Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sherlock wasn't sure why he was sitting where he was. This wasn't something he predicted himself doing before.

Acting? Showing emotion?

Well, he could say that he could fake emotion with the best of "them", whoever they were. It helped him pull apart the minds of witnesses and get the details they would have otherwise kept to themselves. It's remarkably simple how a few tears and a quivering lip can derail people into telling you what you need.

Boredom crept up his spine like a virus. Maybe he should’ve gone with picking up litter.

No, this was more challenging. Not by much, mind you, but enough.

There was a loud thud further in the building, past a set of double doors, and Sherlock perked up. Curiosity began to make his heart beat quicker. Did someone fall? Did something get knocked over?

Ooh, was it a gunshot?!

One of the double doors opened and a middle-aged woman filled the doorway. She was in her mid-fifties, slightly overweight, and had brown hair that was turning blonde with stress and time. She wore a red t-shirt with white lettering, blue jeans, and carried a large bag stuffed to the brim with crafting supplies and random household objects, most notably the cheap hand mirror resting on top of the pile. As she pushed the door open, she glanced over her shoulder and shouted,

"Don't break my props, John Watson!"

A group of people, more than ten at least, laughed in unison. When the woman passed through the threshold, and as the door closed on its own as she walked away, Sherlock could see what he presumed to be the main theater. Red carpet and long rows of seats filled the glimpse of the room before the door closed with a soft click. He frowned, disappointed that something more exciting - like a gunshot - hadn't happened. Though, it did leave him wondering what, and who, made that loud noise.

Sherlock watched the woman walk past the reception area and through the glass doors. It was a warm day for London, thankfully, so Sherlock wasn't left chilled after the door closed.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he scowled and sighed loudly. Begrudgingly pulling his phone out of his blazer pocket, he read the message. It was from Mycroft, of course.

You’ve always had a fascination with theatrics, brother mine. Really I should be punishing you with hard labor. -MH

Your existence is punishment enough, blud. -SH

Mm, ditto. -MH

Sherlock rolled his eyes and pocketed his phone, picking his script up off the table he was sitting at. He glanced at the time that was posted for rehearsals on the front page, glanced at his watch, then sighed and leaned back against his hard metal chair in boredom. He huffed and sat for a miracle of thirty seconds before he gave up and stood, deciding to enter the house anyways and sit at the back. Theatre was entertainment, after all. Gathering his script, which he had already memorized thanks to his Mind Palace, he walked past the tables and chairs that cluttered the reception area and approached the double doors. Besides, he was admittedly curious as to what had transpired in the auditorium just before that greying woman left.

He could hear the faintest singing past the door, but as he twisted the handle and opened it the volume change hit him like a slap across the ear. He avoided making eye contact with the two people that noticed him walk in and instead made his way to the seats higher up, underneath the balcony seats on the floor above. Sherlock sat in the far comfier cushioned fold-down seats and observed the full room for the first time.

The carpet that lined the main aisles was red, and the seats were made of black metal and rose floral cushions. At the front of the house, sitting in the more expensive seats, was a group of fifteen people. Their ages, sex, and size varied, with the youngest being a boy no older than twelve and a man in his forties, maybe fifties. They were all dressed casually, but Sherlock could tell by the way they interacted that a fair few of them were actors. The ones paying the most attention seemed to be the director, a greying man that looked about mid-forties, and the stage manager, a red-headed thin woman that was likely the same age. The backstage technicians sat in the seats behind the stage manager and all wore black clothing, just like the stage manager herself.

On the stage were two actors, a young man and woman. The woman was younger, but not by much. She was in her lower-twenties and had brown hair pulled into a ponytail at the back of her head. Sherlock's first thought was that she resembled Molly: petite frame, angular jaw, small chin and nose, thin lips. The actress was wearing a green hoodie, an old pair of blue jeans, and bright white sneakers fresh from the box.

Her counterpart, the man standing next to her, interested Sherlock more than anyone else in the room. The man was blonde, but not naturally. Prematurely grey? Yes, going by the shining sliver strands that caught the stage lights just right when he moved. His facial structure was strong but his eyes were bright and oddly kind compared to the harsh square structure of his jaw and brow line. What interested Sherlock the most was the way the man held himself. Military, perhaps? Hmm.

What's a soldier doing here, acting in a small London play?

The soldier turned just then and Sherlock noticed him limp across the kitchen set on stage, leaning on a wooden cane. Ah, he was invalidated. Either that or he's one of those "method actors".

The director spoke and brought Sherlock out of his thoughts.

"Alright, that was good. Just need to keep a good grip on those straight razors.” The rest of the cast laughed while the soldier rolled his eyes. “How's your leg, John?"

"It's alright." The blonde curiosity replied and Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him. Ah, so this is John. His name seemed oddly...dull. "Should be better by dress rehearsal, so long as the weather passes."

"Good, that's good. I'd like to try a run-through of A Little Priest before we go," The director leaned over and touched something by his feet, "but don't worry about going up and down the stairs, I'll call out the pauses for you instead. That goes for both of you."

"I wish someone filmed Watson knocking that table over." Sherlock overheard one of the cast members speaking to the other before they both softly laughed, just as a man in his late-thirties stood up and climbed the steps onto the stage floor. Sherlock just barely caught John sneaking a tiny smirk in the direction of his joking cast mates as he turned to step onto the set, likely having heard them, too. It wasn't like they were being secretive, after all.

In the back of the well-lit stage area were a few different sets that the technicians would wheel in-and-out for different scenes. Currently, the set at the forefront of stage-left looked as if a house had been cut in half. The lower floor was a kitchen on the left and, on the right, one table and two chairs just before the fake entrance door with three steps leading down to the stage floor. In the background was a wooden staircase that led upstairs to the second part of the set. A barber's chair was placed in the center of the room, and along the walls on either side were dark wood counters and cabinets.

"William, sit in the chair upstairs as you normally would for the scene. John and Sarah, go through your movements downstairs as you typically would, but omit the transitions. Just go through those in your head."

"Alright." Sarah said with a slight nod, looking over at John afterwards. John readjusted his stance and nodded back, and the director counted down from three.

"3...2...1..."

A slight pause filled the air between the actors as they pretended to be staring at the same thing between them, which was likely supposed to be the man pretending to be dead in the barber's chair. John was breathing heavily, making a fist with his right hand as if he was holding something.

Sarah sighed, "That's all well and good, but what are we going to do about him?" She gestured to the space between them, acting as if they were upstairs when really they were on the ground floor standing by the foot of the stairs. John took in a steadying breath and swallowed, breathing a bit easier.

"When it's dark," He paused and scowled slightly, "we'll take it out and bury it somewhere." He shrugged and turned away from Sarah, grabbing something from an invisible shelf and pretending to clean the weapon in his other hand.

Sarah watched John’s back when he turned, and after a moment looked at where the barber’s chair was supposed to be. "I suppose." She frowned and leaned over a bit to get a better look at the invisible dead man, then she stood straight again and sighed. "Seems a downright shame," She sang softly, slowly walking around the no man's land to stand behind John.

"Shame?" John repeated solemnly, looking over his right shoulder at her.

"Seems an awful waste." Sarah gestured to 'William' again. "Such a nice plump frame what's-his-name has. Had." She smirked and John turned around. "Has. Nor he can't be traced."

"Business needs a lift," Sarah sang sweetly, reaching up as if to adjust John's tie. "Debts to be erased. Think of it as thrift," She smoothed her hands over John's chest as if to flatten out any wrinkles. "As a gift," she lowered her voice and grinned up at him, "if you get my drift."

John stared quizzically at Sarah, who rolled her eyes and took John's hand. Immediately, the director interjected with timed precision to the music playing by his feet, "Out the hall, down the stairs and turn-" As he did, Sarah sang, "Seems an awful waste..."

Sarah let go of John's hand and walked across the lower floor to the kitchen area. "I mean, with the price of meat what it is-" Sarah pretended to pick something up with her right hand and slapped the surface of the table with her left to make the sound effect of hitting the object against it, then pretended to use the object to roll out the dough, "-when you get it-" She hit the table again and gave John a pointed look, "If you get it..."

Realization dawned in John's eyes and he breathed, "Ah." He smirked at Sarah, who then pretended to set the object in her right hand down.

"Good you got it." She sighed and walked around the side of the counter. "Take for instance Missus Mooney and her pie shop!" She gestured with outstretched arms to the set. "Business never better using only pussycats and toast," then leaned on the kitchen island with an elbow and rested her chin on her palm, looking at John, "Now a pussy's good for maybe six or seven at the most," Sarah grinned wickedly as John walked over to her, "and I'm sure they can't compare as far as taste!"

"Missus Lovett, what a charming notion-!" John sang as he walked over.

"Well it does seem a waste." Sarah humbly replied, standing up straight again.

"Eminently practical and yet appropriate as always-!" John reached out a hand to Sarah and Sarah smiled warmly, taking it. "Mrs. Lovett, how I've lived without you all these years, I'll never know!"

Almost expertly Sarah and John began to sing over one another, layering their lines with the ease of practicing hundreds of times. John slowly waltzed with her step-by-step to the other side of the set as they sang, nearing a window and door.

"Think about it! Lots of other gentlemen'll-"

"How delectable! Also undetectable!"

"-soon be comin' for a shave, won't they?"

"How choice!"

"Think of-"

"How rare!"

"All them - pies!"

"For what's the sound of the world out there?" John sang as they broke the layering effect, grinning over Sarah's shoulder with an arm around her waist, looking out a small window together.

"What Mr. Todd - what Mr. Todd - what is that sound?" Sarah replied excitedly with a knowing look over her shoulder. As John stepped back, she turned around to face him.

"Those crunching noises pervading the air!" John sang proudly, confidently holding onto the last note an extra second and Sherlock had to admit that his voice was rather impressive. It was warm and had just the right amount of roughness, yet he could still make it smooth when the time called for it, and it projected out clearly to the entirety of the house. Even as far back as Sherlock was.

"Yes Mr. Todd - yes Mr. Todd - yes all around!" Sarah looked at John lovingly and followed him until he stopped in the center of the room.

"That's man devouring man, my dear," John gestured to the door and window with his free hand, the one that was currently holding the cane, and then looked back at Sarah, holding out his hand to her. She immediately took it in her own.

Together, John and Sarah sang in a triumphant tone, “-and who are we to deny it in here!” As John strung out the last word, the music faded to the background. John pulled Sarah closer and Sarah skillfully followed with the movement, allowing herself to be spun into John’s embrace. John smirked at her, both actors facing each other, as he held the hand he spun her with and rested his other hand on her waist, struggling to do so while holding his cane.

“These are desperate times, Missus Lovett.” John’s voice was low enough to make Sherlock’s ribs shake. “Desperate measures are-”

A crack of thunder caused everyone to jump. Sherlock glanced around the room, assuring himself it was simply just the weather, mildly disappointed that it wasn’t a bomb or a gunshot, before focusing on the stage. His brows furrowed as he watched John stare blankly at Sarah. The soldier murmured something, likely the remainder of his line, and Sarah moved her hand from his waist with a worried look, still holding his hand. Sherlock could see her mouth John’s name, but couldn’t hear her voice from so far away.

“John?” One of his cast mates began to stand up, looking ready to vault onto the stage.

Sherlock was walking down the aisle and stepping up before he realized what he was doing. He glanced at John’s cast mates, some of which were already onstage trying to comfort him. Some were staring at him, bewildered and wondering where he came from.

“John, what’s wrong?” Sarah pressed, squeezing his hand. He continued to stare through her. Sherlock noticed his left hand shaking in Sarah’s grip.

Another crack of thunder made John flinch, squeezing his eyes closed and throwing his left hand over his face as if he was shielding himself from something. Sarah didn’t let go of his hand, however, and forced his hand away from his face. Smart woman, Sherlock couldn’t help but deduce. Experience with abnormal psychology?

“John, is it?” Sherlock prompted. His tone cool and calm. “Can you hear me?”

Sarah looked at the stranger. Relief, Sherlock deduced. Confused, but relieved for my assistance. John blinked, looking briefly at Sherlock and not through him. Sherlock expected John to be confused, but the soldier was blank. Accelerated heart rate. His vision became unfocused again. Someone around them mentioned that the thunderstorm wasn’t supposed to come for another day or two.

If John can’t hear the thunder…

“John wouldn’t happen to have headphones, would he?” Sherlock asked, looking at his director and cast mates in the seats below.

“Yeah, one-“

A third crack of thunder nearly sent John flying out of his skin. Sherlock reached out and grabbed him – a big mistake.

The soldier glared at him with wild wide eyes, and Sherlock ducked as John threw a punch.

“John, relax.” Sherlock tried to be calm. The others around him gasped and yelled out their friend’s name, however, which failed to assist Sherlock in the slightest.

Sarah gripped John’s shoulders and tried to force him to face her, to look at her face.

“John, you’re safe.” She said in a terse tone. “Look at me.”

Experience. The deduction flashed across his eyes as he looked at Sarah. He couldn’t help but be grateful for her help as well.

“Get those headphones now.” Sherlock growled at the others. As another person joined the search through John’s things, Sherlock looked at Sarah. Curiosity couldn’t keep him from asking, “Are you close to him?”

“You could say so.” Sarah admitted. Coworkers. Not currently. Lovers? “Why?”

“Press your jacket under his nose. The familiar smell will ground him.” Sherlock reached out tentatively to John, ducking his head into his unfocused vision. “John, do you know where you are?”

“What…” John trailed off, turning his head in a sluggish movement to face vaguely where Sherlock’s voice had come from. Heavy breathing. Panicked. The repeated flight-or-fight responses were making him tenser and tenser with every crack of thunder. Posttraumatic Stress Disorder, Sherlock concluded. It was obvious. Specifically, it was dissociation and hallucination.

How do you ground someone’s mind in the present?

Engage the senses.

                                                                                    Remind them of reality.

                                    Breathing regulation.

“What’s his rank?” Sherlock asked Sarah. Sarah seemed a bit confused but answered readily.

“Captain.”

John glanced at her, and both Sarah and Sherlock noticed. Sarah caught on to Sherlock’s plan immediately.

 “You’re in London.” Sherlock reassured, the instructions his mind drew from swirling in his head. He glanced over to check on Sarah’s progress of taking off her hoodie. She was pulling it off her arms now. “You’re back home, Captain. You’re just having an episode.” John focused his eyes on Sherlock.

“Do you know John?” Sarah asked, surprised. He doesn’t tell others about his disorder. She pressed her hoodie up to John’s mouth. “John, hold this here for me, okay? Deep breaths.”

“I deduced it.” Sherlock replied, watching John’s face as he reached up to lay his hand over Sarah’s. Sarah removed her hand, placing a hand on his right shoulder. In case he tries to run, Sherlock observed. Pain. Emotional pain. Has she not seen him like this before?

Someone brought over a chair from offstage just as someone else brought John his headphones. Sherlock took them and placed them on John’s head for him, noticing the soldier watching him with curious eyes. The fact that John was focusing on anyone was a good sign.

“Breathe, Doctor.” Sarah instructed softly, rubbing his shoulder. “Sit down and breathe.”

Sherlock’s brows furrowed. Doctor?

Another crack of thunder came, but John merely flinched, curling in on himself slightly as he sat in the seat brought for him. Favored his left side. As he slowly came back to his senses, holding Sarah’s hoodie to his nose and closing his eyes, Sherlock looked at the confused cast and crew watching him.

“Thank you for helping,” The director said, walking up as he held out a hand. “My name is Robert, I’m the director.”

“I know.” Sherlock replied, shaking his hand. “I came in a few minutes ago to wait for my own rehearsal.”

“I see.” Director Robert hummed. “Well, thank you regardless, Mr…”

“Holmes. Sherlock Holmes.”

“Why did he try to hit you?” Someone asked worriedly. Sherlock looked over. Ah, a child actor. Damn it. Why did it have to be a child a-

“John didn’t know he was trying to help ‘em is all,” A woman answered for Sherlock. “He thought the man was gonna hurt him.”

“Thank you.”

A newly familiar voice caused Sherlock to turn around. John was looking at him, cheeks a little red with embarrassment but his eyes kind. It was a relief to see kindness had replaced the fear and pain behind those heterochromatic irises.

“And sorry for swinging at you. I think.” John glanced at Sarah and she nodded shortly, affirming what everyone was saying as true. A product of dissociating, Sherlock concluded.

“Alright, let’s call it early, everyone.” Director Robert ordered. “Pack up your things and head home, and stay safe out there. The thunderstorm is supposed to be pretty bad till Thursday.”

Sarah patted John’s shoulder, saying softly to him, “Wait here, alright? No need to rush out.”

“I will. Thank you, Sarah.”

“Of course John.”

Sarah and the other cast and crew walked off stage, leaving John and Sherlock.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

John seemed momentarily taken aback before replying, “Afghanistan. How-“

“Your limp is psychosomatic, you have a tan-line at your wrist from recent high-intensity sun exposure, and you favor your left arm despite it being your dominant hand. When waiting while standing you assumed parade rest subconsciously and just now you acted as though you were shielding yourself from an explosion of some kind. Your demeanor screams military, your injuries and still-present tan-line suggests recent invalidation, and your limp – while caused by a physical injury – is psychosomatic which means the injury event was traumatic. So, what sunny place do we send soldiers in recent years that often causes posttraumatic stress? A-”

“Afghanistan or Iraq.” John breathed. He smiled, wonderment in his eyes, and Sherlock looked at him perplexed. “That was brilliant.”

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow.

“It was?”

“Of course it was! Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I…” Sherlock glanced at everyone else, noticing a few were watching with surprise, before looking back at John. “That’s not what most people usually say.”

“What do most people usually say?”

“’Piss off’.”

Some of the people watching the two laughed, and Sherlock smiled softly when John snorted.

“Well, I think it was fantastic.”

Sherlock smiled a little brighter, and John held out a hand to him.

“John Watson.” Sherlock shook John’s hand.

“Sherlock Holmes.”

There was a few seconds of pause while the two men thought about what to say next. John, obviously more skilled than Sherlock in small talk, asked the majority of questions.

“You mentioned you were here for rehearsal?”

“Yes. I’m in Much Ado About Nothing.” Sherlock was about to explain what the play was, assuming John had no idea, when he watched recognition and excitement pass over John’s face.

“I love that play. What’s your role? Cast or crew?” He’s sincere, Sherlock deduced, albeit surprised.

“Cast. The lead, actually. I’m Benedick.”

If John could look more excited, Sherlock would have been flabbergasted.

“I adore Benedick! The sarcasm, the sass, the way he plays off of Beatrice… William outdid himself, I must admit.”

“What’d I do?”

John and Sherlock looked at the seats below them. The man who had been in the barber’s chair on set was looking at John.

“Oh, sorry Will. I meant Shakespeare. We’re talking about plays.”

“Ah, s’alright. See ya Friday, Doc.” John waved back at Will as the man left and focused on Sherlock again.

“’Doc’?” Sherlock repeated.

“I’m a doctor.” He admitted. John smiled, a little embarrassed when he saw the shock on Sherlock’s face. “After the army, I tried to work as a GP but… It was boring. So I went to Bart’s A&E. Figured I’d be more help there, anyways.”

“Ah, you were an army doctor.” Sherlock realized. “Combat medic, to be more precise.”

“Only for the last half.” John corrected. “The base hospital had plenty to do, just… wasn’t the excitement I was looking for. Weird, I know.”

“Not weird at all, Doctor Watson.” Sherlock adjusted his suit blazer over his button up. “I’ve no room to judge after all.”

“Oh?”

“I’m the world’s only consulting detective. I created the title.” Sherlock smirked proudly, if not smugly.

“And that means…?” John prompted, arching a brow.

“It means when Scotland Yard are out of their depths, which is always, they come to me.”

“So a private investigator.” John looked a bit amused. It was obvious that Sherlock had quite the ego. Sherlock sighed, annoyed.

“No, they are two separate paths. Parallel, perhaps, but separate.”

“What’s the difference?” John teased lightly.

“One involves far more danger than the other.”

Sherlock watched John’s pupils flare at the promise of danger. He couldn’t help but wonder how useful John would be for his work.

“Well, so long as you enjoy it, hmm?” John smirked. “And what brings you to theatre when you could be chasing after criminals?”

Sherlock must not have hid his expression of discomfort and shame quickly enough, because he watched John’s face soften into just a polite smile.

“Ah. It’s complicated.” He answered for Sherlock. “That’s fine. It’s complicated for me, too.”

Usually, this was the point where Sherlock would run. Emotions were easy to mimic but not to feel. And he was feeling, which he did not like. At least, it was something he normally didn’t like. For whatever reason, he saw a kindred soul in John – however archaic the ideology of souls was – and feeling didn’t appear to be a death sentence. Yet.

No, this time he smiled. Genuinely. A soft, small smile graced his lips for the first time in years.

“I got your things, John.” Sarah said with a soft smile, walking up. “Ready to head out, Mr. Three Continents?” Sherlock felt his curiosity perk up at the nickname, but before he could ask John was standing. He grabbed his cane and leaned onto it. Pain in his right leg. Hip? No, calf.

“Yeah, yeah, you’re hilarious.” John quipped at Sarah, although his tone was light and playful. John then looked at Sherlock. “I assume your rehearsal usually starts after ours?”

“I believe so, yes.” Sherlock couldn’t help the disappointment at the thought of John leaving.

“Well-” A snap of thunder interrupted him once again and he jumped slightly, however this time displaying an appropriate amount of a startle response. “Christ, fucking thunder.”

“Keep your headphones on, then.” Sarah fretted, rubbing John’s right bicep. “How’s your shoulder?” John gave her a forced smile. Doesn’t appreciate Sarah bringing up his shoulder injury. Why? And what sets this injury so emotionally apart from his leg?

“It’s alright. Aches, but no more than what I expect with the weather change and all.” Sarah’s expression fought between frowning and offering John a sad, understanding smile. John looked at Sherlock again. “Well, I guess I’ll be seeing you again this Friday. Unless you would be up to talking sooner than that?” His tone was hopeful.

Sherlock’s heart squeezed in his ribs. He didn’t understand the implication, just knew that it held a heavier meaning. And despite his lacking social nature, he found himself agreeing.

“I would.” Sherlock paused. “I am, rather. Perhaps a case will come up where I could use your assistance.”

John smiled, the stage lights shining in his eyes. Sherlock’s heart stuttered.

“In that case…” John fished out his phone and handed it over to Sherlock. “Here. Put your number in.”

Chapter Text

John spent the majority of the next two days between dissociative states, punctuated only by meals where he took his medicine and responding to messages on his phone. The cast and crew were all worried about him, checking in on him each on their own time. John told his coworkers at the A&E that he was ill, which wasn’t entirely untrue considering his shoulder and leg, and took the days off. He felt remorse for having to make someone else come in to work a double shift or two, but mentally vowed to take a shift for them in return. It was only fair, after all.

Sherlock had texted him a little on that first night, mostly just solidifying his place in John’s contacts before enduring his own rehearsal. John received an annoyed text a couple hours later saying the power had gone out, and he couldn’t help but smile. He imagined Sherlock sitting on stage, just his face illuminated by his phone screen as he texted John. Then another roll of thunder shook through John’s bones and he found himself in a sandy desert once again, waiting for the next mortar to fall.

When John remembered the text at the end of the second day, he felt a spike of shame for forgetting. He grabbed his phone, his headphones discarded to the table and the television on his preferred news channel, waiting for the weather update to come.

Hey, I’m so sorry for not replying. I completely forgot. How did rehearsal go?

No need to apologize, John. I assumed you were in varying degrees of awareness because of the storm. –SH

Rehearsal was tedious. We spent the last hour sitting on the stage reciting lines. Incredibly dull. –SH

John smiled. Perhaps his fantasy hadn’t been too far from the truth. It was also nice to hear that Sherlock understood his predicament, even if that understanding was somewhat minimal.

Sounds it. Any new cases? Also, what’s with the SH at the end?

No new cases unfortunately. The murderers seem to have taken a break. As for my signature, it’s a personal preference. –SH

I enjoy the aesthetic. –SH

John wasn’t entirely sure he understood what Sherlock meant by that, but decided to let it slide.

Well, murderers taking a break? Such a shame.

I detect sarcasm. –SH

No, really?

Definitely sarcasm. –SH

John laughed, rereading the message again with a smile. He knew what he wanted to ask next – his heart raced with the thrill of the question.

Perhaps we could entertain each other. Care for a pint?

I’m currently working on a cold case. Researching possible causes. –SH

John’s heart dropped. He wondered what he should’ve said differently. Was Sherlock no longer interested? Why was he still texting John, then? Was he just doing it-

It’s incredibly boring. Dreadful. But I could use some assistance, if one was willing to fall on the sword. –SH

I could pay you in wine, if that sways your decision. –SH

John’s heart fluttered back to life. He smiled ear to ear. Solving a cold case was a far better idea for a date.

Was it a date?

Payment isn’t necessary, but I’ll gladly take a donation of a glass or two. When and where?

221b Baker Street in an hour. Red or white? –SH

Perfect. See you then.

Oh, and either. I’m not picky.

John stood up and went to the bathroom to shower and shave, completely forgetting the television as he left the living room.

After half an hour, John was dressed and ready to leave. He turned the telly off, realizing he forgot to check the weather, and quickly looked it up on his phone while he grabbed his coat. Pleased with what he found – cloudy day but low chance of rain – he checked himself over in the mirror. He tried not to think too much more on whether he should dress casual or a bit more formal, as he already wasted fifteen minutes earlier standing in his boxers trying to decide that, so instead he looked over his hair and face. Rugged and tired, but he’d seen himself look worse.

He locked the door on his way out, texted Sherlock that he was on his way, and even offered to pick them up something to eat while they worked. John was going over possible take out places around Baker Street when he got the reply. Chinese it was, then.

