Chapter Text
John discovered he was by far one of the youngest instructors at Hereford. His colleagues were ten, twenty years older than him: men who'd had spectacular careers before age or injury finally slowed them down. It stung a little, to be here so young. He had more in common with the trainees than he did with his fellow instructors.
He had two weeks ahead of him to learn the ropes before he officially signed the contract that put him back in the Army, but it was a technicality. Everyone seemed to already accept that he was back.
Everyone also seemed to know about Sherlock. As Major Devan was showing him around the barracks, one of the lockers was open, bringing John face to face with, well, a pin-up of Sherlock, half-dressed and in full glam mode. The kid's buddy slammed the locker shut and hissed something about having some respect for the new captain. John half-listened, torn between trying to keep a straight face and trying to swallow the ache in his throat. He settled on giving the kid a stern look and moving on.
It felt as if he'd never been out of uniform, but at the same time, his surroundings at Hereford couldn't have felt more foreign. It had been years since he'd been here last, just a scared kid worried about washing out of training. Now he was supposedly one of the men who knew what they were doing. If nothing else, he'd learnt since then how to fake that until it wasn't fake anymore. Still he couldn't help but feel a little bit of an impostor as the major showed him to his quarters: small, spartan, and now home for four or five nights a week. Maybe more. Without Sherlock, reasons to go back to London on the weekends were growing more and more limited. John shook off the moodiness and started to unpack his things.
Dinner in the officers' mess turned out to be more relaxed than he'd imagined as a trainee, and his fellow instructors were less intimidating, with more than a bit of raucous laughter and joking.
"Oi, Watson," Hamilton—a major from somewhere close to Hadrian's Wall to judge by his accent— called across the table. "I saw your girlfriend on the BBC the other morning. She's a looker, that one is."
It was about what he'd been expecting. There was a little spike of tension around the table as they waited to see how John would react. He made a show of poking at his food, an easy grin on his face. "Be happy to pass along your interest," he said, "but I wouldn't hold out much hope. Sherlock's only interested in men with bigger cocks than his, and from what I hear, you wouldn't stand much of a chance." The table erupted into laughter and someone pounded him on the shoulder. Hamilton snorted and gave John a grin and the finger. John knew he'd passed a test.
Sooner or later he'd have to acknowledge that Sherlock wasn't his anything anymore, but for now he just smiled and pretended everything was fine.
"You utter asshole."
Sherlock sighed and laid back across the sofa, phone in hand, eyes on the ceiling of his flat. "Hello, Irene."
"No, seriously. Are you fucking insane? I know you're not fucking sane, because you're letting sane walk right out the door. What exactly are you doing, Sherlock?"
"Who told you?"
"Molly was first," Irene said. "Then Greg. I'd've verified it with John but I don't have his new number yet. Now answer me. What do you think you're doing?"
"What I had to," Sherlock said, and it sounded weak even to him.
"I saw the way you looked at him. You can't tell me you're just over it now that you're home." Irene paused to breathe in and out slowly. "Tell me what's really going on. Are you using again?"
"No!" He answered maybe a little too fast. The vial was still in its place. Hidden. The urge was right there every time he stopped moving long enough to let it catch up to him.
"Then what? He would have died for you; you can't tell me that he's over it either."
Sherlock closed his eyes and draped his forearm across his forehead, hand dangling loosely. After a long moment, he said, "I just can't do it, all right? I can't—be normal and go with him to military dinners or whatever the hell they do. I can't play house on the weekends when I'm home and spend every night I'm on tour wishing he was there."
"Did you tell him that?"
"No, there's no point, Irene. This is what he wants. Better to end it now."
"This is better?"
"No," Sherlock said, miserable. "But it will get better."
"You're still holding something back," she said. "What is it? Really?"
Sherlock said, "I nearly got him killed."
Irene laughed. "Sherlock, he used to get paid to nearly get killed. I'm fairly certain that isn't a problem for him."
"But it was for me," he said. "What happens when he decides teaching isn't enough and wants to go somewhere more dangerous? He'll never be happy just teaching. He'll want to be in the middle of things. What if they decide he's well enough for combat again?"
Irene didn't say anything for a moment. "Not that I'm saying that's likely," she finally said, "but again, it didn't occur to you to mention this to him? He might have changed his mind, for you."
"He shouldn't have to, though. He deserves better than that."
"What? Where did that come from?"
"He said it once," Sherlock said. "He said I was a train wreck. He's right."
"Jesus Christ. You are making absolutely no sense. Are you listening to the shit coming out of your mouth?"
