Tall and Tailored

Previously: John

—

Sherlock waits an hour after John goes to bed, to be sure he’s gone to sleep. The motions are practiced, if out of date. The sensation almost familiar. He’s prepared to take mental notes on the effects, the duration. He settles back down onto the couch.

It begins an hour later. Just as skittering images across the periphery of his vision. Black against black. He ignores it at first, simply filling in hallucinations in his mental ledger.

An hour later they’re watching him. They’re perched on the table. They’re whispering. The noise is like dry leaves. They clack claws and chitter and rustle rustle rustle. He fills in auditory hallucinations and closes his eyes.

Half an hour later he’s in his room tugging the sheets off his bed. It’s dark, lit only by the ambient urban light filtering through the apartment. Every corner is chittering, whispering. Down the hall, he can hear a voice he’d rather not in this state. The sheets. The sheets are to bag the little rustling creatures. They’re dark and black and the white should wrap them all up and keep them contained.

Twenty minutes later Sherlock is in the kitchen, and has flipped the table, spilling the contents across the floor. His back is pressed against it. Some small part of his brain not over taken by the animal remembers to fill in Fear, Paranoia, Anxiety. 

He gets the gun when the voice gets closer. It isn’t even all around him, it’s in his head. It’s trailing blood across the inside of his eyelids, the pads of his fingertips. All the while chittering chittering chittering. This is worse than the busyness of his own mind, the constant seeing, the constant knowing. Everything is over-run with falseness, lies on lies on lies. The creatures brush up against him now, and he can feel the velvety darkness whisper against him. He starts shooting.

They scatter at the sound, but begin to draw close. Occasionally their rustling, cackling, chittering mouths begin to make sense. Speak. They have his voice. They repeat speeches heard ages ago. They whisper new threats. His heart pounds and he thinks of John, just upstairs, asleep. Vulnerable.

Sherlock goes absolutely still. If they don’t see his glance dart towards the door they won’t know.

“Sherlock, thank god.” 

John’s voice doesn’t filter properly. It’s distorted and twisted and it rises in the wrong places. Sherlock turns his head, trying to focus on what’s in the kitchen but it’s over come with rustling, swarming…

Sherlock has had enough. Of this. All of this. The noise. He’s been here before, had hallucinations, but this was pulling emotional strings that were rusty and stiff and he had had enough. 

“…I heard..”

The swarming darkness darts behind the table following the burst. 

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

Confusion rattles into Sherlock. This wasn’t right. John was meant to be upstairs, away from all this, safe. Safe. No, it wasn’t John. Couldn’t be. He tightens his grip on the gun.

The swarm mutters something else and the noise drives it’s way right into Sherlock. He lets out another round but this time the noise and light shifts Sherlock back into place, momentarily. Briefly, he sees John, crouched behind the kitchen table. He’s peering around, avoiding Sherlock, searching. His sig is clutched close, defensive but unwilling.

Sherlock’s phone picks this moment to chime. Jarringly.

—

Next: John

Previously: John

—

When they finally get into the lab at St. Barts, Sherlock and John are flushed and sharing similar grins. Molly is working, and surprised at their boisterous entrance.

“Oh! H-hello!” She smiles at the two of them. John coughs into his hand, doing his best to keep his composure as Sherlock tries to surreptitiously smooth his overly mussed hair into it’s usual ordered chaos. 

“Hi Molly.” John says warmly. Sherlock says nothing, shucking his coat and scarf and immediately positioning himself near a microscope. 

“New case?” She asks, attempting to connect the dots between their entrance and the need for the lab. John shrugs in answer, beginning to explain the crime scene, the tarot cards, while Sherlock himself whirls around the lab.

While he analyzes the contents of the vial, John and Molly have fallen into a comfortable conversation about something or other. Weather, perhaps. Tarot cards. Horrible deaths. Sherlock, meanwhile, is drawn inextricably into the construction of this obviously new, and very designer, drug. It was…curious. It was like none other he had ever seen.

Sherlock frowns, glancing up at John and Molly. Molly was teasing him about mark on John’s neck, and the tops of John’s ears were turning pink. He was laughing, fending off her curious questions. Sherlock’s hand was on the small glass vial, absently twisting it back and forth. It was still more than half full. 

John turns, feeling Sherlock’s eyes on him perhaps. He’s still smiling, looking more relaxed than he has in a long time. 

“Well?” He asks, expectant.

“Well, what?” Sherlock tilts his head. John nods towards to vial. Sherlock’s eyes slide off John’s.

“It’s obvious they overdosed. But I’m not certain exactly what it is the drug does. It’s not outwardly evident. It’s obviously very new. Very designer. Very expensive.” He pauses, “Who know exactly what it does.” He can’t quite help the hint of curiousness. Sherlock knows exactly what every drug does. The gap in information rankles him. John ‘Hmms’, half interested. 

“Obviously..him, then?” John raises his eyebrows at Sherlock. Sherlock shrugs.

“The card was evidence enough. But what he’s expecting us to find…” He shakes his head, contemplating. Moriarty’s game was obviously a personal one. More than last time. This wasn’t about just the two of them anymore. But what his end game is was still a mystery. 

Sherlock looks up at Molly, “There’s bodies coming, from the scene. Tell me what killed them, when they arrive. Send a text. I’ll be down, if there’s anything interesting.” 

