank god.”  John straightens to his full height and lets the gun fall to his side.  ”I heard-“ A bullet whizzes right next to his head and explodes through the window behind him.  John throws himself behind the table without even thinking. “Sherlock!  What the bloody hell!” There is absolutely no sound.  Just silence.  John peers over the edge of the table and sees Sherlock standing with the gun still clutched in outstretched arms. “It’s me, it’s John!  Put the gun down!” He watches as something akin to confusion crosses over Sherlock’s features.  It is then that he notices the vial on the side table.  It is completely empty. “Oh god, no…”  John’s mouth goes completely dry.  ”Sherlock, you didn’t…” —— Next:  Sherlock

Previously:  Sherlock

——

Several long hours pass and John can barely look at the screen any longer.  He hasn’t been able to find a single thing about eXq, but now he’s pretty sure he could identify at least three dealers in their neighbourhood.  His eyes are fatigued and sometimes when he blinks he has to force them back open.  He pushes back from the desk and rubs his face.

Sherlock is still stretched out on the couch; he hasn’t moved the whole time.  His fingers are steepled over his chest and his eyes are closed.  John thinks about mentioning that he’s going to bed, but Sherlock would just dismiss him.  He thinks about inviting him to share that bed, but after what happened when they first got home, he figures it’s best to just leave it.

John closes his laptop and stands.  He keeps his eyes fixed on Sherlock in case he gives any indication of acknowledging his movements, but of course he doesn’t.  He walks through the kitchen and up the back stairs to his room.  He manages to shuck his shirt and trousers before he collapses into exhaustion on his bed.  Sleep pulls him under with long, shadowy fingers.

#

John wakes to the sound of gunshots sometime in the middle of the night.  His heart is threatening to pound out of his chest as he shakes memories of the desert from his nightmarish mind.  He pulls his Sig from the drawer in his nightstand and walks slowly down the stairs into the main part of the flat.  The only thought in his mind is get to Sherlock.

Sherlock.

Sherlock.

#

The kitchen and sitting room are dark when his feet finally reach the tile floor.  The streetlights are casting a dull yellow glow through the curtains, but it takes John a few minutes to adjust to the low light.  The kitchen table has been upended and the chairs are scattered around the room.  He walks with his back to the wall to peer into Sherlock’s room - it’s empty.  The sheets have been torn off his bed but it is otherwise untouched.

As he creeps towards the sitting room, John tries to remember where the hell he left his phone.  At the very least, they’ve had a break-in and he needs to get a message to Lestrade as soon as possible.  He thinks he’s spotted it on the desk near his laptop when his eyes suddenly focus on a dark figure standing in the centre of the room.  Sherlock had been standing so still that he’d almost missed him.

“Sherlock, thank god.”  John straightens to his full height and lets the gun fall to his side.  ”I heard-“

A bullet whizzes right next to his head and explodes through the window behind him.  John throws himself behind the table without even thinking.

“Sherlock!  What the bloody hell!”

There is absolutely no sound.  Just silence.  John peers over the edge of the table and sees Sherlock standing with the gun still clutched in outstretched arms.

“It’s me, it’s John!  Put the gun down!”

He watches as something akin to confusion crosses over Sherlock’s features.  It is then that he notices the vial on the side table.  It is completely empty.

“Oh god, no…”  John’s mouth goes completely dry.  ”Sherlock, you didn’t…”

——

Next:  Sherlock

Previously:  Sebastian —— The next card shows up three days later.  After three days of stolen glances, whispered promises and hurricane kisses.  They still sleep apart, unsure of how to navigate that boundary at this particular juncture in time.  But John never tires of the texture of Sherlock’s skin or the taste of his mouth.  It is an exercise in infinite discovery. Lestrade calls them to a crime scene in Battersea Park.  It’s been staged to look like some sort of mass drug-overdose, but there is evidence of foul play.  Bruising and indications of excessive force.  The victims are five homeless people who are known for living in the surrounding area.  There are syringes and vials lying nearby.  And there is also, of course, the tarot card. “What do you make of it, lads?” Lestrade asks, once they’ve arrived. John waits for Sherlock’s cue on this one.  He’s not sure if he wants to reveal the connection to the other murder yet.  After all, the first card was delivered to their flat, not left at the scene. Sherlock picks up the card in a gloved hand and turns it over.  The Hermit.  No message scrawled on the back.  He places it back on the ground and crouches near one of the bodies.  An odd expression crosses his face. “Sherlock.  Did you… know these people?”   He turns to John and the expression slides off his face.  ”Hard to say.  I’ve known a lot of people, seen a lot of faces.  I suppose it’s possible.” But John knows better.  This is clearly related to the network that Sherlock nurtures and cultivates almost subconsciously.  He thinks he recognizes some of the bodies.  There is no further doubt in John’s mind that these murders are targeted at them directly.  He has to fight the urge to just blurt it out at Lestrade.  Sherlock had better come clean about the connection, and soon. “John, I need you.”  Sherlock is holding up one of the vials.  ”What can you tell me about this?” John crouches down next to Sherlock and pulls on a pair of blue vinyl gloves.  He takes the glass vial and rotates it. “Well, it’s a pretty standard medical vial,” John begins, “and I would imagine anyone could get them from a supplier.  This one doesn’t appear to have been punctured, but most of the other ones are completely spent.  Liquid is clear and unidentifiable.  The letters ‘eXq’ are written on the label in pen, but I haven’t the slightest idea what that means.” “And the victims?” “In two of the five, I’d guess seizures.  The other three… maybe heart attack?  Or respiratory failure?  But all likely due to drug overdose, from the scene laid out before us.” Sherlock sighs. “Look at this.”  John lifts the arm of a young boy, probably not even 19 years old yet.  ”The bruising here, just above the elbow.  Someone was holding him quite firmly before he expired.  And there are multiple needle sticks.  My guess is he was struggling.”  “No need to guess.  An addict never misses.”  Sherlock stands and turns with a flourish.  ”Lestrade!” Greg looks over and frowns, but ends his mobile call abruptly.  He walks over to meet them near the crime scene tape. “This is the second in a string of serial murders,” Sherlock announces.  ”I expect you’ll see more before this whole thing is through.” “What?” Sherlock reaches into one of his pockets and extracts The Lovers card.  ”This was left at our flat before the double murder earlier this week.  I know you’ll run it for prints, but you’ll only find John’s and mine.  Obviously, someone is trying to send us a message.” Lestrade hold the two cards in one hand.  The Lovers.  The Hermit.  ”What does it mean?” “The Hermit is generally interpreted as some sort of life lesson.  I haven’t quite worked through it yet.  I’ve only just got here.” “And The Lovers?” John and Sherlock share a glance.  John has to look at the ground to suppress a grin. “I… haven’t worked through that one yet either.”  Sherlock crosses his arms.  ”Look, Lestrade, it certainly doesn’t take a genius to figure out these two sets of murders are related.  So get the bodies to St. Barts and tell me what killed them.” Sherlock strides away and John has to hurry to catch up. “What are you going to do?” Lestrade calls after them. “Chemistry!” Sherlock yells back over his shoulder. # They call a taxi for the ride to the lab at St. Barts.  As they climb in, John realizes that he can’t recall what Sherlock did with the full vial from the crime scene.  He remembers handing it back to Sherlock, and speaking to Lestrade, but not what they did with it in between. “Sherlock, did you-“ But before he can finish his thought, Sherlock leans in and kisses him hungrily.  Sherlock is pulling him in closer and suddenly everything else falls away.  John slides a hand over the inside of Sherlock’s thigh and is rewarded with a quiet moan.  John worries briefly about the cab driver and the other motorists nearby, but can’t quite seem to sustain his concern.  Sherlock’s amourous assault is relentless and John can barely keep himself from tearing off that tight black shirt. “How far are we from Barts?” John manages to ask, breathless. “Twenty minutes.” “I can work with that.”  He shifts in his seat and adjusts Sherlock’s coat slightly, keeping things out of sight.  Then his hands get to work on Sherlock’s trousers.  ”As long as you keep quiet.” —— Next:  Sherlock

Previously:  Sebastian

——

The next card shows up three days later.  After three days of stolen glances, whispered promises and hurricane kisses.  They still sleep apart, unsure of how to navigate that boundary at this particular juncture in time.  But John never tires of the texture of Sherlock’s skin or the taste of his mouth.  It is an exercise in infinite discovery.

Lestrade calls them to a crime scene in Battersea Park.  It’s been staged to look like some sort of mass drug-overdose, but there is evidence of foul play.  Bruising and indications of excessive force.  The victims are five homeless people who are known for living in the surrounding area.  There are syringes and vials lying nearby.  And there is also, of course, the tarot card.

“What do you make of it, lads?” Lestrade asks, once they’ve arrived.

John waits for Sherlock’s cue on this one.  He’s not sure if he wants to reveal the connection to the other murder yet.  After all, the first card was delivered to their flat, not left at the scene.

Sherlock picks up the card in a gloved hand and turns it over.  The Hermit.  No message scrawled on the back.  He places it back on the ground and crouches near one of the bodies.  An odd expression crosses his face.

“Sherlock.  Did you… know these people?”  

He turns to John and the expression slides off his face.  ”Hard to say.  I’ve known a lot of people, seen a lot of faces.  I suppose it’s possible.”

But John knows better.  This is clearly related to the network that Sherlock nurtures and cultivates almost subconsciously.  He thinks he recognizes some of the bodies.  There is no further doubt in John’s mind that these murders are targeted at them directly.  He has to fight the urge to just blurt it out at Lestrade.  Sherlock had better come clean about the connection, and soon.

“John, I need you.”  Sherlock is holding up one of the vials.  ”What can you tell me about this?”

John crouches down next to Sherlock and pulls on a pair of blue vinyl gloves.  He takes the glass vial and rotates it.

“Well, it’s a pretty standard medical vial,” John begins, “and I would imagine anyone could get them from a supplier.  This one doesn’t appear to have been punctured, but most of the other ones are completely spent.  Liquid is clear and unidentifiable.  The letters ‘eXq’ are written on the label in pen, but I haven’t the slightest idea what that means.”

“And the victims?”

“In two of the five, I’d guess seizures.  The other three… maybe heart attack?  Or respiratory failure?  But all likely due to drug overdose, from the scene laid out before us.”

Sherlock sighs.

“Look at this.”  John lifts the arm of a young boy, probably not even 19 years old yet.  ”The bruising here, just above the elbow.  Someone was holding him quite firmly before he expired.  And there are multiple needle sticks.  My guess is he was struggling.” 

“No need to guess.  An addict never misses.”  Sherlock stands and turns with a flourish.  ”Lestrade!”

Greg looks over and frowns, but ends his mobile call abruptly.  He walks over to meet them near the crime scene tape.

“This is the second in a string of serial murders,” Sherlock announces.  ”I expect you’ll see more before this whole thing is through.”

“What?”

