Work Text:
Miles and Miles of Mountains
Blood; splattered across damp pavement, across pale flesh and concrete, across sand and stone, across wood and leather, across twitching fingers and aching knuckles. Blood; raw and wet and visceral and damaging and real. Blood; pounding through his veins, deafeningly loud in his ears, making his temples throb and his eyes glaze over with a distinct vermilion haze. John’s hand aches, fingers cramping and capillaries breaking, already forming bruises that he knows will last for days.
Bright, clear eyes, color ever-shifting, rapidly focusing on every tiny detail. His eyes. So intense and immaculate, pale and penetrating, tiny imperfections in the iris. He’s so close. Close enough to touch. Getting hard to focus, hard to breathe.
“John.” His voice, so calm but with an edge of urgency that’s entirely unfamiliar. “John, look at me. Breathe, John.”
Gasp around the pain, chest heaving and obstructed. Vision swimming, dim tendrils of grey surrounding his peripheral. Hands, strong and sharp, fingers biting into muscle. Sink into the soft cushions of old leather, eased back by those damned hands. Gentle and firm; long, pale fingers notching just below his jaw, monitoring the racing beat of blood through veins.
John wishes he could think, could speak, but the air seems to have deserted his lungs in favor of choking, wet sounding sobs. Blood drips onto his face, into his hair and over his eyes. Coppery taste of iron, of salt and sweat and life. John feels his sanity crack a little wider and he reaches a hand up, smearing his blunt fingers through the gash in the forehead of the phantom hovering over him. Fingers come away wet and obscenely red. He smears them together, rubbing the rust color into the cracks in his thumb.
“John.” That voice again, so alike it’s uncanny. This can’t be real.
John’s eyes blink open, try to focus on the impossible vision above him. He’s seen it so many times, too many times, for this to be startling. It’s never been this real though. It’s finally happened. I’ve finally lost it.
Blackness closes in and he inhales one last stuttering breath, allowing his mind to focus entirely on the man who is not actually with him, on the fingers still firmly pressed into his throat, on the scent of rain and nicotine, on the rumble of a low voice murmuring his name.
“Sherlock,” he sighs, and the world goes blissfully blank.
: :
It had started out innocently enough, with one misplaced bottle of TCP and a broken Erlenmeyer flask. John jumped at the sound of shattering glass and quickly made his way down the stairs and into the kitchen, hastily stepping into his shoes on the way. Sherlock was bent over the kitchen sink, casually watching as the startlingly red blood dripped down his forearm, catching on the miniscule hairs as it went.
John sighed and moved to the bathroom, rummaging through the cabinets before extracting a tube of Savlon and sidestepping the shards of glass on the kitchen floor. Sherlock barely stirred when John moved next to him and gently took his bleeding wrist into his hands. The cut was deeper than it looked and John’s brow had furrowed in concern, wondering if he still had any butterfly sutures left over from the fall he’d taken off that fire escape on their last mad chase through London’s back alleys. He’d have to head to Boots in the morning anyway, given the lack of plasters in their medicine cabinet.
John was pulled out of his mental shopping list by Sherlock’s soft grunt. John’s gaze focused again and he found his hands had been working without conscious effort. Sherlock was standing still as a statue; mercurial eyes boring into John’s with such intensity, he’d felt a flush rise up the back of his neck.
John cleared his throat awkwardly. “This might need actual stitches,” he mumbled, avoiding Sherlock’s gaze and fixating instead on the shockingly wet blood still flowing sluggishly out of the wound between his fingertips.
“You’ll do them,” Sherlock rumbled, his voice seeming somehow deeper and softer than John had ever heard it before.
“I haven’t stitched anyone up since Afghanistan,” John pointed out, trying desperately not to think about the last time he’d held needle to flesh and the resulting shot that had shattered his shoulder and nearly sent him home in a body bag.
“Please, John,” Sherlock purred. “I trust you.”
John’s eyes snapped upward and he found himself caught in the crossfire of Sherlock’s laser-beam focus. It suddenly occurred to John that he was standing in the middle of their kitchen, holding Sherlock’s hand between his fingers, Sherlock’s lips so close to his own that he could feel every exhale skitter across his skin, and his left hand was rock-steady. Taking a shaky breath and resisting the urge to lean forward and melt all along the length of his completely uninterested and asexual flatmate, John tugged at Sherlock’s hand and led him cautiously into the bathroom.
Seated on the closed lid of the toilet, in the stark lighting and with a smear of crimson marring his elegant cheekbone where he’d unconsciously ran the back of his hand across his skin, Sherlock looked endearingly young. John smiled a little to himself as he rummaged through the cabinets for the TCP he was sure he’d seen just last week. The Savlon would help with the healing, but John wanted the TCP to clean the initial wound, plus the search was helping distract him from the open and vulnerable expression hovering across Sherlock’s unusually exposed features.
Firmly ignoring the far too normal feeling of being scrutinized, John finally sat back on his heels, admitting defeat.
“I’m sorry, Sherlock,” he said, going for medical professionalism and missing the mark by about a mile. “I don’t know what happened to it and I’m not stitching anything without disinfecting that,” he pointed towards the gash, “thoroughly. Christ only knows what was in that flask,” he muttered, mainly to himself.
“You can’t use iodine?” Sherlock asked, sounding slightly harassed.
“TCP is better for disinfecting, and it doesn’t sting as much as surgical spirit,” John murmured, “I don’t have any anesthetic.”
“It’s fine, John. I don’t mind a bit of pain.” Sherlock was staring at him intently with an unreadable expression on his face. John took a deep breath and braced himself for the mental assault as he opened the cabinet, extracting his surgical kit from beneath the sink.
He ignored the way his chest seemed to contract at the pale dust that settled into the seams of the worn canvas and would not be dislodged, no matter how many times John cleaned it, and hastily unzipped the bag, extracting two needles, his long tweezers and the scissors. He reluctantly reached for the bottle of iodine and the surgical spirit. Sherlock was still sitting complacently on the toilet seat, watching avidly as John rolled up his sleeves and scrubbed his arms down to the elbow twice before snapping on a pair of gloves.
He still felt Sherlock’s eyes on him as he stepped out of the bathroom and over to the hob, lighting a burner and holding both needles into the flames for a few seconds with the tweezers. John felt the apprehension rising again, but firmly tamped it down, wiping the sterilized needles with an alcohol swab and setting out his instruments in precise rows across a clean flannel. Barely breathing, John threaded one of the needles.
Sherlock’s eyes never strayed from John’s face as he took hold of the long, pale wrist in one hand and ran the back of his knuckles across the wound. It was still bleeding in slow trickles. John swallowed audibly and poured some surgical spirit onto another clean flannel.
“This is going to smart a bit,” John said, his voice suddenly and inexplicably husky. Sherlock didn’t even blink, just nodded a little and trapped his bottom lip between his teeth. His sharp inhalation was the only indication of pain, and John felt his breath catch. There was a light flush creeping up Sherlock’s neck and onto his absurd cheekbones, but his eyes were still blazing into John’s and his little stuttering breath was doing nothing to calm John’s racing pulse.
