Chapter Text
I wake up groggy and in pain. My fucking arm, oh my god. It feels like its literally made of fire. Stiff, aching, searing, fire. My hip is still mashed up against the bed rail, and numb as hell. Sherlock’s here, curled at my side, one ankle crooked over mine, his hands tucked into his chest, and his head at a very awkward angle. He looks miserably uncomfortable.
I can’t believe he stayed here all afternoon like this. It’s dark now. No idea what time it is.
“Sherlock. Hey. Wake up.” I elbow him gently, as I can’t really move any other part of my body.
His head snaps up, immediately alert. “Are you okay?” He says thickly, licking his dry lips. The hospital air is dry as a desert.
“I’m actually really bloody uncomfortable, and you don’t look much better. I need food. And something to drink. And painkillers.The sooner the better.” I’m too tired and in pain to be less blunt.
He unfolds his long body as quickly as he can, scrambling a bit, bumping his shin hard on the metal bedframe. He winces, but tries to hide it. “I’ll get the nurse. And I’ll pop to the canteen and get you something to eat. What would you like, John?”
“I honestly don’t care. Just please get me something for my arm. It’s..uh...pretty fucking painful.” I’m actually biting back nausea at this point. I’m so hungry, and my arm hurts so badly, I’m on the edge of dry heaving.
Sherlock dashes away, a worried look on his face, and I must pass back out while he’s gone. Because next thing I know, I’m waking up to the smell of cooked meat and my arm hurts quite a bit less. I struggle a bit to open my eyes.
“John? Are you awake? I brought you dinner. The nurse put morphine in your drip for the pain. Is it helping?” Sherlock’s pulled a chair up next the bed, and he’s got a tray of something that looks like deflated Yorkshire pudding, peas, and limp chips, and a can of Coke. It looks GLORIOUS.
I nod, and scoot up the mattress to sitting, or I try to, which isn’t easy with only one good arm. Sherlock steps forward and hooks a hand under my shoulder, pulling me up gently. I hold my hand out for the tray. “Come on, then. I’m starving.”
Sherlock lays the tray across my outstretched legs and I tuck in. It’s floppy hospital food, and a French imitation of English food at that, but it is absolutely the best thing I’ve ever tasted in my life. Sherlock sits next to the bed, hands templed under his chin, watching me eat.
Finally, when there’s only a few extremely greasy chips left on the tray, I lay back. “Oh, that was bloody wonderful.”
Sherlock smiles for the first time since I woke up, that lovely crooked grin that makes me melt a bit. He grabs the tray off my lap and puts it on top of the extra chair in the room. “Feel better?”
“Oh, yeah. Much.” I smile at him, and stretch my good arm out toward him, fingers curling.
His much larger hand immediately closes over mine, and his lips brush over my wrist. “What can I do, John? What can I do for you?”
“Nothing. Honestly. Just talk to me. Stay here. How’s Mycroft?” Sherlock’s brow furrows when I ask about Mycroft.
“He’s...stable. He’s got a lot of internal injuries. He was...beaten pretty badly.” His lips press together in a thin line, his eyes shift down to our entwined hands. He really does care about his brother so much, even though they make each other mental.
“Is he conscious?” I try to sound as gentle as I can.
Sherlock shakes his head and swallows hard.
“Oh, Sherlock. He’ll be alright, love. Do you want me to take a look at him?” I know Sherlock trusts my medical opinion. While I might not be able to add anything to Mycroft’s diagnosis, it might just make Sherlock feel better.
“John, you’re lying there with a gunshot wound, drugged with enough painkillers for three people, after you saved my life TWICE last night...and you’re offering to go examine Mycroft?” He laughs joylessly and grips my hand tighter. “I really don’t deserve you.”
“You really DO. We deserve each other. Take that however you like.” I chuckle and lay back on my pillow, my eyelids feeling heavier by the second. I think I’m ready for sleeping again. “Sherlock, go back to the hotel. Get some sleep. I’m going to pass out for about twelve more hours, I think. I can look in on Mycroft in the morning. I’ll be better by then. Get out of here for now.”