Sherlock reaches into one of his pockets and extracts The Lovers card.  ”This was left at our flat before the double murder earlier this week.  I know you’ll run it for prints, but you’ll only find John’s and mine.  Obviously, someone is trying to send us a message.”

Lestrade hold the two cards in one hand.  The Lovers.  The Hermit.  ”What does it mean?”

“The Hermit is generally interpreted as some sort of life lesson.  I haven’t quite worked through it yet.  I’ve only just got here.”

“And The Lovers?”

John and Sherlock share a glance.  John has to look at the ground to suppress a grin.

“I… haven’t worked through that one yet either.”  Sherlock crosses his arms.  ”Look, Lestrade, it certainly doesn’t take a genius to figure out these two sets of murders are related.  So get the bodies to St. Barts and tell me what killed them.”

Sherlock strides away and John has to hurry to catch up.

“What are you going to do?” Lestrade calls after them.

“Chemistry!” Sherlock yells back over his shoulder.

#

They call a taxi for the ride to the lab at St. Barts.  As they climb in, John realizes that he can’t recall what Sherlock did with the full vial from the crime scene.  He remembers handing it back to Sherlock, and speaking to Lestrade, but not what they did with it in between.

“Sherlock, did you-“

But before he can finish his thought, Sherlock leans in and kisses him hungrily.  Sherlock is pulling him in closer and suddenly everything else falls away.  John slides a hand over the inside of Sherlock’s thigh and is rewarded with a quiet moan.  John worries briefly about the cab driver and the other motorists nearby, but can’t quite seem to sustain his concern.  Sherlock’s amourous assault is relentless and John can barely keep himself from tearing off that tight black shirt.

“How far are we from Barts?” John manages to ask, breathless.

“Twenty minutes.”

“I can work with that.”  He shifts in his seat and adjusts Sherlock’s coat slightly, keeping things out of sight.  Then his hands get to work on Sherlock’s trousers.  ”As long as you keep quiet.”

——

Next:  Sherlock

Previously:  Sherlock —— John Watson - writer and blogger extraordinaire - simply cannot form any words in his mind or with his lips.  Language has crumbled into ruins.  He has been reduced to quiet moans and heavy sighs. Everything is a warm haze and every time he closes his eyes he replays the sensations that nearly put him into a pleasure-enduced coma.  He’s vaguely aware of Sherlock’s lips on his chest and a few murmured words about the tally.  He allows himself a moment to float above it; to relish in post-orgasmic bliss. When he finally manages to come back to himself, Sherlock is poised above him - watching, learning, recording.  John reaches up and begins to unbutton Sherlock’s shirt, taking his time, allowing himself to breathe.  Job done, he pushes the shirt over Sherlock’s shoulders and is rewarded with a sensation of deja vu from the night in the shower.  There’s a moment of knockback.  Was that when it all could have started?  John wonders briefly if he wasted precious time being a coward.  If Mycroft had effectively gotten into his head.  He decides all at once to reclaim lost opportunities. Sherlock helpfully finishes removing his shirt and tosses it on the floor behind them.  John pauses for a moment before reaching out to touch him.  His skin is impossibly soft.  John slides his hands up Sherlock’s stomach to his chest and over his shoulders.  His right hand lingers at his neck and he fails to resist the urge to check Sherlock’s pulse.  It’s there - steady and strong.  Relief floods over him. Sherlock shifts so he can take John’s wrist in his hand.  He pulls it away from his neck and looks down at him, eyes drawn together in concern.  John smiles back at him softly, and shakes his head.  It’s fine, you’re here.  He tries to convey the words without speaking.  Without intruding on the perfect moment.  He runs a hand into Sherlock’s mess of curls and pulls him down into a kiss.  He tugs gently on his hair and feels Sherlock moan into his mouth. John is already half-hard again at this point.  He moves his hands down to work at Sherlock’s trousers as they kiss hungrily with no sense of rhythm.  John gets the belt, button and zipper to finally cooperate and then he’s pushing Sherlock off into a standing position at the side of the bed.  Somehow, John had ended up naked rather abruptly and Sherlock had been allowed to remain clothed for far too long.  He was going to remedy that.  Immediately. “Off,” John husks, “all of it.  Trousers, pants, socks.  Now.” Sherlock cocks an eyebrow and tilts his head in a look of amusement.  Still, he complies.  He steps out of his clothes and stands in front of John stark naked.  He rests his hands on his hips and smirks.  Sherlock is gloriously hard, his cock protruding from his body, enticing.  John suddenly finds it hard to breathe. “Jesus,” he whispers.  He self-consciously wraps his arms around his own bare stomach.  ”You look like you were carved out of marble.” John watches as a gentle blush spreads up Sherlock’s neck to his face.  He shifts his weight and looks down at himself.  John would give anything to know what he is thinking.  After a moment, he pushes off the bed and moves over to where Sherlock is standing.  He lays both hands flat on his chest and pushes him backwards slowly. “We’re going to revisit that time in the shower,” John says, stepping into the bathroom and closing the door behind them.  ”But things are going to go a little differently this time.” —— The way that the water slides over Sherlock’s body is criminal.  John is on his knees in front of him, watching streams flow over his hip bones.  He presses a kiss against Sherlock’s skin, which is pulled taught over all of his wonderful angles. John wraps one hand around the base of Sherlock’s cock as he licks the entire shaft.  He pauses a moment to circle the head with the tip of his tongue, then he sucks gently on the frenulum.  Sherlock moans deeply and has to reach out to steady himself against the tiled wall. John traces a few light kisses across Sherlock’s hip as he takes a couple of long, firm strokes with his hand.  Then, he slowly brings his lips over his cock and sucks with steady pressure.  He moves his hand in tandem with his mouth, drawing out the sensation.  Sherlock runs his free hand through John’s hair, tugging when something feels especially intense. John moans around Sherlock’s cock and he can feel the vibrations travel down the length of him.  A pleasant shudder spreads through Sherlock’s body and he leans more heavily against the wall.  It isn’t long before John can feel Sherlock get a little bit harder, feel him throb a bit in his mouth.  He’s close. “Fuck, John…” Sherlock’s voice is deeper, smoother than usual.  It’s incredibly sexy.  John increases his tempo, working Sherlock a bit faster, a bit harder.  He wants to make him come, to be the one that drives him off the edge.  When he pulls back, he takes a chance and lets a hint of his teeth slide over the topside of Sherlock’s cock.  Then he rolls his tongue around the head and the contrast of sensations gets Sherlock past the point of no return. “I’m-” Sherlock attempts a warning, but John already knows.  Sherlock comes hard and John takes it willingly, committing the bitter-salty taste to memory.  He puts his hands on Sherlock’s waist and provides counter pressure to hold him up as he rides out the orgasm.  He is afraid for a moment that Sherlock will collapse in the shower when his knees give out. A few minutes later Sherlock seems to have caught his breath.  John uses the side of the bath to get himself back into a standing position.  They stand for a moment, under a steady stream of water, just looking at each other.  Sherlock is the first to move this time.  He leans over slightly and kisses John’s neck, wrapping his arms around him.  For the first time, they embrace skin to skin and John melts into his arms. —— Next:  Sherlock

Previously:  Sherlock

——

John Watson - writer and blogger extraordinaire - simply cannot form any words in his mind or with his lips.  Language has crumbled into ruins.  He has been reduced to quiet moans and heavy sighs.

Everything is a warm haze and every time he closes his eyes he replays the sensations that nearly put him into a pleasure-enduced coma.  He’s vaguely aware of Sherlock’s lips on his chest and a few murmured words about the tally.  He allows himself a moment to float above it; to relish in post-orgasmic bliss.

When he finally manages to come back to himself, Sherlock is poised above him - watching, learning, recording.  John reaches up and begins to unbutton Sherlock’s shirt, taking his time, allowing himself to breathe.  Job done, he pushes the shirt over Sherlock’s shoulders and is rewarded with a sensation of deja vu from the night in the shower.  There’s a moment of knockback.  Was that when it all could have started?  John wonders briefly if he wasted precious time being a coward.  If Mycroft had effectively gotten into his head.  He decides all at once to reclaim lost opportunities.

Sherlock helpfully finishes removing his shirt and tosses it on the floor behind them.  John pauses for a moment before reaching out to touch him.  His skin is impossibly soft.  John slides his hands up Sherlock’s stomach to his chest and over his shoulders.  His right hand lingers at his neck and he fails to resist the urge to check Sherlock’s pulse.  It’s there - steady and strong.  Relief floods over him.

Sherlock shifts so he can take John’s wrist in his hand.  He pulls it away from his neck and looks down at him, eyes drawn together in concern.  John smiles back at him softly, and shakes his head.  It’s fine, you’re here.  He tries to convey the words without speaking.  Without intruding on the perfect moment.  He runs a hand into Sherlock’s mess of curls and pulls him down into a kiss.  He tugs gently on his hair and feels Sherlock moan into his mouth.

John is already half-hard again at this point.  He moves his hands down to work at Sherlock’s trousers as they kiss hungrily with no sense of rhythm.  John gets the belt, button and zipper to finally cooperate and then he’s pushing Sherlock off into a standing position at the side of the bed.  Somehow, John had ended up naked rather abruptly and Sherlock had been allowed to remain clothed for far too long.  He was going to remedy that.  Immediately.

“Off,” John husks, “all of it.  Trousers, pants, socks.  Now.”

Sherlock cocks an eyebrow and tilts his head in a look of amusement.  Still, he complies.  He steps out of his clothes and stands in front of John stark naked.  He rests his hands on his hips and smirks.  Sherlock is gloriously hard, his cock protruding from his body, enticing.  John suddenly finds it hard to breathe.

“Jesus,” he whispers.  He self-consciously wraps his arms around his own bare stomach.  ”You look like you were carved out of marble.”

John watches as a gentle blush spreads up Sherlock’s neck to his face.  He shifts his weight and looks down at himself.  John would give anything to know what he is thinking.  After a moment, he pushes off the bed and moves over to where Sherlock is standing.  He lays both hands flat on his chest and pushes him backwards slowly.

“We’re going to revisit that time in the shower,” John says, stepping into the bathroom and closing the door behind them.  ”But things are going to go a little differently this time.”

——

The way that the water slides over Sherlock’s body is criminal.  John is on his knees in front of him, watching streams flow over his hip bones.  He presses a kiss against Sherlock’s skin, which is pulled taught over all of his wonderful angles.

John wraps one hand around the base of Sherlock’s cock as he licks the entire shaft.  He pauses a moment to circle the head with the tip of his tongue, then he sucks gently on the frenulum.  Sherlock moans deeply and has to reach out to steady himself against the tiled wall.

John traces a few light kisses across Sherlock’s hip as he takes a couple of long, firm strokes with his hand.  Then, he slowly brings his lips over his cock and sucks with steady pressure.  He moves his hand in tandem with his mouth, drawing out the sensation.  Sherlock runs his free hand through John’s hair, tugging when something feels especially intense.