Besides, it was only fair. Sherlock was wasting perfectly good wine on him. The least he could do was grab dinner.

When the cabbie driver pulled onto Baker Street, John’s heart began to race. For the first time in over 24 hours, his heart was racing for a good reason, a pleasant reason, and one that John hoped to feel again several times over.

John paid the driver before he got out of the cab, being sure to grab all of his belongings. He didn’t want a repeat incident of the cane. When he was sure he grabbed everything, he closed the car door and turned to face Sherlock’s apartment.

He walked up to the door and was about to knock when it opened and John was staring at a clothed chest.

Sherlock’s breath nearly stopped at the sight of John. He hadn’t felt physical arousal since his teenage years, so the feeling was just as surprising as John’s attire. The doctor wore a navy blue button-up covered by a tan vest, the sleeves rolled up to his upper forearm neatly and the top two buttons undone to match the ‘v’ shape of his vest. His shirt was tucked into barely used blue jeans and a brown leather belt fastened it around his hips. His shoes were simplistic – a pair of brown leather shoes – but the quality of them suggested John rarely, if ever, wore them. In his arms was a simple brown coat, and he held onto a plastic bag of takeout in his right hand.

“I’m glad you could join me, Doctor Watson.” Sherlock said and John looked up at him. Sherlock wore a purple button-up that was just a bit too small, causing it to hug the planes of his chest and the buttons to strain against the fabric. His sleeves were pushed up past his elbows, exposing slender but muscular forearms. His eyes were the same silver-blue that he had seen in his episode, along with the head of curly styled hair. So stark and contrasting compared to the desert scenery that had surrounded him in that moment.

“I’m glad you invited me.” John said, currently a little lost in his own thoughts. Sherlock noticed the slight change of his breathing. A little panicked, Sherlock looked down at his right leg, hoping to break the tension.

“No cane?” He didn’t sound disappointed, just curious. He hoped he didn’t also sound as nervous as he felt.

“I don’t usually need it.” John reassured. He didn’t catch on. “Not when the weather is back to the cloudy London norm, that is.”

Satisfied with John’s answer, Sherlock nodded his acknowledgement with a polite smile. He stepped aside and gestured into the foyer of his apartment building.

“I hope the stairs won’t bother you too much, then.” John smiled at his gentle concern, reluctantly allowing Sherlock to take the bag of takeout for him.

“Shouldn’t do.”

After John hung his coat up, the two men walked up the stairs to Sherlock’s apartment. The ascension gave John plenty of time to admire the dress pants of the man in front of him, along with his pristine black dress shoes. He tried his best to be polite, giving Sherlock a lead of a few steps and averting his eyes, but he couldn’t help but glance every now and then.

When they walked in, John was a little caught off guard by the eccentric atmosphere. The first thing he noticed was the large skull of some kind of horned animal – a buffalo, maybe? – followed swiftly by the fact that someone had placed headphones onto it. John couldn’t help but snort with amusement.

Sherlock glanced over, noticed John looking at the animal skull with an amused expression, and smiled.

“I see you appreciate my bison skull.” Sherlock walked over to his desk, currently covered by paperwork and notes, and pushed them into a pile before setting the food down.

“Particularly the added touch of the headphones.” John looked around the rest of the room, noticing a second skull on the mantle (this time a human one) as well as filled bookshelves and a spray painted yellow smiley face above the couch. “Nice smiley face.”

“Ah, a couple of vagrants vandalized the apartment before I moved in.” Sherlock gathered the case information and settled it into its folder. “I decided to keep it.”

“At least they chose a nice color.” John teased. Sherlock chuckled, and John couldn’t help but melt at the sound. “So, food first or case first?”

“If you want to eat, by all means.” Sherlock offered. “I don’t eat when working on a case.”

John cocked an eyebrow, watching Sherlock sit down at his desk. “Not at all?”

“Correct. Digestion slows my mental processes.”

The doctor walked over and grabbed the bag of takeout. “I’m sure you know this, but that’s not exactly healthy.”

“Health doesn’t matter when there are cases to solve.” Sherlock’s reply hinted at him no longer continuing to argue with the doctor, and so the doctor sighed softly. Besides, Sherlock may be thin but he was muscular and alert. He wasn’t clearly suffering from malnutrition. At least, not presently.

“Well, if you won’t eat on a case,” John carried the takeout to the kitchen, “I suppose I have to help you solve it, hmm?”

Sherlock watched him leave, more than a little dumbfounded at John’s response. Mycroft had forced food down his throat on many occasions. As had his mother. And Lestrade. Yet here was a literal doctor of medicine offering to help him instead of force him. Sherlock’s heart softened at the gesture.

John came back a moment later, and Sherlock gestured to a kitchen chair he had pulled over half an hour ago. John smiled at Sherlock and sat down across from him at the desk.

“What can I help with?” John questioned, his light tone replaced with seriousness. Sherlock handed him the case file.

“Victim was Kathy Heming, a 23-year-old female from East London. Her medical information as well as her autopsy report should be in that folder. Cause of death was ruled a result of poisoning.”

“Poisoned with what?” John asked, looking over the case files.

“Exactly.” Sherlock hummed, looking over his notes. “Her autopsy report says that samples from her liver, stomach contents, and blood found no abnormal amounts of toxins.”

“How could she be poisoned if they failed to find the poison?” John leaned back in the kitchen chair, placing the folder in his lap.

“Yet another unanswered question, Doctor Watson.” Sherlock murmured absently as he looked at his laptop. “It’s likely that whatever she ingested was metabolized or deteriorated while stored for examination.”

“Alright… Well, what happened around her death?” John turned the page and saw an autopsy photo. He furrowed his brows as he studied it for a moment, but stopped as Sherlock spoke.

“Close friends say she attended a dinner a few hours before. Ate a chicken salad prepared for her by one of the party members, another woman named Isabella Garcia. An hour later she began to feel weak so she went home. She texted her roommate saying she thought she had food poisoning and blamed Isabella. The roommate was at work and unable to leave. Both figured it would pass as she threw up her dinner. Approximately two hours later, her roommate returned. She was found dead in the loo, curled around the toilet.”

“I see. That certainly does sound like a poisoning.”

“Indeed it does, Doctor.”

Both men sat quietly as they looked over the information in front of them. John turned his attention to the autopsy report and the victim’s medical files. After a few minutes, he noticed something odd.

“Quite a lot of A&E visits for injuries.” John glanced at Sherlock. “More than just being careless or clumsy, in my opinion.”

“It was likely she was abused.” Sherlock remarked, typing something on his laptop. “Multiple pediatric visits revolving around injuries, burns, broken bones, and the like. Her friends mentioned that she was born addicted to cocaine.”

“Her parents?”

“She talks to her father, hasn’t seen her mother since she was one and a half.”

“And her relationship with her father? Good or neutral?”

“According to them, she adored her father. They routinely went out to eat, talked on the phone, planned trips together. All in all a perfectly normal familial relationship.”

“I don’t know if adoration would be considered normal, but I may just be biased.” John murmured, looking down at the medical history in his possession. “Did her friends mention any pain-related symptoms after dinner?”

“None whatsoever.” Sherlock sighed. He went to continue speaking when John interrupted him.

“Huh. Well, I mean… It could be congenital analgesia?”

Sherlock looked up from his laptop. “Pardon?”

“Congenital analgesia. The inherited inability to feel pain. Considering I can’t ask her about the other symptoms of hereditary sensory and autonomic neuropathy, like the inability to sweat or loss of sight, I would refrain from diagnosing her with one particular disorder. It would, however, explain her frequent and rather serious injuries throughout her childhood. I doubt she was abused.” John furrowed his brows. “I’m curious if her father has it, or if the cocaine mutated the gene as she developed. I’ve seen a couple cases of it, though that was in my residency years ago. It’s fairly rare.”

Sherlock stared at John in wonderment. This underlying medical anomaly was what prevented him from considering most of the poisons he had researched. If the victim didn’t feel pain…

“What other symptoms are there? Sensation wise.” Sherlock asked. John flicked back to her autopsy report as he spoke.

“Well, that depends on what disorder she had. Some feel temperature, others don’t. Same for pressure, vibration, and touch. I believe one even lacks the ability to taste, though it’s been a long time since I looked into the symptomology of this disorder cluster so I wouldn’t take my recollection as gospel.”

Sherlock’s eyes lit up with the power of a madman. He rifled through his notes quickly, and John casted a curious gaze at him.

“The closest poison I could match to the timeline, accessibility, and symptomology was cicuta maculate, or water hemlock. Toxicity occurs between fifteen to ninety minutes. It contains a neurotoxin called cicutoxin which degrades easily. I ruled it out, however, because-”

“It’s extremely painful.” John interrupted. “Hemlock causes the peripheral nervous system to malfunction. Most fatal poisonings are accompanied by severe seizures.”

“Death is typically caused by status epilepticus.” Sherlock added, grinning at John. “It also looks similar to parsnip and has a sweet taste.”

“Easy enough to sneak into a salad, ey?” John remarked, grinning back at Sherlock.

Sherlock’s heart raced as he looked at John. The doctor was just as excited as the detective. They hadn’t even chased down a criminal, yet both had racing hearts. Nor had they even determined why the victim was poisoned by Isabella. Although, Lestrade hadn’t asked him to solve the case, he asked him to determine the method. He’d been disappointed by the lack of information before, but now…

It was a high unlike any Sherlock had experienced before.

“So, are we done?” John questioned, placing the case file on the desk. “Or at least close enough to done that you’ll eat with me?”

The look in John’s eyes and the flirt in his tone made Sherlock swallow.

“I suppose we could theorize on what caused Isabella to poison Kathy over dinner.”

John chuckled and stood, going to grab the takeout from the kitchen. He remarked on his way, “Bit ironic, that. Theorizing motives of a murder caused by a dinner over our own dinner.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“Not at all.” John grabbed the food and walked back. “I find it amusing, actually.”

They grabbed their respective containers from the bag and the plastic utensils it came with. John sighed as he opened the container and looked at the fork in his hand, noticing Sherlock holding a pair of chopsticks.

“I miss my days of using chopsticks.”

“What’s stopping you?” Sherlock popped a piece of glazed chicken into his mouth.

“Nerve damage.” John replied in a deadpan tone, laughing when Sherlock nearly choked on his food. “As much as I’d love to perform the Heimlich on you, I’d prefer it more if you didn’t choke.”

“How kind-” Sherlock said in a strained voice after he swallowed the chicken down, struggling not to choke again at the flirtatious tone John held when he mentioned performing the Heimlich maneuver on Sherlock. John laughed again at Sherlock’s terse voice. He gave Sherlock a moment to recover, grinning as he watched him in-between bites of his beef teriyaki.

Chapter Text

The two men sat across from each other, wine glasses in hand and smiles on their faces. Dinner was over, the case had been solved (and reported to Lestrade), and now they were left to talk and enjoy each other’s company. Sherlock had taken off his shoes, sitting on his socked foot with the other planted on the cushion, an alcohol flush on his pale cheeks. John had unbuttoned his vest, allowing himself to slip down in the armchair slightly, with his legs slightly spread apart to keep him from slipping further down.

They had finished discussing the differences between the female leads in Shakespeare’s Taming of the Shrew and Much Ado About Nothing when Sherlock brought up the comment John had made earlier.

“You said you have nerve damage.” Sherlock rested his chin on his knee, right hand setting his wine glass on the end table beside his chair. John nodded and sipped his wine. “In your shoulder, I presume.”

“Yes.” John replied, smiling softly. Politely. Sherlock could tell he knew the question Sherlock wanted to ask. “I was shot.”

The confession, something so simple, spoke volumes. Sherlock found it emotionally difficult to imagine the man he had grown so fond of so quickly being hurt in such a violent manner.

John saw Sherlock look at his left shoulder, thoughtful. “I was treating someone when a sniper shot me from behind. I was lucky an old friend in the RAMC was nearby. He had his work cut out for him, though. I arrived on base in cardiac arrest and was dead for five minutes before I was revived in the hospital.”

Sherlock stared at John’s left shoulder, thinking and processing what John said. The clinical tone to John’s voice suggested an engrained defense mechanism. He focused on the facts of what happened rather than the emotion as to protect his psyche from the pain. Another symptom of his posttraumatic stress, Sherlock concluded. However, Sherlock also couldn’t help but wonder to what extent the nerve damage was. He had been using his left arm only moderately less dominantly during rehearsal, and he used it more often today.

“How bad?” Sherlock asked in a soft voice. “The nerve damage, that is. How bad is it?”

“Considering the injury, not bad at all.” John sipped his wine. “I sometimes get pain in my left arm, for instance if I overexert myself or the weather changes, and I have trouble gripping things that are small or thin, but I have no issues sensing temperature, pain, or pressure. Except for where the scar is. It’s a miracle I don’t have fibromyalgia.”

Sherlock perked up at the mention of a scar. “Scar?”

John smiled, but it was a little forced. Sherlock’s alcohol-fueled state however didn’t notice the slight change. “Yes, scar. And a nasty one at that.”

“How can a scar be ‘nasty’?” Sherlock pondered aloud, unfurling himself in his chair. “It’s healed tissue. Damaged, yes, but healed.”

“Nasty as in ‘unpleasant to look at’.” John corrected. Sherlock tilted his head slightly, somewhat confused, and John felt his heart ease at the cute gesture. He doubted Sherlock realized he was doing it.

“Can I see?”

John’s eyes went wide. Sherlock looked at him with the curiosity of a child and the intelligence of a scientist. John didn’t doubt that his cheeks blushed under the intense look Sherlock was giving him.

“I, uh… I guess-”

No sooner than the confirmation left his mouth did Sherlock stand and stride over, albeit a little wobbly, and he straddled John’s lap. John’s heart stopped in his chest and his lower half ached with desire. The soldier couldn’t tell if Sherlock was flirting or if he was just oblivious, but their conversation about social norms earlier led John to believe the latter was more likely. Especially now as Sherlock unbuttoned his shirt down to his abdomen.

The detective pulled the fabric away from John’s left shoulder and froze for a beat before continuing, gently pushing the fabric over the top of his shoulder so he could see it in the light. The sunburst scar dominated John’s left shoulder. Thin tendrils snaked out from where he had been operated on. There were a few tendrils that had actually been older scars, but were now partially covered by the new scar tissue that came after it. The center of the sunburst dipped inwards where flesh had been removed, likely by a surgeon soon after or by the bullet itself. Now the skin was pink – healed but relatively new. Only a year or two old, in fact. In a few years it would be a white reminder of John’s trauma. Far harder to deduce. Sherlock was lucky he got to deduce it now, while many of the details weren’t lost to time.

Lost in his deductions and fascination, Sherlock reached out and trailed a finger over the ridges and dips of the scar. He felt a hand rest on top of his thigh and his heart raced.

He had no idea that he had been talking aloud.

Well, not until John commented,

“Keep talking like that and I’ll have to kiss you.”

Sherlock looked at John and suddenly became aware of the situation. He was sat on John’s lap, straddling him, just inches from his face. He had partially disrobed him, exposing the most vulnerable part of his history, and deduced it out loud without realizing. John’s comment didn’t register with him – he was too busy processing the intense shame.

“Oh, I’m – John, I – I didn’t – I wasn’t thinki-ngm!”

John cut off Sherlock’s rambling by putting a hand on the back of Sherlock’s neck and pressing a firm kiss to his lips. Sherlock froze like a deer in headlights, and for the first time since Sherlock could remember he was stunned into silence. John pulled back after a moment, taking in a deep breath, and smiled.

“Sorry if I was a bit too forward just now. I just… No one has…” He looked away, licked his lips, and his smile faltered. “I’ve not met someone who wasn’t… perturbed by it, before. Or how I got it, for that matter.”

“Was that the only reason?” Sherlock asked. John smirked and the panic in Sherlock’s eyes portrayed his embarrassment at realizing he spoke his question out loud again.

“No.” John replied truthfully, reaching up to gently cart his fingers through Sherlock’s curls. “But it was the catalyst.” John stroked his thumb over Sherlock’s thigh. “Do you usually not realize you’re talking out loud, or is that the wine talking?”

“A little of both.” Sherlock kept his eyes on John’s scar, avoiding John’s gaze. “I’ve been told I have a poor filter to begin with.”

“A poor filter is only a poor filter if the person their talking to doesn’t like what they hear.” John countered, smirking at Sherlock. “I, for one, have liked everything I’ve heard so far.” He watched the man think, pleasantly warm from the wine and Sherlock sitting on his thighs.

“Even what I said about your shoulder?” Sherlock risked a glance at John’s expression. John smiled, adoration clear on his features, and Sherlock’s heart raced again.

“Especially what you said about my shoulder.” John teased, reaching up to curl a finger under Sherlock’s chin. “It was a glimpse inside your mind, and I loved it. Just like I did the first time.”

Sherlock’s heart nearly stopped beating all together at John’s confession. He searched John’s face, desperate to find just an ounce of insincerity or dishonesty. He almost couldn’t believe it when he found nothing but affection.

His body was lost to these new emotions as he acted on impulse. He pressed his lips to John’s, tentative and careful, and John smirked into Sherlock’s mouth, moving his hand to curl around the back of Sherlock’s neck. The strands of hair his hand brushed against sent a shiver down Sherlock’s spine, causing his lips to part against John’s. John flicked his tongue over Sherlock’s bottom lip, grinning smugly at the tiny whimper Sherlock let out.

After a few long minutes, the two men parted, breathing heavily. John’s hand traveled to the front of Sherlock’s neck then down to his collarbone.

“You are gorgeous, you know that?” John grazed his thumb over the soft skin of Sherlock’s neck. “Absolutely gorgeous.”

There was a brief pause before John leaned forward and licked a stripe up the side of Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock let out a sharp breath, his hand reflexively coming up to cradle the back of John’s head. His head was swimming with alcohol and lust, and it was a debilitating combination. John’s hand trailed down Sherlock’s chest and around to his back, pulling him closer in John’s lap, while the doctor mouthed at the detective’s neck.

“How far do you want to go?” John questioned, hands rubbing over Sherlock’s back and sides.

“I-” John pressed tender kisses underneath Sherlock’s jaw and up his cheek. Sherlock smiled with one arm around John’s neck while his hand moved from the back of the doctor’s head and onto his shoulder. John smiled back as he pressed a chaste kiss to Sherlock’s lips. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” John murmured against Sherlock’s lips, his hands now roaming over the detective’s clothed chest.

“I haven’t…” Sherlock struggled to get the sentence out. He felt ashamed and mildly embarrassed. “…done this… before.”

John pulled back slightly, and Sherlock was momentarily panicking before John cupped his face with one palm and smoothed his thumb over the detective’s cheekbone.

“You haven’t?” John’s tone wasn’t the judgmental response Sherlock anticipated. He leaned into John’s touch, closing his eyes.

“No.” He murmured shyly. He smiled into John’s hand when the doctor rubbed his thumb over Sherlock’s cheek again.

“I find it hard to believe, looking at you right now, that no one has tried their luck with you yet.” John lightly teased, his free hand tracing his fingertips over Sherlock’s thigh.

“A few have tried.” Sherlock admitted. “They were dull, though. Idiots, all of them. Most people find me too unbearable.”

John chuckled softly and Sherlock opened his eyes to look at him. “Unbearable?” John’s tone was disbelieving.

“You’ve not seen the worst of it, yet.” Sherlock warned. “I…” His anxiety started to increase, along with his heart rate. “I sometimes go for days without talking. I play the violin when I’m thinking. I store experiments in the fridge. I’m selfish and greedy, constantly searching for the next high. I’m arrogant, I-”

John put a hand over Sherlock’s mouth to silence him, “Alright, alright, don’t work yourself into a panic attack.” After Sherlock stopped trying to talk around his hand, closing his mouth and breathing heavily through his nose, the doctor raised an eyebrow. “You done now?” John asked with the corner of his mouth turned upwards in a crooked smile.

Sherlock reluctantly nodded. John removed his hand. The detective took in a deep breath, trying to calm himself.

“I don’t care.”

Sherlock furrowed his brows at John, and the soldier just smiled back.

“I’m no better, Sherlock. I’m possessive. A loner. I have a bad temper and trust issues. When I’m bored I lash out or get depressed. And that’s not to mention the PTSD. You’ve not seen the worst of that.” John let out a half-hearted laugh. “So… I don’t care that you’ve got demons. I do too.”

Sherlock smiled, studying John’s face as he spoke. Like most times, John was sincere and honest. It was refreshing to not have to decipher hidden meanings behind every sentence.

“I hope you know that I’m not going to let this be a one-night-stand thing.” John teased. “My days of being ‘Three Continents Watson’ are over.” John said the title with a playful, annoyed tone.

Ready to head out, Mr. Three Continents?

Sarah’s voice floated through Sherlock’s head, and finally the nickname made sense.

“I presume that means you had a one night stand on three different continents?” Sherlock asked, although his tone suggested he knew the answer. John sighed.

“Yes. Yes, I did.”

“Why did Sarah call you Three Continents then, at rehearsal?”

John rolled his eyes. “I was chatting you up and she wanted to tease me is all.” Sherlock furrowed his brow, slightly confused.

“You were?”

John smirked.

“Yes, I was.” John stroked his thumb over Sherlock’s cheekbone. “It’s not every day you’re pulled out of a flashback by a handsome face with a brilliant mind to boot. I’d be a fool if I didn’t try to ask you out.”

Sherlock gently cradled John’s face in both his hands, studying his eyes.

“But you didn’t.” The confusion on Sherlock’s face made John chuckle.

“Yes, I did. This is a date, darling.”

Sherlock’s heart skipped a beat. “It is?” The surprise and excitement in Sherlock’s eyes was contagious. John grinned.

“How many more times do I have to say yes?” John’s tone was only a little exasperated. Sherlock beamed, still holding John’s face in his hands, and kissed him. After a few wonderful moments, Sherlock pulled away.

“I don’t know what to do on a date.” Sherlock admitted softly.

“That’s the wonderful thing about dates,” John murmured and rubbed his hands over Sherlock’s sides, “they can be whatever you want them to be. All you need to do is enjoy your time together.” Sherlock brushed his fingers through John’s blonde hair. His face hurt from smiling so much.

In fact, he couldn’t think of any other time in his life where he had smiled for this long.

“Well, I do enjoy your company.” Sherlock played with John’s hair, admiring the strands of blonde and grey from years of stress. “Even before I sat here.”

John laughed. “I’m glad.” His hands stilled on Sherlock’s sides, thumbs rubbing over the soft fabric of Sherlock’s button-up. “I enjoy your company, too.”

Sherlock’s eyes softened and John could tell it had been the first time in a long time Sherlock had heard someone say they enjoyed his presence. The thought of that being the case was sad, but John pushed the thought away. He was here now, and he would appreciate Sherlock to make up for the years he hadn’t been.

“Come, let’s go lay in bed. No need to rush things.” John patted Sherlock’s sides, hinting at the lanky man to stand up. “We can cuddle before I need to head back to my flat. I’ve got work in the morning.”

“We could go to yours,” Sherlock suggested then immediately regretted it. What if John was making an excuse to leave? What if-

“That…” John thought for a moment, “… is a great idea.” He pecked a kiss on Sherlock’s cheek. “Far better than mine. Let me call us a cab.”

Sherlock smiled and stood up, his legs still wobbly from the alcohol but far less than they had been.

Chapter Text

Normally, John was awake before his alarm chirped. Repetitive night terrors coupled with an ever-changing sleep schedule made it difficult to sleep at the best of times, and impossible at the worst. But, he always set his alarm just in case. On a few occasions, when he had finally fallen asleep after a long battle with insomnia, his alarm startling him awake made sure to nip that in the bud.

So when he woke up to a soft ringing on his bedside table, he was confused. When he realized it was his phone alarm, he rubbed his eyes… Then he became confused again when he noticed he didn’t have the urge to chuck his phone at the nearest wall.

A body moved next to him in the bed, and he looked over in the darkness. A familiar face and build met his eyes.

Those beautiful silver-blue eyes. They pierced through the darkness, reminding him of his flashback, and John had the stray thought that he never expected to appreciate a flashback occurring before. And in public, of all places.

“As much as I’d love to sleep for the next three years,” John leaned over and kissed Sherlock’s cheek, “I’ve got work.” He sat up with a groan.

Sherlock grumbled and wrapped his arms around John’s waist, causing the doctor to laugh softly. The sound was thick and low, and Sherlock wanted to hear it again.

“Feel free to sleep in.” John reached over and grabbed his phone, turning off the alarm. “I don’t mind if you stay after I leave.”

“What’s the point of staying if you’re not here?” Sherlock sulked, letting his arms be removed by John’s hands as the blonde freed himself.

“Well, to sleep in I assume.” John teased, looking over his shoulder. Sherlock rolled his eyes, disappointed as John got out of bed. The doctor grabbed a pair of scrubs from his closet and went to the bathroom. The sound of water hitting tile soon followed.

The background noise, coupled with Sherlock’s half-awake status, led the man to fall under the waves of sleep yet again.

The next time he woke up, daylight streamed through John’s bedroom window. Groggily, he reached for the body that had been lying next to him in his dream. He furrowed his brows and opened his eyes, confused when he felt cold sheets.

Ah, that’s right. John left for work.

Sherlock rubbed the sleep from his eyes and sat up. His head throbbed at the temples, but it wasn’t unbearable. Just a mild annoyance. He went to grab his phone from the nightstand and felt a piece of paper on top of it. Sherlock looked over, seeing a note, and pulled both his phone and the paper closer. He rested the device on his blanket-covered lap, rubbed his eyes again to smooth away the blurriness of his vision, and then read the note:

Told ya you’d want to sleep in. When you leave, lock the flat door. And if you steal anything remember that I know where you live. ☺

Otherwise, after work I’m headed to rehearsal. I’ll see ya there, Holmes.