I feel him leaning over me, his hand on the bed, weight dipping the mattress down, then his lips are on mine, gentle pressure, one hand cupping my face. “I’m not going anywhere.” He whispers against my mouth, thumb trailing down the cleft of my chin.
“Okay. Well, if you’re not going anywhere, then get back in this horrible creaky uncomfortable bed, and put your arms around me. Because I don’t give a shit how uncomfortable we are. I want you right here.” I’m half asleep, my eyes burning. At least my arm isn’t anymore. In fact, my arm feels sort of like it’s floating.
“Budge over.” He sounds more than happy to oblige me, and then his warm body is next to mine, and he very carefully threads an arm behind my shoulders, drawing me into his chest, turning us both on our sides a bit, towards each other, making sure to avoid my gunshot wound.
My whole body relaxes against him. His heart is thudding away next to my ear, and I feel his arms close around me snugly. I’m not entirely sure, as I’m being sucked into a narcotic induced sleep, but I think I hear him whisper, “I didn’t lose you. I didn’t lose you.”
***
The next few days are an increasingly lessening fog of sleeping, pain, and eating. Sherlock barely leaves the hospital, between me and Mycroft. He spends every night in the cramped hospital bed with me, and every morning sitting by Mycroft’s bedside. On day three, I finally get the drip line taken out of my hand, and I’m downgraded to painkillers by mouth. We get a few visits from associates of Mycroft’s, we get questioned by the Paris police, and Sherlock takes a trip to the British Embassy. The two dead bodies I left in my wake have been claimed by the UK, it’s all been sorted at a governmental level far above my understanding.
I ask him more than once about the why and the how, just because I’m still a bit foggy and I want to be clear that I’m not going to prison. The point, Sherlock explains, with mild exasperation, is that we’re free to leave France whenever I’m released medically, and that no charges will be filed against me. Neither in France or at home. Which is a tremendous relief. I mostly believed it would be alright, but I wasn’t certain.
Things get incrementally less foggy, but I start having some internal struggles with what happened. I have to tell myself repeatedly that she - I can’t even bring myself to think her name, either of them - was about to kill Sherlock, without hesitation or regret, and I had no other choice. But, she was still someone to me. Not sure what...but someone. It’s not easy to reconcile the nurse who shared my bed with the woman who was more than willing to kill both of us with a word from Moriarty. And it’s not easy to separate those women, either.
My nightmares come back, mixed up memories of the war, and Sherlock hitting pavement with a sickening smack, and her face smiling at me, a gun in her hand, Sherlock behind me, and I can never shield him, never get myself between them before she shoots. I wake up sweating and breathless, and Sherlock gathers me to him and shushes me, lips against my temple, until I fall asleep again.
The day I get released, Mycroft finally wakes up.
“Please just go be with Mycroft. He needs you WAY more than I do right now, okay? I’m just going to be packing up and signing papers. I honestly feel fine.” I say to Sherlock, after the fifth time in two hours that he’s come back to me after staying with Mycroft for twenty minutes or so. He’s running himself ragged between the two of us.
“Oh, he’s already driving me mad. He wants the oxygen out of his nose, he wants to eat - of course - he wants a newspaper, he wants his phone, he wants everything...I keep telling him I’m not a nurse and I’m not the British Government. He’ll just have to get one of them to cater to his every whim.” Sherlock’s doing that thing where he hides how relieved and happy he is with sarcasm and hate. It makes me grin.
“So, what’s the plan, then? Staying in France until Mycroft is well enough to leave hospital?” I don’t relish going back to the same hotel, but we can always switch.
“Oh, no. I don’t expect he’ll be out of hospital for weeks yet. No, we’re going HOME. We’ve got a flight in six hours. Mycroft has plenty of people to look after him. He’s no need of me.” Sherlock waves his hand at me like I’m mental for even suggesting it.