John moans around Sherlock’s cock and he can feel the vibrations travel down the length of him.  A pleasant shudder spreads through Sherlock’s body and he leans more heavily against the wall.  It isn’t long before John can feel Sherlock get a little bit harder, feel him throb a bit in his mouth.  He’s close.

“Fuck, John…” Sherlock’s voice is deeper, smoother than usual.  It’s incredibly sexy.  John increases his tempo, working Sherlock a bit faster, a bit harder.  He wants to make him come, to be the one that drives him off the edge.  When he pulls back, he takes a chance and lets a hint of his teeth slide over the topside of Sherlock’s cock.  Then he rolls his tongue around the head and the contrast of sensations gets Sherlock past the point of no return.

“I’m-” Sherlock attempts a warning, but John already knows.  Sherlock comes hard and John takes it willingly, committing the bitter-salty taste to memory.  He puts his hands on Sherlock’s waist and provides counter pressure to hold him up as he rides out the orgasm.  He is afraid for a moment that Sherlock will collapse in the shower when his knees give out.

A few minutes later Sherlock seems to have caught his breath.  John uses the side of the bath to get himself back into a standing position.  They stand for a moment, under a steady stream of water, just looking at each other.  Sherlock is the first to move this time.  He leans over slightly and kisses John’s neck, wrapping his arms around him.  For the first time, they embrace skin to skin and John melts into his arms.

——

Next:  Sherlock

Previously:  Jim —— Lestrade orders them away from the crime scene, having all he needs from Sherlock at the moment.  John is also pretty sure that Greg’s aware they’re on the verge of a domestic and he doesn’t want any part of it.  John walks out to the main road and looks to hail a cab. “You’re upset,” Sherlock comes up from behind him and stands very close.  John fights the urge to turn around and look him.  He keeps his eyes fixed on the road. “I am.” “It’s about Sebastian.” Something in the way Sherlock phrases it comes out like a question, so John responds.  ”Yes, it’s about Sebastian.” “He put a knife in your leg, you could have died.  He carved into your chest.  He would have slit your throat.”  Sherlock moves closer still and rests one hand on John’s arm.  ”It was necessary that I neutralize him.” A cab finally turns on to the street and John waves it down.  They climb inside and give the address back to Baker Street.  Sherlock stares at John until he finally speaks. “I… I know you’re trying to protect me, Sherlock.  And it’s not even that you were out for revenge.  It’s just-”  He runs one hand through his hair.  ”It’s just the fact that you could even think up something that sinister.  That you could put certain plots in motion that would end up with another person killing themselves.” Sherlock sits back against the cab’s bench and breathes out heavily.  He turns to stare out the window and neither man says another word for the rest of the trip.  They eventually reach the flat and head inside. # Hours later the silence hangs like a heavy fog around them.  John sits in his chair, reading the newspaper and trying to be resolute about not being the first to speak.  Sherlock stands at the window, playing slow, deep notes on his violin with long draws of his bow over the strings. John clenches his teeth as he hears the same chord progression over and over and over.  He folds the paper and places it on the side table.  He watches Sherlock at the window, a dark figure silhouetted against the light from outside - made of long, languid lines and sinuous motion.  His head is tilted against the instrument and it draws out the muscles on the opposite side of his neck.  His fingers sweep over the strings, practised and familiar. John closes his eyes and listens.  At first he hears the same pattern repeating in a manner that must only be meant to annoy.  But then, a few minutes later, he starts to really listen.  The subtle differences between the first and third pass, the clearer, sharper tones on the sixth pass, the smoother draw on the ninth pass.  He realizes all at once that Sherlock is working through something, perfecting minute imperfections that are barely audible.  There’s a beauty in the methodical way he assassinates all errors.  The way that he approaches pure perfection. John opens his eyes again and sees Sherlock draw his bow from the strings to let it fall by his side.  He keeps the violin pressed against his shoulder, but he doesn’t raise his other arm.  He just stares out the window, unseeing. There’s only a faint sound when John rises from the chair.  Sherlock makes no move to acknowledge it.  John approaches him from behind and slides his arms around Sherlock’s waist, wrapping them around his stomach.  He turns his head and presses the side of his face against Sherlock’s back.  He can feel the other man’s breath hitch out of its regular measured rhythm. “Diminishing returns,” Sherlock says so quietly that John almost misses it. He pulls his head away from Sherlock so he can hear better, loosening his arms slightly.  Sherlock almost jerks as he grabs John’s arms and holds them in place. “At first, I practise and I see a return on my effort because the music becomes more pure; I am closing in on the perfect note.  But then I put in more and more time and I see less and less improvement.  Diminishing returns.  Soon enough, I am starting to make mistakes that I never would have made two hours ago.  Negative returns.” “I don’t understand what you-“ “It’s almost like… trying too hard.  Or, a self-fulfilled prophesy.  I never really believe I’ll achieve that perfect chord progression, and as a result, I fumble the notes.” Something clicks in John’s mind and he finally realizes what Sherlock is trying to say.  The plot against Sebastian was like a practised draw of the bow string, over and over again.  He was trying to eliminate the imperfections in their life.  Trying to eliminate the threats.  But Sherlock took things a step too far, fumbled the notes, and turned John against him. Every thread of doubt that was fraying in his mind suddenly falls away.  His anger and disappointment are replaced by fierce desire and a deep, unmistakable love for the lunatic standing before him.  Sherlock turns to face him and seems inexplicably shocked by the expression that John is wearing.  It’s still hard, but it’s not rage.  It’s determination.  Sherlock rests his violin and bow on the desk and tilts his head, curious. “Imperfection,” John begins, “is what makes this worth having.  Imperfection is what put a bullet through your arm and made me realize that I can’t live without you.  Imperfection is what carved a prophetic ‘S’ into my shoulder and branded me as yours.  Imperfection is your inability to communicate which made you kiss me.  Imperfection is my wanton disregard of time and place earlier today.  Imperfection is beauty, is effort, is passion.  Imperfection is botched assassinations.  Imperfection is misunderstandings.  And imperfection means apologies.” Sherlock steps forward and takes John’s face in his hands.  He presses his lips against his mouth and they kiss until they’re out of breath.   “This will never be easy,” Sherlock says, his lips brushing against John’s, “this will never be perfect.” “I don’t want that anyway.  Boring,” John responds, with a smirk.  ”I want you.  I need you.” “I need you too.”  Sherlock moves his hands down to John’s hips and pushes him backwards towards the kitchen and bedroom.  ”I have some making up to do.” John tilts his head to kiss him again and smiles against his mouth.  ”Twofold.” —— Next:  Sherlock

Previously:  Jim

——

Lestrade orders them away from the crime scene, having all he needs from Sherlock at the moment.  John is also pretty sure that Greg’s aware they’re on the verge of a domestic and he doesn’t want any part of it.  John walks out to the main road and looks to hail a cab.

“You’re upset,” Sherlock comes up from behind him and stands very close.  John fights the urge to turn around and look him.  He keeps his eyes fixed on the road.

“I am.”

“It’s about Sebastian.”

Something in the way Sherlock phrases it comes out like a question, so John responds.  ”Yes, it’s about Sebastian.”

“He put a knife in your leg, you could have died.  He carved into your chest.  He would have slit your throat.”  Sherlock moves closer still and rests one hand on John’s arm.  ”It was necessary that I neutralize him.”

A cab finally turns on to the street and John waves it down.  They climb inside and give the address back to Baker Street.  Sherlock stares at John until he finally speaks.

“I… I know you’re trying to protect me, Sherlock.  And it’s not even that you were out for revenge.  It’s just-”  He runs one hand through his hair.  ”It’s just the fact that you could even think up something that sinister.  That you could put certain plots in motion that would end up with another person killing themselves.”

Sherlock sits back against the cab’s bench and breathes out heavily.  He turns to stare out the window and neither man says another word for the rest of the trip.  They eventually reach the flat and head inside.

#

Hours later the silence hangs like a heavy fog around them.  John sits in his chair, reading the newspaper and trying to be resolute about not being the first to speak.  Sherlock stands at the window, playing slow, deep notes on his violin with long draws of his bow over the strings.

John clenches his teeth as he hears the same chord progression over and over and over.  He folds the paper and places it on the side table.  He watches Sherlock at the window, a dark figure silhouetted against the light from outside - made of long, languid lines and sinuous motion.  His head is tilted against the instrument and it draws out the muscles on the opposite side of his neck.  His fingers sweep over the strings, practised and familiar.

John closes his eyes and listens.  At first he hears the same pattern repeating in a manner that must only be meant to annoy.  But then, a few minutes later, he starts to really listen.  The subtle differences between the first and third pass, the clearer, sharper tones on the sixth pass, the smoother draw on the ninth pass.  He realizes all at once that Sherlock is working through something, perfecting minute imperfections that are barely audible.  There’s a beauty in the methodical way he assassinates all errors.  The way that he approaches pure perfection.

John opens his eyes again and sees Sherlock draw his bow from the strings to let it fall by his side.  He keeps the violin pressed against his shoulder, but he doesn’t raise his other arm.  He just stares out the window, unseeing.

There’s only a faint sound when John rises from the chair.  Sherlock makes no move to acknowledge it.  John approaches him from behind and slides his arms around Sherlock’s waist, wrapping them around his stomach.  He turns his head and presses the side of his face against Sherlock’s back.  He can feel the other man’s breath hitch out of its regular measured rhythm.

“Diminishing returns,” Sherlock says so quietly that John almost misses it.

He pulls his head away from Sherlock so he can hear better, loosening his arms slightly.  Sherlock almost jerks as he grabs John’s arms and holds them in place.

“At first, I practise and I see a return on my effort because the music becomes more pure; I am closing in on the perfect note.  But then I put in more and more time and I see less and less improvement.  Diminishing returns.  Soon enough, I am starting to make mistakes that I never would have made two hours ago.  Negative returns.”

“I don’t understand what you-“

“It’s almost like… trying too hard.  Or, a self-fulfilled prophesy.  I never really believe I’ll achieve that perfect chord progression, and as a result, I fumble the notes.”

Something clicks in John’s mind and he finally realizes what Sherlock is trying to say.  The plot against Sebastian was like a practised draw of the bow string, over and over again.  He was trying to eliminate the imperfections in their life.  Trying to eliminate the threats.  But Sherlock took things a step too far, fumbled the notes, and turned John against him.

Every thread of doubt that was fraying in his mind suddenly falls away.  His anger and disappointment are replaced by fierce desire and a deep, unmistakable love for the lunatic standing before him.  Sherlock turns to face him and seems inexplicably shocked by the expression that John is wearing.  It’s still hard, but it’s not rage.  It’s determination.  Sherlock rests his violin and bow on the desk and tilts his head, curious.

