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Sherlock’s eyes open and dilate into focus. He’s been asleep. Unlikely, but apparently necessary for his infuriating body, nonetheless. The sounds from the street are muted and low. Morning, then. Early morning at that. Sherlock stares into the semi-darkness, trying to recall what he’d been thinking on before his body shut down despite his brain. A case? Ah, yes. The case of the crippled au pair and the missing child from Uxbridge. His mind supplies all the relevant data in ticking bullet points and steady slides of photographic evidence. Right. There was something wrong with the crime scene. Something he’d been trying to detect, but was somehow directly out of his grasp. He mulls over the information while absently peeling the back off a nicotine patch. John will throw a fit when he finds out, but for now Sherlock merely presses the patch lightly into his skin, imagining he can already feel the drug spreading through his web of veins and arteries and up into his cerebral cortex.
John. Where is the doctor now? Sherlock listens intently. Up in his room, sleeping fitfully, but not from the usual nightmares. This one is new. There’s a slight tremor against the wood of the ceiling where John’s chest heaves in unsteady breaths, his eyelids flickering and limbs tightening reflexively in his sleep, fighting off a new enemy. Sherlock wishes he couldn’t hear the telltale creak of bedsprings and restless shift of cotton sheets, but there’s no help for it. Tuning it out never works, so instead he listens to John’s uneven breathing and tries to determine what kind of adversary John is besting this very early morning. Not the Taliban this time, no. Not even Al Qaeda. This is something else, something different.
Ah, Sherlock thinks. This is protection. John is protecting someone in his dreams. Innocent bystander? No, that wouldn’t merit the hitch in his breath just there. An army comrade? No, John is never this animated in his dreams about fellow soldiers. Ah. Sherlock. John is dreaming of protecting Sherlock. Juvenile and irrelevant. Sherlock is clearly capable of protecting himself as demonstrated on a number of occasions. Sherlock dismisses John out of his mind in favor of the au pair and her missing toddler. There’s something missing.
“The internet connection,” Sherlock says aloud, finally.
“Sorry?” John says from his armchair. Sherlock blinks and looks around. It’s clearly much later in the morning now. The sun is full up and John is dressed with a lapful of computer, typing away in that slow and steady way of his. John is now looking at him with something akin to amusement on his face. “You were doing that thing again, weren’t you? Mind Palace,” he says wryly, but with a fond smile that belies his accusation. “No wonder you didn’t answer me about the tea,” he mutters, seemingly to himself. Sherlock just stares at him and calculates the angle of the sunbeams across John’s face.
Eleven thirty. It’s eleven thirty in the morning. He knows he hasn’t fallen asleep again or John wouldn’t have asked him about tea. It worries him a little that he’s gotten so used to John in his flat, in his life that he can completely be ignored without even an eyelid twitch or startling sound. John is ignorable. John is no threat. John is necessary. John is usual. John is home.
Sherlock sits up and reaches for his mobile. His suit jacket is crumpled from lying on the sofa for hours, but he has time to change before Lestrade will be demanding his presence. John is still watching him, little creases of worry etching themselves into his forehead. John.
“What about the internet?” John asks, eyes glancing toward the right corner of his laptop screen.
“Not ours, John. The Uxbridge case. The internet connection is faulty, that’s how the au pair got away through the security system without being seen.” John blinks at him in obvious confusion. He’s not following at all. How can he not follow? “The au pair knew about the unreliable internet connection. That’s how she smuggled the child out of the house. The security cameras went off line frequently, but a well-timed blank moment was all she needed to hand the child over to her accomplice. She wasn’t actually crippled, John.” Obvious. “The markings on her hands from pushing her chair were new, the callouses not three months old. She couldn’t possibly have been in a wheel chair since her twenties and not gotten callouses on her hands from pushing the tyres along. Don’t you see?”