She nods, smiling her agreement. Sherlock stands, picking up his coat, signalling to John that it’s time they be on. John waves a friendly good-bye to Molly and they head out. A few steps out Sherlock pauses.

“Ah, left something behind. Grab a taxi, will you?” Sherlock flashes a smile at John, who nods, and heads back through the doors. He snatches his scarf up, and stops briefly at the counter he had been working at. A second later the vial is resealed. He slips it into his pocket on the way out.

-

The taxi ride back is calmer than the previous one, Sherlock sinking into his thoughts. John used to it. They wordlessly climb up to the flat.

“John-” Sherlock begins, intending to demand he look for something, but finds John’s hands on the lapels of his coat, pulling him closer. John’s lips on his. Warm. Steady. He closes his eyes, enjoying the moment. 

“Yeah?” John’s asks against his mouth, a grin interrupting the gentle kiss. Sherlock closes his eyes, breathing John in. Letting the scent of him carry him away from his own mind for a time. John finally lets go of his lapels, and breaks contact. Sherlock straightens, peering down at him. John flushes under the scrutiny. Sherlock’s eyes spend time memorizing before he remembers that he had an intended job for John.

“I need you to find out everything you can about eXq.” 

John nods, but a flicker of something crosses his face that Sherlock doesn’t catch. It barely registers once his mind focuses back on the case. Figuring out Moriarty’s game. His lesson with this particular murder. He pulls his jacket and scarf off, positioning himself on the couch. Falling inward. 

John opens up his laptop at the table, but casts an eye at the long shape of Sherlock reclining on the couch. He contemplates settling under those long legs, researching while close enough to Sherlock to touch him. He sits at the table instead.

—

Next: John

Previously: John

—

They spend what seems like ages in the shower, Sherlock fascinated with tasting the water off John’s skin. The way it rivulets across his body. Long fingers wandering, exploring. Intent on finding the exact right spots on John’s body. John’s turn to gasp under the water, gulping hot humid air while Sherlock nips and licks all along the curve of John’s neck and the dip of his collarbones. When the water finally begins to cool Sherlock has John pressed up against the cold tiles of the wall. John’s hand tangled in the wet, wild, mass of Sherlock’s curls. Sherlock biting hungrily at the soft flesh of John’s neck, thrilled by the frenzied noises doing so elicits. 

John manages to mumble something about the water, which Sherlock ignores. He barely notices it, the drop in heat. He presses himself closer to John, skin to skin, hot and slippery and John drops the subject long enough for Sherlock to catch his lips. John is gasping once when they really do lose the hot water, goosebumps raised across his skin.

“Out!” He evades Sherlock just long enough to twist the taps, and kill the icy stream. He slips out of Sherlock’s grasp, pulling a towel off the back of the door and wrapping it around himself; desperate to cast out the chill.

He turns to find Sherlock with his arms crossed, eyes narrowed and dark. Lips pulled into smile. He’s half hard, and as John’s eyes rake across his body and back to his face, his tongue peeks out to wet the bottom of his lip.

“I wasn’t done with you, you know.” His voice rumbles at him, sated and curious. John can feel his cock twitch at just the sound of it. John raises an eyebrow at Sherlock and deliberately turns his back, heading back out into the bedroom. He tosses the towel aside and lays on Sherlock’s bed, breathing his scent out of the blankets. 

Momentarily Sherlock is there, at the side of the bed, peering down at John. He drops his own towel, barely wet, to the ground. 

“Move over.” He instructs, pointing John further towards the center. He obliges, watching Sherlock expectantly. Sherlock climbs on top of him, kissing him softly, pressing his warmth against John’s still chilled skin. He smiles against John’s lips before moving, trailing slow, soft, kisses down his chest and stomach. He settles between his legs, gently nudging John’s legs apart. 

He laps at the soft skin of John’s inner thigh, pulling John out of his warm reverie. Sherlock trails the tip of his tongue back and forth, interspersed with slow, warm, kisses. His hair trails across the sensitive skin of John’s quickly hardening cock as he switched from side to side, deliberately avoiding exactly where John would like him to be kissing. After several long, torturous minutes, John is pleasingly hard, and  trying his best not to actively whine at Sherlock in his insistence that he Please god, just suck my cock already. 

Sherlock’s lips tug into a fairly self-satisfied smile. He runs a hand down John’s stomach, enjoying the rumbling of pleasure he gives off. He rubs the palm of his hand slowly down, and back up again, the shaft of John’s cock, not quite grasping him, but providing the friction he’s asking for. John moans, low and slow and gravelly. Needy. Sherlock thrills at the sound of it. He continues, letting his fingers pull the foreskin gently back from the head. Enveloping the glans in his palm and circling, watching John for reactions, listening to the pitch of his pleasure. Occasionally pausing when John seems to get to close, providing the needed pressure at the base of his cock.

John seems as though he could be on another planet, eyes closed, letting Sherlock explore and learn. In this moment Sherlock loved him for it. Satisfied, he begins to pick up speed, twisting gently around the head of John’s cock, using the accumulated pre-come to lubricate effectively. Sherlock dips his head, gently sucking on the sensitive skin of John’s balls, gingerly taking one into his mouth. John gets progressively louder, gasping and moaning first unabashedly, but continually more and more into his forearm, attempting to muffle the noise. This annoys Sherlock, but he lets it go this time. He’ll have time to explore every noise John makes. 