“Sorry,” John breathed, switching out flannels and wiping at the gash with the iodine, staining the alabaster skin a dull orange.
“‘S fine,” Sherlock slurred, the flush in his cheeks darkening and making his pale throat stand out in contrast. John found his eyes straying along the curve of Sherlock’s elegant neck, following the long lines of tendon down towards those tantalizing collarbones that practically begged to be bitten. John’s eyes snapped back towards the skin in his hands, holding the wound closed and reaching for the threaded needle.
“Hold still,” he whispered and braced Sherlock’s arm against the counter. Sherlock barely winced as the needle breached his skin, his breath coming in short, shallow pants. John watched in detached fascination as the needle swept through blood and tissue, his fingers seeming to work by muscle memory alone, tying off the stitches in a tight, neat row. Snipping the last of the thread, he belatedly realized he could feel Sherlock’s breath on his neck and turned to look at his flatmate in mild concern.
His own breath stuttered to a halt at the look of rapt attention on Sherlock’s face. His eyes were glazed, pupils blown wide, cheeks flushed and teeth worrying his bottom lip. As he registered John’s gaze, Sherlock’s eyes refocused and John found himself on the receiving end of the most intensely aroused expression he’d ever seen.
“John,” Sherlock whispered, and John felt heat rising up his own cheeks. His eyes strayed of their own volition and John had to repress a gasp as he realized Sherlock was hard.
“Erm,” John coughed, dragging his gaze away from the way Sherlock’s fitted trousers did nothing to hide the considerable bulge and trying hard to focus back on the task at hand, gently swiping at the row of stitches with more alcohol and rubbing the Savlon into the skin. He ignored the way his own pulse was thudding sweet as honey on the back of his tongue and wrapped Sherlock’s delicate wrist in a length of gauze.
“That should do it,” John finally managed after clearing his throat twice. “Try to keep it dry for the time being and no violin for a few days.”
Sherlock didn’t say anything, just continued to stare at John with heavy lidded intensity. Feeling more than a little awkward, John meticulously scrubbed out and cleaned his tools before tucking them away and closing the cabinet. When he looked back at his flatmate, Sherlock’s attention was diverted towards the white wrap and John hastily made his escape.
Later that night, John found it incredibly hard to sleep, his persistent erection refusing to disappear on its own. He’d been studiously ignoring the ache in his groin for the remainder of the evening, but every time Sherlock’s eyes found his, John had felt the mortifying blush start in his ears and a very distinctive twitch in his denims. He peered down at his tented pajamas in mild alarm and finally resigned himself to his fate.
Slipping his hand beneath the waistband of his pajama trousers, he wrapped his fingers tightly around his cock and sighed as the tension eased a bit. He would have a wank and feel better, and hopefully this ridiculous distraction would cease by tomorrow morning. He would not think of Sherlock.
Except unbidden images came hurling into his consciousness the moment he began to stroke himself: Sherlock’s pink lips open and wet, gasping at the feeling of alcohol in his wound, his pupils dilated to ridiculous proportions, the sound of John’s name rumbled and gasped in that low baritone. John’s hand sped up on his cock, pulling in full, fluid lengths, snapping his foreskin back with every rough tug.
He imagined Sherlock’s eyes on him and felt his whole body tense, his cock seeming to harden further in his hand. He replayed the afternoon’s activities, lingering on the sound of Sherlock’s quiet gasp, his panting breath against John’s neck, and the sight of Sherlock hard and heavy in his trousers.
John came with a gasp, choking back harshly on the name catching on the tip of his tongue and spinning behind his teeth. He was in a massive amount of trouble.
: :
Vision swimming. Lights over bright. Someone far away saying his name. A voice, that voice…
That rumbling voice, smooth as caramel. "Am I..." stammer it out, clear throat. Why is it so hard to breathe? John's seen him before in the past few years, leaning casually against the kitchen table, hands twiddling the dials of the stolen microscope, on the tube (as if Himself would ever deign to take the sodding tube), lingering at Islington station. He's never looked so real, so solid before. John blinks his eyes rapidly, squeezing his lids closed.
Clear throat again. "Am I... dead?"
A low chuckle, vibrations travelling right through his chest, down his arms and into John's skull, wrapping every breath with tantalizing tastes of curry and biscuits. "No, John. You're not dead." He looks amused, one side of his plush lips quirked in a sardonic smile.
Oh god. I've finally gone mad. Doesn't realize he's said it out loud until that damned chuckle is back. Breathing getting easier, but that might be a result of the madness. Sherlock's hands are shockingly strong and solid against his shoulders, long fingers squeezing minutely. John's head is spinning. Hyperventilation. Asphyxiation. Numbness in limbs. Vision thickening and clarifying in intermediate intervals. Chest feels compressed. He's having a panic attack.
"John," Sherlock's voice, disembodied now and drawing out the vowels long and lean, just like him. John feels heat flair up the sides of his neck, prickles of sweat rolling across his scalp before immediately followed by shivers, doused in ice water.
"John." Insistent again, and now the hands gripping his shoulders are shaking him. He feels his head loll uselessly on his neck. He could float away, lost in the sensation of strong, spidery fingers on his skin, that damned voice wrapping around his consciousness like silk, but that's wrong. Sudden urge to fight the blackness, to return to the present. He feels a stinging blow to the side of his cheekbone and his eyes snap open in shock.
Sherlock's eyes sea glass and charcoal and stormy waves and dove pale and thundercloud and viridian and are staring at him, their intensity barely covering the note of raw panic shot through his gaze. Somewhere in the back of his addled mind, John can hear the opening notes of "A Whiter Shade of Pale" playing on repeat in endless loops and he feels his face split into an unnatural grin. Sherlock looks more alarmed than John's ever seen him, his face set in a mask of tight lines and what looks disturbingly like concern.
John's fingers trace the slight bracket on the outside of Sherlock's lips. Giggles bubble up in his throat and before he can stop them, he's laughing hysterically, head thrown back and gasping. Breathing is overrated anyway. Tears seeping from the corners of his eyes. Laughter spilling out of his mouth through hiccoughing stammers, flowing with manic rawness over his tongue and through his teeth. The brutal edge of tears grating along his vocal chords, the laughter choking him in its intensity. Warm hands on either side of his face, strong fingers pulling at the bottom lids of his eyes, concern drawing Sherlock's dark eyebrows together. He seems genuinely alarmed and that makes John laugh all the harder, his diaphragm aching with exertion. Head spinning, he feels his abdomen contract and bile rise up the back of his throat, burning and scraping across his sore throat and before he realizes what's about to happen, he's vomiting violently onto the floor. Arms weak and shaking, he sinks back onto the cushions, small chuckles still forcing their way through his mouth, though nothing seems remotely funny anymore.
Fingers long pale musical artistic smooth gentle sliding through the hair at the back of his neck, wonderfully cool against his heated skin.