“Imperfection,” John begins, “is what makes this worth having.  Imperfection is what put a bullet through your arm and made me realize that I can’t live without you.  Imperfection is what carved a prophetic ‘S’ into my shoulder and branded me as yours.  Imperfection is your inability to communicate which made you kiss me.  Imperfection is my wanton disregard of time and place earlier today.  Imperfection is beauty, is effort, is passion.  Imperfection is botched assassinations.  Imperfection is misunderstandings.  And imperfection means apologies.”

Sherlock steps forward and takes John’s face in his hands.  He presses his lips against his mouth and they kiss until they’re out of breath.  

“This will never be easy,” Sherlock says, his lips brushing against John’s, “this will never be perfect.”

“I don’t want that anyway.  Boring,” John responds, with a smirk.  ”I want you.  I need you.”

“I need you too.”  Sherlock moves his hands down to John’s hips and pushes him backwards towards the kitchen and bedroom.  ”I have some making up to do.”

John tilts his head to kiss him again and smiles against his mouth.  ”Twofold.”

——

Next:  Sherlock

Previously:  Sherlock —— The second crime scene is grizzlier than the first, even though that barely seems possible.  The spray of blood and tissue is all over the walls and the floor.  John coughs once upon entering, swallows hard, then composes himself.  It’s like stepping into a whole other world from where he just spent the last twenty minutes.  Although their promised time is up, no one else has ventured upstairs yet. Sherlock circles the body in the chair, scrutinizing.  He examines the exit wound and the position of the corpse.  He takes a long look at Palmer’s gun, tilting his head from one side to the other. “John.” “Hm?” “How tall would you say he is?” “I’d say about… five foot nine, maybe.”  John squints, trying to imagine the man standing upright. “He’s five seven and three-quarters.” “Well, if you already knew then why did you ask?” “Don’t you find that odd?” Sherlock continues as if John hasn’t even spoken. “No, actually.  I think that’s quite a fine height.” Sherlock turns to regard him, eyes narrowed.  ”You’re trying to be funny.” “Yes, I suppose.  But more importantly, I don’t follow what you’re trying to say.” Sherlock nods once and strides out the door.  John hurries to catch up.  They proceed down the stairs and back out to the front yard.  Sherlock approaches Lestrade, who is standing in front of a squad car talking to a technician. “It was a double murder,” he says, not waiting for Lestrade to acknowledge them. “Could you excuse me for just a minute?”  Lestrade frowns slightly at the tech and shrugs an apology.  ”I beg your pardon?” “The wound on the girl’s neck was made at a severe upwards angle, but her boyfriend is barely six inches taller.  There was also post-mortem bruising on her arms from when she was manhandled into her current position.  The perpetrator who slit her throat was much taller and much stronger than the man in pieces in the upstairs bedroom.” “And Palmer?” Sherlock pauses, confused. “The man upstairs,” John clarifies. “Killed by someone who stood in front of him and put a gun in his mouth.  It’s all in the angle, Lestrade!  The exit wound in his head was almost straight out the back of his mouth.  If he had pulled the trigger himself, it would have been at an upward angle.  And then of course, there’s the business with the gun.” Lestrade and John stand watching him, waiting.  He says nothing. “What about the gun, Sherlock?”  John finally asks. “Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it?  It was planted.  It’s not at all in the position it should have been if it had fallen from his grip.  Test him - I assure you there will be no gunpowder residue on his hands.  There’s no doubt that it is the weapon that killed him, but he is not the one to have fired it.” “So who did?”  Lestrade crosses his arms over his chest. “Sebastian Moran.” “What?”  John grips Sherlock by the arm.  ”How could you possibly know that?” “This is simple logic, John, it’s personal.  The girl was stabbed in the arm and the leg - the exact places that you suffered injury in our last meeting with Sebastian.  Then her throat was slit, no doubt a warning of what would have come next if we weren’t so timely rescued by the great men and women of Scotland Yard.”  Sherlock manages to get most of the sentence out without sounding completely sarcastic. “The man upstairs was meant to look as though he had killed himself by putting his gun in his mouth and blowing out the back of his head.  The exact same plot that I had devised to rid Sebastian from this world once and for-“ Sherlock’s face twists before the last word of the sentence can escape his lips.  ”John.  Wait.” But John’s blood has turned to ice in his veins.  His vision is shaking and he drops his grip from Sherlock’s arm.  ”You what?” “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that last bit,” Lestrade interjects.  ”I’ll… uh…  thanks boys.  We’ll let you know if anything else turns up.”  He turns quickly on his heel and leaves them alone on the sidewalk. “I was only trying to protect you,” Sherlock says in a small voice. “What did you do.” “I may have made Sebastian believe that he was losing his mind.  That Moriarty, or someone pretending to be Moriarty, had a hand in his undoing.  I didn’t put the gun in his hand, John.” “But you may as well have.”  John lets out a heavy sigh.  ”That’s not how we do things.  That’s insane, actually.” “It was the only way I could ensure your safety.  And in light of recent developments, I don’t regret it in the least.  I would make the same decision over again.” “You-”  John shakes his head.  ”But now…” “Jim Moriarty really is back, it appears.” “And you’ve got him right pissed off.” Sherlock turns away and looks at the ground. “Apparently so.” —— Next:  Sebastian

Previously:  Sherlock

——

The second crime scene is grizzlier than the first, even though that barely seems possible.  The spray of blood and tissue is all over the walls and the floor.  John coughs once upon entering, swallows hard, then composes himself.  It’s like stepping into a whole other world from where he just spent the last twenty minutes.  Although their promised time is up, no one else has ventured upstairs yet.

Sherlock circles the body in the chair, scrutinizing.  He examines the exit wound and the position of the corpse.  He takes a long look at Palmer’s gun, tilting his head from one side to the other.

“John.”

“Hm?”

“How tall would you say he is?”

“I’d say about… five foot nine, maybe.”  John squints, trying to imagine the man standing upright.

“He’s five seven and three-quarters.”

“Well, if you already knew then why did you ask?”

“Don’t you find that odd?” Sherlock continues as if John hasn’t even spoken.

“No, actually.  I think that’s quite a fine height.”

Sherlock turns to regard him, eyes narrowed.  ”You’re trying to be funny.”

“Yes, I suppose.  But more importantly, I don’t follow what you’re trying to say.”

Sherlock nods once and strides out the door.  John hurries to catch up.  They proceed down the stairs and back out to the front yard.  Sherlock approaches Lestrade, who is standing in front of a squad car talking to a technician.

“It was a double murder,” he says, not waiting for Lestrade to acknowledge them.

“Could you excuse me for just a minute?”  Lestrade frowns slightly at the tech and shrugs an apology.  ”I beg your pardon?”

“The wound on the girl’s neck was made at a severe upwards angle, but her boyfriend is barely six inches taller.  There was also post-mortem bruising on her arms from when she was manhandled into her current position.  The perpetrator who slit her throat was much taller and much stronger than the man in pieces in the upstairs bedroom.”

“And Palmer?”

Sherlock pauses, confused.

“The man upstairs,” John clarifies.

“Killed by someone who stood in front of him and put a gun in his mouth.  It’s all in the angle, Lestrade!  The exit wound in his head was almost straight out the back of his mouth.  If he had pulled the trigger himself, it would have been at an upward angle.  And then of course, there’s the business with the gun.”

Lestrade and John stand watching him, waiting.  He says nothing.

“What about the gun, Sherlock?”  John finally asks.

“Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it?  It was planted.  It’s not at all in the position it should have been if it had fallen from his grip.  Test him - I assure you there will be no gunpowder residue on his hands.  There’s no doubt that it is the weapon that killed him, but he is not the one to have fired it.”

“So who did?”  Lestrade crosses his arms over his chest.

“Sebastian Moran.”

“What?”  John grips Sherlock by the arm.  ”How could you possibly know that?”

“This is simple logic, John, it’s personal.  The girl was stabbed in the arm and the leg - the exact places that you suffered injury in our last meeting with Sebastian.  Then her throat was slit, no doubt a warning of what would have come next if we weren’t so timely rescued by the great men and women of Scotland Yard.”  Sherlock manages to get most of the sentence out without sounding completely sarcastic.

“The man upstairs was meant to look as though he had killed himself by putting his gun in his mouth and blowing out the back of his head.  The exact same plot that I had devised to rid Sebastian from this world once and for-“

Sherlock’s face twists before the last word of the sentence can escape his lips.  ”John.  Wait.”

But John’s blood has turned to ice in his veins.  His vision is shaking and he drops his grip from Sherlock’s arm.  ”You what?”

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that last bit,” Lestrade interjects.  ”I’ll… uh…  thanks boys.  We’ll let you know if anything else turns up.”  He turns quickly on his heel and leaves them alone on the sidewalk.

“I was only trying to protect you,” Sherlock says in a small voice.

“What did you do.”

“I may have made Sebastian believe that he was losing his mind.  That Moriarty, or someone pretending to be Moriarty, had a hand in his undoing.  I didn’t put the gun in his hand, John.”

“But you may as well have.”  John lets out a heavy sigh.  ”That’s not how we do things.  That’s insane, actually.”

“It was the only way I could ensure your safety.  And in light of recent developments, I don’t regret it in the least.  I would make the same decision over again.”

“You-”  John shakes his head.  ”But now…”

“Jim Moriarty really is back, it appears.”

“And you’ve got him right pissed off.”

Sherlock turns away and looks at the ground.

“Apparently so.”