“Brilliant,” John says with annoying repetitiveness. Except when John says it, it’s somehow not repetitive at all. John. This constant want, this aching in his diaphragm that leaves him distracted and uncertain. Uncertain, yes. He hates uncertainty.
Lestrade is just as baffled as John. Really, what would the MET do without him? It’s almost as if they’re being deliberately obtuse, just to see what he will do next.
But John. John is not distracting. He’d come into the sitting room this morning without even so much as a flicker of awareness from Sherlock. It’s as if he doesn’t register on some levels. But that’s wrong. Something missing.
John’s watching him now, from the kitchen this time. He’s pondering what to make for lunch, and trying to figure out how to convince Sherlock to eat something. Food. When had he last eaten? What’s today? Wednesday. John made breakfast Monday morning. Scrambled eggs, bacon, beans on toast, tea, orange juice. Plenty of protein, fats and carbohydrates. He’ll be fine until tomorrow evening at least. Perhaps he’ll eat anyway, just to make John happy. To make him happy. Distracting.
John leaves for the surgery later in the afternoon. Half shift. Sherlock pretends not to notice. He is sawing away at his violin, working through some not particularly astounding Vivaldi while trying to work out this distraction with John. No, not a distraction. Never a distraction.
Nicotine, purchased at the Tesco the next street over. Clerk behind the counter is new, doesn’t know not to sell them to Sherlock. The taste is acrid. Christ, how long has it been? Feet feel heavy and head feels light. Completely different than patches. The minute drug singing through his veins and making his teeth itch. Too long, apparently. He’s not used to the burning in his lungs anymore. Regret is instant. Nausea takes over and he bins the rest of the pack. Recalculation. Takes the pack out of the bin and places it (wrapped in foil) into the back of the freezer.
Time inexplicably slows to a crawl when John is out. No cases, nothing on. Unbearable boredom. Sherlock tries to calibrate all the appliances in the flat to hum at the same frequency. Really, the cacophony of sounds in this flat are overwhelming at times. Only the refrigerator remains out of sync now, but there’s no help for that. Mrs. Hudson would have his head if he ruined yet another of her precious appliances.
Experiment on kitchen worktop inconclusive. Acid burns in an unlikely splatter radius. Must redo experiment at later date, possibly with different acids.
Sound of shoes on the stairs. Sherlock makes himself look busy. John mustn’t know he’s been waiting all this time for his return. Distracting.
“Sherlock?” John always states it as a question, as though he’s unaware of Sherlock’s whereabouts. Really, where would he be if not here? Crime scene. Scotland Yard. Bart’s. Hospital. Library. Dull.
“You’ve been smoking,” John says, slow and totally comprehensive. “Who sold you cigarettes?” Accusatory. Interesting. John’s powers of deduction improving. Sherlock must keep himself covered, or was he deliberately getting caught? He’d washed his hands and brushed his teeth. Ah, his hair smells faintly of smoke. His scarf, his coat. He hadn’t bothered with those details. Subconsciously wanted to get caught then. Why? Because it makes John fuss. He pays more attention when he fusses and Sherlock hates that he needs the attention. Sherlock tries not to arch into the touch when John comes over and quite obviously sniffs his hair. Hand on the back of his neck, tilting his face down. Nose and stubble covered chin brushing almost imperceptibly against his ear.
Endorphins rage out of control. Pituitary gland spews out unacceptable levels of oxytocin and Sherlock can feel the heat exploding up his chest, onto his neck and across his cheekbones. John’s hand stills. Pulse racing, pupils dilated, finding it difficult to breathe normally. Can he smell the pheromones? Thumb slides gently across pulse point. Sherlock curses his traitorous body. Distracting.
Heavy breathing, not sure from whom. John still hasn’t removed his hand. Fingers running delicately through the curls at the base of Sherlock’s neck and he shudders. Eyes fall shut, shoulders relax. Just give in.