 ♥ - JW

Sherlock smiled.

And then the realization of his situation, and his feelings, made his heart race with fear. What was wrong with him? Caring was not and never will be an advantage. It only leads to pain and failure.

What about the cold case? His mind offered. You caring about him led to you inviting him over, which led to you solving it.

He rubbed his temples, his headache developing into a migraine with the stress. He needed to think. His thoughts were jumbled and too much information had been left unprocessed.

Sherlock lay back down and closed his eyes, pressing his hands together with the fingertips touching his chin, and he retreated into his Mind Palace.

The detective opened his eyes, and he was in the foyer of his family home. Well, what was once been his family home. Sherlock rolled his shoulders and took a deep breath, steadying himself and shaking off the last remnants of his discomfort.

“Why do I have to keep telling you that caring is not an advantage?”

The voice of his brother, condescending and emotionless, came from his left. He turned his head and saw the tall auburn-haired man twirling an umbrella. He stared at Sherlock with mild disappointment, his hawk-like nose tilted up slightly as if Sherlock was beneath him. That gesture never failed to get underneath Sherlock’s skin.

“Ah, Mycroft.” Sherlock sneered. “Of course you would be the personification.”

“I’m the one who taught you it, to be fair.” Mycroft narrowed his gaze, leveled his head, and tilted it slightly as he studied Sherlock. “Don’t you remember primary school? All those bullies and vagrants tearing you down, singling you out?”

Sherlock winced at the memories of being punched, kicked, shoved, and yelled at.

“Freak.”

Sally’s voice came through as the memories flooded him, followed by a chorus of children and teachers alike repeating it. He felt small, powerless, as shadows circled him. The shame crawled up his spine like an infection, leaving Sherlock shaking in the middle of the eye of the storm. Suddenly he was feeling too much. There were too many emotions to process. Too much pain.

“You survived because I taught you to stop caring about what they said or did. I taught you how to use someone’s empathy as a tool. It’s a weakness, Sherlock. Found always on the losing side.”

Sherlock gripped his head, shaking where he stood. His face felt wet. Was he crying?

“Don’t pay him any mind, William.”

The soft soothing voice cut through the chorus of voices chanting ‘freak’, silencing them almost immediately. They were still there, Sherlock could tell, he could hear them as if they were outside the front door. But with distance between him and the darkness, he could start to breathe again.

Sherlock looked to his right, seeing a greying woman smiling at him.

“Your brother forgets that the reason he ‘helped you’ all those years ago was because he cared about you.” Sherlock’s mother glared past Sherlock at her oldest son. “You stop filling his head with all that nonsense, Mycroft. Besides…” Their mom looked at Sherlock and smiled brightly, that same smile that always relaxed Sherlock when he went running home upset.

“…was it not empathy that led you to helping John in the first place? The same empathy you felt with Victor?”

“But…” Sherlock frowned, looking down the hallway and seeing his younger self running toward them, Sherlock behind a brown-haired child of the same height. Both kids smiled and laughed as they turned the corner and sprinted off, the family dog chasing after them.

“I know he’s gone, now, William.” His mom gave him a sad smile. “But you two made some wonderful memories together, didn’t you? Before he passed?”

Sherlock closed his eyes, hearing the faint beeping of a heart monitor before it flat-lined. Pain radiated in his chest.

“But it hurt so much.” Sherlock whispered, opening his eyes and finding himself at the back of a hospital room. He watched his child-self scream at Victor, who was lying in the bed completely still, to wake up. His mother, who was less grey and more brunette, grabbed him from behind and pulled him away. Sherlock kicked and screamed before he finally buried his face into his mother’s chest and sobbed. The people around the three were a blur, a mass of barely cohesive shapes. All that had mattered in that moment for Sherlock had been him and Victor.

“That’s the price of caring, I’m afraid.” Sherlock could almost feel his mother’s arms around him when he closed his eyes. “When life hurts them, you’ll feel it too. But,” the phantom touch of his mother pushing his curls out of his face eased some of the heartache in his rib cage, “When life rewards them, sweetheart, you’ll feel that as well.”

Sherlock opened his eyes and saw his mother looking up at him, that loving and caring look in her eyes that made him bend to her will whenever she used it. It was what sent him to rehab a few months ago. The same look that gave him the courage to talk to Victor, to pursue his passion, to continue perfecting the violin, and so much more.

“That’s what makes the pain worth it in the end, mon cher. Seeing the one’s you care about happy. Watching them thrive and grow. And when the time comes… being with them when it hurts the worst.”

Sherlock looked past his mother to the hospital room behind them. He noticed his mother sobbing as she held the younger Sherlock, hearing those whispered apologizes in his ear.

“I’m so sorry, mon cher. My sweet William.” She stroked the back of Sherlock’s head, holding him tight to her. “At least you got to speak with him, oui? You got to be here with him, made his last hours less scary? Good Lord in Heaven, I’m sorry, my sweetheart. I’m sorry it happened at all.”

Sherlock opened his eyes, his vision blurred with tears. He sat up in John’s bed and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. As he took a moment to breathe and come back to reality, he noticed that he wasn’t as fearful anymore. He was worried about what would happen, how things would progress, and what he would do if John ever lost interest, but he wasn’t afraid of being attached. Deep down, in the recesses of his mind, he wanted it. Not with anyone else he’s met, no, he fully meant it when he said they were all idiots. No, John was different – a breath of fresh air for a suffocating man.

It was a few minutes after Sherlock’s revelation that he thought of checking his phone. He noticed that he had messages from two people: John and Lestrade.

Of course, he read John’s first.

Thanks for spending the night. It was the best sleep I’ve had in years. I hope you slept well, too. Even after I left.

I know we just met, what, four days ago? And you’re not used to all this romance stuff. So I’m sorry if things went too fast cause of the wine. But I do really like you.

If you need time, for whatever reason, I can wait. We’ll move at your pace. I gotta get back to work, now. Ta. ☺

Sherlock furrowed his brows, noticing the other phone numbers tagged with his as recipients in a different text that John sent. It was part of a group chat, apparently.

Oh for fucks sake. I’ll be MIA for an hour past start time. Some dumbass tried to fuck a toaster.

Sherlock burst into giggles at John’s wording, shaking his head. He read John’s fellow cast members’ replies – he presumed – with a grin.

I’m sorry but How Do You Fuck A Toaster John

Lol, miss working as a GP with me yet?

GOD no, I’d rather apply burn cream to some meth-head’s burned dick than work 15 flu cases in a day. Alright breaks over and I’m tapping in for a coworker, ta till later.

wAIT IT WAS ON??

Poor innocent Roger, it’s called sexual masochism. Also thank god danny doesn’t have a phone. I trust none of you to keep any conversation at E for Everyone.

Why is no one else confused as to HOW YOU FUCK A TOASTER!

Having had his fill of layman antics, he muted the conversation and replied to John directly.

Slept far longer than I expected. Or I spent longer in my Mind Palace than I realized. Either way, I’ve processed and sorted the information I needed to reflect on. I appreciate your consideration. –SH

See you tonight. We can discuss plans once you’ve finished tending to the sexual masochist and rehearsal. Your way of wording things is quite amusing, I must say. –SH

After what felt like ten minutes but was really more like thirty, Sherlock got to Lestrade’s message.

Alright I got to come out and ask: who’s this ‘Doctor Watson’ you mentioned over the phone yesterday?

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. As much as he enjoyed the new attention from John, he did not enjoy having new attention from anyone else.

But Lestrade does supply him with cases. Which would make him happy. Which would make John happy. So pleasing Lestrade with an answer would, inevitably, work in his favor. Sherlock, however, couldn’t promise to make the message nice.

Scowling, Sherlock wrote a message:

A new colleague. One far more capable than your Yarders. He will be assisting me with cases from now on. –SH

Sherlock crawled out of John’s bed, tossing his phone onto the blankets, and walked to the bathroom.

Chapter Text

John was too busy with rehearsal to notice when Sherlock walked in. The doctor was in his costume and makeup, talking to the director, both men standing center stage while the techs moved set pieces about. His costume was layered but ordinary for the time, just like he had told Sherlock yesterday over wine: a dark brown leather vest, a collared white long sleeve with cuffed wrists and puffy arms, a clover green scarf tied around his neck and tucked underneath the collar, a black pinstripe pair of trousers with a belt around the waist, and sleek black boots. But John’s description didn’t do his appearance justice. Especially since he neglected to mention the dark brown, almost black, streak in his fringe, the color following the hair as it had been swept up from his face and brushed to the side. 

Seeing him on stage, in his costume, was glorious. He didn’t look like the John he saw yesterday, but he liked the change on the doctor. It suited him.

“So when I finish No Place Like London, exit right and enter left for Worst Pies.” John was saying as Sherlock walked to the back of the house and sat down.

“Yes.”

“Are we going to keep the same amount of time between scenes if I need my cane, or should I expect that to change?”

“It will stay the same. I’ve talked with the conductor since last time and he’s promised that he’s extended the musical score to account for if you need your cane.”

John looked relieved. “Wonderful. Thank you, Robert.”

“Of course. We may even have you run it with your cane a few times anyways. I think it adds an interesting flair to Todd. One I haven’t seen done before, that is.”

“Well let me know when you want me to use my cane and I’ll take half a tramadol instead of a whole one.” John joked and Robert laughed. Sherlock had the impression that John wasn’t completely joking.

In his coat pocket, Sherlock’s phone vibrated. Expecting to see a text from Lestrade complaining about Sherlock’s attitude toward the inspector’s coworkers, he pulled it out.

Seeing Mycroft’s name, however, made him curious.

You’ve proven your point. I removed you from the play. The requirement is satisfied. –MH

Sherlock, glad that he didn’t have to fake emotion repeatedly for the next month before show time, smirked smugly.

What, disappointed that I now enjoy my punishment? –SH

The director called for everyone to head home and Sherlock’s heart began to race with excitement. He watched John grin at one of his child cast mates and pat him on the back, saying something to him. Sherlock smiled softly. Sherlock wasn’t sure what to call the emotion he felt when watching John interact with child – Danny, Sherlock assumed from the ‘meth head’ conversation earlier – but he liked the feeling regardless. Which was still surprising.

The doctor was truly one of a kind.

Sherlock’s phone vibrated in his hand and he looked down at Mycroft’s reply. His heart sank.

More accurately I’m disappointed in you. End the charade. Caring is not an advantage. –MH

The detective stared at his phone. Mycroft pulled him from Much Ado About Nothing because of John. And he assumed that getting close to John was his tactic of getting out of his community service requirement. Mycroft thought that Sherlock had invited John over to make a point.

The notion that Mycroft thought that low of him stung more than Sherlock cared to admit. He needed to debug his flat. Possibly even John’s.

Sherlock fumed for a few minutes, thinking over all of the horrible things he would love to say in response to Mycroft’s accusation. As he watched some cast members leave, he knew John wasn’t too far behind. Clenching his jaw, Sherlock replied:

The one who should be disappointed is me. Your deduction skills are obviously slacking. Fuck off. –SH

“Hey!”

The familiar voice caused Sherlock to look up. He saw John approaching him, smile on his face and makeup removed. His hair still had the remnants of black spray-on hair dye, causing an interesting streak of dull grey amid the wet blonde hair.

Sherlock smiled back and stood up, but it was half-hearted at best. Of course, as Sherlock expected him to, John noticed.

The doctor frowned and finished walking up, adjusting his bag on his shoulder. He had on a simple green jumper, blue jeans, and brown shoes, looking adorably ordinary. His scrubs were in his duffle, Sherlock deduced. He brought a change of clothes for after rehearsal.

For me.

“What’s wrong?” John asked, watching Sherlock’s smile fade. No use pretending he was fine when John had already noticed.

“My vulture of a brother. That is what’s wrong.” Sherlock snarled, taking a deep breath. “It’s a long story. One I don’t want to tell in the middle of a theatre house.”

“You’re not going to rehearsal?”

Sherlock swallowed. “No, I’m not. I’ll explain why when I tell you the story.” John nodded his understanding, reaching out to touch Sherlock’s hand before refraining. He looked up at Sherlock.

“How do you feel about PDA?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Public displays of affection.” John clarified. “Would you prefer if I didn’t touch or kiss you in public?”

Sherlock thought about the consequences of either. Then, he remembered the security camera across the street. The same one Mycroft had used to spy on him his first day here.

“If it helps your decision, I’d appreciate keeping contact in front of my cast mates on the platonic side.” John sighed. “I’ve got enough going on without worrying about their judgement. Once the play is done, however, I don’t mind.”

Sherlock nodded. “Fair enough. Especially considering Sarah is your ex-girlfriend.” He paused for a moment of thoughtful consideration, not noticing the look of shock and horror on John’s face. “The idea of touch in a public setting doesn’t sound abhorrent to me. I’m unsure about anything else, though.”

“I’m sorry how did you know Sarah was an ex of mine?” John said quickly, staring at Sherlock with narrowed eyes.

“Oh please, it’s obvious. I figured it out when she mentioned in that group text that you worked with her as a GP.”

“Alright, well explain to me how you got there.” John was more confused and baffled now than anything else. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“During your flashback she was the only one to assist me. She demonstrated some limited understanding of what you were going through, although I doubt she ever had to use the knowledge before. Including with you. In that moment, she was just as shocked as everyone else but kept a level head. She alluded to the fact that you two had a history but weren’t necessarily close. After that incident there were several possibilities of how she related to you. Until the group text, that is. Then everything was narrowed down to just two possibilities.”

“Two?” John prompted the explanation, listening intently. Sherlock noted the fascination in his eyes and felt his cheeks heat up.

“Either she was a fellow doctor working at the same clinic as you, or she was a nurse working under you. Either way, you two started a relationship and it was short-lived.”

John watched Sherlock’s face for a moment before shaking his head in disbelief.

“Still as impressive as the first time.” John grinned, reaching out to wrap a hand around Sherlock’s arm. “Come on. Tell me all about your vulture brother.”

When Sherlock slid out from the aisle and they started walking, John let go of his arm and walked beside him. Sherlock found he already missed John’s touch.

“Any preference on where we go?” John asked Sherlock, pushing the door open and holding it for him to get by. Sherlock’s immediate thought was of a restaurant nearby.

“I know a restaurant we could go to. The owner owes me a favor.” Sherlock looked over his shoulder at John. “Hungry?”

John grinned. “Starving.”

Sherlock’s phone buzzed in his pocket and he took a quick look at it. Noticing the sender was Mycroft, he rolled his eyes and powered down his phone. They walked to Angelo’s and, as they walked, Sherlock did some minor explanation of the situation along the way. John took Sherlock’s hand in his, listening as if Sherlock was the greatest story teller of all.

“One thing you should know about my brother is that, aside from being an ever-constant thorn in my side, he works for the British government.”

“Oh?”

“Well, more accurately he is the British government.”

“Really?” John’s tone was disbelieving and playful. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John. When John realized Sherlock was serious, he changed his tune. “Oh, you’re serious? Alright then.”

Sherlock carried on as if John had never interrupted.

“Which means he has access to a large amount of resources. And will bend the rules when need be.” Sherlock felt his heart race with anxiety at the next fact that he had to now reveal. The detective glanced at a street camera on a light pole and glared. He didn’t doubt Mycroft was enjoying his torment.

“One thing you should know about me, however, is that I…” Sherlock swallowed and took in a deep breath. “I went to rehab a few months ago.”

Sherlock could feel John’s hand tense in his, and he winced from the emotional pain at the thought of John leaving.

“You did?” John’s voice was concerned, surprised, but didn’t hold the venom Sherlock expected. Sherlock nodded his response, struggling to find the words. “What for? If you don’t mind me asking, that is.”

“… Cocaine.” Sherlock’s voice was barely above a whisper. The wide-eyed look John gave him suggested that the doctor had expected Sherlock’s drug of choice to be alcohol. Sherlock looked away, staring at the ground, and John stopped them both from walking further.

“Are you still using?”

The question was warranted, but it still hurt to hear.

“No.”

John looked pleased with the answer, giving Sherlock a small smile of approval.

“Good.” John tilted his head up to Sherlock’s and kissed his cheek. “Your mind is too brilliant to ruin it with drugs, Sherlock.” John squeezed Sherlock’s hand. “Whenever you get the urge to use, tell me, okay? I’m here for you. That means for the good and the bad.”

Sherlock smiled, something pained but warmed by John’s response. He couldn’t think of a time when Mycroft or Lestrade had offered an ear or support. Mother, yes, but when she wasn’t following father around she was most likely shopping.

“Okay.” The detective promised, squeezing John’s hand in his. “Thank you.”

“There’s no need to thank me.” John gave Sherlock a quick peck on the lips. “I get the feeling you’ve been due to hear that for a while now.”

Sherlock started to lead the way again, before he could allow himself to get too caught up in his gratefulness for John. It took him a moment to gather his thoughts and remember what he wanted to say. Yet another unforeseen effect John Watson had on him.

“When I… left, my brother had it arranged that I would perform community service. Involuntary volunteering, so to say.” John gave an amused smirk at Sherlock, and Sherlock returned it in kind. “I picked the least horrid of the few choices I had – theatre.”

“Wait, I thought you liked theatre?” John seemed almost hurt by Sherlock’s comment.

“I do.” Sherlock confirmed. “I like to watch it, not participate in it. Emotions…” Sherlock scowled slightly. “I can act, don’t misunderstand me; I’ve had to act quite a bit as a consulting detective, but emotions… We have a troubled history, them and me. That’s another story for another time, however.”

“Okay.” John squeezed Sherlock’s hand in his. “And I’ll be here when you’re ready to tell it.”

Sherlock looked down at the shorter man and smiled. It was something warm and genuine that made John’s heart sing. Sherlock continued, looking ahead of them again.

“The first day of rehearsals for Much Ado About Nothing was the day I met you. And you managed to defy all expectations. You piqued my curiosity. You wormed your way into my brain like a blood infection.”

“Don’t sound too romantic, now.” John jokingly teased, bumping Sherlock with his elbow. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Anyways, my brother, ever the spying aristocrat, was keeping an eye on me through CCTV footage. Probably has bugged my flat, knowing him.”

John glanced up at a security camera on a light pole as they walked past.

“So he likely saw everyone leave the theatre before me, watched you enter my flat, and then watched us leave for your flat.”

“Okay…” John was mildly perturbed and incredibly confused. “So… why does he care?”

“Because before you, John Watson, I had carefully constructed barriers keeping most romantic interest away.”

John thought for a moment.

“Well... shouldn’t seeing us together make him happy for you, then?”

Sherlock’s jaw clenched and John wondered if he asked too personal of a question.

“Once again, it’s a long story.” Sherlock sighed. “Complicated, as you so aptly put it.”

Sherlock slowed down, gestured to the door of a restaurant, and the two men went inside.

“Well, I’ll be here when you want to tell that one, too.”

Chapter Text

“Well, Angelo is quite the character.” John remarked, smiling across the table at Sherlock. Sherlock nodded, eyes a little wide and his cheeks pink, as the burly man walked off. He had helped Angelo avoid an extra twenty years in prison for a murder he didn’t commit by showing proof that he had been robbing a car at the time. Now that Angelo was out of prison, and had his own restaurant, he intended to reward Sherlock for his help.

“That he is.” Sherlock agreed, wondering what properties made candles a romantic décor and why Angelo insisted on getting them. John watched Sherlock for a long moment, noting how the detective’s brow furrowed slightly when he was confused. It was cute.

“Anyways, you were telling me about your brother being a twat?” John prompted, figuring they had time before their dinner was brought out. Sherlock blinked.

“Ah, yes, Mycroft.” Sherlock sighed. “Well, when I arrived today at the theatre, I went in and sat down where you found me.” Sherlock gave a half-smile, “Your costume looks wonderful, I have to say.”

“Thank you, I designed it myself. Definitely wasn’t the costume designer or anything.” John joked, grinning when Sherlock chuckled.

“Mycroft texted me then, telling me I was no longer required to perform community service. He said I had ‘made my point’.” Sherlock’s face went carefully blank, and John’s smile faded into a concerned frown. “I thought he was disappointed that I ended up enjoying my so-called punishment. I.. was wrong.”

Sherlock took a deep breath, suppressing the urge to lash out. Why did his brother have to ruin everything?

“He told me to ‘end the charade’. Said he was disappointed in me and that… caring was not an advantage.” Sherlock looked up at John, meeting his eyes. John was confused for a moment before it clicked.

“He thinks you used me to get out of community service.” John stated. It wasn’t a question.

“That he does.” Sherlock sipped his drink. John nodded slowly, thinking.

“I don’t think that’s the case, I mean we’re having dinner right now so… But for my own comfort,” John paused, “or perhaps more accurately for the comfort of my mind-”

“I’m not using you, John.”

The doctor looked up at Sherlock and saw those beautiful silver-blue eyes watching him. He saw understanding in those eyes.

“Mycroft…” Sherlock trailed off, looking away absently. “He’s cold. Calculated. He led me to believe being alone was my best defense against the world, and I believed him. Not at first, mind you, but after some… choice events in my life, I... I just…” Sherlock glanced up at John. He whispered after a beat of silence, “… I didn’t want to be hurt again.”

John frowned and held his hand palm up on the table, offering it to Sherlock, and Sherlock reluctantly took it in his.

“I understand.” John nodded softly. “Not entirely, of course, because I’ve not lived your life, but… I had similar thoughts growing up. I felt safest when I was alone. Alone meant I could let down my guard and breathe.” John’s eyes softened as he looked at Sherlock. The detective was becoming marginally relaxed but was obviously still anxious and upset. “But then I went someplace where the only defense you had were the people with you.”

Sherlock frowned slightly. He wasn’t sure what to think. He especially wasn’t sure about what he was feeling, or what he was supposed to be feeling, either.

“I lost a lot of close friends.” John continued, his jaw clenching for a moment. He took a deep breath and exhaled. “But it was also the first time I felt cared about. I felt cared for, and that was… new. Freeing, and nerve-racking, but ultimately good. And because of that, I did a lot of risky shit to take care of them. They did risky shit to take care of me, too.”

Sherlock looked down at their joined hands on the table, listening to John speak and becoming somewhat lost to his thoughts. John watched his date stare at their hands for a few seconds before continuing, figuring Sherlock needed reassurance.

“I care about you, Sherlock,” John admitted in a whisper. Sherlock slowly met John’s gaze. John gave Sherlock a little playful smirk, “but I have to admit that your brother’s a git.”

Sherlock smiled and shook his head slightly, watching John break out into a grin at seeing the detective’s mood lighten.

“And if you need to step back for a little while, that’s okay.” John added, becoming more serious again but still kind and concerned. “I promise that back then I didn’t change overnight. Especially when it came to relationships.”

Sherlock’s brow raised a little. “Hence Three Continents?” John rolled his eyes.

“Yes, hence ‘Three Continents’.” John repeated in a mocking and annoyed tone, obviously playfully. Sherlock smirked.

“I want this.” Sherlock confessed, and John smiled. “It’s new and nerve-racking, but I want it.”

“I’m glad.” John brought Sherlock’s hand up to his mouth and pressed a chaste kiss to his knuckles before resting them on the table again and rubbing his thumb over the tendons in Sherlock’s hand. “I hope I can show you just how advantageous caring can be.”

There was a beat of silence where they sat in comfortable companionship before Sherlock spoke.

“You already have.”

John smirked again.

“Then I hope to show you the care you should have been shown from the beginning.”

Sherlock felt his face heat up and took a sip of his water to distract from the warm feeling in his chest. He set the water down and continued, “I wouldn’t take anything Mycroft says too personally.” Sherlock said. “For the most part-”

A cell phone ringing interrupted their conversation, and John felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He gave Sherlock a look and Sherlock sighed, wanting to bang his head on the table. They both had a feeling they knew who was calling.

John pulled out his phone and the caller was a number he didn’t recognize. He didn’t bother asking Sherlock if it was Mycroft’s number. He answered it anyways.

“Doctor John Watson.” John greeted, keeping his eyes on Sherlock. Sherlock’s eyes went wide and he tried not to laugh. Of course John would answer with his most prestigious title. Sherlock hadn’t believed him at first, so he doubted – even with Mycroft being as smart as he is – that his brother would believe John.

The caller took a few seconds to reply.

“Hello, Doctor Watson.” If the posh baritone voice could sound any more pretentious and disdainful, John would’ve been surprised. The disbelief the man held at John’s title being real made John grin. “Do you know Sherlock Holmes?”

“I do.” John kept looking at Sherlock, smiling. John had played these mental games for years with his own family and other adults. He knew the setup to a cross-examination when he saw one. John glanced behind Sherlock’s head and noticed a camera pointed at them from outside and across the street.

“Is he with you right now?”

“Who wants to know?”

There was another pause.

“A concerned friend.”

John smirked. “Try again.”

There was yet another pause, longer than the one before it.

“Give Sherlock the phone, Doctor Watson.” Mycroft ordered, a flare of anger in his voice. Sherlock watched the most mischievous grin form on John’s face.

“Sherlock, dear, the man that called me wants to talk to you. Do you want to talk?” John tried to look and sound as innocent as he could, but he was just having too much fun. It had been a long time since he had humbled someone so high and mighty.

Sherlock smiled, squeezing John’s hand. “That’s quite alright. Though I’d appreciate it if you’d talk to me.”

“Of course! How rude of me, answering the phone while we’re on a date!” John pretended to be appalled by his actions.

Suddenly, he turned serious and made eye contact with the CCTV camera.

“Almost as rude as you calling me to get to Sherlock when, if I understand things correctly, my basic level of respect and kindness towards your brother is far more than whatever scraps you’ve given him for the past few years.”

The line was quiet for a few seconds. Sherlock stared at John, his eyes wide.