"Just leave it, all right? It's over, that's all you need to know." Just shut up and leave me alone, Irene.
"Oh my god," Irene gasped. "Sherlock Holmes, you're being a fucking martyr, that's what you're doing. I can't believe you. You are, without a doubt, the most idiotic, childish, selfish man I have ever known. I'll say it if no one else will—and I hate you for making me say something so cliche and obvious: John Watson was the best goddamn thing that ever happened to you, and you're throwing it away so you can feel—what—noble? Because you're scared? Someone got to you, so you have to run?"
"I can't leave the fucking flat anymore without feeling like someone's watching me." The words came out before he could stop them.
"You're a pop star in the middle of a legal battle. Of course there are people watching you," Irene said.
"Not—not like that." Sherlock banged his head against the armrest of the couch, wishing he could take the whole conversation back.
"You mean—oh." Irene's voice softened just a touch. "That's normal, you know."
"What do you know about it?"
Irene snorted. "Okay, asshole, here's where I point out that he went after me before he went after you, did you forget? Did you think I was completely fine after that? I was scared half to death after that night. That first concert afterwards my hands were sweating so badly I thought I'd short out the mic."
Sherlock sat up and swung his feet to the floor. "You never said."
"Of course I didn't. Do you think you're superhuman? You're allowed to freak out. You're not allowed to screw up every good thing in your life as a result."
Sherlock sighed. "I think I already have."
"Oh for fuck's sake. Quit being such a drama queen and talk to him. I swear to god, if you don't call him I will."
"Irene, I—"
"Yes, you can, don't say you can't. You have three days, Sherlock, or I'll call him, and it won't be to see if he still wants you, either."
"You can't do that."
"Three days, Sherlock, then watch me." She rang off.
"Come on, you fuckin' infants! Speed it up!" John yelled at the trainees running the assault course, watching closely to see who needed more pushing. A few were taking it a little too easy, and he thought he could already tell which of the slackers was going to wash out of training. He wondered if he'd looked as clueless as some of them did at this point, or if he'd been one of the ones with expressions of grim determination.
As the last one crossed the finish line, John joined with Major Devan, as John was shadowing him for the day. "That," said the major, "was pitiful. Captain Watson, if you'd be so kind as to provide a demonstration?"
John had run the assault course just the day before, mostly to see if he still could, to see if his shoulder would still let him scale walls and if his knee would hold up under jumps. He knew what the major was looking for, and he hoped he was up to providing it. "Yes sir," he said, and jogged to the beginning of the course.
The fastest trainee had come in at just over five minutes. John had to beat that, or the object lesson would fail. His heart beat with anticipation.
It was easier the second time around. Muscle memory kicked in as he scaled the six-foot wall, then the ten-foot wall. He had to keep from grinning, each successful jump or fall adding to his sheer joy, the first he'd felt in weeks. He reached the end of the course with just a twinge in his shoulder, barely noticeable under the rush of endorphins.
"Thank you, Captain Watson," Major Devan said. "Four minutes forty-seven seconds. Can any of you tell me what that means?"
One of the braver ones spoke up. "He beat us, sir?"
"That's right, Williams. Captain Watson—who was invalided out thanks to his injuries, who is considered no longer fit for combat, walloped every single one of you. Captain, what would you say would happen if we dropped this lot in the middle of Sierra Leone?"
"They might last two minutes, sir," John said. "I'd say we've got a long road ahead of us."
"Too right," Major Devan said. "All right. Back to the start, all of you. You're going to do it again, and if at least one of you doesn't beat Captain Watson's time, we'll do it again until someone does."
John should have been more pleased with himself than he was. He'd thought Major Devan's words "no longer fit for combat" would bother him more than they did, but that wasn't the reason for the faint sense of disappointment lingering in his gut. He'd taken on a challenge. He'd won. That should have been enough. But it wasn't. It didn't seem like anything more than a game. In the field, his running speed, his agility, would have meant something. Here it was just another training mechanism, a yardstick for the trainees to beat themselves against.
It didn't feel the same at all.
While he was on the train to London that first Friday, John got a text from Greg asking him if he wanted to meet at the pub on Saturday. He couldn't accept fast enough.
He slept in to the ridiculous hour of 9 am on Saturday, then let himself be a lazy sod for most of the day. He argued with Harry over who got which section of the paper first, then cooked her an enormous fry-up as thanks for letting him continue to use her spare room.