Lips against his ear. John’s labored breath puffing humid air onto his neck. Tentative tongue swiping gently around the shell of his ear. God, John. Lean in, tilt head up, lips soft and pliant. Too much, not enough. John. Taste of tea and Hobnobs , wet slide of tongue and clatter of teeth.
The angle is all wrong: neck cramping, too much teeth. Lean back, brace head against John's sturdy abdomen. John.
John's hands, slightly chapped, sliding into dark curls, intensifying the kiss. Smell of Darjeeling, the outdoor London scent of rain and car exhaust, clinical tang of antiseptic. The kiss softens somehow. John is pulling away, breathing hard. Rests his forehead against Sherlock's. Distracting.
Crime scene. Too many details at once and yet all Sherlock can register is John's presence, off to the right, examining the dead girl's body. He can feel the heat rolling off John in waves, can practically see the shimmer of warmth around the man.
"What've you got?" Lestrade. Dull. When did crime scenes become dull?
John burns brighter than the sun. "Murder. Asphyxiation, but it was meant to look like an overdose. The puncture wound on her left arm is meant to be a heroin injection and her toxicology report will confirm. It was applied post-mortem, however, hence the lack of track marks." John shifts uncomfortably and Sherlock's attention is immediately diverted. John is unhappy. Ah, track marks. He's concerned about Sherlock's previous drug usage, but he'll never ask. John. I'm not using, John. Not with you. Never again.
Lestrade shifts his weight, leaning around John to study the body. Tiny pinpricks in her left arm, but no blood. No proof of previous drug use. Peel back her eyelids. Pupils tiny, pulled in by the drug but not enough to have felt the effects. Pity, that.
"She works at Harrods. Cosmetics counter. Dior, if I'm correct. They'll report her missing for her shift likely this afternoon."
John's eyebrows shoot up. "How exactly did you work that one out?" Smirk. Oh, John. My John. Absolutely blind at times.
"Traces of lipstick on her hand, rubbed away with Boots Essentials makeup remover." John leans down and peers closely at the hand in question. "Caked into the creases of her skin. Indicates a repeat action. Multiple hues mean she's sampling and judging by the quality of octinoxate, it's a high end brand. Colors and faint aroma of j'adore point towards the Dior counter."
"Fantastic," John murmurs with a quiet smile. Eyes lock, pulse speeds up. John's eyes flick briefly towards Sherlock's lower lip. Lestrade clears his throat. Distracting.
“Alright, so why was she killed?” Sherlock’s gaze shifts disconcertedly back to Lestrade.
“Obvious.” Lestrade rolls his eyes. John just grins and shakes his head.
Few things render Sherlock incoherent, but the curve of John’s lips in a quiet smile, the slide of his palm against the back of Sherlock’s neck, those things halt him completely. Limbs lock, pulse quickens, endorphins rush heat to the surface of skin. Oh I am falling, John. Perpetually falling; tumbling endlessly into a sea of uncertainty.
John’s easy laughter as they leave, fueled on by adoration and genuine warmth makes his head spin.
Oh, John. My John. The army made you strong. Medicine gives you purpose, but I, I make you whole.
John's hands, warm and harsh tangling in too long curls. Pushed into the wall, lips sliding together, teeth and tongues. The buzz of adrenaline from a case well solved racing through Sherlock's veins. Head feels light, lack of oxygen. Gasp John's name and dig fingers into flesh. Mark him. Claim him. John John John. My John.
Moaning. Is that Sherlock's voice, thready and rasping?
John's breath is ragged, uneven. Tickles the too-long hair around Sherlock's ear. Details suddenly overwhelming: the scent of stale mould in the hallway, Mrs. Hudson's telly murmuring BBC World News, the humming of the fixtures: one bulb going to blow in approximately ten days. John's quiet keening as Sherlock's teeth catch on the edge of his pulse point. His body is bowing forward, hips bucking involuntarily, fingers too-hard digging into Sherlock's shoulders, wrapping tightly into the dark wool and catching skin painfully. Taste of coffee; the generic horrid type brewed at the Yard. Black and bitter, slight stubble on an upper lip. Distracting.