“You’re his BROTHER. Of course he needs you.” But honestly, I’ve never so badly wanted to go home in my entire life. I can almost smell 221B in my nostrils, standing in a hospital room, an English Channel away from it. I would give anything to sit in my chair and fall asleep with my feet next to the fire. To go sleep with Sherlock in our own bed. Have dinner at Angelo’s. Anything to make me feel normal.
It’s been less than a month since the night we first slept together - I refuse to call it my stag night anymore - and our entire relationship has been tainted by this. I just want some time to settle in to who we’re going to be as a couple, to get used to this. I want to finally introduce Sherlock to Harry. I want us to work a normal case, a good bog standard murder or a theft, something easy that doesn’t involve us. I want us to go to the pub with Greg and Molly and hold hands and kiss in the cab on the way home. I just want to put this all behind us.
“John. We’re going home. Mycroft will be fine. I’m a phone call away. We.are.going.home.” Sherlock says it in such a way, it leaves no room to argue the point. And I don’t want to anyway.
“Alright, Sherlock. Your way. Let’s go home.” Our eyes meet each other’s, and Sherlock gives me a soft slow smile.
He leans over me, sitting on the edge the edge of the bed, and kisses me. For the first time since before I got shot, there’s some heat behind it. I reach up and skim my fingers over his jaw, up into his hair, my stomach tingling. He leans into me, tongue sweeping my lips open, and I know he’d love to push me down on the bed, but he’s holding back because of my arm.
“Sherlock. It’s okay.” I smile, put my lips on his bottom one for a moment, and lean back. He straightens up, tugging on his shirt.
“Sorry. I just...I miss you. I’m sorry.” He runs his hand through his hair and turns away.
I get up and wrap my good arm around him from behind, rub my face against his shoulder blades. He’s stiff, trying not to respond too much. Spread my fingers across his stomach, and ruck his shirt up so I can put my hand on his bare skin. There we go. His back bends a little as I skate my hand all over his skin. He leans back into me with a sigh, and puts his hand on my hip, pulling me closer to him. Rocking up on my tiptoes, I press my lips to the back of his neck.
“I miss you, too. When we get home…” I keep kissing the nape of his neck, my nose in those dense curls, tip of my tongue darting under the collar of his shirt and behind his ear. He’s rolling his head back and forth, his breathing getting heavier, and I let my hand wander down, brush over his groin. He starts, a small moan escaping him.
“Oh, John, don’t, please don’t...I want you so badly right now.” He grabs my hand and moves it back up to his stomach. “It feels like forever.”
I give him one last sweep of lips over his neck, and turn him around to face me. “It does. It does feel like forever. Tonight. When we get home, we’re going to get take away, and we’ll have a bottle of wine, and then I’m going to take you to bed, and we’ll forget all of this.”
He smiles, looking at me from under his eyelashes, and ducks down to put his lips on my neck. It makes me tingle from head to toe. “I’ll be thinking about that all day now.”
I twine my one arm around his waist, and our lips connect. My whole body is responding to him. I want nothing more than to stumble over to the horrible hospital bed and lose myself in him, skin against skin, until we’re sweaty and sated and exhausted.
Finally, when I can feel him getting hard against my stomach, we break apart. The look he’s giving me could melt glass, and it sends a lovely little shiver down my spine. He shuts his eyes, rubs his hands over his face, and flops down into the nearest wretchedly uncomfortable hospital chair. He looks up at me, eyes sparkling and a damnably flirtatious smile on his lips. “I cannot WAIT to get you home. Captain.”
“You little shit.” I walk over and settle myself on his lap, run a finger around his ear and over his lips. “Don’t you call me that unless you plan to do something about it.”
He reaches up and pulls my face down to his, still wearing that lethal smile. Then we’re kissing again, hard and sloppy. Sherlock’s hands drift down my back, and I put my good arm around his neck. I feel like a teenager, getting off in the MOST inappropriate place, because you just want the other person so badly, you can’t wait. You just don’t care. We haven’t been able to keep our hands off each other since this began, and now it’s been four days of stress and worry and not having any truly private moments. That’s impossible in hospital, someone’s always walking in, and the door to the hall is always open. And now I just can’t stop touching him.