By the time he got to the pub that night, Greg had already turned up. The noise made it easy not to talk, so John focused on drinking his pint. When he did talk, he told Greg how the first week of training had gone, how he'd have to think about finding a flat soon because Harry didn't want him in her hair every weekend, everything but the one thing he was really thinking about. Finally, halfway through his second pint, a silence fell between them, and John couldn't put it off anymore. "How is he?"
Greg stared into his glass for a minute before answering. "He's writing some of the most godawful music I've ever heard. And I've known him for a while. That's saying something."
"No good?" John frowned.
"Oh no, it's good," Greg said. "It's just the saddest shit you've ever heard. John, what happened?"
"He didn't tell you?" John took a long swallow from his glass. "He said it was over. I was done with the tour, so he was done with me."
Greg sighed. "And so you left."
"What was I supposed to do?" asked John.
"You don't understand, do you?" Greg said. "Let me tell you what happens on a tour, mate. You meet somebody on the road—maybe they'll be around for a while, maybe they won't—and you hit it off, right? It gets intense. Why not, you're together nearly twenty-four hours a day with shit going crazy around you all the time. Then the tour's over. And you think 'No, but this is going to last, we've got something here', but it doesn't, and you don't. And within a month or so, you can't remember what it was about them you liked."
"Jesus, Greg. It wasn't like that at all. I'm not—"
"I know you're not," Greg said. "I'm telling you that's what relationships are, as far as Sherlock is concerned. And you left the tour."
John scrubbed at his forehead with his palm. "But I'm right here. He threw me out of his fucking flat, Greg. That seemed like a pretty clear message. What should I have done, stayed on his doorstep?"
"Do you really think he meant what he said?"
"Yes. No. Damn it, Greg. I am not going to follow Sherlock around like... like Jim bloody Moriarty!"
"Oh come on, you know it's not the same."
"Isn't it? You think I should go stand under his window every night like some lovesick teenager?"
"I think you should talk some sense into him," Greg said, draining his glass. "You may be the only one who can right now."
John sighed and pinched at the bridge of his nose. "What's really going on? Do you know? I know he was lying to me."
Greg opened his mouth, then closed it. Finally he blurted, "He's afraid." He scrubbed at his chin with the back of his hand. "He won't say it, but he is. I can barely get him out of the flat. He finally stopped drinking after you came home, but... he's too quiet. I'm afraid he's going to use again," he said, barely audible over the ambient noise.
"What?"
"He's my best mate, all right? He's never kept things from me like this before. He's about to make a cock up of everything. And you bloody well are too because neither of you can be arsed to talk to each other."
John swallowed the last of his pint. "He's dodging my calls; what do you suggest I do?"
"I suggest you get your arse over there and talk to him."
"Yeah, maybe." John leaned his elbows against the bar and rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes. "Can you—can you keep an eye on him? Until I can?"
"What do you think I've been doing?" Greg said, the corners of his mouth drawn down. "Talk to him soon, John. Don't keep putting it off."
It was Monday morning back at Hereford, the first of many to come, undoubtedly. This week John would be doing less shadowing and observing, and a little more hands on instructing. First up was close combat. As soon as he squared off against one of the trainees, he knew it was a mistake.
"The first thing to remember is this: don't be a hero. Your only goal is to get away. So anything I show you is to do just that." It echoed in his head, paired with the image of a worried, sleep-deprived Sherlock.
Of course that wasn't at all what he needed to teach here. Focus, John. He got through the drill, and afterwards, stepped outside. It was still early in the morning, the grounds misty with only the faintest hint of sun. It would be easy to walk into and get lost. Shoving his hands into his pockets, John walked. He had a bit before he needed to be anywhere else.
He thought about what Greg had said to him two days prior. In the end, he'd lacked the courage to go round to Sherlock's flat. The idea of seeing cold-eyed scorn aimed at him a second time... he'd backed down. Stupid. If he were less of a coward, he would have parked himself on Sherlock's doorstep until Sherlock told him the truth. Sherlock owed him that much.
What was John doing here?
He thought about the days stretching before him. He could teach. He could make sure the next lot of SAS went into combat prepared to face anything. They would go off around the world and make a difference, and he would stay here in Hereford and teach them how to make a difference. And every day would be just like the one before. Sure, there might be an occasional burst of adrenaline, he'd even be able to test himself against some of the best Britain had to offer. But never as a surprise. There would never be anything he didn't see coming. Predictable, organised—chaotic only to the students, not the teachers.