——

Next:  Sebastian

Previously:  Sherlock —— On the cab ride over, they sit mostly in silence.  Sherlock gives John the tarot card to scrutinize, but he can’t find anything remarkable about it.  Mostly, he can’t think about anything except what just happened in the flat.  The two of them, sitting there like nothing was out of order, had just been snogging on the floor of the parlour.  Sherlock had him pinned down for fuck’s sake.  And here they were, decidedly not talking about it. The crime scene isn’t actually that far away from Baker Street.  Considering Moriarty is involved, it isn’t that surprising.  Sherlock unfolds himself gracefully from the inside of the cab and John follows close behind.  He watches as Sherlock pushes his way past the officers to head straight for the body inside the house.  John makes a short detour over to Lestrade. “Greg,” he says.  He extends a handshake. “John.  Thanks for coming.” “So, murder-suicide?” “Looks that way.”  Lestrade flips open his notebook.  ”Jennifer Thompson, that’s the girlfriend, was stabbed repeatedly in the leg and chest.  Then her throat was slit.” John’s leg throbs sympathetically.  He rubs it, absently. “Steve Palmer put a gun in his mouth and blew out the back of his head.” “Jesus.” “Mm.  We’ve got some of the family back at the Yard.  Trying to figure out why Steve went off the deep end.” “And you’re sure that Palmer is the one responsible?”  John asks. “It fits.  Only one set of prints on the gun and the knife and they seem identical.  The lab will confirm, of course.” “Right, well I’d better…” “Be my guest.”  Lestrade nods and watches John walk slowly up the front steps and into the house where Sherlock is crouched above the body. He’s holding one of Thompson’s arms in his latex-gloved hand, inspecting some bruising.  He lowers it back down to the ground and then looks closely at the horrid gash that stretches across her neck. “John, I need you.” A smile creeps on to John’s face involuntarily.  He presses his lips together and tries to maintain some sort of professionalism.  He kneels down on his good leg next to Sherlock. “I’m here.” “This bruising.  Can you tell if it’s post-mortem?” “I can’t say for certain.  I don’t see any inflammation, so that’s a good argument for it being after she died.” “I hope that this interruption will not take us off the course we were on previously.  There are quite a number of things I had planned for this afternoon, none of which involved corpses.” It’s such a non-sequitur that John barely registers the words before Sherlock is reaching for his face.  There are other officers and techs in the room, and although none of them are paying the two men any special attention, John is sure they would notice if the freak and the doctor gave into the throes of passion. “There’s uh, there’s another body upstairs.”  John stands abruptly before Sherlock can resolve his course of action.  ”Let’s go.” John walks to the officer standing at the bottom of the stairs and exchanges a few words.  He appeals that Sherlock will cause less collateral damage to the police force if he can inspect the body alone.  The officer calls down the techs and promises to give Sherlock twenty minutes, uninterrupted.  John nods and thanks him. “Sherlock,” he calls.  ”Upstairs.” John climbs up ahead of him and spots a room off to the left with broken crime scene tape hanging from the door frame.  When Sherlock gets to the top of the stairs, John takes two fistfuls of his jacket and pulls him sharply off to the right. “Wha-“ Before Sherlock can object, John has backed up against a closed door and pulled him down into a deep kiss.  He slides one hand into his hair and tugs gently.  Sherlock responds with a quiet moan that disappears down John’s throat.  Sherlock reaches out and John thinks he is going to wrap his arms around him.  Instead, he gropes for the doorknob and turns.  Suddenly, it gives behind them and John stumbles backwards into a dark room. Sherlock is careful to hold him upright as they get inside and shut the door behind them.  From what John can make out in the low light, it appears to be a small powder room.  Sherlock presses his back against the door and pulls John to him.  He tilts his head and captures him in a kiss once more. John has one arm extended, palm flat against the door, and the other resting on the side of Sherlock’s torso.  John can feel the flex of his muscles under his shirt as he breathes in and out and he has the insane desire to just tear off his clothes right here and now to get that much desired skin on skin sensation. The kissing has turned hungry and irregular, both men struggling to catch their respective breath.  John’s hands wander south and in the next moment he is unlatching Sherlock’s belt and working at the fly of his trousers. “John…” Sherlock exhales his name, but doesn’t make any move to stop him. John pulls him into another kiss as he slides his hand against the smooth skin of Sherlock’s abdomen, down and under his trousers and pants.  He finds Sherlock’s cock straining against the fabric and he grips it firmly. “Ffffuck….” The words escape Sherlock’s lips and reverberate into John’s mouth.  He grins.  John releases him for a brief moment to hook his thumbs into Sherlock’s clothing.  He pulls down just far enough to free his erection from the binding effects of his pants. This time, John takes hold of Sherlock’s cock and makes one full stroke from base to tip.  At the top, he swivels his hand around so that his palm covers the head.  Then he slides back down the base.  John feels Sherlock’s grip on his bicep and shoulder tighten significantly. John figures that they have somewhere between ten and fifteen minutes before someone comes up looking for them.  Though he’s had plenty of practice on himself, he’s less confident about his abilities when it comes to someone else’s cock.  He looks over quickly at the counter and spots a dispenser of lotion.  It’s not ideal, but it will do in a pinch.  He releases Sherlock long enough to pump some on to his hand and then grips him again. John lubricates the length of Sherlock’s cock with several long strokes.  Sherlock lets his head fall back against the door and closes his eyes.  A low moan escapes from him.  John holds the base of his cock firmly with one hand and uses the palm of the other to gently rub the frenulum and coronal ridge.  ”Christ, John…” “Tell me what you like.” Sherlock lifts his head and looks at John with half-lidded eyes.  He seems to try and form a sentence several times, but is far too distracted to articulate his thoughts. “Better yet,” John says, taking one of Sherlock’s hands by the wrist and pulling it down.  ”Show me.” —— Next:  Sherlock

Previously:  Sherlock

——

On the cab ride over, they sit mostly in silence.  Sherlock gives John the tarot card to scrutinize, but he can’t find anything remarkable about it.  Mostly, he can’t think about anything except what just happened in the flat.  The two of them, sitting there like nothing was out of order, had just been snogging on the floor of the parlour.  Sherlock had him pinned down for fuck’s sake.  And here they were, decidedly not talking about it.

The crime scene isn’t actually that far away from Baker Street.  Considering Moriarty is involved, it isn’t that surprising.  Sherlock unfolds himself gracefully from the inside of the cab and John follows close behind.  He watches as Sherlock pushes his way past the officers to head straight for the body inside the house.  John makes a short detour over to Lestrade.

“Greg,” he says.  He extends a handshake.

“John.  Thanks for coming.”

“So, murder-suicide?”

“Looks that way.”  Lestrade flips open his notebook.  ”Jennifer Thompson, that’s the girlfriend, was stabbed repeatedly in the leg and chest.  Then her throat was slit.”

John’s leg throbs sympathetically.  He rubs it, absently.

“Steve Palmer put a gun in his mouth and blew out the back of his head.”

“Jesus.”

“Mm.  We’ve got some of the family back at the Yard.  Trying to figure out why Steve went off the deep end.”

“And you’re sure that Palmer is the one responsible?”  John asks.

“It fits.  Only one set of prints on the gun and the knife and they seem identical.  The lab will confirm, of course.”

“Right, well I’d better…”

“Be my guest.”  Lestrade nods and watches John walk slowly up the front steps and into the house where Sherlock is crouched above the body.

He’s holding one of Thompson’s arms in his latex-gloved hand, inspecting some bruising.  He lowers it back down to the ground and then looks closely at the horrid gash that stretches across her neck.

“John, I need you.”

A smile creeps on to John’s face involuntarily.  He presses his lips together and tries to maintain some sort of professionalism.  He kneels down on his good leg next to Sherlock.

“I’m here.”

“This bruising.  Can you tell if it’s post-mortem?”

“I can’t say for certain.  I don’t see any inflammation, so that’s a good argument for it being after she died.”

“I hope that this interruption will not take us off the course we were on previously.  There are quite a number of things I had planned for this afternoon, none of which involved corpses.”

It’s such a non-sequitur that John barely registers the words before Sherlock is reaching for his face.  There are other officers and techs in the room, and although none of them are paying the two men any special attention, John is sure they would notice if the freak and the doctor gave into the throes of passion.

“There’s uh, there’s another body upstairs.”  John stands abruptly before Sherlock can resolve his course of action.  ”Let’s go.”

John walks to the officer standing at the bottom of the stairs and exchanges a few words.  He appeals that Sherlock will cause less collateral damage to the police force if he can inspect the body alone.  The officer calls down the techs and promises to give Sherlock twenty minutes, uninterrupted.  John nods and thanks him.

“Sherlock,” he calls.  ”Upstairs.”

John climbs up ahead of him and spots a room off to the left with broken crime scene tape hanging from the door frame.  When Sherlock gets to the top of the stairs, John takes two fistfuls of his jacket and pulls him sharply off to the right.

“Wha-“

Before Sherlock can object, John has backed up against a closed door and pulled him down into a deep kiss.  He slides one hand into his hair and tugs gently.  Sherlock responds with a quiet moan that disappears down John’s throat.  Sherlock reaches out and John thinks he is going to wrap his arms around him.  Instead, he gropes for the doorknob and turns.  Suddenly, it gives behind them and John stumbles backwards into a dark room.

Sherlock is careful to hold him upright as they get inside and shut the door behind them.  From what John can make out in the low light, it appears to be a small powder room.  Sherlock presses his back against the door and pulls John to him.  He tilts his head and captures him in a kiss once more.

John has one arm extended, palm flat against the door, and the other resting on the side of Sherlock’s torso.  John can feel the flex of his muscles under his shirt as he breathes in and out and he has the insane desire to just tear off his clothes right here and now to get that much desired skin on skin sensation.

The kissing has turned hungry and irregular, both men struggling to catch their respective breath.  John’s hands wander south and in the next moment he is unlatching Sherlock’s belt and working at the fly of his trousers.

“John…” Sherlock exhales his name, but doesn’t make any move to stop him.

John pulls him into another kiss as he slides his hand against the smooth skin of Sherlock’s abdomen, down and under his trousers and pants.  He finds Sherlock’s cock straining against the fabric and he grips it firmly.

“Ffffuck….” The words escape Sherlock’s lips and reverberate into John’s mouth.  He grins.  John releases him for a brief moment to hook his thumbs into Sherlock’s clothing.  He pulls down just far enough to free his erection from the binding effects of his pants.

This time, John takes hold of Sherlock’s cock and makes one full stroke from base to tip.  At the top, he swivels his hand around so that his palm covers the head.  Then he slides back down the base.  John feels Sherlock’s grip on his bicep and shoulder tighten significantly.

John figures that they have somewhere between ten and fifteen minutes before someone comes up looking for them.  Though he’s had plenty of practice on himself, he’s less confident about his abilities when it comes to someone else’s cock.  He looks over quickly at the counter and spots a dispenser of lotion.  It’s not ideal, but it will do in a pinch.  He releases Sherlock long enough to pump some on to his hand and then grips him again.

John lubricates the length of Sherlock’s cock with several long strokes.  Sherlock lets his head fall back against the door and closes his eyes.  A low moan escapes from him.  John holds the base of his cock firmly with one hand and uses the palm of the other to gently rub the frenulum and coronal ridge.

 ”Christ, John…”

“Tell me what you like.”

Sherlock lifts his head and looks at John with half-lidded eyes.  He seems to try and form a sentence several times, but is far too distracted to articulate his thoughts.

“Better yet,” John says, taking one of Sherlock’s hands by the wrist and pulling it down.  ”Show me.”