I slip my hand down, start undoing his top button. He growls, but doesn’t stop me. Kissing down his neck, touching my lips to every little freckle. He knows exactly what I’m doing, and laughs. I can feel his laugh rumbling under my mouth, and it fills up some of the hollowness I’ve had in me since we got to France. God, how I have missed this - the heat of his skin, the smell of him when he’s turned on. I can hardly believe we were able to survive each other for so long before without this kind of closeness, because I can’t live without it now.
“Oh!”
Sherlock and I break apart, me still on his lap. Mycroft’s assistant Anthea is standing at the door, Blackberry in her hand, staring at us with an embarrassed smile.
“Hi.” I wave at her, and Sherlock bursts out laughing.
“Hi. Um...Mycroft sent me down here to fetch Sherlock. He’d like to see him. Before you, uh, head home.” She’s now smiling like that cat that ate the canary, and is back to furiously texting, as she always does.
“Right. I have to pack, anyway.” I tap his arse with my hand as he walks away, and he shakes his head at me, grinning. “Go see your brother. I’ll be right here.”
He sends me that heated look again, full of promises for later on, and sweeps out the door behind Anthea. I allow myself a moment to breathe, and slip my arm out of the sling to give it a careful stretch. I’ll have physical therapy to do back home so I don’t lose my strength in that arm, but for now, it’s just stiff and sore.
The hospital room is a mess. We’ve spread out all over it, clothes and newspapers and crisps bags. It looks like a poor man’s Baker Street. I laugh and start gathering clothes to stuff in our bags. I can’t wait to get home.
***
Eight hours later, Sherlock’s standing behind me with all our bags, while I’m struggling to open the door of Baker Street with one hand. The handle gets wrenched away from me as the door swings open, and Mrs. Hudson is standing there, all trembling lips and watery eyes.
“Oh, boys! It’s so good to have you home. Sherlock told me all about you being shot, John, oh my goodness.” She pulls me into a careful embrace.
I turn questioning eyes on Sherlock. He shrugs. “I called her. Thought she should know.”
A warm happiness spreads through me. These people are my family. More than the family I grew up in, more than my army buddies, the people I toiled through medical school alongside. Sherlock calling Mrs. Hudson is such an incredibly unexpected gesture of caring, I can’t help but stretch my arm out to him and draw him in, too. And all three of us are standing there hugging, and it’s ridiculous and sappy and silly, and very unlike all of us...but I can’t help it. I just love them both. And I’m so relieved to be home.
Finally, we all step back from each other, and Mrs. Hudson is wiping her eyes. “Alright, boys. Enough of my blubbering. Go, go. I know you want to rest, John.”
I lean forward and kiss her cheek. “Mrs Hudson, you’re too good to us.”
“Nonsense.” She looks pleased, and nudges me toward the steps. “Go on.”
Sherlock’s hand presses into the small of my back as we go up, dragging the bags by his other hand. We get into 221B, the sight of which is so comforting, a weight I didn’t even know I was carrying leaves my shoulders. I flop down in my chair, and lean my head back, rubbing my good hand over the worn fabric of the arm.
“Christ, it’s good to be home.” I open my eyes and look up at Sherlock, standing in the middle of the sitting room, still holding the bags, a bemused smile on his face. “What’s up with you? Sherlock?”
He shakes his head, swallows, and smiles at me. “Just...you’re really home. Before, with you know, everything, it sort of seemed like a dream that you were here. It felt tenuous. But now, it’s all over, and you’re still here.”
“Well, of course I am. What did you think, I’d change my mind?” I push myself out of my chair and walk over to him, slip an arm around his waist. “Hey. Answer me.”
“I did wonder. It just seemed to be good to be true. But now I know it’s for real, and you’re staying.” His arms go around me as he drops the bags with a thump.
I tilt my face up and kiss his chin. “Of course I’m staying, you great stupid prat. Don’t ever say something so idiotic again, or I’ll start questioning how smart you really are.”