“I’m sure I’ll be hearing from you again, Mycroft. Ta.” John went to hang up, paused, then brought the phone to his ear again and looked past Sherlock at the camera. “Oh and here’s a friendly reminder that you can’t order me around: I’m a civie, now. I do what I damn well please, when I damn well please to do it. Keep that in mind next time you call, okay? Ta!”

John ended the call and held the power button down, not looking away from the lens of the CCTV camera. When the phone was completely off, he set the phone face down on the table and looked back at Sherlock, grinning. The smug expression practically radiated from him, and Sherlock was amazed.

He was so amazed that he got up from his chair, walked around the side, and held John’s face in his hands as he pressed his lips hard against the soldier’s. After a few moments, John patted Sherlock’s hip and pulled away a little.

“Sit down, love. You can thank me later with however many kisses you want.”

“Oh you’ve earned more than just a kiss, Captain Watson.” Sherlock purred. The sudden change in the air left John a little breathless.

“Lucky me.” John smirked, kissing him again. The kiss was over far sooner than either wanted as John pulled away. “As much as I’d love to continue, I wasn’t kidding earlier when I said I was starving.”

Sherlock laughed and pressed another quick kiss to John’s lips before sitting back down. He knew there was a camera watching them. He knew Mycroft just watched his brother shower affection over the man that just beat him at his own game.

He didn’t care.

“I’m glad you’re not mad at me for implying that you told me everything.” John remarked. Finally, food was brought to their table and John’s eyes lit up like a man that hadn’t eaten for weeks.

“I’m not mad at all.” Sherlock affirmed. “It was strategic. And true, for the most part. Besides, I do plan to tell you more at some point.” John smiled, happy at the notion that Sherlock trusted him.

“Well, I’ve had lots of practice talking with men like him.” John admitted, grabbing his fork and unfurling it from his napkin.

“Oh?”

John smirked, though some of the humor was gone. “Your family isn’t the only toxic one between us, darling.”

Sherlock’s smile faltered. “Oh.” John twirled his fork in his pasta and continued.

“Don’t worry about if you made me upset,” John said, “because you didn’t. I got my payback and, after all, I don’t have to keep talking to them.” John gave Sherlock a pointed look.

“You got ‘payback’?” Sherlock questioned, watching John take a bite. He took his own bite as John chewed and swallowed.

“Yup.” John grinned. “It’s called prison.”

Sherlock laughed, shaking his head, and John chuckled at his response.

“Their crime?” Sherlock asked, still playful.

“Being a bellend.” John joked. Then his expression shifted to something a little more pained. “I’ll tell you about it some other time.”

Sherlock studied the soldier’s face. “Complicated?” He offered.

John smiled softly. “Yeah, complicated.”

There was a long pause as the two men ate. Sherlock couldn’t help his curiosity.

“What about the rest of your family?” He questioned. “Surely they’re not all in prison.”

John looked notably less uncomfortable at this question, and Sherlock found it very telling. The person in jail didn’t just commit a crime. They had hurt John on a far deeper level.

“My mother is gone,” John said, “and I’ve no idea where my sister is. Probably passed out by a toilet.”

“Ah,” Sherlock nodded slightly. The sister was an alcoholic. “So it’s been a while since you’ve seen her.”

“A few years, yeah.” John sipped his drink. “She didn’t take kindly to me joining the military.”

Sherlock furrowed his brows, confused as to how that would change anything. John looked up at Sherlock and noticed his puzzled look.

“It meant I wasn’t around to take care of her.” Sherlock’s confusion faded into annoyance at John’s sister, and the man smiled. “That’s how I felt, too.”

“Why would she feel entitled to that?” Sherlock pondered. It was half a spoken question and half an absent thought.

“My only guess is that, before mum passed, she took care of Harry. And since I helped mum with anything and everything, Harry might’ve expected me to take her place with helping her.”

“Was she ill? Your sister, that is?”

“Aside from the alcoholism and mental illness, no. She wanted people to take care of her, not actually help her, and when our father got put away I promised myself I was done with that.”

Things began to fall into place in Sherlock’s mind. The father was in prison, the mother was deceased, and the sister was entitled to being cared for. The mother enabled the daughter while the daughter witnessed John caring for their father. She felt entitled to John’s help, just as their father did. She was an alcoholic and learned it from their father. When John stopped helping, his sister took it as a personal attack.

“Enough about me.” John said, offering Sherlock a smile. “This is a date, after all. No need to ruin it with sad stories.”

Sherlock nodded and smiled softly. John’s brows furrowed and Sherlock adored the sight.

“There was something you mentioned in the text you sent me earlier, but I can’t remember what it was that made me confused. Something around the point where you mentioned the meth head I treated.”

“It was likely about my Mind Palace.” Sherlock said, and John pointed at him lazily.

“Yep, that’s it. What is that?” John’s curiosity was endearing, Sherlock had to admit.

The detective went about explaining the memory technique between bites of food, and the discomfort from earlier was left in the past.

Chapter Text

John, admittedly, was more than a little bit excited. He hadn't told off Sherlock's brother to get rewarded, the act was reward enough, but getting something from Sherlock was definitely a bonus.

It also reassured him that Sherlock meant what he said when he promised John he wasn't using the doctor.

The two men had been standing outside the restaurant when John asked Sherlock which flat he wanted to go to. Sherlock said it didn't matter, but then John phrased it differently:

"Well, do you want revenge or do you want to get away from it all?"

In any other situation, Sherlock would have opted for revenge. Eye for an eye. Especially if it was against Mycroft.

But this situation was going to be different. Far more intimate. He wasn’t sure how he felt at getting revenge through… those means.

"Yours, then. Maybe tomorrow we can go to mine." Sherlock smirked, looking up at the street camera John had noticed earlier. "Give Mycroft a chance to debug my flat."

John brought Sherlock's hand up to his mouth and kissed the back of it.

"Brilliant plan as always, dear."

The compliment made Sherlock’s pulse quicken.

The ride to John’s flat was calm. John turned his phone on, checked that no emergencies had happened, and then put it back in his pocket. He wasn’t afraid of Sherlock’s brother trying to track them down, although the thought did cross his mind. If John had assumed his type correctly, Mycroft would be seething over a glass of bourbon right now. Considering his phone didn’t ring once throughout the ride suggested that John was at least partially correct.

When they arrived, Sherlock paid for them both despite John’s protest. The doctor rolled his eyes, deciding to let Sherlock do as he pleased even if John didn’t want him to pitch in for the fare.

Sherlock followed John up the familiar route to his flat, his heart rate starting to increase. The fact that he was excited was startling. He had never been excited by physical intimacy before. Truthfully, Sherlock had assumed he just wasn’t capable of feeling that particular type of excitement.

But then John came along.

He remembered what John had told Sherlock’s brother over the phone. The way he glared past Sherlock at the camera that was undoubtedly being used to spy on them. The anger had been boiling under the surface, being released like a pressure valve in John’s body language and tone lest the whole mechanism exploded.

That smug face John had when he hung up.

John had been asking Sherlock a question when Sherlock came back to reality. Something about his preference of movies or television shows. Sherlock didn’t care.

“If you want to stay up, that is.” John concluded, taking off his wristwatch and placing it on the kitchen counter. “I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to sleep. Your brother sounds tiring to deal with at the best of times.”

Sherlock stalked up behind John at the kitchen island and wrapped his arms around John’s upper body, trapping the doctor’s biceps against his rib cage. John jumped a little, startled by the sudden action, but when Sherlock buried his face into John’s neck the flight-or-fight response eased away.

“I believe I promised you something.” Sherlock murmured into the shorter man’s neck. He remembered how John had kissed his neck the night before and mimicked the movements, pressing soft kisses to the skin he found there. John took in a deeper breath and Sherlock felt pride at knowing he was the cause.

“You don’t have to.” John countered. “You owe me nothing, Sherlock.”

The fact that John would deny him if Sherlock didn’t desire it too made Sherlock far more comfortable and willing to participate.

“I want to.”

John smiled and pulled away, turning around to face the taller man, and then wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s waist.

“You sure?” Sherlock was nervous, but not nervous enough to change his mind. He nodded yes, and John kissed Sherlock’s cheek. “Do you know what you want to do?” John watched Sherlock think, the corner of his mouth turning upwards with amusement at the uncertain look Sherlock gave in return.

“Would you like me to take the lead? At least for a little bit?”

The relief that painted Sherlock’s features was enough of an answer. John leaned upwards and kissed Sherlock softly then took his hand and led him over to the couch. Sherlock’s heart began thudding against his ribs. John gestured toward the couch, and Sherlock took the hint and sat down, unsure of what to expect next.

John straddled his lap, sitting down on his thighs, and he had to fight the urge to laugh at the surprised look Sherlock gave him before John closed the distance between their lips. John had an idea of where he wanted to go, at least for tonight, but there was no need to rush things.

The kiss was slow and entirely not enough. The gentle brushing of lips and tongues was intoxicating. Sherlock could feel his ever-whirring mind slowing down to focus on the sensations. It was blissful. And when John deepened the kiss, Sherlock’s heart thudded so prominently in his chest that he feared for a moment it would escape him.

Careful, practiced hands undid the buttons on Sherlock’s shirt. Sherlock was only half aware of what was happening to his clothes. John’s mouth took most of his attention. He wanted to catalogue every movement, every taste and feeling, so he could never forget. So he could return to this moment whenever he wanted.

The button-up being parted and the sudden cool air on his chest brought Sherlock a little closer to the present. But then John’s mouth moved down his jaw and over the jumping pulse in his neck and all thought was stripped away. John smirked against Sherlock’s skin and pushed the button-up off his partner’s shoulders. His hands then rubbed over the bare chest in front of him and he leaned back to admire it.

Lean was the best way to describe Sherlock’s body. He was thin with some muscle definition but hardly any fat. It was likely a result of running around London chasing after criminals with barely, if any, food in his stomach. He had a few old scars on his upper chest and abdomen, likely from his childhood based on their size and degree of fading. His skin was pale and his neck and face were beginning to turn a light pink from all the attention.

“Beautiful.” John admired, moving his hands lower so he could lean forward and replace the spot with his mouth. He licked and mouthed at the pallor skin, pleased when it turned a little red as a result.

He got up from Sherlock’s lap, and Sherlock nearly reached out to stop him. The little whine that escaped Sherlock’s mouth gave away his disappointment.

“It’ll be worth it, darling.” John’s tone was criminally smooth, a coy smile on his face. He knelt down between Sherlock’s legs and massaged the detective’s thighs while his mouth left kisses over Sherlock’s abdomen. “Still good?”

Sherlock hummed his affirmation with a shaky voice, hands curled into fists on the couch to stop  himself from touching John. The doctor didn’t notice; he was currently face-first in Sherlock’s crotch and teasing him with hot air from his mouth. Sherlock shivered, muscles feeling weak as unfamiliar pleasure shot through his nerves, and he struggled to regulate his breathing.

John mouthed at the bulge in his dress pants and Sherlock let out a small whimper. John looked up at Sherlock and grinned, pupils blown wide and his lips starting to swell with all the work they’ve been put to. The wrecked look Sherlock casted down at him made John the happiest he’d felt in years.

John unfastened the button of Sherlock’s dress trousers and pulled down the delicate zipper, torn between watching his hands to see what he’s doing and watching Sherlock’s reactions. With Sherlock’s help, he shimmied down the waistband of Sherlock’s trousers to his knees, his briefs soon following.

“Do you want them completely off?” John questioned, peppering kisses over Sherlock’s thighs and trying not to stare at the half-hard erection inches away. John wasn’t overly excited about giving oral, he typically didn’t enjoy it, but this was proving to be very different from John’s ‘typical’. He wanted to give Sherlock that experience, he desired to do it, and that was new and exciting all on its own.

Sherlock audibly swallowed as John pushed the fabric further to the detective’s ankles, making room for John to slip between.

“I don’t care.” He confessed. “Do what you want.”

The permission, for one reason or another, set John’s skin alight. He couldn’t deny that he loved the control.

John grinned wolfishly. “Alright then.”

Sherlock’s eyes went wide as John leaned forward and licked a line up the underside of Sherlock’s erection. The electric feeling of arousal on his nerves made his toes curl in his shoes and his fingers dig into the couch cushions. John noticed his hands this time and looked up at him with a toothy grin.

“You can touch me, love.” John’s tone was that same viciously smooth tone that never failed to make Sherlock melt. “I won’t bite. Unless you like it.” John winked at Sherlock and mouthed at his shaft. The sight nearly made Sherlock lose it.

“I don’t…” Sherlock’s voice was strained and low and it danced along John’s ears like lightning. It took John a few seconds to realize that Sherlock meant he didn’t know what to do, not that he didn’t want to be bit. Or perhaps it was both. John reached out with one hand and brought Sherlock’s to his head.

“Don’t be afraid to get rough,” John confessed, eyes fluttering as Sherlock buried his long fingers into his hair and rubbed little circles into his scalp. “I can take it. So experiment, okay?”

“Okay.” Sherlock’s voice was unsure and timid, and it was absolutely adorable to John. John smiled and wrapped his hand around the base of Sherlock’s fully-hard erection as he ducked his head down to mouth at the tip. Sherlock’s fingers flinched in his hair and his body shook from the sudden rush of pleasure, and John grinned against Sherlock’s skin as he continued to mouth and lick.

When John wrapped his lips around Sherlock’s tip, he hummed and Sherlock gripped his hair. John’s hum turned into a pleased moan at Sherlock’s touch and the pale man cursed. John’s eyes looked up at Sherlock with a predatory gaze when he heard Sherlock curse, watching the man’s chest rise and fall with his panting breaths. John’s lips sunk down the detective’s length and he swirled his tongue around it, smiling when Sherlock moaned. He sucked his cheeks in as he pulled his head back and Sherlock reflexively tugged on his hair. John’s eyes nearly rolled and heat licked at his spine. Sherlock cupped the back of John’s head, silently begging him to sink back down.

John was glad Sherlock didn’t taste like much of anything. The overbearing taste was what had always bothered him in the past with other lovers. This, however, was far more tolerable and the closest thing to pleasant that John had experienced.

John could feel Sherlock’s legs tensing against his ribs and he bobbed his head on Sherlock’s length, his hand pumping around the detective at the base. Sherlock gripped John’s hair and let out little moans, looking down at the top of John’s blonde head.

“John-” Sherlock warned, but John didn’t listen. He hummed to let Sherlock know he heard him, but he kept going. When Sherlock’s breath caught and he spilled into John’s mouth was when John slowed down his movements, easing him through his orgasm and the aftershocks. John pulled away and swallowed – it was his least favorite bit, but this time it was worth it – and pressed tender kisses over Sherlock’s chest.

“I could get used to this,” John mused, licking at the sweat that had started to gather at Sherlock’s clavicle. “You were goddamn beautiful. Fucking gorgeous.”

Before John could react, Sherlock was pushing him to the floor and shoving his tongue in his mouth. John gave a surprised noise that Sherlock easily stole from him, kissing him as if Sherlock needed John in order to live.

Just as quick as the kiss started, it ended. John was left dazed for a moment, and when he finally got out of the mental fog his jeans were unbuttoned and being pulled down his thighs, followed swiftly by his boxers.

Sherlock noticed John’s length was only half-hard and his brows furrowed. John smiled awkwardly.

“Giving blowjobs doesn’t turn me on a whole lot.” John admitted. “You touching my hair and looking so good did.”

Sherlock looked up John’s torso at him, pulling John’s clothes further down.

“What about receiving?”

The sinful tone Sherlock had to his voice made John’s heart skip a beat. John doubted Sherlock did it on purpose.

“I like it, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Sherlock’s smirk was devilish. John couldn’t help but think he was in for it, now.

Sherlock focused on John’s erection and ducked his head down, giving an experimental lick up the side of his length. John tasted like a mixture of earth, firewood, and rain. Intrigued and pleased, Sherlock licked him again, pressing the flat of his tongue against John’s length to gather as much of the taste as he could. There was also sweat - Sherlock could tell by the strong salty shock to his taste buds - as well as a hint of John’s body wash. Sherlock recognized it from when he showered earlier today.

“You taste good.” Sherlock said blatantly, as if it was a basic fact, before swiping his tongue along the slit of John’s tip. John shuddered and groaned, burying a hand in Sherlock’s curls. Sherlock licked and sucked on the tip of John’s erection then hummed happily around him. He took more of John’s length into his mouth, moaning when the soldier throbbed against Sherlock’s tongue.

“Fuck.” John cursed with a strained voice, trying not to push on Sherlock’s head. Sherlock looked up his body and met John’s eyes. “You’re way too good at that.” John huffed with a small smirk.

Sherlock sucked as he pulled back, mimicking John’s technique from earlier, and John groaned again, letting his head fall onto the rug.

Sherlock let John fall from his mouth with a wet pop, replacing his mouth with his hand. He stroked him a few times, experimenting and noting the differences, and commented, “I like it. Doing this.”

John lifted his head and looked at Sherlock with amusement. “You do, huh?” Sherlock nodded and nuzzled his face into John’s pelvis, breathing in his scent. John chuckled, brushing his fingers through Sherlock’s curls, and joked, “Lucky me.”

Sherlock smirked at John and John sat up on an elbow with a soft grunt, gesturing Sherlock to come closer with a finger. John smiled as Sherlock did as he asked, bringing his face closer to John’s while his hand continued to stroke him. John used his free hand to cup Sherlock’s jaw and bring him in for a slow, deep kiss. Sherlock squeezed John’s length gently and John moaned into Sherlock’s mouth, feeling him smirk against his parted lips.

“Tease.” John breathed, making Sherlock grin. Sherlock shifted back down to John’s waist and the doctor asked, wanting to know for future reference, “Do you think you prefer giving over receiving?”

Sherlock answered John by taking as much of John’s length into his mouth as he could, his jaw aching at the stretch and tension. John pressed gently on the back of Sherlock’s head, unable to resist entirely. He watched Sherlock pull back to breathe with lidded eyes, finding it difficult to think.

“Absolutely.” Sherlock panted, lapping at John’s shaft. “How do I get more of you in my mouth? Is there something I’m missing?”

John took a deep breath to keep himself from coming right onto Sherlock’s face.

“Practice, love.” John answered, stroking Sherlock’s cheek, now slick with saliva. “And that’s not me trying to trick you into more blowjobs. That’s the honest answer.”

“Even if you could trick me, you don’t have to.” Sherlock licked up the underside of John’s erection. John couldn’t help but be a little amused at Sherlock’s arrogance. “I want to do it.”

“And I’m glad you enjoy it.” John shuddered when Sherlock wrapped his lips around him again and started to bob his head. “Fuck that’s good. Just like that, baby.”

Sherlock swirled his tongue around John as his head continued to bounce, and John felt his body starting to tense. He cupped the back of Sherlock’s head and looked down, watching with utter captivation.

“I’m close.” John warned, wanting to give Sherlock an opportunity to pull away. He wasn’t surprised when Sherlock didn’t stop, instead speeding up and sucking harder. John gripped Sherlock’s hair tightly and came with a loud groan, shaking as Sherlock swallowed around him and hummed happily. The detective pulled away with an obscenely wet plop and licked all over John’s shaft, cleaning him up as the aftershocks rocketed through him.

When John was finally clean and Sherlock stopped, he collapsed on the floor and closed his eyes, breathing heavily. Sherlock shifted closer and draped an arm over John’s still-clothed chest, cuddling into his side. The touch was a sudden reminder of their partially undressed states, and John patted Sherlock’s arm.

“Come on, let’s lay somewhere more comfortable.” John said, his voice husky and tired. Sherlock pressed a quick kiss to his cheek before sitting up and toeing off his dress shoes.

By the time John gathered enough energy to sit up, his own shoes were off and Sherlock was standing above him, wearing only his open button-up. John smirked up at him, eyes greedily looking over his body.

“Oh yes, I definitely could get used to seeing this every day.” John flirted, making Sherlock smile.

“You’re talking as if you’re ready for another go.” Sherlock teased. John laughed, pushing his boxers and trousers off.

“I wish.” John playfully lamented, pulling off his jumper. He was getting hot. He then reached out a hand and asked, “Pull me up? My muscles don’t work like they used to.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at John’s attempt to joke about his injuries but helped him up regardless. John kissed him on the cheek, patting his side.

“Ta, love. Now let’s go to bed. I think you sucked the energy right out of me.”

Sherlock laughed, letting himself be tugged by the hand to John’s bedroom.

Chapter Text

It was a fairly busy day at Bart’s accidents and emergencies department, but it usually was on Saturdays. The A&E often saw more alcohol-related injuries between Friday night and Monday morning, with Saturday being the peak. Since John was working a Saturday shift today, he didn’t get many chances to check his phone.

So when Sherlock showed up, John was completely taken aback.

John was given the patient chart by one of the nurses and looked over the cause for arrival. Lacerations on the face and hands coupled with a busted lip; obvious signs of a fist fight. Simple enough to treat, John figured, but he checked the patient overview anyways. Located at room 5, Height of six feet, weight of 11 stone 13, Caucasian man with normal vitals, companion mentioned past substance abuse issues and expressed concern over pain medication, requested to see Dr. Watson…

John’s brow furrowed. Why did that sound familiar?

He read the name and his heart dropped. Oh no.

John ran down the short distance to Room 5 and opened the door. Sherlock’s bloodied face stared back at him. John noticed another man with him, also looking a little roughed up but not needing care. The man was tan with salt-and-pepper short hair, a police badge on his hip. John looked back at Sherlock and worry pitted his stomach.

“The hell are you doing here?” John questioned, coming in and closing the door. Sherlock noticed the doctor’s eyes kept flickering over to Lestrade. “What happened?” The question was directed at Sherlock, but John watched Lestrade wearily.

“John, this is Detective Inspector Lestrade.” Sherlock introduced. “He’s my contact at Scotland Yard. The one who gave me the cold case.”

Sherlock watched his partner ease at the reassurance that Lestrade was not a potential threat and instead a potential ally. John focused on Sherlock completely, now, walking over to look at the cuts on Sherlock’s face.

“Christ, did you try to arrest a cat?” John tried to joke, but Sherlock could hear the worry.

“Sherlock chased down the suspect and fought them long enough for me to catch up and help.” Lestrade explained. John sighed.

“Certainly sounds like you.” John murmured as he turned and walked over to the cabinet, grabbing some medical supplies to clean Sherlock’s cuts and butterfly stitch the particularly bad ones. “I leave you alone for ten hours. You couldn’t wait ‘til tonight?”

“I’m sorry.” Sherlock avoided looking at Lestrade’s baffled face. He never apologized, yet here he was apologizing to John.

“I’d find it hilarious if you weren’t hurt.” John confessed, putting the supplies on a surgical table and pushing it over to Sherlock’s chair. He sat down on a rolling stool and positioned himself between Sherlock’s knees, grabbing a pair of latex gloves and pulling them on. “How bad was it? Sounds like they put up quite the fight.”

“It was simple enough once they stopped running.” Sherlock hissed at the sting of antiseptic on fresh cuts. “Nothing I’m not used to.”

John found the comment sad. He had a feeling Sherlock wasn’t just talking about his experiences since becoming a consulting detective.

“Well, next time you go chasing after some idiot make sure I’m invited.” John offered a small smirk to Sherlock, who smiled back.

“I would have invited you today if you didn’t have work.”

“Keep talking like that and I’ll quit my job.” John wasn’t being serious, Sherlock knew, but the temptation of having John nearby more often was immense.

John’s touch was careful and gentle, not unlike the touches he gave the night before. Had it not been for the painful stinging of his wounds, Sherlock could’ve closed his eyes and pretended they were back in that moment. Instead, they were in the A&E because Sherlock had a fist fight with a bloke on PCP that murdered his ex-wife.

“How’s your shoulder?” Sherlock asked, remembering how it had started to rain when John left for work. John smiled.

“Much better now that the weather’s passed. At least for now, that is.”

“It’s supposed to storm tonight.” Sherlock remarked. The worried look the detective gave the doctor confused Lestrade greatly. This was nothing like the Sherlock he knew.

“I heard.” John placed a butterfly stitch on one of the cuts he cleaned. “Must admit I’m not looking forward to it.”

“Would you like to be alone?” Sherlock asked. He seemed to have forgotten that Lestrade was next to him, listening and short-circuiting. “Or do you want me to distract you?”

John thought for a moment. “I think I’d prefer to be distracted.” The doctor gave Sherlock a Look. Was he flirting?! “It’s looking like I’ll be working late, so I’ll be plenty distracted here. I’ll see you after work for dinner once it calms down. Saturdays are always hectic.”

Dinner? Lestrade’s eyes widened and his brows furrowed, wondering if he heard John correctly.

“Speaking of dinner, Ms. Hudson wants to meet you.” John quirked an eyebrow and Sherlock forgot that he’d never mentioned the woman before. “She’s my landlady. Quite nice. I think you’d like her.”

“Well it sounds like we’ll find that out tonight, huh?” John smirked. “Now stop talking so I can patch up your lip. The bastard who did this sure did a number on it.”

Lestrade watched John as the doctor tended to Sherlock’s lip, completely focused on the task. The air between John and Sherlock reminded Lestrade of a new couple, but that couldn’t be right. Sherlock wasn’t interested in anyone. Lestrade had pinned Sherlock as asexual and aromantic for years now because the man denied everyone and everything that wasn’t The Work.

John finished treating Sherlock’s face and moved on to his hands. His knuckles were bruised and his hands had a few scratches, but otherwise they were fine. No broken bones, no sprains, just a bit roughed up.

“When you get home put ice on these, okay? And take a couple ibuprofens.” Sherlock smiled softly, warmed at the care and attention John was giving him. It hurt to smile at the moment, but it didn’t dissuade him.

“I will.” Sherlock promised. John smiled back at him and stood up.

The doctor looked over at Lestrade, remembering suddenly that he was there. John pulled off his gloves and held out a hand to the detective inspector. Lestrade shook it.