“Christ, John. I am so sorry.”
This can’t be real. He would never apologize. Thoughts spinning unwelcome and unbidden. Just a dream, Watson. Just a dream.
“I’m really here, John,” that voice says. John’s brain is seriously cracked to torture him this way. The hands delicate strong scientific scarred lovely are moving across his forehead now, tracing the bones along his brow and rubbing away the perspiration gathering at his temples. Cool lips plush soft gentle dry on his eyebrow, coaxing his eyes to flutter open.
Taste of sick still in his mouth. Bitter, acidic. John gets up on shaky knees and trembling ankles and hobbles over to the sink. Splash of water, cool and crisp against his overheated face, washing away tears and traces of last night’s curry. Burning throat aches as he fills a glass and sucks down the clean, cold liquid.
Sherlock is still at the sofa: solid, whole, unhurt, alive.
“You’re dead,” John whispers into the empty glass. The sound reverberates through the flat regardless; a mere echo of grief and despair long trodden into the old carpets and worn furniture. John feels the pull of memories long since buried, of feelings trampled down and forgotten, of emotions warring for purchase in his clearly addled mind.
He sinks to the floor, vaguely aware of Sherlock’s swift movement as he falls. Warm, deft hands curl around his shoulders and brace him against the wall. Lingering scent of gunpowder and steel.
“You’re dead.”
: :
They had tiptoed through the first month after the flask incident, studiously avoiding each other’s lingering gazes and ignoring the giant elephant in the room. Then came the day when Sherlock miscalculated the distance between the window and the pavement and had landed hard on his knees on the concrete, and all motion had ceased entirely.
John hurled himself out of the window after him, carefully lowering himself on the sill before dropping lightly next to Sherlock. He looked more annoyed than incapacitated, but his legs wobbled dangerously when he tried to stand. John braced an arm around his waist and helped haul him to his feet, noting with distinction the way his trousers were ripped at the right knee and the dark patch growing wetly around the small hole in the wool.
They hobbled slowly towards the main street, John flagging down a taxi as Sherlock texted Lestrade one handed. John shook his head at Sherlock’s predictability, folding the reluctant man back into the worn leather seats and climbing in after him. He tried to ignore the way his eyes kept lingering on the wet stain spreading across the dark grey fabric and the fact that he could feel the heat rolling off of Sherlock in waves. They weren’t even sitting all that close, but it felt to John as though the entire taxi was cloaked in tension thick as molasses.
John realized belatedly that the steady tapping from Sherlock’s mobile had stopped minutes ago and the silence was nearly deafening in its intensity. He cautiously raised his gaze from Sherlock’s bleeding knee and had to bite his own tongue to halt his reaction. Sherlock was staring back at him with that same blazing look: all hard angles and bloodied danger mixed with exhilarating temptation and coursing adrenaline. He looked hungry and as John watched, he ran his long fingers down the length of his thigh and deliberately caught a drop of blood on the pad of his index, bringing the crimson bead up to his mouth and dragging the shockingly red color along his absurdly full bottom lip.
John couldn’t stop the growl in his throat as he launched himself forwards, slamming into Sherlock and knocking him back against the taxi door. Sherlock’s head rebounded off the window with a sickening thud, but he just gasped hotly and arched up into the contact, rolling his hips against John’s in a maddening circle. John flicked his tongue out and followed the stripe of red across Sherlock’s lips, tasting copper and salt for a brief moment before slipping the muscle fully into Sherlock’s mouth and demanding reciprocation.
Sherlock sighed against him and fisted his long fingers into the back of John’s hair, tugging hard enough to take some strands with him. John just growled again and bit down hard on the lush swell of flesh between his teeth, feeling the skin tear and relishing Sherlock’s breathy moan.
The taxi suddenly jerked to a stop and John was thrown sideways, slipping from Sherlock’s lap to land in an untidy sprawl across the floor. It took him a moment to regain his composure, following after Sherlock as he exited the vehicle and throwing some notes at the cabbie—including a generous tip.
Was this his life now? Getting horrifically turned on in the back seats of taxis as his flatmate flirted with danger bordering on perversion? John shook his head, trying to clear away the residual haze of pheromones and simultaneously adjust his throbbing erection in his pants with at least the pretense of dignity. This was a very dangerous line he was treading at the moment and he knew it.
The sitting room was deserted when he cautiously swung the door open. Sherlock’s coat and scarf were tossed carelessly across the sofa in the usual haphazard grace. John bit his lip, tasting the distinct copper tang of Sherlock’s blood clinging to his skin and made a split-second decision. Hovering outside Sherlock’s closed bedroom door, he knocked softly and waited. Predictably, there was no answer.
John cleared his throat and hesitated. Mustering up his courage, he knocked again. “Sherlock?” he called out softly, cursing the damningly unsteady waver in his voice. “Sherlock? I just want to take a look at that knee...”
There was a barely audible sound from inside the room and John’s concern started to outweigh his embarrassment. Taking a deep breath, John gently eased open the bedroom door and stopped immediately in his tracks.
Sherlock was sprawled out across his bed, shirt open and tangled around his shoulders, trousers and pants shoved chaotically down to mid-thigh. He was flushed with exertion, long fingers wrapped tightly around his impressively hard cock. At the sound of the door opening, he had momentarily frozen, wild-eyed and frantic before letting out the most wantonly pornographic moan John had ever heard and picking up pace.
John felt all the blood rush from his body straight down to his own throbbing erection. Sherlock’s cock was flushed and red, pre-come leaking steadily from the tip to mix with the startlingly crimson stains on his palms from their contact with the pavement.
“John,” he rumbled, biting at the still raw patch on his lower lip. John’s vision seemed to narrow and before he could think rationally, he had already crossed the minimal space between them and had one knee on the bed, shockingly close to Sherlock’s forearm flexing rhythmically as he pulled harder on his prick.
“Christ,” John managed before he licked his palm, batted Sherlock’s hand away and took over. The feeling of Sherlock’s cock, hard and velvety and impossibly hot against his hand made his mouth water unexpectedly. Sherlock’s fingers were fisted in the sheets on either side of his arse, providing a bit of leverage as he rolled his hips to meet every slick stroke. The sounds coming out of his mouth alone were enough to get John’s pulse up, his heartbeat thudding through his ears and making it difficult to swallow.
John leaned forward and pressed his mouth to the hollow of Sherlock’s throat, sucking a livid bruise into the little notch between his collarbones. Sherlock’s head thunked back against the mattress, back arching and positively writhing into the duvet. His breath was coming in short pants and his body was wound so tightly John thought he might break under the strain. It didn’t seem to be enough, though.
Pinning Sherlock to the bed with his gaze, John carefully removed his hand and began slowly easing out of his clothing, tugging fabric aside and wresting off his denims until he was finally naked, flushed hot with desire and only slightly self-conscious. Sherlock’s eyes were locked onto him, rapidly flicking back and forth as he no doubt catalogued every new inch of skin, every scar and irregularity. His breath hitched when he finally allowed his gaze to focus on John’s cock, standing proud and thick from a neat thatch of dark blonde curls. John’s own breath seemed to stutter at the hungry look in those pale eyes and he could barely control himself as Sherlock’s obscenely wet tongue darted out and ran along his absurdly plush bottom lip.