"Sherlock," John moans, tipping his head back and exposing more neck. Sherlock hums and presses him into the wall. A hand, suddenly shoved into his sternum, halting movement. John's eyes, over bright and intense.
"If this is some kind of experiment..." he starts, tone harsh and dangerous. Sherlock is appalled. How can he think that? How?
"John," he rumbles instead, pushing back in, ignoring the hard pressure on his chest. Capillaries breaking, bruise forming already, but endorphins override the pain. John sucks in a breath and melts against him. Pressure reversed: John's fingers pulling in now, sliding under cotton, shirt buttons scattering and pinging off the staircase. Christ.
Growl, low in the throat. Watch John's pupils dilate impossibly: black swallowing the dark, dark blue. Shift weight, quadriceps tighten, hands slide down, then up and grip harshly into gluteus maximus, swallow John's half-protesting noise against his tongue as gravity redistributes. John's ankles lock together under the heavy press of fabric, shoes digging into iliac crest.
Hard. He's so hard. Christ, John. Lean forward, allow the wall to take half the weight and grind hips in a slow circle. Watch John's eyes close, head fall back painfully against plaster. He'll have a lump there in the morning, but he doesn't even seem to notice judging by his elevated breathing rate and the sounds falling from his lips. Sherlock's name a steady litany of half-uttered pleas and gasping demands. Fingers still locked into the Belstaff, surely cramping by now. Sherlock leans forward and nips harshly at John's already swollen bottom lip.
Even against the wall, Sherlock's adductors are locking up, John's added mass and his thrusting hips proving too much.
"Upstairs," Sherlock murmurs, lips catching against John's ear. There. A barely perceptive nod. John's legs slide down the back of Sherlock's thighs, take his weight again. He looks utterly wrecked, debauched. Feral noises, uninhibited and unaccountable dripping from Sherlock's mouth. Haul him up seventeen stairs, throw him through the door, ignore the loud slam as wood bounces off frame. John's nimble fingers already halfway through the buttons of his shirt, jumper thrown carelessly over the lamp in the corner.
Impossible to keep hands off of John's skin, sliding along the smooth planes of pectorals as they're unwrapped, trailing down the line of dark blonde hair that disappears into his trousers. John shivers at the assault and his fingers twitch against the button on his denims before he practically tears at Sherlock's shirt. Fabric gives way, the remaining buttons putting up little protest. Sounds of harsh breathing and the overwhelming need to touch, taste, feel, see, command this man making Sherlock's heart pound. Pulse races, tongue tingling, he edges forward, folding John back over an armrest of old leather. Blue irises swallowed completely, John is already too far gone. John.
This isn't going to take long. Oh, John. The things I'm going to do to you...
A sudden squeal of cracking leather, an off-kilter tilt of hips and a muffled curse later and John is flat on his back in the middle of the sofa, trousers pulled painfully halfway down his arse. Laughter bubbles up, unbidden and they both crack under the tension. John's ridiculous giggles matched by the low rumble of genuine amusement.
"Bloody hell," John breathes, panting through laughter. Amusement fades, lips twitching into a feral grin before legs spring into action. Slide onto the couch, knee spreading John's thighs and settling. Weight distributes with a slow grind and all laughter dies in the arch of a John's neck. Hips tilt, rolling into Sherlock's and it's suddenly very hard to breathe.
Murmur nonsense into the shell of John's ear. John likes the sound of his voice, velvet deep and pitched low with arousal. John’s skin prickles, goose flesh rising along bare arms that wind hesitantly around lean muscle and ribs. Lick slowly, deliberately at the faint perspiration along John's collarbone and cant hips forward. Shift weight, roughly shove at fabric until John is completely naked, spread along the brown leather. Oxytocin and pheromones flood through brain. Resultant fog of arousal making hands shake, adrenaline and endorphins clouding judgment. Sentiment ringing through the haze. Distracting.