“Thanks for keeping Sherlock from getting too hurt. I’m sure we’ll see each other again, Detective Inspector. Hopefully I’ll be there to run after him next time.”

“Yeah.” Lestrade’s confusion made John smirk. He looked at Sherlock again and pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s forehead, watching Lestrade practically jump out of his skin with shock in his peripheral vision.

“See you tonight, love.” Sherlock was blushing bright red, and John grinned when he noticed. “You’re cute when you’re flustered.”

And with that, John turned to leave.

“John?!”

The panicked voice was enough to make anyone concerned, but the doctor froze for a brief second and then burst out of the room. Lestrade and Sherlock glanced at each other before both ran to the door to follow. John was already halfway down the hall, slowing to a stop to talk to the nurse who called for him, by the time the two men looked out.

“What’s wrong?” John demanded.

 “There’s a code grey. Mick’s in there with him.” She pointed to the room across the hall and John turned around.

“Addict?” John asked, looking back towards Lestrade. He waved the man over, and Sherlock followed behind at a jog.

“No idea. Security is on their way but-”

A man’s scream echoed into the hall and Sherlock watched John snap to attention at the sound. John’s eyes focused on the doorway and his gaze changed into something more reserved, more calculated. Fear crept up the detective’s spine. This was not the place or time to go into a flashback.

John looked at the nurse.

“Load up a syringe of haloperidol. Ten miligrams. Fast.”

The army doctor ran across the hall to the doorway and darted his eyes over the scene. Mick was covering his head with both arms, blood trickling from his nose, while his assailant threw punch after punch at him. The perpetrator was a young man a couple inches taller than John. He was sweaty, breathing heavily, and didn’t give any indication that he planned to stop any time soon. John gathered this all in a couple seconds, then put his plan into action.

He ran up behind the patient and wrapped an arm around the man’s neck, pulling the man toward John’s chest and placing him in a choke hold. John took a step back and kicked the back of the man’s knee, tugging the man off his center of gravity in the same motion. The druggie flailed and fell back, trying to get his feet under him again. John rolled the two of them, falling with the man to the floor and landing on him to keep him pinned. John heard the wind get knocked out of the man and held onto the hold for just a second longer before releasing him and pinning his neck down with a forearm, relieved when two other people came over to help restrain the bastard: Sherlock and Lestrade.

Lestrade cuffed the patient’s hands together when Sherlock had them secured behind the man’s back, and John growled when the man tried to resist.

“I swear to god I will knock your ass out if you don’t stop.” The threat was considerable, but not nearly as venomous as John’s voice when he said it. Sherlock couldn’t help but stare at John and hope to hear that voice again.

The nurse from earlier ran in, syringe in hand, and John called for her to hurry. She stabbed the needle into the man’s bicep and pushed the plunger down. After a moment, the man slowly stopped trying to fight.

John sighed with relief. He looked at Lestrade. “Care to take him with you?” Lestrade laughed.

“Sorry, Doctor. Not my division.”

“Damn.” John cursed, though a tiny smile played at his lips. The soldier looked at Sherlock next. “See? Told you Saturdays were hectic.”

Chapter Text

Off work finally. Mick made a report against the druggie at NSY then went home, so I had to cover for his patients. Thank god they were easy cases.

I had a feeling such a thing would occur. How are your shoulder and leg? –SH

Took a tramadol so it’s taking the edge off. I just had to use my bad shoulder for the hold, huh?

You were relying on military training. Your left arm is dominant, so you used it. I would have been more concerned if you hadn’t used it. –SH

Why?

If you hadn’t used it, that would have meant you were already in pain or the limb felt too weak. Since you did utilize it, the limb felt normal. Or at the very least it carried the regular amount of pain you’ve become accustomed to. –SH

As an aside, the way you handled the situation was impressive. Reckless, but impressive. I particularly liked the part where you threatened to beat the man senseless if he didn’t stop moving. –SH

It’s only reckless if I didn’t think I could handle it. The guy was only an inch or two taller and thin. Even with my injuries, I had the advantage. Like you said, I had training. He didn’t.

Ah, so you liked the tough and angry army doc act?                     

You may be a skilled actor, Doctor Watson, but you were certainly not acting in that moment. –SH

So what kind of ‘like’ was it? Did you find it entertaining, funny…

Arousing? ;)

John, please. –SH

You’re not denying it.

John, I will lock you out. –SH

What, you want me to kick down the door? Did plenty of that in A, you know. ;)

Just for reference is it the doctor aspect or the soldier aspect that turns you on?

I’m throwing away my phone. –SH

It won’t do you much good, love. I’m almost to your flat. And you’ll get to deal with me all night. ♥

And for your landlady’s sake, you should probably keep the front door unlocked.

I hate you. –SH

Yeah yeah, tell it to my face in a minute. ♥

Grinning, John put away his phone and pulled out the money to give to the cabbie, telling him to keep the change once they were parked at the curb. It had started to rain, now, so John tried to get out of the cab and into 221 Baker Street as quickly as he could. Inside, he hung up his jacket and patted his damp hair.

“He’s here?!”

A woman’s voice shouted from the floor above, causing John to snap his head up towards the ceiling. He was still on edge from the fight earlier, even though he didn’t care to admit it.

Sherlock’s voice said something to her, but John couldn’t understand him. He started to climb up the stairs, adjusting his duffle on his good shoulder, and heard someone walking toward the door to 221b. It opened as John turned on the landing to continue upwards, and he was faced with a petite older lady with greying brown hair and kind eyes.

“Oh, it’s so good to meet you!” She cooed, clapping her hands a couple times with anxious excitement as John ascended. “I never thought my Sherlock would find someone. Always hoped he would, of course, but-”

“Ms. Hudson, please.” Sherlock sighed with an exasperated breath, coming up to stand a few feet behind Ms. Hudson. John tried –and failed – to hide his amusement at their harmless bickering.

“Oh I’m sorry Sherlock, I’m just so excited!” Ms. Hudson radiated positivity like a supernova, and it was certainly infectious. John felt his mood lightening just with this short interaction.

The doctor reached the landing and held out a hand to Ms. Hudson. “It’s a pleasure to meet you as well, Ms. Hudson. I’m John.”

Ms. Hudson smiled brightly, taking John’s hand in both of hers and squeezing it lightly. “Oh what a gentleman. We could use a man with manners around here.” She casted a playful glare at Sherlock and the detective groaned and rolled his eyes.

“Ms. Hudson, please.” Sherlock tried very hard to keep from growling or snapping at her.

“I get the feeling Sherlock has manners,” John countered, looking at Sherlock, “but just doesn’t feel the need to partake sometimes.”

“Oh, and you do?” Sherlock remarked, quirking an eyebrow at John. His tone wasn’t entirely serious.

“The military forces that need into you, dear.” John winked at Sherlock and the detective, remembering their text conversation, clenched his jaw and fought to keep from blushing.

“You were in the military?” Ms. Hudson asked, intrigued and amazed. “What did you do?”

“I’m sure John would love to tell you all about it once he’s sat down.” Sherlock gave John a look, and John knew he didn’t have a choice. He was going to sit down and rest whether he wanted to or not.

He was kind of okay with that.

Kind of.

“Oh my goodness, how rude of me! Come in, come in!” Ms. Hudson rested a hand on John’s bicep and gestured for him to walk past, and John nodded shortly as he did so.

“Excitement gets the better of all of us, Ms. Hudson. Sherlock could certainly tell you all about that.” John grinned knowingly at Sherlock and this time the detective couldn’t help but blush. His excitement to see John’s scar was what started the physicality in their relationship.

“You’ve had to run after him on a case, haven’t you?” Ms. Hudson joked. “The boy can never just wait for help, can he?”

“I’m right here.” Sherlock gestured to himself, watching as John and Ms. Hudson got seated in the living room.

“Well, considering you came into the A&E covered in cuts and a busted lip today, you can’t say she’s inaccurate, darling.”

Ms. Hudson tsked.

“Yes, he told me about that when I came up to get things ready for dinner.” She looked at Sherlock. “Sherlock, you need to be more careful.”

“I thought you were here to interrogate John, not me.” Sherlock retorted with irritation. John glanced at Sherlock, who met John’s eyes, and he offered Sherlock an apologetic smile.

“I don’t mind being interrogated.” John offered. Ms. Hudson, the saint she was, caught on to the change of subject.

“Well, tell me about what you did in the military.” She asked cheerily.

“I started as an army doctor then transitioned to a combat medic.” John smiled politely. Sherlock noticed as he sat down in his armchair that John’s answers about his military service were always quite factual, carefully void of emotion on a subconscious level. A defense mechanism for his PTSD?

“Oh! Well that certainly explains why you work at the A&E, doesn’t it?”

John chuckled. “Yes, I suppose it does.”

“How long did you serve?”

The question was innocent, but knowing the answer Sherlock looked at John with concern. John’s smile wavered for a microsecond, but Ms. Hudson didn’t seem to notice.

“Three years.” John answered. “I had planned to serve longer, but I was injured and sent home.”

Injured. Sherlock couldn’t help but find the simplicity of the word disgraceful for what John went through. His face must have clued John in to the understatement he made, and he sighed.

“Severely injured.” John corrected. Ms. Hudson’s face turned into one of worry.

“Oh dear, I’m so sorry. Going through an injury like that must’ve been hard.”

John gave a tight-lipped smile. “It was. Still is.”

“Are you still injured?” Her question was laced with shock.

“Not necessarily. There have been some… lasting effects.”

Her expression softened. “Oh, I see. Is there anything I need to know about? Things to avoid, things to look out for?”

John swallowed and, feeling the question was warranted and a good question to ask.

If I’m going to be spending the night more often… John debated internally before speaking.

“Loud sudden noises I’m not expecting tend to be the most triggering for me.” John said calmly, choosing his words carefully. Sherlock gave him a small smile of encouragement. “As for physical symptoms, when the weather changes I tend to have muscle and nerve pain where I was shot.”

“You were shot?” Ms. Hudson repeated. John nodded.

“Twice.” Sherlock clarified.

A look of realization crossed over her eyes. “I see. Well, that explains the trigger, doesn’t it?”

“I suppose it does.” John murmured quietly, his smile forced. Uncomfortable, Sherlock deduced about the soldier as the conversation lulled.

“Are there any triggers that I might do accidentally?” Ms. Hudson asked sheepishly, glancing at Sherlock. “I don’t want to cause trouble.”

“Unless you can conjure thunderstorms at will, Ms. Hudson, no.” Sherlock smiled lopsidedly at his lover when he laughed.

“No, no I think that I can’t.” Ms. Hudson smirked and winked knowingly at Sherlock. “Thunderstorms are a trigger, then?”

Sherlock hummed his affirmation. “In fact, a thunderstorm is how we met.”

John softened at the loving look Sherlock gave him. “That night was and still is the only time I’ve ever been grateful for an unexpected thunderstorm.”

Ms. Hudson smiled softly, watching her sweet Sherlock finally show his true colors as he met John’s gaze. It was enough to make her want to tear up.

“Well,” She interrupted, slowly standing. John noted that she appeared to have a bad hip. “I watch the news every morning and every night and if there’s a storm front coming, I’ll make sure you know about it, okay?” She patted John’s knee and John smiled, something both pained and comforted.

“Thank you. Sometimes I’m too busy at work or rehearsal to check.” John looked over at Sherlock. “I get the feeling if I have rehearsal during a storm from now on, a certain someone will be in the audience.”

“Only if you wish for me to be there, John.” Sherlock countered softly. “If you want to handle it alone, all you have to do is tell me.”

John smiled, this time without any pain in his eyes. “Thank you, love. I’d certainly appreciate it. You being there, that is. Pain makes the triggers worse.”

“Oh and how is your pain now, dear?” Ms. Hudson asked, turning to face the blonde stranger. “Can I get you anything?”

“No, I’m quite alright Ms. Hudson, thank you.” John dismissed with a wave of his hand. “I already took my pain medication for the night.”

“Alright, well let me know if there’s something I can do. I might not be Sherlock’s housekeeper, but I’m not heartless either.”

“Fret not, Ms. Hudson.” Sherlock hummed, standing up and gesturing to the kitchen, urging her silently to start walking that way. “You are the least heartless person I know.”

“Well that’s not saying much now is it?” Ms. Hudson teased, causing Sherlock to roll his eyes.

“Considering my interaction with Sherlock’s brother, I’d say she’s right.” John gave Sherlock a cocked smirk.

“You have a brother?” Ms. Hudson gasped. Sherlock ignored her.

“Fine, you’re the least heartless person I’ve met. Can we eat now?”

“Yes, we can, but you’re telling me about that brother.”

Both John and Ms. Hudson stood up and followed Sherlock to the kitchen.

“At the very least tell her about our phone call.” John bargained, grinning with a knowing look. Sherlock rolled his eyes again.

“You just want to brag about how you put my brother in his place.”

“Kind of, yeah.” John admitted, still grinning.

“Well now I have to hear about him!” Ms. Hudson exclaimed.

Everyone loaded up their plates and sat down, eating and listening to John tell the story of how he was first introduced to Mycroft Holmes. Of course, Sherlock interjected countless times to correct John on minor details, often earning a scolding or a light slap on the hand by Ms. Hudson, who sat next to him. John couldn’t help but see a mother figure in Ms. Hudson, especially in the way she acted toward Sherlock.

After telling his story and listening to Ms. Hudson’s comments, he couldn’t help but wonder what Sherlock’s biological mom was like. Was she more like Mycroft or more like Sherlock? Was she like neither of them or something in the middle?

He’d have to ask Sherlock about her later.

Chapter Text

Ms. Hudson left a couple hours after dinner, soon after the rain started to pick up. John changed into an undershirt and pajama bottoms that Sherlock had, commenting slyly about how they were “oddly his exact size”. Sherlock had rolled his eyes, claiming he had bought the wrong size without realizing, despite being half a foot taller and far skinnier. John didn’t buy it, both of them knew that, but they also didn’t care. John was touched that Sherlock got him a pair of pajamas for Sherlock’s flat and decided he would go get a pair for Sherlock to keep at his own flat. Maybe after work tomorrow he would go.

Now he just needed to glimpse Sherlock’s size. Simple enough, he figured.

John sat down next to Sherlock and the detective leaned into his side as John wrapped an arm around his waist.

“What do you want to do?” John asked then kissed Sherlock’s forehead on his shoulder.

“I don’t care.” He curled further into John’s side and the doctor let out a breathy laugh.

“So long as you get to cuddle, hmm?”

“Precisely.”

John rubbed Sherlock’s side. “Well let’s check the weather real quick then watch telly. Sound good?” Sherlock hummed absently. John smiled.

He turned the television on and changed it to the news station, watching with mild interest as he waited for the weather report. Politics, some minor criminal activities, world events: it was all relatively boring.

The weather report came and went, telling John what he needed to know. The storm was still set to hit late tonight. Hopefully he would be sound asleep by then.

He was about to change the channel when the heading for the next news segment caught his eye.

EXPLOSION AT FOB IN AFGHANISTAN; 3 DEAD, 7 INJURED

His eyes widened. As the news anchor read out the lead-in, Sherlock’s head shot up from John’s shoulder, looking at the television before glancing over at John’s face.

“The Ministry of Defense released information of a potential Taliban attack on a Forward Operating Base stationed in Afghanistan earlier this evening. The attack was said to be an explosion caused by an improvised explosive device placed at the front gate. The Ministry of Defense refuses to relay which FOB was targeted and who the casualties were, citing national security as they’re reason for silence, but they have told us how many casualties exist and the degree of notice to the families. All families of the 3 deceased soldiers and 7 wounded have been notified of their loved one’s status.”

Sherlock turned the television off and John glared at him.

“The hell do you think you’re doing?” John growled and reached for the remote. Sherlock held it out of reach. “Turn it back on.”

“I’m not going to let you trigger yourself into an episode, John.” Sherlock’s tone was calm and careful as he watched John’s reactions, waiting for him to lash out.

“I have friends over there!” John exclaimed. “I need to know-”

“They already said the Ministry won’t comment on who was hurt.” Sherlock interrupted. “You won’t gleam any more information than what they’ve already said.”

“I don’t care.” John snarled.

“You can’t help them, John.” Sherlock put a hand on John’s good shoulder. “What’s done is done. I’m sure if you knew any of them someone from their family would have contacted you.”

“What if they can’t?” John countered. Sherlock noticed his left hand start to tremble. “What if they didn’t think to tell me?”

“Then there’s nothing you can do about that, either. Not right now.” Sherlock tossed the remote to the other side of the couch, away from John, and took both of his hands in his. “I’m sorry this happened, John. But you need to calm down-”

“Don’t tell me to calm down when the closest thing I have to family might be dead.” John glared poisonous daggers at Sherlock, and Sherlock swallowed and nodded softly.

“Fair enough.” He admitted. “I just don’t want you to have an episode, John. That’s all.”

John clenched his jaw and looked down at their joined hands. He squeezed his eyes closed.

“Can you ask your brother?” He whispered, his hand still shaking in Sherlock’s gentle hold. Sherlock had never heard John sound so small and timid. The sound almost didn’t seem like it came from him, the same man that engaged in hand-to-hand combat with a patient just hours ago.

“If he knows who was hurt?” Sherlock attempted to clarify. If he was going to open that door again, he wanted to keep his question as specific as possible.

“Just one.” John was fighting back tears. Sherlock could hear it in his voice. “Just if someone named Bill Murray was one of them. He’s a Second Lieutenant.”

The specificity of naming one person suggested to Sherlock that somehow, in some way, this Bill Murray was involved in John’s trauma.

“Let me go get my phone.” Sherlock let go of John’s hand to cup his jaw, his touch feather light, and pressed a soft kiss to the soldier’s lips. He hoped the gesture would comfort John somewhat.

Sherlock got up and went into the kitchen where he had left his phone to charge. He picked it up and was typing a message when one popped up.

John’s contact is stationed at a different base. –MH

Sherlock was torn between being utterly relieved and angry that Mycroft still had his flat bugged. Sherlock put his phone back and rolled his eyes, walking back into the living room.

“Well, I have good news and bad news.” Before John could overreact, Sherlock continued, “Your friend is alive and well. He’s stationed at a different base.” John sighed with relief, immediately relaxing and wiping a few stray tears from his eyes. “The bad news is that Mycroft still has my flat bugged.”

John groaned with annoyance and Sherlock smiled a little at his reaction. Sherlock walked over to the couch and sat with John, holding his left hand again. He wiped his thumb over John’s eye gently, helping him get rid of the tears.

“What is his deal?” John grumbled, leaning forward to hug Sherlock and bury his face in his neck. “I figured he’d be done playing the protective big brother role by now.”

“I wouldn’t call it protective,” Sherlock argued, “more like… invasive.”

“Now that is an understatement.” John joked lightly. Sherlock laughed and rubbed John’s back, pressing a kiss to his temple.

“Feeling better now?” Sherlock worried, relaxing a little when John nodded against his neck and squeezed him in his arms. “Good.” The detective sat silently for a while, just holding John and thinking, until he couldn’t stand the curiosity any longer.

“Who is he?”

John didn’t move from his position, curled into Sherlock’s chest with his head on the detective’s shoulder.

“An old friend from Bart’s.”

“I know there’s more to it than that, John.” Sherlock rubbed the soldier’s back. “He was involved in your trauma, somehow. When you were shot, that is.”

John sighed softly and nodded against Sherlock’s shoulder. “Yeah, he was.” Sherlock sat for a long moment, wondering whether to press for more or let the question go. John made the decision for him.

“He saved me.” John’s voice was soft. Sorrowful. “When I was shot, he was the medic that treated me.”

An image of John in desert camo and combat armor, terrified and in shock as blood spilled from his shoulder, crossed Sherlock’s mind and he squeezed his eyes closed, hoping to get rid of the image. Once the sickened emotion passed after a few moments, Sherlock leaned his head against John’s.

“I hope I get to meet that man one day.” Sherlock closed his eyes. “I need to thank him.”

John smiled sadly against Sherlock’s neck. “I hope you get to meet him, too. He’s a good lad.”

“He has to be if you’re friends with him.” Sherlock remarked. “You are a far better judge of character than I.” John snorted, not believing what Sherlock said. “You are. You can see the emotional aspect to people that I can’t.”

“You just need more practice with emotions, love. You had a certain someone-” John raised his voice a little for emphasis then lowered it to his normal volume again, “- filling your head with bullshit.”

“’Bullshit’ is an apt but harsh word for it.” Sherlock retorted.

“Just because he works that way doesn’t mean you do.” John leaned away and wiped his eyes, no longer teary and emotional. “Or that anyone else does, for that matter.”

“I doubt anyone works the same way Mycroft does.” Sherlock teased, smirking. The corner of John’s mouth turned upwards.

“Give yourself time to figure it out again. Emotions, that is. Childhood emotional development is vital, and it sounds like you missed out on a good portion of it.”

“I suppose you’re correct.” Sherlock kissed John’s forehead. “What’s the saying? Practice makes perfect or some nonsense?” John laughed.

“That’s the one,” John confirmed, smiling at Sherlock.

Sherlock grinned. John’s heart started to race. He recognized that grin.

“I know another thing I need to keep practicing.” Sherlock purred, leaning forward to John’s lips. He was just a few centimeters away. John’s eyes immediately looked down at Sherlock’s lips.

“Do you want privacy?” John whispered. Sherlock remembered Mycroft was probably listening and wished he could ship Mycroft back to their mother.

“I would love privacy,” Sherlock confessed, “but it seems like Mycroft has a voyeurism fetish.”

John burst out laughing and shook his head. He smirked and stood up.

“I’ve got an idea. Come on. I’ll teach you something new instead.” Sherlock perked up at the idea of a new activity to experience and stood up, letting John lead him by the hand to the bathroom. “I need a shower anyways.”

“A shower?” Sherlock quirked his eyebrow, confused. They entered the bathroom and John closed the door.

“I’d be appalled if your brother bugged your bathroom.” John explained. “And besides, I really do need a shower.”

“So… what do I do?” Sherlock’s confusion was adorable, John had to admit.

“You join me.” John’s reply was matter-of-fact. “And if you want to, I can help you get clean for later.”

“Later?”

“Yeah, if you want to have sex.” Sherlock’s wide eyes made John immediately start to backpedal. “And if you don’t want to do it tonight, that’s okay. But whenever you want to take that step-”

Sherlock interrupted John by pulling the blonde’s undershirt over his head and off his arms. John laughed, no longer worried.

“Eager?” He asked, half teasing and half questioning.

“Absolutely.” Sherlock confessed. “Hurry up.” John laughed again, watching Sherlock pull the soldier's pajama bottoms down to the floor.

“You never cease to surprise me, darling.” John murmured sweetly, tilting Sherlock’s chin to look up at him from his kneeling position. He leaned down and kissed the detective with an affectionate touch. “Get undressed. I’ll start the water.”

No sooner had John turned away that he heard Sherlock shucking off his shirt and throwing it to the tile floor.

Chapter Text

Sherlock flung himself onto his bed, turning and sitting as he waited for John with an excited smile. He had meant it when he said he wanted to practice again, so John and he spent the better part of an hour drying off and watching shit television. Well, to Sherlock it was subpar, but John liked it. Despite getting frustrated with how they were treating patients. Or perhaps he liked the show because he got to be frustrated?

Regardless, the episode was over and John had told Sherlock to go get on the bed and wait. He needed to grab something. Sherlock did as he was told, but only because it was John who said it.

John walked in a minute or so later, and Sherlock perked up immediately. John grinned and shook a bottle of clear liquid.

“Always pays to be prepared.” John joked. Sherlock barely acknowledged what John said as the doctor continued walking over. Sherlock reached out to him and pulled him to the detective’s lips, still smiling. A part of Sherlock was nervous, a different part was worried, but the majority of him was thrilled. If it was anyone besides John, Sherlock would have never – and had not –considered sex.

But this, with John, was perfection incarnate.

John pulled away from the kiss, pressing a quick peck to Sherlock’s forehead. “This is going to take a while so get comfy.” Sherlock shifted to the center of the bed and laid on his back, bringing his knees to his chest.

The first touch of cold lubricant to his entrance made him shiver. John pressed kisses, tender and loving, to the back of Sherlock’s thighs. He trailed the kisses up to sides of Sherlock’s knees as he rubbed and pressed his finger, trying to coax Sherlock’s muscles into relaxing.

John asked Sherlock every now and then how he was doing, if he was okay, and after the first few times Sherlock found the question ridiculous. Of course he was okay. He was more than okay. He was thriving.

His brain was quiet.

When John pushed his finger inside, Sherlock winced a little. John kept still for a long moment, pressing distracting kisses to Sherlock’s thighs and massaging the gorgeous arse beneath him. After a minute, John moved his finger and was pleased that Sherlock didn’t show any sign of pain.

“Do you want me to wear a condom?” John asked. “I brought those just in case, too.” Sherlock cocked an eyebrow.

“Do you have one of those sexually transmitted diseases?” John laughed and shook his head.

“No, no I don’t.” He reassured. “I’m asking as more of a preference. Your preference.”

“Well, what do you prefer?”

“Safety, but only if it’s necessary.” John massaged Sherlock’s thighs with one hand while the other worked. “Since this is your first time, I trust you to be safe. Sexually, that is. Your busted lip is evidence that you, at any other given moment, are probably getting into trouble.” John gave Sherlock a cheeky grin and Sherlock rolled his eyes with a smile.

“Hilarious, John.” Sherlock replied dryly. “But I trust you to be safe, too. You’d be a horrible doctor otherwise.” John chuckled.

“Yeah, spreading diseases is kind of the opposite of what I do.” John paused for a moment to lean forward and kiss Sherlock. The heat was an underlying tone, overshadowed by what Sherlock would assume was love? Whatever this feeling was, it was beautiful and intoxicating.

John pulled away after a long moment, continuing to prepare Sherlock.