——

Next:  Sherlock

Previously:  Sherlock —— It’s an odd sensation, to say the least.  When rage slides off of him in an instant, to be replaced by…  what?  He’s not really sure.  Everything is suddenly hyper real and he wonders absently if this is how Sherlock feels all the time. First, it’s Sherlock’s hands, tangled in his jumper, fisting it tightly.  It almost as though he can feel the fabric crushed in his grip.  Like he can hear the sound it makes; the rustle and smudge of fabric against skin.  It’s the firm pressure of Sherlock pulling him towards him, holding him - unyielding - and the tension in his arms.  It’s like John is caught in the gravitational pull of his long-awaited moment of impact. It’s also Sherlock’s lips, pressed roughly against his own.  It’s the sheer impossibility of the moment, like somehow the universe should intervene and pull them apart.  That maybe John hasn’t earned this, not yet. It’s the body heat, the closeness, the absence of barriers.  It’s the way Sherlock smells and how he tastes, seeping in through John’s senses, intoxicating him.  It’s the slowing of time, the way he looks through half-lidded eyes and the sensation of being outside of himself. It’s exhilarating.  Perfection.  Arousal.  Desire.  John lifts his hands and holds Sherlock’s face as he finally lets himself drown in the moment.  It’s everything, all at once.  Too much and not enough.  Lips part and tongues meet and John feels dizzy.  The Earth starts to spin in the opposite direction and he feels himself falling deeper into the moment.  Seconds that feel like hours (but never long enough) pass and Sherlock pulls away. John can’t help the faint moan that escapes his lips.  Or maybe it’s a whimper.  The world snaps aggressively and painfully back into focus and suddenly they are staring at each other.  Their faces are mere inches apart as John takes in a ragged breath. It can’t be over that quickly.  He won’t allow it.  He slides a hand into Sherlock’s dark curls and pulls him forward to close the space between them.  Their lips touch and they kiss like they were built for each other.  John has often been told he is a thoughtful lover and he spares no ounce of effort for Sherlock.  If this is his one and only chance to seduce his best mate, he’s going to fucking knock it out of the park. He sucks slightly on Sherlock’s lower lip, eliciting a hum of pleasure.  As he releases, John bites with gentle pressure.  Sherlock’s grip tightens and he pulls John in towards him, forcing him to the edge of the couch.  The insides of his thighs brush against Sherlock’s torso and John’s mind goes to places far beyond first base.  He shifts, trying to reposition his growing erection before it becomes abundantly apparent to Sherlock. A dark flutter of doubt crosses through his mind like a shadow.  Is this just a tactic to get me to stay inside?  A ploy to make me obedient?  He pulls out of the kiss like the wind has been knocked from his chest.  Sherlock seems to almost lean into the space that he just vacated.  John is about to speak when Sherlock cuts him off. “Do you understand now?  I can’t lose you.  Tell me you understand.” John opens his mouth and closes it again.  He barely recognizes the man in front of him.  Sherlock’s expression is one that John has never seen him wear.  There is genuine concern.  An immediate and all-consuming wave of panic held tightly in check somewhere behind those eyes. John must take too long to respond because suddenly Sherlock’s hands are on him again, pulling him off the couch and on to the floor.  John takes a sharp breath as his knee impacts the ground and sends a wave of pain up through his thigh.  But it doesn’t even matter because Sherlock is kissing him again. John takes advantage of a moment when Sherlock pulls back to slide his mouth to his neck, kissing hungrily.  He presses his lips against the pulse point in Sherlock’s neck and feels his blood pound strong and quick.  He reminds himself that he will never tire of Sherlock’s heart beat.  He pulls the collar of Sherlock’s shirt away from his skin and kisses his collar bone.   Sherlock lets his head fall back and lets out a quiet moan.  When he speaks, it sends pleasant vibrations through John’s lips. “I’m sorry,” he says.  John lifts his head to regard him, his skin slightly flushed.  ”I didn’t know how else to make my point.  I know you’re not…  well.  I understand that you’re not gay.” “Sherlock, did you-  Have we not just shared the same moment, just now?” “I coerced you.  I apologize.”  He sits back on his heels, increasing the distance between them. “Listen to me.  My preferences are my own.  You don’t get to decide what I am or who I want to shag.”  John shuffles forward a bit on his knees, trying to take some of the pressure off his bad leg. “But you’re always declaring-“ John waves the comment away.  ”I know.  But I’ve realized something.  Maybe my sexuality is fluid and you or me or Mycroft - we don’t get to compartmentalize it into little containers marked ‘gay’ and ‘straight’.” “Mycroft?” “Shut it.  I’ll explain later.”  John replies, with an embarrassed grin.  ”Here’s is what I know.  You, Sherlock Holmes, have changed me by simply being.  You have changed me on such a fundamental level, that I am a completely different person.  A better person.  A happier person.  And when I look at you, kneeling before me, there is nothing I want to do more than to pleasure you in all the ways I know how.” Sherlock stares. “And maybe a few I don’t.”  John takes a handful of Sherlock’s shirt and pulls him back up on his knees.  ”You will never lose me Sherlock.  When you were gone, I could barely breathe.  My chest was empty.  You are the air in my lungs.  The blood in my heart.  You sustain me.” “I could destroy you,” Sherlock replies in a small voice.  ”I don’t do things in the appropriate manner.” “I invite you to try.  I’m stronger than I look, leg injury not withstanding.”  John smiles, but Sherlock still looks unconvinced.  ”Besides, if you stop kissing me now that you’ve started, I will hospitalize you.  Remember, I was a soldier - I’ve killed people.”  He cocks an eyebrow. “You were a doctor,” Sherlock replies with a grin, replaying one of his favourite moments with John. “I had bad days,” John dutifully responds.  Then he takes a hold of Sherlock and pulls him down to the floor. —— Next:  Sherlock

Previously:  Sherlock

——

It’s an odd sensation, to say the least.  When rage slides off of him in an instant, to be replaced by…  what?  He’s not really sure.  Everything is suddenly hyper real and he wonders absently if this is how Sherlock feels all the time.

First, it’s Sherlock’s hands, tangled in his jumper, fisting it tightly.  It almost as though he can feel the fabric crushed in his grip.  Like he can hear the sound it makes; the rustle and smudge of fabric against skin.  It’s the firm pressure of Sherlock pulling him towards him, holding him - unyielding - and the tension in his arms.  It’s like John is caught in the gravitational pull of his long-awaited moment of impact.

It’s also Sherlock’s lips, pressed roughly against his own.  It’s the sheer impossibility of the moment, like somehow the universe should intervene and pull them apart.  That maybe John hasn’t earned this, not yet.

It’s the body heat, the closeness, the absence of barriers.  It’s the way Sherlock smells and how he tastes, seeping in through John’s senses, intoxicating him.  It’s the slowing of time, the way he looks through half-lidded eyes and the sensation of being outside of himself.

It’s exhilarating.  Perfection.  Arousal.  Desire.  John lifts his hands and holds Sherlock’s face as he finally lets himself drown in the moment.  It’s everything, all at once.  Too much and not enough.  Lips part and tongues meet and John feels dizzy.  The Earth starts to spin in the opposite direction and he feels himself falling deeper into the moment.  Seconds that feel like hours (but never long enough) pass and Sherlock pulls away.

John can’t help the faint moan that escapes his lips.  Or maybe it’s a whimper.  The world snaps aggressively and painfully back into focus and suddenly they are staring at each other.  Their faces are mere inches apart as John takes in a ragged breath.

It can’t be over that quickly.  He won’t allow it.  He slides a hand into Sherlock’s dark curls and pulls him forward to close the space between them.  Their lips touch and they kiss like they were built for each other.  John has often been told he is a thoughtful lover and he spares no ounce of effort for Sherlock.  If this is his one and only chance to seduce his best mate, he’s going to fucking knock it out of the park.

He sucks slightly on Sherlock’s lower lip, eliciting a hum of pleasure.  As he releases, John bites with gentle pressure.  Sherlock’s grip tightens and he pulls John in towards him, forcing him to the edge of the couch.  The insides of his thighs brush against Sherlock’s torso and John’s mind goes to places far beyond first base.  He shifts, trying to reposition his growing erection before it becomes abundantly apparent to Sherlock.

A dark flutter of doubt crosses through his mind like a shadow.  Is this just a tactic to get me to stay inside?  A ploy to make me obedient?  He pulls out of the kiss like the wind has been knocked from his chest.  Sherlock seems to almost lean into the space that he just vacated.  John is about to speak when Sherlock cuts him off.

“Do you understand now?  I can’t lose you.  Tell me you understand.”

John opens his mouth and closes it again.  He barely recognizes the man in front of him.  Sherlock’s expression is one that John has never seen him wear.  There is genuine concern.  An immediate and all-consuming wave of panic held tightly in check somewhere behind those eyes.

John must take too long to respond because suddenly Sherlock’s hands are on him again, pulling him off the couch and on to the floor.  John takes a sharp breath as his knee impacts the ground and sends a wave of pain up through his thigh.  But it doesn’t even matter because Sherlock is kissing him again.

John takes advantage of a moment when Sherlock pulls back to slide his mouth to his neck, kissing hungrily.  He presses his lips against the pulse point in Sherlock’s neck and feels his blood pound strong and quick.  He reminds himself that he will never tire of Sherlock’s heart beat.  He pulls the collar of Sherlock’s shirt away from his skin and kisses his collar bone.  

Sherlock lets his head fall back and lets out a quiet moan.  When he speaks, it sends pleasant vibrations through John’s lips.

“I’m sorry,” he says.  John lifts his head to regard him, his skin slightly flushed.  ”I didn’t know how else to make my point.  I know you’re not…  well.  I understand that you’re not gay.”

“Sherlock, did you-  Have we not just shared the same moment, just now?”

“I coerced you.  I apologize.”  He sits back on his heels, increasing the distance between them.

“Listen to me.  My preferences are my own.  You don’t get to decide what I am or who I want to shag.”  John shuffles forward a bit on his knees, trying to take some of the pressure off his bad leg.

“But you’re always declaring-“

John waves the comment away.  ”I know.  But I’ve realized something.  Maybe my sexuality is fluid and you or me or Mycroft - we don’t get to compartmentalize it into little containers marked ‘gay’ and ‘straight’.”

“Mycroft?”

“Shut it.  I’ll explain later.”  John replies, with an embarrassed grin.  ”Here’s is what I know.  You, Sherlock Holmes, have changed me by simply being.  You have changed me on such a fundamental level, that I am a completely different person.  A better person.  A happier person.  And when I look at you, kneeling before me, there is nothing I want to do more than to pleasure you in all the ways I know how.”

Sherlock stares.

“And maybe a few I don’t.”  John takes a handful of Sherlock’s shirt and pulls him back up on his knees.  ”You will never lose me Sherlock.  When you were gone, I could barely breathe.  My chest was empty.  You are the air in my lungs.  The blood in my heart.  You sustain me.”

“I could destroy you,” Sherlock replies in a small voice.  ”I don’t do things in the appropriate manner.”

“I invite you to try.  I’m stronger than I look, leg injury not withstanding.”  John smiles, but Sherlock still looks unconvinced.  ”Besides, if you stop kissing me now that you’ve started, I will hospitalize you.  Remember, I was a soldier - I’ve killed people.”  He cocks an eyebrow.

“You were a doctor,” Sherlock replies with a grin, replaying one of his favourite moments with John.

“I had bad days,” John dutifully responds.  Then he takes a hold of Sherlock and pulls him down to the floor.