It doesn’t take long for John to begin to tip over the edge, the way Sherlock has been teasing him. When he does, he shouts into the crook of his arm, riding out the sensation. After, as he lays on the cover, panting, Sherlock examines the taste of his come mixed with the taste of his sweat. John whimpers softly when Sherlock spends too much time running his tongue over the sensitive areas of skin on his lower abdomen and eventually grasps for something, anything, to clean off the rest before Sherlock can. He gasps a towel and manages to get it between himself and Sherlock. 

“Aa, stop. Exhausted.” John explains, knowing full well that Sherlock must be wearing the most slighted expression he could muster. After a full minute of considering, Sherlock shifts himself up John’s body, settling beside. Wrapping an arm around him, and relishing the warmth John is radiating. John reaches around to grasp the edge of the blanket, summoning what energy he has left to at least attempt to cover the two of them. He doesn’t succeed in much before flopping back to the mattress, Sherlock clearly digging in for sleep. It doesn’t take long for John to join him.

—

Next: Jim

Previous: John

—

Sherlock crowds John through the door to his room, angling him towards the bed. He catches John’s lips, kissing him hungrily. Relishing in the taste of his mouth, his allowed closeness. The ability to touch him. Whenever, wherever. 

He slides his hands under the hem of his shirt, seeking skin. The sensation is electric, both of them supercharged and overheated. John draws in a sharp breath, Sherlock tips his head towards his neck. He tastes, explores. John helpfully lets his head fall back, drawing the muscles in his neck out into elegant, delectable lines. Sherlock explores them with his tongue, slowly, his breath hot and hungry. John moans, softly, as he reaches the tender areas beneath his jaw. His pulse heavy against his skin, palpable against Sherlock’s lips. He presses against this area with heavy, open mouthed kisses. John’s breath picks up encouragingly, and Sherlock begins to suck, gently at first, his fingers tightening against John’s lower back. His teeth graze the skin and John gasps. Sherlock finds himself so engrossed in exploring this singular erogenous zone that when he draws away, the area is darkened, bruised. The effect is wonderful, it thrills him. Marking John. 

John props himself up on his elbows, eyebrows raised questioningly, though he knows the look in Sherlock’s eyes well. Sherlock spends time collecting the way John’s stomach muscles tense in this position before meeting John’s eyes. Sherlock flushes, slightly. In a swift movement he’s on his knees, between John’s. The corners of his lips twitch in a way that John can only describe as mischievous, which is more than slightly worrisome. Before he can speculate about all the horrible things that could be done, Sherlock is running his hands up the insides of John’s thighs and his elbows go out from under him.

“…Cock tease.”

“…Christ. That mouth… of yours. Illegal.” He gasps out.

Sherlock increases his speed, savouring John. He hadn’t realized he would enjoy this so much. John begins to moan in earnest now, volume climbing. Fantastic. Sherlock is absolutely enjoying being able to take John apart like this. With just his mouth. It’s arresting, the shapes John’s mouth makes as he gasps for air. When he bites down on his lower lip to stifle the noise. How bruised they look, flushed with blood. Sherlock is desperately, almost painfully, hard; but he wants to draw out this moment as long as possible. 

John is slick with sweat that Sherlock has the urge to taste. He struggles with whether this is an alright thing or not for a few seconds before giving in. He pushes himself up from his knees, submitting to the urge to run his tongue through the coarse hair above John’s cock, to follow it to his navel. John groans, and bucks, trying to derail Sherlock. Still too sensitive. He ignores him. Sweat lingers here and Sherlock savours it, tangy and sharp. He kisses away glistening beads all the way up John’s stomach, chest, collarbone, neck. John is murmuring unintelligibly by this time and Sherlock smiles against his skin.

“Well, that’s one.” 

—

Next: John

Previously: John

—

Sherlock grins into the darkness at John, obligingly letting him guide his hand. He wraps it around the base of his cock, firmly, watching John’s reaction. He slowly works his hand up the shaft, twisting his wrist across the head. John lets out a ragged breath, eyes focused on Sherlock’s hand. The effect of John’s eyes on him is electric. John reaches out, fingers brushing Sherlock’s knuckles. Sherlock speeds up, obligingly, eyes sliding closed. This isn’t new. This sensation he can handle. His mind begins to fall back into the right places, recovering. He lets his thoughts wander back to the flat, to the things they could have been doing if not for this blasted case. He falls into a familiar rhythm. 

He’s moans, low, quiet, focused. He can hear John’s breathing pick up, and it threatens to ruin the tenuous hold he has on his mental functions. John leans forward, pressing his face into Sherlock’s shoulder. 

“Oh… Christ…” He whispers against him, his hand exploring Sherlock’s fingers. He slides them between Sherlock’s, breaching his fist.

“Aah- John…” Sherlock moans. He pitches his head forward, pressing his lips against John’s ear. “…Jesus.” John runs his thumb over the glans and is rewarded by Sherlock pushing his hips towards him. He speeds up the rhythm of his own hand, as John wraps his hand around the head of his cock, massaging steadily. It’s been long enough since another person touched him that Sherlock is already teetering near the edge of no return. He tries listing possible causes of death to hang on, but John. John. He is so close, and smells warm and spiced, and is stealing all his breath.