“John,” he whispered, hoarse and riddled with arousal. Sherlock sat up slowly, sliding the shirt from his shoulders and tossing it to the floor. He reached for his trousers and shoved them down his legs, wincing slightly when the congealing blood on his knee made the fabric stick uncomfortably to his skin. His eyes locked with John for a split second before he tore the wool away, reopening the wound, which immediately began oozing. The shock of red against his incredibly pale skin looked almost obscene in the dim light from the lamp. The cut wasn’t terribly deep, but it spanned the entire width of his kneecap and as John watched, a trickle of blood ran down the side of Sherlock’s calf and seeped delicately into the light grey duvet.
John was suddenly aware that he’d stopped breathing and gasped in a heaving lungful of air. Sherlock’s lips quirked into a sinful smirk and he kicked his trousers down to the foot of the bed before slowly running his hands up his impossibly long legs, smearing stains of crimson across his thigh and over his hipbone. John’s mouth filled suddenly with saliva and he choked back a gasp as Sherlock’s hand didn’t stop, rubbing blood up his torso and leaving streaks of red along his lean abdomen, over his pectorals and across his long throat, finally tangling his fingers into his own hair and arching back.
John’s fingers were twitching against his own thighs and he clenched them into tight fists, forcing himself to wait and watch. Sherlock’s other hand was trailing lazy patterns through the sweat on his abdomen, occasionally following the trail of dark hair from his navel downwards, but he studiously avoided touching his cock. John licked his lips again, the overwhelming need to possess this man running through his consciousness on a constant loop.
Finally, after what seemed like a lifetime, Sherlock’s fingers circled his cock and began pulling in unhurried, gentle strokes. It was nowhere near enough to come, John realized, but just enough tantalizing pressure to keep him on edge for hours. Sherlock’s dark eyelashes fluttered open and pinned John with that same blazing look just as he raised his blood stained fingers to his lips, tongue flicking out to caress the tips.
All rationality flew out the proverbial window and John launched himself forward with a low growl. He buried his face into Sherlock’s neck and bit down, his skin tasting sharply of sweat and adrenaline. He seized Sherlock’s wrist in a bruising grip and sucked those two long fingers into his own mouth, relishing the heated gasp that tore itself free of Sherlock’s vocal chords. Sherlock’s other hand wound itself tightly into John’s hair and began tugging again, tilting his hips up in supplication as John ground down against him. Slick skin rubbed agonizingly against slick skin and before John knew it, he was gasping, teetering on the edge of oblivion, but he wasn’t quite prepared to go down that easily.
With a final swirl of his tongue, John let Sherlock’s fingers slide from his lips, the lingering tang of iron seeming to brand itself against his taste buds. Sherlock’s low whine of protest as he lifted his hips away from their grinding contact was entirely satisfying, and John had to press his hands against two overly pronounced hip bones to get the man to stop writhing.
Sherlock looked utterly shattered: his hair was a tangle of dark curls, face flushed and damp, bottom lip raw and glistening, eyes wide and heavy lidded. He looked like the epitome of sex, and John felt a thrill of raw possession kindle low in his belly. Knowing that he made this man break apart so spectacularly was turning out to be a heady aphrodisiac and John felt his control slip just a little. Sherlock’s eyes were calculating still, though the effect was slightly ruined by the way his lashes kept fluttering with every breathy sigh.
“Tell me,” John whispered, lips barely grazing the slight swell of a narrow pectoral as he traveled down the long length of pale skin downwards. Sherlock’s breath hitched, but it wasn’t enough for John. “Tell me,” he demanded lower, more urgent and licked at the drying blood over Sherlock’s left nipple.
“God, John,” Sherlock gasped, fingers digging painfully into scar tissue. John huffed out a grunt at the pain, but continued his assault, not-so-gently tugging at the hard fist of flesh between his teeth and making Sherlock squirm beneath him.
“I want—“ Sherlock started, but it ended on a sharp hiss as John bit down, fingers closing around Sherlock’s other nipple and twisting. Sherlock arched forward, nearly dislodging John in the process, but he held firm, grinding his hips down and causing a rough shiver to run the length of Sherlock’s spine. Sherlock’s rumbling growl was completely intoxicating and John felt his control slip a little more. The urge to mark and bruise the white skin beneath him was nearly overwhelming, and John’s own groan was loud as it echoed through the room. Sherlock’s hips canted in rhythm with every stuttered breath and his cock throbbed in time with his racing pulse. Long, sharp fingernails raked trails of fire up John’s back as Sherlock clawed and arched against him. The animalistic urge to fight back coursed through John’s blood and he bit down again, laving the hardened flesh between his teeth and relishing the taste of iron and testosterone.
“John,” Sherlock gasped again, practically incoherent with need and John felt that his answering grin wasn’t exactly tame. Sherlock was panting now, clearly coming to the edge of his patience and John smirked, feeling his own cock throb urgently in response.
Releasing Sherlock’s nipples, John tongued his way across pronounced ribs and pale skin, savoring the taste of copper and salt. He could feel the deep red tracks on his back burn as sweat seeped up through his pores and over the blunt scratches, and he idly wondered if Sherlock had broken the skin. The thought did not deter his arousal at all. John’s tongue traced the trail of sticky blood over a prominent hipbone and nuzzled the crease between thigh and groin. He inhaled the intoxicating scent of Sherlock’s arousal: warmth and musk and undeniably male.
John licked his lips centimeters away from the shining tip of Sherlock’s cock, reveling in the full body shudder that the action produced. Sherlock was in constant motion, hips stuttering against the mattress, long hands wound in between the sheets, chest heaving with barely controlled, rumbling moans. John had never seen anything so beautiful in his life. Waiting until Sherlock’s eyes focused back to his, John finally flicked his tongue out to follow the stream of pre-come as it slid gracefully down the length of Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock’s head thumped back against the mattress and he let out a low, breathy sigh at the contact, hips arching up.
It wasn’t common knowledge, but John had flirted with bisexuality before, however he’d forgotten the slippery, bitter taste of semen. He pulled back and licked his lips, tasting the musky flavor tinged with the iron-based blood still lingering in the corners of his mouth. It wasn’t particularly pleasant, but it was worth it just to see this impossible man shatter around the edges. Sherlock still looked completely wrecked, so John took pity on him, leaned forward and slid his mouth down as far as he could.