“So no condom?” John asked, wanting to be sure. Sherlock nodded, agreeing.

“I’d rather feel you than plastic.”

“Latex.”

“Whatever, just hurry up.”

It took far longer than Sherlock expected it to take, getting his body prepared for the first time, although he didn’t know what exactly he expected. John had to remind the impatient man that it was his first time ever, not just with John, and that John refused to hurt him because someone was too eager. Sherlock, begrudgingly, agreed.

It didn’t mean he had to like waiting. The touches and kisses were nice, but knowing that something better was around the corner made them not enough.

Then John added a second finger. And a third, just to be precautious. Or it was to torture Sherlock. The detective wasn’t sure.

At this point Sherlock was getting nervous. It felt more like pain than pleasure, and he was struggling to understand why people liked this in the first place.

John hit something deep inside Sherlock’s abdomen that made his body shake, and instantly all his worries were erased. Whatever it was, Sherlock wanted him to do it again. Preferably repeatedly until he couldn’t think straight.

The doctor grinned knowingly, rubbing against Sherlock’s prostate with the tips of his fingers and watching Sherlock arch his back on the mattress. It was a gorgeous sight, one he hoped to see every day until he died – like a sunset.

“Feel good?” John teased, keeping from hitting Sherlock’s prostate as he scissored his fingers a few more times. Sherlock let out a quick exhale of breath, his back falling onto the mattress again as his muscles relaxed.

“What was that?” Sherlock rumbled, “And why did you stop?” John laughed, pulling his fingers out and grabbing the bottle of lubricant.

“That was your prostate, love.” John poured some of the slippery liquid into his palm. “You really haven’t experimented at all with sex?”

Sherlock’s heart started to race as he deduced what was going to happen next. He answered absently, watching John’s hand spread the lubricant over his erection, “I performed the bare minimum when absolutely necessary. There wasn’t a need for anything else.”

John’s eyes softened. The implication that Sherlock had always felt that way was… sad.

“Well, I’m here now.” John murmured softly, leaning over his new partner and balancing his weight on his right hand on the mattress. His left gently nudged Sherlock’s legs to wrap around his waist. “So I’ll be sure to introduce you to a few things you’ll like.”

Sherlock wrapped his long legs around John’s waist and John held his length at the base and lined himself up. He pressed against Sherlock’s entrance then looked up to watch Sherlock’s face as he pushed the tip inside. Sherlock took a deep breath, body tensing instinctively at the intrusion, and John smiled. He balanced his torso over Sherlock’s with both hands now on the mattress. He leaned down to kiss Sherlock, being careful not to accidentally slip out or push further in.

“Besides, sex is supposed to be about want, not need.” John grinned sinfully. “And I can think of a few things that I can make you want.”

Sherlock was a little too busy processing the sensations going on physically to process what he was hearing. John smeared kisses over Sherlock’s cheek and jaw, following it down to his throat. Sherlock tilted his head back, his neck arching into John’s mouth, making the other man hum a pleased little noise. He grazed Sherlock’s skin with his teeth, earning a breathy whimper that morphed into a low moan when John bit down gently. Sherlock’s nerves were on fire, struggling between focusing on the teeth at his throat or the body connected with him.

John licked the area where he left the love bite, feeling the ridges of teeth marks in Sherlock’s skin. His teeth marks. It was always a thrill to mark someone, to claim them, but with the person he marked being Sherlock it added to the importance of the gesture. He wasn’t just Sherlock’s now, he was Sherlock’s first and only.

He had every intention of keeping it that way.

“How’d ya like that?” John asked, licking a trail up the front of Sherlock’s neck to the tip of his chin. “Did the bite feel good, baby?”

Sherlock shivered under John and wrapped his arms around John’s neck, pulling him down to Sherlock’s throat again. John laughed darkly and teased Sherlock’s pulse point with his teeth before whispering in his ear,

“You want more, darling?” Sherlock whimpered and nodded furiously, swallowing and letting out a heavy breath. “I’ll give you as many as you want. But first…”

John pushed his hips forward a little and Sherlock suddenly remembered John was inside him. He moved slowly, being careful and listening for any protest, until he was buried completely. John groaned lowly and wrapped an arm under Sherlock’s shoulder, holding him close as his other hand rubbed over Sherlock’s thigh and side.

“Okay?” John asked. Sherlock smiled. Even while trying to be the suave and seductive John Watson, the careful and concerned doctor showed through.

“I’ve never been better.” Sherlock murmured, wrapping his arms tighter around John’s neck. He tilted his head up just enough to kiss his partner, moaning softly when John deepened the kiss. Their heads turned and moved with the movements of their mouths, following the ebb and flow of their kiss. When they pulled away, panting into each other’s mouths, John languidly rolled his hips against Sherlock’s. He rolled his hips a few times, a low rumble coming from his throat, and he leaned his forehead against Sherlock’s and closed his eyes.

“God, you feel good.” John whispered with a smile. “Let me know when you’re ready for me to move.”

“You’re not moving now?” Sherlock questioned in a teasing breath. John chuckled, a sinful grin spreading on his face. He moved his hand from Sherlock’s side to his jaw, thumb hooking underneath but kept straight. John’s touch was gentle, but the gesture was a hint that he could be rough if given the go ahead.

“Keep that up baby and I’ll make you eat those words.”

Sherlock’s breathing caught in his throat. The idea of it made him throb. Being called ‘baby’ by John made him ache. John grinned down at him, loving the lustful look Sherlock was giving him. He wanted it, John could tell. John wanted it to.

Without much more warning John braced himself with his good arm and held Sherlock’s hip with the other, leaning back a little to get better leverage.

“That can wait for another time. You only get one first time, and I want to make it last.”

John started thrusting slowly, gradually picking up the pace until he was rocking into Sherlock at a comfortable rhythm. Sherlock moaned and moved one arm from around John’s neck to hold onto his bicep as the soldier braced himself, panting with John’s movements. He could certainly see the appeal, now. Looking up at John above him, those darkened lovely eyes looking back down at him, all the while John was connected with him so intimately, made him lightheaded. The only thing occupying his typically whirlwind brain was John. All Sherlock could think about was how much he adored John’s pleasured face, the way they worked together, how understanding and supportive they were for each other…

How Sherlock loved him.

He loved John Watson.

John adjusted his angle and Sherlock’s back arched off the bed and a moan rocked through his throat. John moved his hand from Sherlock’s hip to the detective’s chest, rubbing his thumb over Sherlock’s nipple. Sherlock shuddered and gripped John’s biceps with both hands.

“Fucking hell, you are gorgeous.” John panted, massaging Sherlock’s pec before cradling his neck. “You are an absolute fucking treasure.”

“John.” Sherlock huffed in a strained voice. “Please.”

“What’d you need, baby?” John murmured while the pad of his thumb ghosted over Sherlock’s Adam’s apple.

Sherlock didn’t know what he needed. He didn’t know what he wanted, either. All he knew was he wanted to feel like this every day.

John could tell Sherlock was struggling to think, or perhaps just didn’t know what it was he wanted, so he guessed. He wrapped his hand around Sherlock’s length and stroked in time with one of his thrusts, testing the waters.

Sherlock nearly jumped out of his skin like he had been shocked by electricity and let out a high-pitched moan. John nearly came at the sound alone. It was like lightning struck all his pleasure receptors at once. John kept pumping his hand in time with his hips and Sherlock dug his fingernails into John’s biceps. The pain was barely noticeable, but the knowledge that Sherlock was leaving his own mark on John was wonderful to him. He wanted to be Sherlock’s as much as he wanted Sherlock to be his.

“John-!” Sherlock warned, and John sped up his hips just slightly.

“It’s alright baby,” John breathed heavily, “I’m right here. I’ve got you.”

In a moment Sherlock was spilling over his hand, and he slowed his hips back down to the pace he had before and stroked Sherlock through the aftershocks, being sure to tilt his hips to avoid overstimulating him. When Sherlock stopped coming, he pulled his hand away and held onto Sherlock’s hip, focusing on his own release now.

“Inside or outside?” John grunted. He could feel his muscles tightening and his heart racing faster. John didn’t see Sherlock’s look of confusion followed by realization, he only heard Sherlock say with a dry voice,

“It’s okay.”

The words weren’t what John expected to hear, but it was enough confirmation for him that he didn’t stop. As he fell over the edge, his hips stuttered as they tried to keep going through his aftershocks and he made a noise somewhere between a moan and a whine. John pressed his hips tight to Sherlock’s once the aftershocks passed, his good arm finally giving out so he laid over Sherlock with his back arched, Sherlock’s legs still around his waist.

Sherlock pulled John to his lips and kissed him with all the adoration and affection that he could muster, cradling John’s face in his hands. His fingertips felt wet and John’s lips tasted of sweat. John kissed him back, only a little more than half-aware, for a few long moments.

“John?” Sherlock whispered against his mouth. The tone of his voice suggested that he had something he wanted to say, and John was too tired to overanalyze and worry. He merely hummed, prompting Sherlock to continue, and he opened his heavy eyes to look down at the wild-haired detective when he didn’t immediately answer.

“I love you.”

The words felt like a shot of adrenaline directly to his heart. John smiled lazily, looking at Sherlock with tender, sweet eyes. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest and could hear his pulse throbbing in his ears.

“I love you, too.” John confessed in a whisper. Sherlock studied the doctor’s face, looking for insincerity, and once again he found none. John was perhaps the most honest person Sherlock had ever known.

“Marry me.” Sherlock whispered back. John chuckled softly, touched. He knew Sherlock wasn’t joking.

“Give me time to make you hate me, first.” John jokingly teased, brushing sweaty curls out of Sherlock’s face with gentle touches.

“I could never hate you.” Sherlock answered without hesitation. John’s amused smile softened to something sweeter.

“I don’t think I could ever hate you, either.” John kissed Sherlock. “Before things get sticky and gross, let’s clean you up, okay?” Sherlock nodded.

John parted from his lover – boyfriend? – and clambered on weak legs off of the bed. He finally took notice of the rain that was pouring down outside. Idly, he wondered how long it had been raining so hard. It had only been sprinkling earlier.

“John?”

John turned around to face Sherlock and the bed. Sherlock looked up at John with those beautiful silver-blue eyes that never ceased to make John putty in the detective’s hands.

“Yeah, love?”

“I love you.”

John smiled. It warmed his heart to hear Sherlock say those words again; like he was thrilled he got to say them.

“I love you too, Sherlock.”

Chapter Text

Your brother is quite the character.

An antagonist, more precisely. What has he done now? –SH

He decided to “give me a ride” to rehearsal. You know, as any antagonist would.

Sherlock groaned loudly, suppressing the desire to bash his head against a wall. He swore that Mycroft loved to make his life miserable. He finally found a good thing and Mycroft was trying to take it away.

I handled it. Don’t worry.

The detective sighed.

If you murdered him, I’ll help you hide the body. –SH

Eh, I don’t want to see my father so I’m avoiding prison for now. But I did ask what the antagonist wanted for Christmas.

Why? –SH

Well, if he’s going to be my brother-in-law I need to know what to buy the twat. ;)

Sherlock burst into a fit of giggles and laughter as another message came in from John.

Your brother even looks like a pompous prick. I’m still struggling with the idea that you came from the same two people.

You’re not the first. Our mother was emotional while our father was calculated. Both were intelligent, especially our mother, but Mycroft is still the extraneous variable. The extreme version of our father, one could say. -SH

Was? Are they gone?

Sherlock’s smile faded slightly.

No, they are alive. I don’t talk to them very much. Rehab and all that. –SH

Well, I’d love to meet them one day. And I’m sure your mum would be thrilled about us.

Sherlock chuckled.

Oh, she would. Sherlock stopped typing as an idea came to mind. He smirked. In fact, she would be appalled by Mycroft’s behavior. –SH

Oh? Then why don’t you tell her about Mycroft being a tit and see if she talks some sense into him?

I suppose it’s worth a try. –SH

Sherlock switched to his mother’s phone number and shot a text to her. It was bound to make her call Sherlock, this message, but Sherlock would rather suffer through an hour long phone call with his mother than continuing this petty fight with his brother until the end of time. Well, at least now that he dragged John into it.

Just as he predicted, a few moments later his mother called.

“Oh Sherlock, you’re out!” His mother sounded ecstatic. “How are you? What’s Mycroft doing to upset you, sweetheart?”

“I’m doing…” Sherlock paused and smiled, “great, actually. I… Well, I assume you remember the community service requirement Mycroft placed upon me after release?” His mother hummed an affirmative noise. “I… met someone, at the theatre I volunteered at.”

There was a long pause, and then his mother gasped.

“Wait, you met someone?! In a romantic way?!” His mother exclaimed excitedly. Sherlock hummed. “You better not be trying to trick me, Sherlock!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I’m not, Mum. It’s a complicated story. One that I’m sure John would be thrilled to tell you about. Privately, that is.”

“Ooh, is that an invitation?!” His mother’s hopeful voice was still a little grating on his nerves. Her boundless optimism and positivity typically served to make his mood sour.

“For tonight, no.” Sherlock took a deep breath. “John’s busy working and attending rehearsals. And in-between Mycroft is pestering us both.”

“What do you mean?” His mother’s tone softened, becoming more serious.

“He believes I was using John to get out of doing community service, and now that he’s removed the requirement and I’m still seeing John Mycroft has bugged my flat.”

His mother sighed. “Mycroft is a worrier, sweetheart.”

“He also abducted John on his way to rehearsal a couple hours ago.”

“HE WHAT?!”

Sherlock had to pull the phone from his ear. His mother’s shouting left a ringing in his ear, even after he brought the phone back to his face.

“He dropped John off at rehearsal, but John texted me and…” Sherlock trailed off. “Actually, maybe I do need to see you later tonight.”

“Nonsense, come over right away. I’ll get the kettle on. And if John is free, you bring him over too. Don’t need him thinking the whole family is like Mycroft, now do we?”

Sherlock smiled softly. “He has rehearsal for a while longer, but he usually tells me when he’s finished so we can meet up for dinner.”

“Then you tell him to come over after rehearsal, sweetheart, and I’ll make you both something to eat. Now get your toosh over here and tell me about your beau! I’ll tell Mycroft to leave you two alone in the meantime, mon cher.”

“Thank you, mum.”

“No need for thanks, dear. Finding out that you’ve left that blasted ideology Mycroft pushed on you and even got yourself someone to love is thanks enough for a mother. I’ll see you in an hour, no later!”

“Yes, mum.”

“I love you, mon cher.”

“I love you too, mum.”

Sherlock hung up and stared down at his phone for a long while. He was going over to see his mother? He hadn’t seen his mum since he got admitted to rehab. He found her emotionality unbearable at the best of times, but now he was willingly seeing her? And he had been the one to offer it?

What have you done to me, John Watson. –SH

The reply wasn’t immediate. Sherlock was on his way in the backseat of a cab when his phone vibrated in his pocket.

What are you talking about?

Mum is going to make us dinner. –SH

I actually offered to go over and talk with her. I haven’t wanted to talk to her since I was a child. –SH

Did you slip something into my drinks? Or poison my food? Or lace the lubricant? –SH

How are you having this effect on me? –SH

Sherlock was on the road his mother and father now lived on when he got John’s reply.

I love you, Sherlock. That’s how I’m having this effect on you. Send me the address when you finish having an existential crisis, darling.

I’ve got to go, we’re starting rehearsal round 2 in a few minutes. I’ll see you in a couple hours, love. ♥

Sherlock let out a deep sigh and texted the address to John, closing his eyes for a moment to prepare himself for the endless questions and coddling.

Chapter Text

Before letting Sherlock know John was on his way, the doctor went to his flat quickly to clean up a little. He smelled of sweat and still had the remnants of makeup in little crevices and wrinkles on his face. Sherlock’s mother might be accepting, but John wanted to make a good first impression. Besides, he was likely the first suitor for either of the Holmes brothers, assuming Mycroft was as celibate as John had gathered from his forced car ride with him, which meant Sherlock’s mother undoubtedly had expectations. John didn’t want to disappoint.

So, after shaving and rinsing off, John got dressed. He assumed, if he knew Sherlock well enough, that the man was wearing yet another button-up and trousers, so he planned accordingly. He buttoned up a blue, yellow, and white plaid long-sleeve and tucked that into a pair of dark blue jeans. Next his brown leather belt, the same one he always used, and a slim fit cream colored sweater vest was pulled on and smoothed out.

John looked in the mirror and smiled. He didn’t look nearly as tired and down-trodden as he usually did.

As he got in the cab and was on his way, he texted Sherlock to let him know. To kill time, he looked through the group chat with his fellow actors and read what they had been up to while he had been getting ready.

He saw a video from earlier tonight and raised an eyebrow. Roger had been the one to send it, along with the message, “Let’s not forget when John acted a little too well” so it had to be relatively safe-for-work but probably embarrassing. John pressed play and turned the volume up slightly, hopeful that whatever happened wasn’t too horrid for the poor cabbie driving him around.

The first thing John noticed was that he was on stage with Sarah. He recognized what was going on immediately just from where they were positioned: both were sitting on the shop set at a table center stage, and the only time both of them ever sat together was when Sarah performed Poor Thing.

He thought back to what happened tonight during rehearsal for that song and had to cover his mouth to keep from bursting out into laughter. As quickly as he started the video, he stopped it and saved it to his phone. There was no doubt that he would show Sherlock. He had half a mind to text it to him now, but refrained. He didn’t want to interrupt whatever mother-and-son moment was going on in case it was important or sensitive.

Plus, he wasn’t really prepared to show Sherlock’s mother, despite how harmless the event had been.

Sherlock replied back to John’s message, acknowledging the soldier was on the way over, just as John’s cab stopped in front of his destination. The two story brick townhouse was on a quiet two-lane street in the outskirts of London, surrounded by a half-acre of garden greenery and a few oak trees. Flowers in a variety of colors and types lined the walkway up to the front door as well as a patio area beside one of the large oaks.

After paying the fare and smoothing out his sweater vest, John traveled up the paved walkway to the front door and knocked, taking a step back in case the door opened outward. The blonde heard a sweet female voice let out a high-pitched noise of excitement and footsteps trailed over to the door. John noticed a familiar pair of footsteps following after her.

The door opened and John was greeted by a greying woman with bright blue eyes who was a couple inches shorter than him. Her bell-shaped bobbed hair framed her rounded face and her high cheekbones. She had smile lines and face wrinkles created by living life with emotionality and positivity, if not a few hardships. 

At seeing John, Sherlock’s mother practically squealed.

“Oh you must be John!” She stepped forward and wrapped light arms around John in a quick hug. John looked through the doorway and saw Sherlock staring at the pair, apologetic and horrified.

Mrs. Holmes let go of John and placed dainty hands on his biceps. “It’s so good to meet you. I never thought one of my boys would see someone!” John noted she had an accent, but he couldn’t immediately place it.

“Mum.” Sherlock sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. John smirked softly.

“Well I’m glad I met him. And it’s a pleasure to meet you as well, Mrs. Holmes.”

Sherlock swore if his mother could spontaneously combust, she would have done so in that very moment.

“Please, call me Wanda. There’s no need for formalities.” She smiled, sweeter than candy, and stepped to the side to gesture John past. “Come in, come in, make yourself at home!”

“Thank you, Wanda.” John said her name pointedly, offering her a polite warm smile, and walked through the threshold. Sherlock looked beyond nervous, watching John walk toward him as if he expected John to insult him or turn tail and leave.

John strode up to Sherlock and murmured, “Ello, love. Okay?”

Sherlock eased at John’s warm nature. “Yes, well, I was until my mother decided to assault you.” John laughed and Sherlock’s mother gasped at him, closing the door.

“William!” She chided. John looked a little confused. Of course, Sherlock’s mother noticed. “Oh, he hasn’t told you? His first name is William. William Sherlock Scott Holmes.”

“Mum.” Sherlock warned, casting a glare at her. His mother smiled back, not taking the bait.

“It’s alright, love. I kind of expected a hug and to be told embarrassing secrets about you.” He winked and kissed Sherlock’s cheek, whispering, “I love you.”

As John anticipated, Sherlock melted at those words. He took Sherlock’s hand and squeezed it as Mrs. Holmes walked past.

“Dinner’s almost ready so sit down. Sherlock, don’t forget to ask John if he wants a drink.”

John grinned and Sherlock rolled his eyes. John pressed a chaste kiss to his lover’s lips.

“Let her have her fun, darling. Don’t forget that she’s been waiting for this for a long time.”

Sherlock frowned. He didn’t understand why she would have been waiting this whole time for him to become romantically involved when he expressed no interest before, but that was secondary to his worry.

“I don’t want her to upset you.” He whispered to John. John’s face softened.

“She won’t.” John replied, firm but warm. There was no room for debate. “This isn’t my first time meeting someone’s parents, you know.”

“What if she triggers you?” John’s confusion prompted Sherlock to elaborate. “What if she asks something or talks about something that-”

“Then I’ll reply like I did with Ms. Hudson.” John cut his rambling short. “I’ve become accustomed to people asking about my injuries, love.”

Sherlock sighed.

“What if it’s about something else?” He looked away, avoiding John’s gaze. “Like your family.”

John’s lungs forced him to breathe in a little deeper. From the kitchen they heard Mrs. Holmes tell Sherlock to stop gossiping about her, and Sherlock rolled his eyes while John’s lips flickered with a brief smile.

“Are you worried that she reminds me of my mum?” John asked after a moment. Sherlock risked a glance at his face.  “She does a little bit. But my mum wasn’t nearly as optimistic and jovial. She was tired and more pessimistic if anything.” John tone was cold, detached. Sherlock could tell it was yet another defense mechanism. “Don’t worry about me, love. Let’s enjoy dinner.”

“Is everything alright?”

Mrs. Holmes poked her head out of the kitchen doorway and into the entry hall, full of motherly concern.

John looked up and smiled.

“Oh, sorry to worry you. Sherlock wanted to make sure I was okay.” John glanced up at the detective, a loving look in his eyes. “You raised a good son, Mrs. Holmes.”

“Wanda.” Mrs. Holmes corrected softly with a light smile. “And yes, he is a good boy. Always was. Well-” She sighed. “Before Mycroft pushed his ideas onto him. Then he became a bit of a twat.”

John laughed and Sherlock glared at his mother. She smirked back.

“It’s good to see my Sherlock back to his usual self.” The proud look on Mrs. Holmes face told John that she credited her son with his triumphs and not herself. It eased John’s mind to know such a thing – it spoke volumes to her character and her ability as a mother figure.

“Stop looking at me like that.”

Mrs. Holmes chuckled at what Sherlock said and ducked back into the kitchen, calling for them to hurry and sit down. The men followed, John still holding Sherlock’s hand, and they sat together on one side of the table. Mrs. Holmes reminded Sherlock to ask John about what he wanted to drink, and Sherlock groaned with embarrassment. John smirked and kissed his cheek, telling him he wanted water, and the detective rose from his chair and walked out to get a glass. It gave John a moment to look around from where he sat.

The home was clean and lovely, if not a little dated. Everything had a bright and cheerful feel to it, from the wallpaper to the flooring and the wooden furniture that decorated the space. A gold table runner covered the birch dining table and an ornate silver ceiling light hung over the flower centerpiece. Artworks of different men and women and landscapes decorated the walls.

“My father is a painter.”

John looked away from the landscape he’d been staring at to find Sherlock had returned.

“He is?” Sherlock nodded.

“Professionally he’s a restoration artist, but he paints recreationally outside of restoration pieces as well.”

John looked back at one of the portraits and his eyes studied it for a moment. “Well, he’s certainly very good.”

“Mm, he prides himself on his realism.” The corner of Sherlock’s lip turned upwards. “He hated when I would disturb him as he worked.”

John cocked an eyebrow at Sherlock, smiling a little, “Oh?”

“Strangely painters don’t like it when you critique their work before it’s finished.” John chuckled, rolling his eyes.

“Sounds like you.” John murmured, wrapping an arm around the back of Sherlock’s thighs as he stood next to where John sat, both of them facing the wall across the table.

“If by critique you mean repeatedly telling them they missed a spot,” Mrs. Holmes added as she walked in, carrying over a plate of bread, “then yes, you critiqued him every minute or so.”

John laughed and Sherlock rolled his eyes. It seemed to be a common theme.

“So, where is Mr. Holmes now?” John asked.

“Ah, he’s in France presenting an art gala.” Mrs. Holmes waved Sherlock to follow. “Help me bring food to the table, mon cher.”

“Oui mère.”

John let Sherlock go as he walked off to follow his mother, a bit taken aback by the sudden switch to French. Thankfully he remembered a few words from his secondary school French class, but he only recognized one so far. However, the introduction of French in the conversation helped John pinpoint at least part of Mrs. Holmes’ accent.

Sherlock and his mother brought food out to the table and they began eating and chatting. Mrs. Holmes asked John about his service, his work at the A&E, the play he was in, and how he met Sherlock. John was happy to answer, and Sherlock was relieved. They even joked back and forth about common interests and shared stories.

The topic switched to Mycroft towards the end of dinner, and Mrs. Holmes looked at John apologetically.

“I’m so sorry about Mykie’s behavior, John. When Sherlock told me what happened I nearly had a heart attack!”

John had to bite his tongue to keep from laughing at Mycroft’s nickname.

“It’s alright. I’ve dealt with men like him before.”

“Well, I just want you to know that the rest of the family accepts you. And you won’t need to deal with him being rude like that anymore. I’ve had a talk with him.”

“Which means he’ll spy on us from afar.” Sherlock interjected, sipping his water. His mother gave him a pointed look.

“He does it because he worries about you, Sherlock.”

“He has a very intrusive way of showing it.” Sherlock remarked in a low mumble. Mrs. Holmes sighed.

“I know, and I wish it hadn’t gone to that point, but…” She paused. “You didn’t give him much of a choice either, you know?”