He catches John’s mouth in a kiss, moaning against him. Asphyxiation. John. Drowning. Blunt trauma. John. Sherlock loses his own rhythm, distracted by John’s methodical exploration of the head of his cock. The roughness of John’s hands, the surety of his grip. His closeness. His breath in Sherlock’s mouth, breathing the oxygen right from his lungs. He feels lightheaded, and presses himself back against the door, struggling to keep his knees from giving out. John takes over, sliding the palm of his hand down the shaft of Sherlock’s cock, twisting his hand across his glans, repeating the process. Drawing ragged gasps of air from Sherlock, who tries desperately to keep John’s mouth on his. To muffle his quiet moans against his lips.

John grins against his mouth, using his free hand to push Sherlock firmly against the door. To hear him. See him. He’s flushed, eyes closed, mouth slightly open, gasping. It’s a situation John never thought he’d find Sherlock in, especially at his own hands.

Sherlock grips the sleeve of John’s jacket, where’s he’s holding him back against the door. 

“John, fuck… I’m- Ahh!” He gasps, thrusting into John’s hand. John picks up speed, paying close attention to the head of his cock, desperate to make him come.

Sherlock abruptly grabs the front of John’s shirt, pulling him close, crushing their mouths together. John refuses to stop pulling him off and in short order Sherlock is moaning incomprehensible words into his mouth. Sherlock’s world shrinks down to the sensation of John’s hand, everything going white as he comes, mouth pressed desperately against John’s.

Everything seems to pause for an extended moment, both of them panting, Sherlock trying to stay upright. John pulls away first, casting his eyes around the tiny powder room for a towel, anything. He stops at the sink, doing his best to clean himself up, before tossing the towel at Sherlock. He catches it, but his eyes are fixed on John. John. 

John looks up from the sink to find Sherlock very, very within his personal space. 

“Sherlo-?” Sherlock cuts him off, kissing him deeply, catching his tongue. He sucks on it gently, letting him go to enjoy the slow release of breath. He runs a hand across John’s stomach, feeling his muscles tense beneath his palm.

“People are going to wonder.” Sherlock states, his voice pitched low, husky from catching his breath. “But don’t think that I won’t be making that up to you.” 

“Two-fold.”

He watches John closely, the way he licks his lips as he considers this, and smiles. Just a bit. Sherlock smiles. A real one. 

They spend a minute making themselves look presentable before considering heading out into the hall.

—

Next: John

Previously: John

—

Everything in the world shrinks down to John. Sherlock spends time exploring as the bands of fear unlatch from his chest. He dips his tongue between John’s lips, exploring their topography. He samples the smooth skin behind them, breathes in his exhalations. John’s hands are tangled in the fabric of his shirt, tentatively brushing against the exposed skin, and it’s creating fireworks of sensation. He slides his hands under John’s jumper, pushing it up, long fingers trailing, exploring. His focus shifts and he presses his forehead against John’s, intent on feeling every inch of him, every single plane. He’s rewarded with a sharp intake of breath from John as he trails across the sensitive skin along his sides. Sherlock tilts his head, smiling into John’s hair.

”..Sherlock..” He manages.

Sherlock dips his head, placing open mouthed kisses along John’s neck. Desperate to feel his pulse. He pushes John’s jumper up further, until it’s absolutely certain he intends to take it off. John obligingly leans forward, and Sherlock tugs it over his head and down his arms. 

buzz

Sherlock tastes John’s collarbone, letting his fingers explore the opposite shoulder. John’s scar. 

buzz

“Sherlock..I..think someone’s at the door.” 

Sherlock frowns, trying to ignore both John and the noise. This is a perfect moment, and he wants to stretch it forever. Learn everything. He can’t just stop now.

buzz

But then John is shifting under him, his hands are pushing on his arms. He’s flushed, and smiling at Sherlock sheepishly. Sherlock pushes back, trying to keep John pressed against the floor. For a moment his height and position are an advantage, but then there’s footsteps on the stairs, and John is sliding out from under him.

“Just. Just wait. I don’t..Someone could just walk in!” He rambles, climbing to his feet. He leans down to grab his jumper, to put it back on, but Sherlock resolutely pins it down, narrowing his eyes. Perhaps a little juvenile, but if someone had been coming in, they would be knocking by now. 

“Sit. Let me.” Sherlock stands, crowding close enough to John that he’s forced to sit. Sherlock pauses in front of him, a smiling tugging at the corners of his lips. The flush on John’s skin spreads across his chest. John follows the progression of Sherlock’s eyes down his body, and sheepishly folds his hands over his lap.

“Door?” He cocks his head. Sherlock rolls his eyes and turns around, readjusting his trousers.

He cracks the door, listening. Whoever came has gone, obviously. He opens it the rest of the way, but there is nothing in the hall.  Sherlock turns to look back at John, and his eyes slide over the door.  A tarot card, the Lovers, has been pinned to the wood with a pen knife - it takes some effort to pull it free.  Frowning, he flips it over and squints at the sharpie scrawled across the back.

Desire.  -JM
7 Handel Street. 