“Well, we wouldn’t want that.” Sherlock gives me a sly smile, only one half of his mouth ticking up, eyes heavy lidded and glittering. His lips are gentle, but hungry. He cradles my head in his hand, and kisses a line from my mouth, over my chin, and down my throat. Oh god, it’s been days, but it feels like weeks, months - a long low groan escapes me, my cock already stiffening in my jeans.
I twine the fingers of my good hand into his hair. “Fuck the take away.”
“I was hoping you’d say that.” Sherlock smiles against my throat. His hand is immediately on the hem of my shirt, pulling it up, hand underneath. Cold fingers from being outside, making me jump, roaming up over my stomach, curling tightly on my waist.
He pushes me over to my chair, and kneels in between my legs. He starts unbuttoning my shirt, his eyes so beautiful and shimmering in the low light, only one lamp turned on in the flat. His fingers work over every button gently, attentively. He pushes my shirt apart, eyes never leaving
my face. He’s looking at me in a way I’ve never seen, his eyes calm and peaceful, his mouth in a soft smile.
I reach out and smooth his curls back from his forehead. “What’s that look about?”
Instead of answering me, he leans forward and puts his lips on my stomach, a long lingering kiss. His hands slide next to my legs, behind my hips, fingers digging into the softness of my lower back. His face presses into my stomach, kissing me again.
My hand slips over the top of his head, fingers through those curls I’ll never get enough of, to cradle the back of his head. He turns, so his cheek is laying against my bare stomach and inhales deeply. “It’s just...John, this is us. This is everything we once were, and more, and…”
He’s lost for words. I finish for him, like I always do, when he gets stuck somewhere in that big brain. “This the real start. This is no fucking Moriarty, no fucking assassin fiances, just me and you, at Baker Street, solving cases, and watching telly, and shagging each other brainless every night. Yeah?”
He giggles, and it is the most heartwarming sound I’ve ever heard. It just fills me up.
“How do you always know what I’m thinking, John?” He tilts his head up, looking at me with turquoise eyes from under those black lashes.
God, I love him. It just increases every day. I think I can’t love him more, want him more, but I do. Every morning in hospital that I woke up to see his face next to mine, his long body uncomfortably folded into that miserable bed, I marveled at what we’ve become to each other. I’ve never in my life felt so intensely in love.
“It’s my job. Now let’s get to the shagging portion of the evening. Because, fuck me, you are driving me mental right now.”
He meets my mouth with a growl, tongue winding between my lips. The electricity between us is white hot, immediately. He rubs a palm over my cock in my jeans, and my choking, gasping, back arching reaction makes him bite down on my lower lip and rub even harder. His hand is rubbing slow circles over top of my jeans, the fabric making the friction almost unbearable. I don’t want him to stop. It feels amazingly good. His mouth is all over my stomach, my chest, up my neck, leaving cool tracks of saliva behind his hot tongue. I feel like I’m going to come in seconds. It’s not been this desperate since the first night.
“Oh fuck, Sherlock, stop. Stop.” It takes every ounce of willpower to drag those words out of my mouth, my whole body screaming for him to keep going, to rub me off until I come in my pants.
“Why? You seemed to be enjoying that immensely.” His mouth is against my neck, sucking, rolling my skin between his lips.
“Oh, fuck, yeah, ‘course I was...but this is the first time we’ve made love since before I got hurt, and I want it to be more than me getting my rocks off in a chair.”
Sherlock pulls back and looks at me, brow furrowed. “That’s the first time you’ve used that term.”
“What?” I feel drunk on a combination of painkillers and endorphins. My head weighs a hundred pounds. I let it fall back, my hand wandering down to drag my fingers across Sherlock’s neck.
“Make love. You’ve never said that before.” Sherlock’s got a strange look on his face, sort of far away.
“Not good?” I take his face in my hand, make him look at me.
He smiles, and takes my hand, presses my fingers to his mouth. “No. It’s...good. I like it.”
“Good. Well, then, Sherlock...take me to bed, and let’s make love. Not fuck in this chair. Okay?” Fingers across his jaw, I press my mouth to his. He sinks into me, and we stay that way, lazily kissing, tongues drifting across each other, until Sherlock rocks back on his heels and stands, pulling me with him.