——

Next:  Sherlock

Previously:  Sherlock —— The monotony of recovery transforms hours into days, days into weeks.  They fall into a comfortable routine, decidedly ignoring the events of the first night.  Not that several standout moments don’t make a reappearance on nights when John is alone in the house. But no one else knows about those. John starts a new journal on his blog - a locked page - to track his healing.  While it starts with notes about his endurance and pain tolerance, it quickly devolves into observations about Sherlock and his growing level of distraction. Week 1 - Friday:  Managed two laps around the ground floor, minor assistance required.  Pain in lower back, likely from awkward walking stride.  Sherlock texting absently while the nurse checked on my dressing.  Likely Lestrade. Week 2 - Wednesday:  Had stitches out today.  Doctor is pleased with how it’s healing up.  Will have wicked scar to show all my mates.  Had a stumble during physio today.  Reached for Sherlock, but he wasn’t there.  Was checking phone again.  He apologized, at least. Week 2 - Sunday:  Woke up in the middle of the night and Sherlock wasn’t in bed.  Hobbled through the house as much as possible to look for him, but he was gone.  Thought about texting him, but was probably just a case.  When I woke up in the morning, he was back.  Didn’t say a word about being out. Week 3 - Tuesday:  Took a stroll outside today.  Couldn’t go far, but fresh air was nice.  Sherlock came along begrudgingly, even though I told him it wasn’t necessary.  I think he’s getting bored with the routine. Week 3 - Thursday:  Greg came round for a visit.  Getting sick of Sherlock constantly being distracted, so I forced Greg to take me for a pint.  I begged him to push a case Sherlock’s way, but apparently there’s nothing worth his attention at the moment.  When I got back to Mycroft’s, Sherlock was gone. Week 3 - Friday:  Not back yet.  More physio.  Hurts more when he’s not here. Week 3 - Sunday:  Saw Harry yesterday, which was nice.  Mycroft was a bit of a prat to her.  Haven’t seen Sherlock since Thursday.  Not answering my texts. Week 4 - Wednesday:  Bit of a set back.  Have been working on stairs recently.  Pushed too hard and muscle gave out, took a tumble.  Bruised rib.  Sherlock reappeared on Monday but gave no explanation for being away.  I didn’t bother asking. Week 4 - Saturday:  Sherlock’s sleeping on the couch now that I’m off the morphine.  I- can’t sleep without him here.  The bed feels too empty and cold.  I also miss having his hands on me during therapy.  I actually considered taking a fall the other day, just to see if he would notice.  God, pathetic. Week 5 - Monday:  I can’t take it.  I can’t stop thinking about that shower.  About him undressing me.  It feels like he’s getting further and further away from me.  I just want to shake him and yell at him to pay fucking attention.  Mycroft and I had a sit down today.  Same old speech, same old warnings.  I don’t even listen anymore. Week 5 - Thursday:  Lack of sleep is not helping matters.  Had a row with Sherlock today when he wouldn’t eat anything all day.  He barely looks away from his phone and when he does, it’s never at me. Week 5 - Saturday:  Doing well enough to move back to Baker Street.  Still limping, but it’s slight.  Leg feels more sure under my weight these days.  Going to sleep on the couch in the parlour for a bit so I don’t have to climb the stairs to my room.  Haven’t told Sherlock about that bit yet, though I doubt he’ll even care. Week 6 - Tuesday:  Still not sleeping well.  Can’t make myself forget what it was like to wake up next to him everyday.  On Sunday he came out to play violin at 4 in the morning.  Guess he forgot I was on the couch.  Really not sure what I’m suppo- “Sherlock!”  John pushes his computer off his lap and puts a hand over his eyes.  “Where are your-  what are you-“ “Oh, John.  Right, I forgot you were out here.”  Sherlock pulls the towel down from around his shoulders and wraps it around his hips.  “Apologies.  Let me get my dressing gown.” John sits on the couch in a state of shock. Did that actually just happen?  He didn’t see much, but there was an awfully nice flash of backside.  Anything that John thought might be slipping away in terms of his feelings for Sherlock just came flooding back in that one moment.  He is utterly stunned. “I was thinking about going by St. Bart’s today to see Molly,” Sherlock says as he walks back into the kitchen, now fully covered by his blue dressing gown and pyjama bottoms.  “I could make use of some corpses.” “Oh?”  There were more words in those two sentences than John had heard from Sherlock in weeks. “Mm, a theory I have about post-mortem strangulation marks.  Care to join?” “Yeah, yes.  Of course.”  John is beside himself.  Where had this version of Sherlock been all last month? “Good.  We’ll leave in an hour.”  Sherlock opens the paper and starts scanning for murders.  “Wear that navy jumper you have.  It’s almost palatable.” “I-  Alright.  I’ll go have a shower, then.” John limps to the washroom and leans against the closed door.  What the bloody hell?  While he does eventually manage to get himself clean, the majority of the shower is dedicated to other activities. —— Next:  Sebastian

Previously:  Sherlock

——

The monotony of recovery transforms hours into days, days into weeks.  They fall into a comfortable routine, decidedly ignoring the events of the first night.  Not that several standout moments don’t make a reappearance on nights when John is alone in the house. But no one else knows about those.

John starts a new journal on his blog - a locked page - to track his healing.  While it starts with notes about his endurance and pain tolerance, it quickly devolves into observations about Sherlock and his growing level of distraction.

Week 1 - Friday:  Managed two laps around the ground floor, minor assistance required.  Pain in lower back, likely from awkward walking stride.  Sherlock texting absently while the nurse checked on my dressing.  Likely Lestrade.

Week 2 - Wednesday:  Had stitches out today.  Doctor is pleased with how it’s healing up.  Will have wicked scar to show all my mates.  Had a stumble during physio today.  Reached for Sherlock, but he wasn’t there.  Was checking phone again.  He apologized, at least.

Week 2 - Sunday:  Woke up in the middle of the night and Sherlock wasn’t in bed.  Hobbled through the house as much as possible to look for him, but he was gone.  Thought about texting him, but was probably just a case.  When I woke up in the morning, he was back.  Didn’t say a word about being out.

Week 3 - Tuesday:  Took a stroll outside today.  Couldn’t go far, but fresh air was nice.  Sherlock came along begrudgingly, even though I told him it wasn’t necessary.  I think he’s getting bored with the routine.

Week 3 - Thursday:  Greg came round for a visit.  Getting sick of Sherlock constantly being distracted, so I forced Greg to take me for a pint.  I begged him to push a case Sherlock’s way, but apparently there’s nothing worth his attention at the moment.  When I got back to Mycroft’s, Sherlock was gone.

Week 3 - Friday:  Not back yet.  More physio.  Hurts more when he’s not here.

Week 3 - Sunday:  Saw Harry yesterday, which was nice.  Mycroft was a bit of a prat to her.  Haven’t seen Sherlock since Thursday.  Not answering my texts.

Week 4 - Wednesday:  Bit of a set back.  Have been working on stairs recently.  Pushed too hard and muscle gave out, took a tumble.  Bruised rib.  Sherlock reappeared on Monday but gave no explanation for being away.  I didn’t bother asking.

Week 4 - Saturday:  Sherlock’s sleeping on the couch now that I’m off the morphine.  I- can’t sleep without him here.  The bed feels too empty and cold.  I also miss having his hands on me during therapy.  I actually considered taking a fall the other day, just to see if he would notice.  God, pathetic.

Week 5 - Monday:  I can’t take it.  I can’t stop thinking about that shower.  About him undressing me.  It feels like he’s getting further and further away from me.  I just want to shake him and yell at him to pay fucking attention.  Mycroft and I had a sit down today.  Same old speech, same old warnings.  I don’t even listen anymore.

Week 5 - Thursday:  Lack of sleep is not helping matters.  Had a row with Sherlock today when he wouldn’t eat anything all day.  He barely looks away from his phone and when he does, it’s never at me.

Week 5 - Saturday:  Doing well enough to move back to Baker Street.  Still limping, but it’s slight.  Leg feels more sure under my weight these days.  Going to sleep on the couch in the parlour for a bit so I don’t have to climb the stairs to my room.  Haven’t told Sherlock about that bit yet, though I doubt he’ll even care.

Week 6 - Tuesday:  Still not sleeping well.  Can’t make myself forget what it was like to wake up next to him everyday.  On Sunday he came out to play violin at 4 in the morning.  Guess he forgot I was on the couch.  Really not sure what I’m suppo-

“Sherlock!”  John pushes his computer off his lap and puts a hand over his eyes.  “Where are your-  what are you-“

“Oh, John.  Right, I forgot you were out here.”  Sherlock pulls the towel down from around his shoulders and wraps it around his hips.  “Apologies.  Let me get my dressing gown.”

John sits on the couch in a state of shock. Did that actually just happen?  He didn’t see much, but there was an awfully nice flash of backside.  Anything that John thought might be slipping away in terms of his feelings for Sherlock just came flooding back in that one moment.  He is utterly stunned.

“I was thinking about going by St. Bart’s today to see Molly,” Sherlock says as he walks back into the kitchen, now fully covered by his blue dressing gown and pyjama bottoms.  “I could make use of some corpses.”

“Oh?”  There were more words in those two sentences than John had heard from Sherlock in weeks.

“Mm, a theory I have about post-mortem strangulation marks.  Care to join?”

“Yeah, yes.  Of course.”  John is beside himself.  Where had this version of Sherlock been all last month?

“Good.  We’ll leave in an hour.”  Sherlock opens the paper and starts scanning for murders.  “Wear that navy jumper you have.  It’s almost palatable.”

“I-  Alright.  I’ll go have a shower, then.”

John limps to the washroom and leans against the closed door.  What the bloody hell?  While he does eventually manage to get himself clean, the majority of the shower is dedicated to other activities.