He thought about what it had been like, travelling across America. Even before Sherlock had been anything more than part of the job, each day had been something new, some unexpected challenge. He had always been on his toes. It had been, strangely, much like living and working in a war zone, minus the actual risk of death. Suddenly John missed it, fiercely. He missed walking into a new club, anxious to find out what problems he'd have to solve that day. He missed running around like a madman, dodging wires and ropes the way he'd once dodged bullets. He missed Sherlock, sure. He suspected he always would, but Sherlock wasn't the whole of it.
He thought about Harry telling him there was a career waiting for him as a tour manager. Even without Sherlock, he'd be lying if he didn't acknowledge the little thrill of excitement that gave him. The unknown, every night. Every stop something new. He'd been wrong. That was what he'd wanted. The SAS had given him that in spades, but not now. Not here.
Oh god, he'd been an idiot.
In the end, it was easier than he'd expected.
"I hate to lose you, John," said Drummond, when John had stopped by his office, "you're a hell of a soldier and would have made a damn fine instructor. I've had your commission paperwork sitting right here. You're sure?"
John was.
Dismissed, he grabbed what few things were in his quarters and was on the train to London within the hour. He didn't even bother to change clothes.
Once on the train, he phoned Harry. "Still offering me a job?"
"Are you looking for one now?" She sounded amused, but not surprised. "We haven't finalised anything for Sherlock's tour yet."
John paused, then took a breath. "Let me go talk to him first. I'll call you afterwards."
He settled back in his seat and tried to figure out what he was going to say.
Sherlock heard the alarm going off beside his head and groaned, reaching out blindly to slap at it. He had a moment to wonder why he'd set the alarm in the first place. It was 9 am and he'd managed to fall asleep sometime after five. Before he could roll over and ignore the alarm entirely, he remembered his meeting at 11 am at Mike Stamford's office. He flopped back against the pillow and stared at the ceiling. Honestly, he didn't see why the meeting was even necessary. It was obvious they weren't going to try to hire a new tour manager in the wake of John's departure (don't think about that) but that they'd offer the job to Sally Donovan. Who'd be perfectly happy to accept it and make his life hell for the next two months.
Sherlock forced himself out of bed and into the shower, knowing there wasn't enough caffeine or nicotine in the world to make this morning bearable. It didn't stop him from trying, downing two cups of coffee while getting dressed and chain-smoking one cigarette after another. He dressed quickly but with at least a little care—black jeans, worn and threadbare grey t-shirt and over it, a dark purple-red dress shirt loose and open down the front and at the cuffs. The press were still keeping an eye out, and it wasn't unlikely that he'd be photographed at some point.
Less than an hour after crawling out of bed, he was walking out of his building. The sun was improbably bright for January so Sherlock slid on a pair of dark sunglasses and stopped long enough to light a cigarette. He took some consolation in the fact that even if he still felt like shit, he at least didn't look it. He came down the steps of his building and walked a few feet before stopping abruptly, letting the other pedestrians part around him like water around a boulder.
John. There was no way he should have been here in the middle of the morning, walking towards Sherlock's building with such tight-mouthed determination. He shouldn't have been here, especially not in full uniform. John's bearing was even more impossibly upright, from the top of his beige beret to the soles of his tan boots. He was clearly a man on a mission. Sherlock studied him as John still kept his eyes fixed forward like he was on a march. There was nothing logical about the sudden pounding of Sherlock's heart. The camouflage fabric of John's uniform wasn't form-fitting or revealing, except inasmuch as it emphasised his body's honed state of readiness. Maybe it was the glint Sherlock could just see in John's eyes as he got closer. Whatever it was, when John realised Sherlock was standing there, the full force of it was turned directly to bear on Sherlock, and for a moment he couldn't breathe.
John stopped just a few feet in front of him, as the pedestrians split around them. Sherlock, ever image-conscious, had a moment to wonder at the picture they must make, opposites in every respect: dark and light, tall and short, slender and muscular, carelessly fashionable and impeccably uniformed. He took off his sunglasses as John took off his beret, toying with the patch on the front. Sherlock recognised it: it was a match to the tattoo on John's right shoulder.
"Hi," John said.
"Hello." Sherlock fought the urge to grab him by the shoulders and kiss him, not sure if it would be welcome anymore.
"You owe me some answers," John said, tilting a small, tight grin at him; Sherlock felt a corresponding ache in his chest.
"I—" What could he say? That he'd been a coward? "I didn't want to be in your way."
"Jesus, Sherlock," and then John was laughing at him, laughing, but in a way that was anything but funny. "In the way of what?"
"Well you're—" Sherlock gestured at the uniform.
"You giant idiot. I took a post three hours from here so I could stay close."
"But I—"
"Look. Can we just—talk to each other for a minute?"