“Fuck, John,” Sherlock panted and John felt a renewed wave of lust hit him somewhere in his solar plexus. He’d never heard Sherlock curse before and something about the obscenity, flung between them like a plea, made his head swim with arousal. He hollowed his cheeks and sucked hard, earning another bitten off moan from Sherlock beneath him. John felt long fingers tangle in his hair, but instead of the tugging pressure he expected, Sherlock just held him there, cradled as though he was something to be cherished. John took hold of Sherlock’s cock at the base, angling it out from his abdomen and swirling his tongue around the tip. He allowed his gaze to follow the long lines of skin and sinew up Sherlock’s torso and was nearly startled when his eyes locked with clouded grey intensity.
He felt his own eyes darken in response and swallowed greedily, running his tongue up the throbbing vein on the underside. He felt Sherlock’s cock twitch against his soft palate and the bitter taste intensified, but John didn’t mind so much this time. He ran the pads of his fingers across Sherlock’s pale thigh, skin catching on the now sticky crimson residue. Sherlock moaned again, deep and sonorous around the room. The sound went straight to John’s sadly neglected prick and he pressed the blood-stained heel of his hand against the throbbing base in a vague attempt to ease a bit of the ache.
“No,” Sherlock growled sharply and John looked up in surprise, his mouth sliding off the end of Sherlock’s cock with a slick sound. “Not yet,” Sherlock panted, eyes dark and wide and full of feral intent. Pinning John with his gaze, Sherlock very carefully and deliberately spread his legs, raising one knee up and planting his foot flat on the bed.
The implication slammed through John like a runaway lorry. He swallowed audibly and felt his skin prickle with renewed sensations. “You’re,” he croaked, cleared his throat and tried again: “You’re certain?”
Sherlock’s lips quirked up at the corner in a smirk that was so familiar, John felt his mouth mimic the movement without thought. He was giving John a look that plainly said idiot and John felt some of the tension ease from his shoulders. He felt his own cock throb at the mere idea of being inside this wonderfully paradoxical man and had to suppress a groan.
Taking a shaky breath, John leaned forward and brought his mouth to Sherlock’s, lips brushing softly together in something more tender than frenzied, and John was momentarily thrown. He pulled back slowly, noting the high flush along sharp cheekbones and glittering grey eyes that seemed somehow softer than before.
“John,” Sherlock murmured, velvet deep and quiet, “Please.”
: :
“John,” that voice says again, echoing the thoughts chasing round his brain. “John, please.” It breaks.
“You’re dead.”
Choked out statement. Accusatory. Ignore the way the consonants catch, breath tasting foul and acrid. Head still spinning, reality rocking and swaying in and out of focus like some sad parody of a carnival arcade.
“Evidently not, John.” Irritating twitch of an elegant eyebrow. Casually condescending. Familiar. Long fingered hands still wrapped tightly, protectively around narrow shoulders.
Itching fingers twist into a fist, clenching tightly with the remembered feeling of sharp bones against flesh. The urge to hurt, to maim nearly overwhelming in its intensity. John tears himself out of that spidery grip and stumbles to his feet, limbs sluggish and heavy, blood made of concrete and wind. He spins wildly around and advances again on unsteady legs, grasping harshly at the knot in soft blue cashmere.
“You...” he starts, stammers. “You utter bastard.” Watch in sick fascination as Sherlock winces, bracing himself for the blow. Turn instead to the wall. The sound of bones splintering as they collide with plaster and wood. Sharp pain flares up through John’s hand, grounding and stable. Flesh throbs, bones tremble, muscles realign and tighten. John still feels numb, fury barely suppressed along the edges of his consciousness.
“Jesus, John.” Sherlock’s alarmed tone, so different, so concerned, so sentimental. Watch as he warily crosses to the wall, tentative hands reaching forward. Slow movements. Placating. Afraid.
Tears well up, unbidden and unwelcome, spilling over reddened cheeks. John’s breath catches and he pulls his hand protectively towards his chest, cradling the swelling muscles and tendons inward. Curls in on himself, back to the phantom in the room and just lets them flow. He’s so tired.
“I’m sick to death of you,” John murmurs, forehead braced against the wall. Peripherally, he sees Sherlock stiffen, eyes wide with hurt for a moment before he inhales sharply and looks away.
“That’s an entirely understandable reaction, John.”
“Why can’t you just leave me be?” Grimace at the petulant tone. Words swell up, spill forth without effort, completely uncontrollable: “You’re always there, in my dreams, ruining my life. You’re just there, on the edge of my vision, chiding me, controlling me. Why, Sherlock? Why not stay dead? Why die in the first place?”
“I’m sorry,” he says again. Wrong. Inconsistent. Different. Snort with disdain. Anger flaring up like fire, burning and all consuming.
“I had no choice, John.” More direct, more forceful. Edge of pleading to the tone now that’s all at once entirely foreign and completely familiar.
“No choice.”
A sigh, frustrated and full of exasperation. Familiar. “No, John. It was Moriarty’s plan all along--”
Blinding rage, pure and visceral. “Do not say that name to me. Don’t you ever say that name again.”
Shock and trepidation. For once, speechless. Fight the urge to laugh hysterically. “Alright,” the apparition says slowly. Pleading again. “I promise, John. I swear I won’t talk about it if you don’t want to hear, but you must understand: I did it all for you.”
“You did it all for me,” John repeats, brain slow and sluggish with emotional turmoil. “You died for me.”
“I’m not dead, John.” Impatience and concern mixing together again.
“Where have you been?” Shame at how weak, how empty it sounds. John winces at the tone and immediately clings to residual anger. “It’s been three sodding years, Sherlock.”
“It’s... complicated,” Sherlock says. The real Sherlock. John bites his tongue hard enough to bleed, familiar copper tang mingling with bile and frustration and shameful hope.
: :
John took a fortifying breath, trying desperately to clear his head. Sherlock’s wanton display was wreaking havoc on his brain. Between Sherlock’s breathy moans, his constant undulations against the mattress and the positively predatory look in his eyes, John was certain this was not going to last long.
He took a moment to run his hands along Sherlock’s pale calves, smoothing his palms up the impossibly soft skin and calming himself slightly. He kept his eyes fixed on Sherlock’s face, watching as he visibly winced when John’s fingers edged along his wound.
“Sherlock?” John said, feeling the edge of concern chipping away at his arousal.
“It’s fine, John,” Sherlock muttered, arching his back for better contact with John’s still hands.
“I should really wrap that knee.” John wondered how he could have been so reckless.
Sherlock’s eyes snapped open and he glared with a mixture of sexual frustration and genuine irritation. “I said it’s fine,” he barked.
John felt his lips stretch into a grin before he could help himself. Sherlock was equal parts completely surprising and utterly predictable. He leaned forward again, running his tongue across the flat expanse of solar plexus until he reached a nipple and circled it gently with his tongue.
“Doesn’t it hurt?” he murmured, deliberately catching his bottom lip on the hard fist of skin beneath his mouth.
“John,” Sherlock gasped, clutching desperately at the sheets. John carefully ran the pad of his thumb across Sherlock’s knee, feeling the edges of skin catch along his own, the sticky, viscous blood catching and staining his fingers a deep crimson. Sherlock’s hitch of breath was full of potential and John grinned into his skin.