He steps back into the apartment and closes the door behind him, absently twirling the knife between his fingers.  John’s cell phone chimes and Sherlock looks up as he answers it.

“Yeah, we’re…  It’s fine.  Go ahead.”  John takes a pen from the side table and writes on the back of an envelope.  ”We’ll be right there.”  He terminates the call and sighs, the disappointment evident in his posture.

“Lestrade needs you at a crime scene near King’s Cross.  Murder suicide.  It’s at-”  He studies the envelope again.

“7 Handel Street,” Sherlock finishes.

“How did you know that?”

“Moriarty kindly left me a note.”  He holds the card up between two fingers so John can see.

“Moriarty?  He’s… alive?  He was here?”

Sherlock lets his eyes travel over John’s skin before answering.  They linger on the angry scar at his shoulder and the branded ‘S’ on his chest.  There are so many details that he needs to commit to memory.  So many places to touch, to taste.  Something boils in his stomach, an intense instinct to eliminate anything that might threaten this new development in his life.  Anything that might tear John away from him.

“Apparently it’s fashionable to return from the dead these days,” Sherlock finally replies.  ”Get dressed, it’s time to end this.”

“Do you really think it’s a good idea to just head to where he’s directing you?”  John stands and pulls his jumper back on, smoothing the fabric down against his body.

“Of course it is.  Moriarty is an artist, he’s not going to just gun us down in the street.  It has to be elegant, meaningful.”  Sherlock pulls on his coat and starts to head down the stairs.  ”Now that he’s back, we’re on much safer ground than we were before.”

John follows him out of the flat and shuts the door.  ”Yeah, as safe as you can be on a minefield,” he replies under his breath.

—

Next: John

Previously: Sebastian

—

His experiment was fairly successful. Despite the last few weeks of distant anger, John at the very least reacted. Sherlock’s lips twitch into the ghost of a smile. Definitely interesting. He dresses quickly, long lines of tailored fabric, as usual. The shower is still running when he exits his room, and he circles around the parlour, impatiently. He spots John’s laptop on his chair, open. A cursory glance reveals what looks to be a blog post. Sherlock hadn’t seen anything new recently. Perhaps something private, then? 

Can’t make myself forget what it was like to wake up next to him everyday.

He smiles.

Guess he forgot I was on the couch.

He hadn’t, really. He hadn’t meant for it to be 4 in the morning, but he felt alone, and John was in the living room and he supposed it would seem terribly strange for him to just sit out there and watch him sleep. He’d tried to play his favourites, at least. 

The shower turns off, and Sherlock positions himself at the window, making a show of having ignored the computer. He can hear John crossing behind him, and it does take a bit of effort not to peer over his shoulder. Sate his curiosity further.

John rifles through some clothing he’s stored by the couch for easy access and heads back to the washroom to get dressed. Once the door closes, Sherlock’s phone chimes. He pulls it out, opening the text.

<He didn’t do it. Interrupted by a text.>

Sherlock frowns down at the small screen. What? From whom? Comprehension dawns on him. Only one person could stop Col. Moran from doing something he’d set his mind to. Sherlock’s eyes flicker down to the street and he - quite irrationally - pulls the curtains on both windows shut. He paces around the parlour restlessly, mind picking at options. He could pretend he didn’t know. Go about with his day, with John. John. Already injured, just recovering, John. He stops in his tracks, breath caught in his throat. Wouldn’t take much. One cleverly posted sniper. 

John returns to the parlour to find Sherlock stock still in the center of the room, looking paler than usual. 

“Sherlock?” He ventures, trying to catch his attention. Silence draws out between them, until a decision seems to snap into place. Sherlock comes alive, eyes fixating on John intently. 

“Molly just texted. Something came up. I’d rather stay in, anyways.” He herds John towards the couch, passing him his laptop. “I’ll order in something?”

John frowns at him, “It’s the middle of the morning Sherlock, not really time for takeaway.” 

Sherlock frowns, then paces into the kitchen, putting on the kettle. John watches him, confused. Shortly, Sherlock is handing him a cup of tea.

“Al-alright. Thanks.” He sets it down on the floor near his feet to cool. He watches Sherlock perch on the chair beside him, a thousand yard stare settling over him. John shrugs to himself, and returns to his computer, busying himself. So much for getting out.

The day stretches out, John alternating between finishing up his blog post and occasionally watching crap day time programming. Sherlock spends an extended period of time in his chair, knees pulled up to his chest. After a bit he begins to pace near the window, occasionally peering out. John asks him what’s wrong at this point, but gets absolutely no response. Sherlock picks the middle of a half decent movie to start playing violin, and John rolls his eyes and gets up.

“Right, then. I can’t possibly stay inside. I’d had the good idea that we’d be going outdoors, breathing fresh air, and I don’t think I can watch another second of television.” John starts to shrug on his coat, moving slower than he’d like.

Sherlock’s head whips around, music stopping abruptly. The fact that he even noticed gives John pause.

“I’m just going to get something to eat, Sherlock. Take a walk.” Sherlock’s eyes narrow at John, and he glances at the windows. It’s getting dark, and John’s stomach gives Sherlock a very auditory reminder that he hasn’t eaten all day.

“No. Sit. Take away. Yes? That Thai place you like?” He sets his violin and bow down, pulling John’s coat off. John grumbles audibly at him.