God, what horrible timing. Sherlock hesitated. "I want to—I do. I have an appointment."
"Just give me ten minutes," said John.
Ordinarily Sherlock didn't give a damn if he was late; why did it matter to him now? He took one more drag off the cigarette and ground it out, then nodded, gesturing up the steps. "Come in." He led the way back to his flat, trying not to think about John following him. When he opened the door, he saw the state the place was in and started tidying, moving piles of sheet music and books from one place to another.
"Sherlock, stop." John stepped over to him and caught him gently by the arm. Sherlock stopped, and looked over at him. "I never left. I was never leaving."
"I know you weren't," Sherlock said, "but your career—I'm not—"
"You're not...?" John raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to finish.
"...military? I'm never going to fit into that crowd. I'd be a detriment—"
John laughed the same weary laugh. "You're an idiot."
Sherlock pressed on. "I thought—no, I knew—I thought I knew—" He stopped with a growl of frustration, then finally settled on, "I didn't want you to see me the way I was when I got home."
"I always want to see you," John said. "That's why I flew from San Francisco to London with a busted eardrum."
"No—"
"Yes," John said, and pressed a finger to Sherlock's mouth. That one touch was enough to break past the things Sherlock was trying to say. Without knowing who started it, Sherlock's arms were around John and John's were around him and John's mouth was beneath his open and warm and God Sherlock really was an idiot.
He pulled away first. "John, I'm sorry, I was angry and I—"
"I know," John said, and Sherlock leaned in to kiss him again. John leaned away. "Wait, I need to tell you something." Sherlock looked down at him, smiling to see John's close-cropped hair a little mussed, and raised a hand to smooth it back down. John pulled away further, and tucked away his beret under the strap across his shoulder. He looked discomfited, then took a deep breath. "I changed my mind," John said. "It's not what I thought it would be."
"What isn't?"
"I turned down my commission. Teaching is... it's not where I belong." He fidgeted with the cuff of his uniform shirt, not looking at Sherlock. "I'm going back to work for Harry," he said. "She's got other tours lined for me if I want them, but—"
"But what?" Sherlock sank down into one of the chairs by the fireplace, giving John some space.
"Look. Whatever's going on, let me in. If you meant what you said—if you really want me gone, then okay. But if you don't, tell me so."
Sherlock looked at him for a long moment. "I meant it when I said it. But I was wrong."
"Do you want me back on your tour?" John's eyes. He should have been furious with Sherlock, but he wasn't. Instead his eyes were calm, steady. Patient.
Sherlock nodded slowly. His throat felt too tight to allow a sound to pass through.
"Then that's settled." John smiled and leaned forward. "Come here." Sherlock met him halfway, letting John pull him to his feet, wrapping his arms around John's neck. They stood there together in silence for several moments, arms tight around each other. Sherlock tilted his head and pressed his mouth against the side of John's neck and felt John's body melting against his. John sighed as Sherlock opened his mouth and brushed against the pulse beating in John's neck, feeling it speed up under his lips.
John drew away once more, only to lean up towards Sherlock. Sherlock managed to say "God, I missed you," just as their mouths met. John petted his hair and Sherlock twined his fingers in the belt loops of John's trousers, his knuckles brushing the heavy webbing of John's belt. As Sherlock pulled him in tighter, John trailed his fingers down the sides of Sherlock's neck and slipped under the collar of his dress shirt to rest on his shoulders. He could feel John starting to push the fabric off his shoulders when he remembered the meeting, and pulled away. "Damn it. Harry."
John blinked, then laughed. "You did not just call me by my sister's name."
"What? No! My meeting. It's with Harry. About the tour." Sherlock scrabbled in his pocket for his phone. "I have to go, I'm sorry. Will you be here when I—" John reached over and plucked the phone out of his hands, then dialled a number. Sherlock tried to take the phone back, but John leaned out of his reach and grinned.
"Harry! Just wanted to let you know you can cancel your meeting with Sherlock today."
"John, give me my phone." Sherlock reached again, but John darted away with a laugh, heading directly towards the bedroom.
"No, he's fine. But he's got a tour manager again. And I have things I need to discuss with him." He looked Sherlock up and down with mischief in his eyes. "At length."
"John." Sherlock rolled his eyes and laughed.
"Tomorrow?" John said. "I think that might be enough time. I'll call if not." He laughed. "You're welcome." He rang off.
"You're mad," Sherlock said.
"You're one to talk." John tossed him his mobile. "Harry says we can meet her tomorrow at one if I promise not tell her what we 'discussed'."