“It hurts, doesn’t it?” he asked darkly, pushing a little against the torn skin. Sherlock’s hips twitched.
“Yes,” he hissed. “John, please.”
John relented, pulling his thumb away and bringing it to his mouth. He allowed his tongue to run along the digit, tasting iron and salt and something purely Sherlock. Sherlock’s eyes dilated incredibly further and his mouth opened in an obscenely wet huff.
“Drawer,” Sherlock said, a small and satisfying catch in his breath when John leaned forward to mouth at his jaw.
“Mmm?” John murmured, mapping the contours of Sherlock’s throat with his tongue.
“Drawer, John. There’s slick in the drawer,” Sherlock moaned as John’s teeth sank briefly into his pulse point.
John leaned forward, reaching his shorter arms to the bedstand and fumbled with the drawer handle. His hands were numb with arousal and slick with sweat and blood, and Sherlock chose that moment precisely to distract him by latching his perfect lips around John’s left nipple and sucking.
“Jesus fuck,” John gasped and nearly dropped the half-empty bottle of lubricant. His hips arched of their own volition and he ground his cock into the sweaty channel between Sherlock’s thighs.
“Yes, John,” Sherlock growled, mouth obscured and muffled around John’s skin, arching up into John’s hips as they rubbed against his cock. John steadied himself against the mattress and knelt between Sherlock’s knees, nudging the back of one long calf until it slid elegantly over his good shoulder.
John took a moment to clear his head, stunned into disbelief as Sherlock undulated between the cotton and John’s skin. Sherlock’s long lashes blinked open and he pinned John with the most blatantly sexual look he had ever seen in his life. He looked so completely wrecked: face sweaty and flushed, body slick with arousal, sticky with drying blood, and eyes hooded and dark as storm clouds. John couldn’t help himself as he leaned forward and caught Sherlock’s lips with his own, licking into his mouth and causing the man to groan against his tongue. Hastily slicking his fingers with the clear lubricant, John trailed his hand down Sherlock’s groin, over the tight swell of his bollocks and down farther to the puckered entrance of his arse. Sherlock shuddered against him and broke the kiss with a hiss of pleasure.
“Now, John,” he groaned, arching against the mattress and bringing their cocks together in one clumsy, too-hard slide of friction and sweat. Not trusting his own voice, John raised his eyebrows in question and was nearly startled by the immediate nod he got in return, Sherlock’s thighs trembling with the effort to hold himself open.
As John watched, Sherlock’s sharp teeth sunk deeply into his bottom lip, splitting the skin again and causing his mouth to stain with vividly red blood. Something in John snapped and he pushed his first finger into Sherlock’s arse up to the knuckle. Sherlock gasped and shuddered, the cold lubricant clearly startling him in contrast to his blood-hot skin.
John bit his lip and thrust a second finger past the resisting muscle. Sherlock’s legs shook so violently, John took pity on him and folded himself forward, effectively pinning Sherlock’s narrow thighs against his own torso. Having Sherlock Holmes spread out and wonton beneath him was proving to be a heady aphrodisiac and John felt his control slip a little bit further. Sherlock was so tight and impossibly hot, inner muscles clinging to John’s fingers as he eased them out to introduce a third. It was completely intoxicating, watching Sherlock writhe on his fingers, arching his back off the mattress in an effort to rub his prick against John’s abdomen.
John abandoned himself to the sight, curling his fingers inward and brushing intently across Sherlock’s prostate, the action causing the man beneath him to shudder out a wracking near-sob of pleasure.
“Now, John,” he purred again, his voice lower and more gravelly than John had ever heard it. The sound went straight to his cock and he fumbled again in the drawer for a condom.
In the precious seconds it took for the latex to stretch over his erection, Sherlock had splayed himself across the mattress like a starfish: stretching his limbs out as far as his considerable height would allow before curling back in and rolling his hips up in invitation. John swallowed audibly and lined his cock up with Sherlock’s now-slick hole and began the arduous task of not coming immediately like an inexperienced sixth former.
“Christ, you’re tight,” John choked out, willing himself to slow down and savor the slick slide of Sherlock’s impossibly hot body around his prick. Sherlock’s knowing smirk was the only warning he had before the tightness closed in around him, Sherlock’s muscles contracting around his cock and causing his hips to jerk forward involuntarily.
“Yes,” Sherlock hissed, head thrown back and body arching to meet John’s thrust. The dull slap of skin on skin was nearly startling and John took a moment to breathe. “More,” Sherlock demanded, rocking his hips up to encourage movement. John eased himself out, barely believing this was happening before sinking back in in one delicious slide of friction and heat.
“I’m not going to break, John,” Sherlock panted, laser-beam irises focusing far too easily in John’s opinion, and he almost laughed in incredulity. Trust Sherlock Holmes to try and top from the bottom, the demanding little shit. John made up his mind in that moment: he would do his very best to wreck this insufferable man, or die trying.
He allowed himself a few more slow, luxurious pushes inside his flatmate before snapping his hips forward in a brutal move that shoved Sherlock several inches up the mattress, the sheets pulling and jerking forward to gather in ripples around his arse.
“Yes,” Sherlock growled, arching his back and wrapping his impossibly long legs around John’s hips, pushing himself down onto John’s cock as though he were made for taking it. John felt the sweat gathering along his hairline and the sweet itch of it as it trickled slowly down the back of his neck. Everything felt sharp and more focused somehow whenever Sherlock was within reach, and this, the mere act of fucking him through the mattress had John reeling with sensation.
Sherlock was still demanding more, bending his body in ways John thought were impossible for anyone except experienced porn stars and possibly belly dancers. “Yes, John. More. I can take it.”
John felt something feral inside him snap. “You want it harder?” he demanded, grasping at Sherlock’s hipbones deep enough to bruise. He roughly pulled out and wrapped his hands around Sherlock’s knees, tugging and manhandling him until he could get him flipped over, pushing hard on the back of his neck and grinding his face into the pillows. Sherlock shivered and moaned, the satisfying sounds only intensifying the fire that seemed to have seeped into John’s abdomen.
Tugging again on those too-thin hips, John pulled Sherlock to his knees, ignoring the other man’s hiss of pain as his wound reopened against the mattress, smearing dark red stains across the cotton sheets. John’s pause was momentary before Sherlock’s demands escalated further.
“Don’t stop,” Sherlock groaned, thrusting his hips back in invitation and John couldn’t stop the hum of appreciation that slipped over his tongue. Aligning himself up again, he pushed in quickly, savoring the burn in his thighs and the ache in his buttocks. He would definitely be feeling this tomorrow.
Sherlock howled, his voice muffled by the mattress, but John heard it loud and clear. He set a punishing pace, fucking into Sherlock in quick, rough strokes and basking in the glory of Sherlock’s sweaty knees slipping on the now-damp sheets. He watched as Sherlock braced one arm against the headboard and pushed himself back, his body demanding more, harder, even as his voice broke on his moans.