“Well, come on then, Captain.” He bites his lower lip at me, and pulls me behind him, his eyes sizzling with arousal.
“Yes, fuck, yes.” My mouth finds the side of his neck, and we stumble clumsily into the bedroom, arms wrapped around each other.
***
Sherlock takes off my shirt gently, lifting my sling over my head, giving me a moment to stretch my arm before he unbuttons my cuffs and pulls the shirt over my arms. Runs his hands down my forearms, and presses our palms together.
“Can you lay on your stomach? Will that hurt your arm?” He whispers against my ear, lips brushing over my skin just enough to send shivers down my neck.
“Yeah, I think I can.” I give him a sideways glance, wondering a bit what he’s planning. But then I decide I’d rather be surprised, and I say nothing.
“Good.” He winks at me, and then very purposefully unbuttons my jeans, and takes them off, tossing them on the floor. His fingers drift very gently down over my bandaged arm, and he kisses my shoulder, just above. “What you’ve done for me, John…”
“What you’ve done for me, Sherlock. It’s not a one way street.” I press myself up against him, twist my fingers in his hair, and nuzzle my face into his neck. He sighs, relaxes against me, and walks me backwards to the bed, his still chilly fingers splayed across my hips.
He pushes me back, lays me down, rolls me over. I arrange my arm as comfortably as I can, waiting for him. I hear the rustle of clothes being taken off, feel the grin spreading across my face. Then his hands are on my calves, kneading gently, running up the backs of my legs, his hands so long they’re practically wrapped all the way around. Fingers tucking under the legs of my pants, he very slowly shimmies them off, trailing his tongue behind them.
My breathing quickens. Oh god, he’s making me mad. He returns his hands to my legs, and then runs them over my arse and up onto my back, lowering his weight carefully on top of me.
“Good, John?” His voice is a hoarse whisper against my shoulder.
“Yeah, very good, Sherlock. Very good.” I squirm a bit underneath him, and feel him hard and hot against me. We both gasp.
Then he’s kissing me all over my back, open mouthed, tongue soft and wet. He plants his hands on either side of me, kissing his way down to my arse, and then back up again to the back of neck. I’m shaking now, skin over stimulated, every hair standing on end. I want this to last forever, and I feel like I could come in seconds, too.
He buries his face in the side of my neck, lowering himself completely, so every inch of our skin is flush against each other.
“Don’t ever die, John. I’ve never been more terrified in my life. Seeing you, bleeding, injured. I can’t...you cannot leave me.” He kisses my ear, drawing the lobe into his mouth. A hot jolt of arousal skids down my spine, making my hips grind forward into the mattress.
“I won’t. I won’t, Sherlock. I won’t, baby. Oh, god, you’re making me mad.” He’s nibbling at my neck now, one hand gripping my hip, his hips gently rocking into me.
“Good. I mean to.” He kisses me a bit longer down my back, his hands running down my hips and my thighs, until I’m quivering from head to toe. I feel his hot breath on the small of my back, and then his tongue running down the cleft of my arse.
“Oh FUCK, baby. Oh fuck.” Fisting my hands in the sheets, I sink my teeth into the back of my hand, trying not to thrash.
His tongue is delving deeper now, but hesitantly, having not yet been given permission for this before. I know he’s waiting for a sign from me that I’m okay with it. I push my hips up off the bed, spread my knees a bit. And the next dart of his tongue is deeper and much more assertive. Then his hands are curling around my hips, pulling me backwards and up, knees bending, and spreading me apart gently.
“Is your arm alright like this, John?” God, he’s still worried about my fucking arm.
“Yeah, yeah, it’s fine…” I can barely form a sentence.
His fingers are gentle, holding me in place, when his tongue is suddenly back on me, oh god, in me, just a quick flick, and then licking back up. Then in again, and down and up.
