Work Text:
Sherlock lay naked in his bed, staring up at the ceiling, cigarette burning uncomfortably close to the skin of his hand. He strained to listen to the movements upstairs and could just make out the muffled sound of bedsprings, a drawer being opened and closed, and bedsprings again. He closed his eyes and imagined John back on his bed as he opened his sketchbook and took pencil to paper.
It was a new hobby, one picked up after Sherlock’s fall. John had found writing impossible, he’d told Sherlock the first time he’d caught him at the table scratching away. Words weren’t my friends anymore, Sherlock. Articulation made it worse, not better, he’d said without looking up. His heart had squeezed painfully as he watched the lines gracefully slide across the page, quickly becoming a skyline. I used to draw in uni, so I thought – why not?
Sherlock rolled over just as the embers started to sting and stubbed the cigarette out on the floor. He thought about going to stand at the window, trying to see what John could see and was probably drafting out, but instead fell back, arms crossed over newly scarred chest, and shut his eyes again.
In the months since he’d been back, he’d watched John’s drawings play out as busy, smudged reflections of the man’s ever-changing emotions, his one true guide to the tempest the army doctor suppressed very deeply under his stoic façade. Most people thought he'd adjusted fine to life after his best friend’s death – he’d kept going to work, kept going to pub night with his rugby pals, kept dating the occasional sweet-tempered girl. But the drawings that he couldn’t hide from Sherlock after his return told him a different story.
At first, the sketches showed a world of barely contained menace. Dark street corners that hid all but the glint of a knife tip emerging from shadow. The torso of a featureless man gripping his hands into fists. Elongated shadow men half hidden behind the trees of Regent Park.
But as much as these sketches had worried Sherlock, the progression away from them made him more uncomfortable, not less. He found himself rubbing his hand on his thigh as he thought of the tiny figures perched on cliffs, the downward perspectives from tall buildings, and, in one memorable sketch that wouldn’t leave his mind, a dead and shriveled sunflower on the bank of the Thames. This last one Sherlock had found under a pile of dirty clothes on the floor next to John’s doorway. John had brushed it off, suggesting it was months old, but he knew better. It was a recent composition, made since his return.
The loneliness and desperate ache of these drawings, the ones he continued to make even after Sherlock had come back, hurt. Though Sherlock had, for nearly two years, been chasing criminals the breadth of Europe - and occasionally beyond - he’d rarely felt lonely. He’d missed his blogger, sure, but his focus was on the Work, and he’d honestly reveled in it. He made and broke alliances, hunted in the dark for and with others, and though there had been some close calls (he rubbed the scar on his side absently), they had served to exhilarate and spur him on rather than bring him down. He’d done what was necessary to keep his friends safe and didn’t regret it in the slightest. Hell, he’d had fun.
But now, back home, waiting for Mycroft to finish tying the few loose ends that would clear him completely and bring order and normalcy back in his life, 221B felt hollow. John had been shocked, then seemingly happy to have him back, but there were no emotional outbursts. No shouting. No fighting. No hugs or tears. Sherlock had settled back and life resumed. He’d starting taking private cases, and John had eagerly shouldered his Boswell mantle again, but something was… missing.
It was three weeks ago that Sherlock had made what he now considered to be a serious mistake. He’d thought John’s lack of spark could be brought back with adrenaline – after all, it had worked so well last time. But when the cases failed to reignite the spark, he turned to something else.
Now, he curled in on himself and shivered as he thought about what had ended up happening. After another suffocatingly quiet dinner, Sherlock had stood, pulled John to the couch, pressed him down, and proceeded to kiss the breath out of him. He hadn’t bothered being tentative or seeking permission – he’d simply taken. At this point, any sort of passionate outburst – be it fist to the face or an enthusiastic reciprocation, would have been an improvement. But none of that had happened. Oh, John had kissed him back. Slid his hands under his shirt and felt him up. Allowed himself to be undressed, and undressed Sherlock. And when he came – they came – he’d tipped his head back, gripped Sherlock’s shoulder’s, and moaned his name reverently. Finally! Sherlock had thought as he felt their semen mix together hotly on his stomach. But once everything had cooled, after Sherlock had rolled off and cleaned them up, he’d found his delighted grin unreturned. John smiled his sad little smile, leaned over to press a kiss on the corner of his mouth, gathered up his sketchbook, and gone up to the roof to draw. Sherlock had felt his stomach drop and his eyes prickle with tears.