“What? No.” John pulls his coat out of Sherlock’s hands, “I am. Going. Out.”

Suddenly Sherlock’s hand is wrapped around John’s arm, long fingers gripping him. 

“You can’t.”

John waits. The silence stretches.

“…Are you going to tell me why? Am I under house arrest?”

“No.” He lets go, and paces away from John, deliberately turning his back. His heart is pounding, and he’s almost afraid that somehow John will hear. That he’ll notice that he’s afraid.

“Then I’m leaving.” John starts for the door, to find Sherlock blocking it, looking imposing.

“Sit. Down.”

“This is ridiculous, Sherlock! You can’t even explain it to me!” John tosses his coat over a chair and faces him, starting to get right pissed. 

“You spend half the last six weeks ignoring me, and now you for some reason won’t even let me leave the house? I’m recovering just fine. I can make a small trip!” John steps close to Sherlock, intending to get him to move, but once he breaches that small personal space, he can tell he’s wrong about this. Sherlock is breathing, rapidly. If he didn’t know better, he’d assume he was on the verge of a panic attack.

“Sherlock…” He starts, quieter. Concerned.

“Just. Sit. Down.” He grinds out, pressing himself against the door of their flat. John complies, if just to get Sherlock to calm down. 

“Explain this to me, or I will leave.” John says, evenly. In a few seconds, Sherlock is kneeling in front of John. 

Sherlock’s heart is still pounding. He’s trying to navigate around the steel wrapping itself around his chest and finding it increasingly difficult as he considers John leaving and never coming home, only being found as a secondary smear on the concrete. 

“You can’t.” He shakes his head, “You can’t go out there right now. It might..” He pauses, trying to get control again. “It might be dangerous.” He peers up at John, who has mastered looking both bored and disbelieving. 

“I’m serious, John! I mean it! Sebastian stabbed you once, and look how long it’s…” He drops his gaze to the floor, jaw working around the stillborn rage towards Sebastian. “He won’t just stab you next time. I- I have it on good authority that it’s dangerous out there right now, and you’re still recovering and I won’t know where it’s coming from…” He trails off. 

“I can’t lose you.” 

Sherlock’s throat closes up on the words, and they come out strangled. John’s expression doesn’t make it any better. He looks incredulous. Sherlock makes eye contact, his eyes bright and intense. Pleading. 

“What do you mean, Sherlock?” John hazards, trying to get information. The last thing he wants to do is make an assumption, and the last six weeks are flashing before him, stark and lonely and empty. For Sherlock, it’s different. He’s thinking of the shower. The nights spent lying in bed next to John. Sleeping, actually sleeping. He hasn’t, not much, since.

His hands go to John’s knees, soaking up his warmth. John is starting to look impatient, waiting for an answer, but Sherlock’s throat is still closed up around words. Language. This is so impractical. He should be out there, tying up these ends, but he’s stricken by the idea of losing John. It’s dismantling him from the inside. He thinks of the first night at Mycroft’s, John’s hands sliding his soaked shirt off in the shower. 

He opens his mouth, and tries to work around the words. It’s frustrating, and useless. 

In a rush of breath he pushes himself forward, his fingers finding purchase on John’s jumper, catching and holding him. His lips find John’s and he does his best to communicate through heat what he’s failed at with words.

—

Next: John

Previously: John

—

John is warm. Incredibly warm. Sherlock desperately works on clearing his mind as the sensation of John undoing his soaked shirt and then leaning against him threatens to undo him. He hopes the water will help John settle, calm him, clear the pain, relax him. The sensation of being this close, holding John against him, is causing Sherlock’s mind to circle. He makes himself breathe evenly, slowly. 

John leans his head back, and Sherlock can’t help being fascinated by the water beading and running down his skin. His eyes track a stream down his neck, over his collarbone, down his chest. It runs over Sherlock’s arms. It continues to the waistband of his now completely soaked pyjama pants, which are clinging to him heavily. Sherlock starts contemplating the way the water might taste, off John. From each place that each stream of water interconnects and separates. The hollow of his neck. Below his collarbone. His focus starts to narrow.

John murmurs something, the vibrations pleasant against Sherlock’s chest. He pulls himself out of the reverie.

“What?” 

“I think I’m falling asleep.” John murmurs again, sounding absolutely exhausted. Sherlock anxiously licks his lips and nods. 

“Right.” He maneuvers John out of the shower carefully, sitting him onto the toilet seat. He twists the taps, turning off the water, before gathering a towel from behind the door. He wraps it around John’s shoulders, gently toweling the water from his skin. John smiles, eyes closed, leaning into the sensation. 

“How are you feeling?”

“Mm… Better. Better.” John nods, and Sherlock brings the towel up to dry his hair as much as possible. He eyes the soaked pants.

“You’re going to get back in bed, but.” He gestures down at his pyjamas, and John cracks open an eye to see what Sherlock is on about.  ”You’re soaked. You’ll have to have them off, and I’ll need to change your dressings before you get back in bed.”

John hesitates, eventually nodding. Sherlock rummages around under the sink, coming up with some bandages. Thankfully Anthea had the foresight to pack the cabinet with medical supplies. John has leaned back against the toilet, eyes closed. Good. It will be easier if he doesn’t make eye contact.