Sherlock just had time to put the mobile down on the bedside table before John grabbed him around the waist and tossed him back against the bed in one easy motion. Sherlock sprawled on his back, resting on his elbows, watching as John untucked his heavy uniform shirt and started unbuttoning it from the bottom up.
"Speaking of talking," John said, smirking. "At some point we're going to need to have a talk about you making decisions about what's best for me without bothering to talk to me first, hm?"
Sherlock didn't respond for a moment, mesmerised by the slow, steady movement of John's fingers up the front of his uniform as he undid one button at a time, giving Sherlock small flashes of the fabric underneath. Sherlock blinked to clear his vision. "It wasn't just that," he said, as John slid off his shirt to reveal the beige t-shirt that was a match to the beret.
"What was it then?" John asked. He lifted one foot to the edge of the mattress, leaning down to unlace his boots while looking at Sherlock. Sherlock swallowed and sat up to unlace his own shoes. John shook his head. "My job. Your job is to answer the question."
Sherlock lay back on his elbows again, watching the flex of muscle under John's clothes as he finished untying his boots and slipped them off. Sherlock was finding it harder to think with each piece of John's uniform that came off. "Later," he said. "I promise." John looked at him for a moment, then smiled, slow and mischievous. He started unlacing Sherlock's shoes. Sherlock sat up and caught him by the t-shirt and pulled him in. John didn't resist, but crawled up onto Sherlock, one leg between his thighs.
"You could have let me finish getting undressed," John murmured, leaning down to kiss him.
"Plenty of time for that," Sherlock said between kisses down John's jawline. "You said tomorrow afternoon, after all."
John groaned softly and lowered his mouth to Sherlock's ear. He murmured, "That doesn't mean I don't want you right now." He pressed his thigh against Sherlock's crotch and Sherlock arched up to meet him, hooking one foot behind John's leg.
"God, yes," Sherlock said and tugged at the back of John's t-shirt, pulling it out of his trousers and sliding his hands up John's back. John took the hint and knelt up for a moment, tugging the shirt over his head and tossing it away. Sherlock looked at his body, at the familiar play of muscles and skin, and had to touch. He reached up pulled John back down for a kiss, sliding his hands over the firm muscles of John's shoulders and down his sides. Sherlock fumbled at the heavy belt around John's waist, wrestling with it until John reached down and impatiently pushed his hands away, undoing the belt before reaching to twine his hands in Sherlock's hair.
Sherlock had an easier time with the flies of John's trousers, letting his fingers soak in John's warmth, feeling him half-hard through his pants. John murmured something encouraging against his mouth, so he shoved both pants and trousers down. John wriggled the rest of the way out of them and kicked them away. Sherlock couldn't resist running his fingers over John's cock, feeling it harden and hearing John's quiet hum of appreciation. He ran his hands up John's sides, then shoved at his good shoulder, flipping him over. He crouched over John and tugged off his dress shirt.
John smirked up at him. "That t-shirt looks like it's ready for the bin." As he said it though, he reached up for Sherlock and slipped his hands under the thin fabric, curving his fingers around Sherlock's back.
"It's a fashion statement," Sherlock said, leaning down to lick at John's collarbone.
John gasped and tilted back his head, but laughed. "What's the statement? 'I'm a starving musician who can't afford to buy new clothes'?" Sherlock sat up to glare at him, but John pulled his hands away and slid them up to Sherlock's chest, fisting his hands in the flimsy fabric and pulling Sherlock back down to him. Sherlock heard stitches popping in the seams.
"Careful," he said.
John grinned up at him and tightened his hands. "Or what, I'll tear it? Would you notice another one?" His eyes met Sherlock's, and his fingers found one of the holes in the fabric over Sherlock's chest. With a wicked glint in his eyes, John pulled, and Sherlock heard the purring rip of fabric and felt the rush of cool air against his chest.
He looked down and saw the grey shirt in tatters, open from collar to hem. "Oh you bastard," Sherlock said, even as he felt a rush of heat up his spine. He grabbed John's wrists and wrestled them down to the bed--he suspected John wasn't fighting back terribly hard, or he'd never have managed. He leaned down to lick into John's mouth, mind humming with a single thought: John, pinned naked under him.
John squirmed beneath him for several long moments of the demanding kiss, and Sherlock was torn between holding him there indefinitely and taking his own clothes off. John made the decision for him: he scissored his legs around Sherlock's and flipped him over. John pinned Sherlock's hands effortlessly with one hand, and Sherlock whined softly. John's other hand trailed down Sherlock's now-bare chest, and his eyes were locked onto Sherlock's, wide and dark.