Absolutely inhuman noises are coming out of me. This is unspeakably arousing, I can’t believe we’ve never done this before. He keeps it up, and then suddenly one hand sweeps around my hip and his fingers are wrapped around my cock. Slowly, long pulls upward, gentle pressure. He knows exactly what I like by now, and I’m being taken apart piece by piece.
“Oh, god, Sherlock. I’m going to...I can’t hold on…oh god, baby…” My whole body is tingling, my cock on fire, everything tightening.
He immediately takes his hand off my cock, presses a kiss where his tongue has just left, and kisses around my hip. “Not yet. Turn over.”
It’s hard to flip with only one arm, especially when every muscle in my body is twitching with arousal. Sherlock sees me struggling, and puts steady hands on my waist, turning me gently. Once I’m on my back, he kisses up my belly, purposefully not touching my cock, and closes one hand over the side of my face. He goes in to kiss me, and then pulls back.
“Is it okay? If I kiss you, you know, after…”
“Wha...of course. You just gave me fifteen minutes of pure...I don’t even know how to describe that...and you’re going to ask if you can KISS me? Come here, you idiot.” I drag his face into mine, hard, by the back of his neck.
He tastes like me, and like him, too, the two of us mingling together in his mouth, and it’s dizzying. Run my hand down his side, over his thin waist, the perfect swell of his hip, and pull him into me. I can’t get him close enough. We’re kissing like we’ll never get enough of each other, his lips closing over mine, pulling my skin into his mouth, my teeth nibbling his tongue, biting his lips.
Without breaking the kiss, he stretches an arm out and gets the lube from the drawer. I immediately move my legs apart, but he shakes his head against my mouth.
“No, John. You. I want you inside me.”
“But I can’t...I can’t hold myself up.”
“You won’t have to.” His voice is so deep, so gorgeously silken and sensual, his lips on my neck now, swollen from kissing and impossibly soft. “Give me your hand.”
He rocks back, and I hold up my hand. He drips lube on my fingers, and puts his knees on either side of my hips, falling back over me. We smile at each other, and he nips at my jaw as I slip my hand down and push a finger inside of him.
We both gasp. He’s so tight, and this feels so good. He rocks back on my hand, head falling backwards, his long neck flushed red, a sheen of perspiration on his skin.
“Another. Oh, fuck, John, another.” His voice is breaking.
“Yeah, baby, okay.” I can barely breathe the words out, especially when Sherlock reaches down and begins slowly stroking my cock again. “Oh fuck, fuck, oh god.”
The combination of him stroking me and me stroking him is too much. I can’t keep this up. He knows it, he knows how close I am. He takes his hand off me, and I am so rock hard, I’ve never been this hard. It’s right on the edge between pleasure and pain.
He grabs the lube bottle again, drips it into his hand and passes his hand up and down my cock as lightly as he can. It still makes me jerk into his hand, and he grins. “Ready?”
“Oh my god, yes.” I slide my hand around to his hip, feeling the muscles jumping under his skin, as he plants his knees and guides me inside him, sinking down slowly.
He rolls his hips in a circle, leaned forward a bit, hands resting on my chest. My entire torso contracts, my back arching, every part of me is shuddering with pleasure. He leans backward, bringing his hands to the top of my thighs, and starts a slow rolling rhythm that makes my eyes roll back.
“You like that?” He pushes down harder, rolling forward, fingers digging into my thighs.
“Oh my god, Sherlock, oh my god. Don’t stop, don’t stop.” I reach forward and take his cock in my hand, start a slow upstroke, pacing it to the rocking of his hips against me.
His head snaps up, eyes following the movement of my hand on him. Then his eyes find mine. And we’re locked together, in that way we’ve always been, even before we were this - when we can’t rip our eyes away from each other’s, because there’s so much that passes between us in these moments. I love you. I need you. I can’t live without you. You’re my best friend. You’re the best person I’ve ever known. I want to be with you the rest of our lives. You’re everything I could ever need. We rarely voice this stuff to each other, but when we look at each other this way, we don’t have to.