John sped up, angling his cock up and reeling with the sounds as he finally scraped along Sherlock’s prostate. Deciding to take the chance, John swung his arm back, the satisfying crack ringing through the air as his hand slapped hard against Sherlock’s right arsecheek. It startled him as much as Sherlock and they both froze at the sound. He bit his lip, suddenly flooded with nerves, but Sherlock’s head only whipped around, his mouth open and obscenely wet, eyes wide and pupils dilated.
Sherlock’s eyes narrowed and he shoved his hips back harder, not breaking eye contact. “Again,” he demanded roughly.
The relief was overwhelming and John felt his own mouth stretch into a feral grin. Keeping his gaze pinned on Sherlock’s face, he rotated his shoulder before swinging his hand forward again, the sting of the blow resonating through his palm and making his skin feel unbelievably hot. Sherlock jerked forward with the impact and his head dropped down between his shoulders, a low groan seeming to come from the very depths of his chest.
“Again,” he whispered, arching his back like a cat in heat and tilting his arse upwards.
John snapped his hips forward, mesmerized by the red mark deepening across Sherlock’s impossibly pale skin as blood rushed to the surface. He noted with animalistic satisfaction that the mark was distinctly hand-shaped, and he felt his cock throb harder at the thought. Keeping his thrusts short and fast, John switched to his left hand, administering three quick smacks before Sherlock could even catch his breath. The blows were harder with his dominant hand and John felt a small well of guilt open up in the pit of his stomach as the mark quickly darkened to a deep crimson. Sherlock, however, threw his head back and growled, pushing harder onto John’s cock and positively writhing against the sheets.
Keeping one hand braced against the headboard, Sherlock brought his other down to his own erection, fingers sliding across the exposed glans and causing him to buck against John. John watched in fascination as Sherlock’s muscles started clenching, his back twisting under John’s unrelenting thrusts. He quickly shifted his knees forward and slapped Sherlock’s hand away, wrapping his own sweaty palm around his leaking erection. Sherlock moaned again, the sound suspiciously tinted with the hint of John’s name before bracing both palms against the headboard and tilting his hips back, maximizing the angle and causing himself to shudder violently as John’s cock rubbed again over his abused prostate gland.
Sherlock’s arms were shaking with the impact, but John was relentless, fucking into him in harsh, demanding thrusts that threatened to shatter the bedsprings. Something dark caught the edge of John’s peripheral vision and he was nearly distracted by the smear of red across white cotton as Sherlock shifted against the mattress, scraping his raw and bloodied knee along the sheets. The sight of it almost undid him: Sherlock’s DNA imprinting itself irrevocably into cotton and polyfill, staining the fabric with irreversible proof that this impossible man had once truly lived.
John felt his heart contract at the thought and he snapped his hips harder, burying his emotion beneath layers of need and sensation. Sherlock was continuously groaning now, thighs shaky and slick with perspiration, grinding his red-bruised arse back into the cradle of John’s hips with every raw push. John watched as a bead of sweat rolled down Sherlock’s spine and bent forward to catch it with his tongue, savoring the taste of sex and desperation on warm, pale skin.
John could feel the tension building between them, Sherlock’s orgasm obviously approaching rapidly and his own control spinning dangerously close to the edge. His skin felt hot and oversensitive, pulse racing uncontrollably thorough his veins. He felt the tightening at the base of his spine and with one more brutal thrust forward, buried himself to the hilt in Sherlock’s body as the spasms overtook him. He felt himself shatter, blinding pleasure singing through his bones as he came, hips stuttering as his rhythm faltered, and vision greying around the edges as his lungs couldn’t seem to catch enough air.
He was still twitching several moments later, right hand splayed out possessively across Sherlock’s iliac crest. John heaved a lungful of breath, trying to calm his racing pulse enough to take care of Sherlock, who was still leaking pre-come steadily over John’s fingers and whimpering slightly as he teetered on the edge of bliss.
Carefully grasping the edge of the condom, John eased himself out of Sherlock, ignoring the man’s hiss of tension as he disposed of the used latex. His limbs felt like rubber: satiated and satisfyingly well-used, but Sherlock was still flushed and panting, unconscious sounds of need falling unbidden from his perfect lips. Sherlock hadn’t moved from his position against the headboard, but his eyes were hard edged when John caught his gaze, and John felt that his answering grin wasn’t exactly tame.
Ignoring his own body’s exhaustion, John leaned forward and nosed along the back of Sherlock’s neck, drinking in the scent of pheromones and sex, sweat and blood, and felt the full-body shudder as it travelled along Sherlock’s spine. John flexed his fingers slightly and smiled into sharp shoulder blades as Sherlock’s cock twitched hot and heavy against his palm, another thick bead of pre-come rolling across his knuckles.
“I could leave you like this,” John murmured into pale skin, watching as the dull flush spread across Sherlock’s shoulders and down the base of his neck.
“You wouldn’t dare,” Sherlock growled, thrusting into the press of John’s fist in tight little circles. John chuckled darkly in response, but flicked his wrist, earning himself a low groan in response.
“Probably not,” John said, dragging his teeth along the edge of a sharp shoulder blade and tightening his fingers around the slippery head of Sherlock’s cock.
“John,” Sherlock gasped, still grinding his stinging arse into John’s now-flaccid penis in jerky twitches that left John wishing he still had the stamina of a teenager. As it was, he was on the close side of forty and his muscles were screaming at him already. He tightened his hold across the back of Sherlock’s hips and reluctantly pulled himself away, earning a low hum of disapproval from the sweaty mess of detective beneath him.
“John,” Sherlock groaned, and it sounded so desperate John almost relented, but there was some unfinished business he needed to attend to.
“Turn over,” he said, finally releasing his hold of Sherlock’s cock and leaning back onto his protesting knees. It was a testament to how needy Sherlock actually was as he rolled onto his back without comment, flinging his legs akimbo and positively gasping for attention.
He was absolutely gorgeous like this: sweaty and ruined, his hair a complete disaster of wet curls, his whole body flushed with arousal, eyes dark and demanding and even slightly unfocused, mouth gasping and wet. John leaned back in and caught his mouth in a kiss that was more a smear of tongues than anything else. Sherlock seemed to have difficulty focusing, and John felt his lips stretch into a smile that was pure smugness.
“John,” Sherlock whined, actually whined and John finally gave in. Pushing himself back a bit on the bed, John knelt forward and swallowed Sherlock’s cock in one smooth glide of slick heat. Sherlock’s startled cry was completely satisfying before it dissolved into wordless groans dotted heavily with John’s name in breathy staccato. It took three long pulls with his tongue rubbing across Sherlock’s swollen frenulum before Sherlock shuddered and jerked, the slippery taste of come bursting heavily across John’s taste buds and flooding his senses.
John swallowed heavily, knowing a part of Sherlock was now inside of him forever; DNA and molecules intertwining with his own to create new cells full of life. Somehow, that thought didn’t disturb him as much as it probably should have. Sherlock was panting and boneless, gulping in great lungfuls of air and seeming to melt into the mattress. John couldn’t help leaning in and pressing his mouth against the long column of Sherlock’s throat, tasting sweat and sex and blood and endorphins. The sheer power of it was staggering.