Sherlock felt as if he were straining for each breath and bit his lower lip hard as John's fingers inched towards his waist. "I missed you," Sherlock gasped.
"Even though I'm a bastard?" John grinned then slid his hand to cup Sherlock's crotch. "I could rip you out of these jeans too, you know."
"You wouldn't."
"Utility knife in my trouser pocket, a few nicks here and there, and..." He released Sherlock's hands and started to slide down Sherlock's body, leaving a trail of kisses and bites across his skin. Sherlock arched underneath him, moaning when John's mouth pressed against his cock, the heat of his breath seeping through his jeans. At that moment, Sherlock didn't care if John did decide to cut him out of them, as long as he took them off. As if John had heard his thoughts, he unbuttoned Sherlock's flies while his lips and teeth kept teasing at the hard shape of Sherlock's trapped cock.
"Raise up," John said, as he tugged the zip down. Sherlock lifted his hips and John drew away jeans, pants, and all. He tossed them away, then leaned in to sleek his hands up the outsides of Sherlock's thighs. And then, oh then, John's mouth came back to lick gently at the crease of Sherlock's hip, slow, teasing touches of tongue and lips that edged closer to the centre, then moved away until Sherlock was ready to scream in frustration.
"Please," Sherlock gasped, and John inched a little closer, just letting the edge of his tongue stroke the side of Sherlock's balls.
"Please, what?" John was smiling, Sherlock could feel the curve of his lips against his skin. "Please this?" John slid the flat of his tongue up the underside of Sherlock's cock and Sherlock groaned so loudly it echoed in the room. "That sounds like a yes," John said. He leaned in and licked the head of Sherlock's cock slowly, thoroughly, threatening to burn out any remaining thought from Sherlock's head. He opened his eyes and looked down at John, who was watching him. John grinned, and repeated the action, a slow easy curling of his tongue from the underside of Sherlock's glans all the way over the top of it. Sherlock recognised it instantly, his own trick, saved for microphones and boyfriends.
"Oh you bastard," Sherlock said again, letting his head fall back to the mattress. "I love you."
John crawled up Sherlock's body and settled against him, warm skin against warm skin. "Say that again."
"You bastard."
John laughed and tugged at Sherlock's hair. "You know what I meant."
Sherlock smiled and reached up to cup his hands around the back of John's head. He kissed John gently, little more than a peck on the lips. "I love you."
"Do me a favour, and don't forget that, all right?" He returned the kiss, a little less gently. "I love you too. Enough that you can tell me what's going on with you, yeah?"
Sherlock nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
"God knows I've faced worse than you," John said, then leaned down to trail kisses down Sherlock's neck. He rolled his hips against Sherlock's: teasing, dragging friction as their cocks pressed together, trapped between their bodies. Sherlock groaned and reached for the firm curves of John's arse, wanting more. He wrapped his legs tight around John's, arching to rub and press their bodies together until John stopped him.
John's voice dropped to a low growl. "I need you inside me."
All Sherlock could manage was a breathy, "Yes." He turned so he was no longer crosswise on the bed, and reached over to the bedside table. John followed him, nuzzling and nipping at him, making it hard for Sherlock to focus on the simple task at hand. Fending John off with one hand and a laugh, he managed to grab the bottle of lube and a condom from the drawer, then settled back against the pillows. John pounced, straddling Sherlock's thighs and leaning down to kiss him, slow and wet and deep while he wrapped his fingers around their cocks, just barely stroking them together.
Sherlock groaned and tried to focus on getting the lube on his fingers instead of all over the bed. He reached up with his left hand and caught John by the back of the neck, keeping him where he was, and slowly teased the fingers of his other hand into the crack of John's arse, slipping down until he brushed against John's hole. John sagged against him, relaxing into a soft moan as Sherlock slipped the first finger inside, wriggling into the soft, sweet heat as John squirmed against him.
Sherlock had nearly lost this, had nearly pushed John away for good. He closed his eyes and swallowed the lump threatening to knot in his throat. He slowly worked a second finger into John, hearing him hiss at the stretch then gasp softly.
"Hey," John murmured, "come back to me." Sherlock opened his eyes and John leaned down to kiss him. "I know," John said.