Memories of being strung out on cocaine and jumping between dens to keep from getting found flickered through his mind like leaves in a hurricane.

“He has me, now.”

John placed a comforting hand on Sherlock’s knee under the table. Sherlock’s heart melted and the leaves gently fell to the ground.

“Yes, and I’ve told Mycroft as much.” Mrs. Holmes’s eyes lingered on Sherlock’s face for a moment before looking away. “He’s a fixer, dear, much like your father. His idea of fixing is just… skewed.”

There was a moment of pause before John spoke.

“He needs time.” Mrs. Holmes nodded, and then looked hopeful and excited.

“Maybe seeing you two together will push him to find someone, too!” John chuckled and Sherlock pretended to gag. His mother glared. “Don’t give me that attitude, William.”

“Yeah, William.” John teased. Sherlock glared at John. The doctor grinned playfully.

“I suggest you refrain from calling me that if you wish to keep your vocal chords.” John laughed and Mrs. Holmes picked up her napkin and shooed Sherlock with it.

“You stop that! No threats at the dinner table!”

Chapter Text

Sherlock had doubts that they were ever going to leave, but then John brought up his busy day at the A&E and how tired he was and his mother were shoving them out to go home and sleep. They got into the cab and Sherlock held John’s hand.

“Yours?” John asked. Sherlock nodded. John told the cabbie to head to 221b Baker Street and relaxed into the backseat.

“You’re not actually exhausted, are you?”

John smirked. Sherlock’s question wasn’t a question at all, but rather a deduction.

“I’m exhausted, yes, but I’m not at my limit yet. I got a couple more hours left in me.” John leaned into Sherlock’s side. “I figured after spending a couple hours extra with her you’d want to leave.”

“You figured correctly.” Sherlock tilted his head and rested it on John’s. “Thank you.”

“Of course. You take care of me. It’s only fair I take care of you.”

“I take care of you?” To say Sherlock’s tone was disbelieving would be an understatement.

“Yes, you do.” John turned his head and kissed Sherlock’s shoulder before resting it again. “You keep me sane.”

Sherlock stared ahead blankly, trying to process what John said. The idea that he was even remotely helpful to someone’s psyche was a baffling concept. John wasn’t incorrect, though, Sherlock realized. He stabilized the doctor in the same way John stabilized him. Sherlock was a distraction, a sedative, and a dose of adrenaline wrapped into one body. John was something similar for Sherlock, except far more controlled. Where Sherlock was chaos, John was order.

They balanced each other perfectly.

“You keep me sane as well.” Sherlock kissed the top of John’s head. When John didn’t respond, he smirked, realizing the definitely-not-exhausted doctor was asleep.

John woke up when they were almost to Sherlock’s flat thirty minutes later. Sherlock could tell by the change in his breathing. A couple minutes later, he stirred and raised his head. He grunted and rubbed his eyes.

“Sorry.” His voice was husky and low. It reminded Sherlock of when John woke up in the mornings, but this time he sounded more groggy and disoriented.

“It’s quite alright.” Sherlock curled a finger under John’s chin to hold him in still as he placed a kiss to the tired blonde’s temple. “I enjoyed it.”

John yawned, shook his head a little to wake himself up, and blinked. “I did too.” Sherlock chuckled. “It’s been years since I’ve fallen asleep in a car.”

“Can’t say I’ve done so recently, either.” Sherlock pulled out his card to pay for the cab as they turned onto Baker Street. “Although my mother’s talking does tend to put me asleep.”

John playfully hit Sherlock’s thigh, but the detective ignored him. As the cab slowed to a stop, he reached forward and handed over his card. John waited for him, arm wrapped around his, and only let go once they were getting out.

“Hopefully now that your mum told Mycroft off he’ll get rid of those bugs in your place.” John mentioned as they walked upstairs.

“If last night didn’t scare him off, I doubt Mum will do much better.” Sherlock casted a sly look over his shoulder at John, and John’s heart skipped a beat.

“For your sake, I hope he did.” John shot back, returning Sherlock’s grin when it was cast his way. The pair reached the flat door and Sherlock opened it.

“You hope so, hmm?” He turned around after he walked through, facing John and gesturing him closer with a finger. “Why’s that?”

John walked into the flat and kicked the door closed with a bump of his heel. His eyes didn’t leave Sherlock’s as he casually strode up to him, slowly to tease the man.

“He might hear something he doesn’t want to hear.” John’s voice took on that particular tone that never failed to make Sherlock weak. It was something baritone and flirtatious and borderline animalistic.

“Oh?” Sherlock draped long arms over John’s shoulders. John rested his hands on Sherlock’s waist. “Like what?”

John laughed darkly.

“You are insatiable, you know that?” The doctor’s eyes lingered on Sherlock’s lips. “You really want me to say it, even if Big Brother is listening?”

“Absolutely.” Sherlock swayed his hips, enjoying the feeling of John’s hands moving with the push and pull of his waist. “I gave him 24 hours. If they’re still here, that’s his fault, not mine.”

John smirked. “It’s absolutely his fault.”

“Keep talking like that and I’ll fall in love with you.” Sherlock teased. John laughed.

“You will, huh?” Sherlock hummed. “What if I tell you something that Big Brother doesn’t want to hear? Will you fall more in love or less?”

“More.” Sherlock’s reply was sinful. It made some of the tiredness from the day leave John’s mind, even though he expected the answer.

The doctor tilted his head up to Sherlock’s mouth and murmured,

“I love you, Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock’s eyes softened and after a few seconds he closed the distance between their lips, kissing John as if he needed John to breathe. The shorter man wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s waist and pulled him closer, pressing their chests together, and Sherlock nearly moaned at the feeling of John pressed against him. After a moment John pulled away a couple inches, keeping Sherlock close to him.

“If I was less tired and younger I’d have you on the couch right now.” John reached up with one hand to stroke his thumb over Sherlock’s bottom lip, admiring it. “Maybe I need to get you a toy.”

“A toy?” John knew Sherlock had no idea what he was talking about, but still the detective sounded excited.

“Yes, a toy.” John’s fingers curled under Sherlock’s jaw and his thumb stroked over Sherlock’s chin. “Something for when I come home too tired to take care of you.”

“Like?” Sherlock prompted, curious but also a bit confused. A toy didn’t sound as appealing as being intimate with John.

“Like anything you want, baby.” John brushed his fingers through Sherlock’s curls. “Though I’d prefer if you didn’t go to the extreme that the meth addict did with the toaster.” Sherlock giggled.

“No, I’ve no desire to mutilate my genitals.” Sherlock paused for a moment. “What if I don’t like the toy?”

“Then we try a different one.” John replied with reassurance. “If there’s one thing humans are when it comes to sex, it’s inventive, darling.”

“But what if I don’t like any of them?”

Sherlock’s reply seemed a little off. John turned serious.

“Is there a reason you wouldn’t?” He asked. “Something you’re worried about or…?”

“I…” Sherlock paused. “I struggle to see the point if you’re not involved.”

If John’s heart could have imploded from the sheer amount of love he felt for the sexually deprived man before him, he was certain it would have in this moment. His seriousness shifted into a warm smile as he explained.

“Don’t worry, love, there are ways I can get involved. Some toys are built for partners, even. One person controls while the other experiences, that sort of thing.” The flash of curious excitement returned to Sherlock’s face and John smirked. “Like I said, humans are inventive when it comes to sex.”

“Let’s go get that one.” Sherlock wrapped his arms tighter around John’s shoulders. “Please?”

“Right now?” John asked, baffled. Sherlock nodded sharply. “How about tomorrow? I’ve got the day off.”

Sherlock frowned, disappointed that he’d have to wait. John tilted Sherlock’s chin down to his and kissed him.

“Don’t fret, darling, I’ll take care of you tonight. I won’t leave you wanting. But it is midnight and I need to wake up sometime tomorrow afternoon, you know.”

John was right. Sherlock knew that. The promise of John being intimate with him instead was far more interesting, anyways.

“So we’ll go tomorrow?” Sherlock asked. John smiled and nodded.

“We’ll go first thing tomorrow. And if you don’t find something wherever we go, we’ll try a different store, okay?”

Sherlock smiled. “Okay.” John returned his smile.

“Now,” John stepped back and took Sherlock’s hand, guiding him over to the couch, “Let me wear you out and show you something new.”

Sherlock perked up at the discovery of something unlearned and happily followed John. John sat down and patted his lap, and Sherlock straddled his thighs and sat down. He pulled his sweater vest over his head and tossed it to the other end of the couch, pleasantly surprised when Sherlock began to unbutton his plaid shirt.

“I like your shirt.” Sherlock murmured, parting the fabric and stroking his thumb over the hem.

“I thought I’d clean up a bit before going over.” John rested his hands on Sherlock’s thighs. “First impressions and all that.”

Sherlock scoffed. “As if my mother could ever dislike you.”

“Hey, first impressions are important regardless.” John slid his hands up Sherlock’s thighs and unbuttoned his trousers, fingers teasing over the crotch hem. “Besides, I’m the first person that either of her kids brought home. There are several years of expectations and hope that I have to compete with.”

Sherlock hummed, distracted by caressing John’s chest and studying John’s scar. “I suppose you’re correct. You understand this world far better than I.”

John nudged Sherlock to lift his hips and the detective complied, letting John pull the waistband of his trousers and his pants to his knees. He sat back down and shimmied the fabric off, letting it fall in a pile to the rug below.

“Ah damn,” John looked toward the kitchen, “the lube’s still in the bedroom, isn’t it?”

Sherlock cradled John’s face, turning his head and kissing him. John felt his heart rate increase and his muscles relax at the same time, just from the press of Sherlock’s lips.

“I’ll get it. Stay here.”

Before John could object, or say anything else really, Sherlock slipped off John’s lap and strutted off. And he certainly did strut off, sashaying his hips and casting a glance over his shoulder to make sure John was watching. The bottom of Sherlock’s button-up covered the top of his buttocks, and John couldn’t keep his eyes off of it until Sherlock disappeared behind the kitchen threshold.

John had half a mind to get up and follow him, feeling a bit more awake and interested now, but by the time the thought came to him he could hear Sherlock walking back through the kitchen.

Sherlock turned the corner and gave John a sly smile, stopping for a moment to watch John rake his eyes over the detective. He walked back at a leisurely pace, standing in front of John, and leaned down to put his face just a few inches away from the sitting doctor.

“You seem more awake, now.” Sherlock deduced. A thrill ran through him when John glanced past the detective’s shoulder to eye his arse. “Interested?”

John didn’t respond, too busy admiring Sherlock’s body, and the detective placed his palm on John’s crotch and rubbed. John shivered and fixed his eyes on Sherlock’s, watching the taller man smirk.

“That’s interesting...” The detective murmured, studying John’s face. 

Relaxed posture

dilated pupils

 increased heart rate

– aroused but not expressing usual dominating behavior.

The deduction came to Sherlock and the detective grinned wolfishly.

“You prefer to be in control. A self-preservation mechanism most likely. But…” Sherlock flicked eyes gaze to John’s lips, distracted by the doctor licking them. “When you feel safe…”

Sherlock stared in John’s eyes. They were a sea of emerald waves that flickered with gold. Open and vulnerable.

“You like to be controlled.”

John swallowed. His breathing was becoming shallower. Excitement.

“I don’t have much experience,” Sherlock admitted, squeezing John’s erection through his jeans, “but I’m sure I can find inspiration in what you’ve taught me…” The detective leaned to John’s ear and purred, “Captain.”

The hitching of John’s breath, followed by the deep inhale, gave Sherlock the permission he wanted. He unbuttoned and unzipped John’s jeans and the soldier watching with glazed eyes. For once his mind was focused on the sensations of the present and not the past. No thoughts or memories drifted through his mind in their endless cycle.

All he could focus on was Sherlock pulling off his clothes.

“I think I could use some more practice.” Sherlock slipped down to his knees and slotted himself between John’s legs, licking his lips and eying John’s half-hard erection. Fingertips ghosted over John’s length, making it throb in response, and Sherlock watched with intense interest and admiration. He kept teasing John with light touches and the occasional tap, torn between watching John’s head as it rest on the back of the couch and the reactions his touch elicited from John’s hardening erection.

When Sherlock finally wrapped his mouth around John, the blonde gasped. Reflexively he placed a hand on the back on Sherlock’s head, burying his fingers in the dark curls, and sighed contently as Sherlock flicked and swirled his tongue. John was lost at sea and perfectly happy to drown right where he was. Sherlock carefully slipped a finger into himself, working himself open like John had done last time. He couldn't find that place deep inside him that John had found so easily, and it was frustrating. He had two fingers searching for it before he gave up with a growl and slipped them out.

The detective pulled away, his mouth popping off of John’s fully erect cock, and he waited the few seconds until John met his eyes. Then Sherlock stood up, and straddled John’s lap, grabbing the lube from on the couch cushion.

“I’ll do the work, Captain.” Sherlock leaned forward cupping John’s face with his palm and teasing him with the trace of a kiss to his lips. “Sit and enjoy it.”

Sherlock’s grin was akin to a predator catching his prey. John felt his muscles tense at the look.

The detective poured the lubricant onto his palm and stroked John’s erection, spreading the liquid, then held it in place as he lined himself up and sat down. It was a tight fit, but not entirely unpleasant, and Sherlock wasn’t patient enough to prolong the experience any longer with preparing himself fully. John wasn't aware enough to argue.

With the tip of John’s length pressed inside, Sherlock shifted his weight before he began to lower himself, bracing his weight with two hands on the back of the couch either side of John’s head. Sherlock closed his eyes and John watched his lover’s face in awe, rubbing his hands over Sherlock’s thighs and sides. He rubbed his thumb over Sherlock’s nipple and the taller man shuddered above him, moaning softly.

Sherlock sat fully on John’s lap and sighed happily, wriggling in place and noting how John’s erection shifted within him. He leaned back to bear his weight on John’s thighs, moaning when gravity forced John’s length a little further in. Sherlock tilted his head back, his nerves tingling where John left adoring touches of his fingertips and palms, and he took in a deep breath before letting out a long, calming exhale.

“I could sit like this for the rest of my life.” Sherlock confessed, opening his eyes to gaze down at John. The blissed and semi-aware gaze John was giving him was beautiful. Sherlock smiled. “If I could take a picture of your face right now, I would.”

John huffed a small laugh, smiling back up at Sherlock.

“If I could take a video of us right now, I would.” John countered. “You’re… gorgeous.” The genuine and utter sincerity of John’s tone when he called Sherlock gorgeous made the taller man shiver.

“Do they have toys that will do such a thing?” Sherlock asked, trailing a finger over John’s scar.

“Probably,” John answered, “Though I think most just use a camera.” Sherlock rolled his eyes at John’s teasing.

“As hilarious as it would be to scar Mycroft for life, I’d prefer not to have such images on either of our phones.” Sherlock trailed the back of his fingers over John’s racing heart. “That sight is just for us.”

John leaned closer to kiss the detective, something soft and sweet and breathtaking. Sherlock rested a hand over John’s left shoulder, feeling the ridges and valleys of scar tissue beneath his palm. He wished to one day know what happened, to understand that part of John’s story, to share that burden with him, but most importantly he desired to be trusted that deeply by John. He wanted John to trust him with the information just as much as his curiosity desired the information. It was one thing to be told 'I was shot helping someone', it was another thing entirely to be told the story.

“I love you.” John whispered against Sherlock’s mouth, wrapping his arms loosely around Sherlock’s waist.

“I love you, too.” Sherlock whispered back. He kissed John’s lips with gentle pecks, guiding him to lean into the back of the couch. The detective braced his hands on either side of John’s head again.

“Let me show you.”

Sherlock lifted his body, making both of them moan as John’s erection moved inside Sherlock. He pushed and pulled his body on top of John’s lap slowly, bathing in the sensations and noting how his body reacted to John’s and vice versa. Sherlock had all the time in the world to make mental notes and be as detailed as he wanted.

Then John wrapped his hand around Sherlock’s erection and all thought was lost. Sherlock shuddered on John’s lap and started bouncing, moaning as John sped up his hand to match Sherlock’s pace.

“You feel so good, baby.” John mumbled. “Look so good, too.”

Sherlock moaned, fingers gripping the edge of the couch. He groaned, “John.”

“I’m right here, baby.” John breathed, teasing Sherlock’s chest as the other stroked him. Sherlock started to bounce harder, chasing the pleasure. John watched him with half-lidded eyes darkened by wide pupils.

“I’ve got you.”

Sherlock moaned loudly when John braced Sherlock’s hip and helped him guide down at the right angle, John’s erection rubbing against his prostate. John started to roll his hips to meet Sherlock’s.

“Right there.” Sherlock whined. “Please. Right there.”

“Right there?” John panted, “Fuck you right there?”

John’s profanity and his filthy words did something to Sherlock, and it was utterly wondrous.

“Yes.” Sherlock’s voice was more pants than structured sound. “Please – John, please.”

The adrenaline of Sherlock’s words coursing through John’s veins cleared his head of enough of his sleepiness to grip Sherlock’s arse with both hands and jerk his hips up into the brunette. Sherlock moaned loudly and managed to keep bouncing, letting John’s firm grip guide him down at the right angle.

Sherlock felt coils of arousal gripping his spine and whimpered a mantra of yes’s, growing in pitch as he neared his orgasm. John grabbed Sherlock’s cock and started pumping his hand around the swollen shaft, thumbing over the slit, and watched Sherlock as if he was the ninth wonder of the world.

Sherlock came with a shout, moaning brokenly as he rode through his orgasm. John followed him shortly after, thrusting up into his lover for an extra few moments before he pulled Sherlock’s hips to his and ground up into him with a low growl. Sherlock moaned, throwing his head back, and he felt John’s tongue slick his clavicle with saliva before trailing up the side of his neck. Sherlock whined when he felt John bite his neck and suck hard on the skin, shuddering as another aftershock rocked through him and onto John’s hand.

“Fuck,” John groaned, scratching at Sherlock’s back as he rolled his hips again, another pulse coming from him. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John’s shoulders and gripped him tightly, pinning their chests together. John hugged Sherlock’s waist, his temple resting against the side of Sherlock’s head as they both breathed heavily with closed eyes.

John was thoroughly exhausted. So exhausted that when Sherlock pulled his head from John’s shoulder to press lazy open mouthed kisses to his parted lips, he could barely smile.

"I love you.”

Sherlock’s whispered confession felt as monumental as it had when he said it the first time. John had just enough mental functioning to reply, but not enough to get the entire sentence out without mumbling the first part.

“… you too.”

John leaned up and pushed his tongue past Sherlock’s parted lips. Sherlock moaned as his tongue met John’s in a languid waltz. John hummed, his arms loosening their grip around Sherlock’s waist as he relaxed into the kiss.

As John pulled away a few minutes later, he smirked lazily up at his lover as the brunette cleaned up his mess with a tissue.

“Captain, hmm?” John teasingly purred and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

-

The next morning, John stretched lazily and yawned, earning a grumble of annoyance from his lover. John chuckled to himself, low and quiet, and hugged the groggy detective closer to him.

His phone vibrated on the nightstand, signaling he had a text, and he sat up a little to grab it. He doubted it was a coworker needing him to come in, but just in case he looked it over.

It was a response to the play’s actor group chat. John laid back down and Sherlock placed his head on John’s sternum, laying an arm over John’s chest, and the doctor wrapped an arm around the detective’s back as he scrolled to the older messages of the chat that he missed.

Dude, that moment was goddamn hilarious. Nearly pissed myself.

John gets actor of the year award for causing that lady to panic, lol.

Omg, I just saw this. This was brilliant!! Way better in person, tho.

Suddenly, John remembered the video. He smirked and Sherlock grumbled again.

“What has made you so amused so early?” Sherlock demanded, irritated and nuzzling John’s chest.

“Something that happened at rehearsal yesterday.” John explained. “I practically scared some poor techie to death.”

“Oh?” Sherlock prompted absently, still half-asleep.

“Yeah, and Roger caught it on camera. He sent the video last night after rehearsal ended.” John chuckled. “It’s pretty funny.”

“Wonderful.” Sherlock yawned.

The brunette perked up a little when a woman’s singing started to play through John’s phone speaker. John moved his hand holding the phone to his abdomen, holding it upright for Sherlock to see. Sherlock blinked away the sleep and watched with his one open eye, the other mushed into John’s pec.

John and Sarah were on the pie shop set on the stage, sitting down at a table near the front. Both were wearing their costumes, and Sherlock smiled slightly at seeing John. He truly looked handsome in the play’s Victorian attire. He was distracted by the minute facial expression changes that occurred on John’s face as Sarah sang, noting how he progressively became more upset and irate as the song went on.

Then finally, the crescendo. John bolted up from his chair, the force of his movement knocking the wooden furniture to the floor and the sturdy table to shake, all the while the man screamed out a blood curdling, pained, and stretched out, “NO!”

Silence for a beat, and then John started to speak.

“Would no one have mercy on her?” The agony in John’s voice made Sherlock a little pained himself.

Then someone burst through the auditorium doors – a young woman wearing all black with her blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail looked around the room. She looked worried and alert.

Everyone started laughing, and as the woman looked at the stage and realized what had actually happened she started to laugh as well.

“God, I thought John got hurt!” She laughed, leaning against the door. John’s booming laughter immediately stuck out to Sherlock, and the detective smiled. The video ended and John chuckled.

“An impressive performance, I must say.” Sherlock murmured, stretching his arms and legs before melting over John’s body once more.

“Thanks, love.” John kissed Sherlock’s unruly bed-head curls and tossed his phone onto the mattress.

“Now be quiet.” Sherlock yawned. “Pillows don’t talk.”

John laughed and let out a playful sigh, causing Sherlock to snicker. John loved the sound.

Chapter Text

John led the way into the store, holding Sherlock’s hand as he guided him to the men’s area. Sherlock looked around, part curiously excited and mildly disturbed, especially when something caught his eye and John explained what sounding was. John had to stop himself multiple times from laughing at the conflicting facial expressions Sherlock would make after John explained the purpose of a product, and not just for the metal rod the man stumbled across. A fair few things elicited mixed responses. Well, the more kinky sex toys certainly did.

Then they came to the more tame toys, and Sherlock’s eyes lit up.

“And this?” Sherlock led them to a section a little further down the aisle. “What are these?”

John looked them over, read the product label, and replied as usual, “Ah, these are vibrators.”

Sherlock reached out and took one of the vacuum-sealed packages off the wall, studying it. If nothing else, this excursion into the adult sex store was incredibly informative.

“It looks like a weird penis.”

John laughed. “Yeah, I guess it does.” He pointed to the bulb on the end of the toy, “That’s supposed to conform around the prostate and vibrate.”

Sherlock glanced at the wall again. “Why do those have a ring at the other end?” John followed Sherlock’s eyes to the toys in question.

“The ring slips over the user’s penis, love.”

“Oh.” Sherlock considered something then looked among the toys. “Do these things come in the couple sets?”

“I don’t doubt it.” John smiled knowingly. He had a feeling Sherlock would be interested in the anal toys. “Some have remote controls to switch vibration intensity. It’s easy enough to just give the remote to a partner.”

Sherlock paused for a moment, eyes going blank before igniting with excitement.

“I want that one.”

John chuckled. “I had a feeling you’d want that one.” The blonde looked at the shelves and glanced around. When he found the subsection that featured remotes, he stepped forward and looked closer. “Here they are. Pick one out, darling.”

Sherlock took a little while to choose one, asking question after question before settling on a plug a little slimmer than John.

“Anything else you want?” John asked, holding Sherlock’s free hand once more. Sherlock glanced down the aisle thoughtfully. He hummed.

“No, I think this will do for now.”

John leaned up to Sherlock’s ear, “Ooh, I like the ‘for now’ part.” He pecked Sherlock on the cheek and winked at him when Sherlock looked over. The blonde then gestured toward where they came from, “Come on, love, let’s go grab lunch.”

A little flustered, Sherlock followed John to the counter and begrudgingly allowed John to purchase the toy for him. Next time, he would buy the toy himself. He already knew he wanted one of those ring things. Well, more accurately he wanted one for John. Then there were those plugs with odd ornately decorated stoppers. And the revealing clothes at the front of the store were certainly intriguing.

Ideas of surprising John with one or more of those items flittered through Sherlock’s mind, and he felt his cheeks beginning to blush.

“You sure you want one this size?”

The cashier’s question brought him out of his fantasies. Immediately, deductions clouded his mind.

            Bisexual

Owns a Maine Coon

     Has both a girlfriend and boyfriend

 Polyamorous

  Trouble child                

“This is quite a bit bigger than what I’d recommend for a beginner.”

John opened his mouth to speak, smiling awkwardly, “Oh, it’s-”

“It should fit easily. John is bigger.”

The blonde’s eyes shot wide open, glancing at Sherlock in horror, and he stopped speaking, mouth still parted. He glanced at the cashier just as the cashier glanced at him, mimicking his surprised look.

The cashier looked back at Sherlock, who stared at him blankly, and John wanted to strangle the detective.

“Lucky you, then.” He joked, smirking slightly. “If that’s the case, this should do great. Just be extra careful with preparation, of course, and don’t forget to clean it between uses.”

“Like John would be anything less than careful.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. He looked at John, who was bordering on glaring at him. He quirked a confused eyebrow, noting the blush rising on John’s cheeks and the tips of his ears.

Embarrassed, his mind supplied.

“What?”

Chapter Text

They were on their way back to the flat when Sherlock’s phone rang. Rolling his eyes, Sherlock fished the phone out of his pocket. He had expected it to be Mycroft calling to belittle him for bringing Mum into their bickering, but he was pleasantly surprised to see the caller ID. John watched Sherlock answer the phone as they walked side by side, holding hands.