John’s rooftop sketch had been of bleak yellow stars in a smoggy canopy.
And because Sherlock’s Pandora’s Box couldn’t be closed, he found himself in a bleak cycle.
The next time, John had come to him. Had pulled him to the rug in front of the fireplace, knelt before him and looked up with pleading eyes. Sherlock had done what any healthy man in his mid-30s would do – gave in. This time, after he came hard in John’s mouth as John pulled himself off with his hand, he hadn’t looked at him afterwards. He’d laid down on the hard floor, tucked his head under John’s chin, and listened to his friend's heartbeat. The next day’s sketch was of a house burning down with a silhouette frozen in the window.
The time after that, he’d taken John against the wall next to the coat rack, flying high on the adrenaline of a near-death experience. The sex was quick and rough, and John had clutched at him tightly, fingers clutching his upper arms and legs wrapped around his waist. At first Sherlock thought something might finally be breaking – after climax, John obviously hadn’t wanted to let go, or to be let go. But the emotion was a flash – there and gone too quickly to be parsed – before he’d gotten down and headed quietly to the shower. Sherlock had quit looking at his sketches at this point.
Now, he startled as he heard his door creak open, and he rolled over to see John slide into his room. His heart sank as he heard John’s low but empty chuckle. He’d come to hate that sound more than the silence itself – it was emotionless, like a route reaction his friend thought he was expected to give rather than wanted to.
“John?” He felt slightly ashamed as his voice broke a little.
“Sorry. I knew I wouldn’t wake you, but I didn’t think you’d be so deep in your mind palace this time of night. Didn’t mean to disturb you.”
“Didn’t you?” Sherlock couldn’t help the tinge of bitterness in his words, and for a brief moment he hoped they’d spark irritation – something, anything! – in his… friend? Lover? But John merely sat on his knees at the end of the bed, staring absently down the lean, pale length of Sherlock’s barely-covered, moonlit body. He leaned forward to gradually pull the sheet down, and Sherlock shivered as his body was revealed to the cool air. John leaned forward to kiss his knee, his dressing gown sliding off his shoulders to reveal naked skin underneath.
Sherlock’s chest tightened as John’s hands slid up and down his leg. God how he’d wanted this. But not… this. It was as if his flatmate wasn’t really there. This person looked like his flatmate, smelled like him, even acted like him – at least enough to reassure his friends and even his fool sister. But he was empty. There was no passion, no stubbornness, no wry sense of humor. Animation without spirit. His heart skipped nervously in his chest, and his stomach clenched. God help him, felt a little sick.
He moaned in frustration and looked away, but John seemed to take it as encouragement. He shuffled forward on his knees a bit, bending to press his mouth to Sherlock’s hip. He rubbed his hand inside the crease of his thigh and groin, obviously trying to coax his lover’s currently flaccid length into showing interest.
“John. This isn’t right. Stop.” Sherlock ground out, trying to push him away. He gave easily, like a doll, and sat back again, watching Sherlock’s face.
“What’s the matter?”
“You… you’re not… there.” He pushed himself up on his elbows to take in John’s expressions, but his stomached dropped at the blankness that greeted him.
“I’m here. I’ll prove it.” He crawled over his body, looked him in the eye, and rubbed his erection into Sherlock’s hip. He kissed him and slid back down.
“Wait, stop. John, please.” But the doctor hesitated only for a moment before taking him into his mouth. Sherlock chocked back what could have been a sob, but felt his traitorous body responding to John’s gentle administrations. His hot mouth played him perfectly – licking and sucking and, when he was fully hard, swallowing him down enough for the tip to hit the back of his throat. Sherlock closed his eyes, which were threatening to tear up, and reached down to push him away. John hollowed his cheeks as he pulled off, and Sherlock’s hips chased the sensation even as he himself was relieved.