Sherlock didn't look away after that, loving the almost dazed expression on John's face as Sherlock slipped a third finger into him. When John was open and ready, he pulled away from Sherlock and knelt forward, giving Sherlock room to get ready himself. John reached back and covered Sherlock's hand on his cock, and together the two of them moved into position and John sat back and slowly lowered his weight down over Sherlock, taking him in with a low cry. Sherlock was so hard it was almost too much, too tight, too hot, too good. His control was already fraying around the edges. When John started to move, Sherlock wanted to look at him, to watch him; but the sight of John riding him, back arched, head thrown back, was nearly enough to make him come. He closed his eyes and held on to John's hips, losing himself in the sound of their bodies meeting, of John's breathless groans mingling with his own, and finally of the sweet-hot friction spilling out from his hips through his entire nervous system.
He heard when John started stroking himself and opened his eyes. John's head was hanging forward now, eyes closed and mouth open as he thrust into his fist. "Oh fuck," Sherlock said, and John's eyes snapped open and met his. "Close?" Sherlock asked, and John nodded, rocking faster against Sherlock's hips. Sherlock reached up and stroked down John's stomach, feeling the muscles working, then brushed his hand over John's and murmured, "Come for me."
A few moments later, he did, spurting across Sherlock's chest and panting out nonsense syllables that tried to turn into words. Sherlock stopped moving, but John shook his head fiercely, still rocking Sherlock in and out of his arse. Sherlock could feel him squeezing and fluttering around him and closed his eyes again with a moan.
When he came, it was like the top of his head was on fire, slowly burning down through the rest of his body, and John's cries were nearly as breathless as his own. Sherlock dragged John down to him and kissed him, an open-mouthed sharing of breath and lips and tongue. They were sweaty and slippery where their skin met, and Sherlock thought that nothing was worth the possibility of losing this again, nothing gave him a good enough high to risk it.
John slid over to his side, curling against Sherlock with a sigh. Sherlock kissed him and rolled out of the bed. In the bathroom, he cleaned himself up and wet a flannel to take back to John. The vial. He remembered the vial still hidden in the toilet and felt the shame trying to come back. He closed the door and reached under the toilet lid. The vial was still in its same place, and Sherlock took it out. He looked at it for a moment, figured out the street value, and shook his head. He uncapped it and dumped the white powder down into the toilet. The vial went into the trash. He flushed, washed his hands, and went back to where John was waiting for him.
Harry had somehow managed to wrangle a few new dates into the schedule, to take advantage of some of the publicity Sherlock had gotten. They started in Memphis, the first show they'd had to cancel when Irene was hurt. John had already planned to go over the entire rigging system with Molly before the show, even though logic said that with no Jim Moriarty to sabotage things, everything should be fine. Moriarty was still in jail in San Jose, likely to remain there until the trial date. There was no decision yet if either he or Sherlock would have to testify—that was a problem to worry about later. For now, there were a dozen things that needed doing.
"John? I need some help out here," called Sally from the lobby. He jogged up the aisle, passing Anderson who was carting equipment towards the stage.
"Why didn't you use the stage door?" John said as he passed.
"There's a truck out there blocking it," Anderson said, hoisting the amp with both hands. "Can you do something about that, please?"
John grinned. "Sure, mate. Let me see what Sally needs first."
Sally, it turned out, needed more space—again. As John was going to take care of that, he got a text from Sherlock: The tea in the green room is worse than usual. Anything you can do?
It was mad, absolutely mad, and John was having the time of his life. He knocked on the manager's door before poking his head in. "'Hi, it's John, listen, I'm afraid we've got a couple of small problems but I bet you're the man who can sort it out for me..."
Hours later, John was sitting perched in his usual spot in the booth, waiting for the show to start. The openers had been barely mediocre, and the crowd was restless. Greg glanced over at him. "Still have that gun on you?"
John grinned. "Mycroft didn't approve it this time, so no. Sherlock's going to have to win them over the old fashioned way."
"God help us," Greg said, and Molly laughed.
"I have faith in him," John said. It hadn't taken much to get Sherlock to confess to him about the anxiety after the BBC interview, but Sherlock had seemed fine all afternoon, better than fine during soundcheck. John had pulled him aside when they'd arrived at the theatre. "Listen," he'd said. "Nothing is going to happen to you, not while I'm here, and not as long as you tell me when something's going on. I won't let it. Not again."
Sherlock had kissed him and smiled. "I know," he'd said.
Now, waiting in the dark, John wasn't nervous, exactly, not really. As the clapping grew louder, the announcer finally came over the PA and introduced Sherlock. Molly threw the lights up with a blinding flash, and there he was, centre stage with his arms outstretched and head thrown back, drinking in the sudden screams in the audience.
Sherlock crossed to his instruments with his usual on-stage strut, and John smiled and sat back to listen. Sherlock was back on stage and John had helped get him there, and there was nowhere else in the world that John would rather be.