"Sherlock?" A question. Hadn't noticed when he'd stopped, but is now aware of unacceptable time lapsed and is now simply staring. John shifts uncomfortably, self-consciousness staining his cheeks a dull pink.
You're beautiful, John. Christ, just look at you. Fumbling fingers against expensive wool, kick off trousers and pants, toe off socks and lean back in. Tongues slide, slow and sweet. Comfort John and reassure him. God, John. Feel what you do to me. John's resultant groan of pained arousal completely satisfying.
Hesitate momentarily. It's been a long time, for both of them judging by John's teeth worrying his lower lip. Appropriate said lip into mouth and sooth the abused flesh with a slow swipe of tongue.
Lubricant, purchased at Boots two weeks ago and knowingly stored under one sofa cushion. Inevitability of situation glaringly apparent. John's bemused chuckle tugs at the corner of Sherlock's lips.
"Been planning this, have you?" he huffs. Obvious. Then, softly, "How long have you known?" Oh John. My John. Ages. Been waiting for you forever.
"Since that night at Angelo's," he says instead, eyes dark with unspoken emotions.
John's incredulous laughter is completely expected. "So, basically forever," he breathes. Hitch in his breath when a clever tongue swipes over a pert nipple. "Jesus," he moans.
John's back arches at the first slide of long fingers into his body. Muffle the sound against lips and tongue, swallow his moan and sink in further. Two now. Watch in fascination as they disappear, swallowed greedily into John's skin, tight heat gripping along the digits and making Sherlock's head spin with want. John's erection leaks copious amounts of fluid, dripping and viscous down his length. Lean in to taste, to feel. John's breath is labored again, chest heaving with exertion of holding back his imminent orgasm. Fingers digging into leather, skidding against the material, slick now with sweat. Thoughts and words tumble out of John's mouth, mixed with Sherlock's name repeated in shuddering cries. It's a plea. A benediction. A declaration. A vow.
"Please, Sherlock. Please."
Hum into John’s pelvic bone and relish the resulting shiver. Three now, just enough to tease, to promise. Smile wickedly as, two inches in, bend fingers at ninety degree angle. John’s shout is nearly musical in its cadence, pleas becoming more insistent the longer Sherlock taps his fingertips across his prostate. Take pity then. Pity? No, not quite.
Fumble with the condom wrapper, slick fingers and heightened arousal making the grip intolerably difficult. Finally place foil between teeth and spit out the small corner sticking to lips. Crude yes, but John doesn’t seem to mind judging by the heat in his gaze and the hitch in his breath. Mouth open, lungs heaving, restless energy quaking through his limbs. Oh, John. You’re gorgeous like this.
Tilt hips, hold back instinctive urge to slam forward, bury into the slick heat. Instead, savor the slow slide, impossibly hot, deliciously tight. John’s head tips back, hips angling in supplication, eyelids fluttering, pulse racing, pupils blown wide. Oh, he’s close. Sherlock’s own breath is labored, heartbeat thudding deafeningly loud in his ears. Hips speed up, slide palms down the back of John’s legs, dig nails into the flush swell of arsecheek. Tug him forward, change angle, brush against prostate. John’s breath stutters as he tenses, muscles clenching, legs shaking. Watch him fall apart. Break open. Collapse under the sheer weight of sensation as his orgasm tears through him.
Christ, John. Drink him in, gorgeous flush staining his cheeks, come splattered elegantly up the heaving curve of his ribs. He looks dazed, wrecked, shattered and completely and unequivocally…
“Mine.”
Oxytocin floods through senses, causing limbs to shake, breath to catch. Tightening and coiling heat in the pit of Sherlock’s abdomen is the only warning of his impending orgasm. He comes with a low groan, voice ragged and torn from his throat in the shape of John’s name. Teeth clench, arms shake.