Sherlock places everything on the ground, crouching before John. He keeps his eyes resolutely cast down, just in case John happened to open his. He pulls on the waistband of his pyjamas, waiting for John to lift his arse. In one swift movement he hauls everything down John’s legs, carefully not to catch the tips of his fingers on the dressing wrapped around his thigh. He tosses the wet clothing over the edge of the tub at an attempt to let it dry. He checks on John’s face briefly, but he’s still got his eyes closed. He’s breathing a little irregularly, but that was likely a painful experience.

His skin glistens a little, slightly damp. Sherlock’s gaze begins to wander southward, despite his best efforts to the contrary.  John seems to remember the towel wrapped around his shoulders at this point, and he suddenly pulls it down over his waist. Sherlock can’t help but follow the movement, but he only catches a glimpse of coarse blond hair before white terry cloth obscures everything. John mumbles something that sounds like Sorry, forgot that Sherlock doesn’t reply to. He tries to keep his curiosity at bay, and focus on John. Not on John. John’s wound. He shakes his head, imperceptibly, as if the motion would shake loose the thoughts circling around inside.

He works quickly, cutting off the old bandages and gently cleaning the wound, before wrapping John back up. John winces once or twice, sucking breath in between his teeth, but Sherlock thinks he’s been extraordinarily careful and gentle, so he barely registers it as important. 

They make the trek back out into the bedroom together, Sherlock supporting John back to the bed with one arm slung around him, and John desperately attempting to cover himself with the towel with one hand. It’s an awkward maneouvre to say the least.  They make it to the bed and John slides into it gratefully, pulling the covers over himself swiftly. 

“You’re dripping all over the floor,” he points out, and Sherlock picks at his trousers, frowning. He hadn’t brought clothing with him. He knows he must still have a stash of clothing here, somewhere, but he didn’t want to risk leaving the room soaking wet to look. He casts a glance at the dresser. Maybe. Luckily, he does find a pair of cotton pyjama pants. An old pair of his, and likely a little small, but they’ll do. He casts a glance back at John, who is staring at him through the darkness. 

“I’ll change, clean up in there.” He nods towards the bathroom, “You get rest. I won’t leave the room.” He pauses, “I’ll sleep… on the floor. You can get comfortable.” John’s face seems to close off at this, and he doesn’t respond. Just looks away. Sherlock tries to identify the problem, but doesn’t have the time. He’d be staring longer than comfortable for John, and doesn’t want to demand the answer of him. He loses his chance when John closes his eyes as if to sleep.

Sherlock walks into the washroom and closes the door behind him.  He walks over to the sink and puts his hands on either side, letting his shoulders slump forward.  He lets out a long sigh.  When he looks up into the mirror, an unfamiliar person looks back.  Ginger-haired, first off, but also tired and worn.  Sherlock reaches out and opens the medicine cabinet, curious.  What he finds inside causes a smile to cross his lips.

He undresses while he waits, a towel wrapped around his shoulders.  He tries not to imagine John’s hands as he unfastens his trousers, but it requires a great deal of self control.  The way that he unhooked each button.  The way that his hands brushed over Sherlock’s shoulders as he pushed off his shirt.  They way he seemed to fit perfectly against his chest.  And then there was the sensation of John’s skin beneath his fingertips.  Rough in places, smooth in others.  The stolen glimpse of blonde pubic hair.  The curve of the inside of his thigh.

Sherlock forces himself out of his reverie and tugs the pyjama pants on.  They are definitely a bit snug and he curses himself for the way the fabric pulls tight over his growing erection.  He has to get John out of his mind.  He checks his watch.  Five more minutes.  Not enough time to…  Fine.  He would deal.

Dismembered bodies.  Anderson.  Types of poisonous plants.  Anderson.  The chemical formula for formaldehyde.  Anderson.  Damn it.

It wasn’t working and time was up.  Sherlock cracks the bathroom door and listens intently.  He hears John snoring gently, taken away by the pacifying effects of the morphine.  He closes the door again and this time, locks it.  He steps out of his cotton pants and into the shower.  Fifteen minutes later, water circles the drain mixed with brown hair dye and come.

Sherlock changes and tidies quickly. He hangs John’s clothing and his shirt over the shower bar to drip into the tub, hopefully letting them dry off. When he returns to the bedroom, John is still asleep, looking peaceful. Sherlock lies down on the empty side of the bed. He’d meant what he said, about sleeping on the floor, but he supposes that if he stays on top of the covers, and faces away, that John might not be angry about it in the morning.

—

Next: John

Previous: John

—

Sherlock arrives back at Mycroft’s with a duffle slung across one shoulder. He wastes no time taking it to the guest bedroom, nodding a vague greeting to Anthea on his way. He tries not to linger and stare at John, seated in the parlour once again. He unpacks John’s laptop and leaves it on the bedside table.  He also removes a small bundle, and returns with it in his hands.

He stands in the centre of the room, analyzing. John seems strained and uncomfortable, his leg stretched out in front of him. His expression belies more than physical pain and Sherlock casts a dark glance around, looking for any clue towards an intruder. Mycroft catches him in the act.

“Sebastian has not been here, Sherlock.” He states, a withering look on his face. Sherlock ignores him, but noticeably relaxes.  He walks over and crouches in front of John. He raises an eyebrow questioningly, concerned.