I tighten my grip on him, pulling faster. He groans, speeds up his hips, pushing me farther into him with every movement forward. I can’t hold on anymore. My orgasm rips through me like a firecracker going off, and I can hear myself shouting out Sherlock’s name, but there’s cotton in my ears and lights flashing behind my eyelids, my whole body arching, paralyzed for a moment with pleasure. And seconds later, my eyes still clenched shut and my body quaking through the aftershocks, I feel Sherlock tighten around me, and go still, and then there’s hot liquid all over my hand, and he’s gasping my name.
I open my eyes and look at him. He is wrecked. Chest heaving, lips swollen and beautiful, hair all over the place. But his eyes are glowing, black and deep. He runs his hands up my chest, and leans over me, pressing lazy kisses to my neck and my jaw. I turn my head and find his mouth, kissing him hard.
He climbs off me and stretches out by my side, head on my shoulder, hand on my belly. “How’s your arm?”
I laugh. “Oh, Sherlock. Only you would say something like that after the most mind blowing sex we’ve ever had.”
He furrows his brow. “Well, how is it? I just want to make sure you're alright.”
“Yes, you ridiculous arse, it’s beautiful. It’s perfect. Everything’s perfect right now.” I smile at him, and he smiles back, and snuggles closer, his knee crooking up over my leg.
We lay that way for a long while, heavy and comfortable, until I feel myself drifting off. But I don’t actually want to drift off. I want food, and tea, and to be in the sitting room with Sherlock and feel like I’m really home.
“Hey. Hey, baby, let’s get up and order some food. Take a shower. Okay? Hey, you awake?” I nudge him with my shoulder.
“Yes, I’m awake. Mmmm. I like this 'baby' business." He kisses my shoulder, nibbling a little, and looks up at me, eyes blue and dark.
"Do you? I thought you would hate it. I try to stop myself, but I just can't help it sometimes. It just slips out." Kiss his forehead, sweat slicked and salty.
"Well, I like it. It makes me feel...owned. In a good way."
He nuzzles into my neck, throws an arm across my chest.
"I don't own you. I belong to you. And you to me. It's different." I kiss the top of his head now, curls damp and sweaty. "How about that shower?"
"A shower would be lovely. Together, yes?”
“Well, I can’t get my arm wet, so yeah, a bit of help would be nice.”
He gives me a wicked grin, and I smack his hip. “I’m not seducing you, Sherlock. I really do need some help.”
“You’re not seducing me YET.” He grins, big and open. I love it when he smiles like that. “Come on, then.”
After a shower, with a lot of kissing and soapy hands skidding all over each other, Sherlock helps me undo and redo the bandages on my arm, get into my pyjamas, and puts my sling back on for me. As he’s buttoning my shirt, I look up at him and catch his face with my hand. “You’ve taken such good care of me. Thank you.”
His smile is a bit abashed. “You’d do the same for me, John. You have. It’s what we do for each other.”
“You’re right. It is. I love you.” I kiss him gently, closing my hand over his.
“I love you, too.” He finishes with my button, and we fall into each other, just embracing for a long moment, my face against his dressing gown.
“Alright then. Take away?”
***
I shut the lid of the take away container, and lean back into the soft leather of the sofa. “That was perfect. Everything since we got home is perfect.”
Sherlock hums at me, his laptop open on his knees, his attention elsewhere.
“Looking for a case?” I slide over next to him, drop an arm behind his shoulders.
“Mmmm. Checking the blog.”
I smile. “Well, tell me when you’ve found something interesting. I’m going to watch some telly.”
He nods at me. I flip the telly on, rerun of Graham Norton, and settle back into the sofa. I languidly run my fingers up and down Sherlock’s back, and he wriggles back into me, a little smile on his face. This is us. This is everything that makes me feel normal, and right, and myself. I can hardly believe now that I ever thought I wanted something different.
“Oh, closed door murder in Perth. No suspects. Burglar alarm still enabled. Fancy a holiday to Scotland, John?” Sherlock turns to me, eyes alight.
A huge grin spreads across my face. “Course. Course I do.”
The End (or the Beginning)