John’s eyes are soft and sweet in the following thick silence. Sentiment palpable among the heady scent of sex hanging in the air. Sherlock can feel the words, unfamiliar and foreign on the back of his tongue. He won’t say them, not now. John is staring at him with a reverence he hardly feels he deserves. Pull out gently, unfold John’s legs and place them tenderly along the length of worn leather. Wince at the slick sensation as the condom is removed and disposed of.
John looks disinclined to move. He’s sleepy and content, snuggling down into the sofa. “Are you coming back?” he asks, voice soft and slow. Caught staring again, then. Christ, what is wrong with him? Does mind-shattering orgasm equal literal failure of brain function?
“No,” he replies and feels the corner of his lips turn into a slight smile at the brief look of dejection on John’s face. He’s quick, though. Schools his features into what he thinks is indifference, but the taught lines of disappointment curl around his eyes. Allow the moment to stretch almost too long. Throat feels unaccountably tight, nerves causing fluttering sensation in the pit of his stomach.
“Bed?” Sherlock invites, curving an elegant eyebrow with significance. John’s face clears and the tension leaves his shoulders. He stands, still gloriously naked and clasps one of Sherlock’s hands, tugging him towards the stairs.
“Yes, please,” he breathes and leans forward to catch Sherlock’s lips in a light kiss.
Collapse gracefully into John’s bed. Sheets of a lower thread count, but worn and clean. Sherlock is not tired, but John falls asleep almost instantly, head resting on Sherlock’s shoulder, left arm slung across his slim waist. Run long fingers through sandy grey hair. Watch the light shift across the dull grey ceiling as night becomes dawn, John barely stirring in his sleep, but a slight smile curving his lips. Allow body to completely relax. This should be boring, unbearably so, but it isn’t. John isn’t. John. Minutes crawl into hours and yet John sleeps on, content and completely trusting, head slotting perfectly into the space below Sherlock’s chin.
Rumble of a lorry around the corner of Baker Street. Roughly half six. John’s eyelashes flutter, scraping almost imperceptibly along Sherlock’s skin. Warm breath huffed out across Sherlock’s pectorals. Slight shift in awareness. John is waking up, stirring feebly against the pull of dreams. Arms tighten, left leg sliding along Sherlock’s calf before settling again. Distracting.
Feelings catch in Sherlock’s chest. Tenderness and protectiveness and possession and pride. Love. Uncertainty. The latter has him staggering, reeling into self-preservation and self-deprecation. John. John is too good. He will leave.
Don’t leave me, John. Fingers splayed against John’s spine, tighten instinctively. Keep you, John. I swear I’ll keep you safe, even if I have to save you from myself. Fear, cold and unwelcome sinks into the base of Sherlock’s spine. Promise to keep you safe.
John’s eyes blink open and his smile is dazzling, outshines the sun. “You’re still here,” he mumbles, sleep addled and tongue thick. Sherlock relaxes immediately, his spiraling doubt reduced to cinders in the incendiary brightness of John’s love. The kiss is slow and languid, John’s mouth tasting of sleep and the bitter tang of night hours.
“Breakfast?” John asks at last, limbs stretching and mouth cracking into a wide yawn. Smile into the morning light. Sherlock is not hungry, but he’ll eat to make John happy. To make him happy.
Dvorak, concerto in A minor. Fingers dance lovingly across the strings, pulling more passion from musical rhythms and cadenzas than words alone can possibly hope to express. John understands. He must understand. Please understand, John.
John’s quiet smile is enough. Press of tea mug into long fingers. Warmth curls along Sherlock’s palm, inching along his veins and into all the empty spaces in his heart.
“I love you too,” John whispers, lips pressing softly against Sherlock’s jaw. It’s enough. He understands. Oh, John. My John.
I welcome your distraction.
Smeared black ink... your palms are sweaty
And I'm barely listening to last demands
I'm staring at the asphalt wondering what's buried underneath
~District Sleeps Alone Tonight, Postal Service