But the emotion vanished as John climbed on top of him, lined up Sherlock with his hand, and sank down. Sherlock gasped and looked up in shock - his deduction about John’s going to the drawer for sketching materials had clearly been wrong. John was loose and lubricated, taking Sherlock easily.
“See? I’m right here.” He leaned forward to take Sherlock’s hands for leverage. He pushed himself forward and back, then around in a slow circle, then finally up and down. His dressing gown fell down further on his arms, trapping John’s arms to his sides. “Fuck yes. Right…” he pulled up, “fucking,” slid down “here!” He repeated the move, this time quick and hard. Sherlock groaned and clutched John’s tightly enough to whiten his knuckles.
He watched John continue to ride him and felt more torn about this than anything else he’d ever done. On one hand, he didn’t know how much more of this he could take. An empty John, going through the motions, working and making tea and blogging and fucking, was a cruel facsimile of the real one. But, on the other hand, it was better than nothing. Right? And Sherlock consoled himself with the fact that the emotion was there, somewhere, buried deep but occasionally leaking out in the form of sketches. He just needed time to resurface. Sherlock hoped, anyway.
Suddenly, John stopped bouncing on top of him and rolled them over. Sherlock stared down, letting the raging anger and fear show on his face. John leaned up to kiss him, but he turned his face away even as he sunk his cock deeply back inside John.
“Sherlock?”
He slammed his eyes shut and silently shook his head. “I…”
“Don’t.” John rolled his hips up, but Sherlock’s eyes snapped back open at the brokenness of hiss voice. He stared down, willing John to cease this torment and just come back. He waited, hands still pressing John’s wrists into the mattress. Sherlock felt sure he’d be leaving bruises, but he didn’t care. Let John object.
John wrapped his legs around Sherlock’s waist. “Please, Sherlock. I need this. I need to feel something.”
Sherlock sank his head onto John’s sternum, shuddering. “Oh god, John, do you have any idea what you sound like? I know you’re a medical doctor, not a therapist, but even you must know what that sounds like.”
John didn’t say anything, but merely continued fucking himself on Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock let go of John’s wrists to press his hands to John’s hips in an effort to still him, but John just pulled him in more deeply with his powerful thighs.
“John, we shouldn’t do this anymore. I won’t be your razor, or alcohol, or whatever it was that you used before.” This times his tears managed to spill, and he couldn’t help but lean into John’s hands as they came up to cradle his face.
“I’m sorry, Sherlock.” John whispered. “But I need this. I need to feel you. I need you.” Sherlock shook his head, but John continued anyway. “You knew, Sherlock. That I needed this. This was your idea, remember?”
“I was wrong.”
“You’re never wrong.”
Sherlock’s laugh was anguished and broken.
“Please, Sherlock. Fuck me. Make me feel. It’ll be better soon. It always is.”
Sherlock shook his head again, but then John ran his hand through his sweaty curls and he felt himself break somewhere deep inside.
He started rocking into John.
John breathed out in relief and curled his arms around Sherlock and held on tight. He turned his head to kiss and nip at his wrist and Sherlock reciprocated by slamming into him more and more forcefully.
It took them a long time to finish, Sherlock’s rough thrusts punctuated by his repeated, prayer-like incantation of the word please, over and over again. John wouldn’t touch himself because he refused to unwrap his arms from Sherlock, who took it as a good sign. Sherlock came screaming oh god, please! shortly after John came with a long, low sigh.
After cleaning up, John wrapped himself around Sherlock, head resting on his shoulder. He fell asleep almost instantly, Sherlock’s hand in his hair.
Sherlock, for his part, couldn’t go back to sleep. He wanted to wake John, force him to sketch something so he could have physical proof that something had changed tonight. That the dead flowers and burned out houses were going to be replaced with sunrises and unbroken landscapes with happy people in them. Instead, he pushed his quiet desperation down and clung more tightly both to John and the hope that tomorrow it was all going to be OK.