——

Next:  Sebastian

Previously:  Sebastian —— John’s dreams are a mash of the events of the last 24 hours.  He relives his conversation with Sebastian and his admission of regret.  Then he finds himself back in rehab, lying on the floor.  Sometimes Sherlock is there to hold him, sometimes he’s not.  Mycroft’s warnings float above everything, like a voice over.  He doesn’t do relationships.  He’ll just hurt you.  He can’t love you back.  Let it go.  It’s for your own good, John.  And then everything fades away and he dreams of Sherlock undressing him in the guest bedroom. At one point, his dream takes on a distinctly sandy hue and memories from Afghanistan start to sneak in.  Familiar people and places, but unfamiliar events.  His dream is taking him away from the neighbourhood of memory and into the territory of nightmare.  He’s in the first aid tent when someone forces themselves inside.  It’s Sebastian.  He tackles John and jams a knife into his leg. John wakes, screaming from the pain.  His leg is on fire; the morphine must have worn off hours before.  He sits bolt upright in bed and a wave of nausea hits him like a truck.  He scrambles out of bed, throwing the sheets aside, and crashes into a dresser.  He uses it to hold himself upright as he desperately tries to make it to the ensuite. He knows he’s making a hell of a lot of noise, but there’s nothing to be done about it.  As items from the top of the dresser crash to the floor, he thinks he hears his name.  “John?” He makes it to the door frame and grips it tightly with both hands.  He gropes the wall and finds the light switch, turning it on.  Only a few more feet.  He slows his breathing and fights the bile rising in his throat.  He hops two steps to the sink, then collapses to the floor in front of the toilet.  He gets the lid up just in time to toss the sparse contents of his stomach into the bowl. John rests his forehead on the edge of the porcelain, not caring about cleanliness or hygiene.  He’s focused purely on the way it cools his feverish skin.  He is sweating like crazy and his hands are starting to shake.  The pain is all consuming. The nausea ebbs away and all that is left is pain, pain, PAIN. “Fuck, John…” Sherlock appears at his side, kneeling beside him.  John blinks slowly and turns to look at him.  Sherlock’s expression is unfamiliar.  He looks almost like a completely different person - his skin pale, his eyebrows drawn in and his eyes flitting around John’s face. “I-  I fell asleep.  I meant to give you another dose at ten.  I’m sorry.” Sherlock gets up to leave, but John grabs the sleeve of his shirt and clenches it in his fist.  He’s dressed in same clothes from earlier that day: light blue button down shirt and expertly tailored trousers.  He appears to have shucked his shoes, at least.  John can barely focus on anything, but he tries his best to speak before the pain renders him unconscious. “I can’t…  The pain…  Please…” John is aware he’s begging, but he doesn’t care.  He doesn’t want Sherlock to leave his side.  Sherlock reaches out a hand and presses it against John’s head. “You’re burning up.”  He pulls his sleeve out of John’s weak grip and sprints back into the dark bedroom.  John can hear rustling and then suddenly Sherlock is back by his side.  He grabs John’s arm and ties the rubber tourniquet above his elbow.  Sherlock takes the cap of a syringe off with his teeth and fills it with a draw from one of the morphine bottles.  John feels the slightest twinge of arousal at the way Sherlock goes through the motions, especially the part with the cap in his teeth.  Then, Sherlock spits the cap at the wall and grips John’s arm. The needle presses into his skin and there is a rush of relief.  Immediate release morphine then, John thinks.  He must have paid a steep price to get that.  Now able to focus on more than just the pain, John is met with the horrible smell of vomit.  He groans and reaches up to close the toilet lid.  Sherlock’s hand covers his own and completes the motion.  He pulls John in towards his chest and flushes. “Let’s fix you up then,” Sherlock says quietly.  He props John against the sink cabinet and moves towards the shower.  John can hear him fiddle with the taps and then the sound of water fills the room. Sherlock rejoins John and takes the hem of his t-shirt in his hands.  He pulls it off in one swift motion, tossing it into the bin next to the sink.  Then Sherlock’s hands are on John’s bare skin, lingering.  John closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.  He knows it means nothing, but at this point, doped up on morphine, he doesn’t even care.  He memorizes the way that Sherlock’s long fingers feel on his chest.  He even imagines that they slide down to John’s abdomen and lower, working at the tie on his pyjama pants. Wait. John’s eyes snap open and he sees that Sherlock really is trying to get his pants off.  The shower, of course.  John knocks his hands away and shakes his head.   “It hurts,” he says, in way of explanation.  He hopes that maybe Sherlock will think it will cause him pain to take off his pants.  It’s certainly better than the truth, which is threatening to make itself plainly clear if there’s more touching in the immediate future. “Alright.”  Sherlock seems to accept his protestations.  He pulls John’s arm over his shoulders and slides his own arm around his back.  Together, they struggle to get upright.  They hobble slowly over to the shower and Sherlock helps John step over the side of the bathtub.  The water is warm; the perfect temperature.  John reaches out with one arm to steady himself against the tile, but it is slick and he is groggy.  His hand slips and he stumbles. Sherlock is there to steady him.  It’s not just his arms holding John up, but his whole person.  Sherlock wraps one arm around John’s midsection and braces the other against the wall.  John’s back is pressed up against his chest and he can take all of the weight off his bad leg.  John looks down at his stomach and he can see Sherlock’s shirt soaked with water. “Sherlock…” “It’s fine.  I’m here.” John struggles against his grip for a moment and Sherlock loosens it.  John turns, carefully, to face his best mate.  The spray from the shower has completely drenched him from head to toe.  John can’t help but smile at the look of him, his clothes clinging seductively to every inch of his body.  John reaches out and takes the first button of Sherlock’s shirt in his fingers.  Perhaps he’s emboldened by the drugs or dizzy from the pain.  He methodically undoes each and every button, then slides the shirt off over Sherlock’s shoulders.  It falls into the tub in a wet heap. John takes a moment to watch the way Sherlock’s chest expands and contracts with each breath.  Then he forces himself to turn back away.  Sherlock resumes his previous position, holding John up, but this time there is the sensation of skin against skin.  John closes his eyes and tilts his head towards the spray.  He lets the warm water wash over him and mutters a silent prayer that this moment never end. —— Next:  Sherlock

Previously:  Sebastian

——

John’s dreams are a mash of the events of the last 24 hours.  He relives his conversation with Sebastian and his admission of regret.  Then he finds himself back in rehab, lying on the floor.  Sometimes Sherlock is there to hold him, sometimes he’s not.  Mycroft’s warnings float above everything, like a voice over.  He doesn’t do relationships.  He’ll just hurt you.  He can’t love you back.  Let it go.  It’s for your own good, John.  And then everything fades away and he dreams of Sherlock undressing him in the guest bedroom.

At one point, his dream takes on a distinctly sandy hue and memories from Afghanistan start to sneak in.  Familiar people and places, but unfamiliar events.  His dream is taking him away from the neighbourhood of memory and into the territory of nightmare.  He’s in the first aid tent when someone forces themselves inside.  It’s Sebastian.  He tackles John and jams a knife into his leg.

John wakes, screaming from the pain.  His leg is on fire; the morphine must have worn off hours before.  He sits bolt upright in bed and a wave of nausea hits him like a truck.  He scrambles out of bed, throwing the sheets aside, and crashes into a dresser.  He uses it to hold himself upright as he desperately tries to make it to the ensuite.

He knows he’s making a hell of a lot of noise, but there’s nothing to be done about it.  As items from the top of the dresser crash to the floor, he thinks he hears his name. 

“John?”

He makes it to the door frame and grips it tightly with both hands.  He gropes the wall and finds the light switch, turning it on.  Only a few more feet.  He slows his breathing and fights the bile rising in his throat.  He hops two steps to the sink, then collapses to the floor in front of the toilet.  He gets the lid up just in time to toss the sparse contents of his stomach into the bowl.

John rests his forehead on the edge of the porcelain, not caring about cleanliness or hygiene.  He’s focused purely on the way it cools his feverish skin.  He is sweating like crazy and his hands are starting to shake.  The pain is all consuming. The nausea ebbs away and all that is left is pain, pain, PAIN.

“Fuck, John…”

Sherlock appears at his side, kneeling beside him.  John blinks slowly and turns to look at him.  Sherlock’s expression is unfamiliar.  He looks almost like a completely different person - his skin pale, his eyebrows drawn in and his eyes flitting around John’s face.

“I-  I fell asleep.  I meant to give you another dose at ten.  I’m sorry.”

Sherlock gets up to leave, but John grabs the sleeve of his shirt and clenches it in his fist.  He’s dressed in same clothes from earlier that day: light blue button down shirt and expertly tailored trousers.  He appears to have shucked his shoes, at least.  John can barely focus on anything, but he tries his best to speak before the pain renders him unconscious.

“I can’t…  The pain…  Please…”

John is aware he’s begging, but he doesn’t care.  He doesn’t want Sherlock to leave his side.  Sherlock reaches out a hand and presses it against John’s head.

“You’re burning up.”  He pulls his sleeve out of John’s weak grip and sprints back into the dark bedroom.  John can hear rustling and then suddenly Sherlock is back by his side.  He grabs John’s arm and ties the rubber tourniquet above his elbow.  Sherlock takes the cap of a syringe off with his teeth and fills it with a draw from one of the morphine bottles.  John feels the slightest twinge of arousal at the way Sherlock goes through the motions, especially the part with the cap in his teeth.  Then, Sherlock spits the cap at the wall and grips John’s arm.

The needle presses into his skin and there is a rush of relief.  Immediate release morphine then, John thinks.  He must have paid a steep price to get that.  Now able to focus on more than just the pain, John is met with the horrible smell of vomit.  He groans and reaches up to close the toilet lid.  Sherlock’s hand covers his own and completes the motion.  He pulls John in towards his chest and flushes.

“Let’s fix you up then,” Sherlock says quietly.  He props John against the sink cabinet and moves towards the shower.  John can hear him fiddle with the taps and then the sound of water fills the room.

Sherlock rejoins John and takes the hem of his t-shirt in his hands.  He pulls it off in one swift motion, tossing it into the bin next to the sink.  Then Sherlock’s hands are on John’s bare skin, lingering.  John closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.  He knows it means nothing, but at this point, doped up on morphine, he doesn’t even care.  He memorizes the way that Sherlock’s long fingers feel on his chest.  He even imagines that they slide down to John’s abdomen and lower, working at the tie on his pyjama pants.

Wait.

John’s eyes snap open and he sees that Sherlock really is trying to get his pants off.  The shower, of course.  John knocks his hands away and shakes his head.  

“It hurts,” he says, in way of explanation.  He hopes that maybe Sherlock will think it will cause him pain to take off his pants.  It’s certainly better than the truth, which is threatening to make itself plainly clear if there’s more touching in the immediate future.

“Alright.”  Sherlock seems to accept his protestations.  He pulls John’s arm over his shoulders and slides his own arm around his back.  Together, they struggle to get upright.  They hobble slowly over to the shower and Sherlock helps John step over the side of the bathtub.  The water is warm; the perfect temperature.  John reaches out with one arm to steady himself against the tile, but it is slick and he is groggy.  His hand slips and he stumbles.

Sherlock is there to steady him.  It’s not just his arms holding John up, but his whole person.  Sherlock wraps one arm around John’s midsection and braces the other against the wall.  John’s back is pressed up against his chest and he can take all of the weight off his bad leg.  John looks down at his stomach and he can see Sherlock’s shirt soaked with water.

“Sherlock…”

“It’s fine.  I’m here.”

John struggles against his grip for a moment and Sherlock loosens it.  John turns, carefully, to face his best mate.  The spray from the shower has completely drenched him from head to toe.  John can’t help but smile at the look of him, his clothes clinging seductively to every inch of his body.  John reaches out and takes the first button of Sherlock’s shirt in his fingers.  Perhaps he’s emboldened by the drugs or dizzy from the pain.  He methodically undoes each and every button, then slides the shirt off over Sherlock’s shoulders.  It falls into the tub in a wet heap.

John takes a moment to watch the way Sherlock’s chest expands and contracts with each breath.  Then he forces himself to turn back away.  Sherlock resumes his previous position, holding John up, but this time there is the sensation of skin against skin.  John closes his eyes and tilts his head towards the spray.  He lets the warm water wash over him and mutters a silent prayer that this moment never end.

——

Next:  Sherlock