John rolled onto his back, pulling Sherlock with him so he ended up with an armful of consulting detective. Sherlock nearly purred with contentment and buried his face into John’s neck, wrapping one absurdly long arm around John’s chest and tugging him close. John smiled into soft curls and began stroking his fingers up and down Sherlock’s back. Slowly the tension faded from Sherlock’s shoulders and his breath evened out, and John was halfway to sleeping himself in a haze of lazy contentment. Many minutes ticked by in silence and John was certain Sherlock had finally nodded off.
“John,” Sherlock murmured into the darkness, his voice harsh and scratchy from abuse.
“Mmm?” John answered, fingers tripping lightly down a sharp spinal column.
“Don’t ever leave me.”
John’s hand paused, his heart stuttering to a stop. “Sherlock?”
“Just,” Sherlock shifted and pressed his face harder against John’s throat, lips resting lightly against John’s fluttering pulse. “Just promise me. No matter what happens, John. Please.”
John felt a small curl of unease unfold low in his abdomen. He tried to move to see Sherlock’s face, but the man only clung on tighter, wiry arms clamping hard across John’s ribs. After a few moments, John relaxed again, pressing his lips into dark curls before nodding.
“Alright, love,” he whispered, and felt the heat infuse Sherlock’s skin at the endearment. “I promise.”
“Thank you.”
: :
Anger pools harsh and bright in his gut along with inexplicable guilt. He had asked for this, begged and pleaded for one more miracle, and here it was: Sherlock alive and whole, and yet John can feel the betrayal, the taste of pure rage mixed with so much hurt he can barely stand it. Taste acidic and dangerous on the back of his tongue. Rage wars with despair and the choked feeling of asphyxiation begins again. Not enough air in the room. Stagger to the window and tear open the glass, heaving lungfuls of London fog and car exhaust. Lingering rain beats pitifully down against the pavement.
“I wanted to tell you,” that voice, Sherlock’s voice says, low and quiet; nearly inaudible around the patter of water on concrete. John can feel the tension seeping off of his own skin like a blanket, the hazy fog of anger finally giving way to begrudging acceptance. Deep breath.
“I wanted to, John, but it was too dangerous. I couldn’t risk it; couldn’t risk you. Please believe me.” Closer now, the creak of the old wooden floorboards betraying Sherlock’s movement. John closes his eyes and tries to ground himself somehow in the madness of this evening. His knuckles throb in time with his racing pulse. He’s hyperaware of himself in this space: of the feeling of the cold, damp air against his flushed face, the sound of the dust stirring as Sherlock moves near him, the creak of the floor as he steps closer, the subtle shift of warmth as Sherlock’s very much alive body gives off residual heat at his back.
“I had to keep you safe,” Sherlock murmurs into the space behind John’s ear. He’s very close now: standing directly behind John, but not daring to touch. Pause for an indeterminable length of time. The tension between them constricts and slackens rhythmically with every deep breath. Finally, finally, a pale, long fingered, elegant hand brushes along John’s bicep, fingertips coming to rest just at the crook of his elbow.
“I couldn’t lose you, John.” Whisper soft and full of choked off emotion. John feels himself shatter, his anger crumbling away and dissolving, leaving him empty and hollow. Emotion threatens up his windpipe, cutting off speech and rendering him incoherent.
The hand around his elbow tightens briefly, tugging and pulling him around until he is turned away from the window, momentum causing his balance to fail. He buries his face into the space between Sherlock’s neck and collarbone, inhaling the intoxicating scent of him and allowing himself to fall. He’s been strong for so long: three long years of bolstering his own courage, of keeping his feet firmly planted on the ground, of rebuilding a life from scattered shards out of sheer will and unending loyalty.
He doesn’t need to be strong anymore. Sherlock can hold him together instead. Something loosens behind his ribs and he feels himself healing, small stitches of memories and pain smoothing over into blissful quiet.
“I’ve missed you,” he breathes into damp wool and sharp bones, and he feels Sherlock’s arms tighten impossibly further. Breath stutters, muscle memory kicks in and he clutches tightly at slender sinew, fingertips digging into the hollowed out spaces between ribs and tendons.
Large hands slide up his arms and cradle his face, thumbs smoothing over damp cheekbones. Eyelids flutter open, breath hitches and tongue feels thick. Sherlock’s eyes are so pained, so full of honest, raw emotion that John has to blink again.
“John,” he starts, but John has heard enough. Too much information, overwhelming and irrelevant. Sherlock is here, alive: pale skin and thick curls and viscous blood and living muscle. Warm, soft lips, too plush by half press gently against his when he surges forward. Sherlock makes a noise against his mouth. It sounds like his heart is breaking. Familiar. Pained. Different on Sherlock, though. John’s own noise is a mere echo, emotions warring and constricting around the enormity of the situation.
God, it’s like coming home. It’s Christmas and warm jumpers and earl grey tea and Jammy Dodgers and the first fire of the year. It’s sinking into a hot bath after a long day; it’s snuggling close to a warm body on a cold night; it’s folding into his favorite armchair with a good book and two fingers of old whiskey. It’s Sherlock, and John reels as he realizes he hasn’t lived these past three years.
Sherlock’s mouth softens against his and he pulls back to gaze into John’s face. Cheeks feel flushed, lips trembling, and eyes wet with emotion. John doesn’t even bother to hide his tears. Sherlock’s own face is terrifyingly close to breaking and his eyes are suspiciously shiny in the dim light. John feels his heart swell as his pulse speeds up: muscle pumping blood and chemicals sluggishly through his veins.
“I’ve missed you too, John.” Sherlock’s voice catches and his breath seems to stall.
“Sherlock.” Murmur against soft lips, slide the consonants against teeth and tongues. All the air seems lighter somehow, the storm breaking finally and the clouds retreating. John’s head feels dizzy, oxygen irrelevant in the face of such intimacy. Slide slightly chapped hands up the fall of dark wool, dig in and curl around and anchor. The sound of a reassuringly steady heartbeat pressed against a shaky temple. John inhales and holds on.
“Don’t ever leave me,” John whispers into the still air, lungs full of nicotine and London rain and damp wool and adventure.
Soft lips press gently into the top of his head; long, spidery fingers flex along his spine. “I promise, John. I’m sorry.”
Blood: alive and whole, undamaged and flowing through glorious veins and miraculous arteries. Blood; singing with chemicals, awash with oxytocin, vasopressin, serotonin and dopamine. Blood; flooding his face and swelling his heart, pulse pounding so loud he can barely hear over the rush of it in his ears.
“John,” Sherlock says, and John smiles, all teeth and cheek and tears.
“I love you.”
What I am to you is not real
What I am to you, you do not need
What I am to you is not what you mean to me
You give me miles and miles of mountains
When I ask for the sea
~Volcano, Damien Rice