“I’m alright.” John confirms, trying not to roll his eyes. He avoids looking Mycroft intently. Sherlock finally proffers the small bundle. John opens it to find small vials of clear liquid, and syringes.

“Morphine.” Sherlock states, “I think it will help.” 

John breathes a sigh of relief, and nods. 

“I don’t think I want to ask where you got this.” John laughs, casting a wry look at him.  They share a brief smile and Mycroft leaves the room, finally. Sherlock’s eye catches on the crutches and he can’t help the frown that twitches into place at the reminder. 

“Actually, lets get you into bed, and you can rest. I think between the rehab and your transfer here, it’s been an exhausting day.” Sherlock snatches up the bundle of morphine, drawing an annoyed grumble from John.

“You’ll stay in the guest room, obviously.” Sherlock casts an eye at the sectional that lines the wall beneath the windows. “I can stay out here.” I suppose it’s close enough.

John looks apprehensive, “There is absolutely no way you can fit your massive height onto this sofa, Sherlock.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “I suppose I can arrange to sleep… on the floor.” He shrugs, casually. Closer. Better.

John sighs. “Yes, fine. Whatever. Give me those, would you?” He gestures at the crutches and Sherlock reluctantly hands them over. He would prefer to be the crutch for John, help him work out his leg while he makes his way to the guest room. Unfortunately he’s restricted by the item in his hand. He hovers close to John, at the ready, while he stands and they make their way to the guest room. Sherlock pauses at the kitchen, letting John go on ahead. Mycroft and Anthea are there, looking expectant.

“Thank you,” he says, after a long moment, “For understanding.” Mycroft looks deeply uncomfortable for a moment, before simply nodding.

“Anything for my brother, Sherlock.”

Sherlock shrugs this off, and gestures over his shoulder towards the guest room.

“I’m going to have him rest, for now. I trust you’ll take care of the nurse issue for me?” Mycroft nods, of course, and Anthea pulls out her mobile phone, texting furiously.

Sherlock leaves to find John just settling on the bed, beside the open duffle. Clothing and toiletries are all that’s left inside, all John’s items. He smiles a small thank you to Sherlock as he enters the room. Sherlock walks over and kneels before him, morphine in hand. John’s gaze seems to continually slide away from Sherlock, frustratingly enough. Eventually he gives in, taking a deep breath.

“I’m going to inject you, alright?” He tries to catch John’s eye, but John just nods, finding a particularly interesting point on the ground over Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock sighs, and looks John over. 

“Want to change into something more comfortable?” He nods towards the duffle, indicating the pyjama bottoms on top. John shrugs.

“Alright.” He pulls them out of the bag, and the realization that he’ll likely need Sherlock’s help to change seems to dawn on him. His mouth tightens, his brow furrows. Sherlock watches the changes with fascination, trying to puzzle them out. Trying to chase an understanding of what John is thinking across his face. It resolves too quickly, John pulling his shirt over his head. Sherlock sits back on his heels, watching the slow reveal of skin as John does so. He traces the topography of the scar on John’s shoulder with his eyes. He realizes he’s been staring when John finally tries to catch his eye.

“Sherlock?”

“Hm?” He snaps his eyes up to meet John’s, desperately hoping that a flush isn’t creeping up his neck. That’s the last thing he needs.

“I need..” John swallows, “I need a hand. Changing. Here.” He’s undone his trousers already, and at this point he shifts to slide them down, succeeding in getting them over his arse. 

“Of course.” Sherlock leans forward, hooking his fingers into the loose waistband of John’s jeans. He obligingly pulls them down his legs, doing his absolute best to keep his eyes fixed on John’s face. John doesn’t make eye contact again, unhelpfully staring at a point on the wall. Sherlock slides the cotton pyjama pants up over John’s knees before he snatches the waistband away from him. He struggles with it a bit, and Sherlock can see pain write itself across John’s face as he puts weight onto his leg. It makes his chest feel hollow.

Sherlock clears the bag off and instructs John to lay down and get under the blankets. Afterwards Sherlock kneels beside the bed, taking John’s proffered arm. He busies himself with the morphine, the syringe, cleaning John’s arm. He’s methodical and practised, and concern flickers across John’s face as he watches. Sherlock pierces the skin of John’s inner arm expertly, finding a vein easily. The morphine floods John’s system blissfully, and he closes his eyes against it. He can hear Sherlock shifting, packing things up and busying himself. He cracks an eye to see him standing at the foot of the bed, turned away. Looking unsure.

“Come here.” John requests, against his better judgement. Sherlock casts a confused look his way, turning towards him.

“Just. Lie down. I did shoot you, the least I could do is let you share the bed.” He pats the empty space beside him.

Sherlock frowns, walking around to fold himself onto the bed. He is as close to the edge of the mattress as he can be and still be comfortable. Precisely 14 inches away from John. John’s lips quirk into a small smile and he closes his eyes, hands folded over his stomach. Sherlock is not tired, in the least, but he feels comfortable here. He is close enough to John to protect him while he sleeps. He’s in sight, and safe, and pain-free for the moment. It takes 17 minutes for John to slip into sleep. Actual sleep. Sherlock lays there, listening to the sound of his breathing. He doesn’t move, not once. This moment is almost enough.

—

Next: Sebastian