“Ah, Lestrade. Case?” Sherlock questioned. At the mention of a case, John’s hand tensed in Sherlock’s and his breathing quickened. Sherlock fought back a knowing smirk.

“If you’re not too busy.” Lestrade replied. Sherlock grinned.

“Well that depends on how good of a case you have for me, doesn’t it?”

John squeezed Sherlock’s hand before letting it go, grabbing Sherlock’s key from his coat pocket to unlock the door for them.

“How does the seemingly impossible appearance of a magistrate’s corpse washing up onto the shore of the Thames sound?”

Sherlock stopped at the opened front door. John turned and stared at Sherlock, waiting for him to react to whatever it was that Lestrade had replied with.

“Impossible?” Sherlock asked, undoubtedly excited, and John couldn’t help but share a little of his excitement. Finally, he would get to accompany Sherlock on a case. “How so?”

Lestrade smugly answered, “I had a feeling you’d ask that.”

-

John had hoped it would be years on before he’d have to give any details to Sherlock about his father. He did his best to avoid the memories. He saw a school counselor, went to therapy, processed the event and moved on. At least, he thought he had. He hadn’t had nightmares about it since he was a teenager, though he still fought intrusive thoughts from time to time, but those times were rare nowadays. The fact that he survived it all was a miracle, and he was grateful that he had been sleeping when it happened. Less to remember, he figured.

The trial process afterwards was just as traumatic as the event, however. With one poor decision his father ripped the family to shreds. He was forced to testify, to relive the event over and over. He had to learn all those horrible details, had to face the scrutiny of his father’s attorney, of his father’s friends and colleagues.

They weren’t ready to learn the truth.

As he stared at the waterlogged sedan, the memory of the event stormed in his brain like a hurricane. His eyes became unfocused as he stared blankly at the broken windshield. John could feel himself retreating, trying to hide from the thoughts. He turned his head slowly, as if moving through water, and watched Sherlock and Detective Inspector Lestrade talk. John couldn’t hear what they were saying. He turned his head the other way and saw officers around him talking among each other and gathering data on the crime scene.

John felt like he was watching a play go on around him. The police and Sherlock were actors while he was the sole audience member, standing center stage and observing. He barely felt like he was in his own body. The world he was in didn’t feel real. He didn’t feel real.

The river lapped at the shore, and he could almost feel it around his throat. He could feel it soaking his clothes. John shivered.

 He needed to escape, but his body remained still. He didn’t know why he felt the urge to run away, but he did. But he was too disconnected from his own body to command it to do anything. The fear of being frozen and in mortal peril only raised his heart rate more.

“John?”

The voice was barely a whisper, but he recognized it. There was a man standing in the way, now. He couldn’t see the car. John couldn’t recall from where exactly the voice came or whose voice it was, but he felt some relief at hearing it.

Then he saw the eyes. Those eyes.

“John, can you hear me?”

The man’s mouth moved as he talked, but the sound came out warbled and distorted to John’s ears. His silver-blue eyes stared at his intensely. John recognized those eyes, he trusted those eyes, but he didn’t know why. Worry creased the man’s brow. John didn’t want him to worry.

            Why?

“Mm?” John hummed absently, staring at the man but struggling to focus on him. Those eyes helped draw his gaze, but they could only do so much.

            Sherlock.

John’s brain connected the name to the face as Sherlock carefully reached out to put his hands on John’s shoulders. When John didn’t retaliate, Sherlock asked,

“Do you know where you are?”

John glanced away from Sherlock’s eyes, taking in his surroundings. His brain struggled to make connections. He knew the buildings looked British; his brain managed that connection easily enough.

“London?” He replied in a mumble. The man entered his vision again, forcing John to look at him.

Sherlock smiled. John’s heart rate lowered slightly.

“Yes, very good. You’re in London. You’re safe.”

The tension in John’s shoulders lessened. The need to escape was lessening with it. He was safe. Sherlock was here. Sherlock could keep him safe.

“Do you know where in London you are?”

John’s brow creased ever so slightly. He was confused and still dissociating, Sherlock deduced easily, but the detective was sure John would recognize the river-

“River Lea?” John murmured, turning his head to look around. He focused on Sherlock after a moment.

Sherlock looked far more worried, now. John’s heart rate spiked.

“No, this is the Thames.” Sherlock corrected softly. “We’re at the Thames for a case.”

John took a moment to process the reply. “We are?”  He blinked, but the movement was sluggish. He was starting to sound more coherent and alert, however, which gave Sherlock hope that the end of the episode was near.

“Yes, John, we are.” Sherlock took off his scarf and wrapped it gently around John’s neck, carefully grabbing John’s hands to bring them to the edge of the fabric. “Here, feel this.”

“Why?” John’s voice was soft, timid – it reminded Sherlock of a child.

“You’re dissociating, John.” Sherlock explained simply. He was a little confused as this didn’t sound like a flashback from Afghanistan. John was aware he was in London. Even better, he was aware that they were by a river in London. Yet he named the wrong river.

Was there another trauma linked to his PTSD?

“Oh.” John murmured softly, looking down at the soft fabric in his hands. He both heard Sherlock and didn’t at the same time. It was as if his brain was watching from a distance. He rubbed his thumbs over it. The repetitive action was soothing.

“Do you know who I am?” Sherlock asked. John nodded, staring down at the scarf and watching his thumb stroke it. He wondered why the fabric felt so far away. He could barely feel it against his skin. “That’s good. Focus on the scarf, okay, mon cher?”

“Mhm.” John hummed his affirmation. The scarf felt a little more solid. Sherlock pulled John closer and wrapped an arm around his shoulders, turning them away from the car. The touch was careful and slow, giving John’s sluggish mind time to process the change. John leaned into Sherlock’s shoulder.

            You’re dissociating.

The thought came to John like a leaf in the wind, but it lingered long enough to connect in John’s mind. Suddenly touching the scarf made sense. He rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger, noting how the different sides of the fabric moved independent of one another. How the fabric felt against his skin. The way it smelled like Sherlock.

He focused on the fabric and all the details he could find until he could focus his eyes again and the panicked feeling in his ribs had ceased. He glanced around, saw officers trying not to stare and Lestrade ordering some around. Sherlock met his gaze.

“I see you’re out of the episode, now.” Sherlock deduced, studying John’s eyes. They were his tell.

“I am.” John took a shaky breath. Old emotions began to spring up from the open scar. “I’m sorry.”

“No no no,” Sherlock whispered, reaching forward and pulling John’s chest to his. He wrapped his long arms around John’s shoulders. “Don’t apologize. You have nothing to apologize for.”

“I should’ve told you before we got here.” John said thickly, his voice on the quiet side.

“Told me what?”

“That I might get triggered.”

“By what?” Sherlock squeezed John in his arms, resting his chin on John’s head.

“By the car.”

The deductions flew through Sherlock’s mind. What he concluded from their second date about John’s father, coupled with what John said and what John refrained from speaking about, told Sherlock a worrying tale. One that was thankfully over, but no less scarring on a child.

“Your father?” Sherlock whispered. John swallowed and nodded. Sherlock opened his mouth to fire away his deductions but paused. Considering John’s mental state at the moment, he closed his mouth. The last thing they needed was for John to endure a flashback.

Had it been anyone else, he wouldn’t have cared. But it was John. He would do anything for John.

“Let’s go.”

John shook his head and stepped back, out of Sherlock’s arms.

“No, it’s alright, I-”

“I solved it already.” Sherlock interrupted. John looked at the detective. “We don’t need to stay.”

John thought for a long moment. Sherlock waited. He watched. If there was any sign of John falling back into a dissociative state, he would notice it right away this time.

“You did?” John whispered, glancing over at the river. Sherlock preemptively cupped John’s cheek and turned his head to face Sherlock again. He was not going to let John accidentally trigger another episode.

“Yes. While you were dissociating.” Sherlock frowned slightly, lowering his hand from John’s cheek. “I was too busy telling Lestrade my deductions to notice you having a reaction. I’m… sorry.”

John smiled softly, reassuring the detective.

“You’re not my keeper, Sherlock.” John reached forward and took Sherlock’s hand. “Besides, I was fine for most of the investigation. You wouldn’t have known.”

Sherlock took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh, morally conflicted. He was not used to being morally anything, let alone conflicted.

“You promise that you’re done?” John asked, squeezing Sherlock’s hand in his. “You’re not just saying that to get me in a cab?”

Sherlock offered a small smile. “I promise.”

John thought for a moment.

“Okay.”

Sherlock tilted his head down and kissed John on the forehead, ignoring the stares from the Yarders. He caught Lestrade’s eyes and nodded. Lestrade nodded back and waved goodbye. He would explain to the D.I. what happened, but he would do it later. John was his priority.

The two men got into a cab and Sherlock wrapped an arm around John’s waist, pulling him close. John leaned into Sherlock’s side and closed his eyes, breathing Sherlock in.

He remembered smelling Sherlock’s scarf, felt it around his neck, and smiled slightly. His hands continued to rub and kneed the fabric on his lap.

“Since I missed it… What did you conclude?” John asked shyly, curious. Sherlock smiled, admittedly a bit surprised that John cared enough about the case and Sherlock’s work to ask him about it.

“Someone tried to hit the magistrate with their car, but ended up following the man over the bridge and into the river. They recovered a body from the driver’s seat in the sedan. According to Scotland Yard records, the driver was set to see the magistrate’s court for assault and harassment charges next week.”

“And you’re sure the driver meant to kill the magistrate?” Sherlock hummed his confirmation. “How?”

“How?” Sherlock repeated John.

“How can you be sure?” John asked, rephrasing the question. “Could it be a coincidence?”

“Please, John, the world rarely deals in coincidences and happenstance.” Sherlock dismissed. “Besides, intention doesn’t really change the outcome in this circumstance. The magistrate is still dead, as is the murderer.”

“I suppose.” John murmured softly, leaning his head against Sherlock’s shoulder.

A few minutes of comfortable silence filled the cab before John thoughtfully asked as he looked down at his hands, “How do you know so much about dissociation?”

Seeing Victor’s face in his mind’s eye, Sherlock took a moment to gather his emotions, bottle them away, and reply.

“I… had a friend. A childhood friend.” Sherlock swallowed. “He found abnormal psychology fascinating. Particularly the abnormalities that affected how, or to what degree, a person perceives their environment. Especially if the cause was something the person was not born with. Traumatic brain injuries, dissociation, personality disorders… He found researching them beyond captivating. To be honest, I did, too. Especially when it came to the ability of the mind to create false memories, and how that could influence a witness’s recollection.”

“Oh?” John prompted Sherlock to continue. John had a feeling that Sherlock didn’t have many friends growing up. Sherlock hummed in reply. “So… you learned about it from him? Or did you research it?”

“Both. In fact, on days when he was feeling ill, we would sit in my family’s library and read about them. Mother even bought him a couple books about sensation and perception.” Sherlock’s jaw clenched. “Admittedly, I also… struggled… after he passed.”

Memories of hiding away in his Mind Palace to escape his anxieties and fears came to Sherlock and he swallowed. Those books had helped him develop his Mind Palace into the encyclopedic sanctuary it was now. They were the outlines for which he built upon and the guides for which he approached his antagonistic peers.

John lifted his head from Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock looked out the window, averting his gaze. He could see John’s reflection frown.

“Oh…” John wrapped an arm around Sherlock’s chest and hugged him. “I’m sorry, love.”

“It was a matter of time.” Sherlock dismissed, struggling to maintain composure. “He was sick.”

“That doesn’t make it any less difficult to cope with.” John replied firmly but kind. “I know firsthand as well what that’s like, love. So I know it’s hard.”

John’s words were like ointment on a burn. They soothed something Sherlock had been tortured by whenever the memory was brought up to him. Everyone else had felt like they poked and prodded the burn, but John didn’t. He cooled it.

“Thank you.” Sherlock breathed after a moment. He hugged John back. “I love you.”

John smiled. “I love you too. And thank you for helping me.”

“There’s no need for recognitions.” Sherlock kissed John’s temple. “You would have done the same for me.”

John tucked his face into Sherlock’s coat collar, resting his head on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“I know. That doesn’t mean I’m not grateful, though.”

It wasn’t long before the cab pulled up to the flat. The two men got out and walked up to Sherlock’s flat. The detective casted a glance at the soldier, studying him for a moment as John put his coat on the coat rack. He seemed to be a little better. His hands shook slightly, as if he were shivering, so Sherlock knew he was still feeling the effects of his episode.

“I desire a bath.” Sherlock lied. “Care to join me?”

John quirked an eyebrow and glanced over his shoulder at the detective. “You do?”

“Yes.” Sherlock tilted his head slightly, deducing something. “You find that hard to believe.”

John chuckled. “Yeah, I do. You can barely sit still most of the time, yet you want a bath?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “A bath with you, yes.”

John smirked softly. “You just want to get me naked and wet.” Sherlock’s eyes went wide and John laughed. “I’m joking, darling. I know you’re just trying to take care of me.”

As the doctor walked by, he kissed Sherlock chastely on the mouth.

“Maybe another time, okay? I think a bath would do more harm than good right now. For me at least.”

Sherlock thought back to the waterlogged car and John’s reaction, and he winced. John was already walking back toward the bathroom when Sherlock made the connection.

John’s father crashed into the River Lea while John was in the car.

Sherlock turned around to look at where John had walked off. Anger at John’s father lit his nerves. An intrusive series of images floated in Sherlock’s mind of a young John fighting to get out of a sinking car, being forced to hold his breath until the pressure equalized and he could push the car door free, then finally breaking the surface to gasp and cough.

“It’s been years since I’ve fallen asleep in a car.”

Yet his father was alive. Or, he was deceased now but had survived the incident. He was in prison according to John, but who knows when the last time John had been updated about his father’s status. How had he survived?

What did he do to my John?

Chapter Text

Sherlock wasn’t surprised when John had a nightmare that night. Despite going to the store and finding a suitable toy, coming home, and then being called by Lestrade for a case, John had a fairly troubling day. Sherlock expected John to have trouble sleeping, to wake up sweaty and panicked.

He did not anticipate the screaming.

John started to flinch, tossing and turning, and it woke Sherlock up. Sherlock blinked away the grogginess and sat up slightly, placing a hand on John’s chest. He was extremely gentle. He didn’t want to make things worse.

John furrowed his brows as he slept, his eyelids twitching. Sherlock hoped he was waking up, but quickly deduced that he wasn’t. No, he was falling further into his nightmare.

Sherlock rubbed John’s sternum, making slow laps with his palms around the bone.

“John? Wake up.” His whispered voice sounded loud in the quiet room.

John mumbled something, but it was so garbled that Sherlock couldn’t decipher it.

“It’s a nightmare, John.” Sherlock continued. “You’re safe. You’re okay.”

“No,” John whimpered. His hands gripped at the mattress beneath them. “Don’t leave me.”

“I won’t.” Sherlock’s voice was firm. He knew John wasn’t talking to him, but he hoped his partner could hear him reply. Sherlock sat up fully and took one of John’s hands, massaging it with both of his. He hoped it would wake him. “I’m right here, John. Just wake up.”

Then John started to scream.

It was heart-wrenching and terrifying. He thrashed on the bed and cried out a chorus of please and no, begging someone to come back. The pain and fear in John’s voice made him sound so small, so feeble, and not at all like the man that Sherlock had gotten to know.

“Let me out!” John sobbed. Tears had formed in the soldier’s eyes.

Sherlock was lifting the dead weight of John’s torso upright before he could rationalize why or why not. He pulled John to his chest and hugged him tight, relieved when his lover stopped thrashing. John cried out once more, but otherwise stopped reacting. He sobbed with shaky breaths and clutched at the person holding him, only vaguely aware as he was startled from sleep and half conscious.

“You’re safe, mon cher, you’re safe.” Sherlock whispered. His voice was teary. He swallowed around the lump in his throat and rubbed John’s clothed back with a pressing touch. The fabric was damp with sweat, but Sherlock didn’t care. He wanted to make sure John felt his hand and was distracted by it. “You’re not there anymore. You’re with me.”

The fight-or-flight tension in John’s body left at the sudden realization that it was Sherlock who was cradling him. He was so relieved he started to sob, gripping Sherlock’s bicep.

“Sherlock.” John’s voice was hoarse and broken, and it was practically physically painful to hear. Sherlock shushed John softly, pressing a quick kiss to John’s temple. He hoped that he was soothing John at least somewhat.

“Shh, I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.” The detective promised, rocking the duo gently. “I love you. You’re safe with me.”

Sherlock held John for a long while, whispering reassurances and squeezing him in his arms. John stopped shaking and his tears dried on Sherlock’s bare shoulder after a few minutes. Sherlock lost track of how long he spent holding John afterwards, too focused on soothing John’s pain. To be honest, he didn’t care how long it took for John to return to his normal self. Sherlock would hold him for however long John wanted him to.

“Sorry.”

The timid, tiny voice almost didn’t sound like it came from John.

“Don’t be. You’ve no control over it.” Sherlock kissed John’s temple, hugging the blonde closer to his chest. “To apologize for such a thing is ridiculous and illogical.”

John didn’t reply for a few moments, and Sherlock figured he was just going to cuddle and try to relax some more. Then John spoke.

“I feel like I’m…” John paused, took a deep breath to steady himself, and then continued, “Like I’m pushing my problems onto you.”

Sherlock furrowed his brows in mild confusion, and then assessed the accuracy of John’s statement when the confusion faded into thoughtfulness.

“Perhaps, but I would not have entered a monogamous relationship with you had that been a deterrent.” Sherlock gently pushed John’s shoulder, hinting for him to lean back. The blonde reluctantly did so. “I knew from the start that you had a debilitating trauma disorder, John. Am I supposed to be surprised that you’re expressing symptoms?”

John’s eyes softened as they looked at Sherlock in the dark. To Sherlock, the doctor looked… solemn.

“Most people would be.” John confessed.

“Well I am certainly not most people.” Sherlock tried to joke, earning a half-hearted breath of a laugh. “I care about you, John.”

John gave a small crooked smile, “I care about you, too, Sherlock.”

Sherlock smiled, but then his brows furrowed. He glanced away, thinking. “What was it you said?” He paused for a few seconds but then the memory resurfaced. “Ah, yes. ‘I don’t care that you have demons. I do, too.’” He looked back at John, still smiling softly.

John studied Sherlock’s face. Sherlock watched him with a warm smile. He could practically hear the doctor thinking.

And then John’s mouth was on his and he was pushed onto his back.

He let out a startled yelp, muffled by John’s lips squished against his mouth, then melted like warm putty beneath John’s body. John pulled away after a moment. Sherlock stared up at him, a little dazed.

“You are the embodiment of perfection.” John buried his face into Sherlock’s clavicle, lying on top of him, and Sherlock blinked. “I’ve no idea what I did to deserve you, but I’m glad I did whatever it was.”

Sherlock smiled.

“I could say the same for you.” He whispered, kissing the top of John’s blonde head.

A few minutes passed by. John continued to lay on Sherlock, but as time went on Sherlock could feel John shifting and adjusting. Sherlock nudged his lover with a gentle push, hinting for him to get up, and John grunted and pushed himself up by his arms. Sherlock helped peel the damp shirt from John’s body and tossed it toward the hamper lazily, then patted a spot next to him on the bed. John laid down and Sherlock covered the soldier’s chest with his torso, wrapping his arms around John.

“I’m not a service animal, nor a weighted blanket,” Sherlock shifted a little, wriggling his legs between John’s, “but my weight should still give a similar effect. Besides, it’s not good for your shoulder to lay like that.”

John chuckled. “Are you calling yourself my service dog?” Sherlock snickered.

“If anyone is comparable to a dog, it would be you.” John gasped in mock horror and Sherlock closed his eyes. “Loyal, trustworthy, kind, but also able to tackle a man to the ground.”

John threw his head back and laughed. Sherlock smirked, glancing up at him. He loved the sound of John’s laughter, the kind of laugh Sherlock could feel come from deep down in John’s chest.

“Alright then, you’re my service human. Kinky.” John teased. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“You are insufferable.” Sherlock groaned, closing his eyes again and nuzzling his head into John’s clavicle.

Sherlock could feel John start to tense after a few more minutes, and he raised his head to look at the soldier. John looked down from where he had been staring at the ceiling.

“Alright?” Sherlock asked. He knew the answer, but John surprised him with another question.

“Are you sure it doesn’t bother you?” John searched Sherlock’s eyes as he asked the question. “I’m not exactly low maintenance, and I don’t want you to think that you’re my caregiver.”

Sherlock smiled warmly. Ever the concerned doctor, his John.

“I’m sure.” Sherlock kissed John’s chest. “Is this not what partners do for each other?”

“Well… It feels one sided.” John’s lips tightened into a line. “I feel like I’m the one benefiting while you’re stuck with all the...” John’s sentence trailed off as his words failed him.

“I benefit all the time.” Sherlock traced circular patterns on John’s left shoulder, feeling the scar beneath the thin undershirt he wore. “I’m benefiting right now.”

John thought for a moment then sighed.

“I guess…” He took a moment then started his sentence again, “Just tell me if it gets to be too much, okay? You’re my partner, not my therapist.”

“I will.” Sherlock promised. “Now try to sleep, John. You have work in a few hours.”

John frowned slightly, still unsure, and Sherlock pressed a kiss to his chest. Figuring he wouldn’t get any closer to a different answer tonight, John shifted his head on the pillow and let out a low sigh.

“You must make quite the horrid patient with all that sighing.”

Chapter Text

Things didn’t go so great at work the next day, but he hoped rehearsal would turn his mood around. Not only had it been a dull day full of sprained limbs and minor work accidents, Mick was parading around the A&E acting like he fought off the druggie by himself.

You know, the one John saved him from.

The nurse that called for John that day to help the poor bastard caught wind of what Mick was spewing and told the other nurses what truly happened, and John wasn’t sure how to feel about it. Staff was limited at the A&E, which meant word got around quick when no one was busy, so about an hour after Mick played the wounded soldier he had half the nurses giving him side eyes and glares. The other half ignored Mick, thanking John privately for his help, which John appreciated. He didn’t want to make it a big deal, but he also didn’t want people to be lied to.

Truthfully, being effectively backstabbed for office politics still stung more than what the nurses could treat. It was trivial and pathetic, but John felt betrayed.

When he got to rehearsal, he vented to Sarah about the whole situation while they waited for others to show up. Sarah and John didn’t get along romantically, nor did they get along great as friends, but as coworkers they always had thrived together. Sarah was reliable.

So he took it to heart when Sarah explained why John felt betrayed.

“You’re a soldier, John, not just a doctor. You’re about as loyal and dedicated to a cause that someone can be.”

Of course, what Sarah said made sense. It usually did.

Usually.

After rehearsal, John called Sherlock while he was wiping off the stage makeup with a wet wipe. The cool wipe felt like heaven on his heated face.

Sherlock picked up and murmured warmly, “Hello, John.”

“Hey,” John greeted back, “I’m dressed and about to head over now, just wiping off my makeup.” John tossed the used wipe into the trash bin under the dressing room counter. “How women wear this day in and day out I’ll never understand.”

 “I’m sure there’s a method to it,” Sherlock replied, sounding almost emotionless if not bored. John could tell he was just mildly distracted, however. “Perhaps simply the perceived pros outweigh the perceived cons.”

“Alright Mr. Scientist,” John teased, grapping another wipe. God this eye makeup is a tedious son of a-

“How was work?”

John snorted indignantly. Sherlock hummed.

“That great?”

“Fantastic.”

“Sarcasm, I see.”

“Me? Sarcastic?” John heard Sherlock chuckle on the other side of the phone. He smiled. “I’ll bitch about it later, probably. I’m almost done now so I gotta call a cab.”

“Alright, then. See you soon, mon cher.”

John’s heart fluttered at the pet name. He still didn’t know what it meant, but he assumed it was a pet name.

“See you soon, darling. Love you.”

“I love you, too.”

John waited a second before hanging up and putting his phone in his pocket. He had started to wipe away the makeup on his other eye when someone spoke behind him.

“Who was that?”

John nearly jumped out of his skin, looking up at the mirror with shocked eyes. He didn’t even register the voice, let alone the question, before he realized who it was that startled him.

“Fucking hell,” John breathed heavily, putting a hand to his racing heart. “Sarah, how many times do I have to tell you that you can’t just walk up behind me without warning me?”

Sarah’s eyes flickered over John’s facial expression for a moment before her lips tightened into a thin line.

“Sorry. I thought you saw me in the mirror.” Her tone was terse but sincere, which was confusing. John cocked a brow at her before focusing on his own face in the mirror, wiping away the smeared makeup over his eyelid.

“Yeah, well, I was kind of busy.” John should have said it a bit nicer, he lamented, but he was also a little too tense and agitated to care.

“So I heard.” Sarah narrowed her eyes at John’s from the doorway.

After a moment, John realized what Sarah meant by that statement. He froze for a moment, wiped the last streak of eyeshadow from his brow bone, then hesitantly tossed the used wipe into the trash bin.

He stood there quietly, silently, waiting for Sarah to say something. The doctor looked up into the mirror to meet her harsh gaze when she didn’t voice her thoughts. Sarah looked at John with something similar to betrayal, but John didn’t understand why.

He raised both eyebrows expectantly. She said nothing.

“What?” He demanded.

“Who was that?” Sarah repeated. John rolled his eyes.

“Why do you care?”

“Well that sounded an awful lot like the guy you met, what, a week ago?”

“A week and a half.” John corrected. Sarah glared.

“And you’re saying ‘I love you’ to him? You? To him? After a week?!”

“Whoa whoa whoa, what’s that supposed to mean?” John retorted as he turned around, glaring back at his ex-girlfriend.

“You never said that to me over four months, John!”

John paused, mouth open for a moment as the connections clicked into place. His eyes narrowed at Sarah, studying her furious state. He cocked his head to the side, confused, and Sarah’s jaw clenched.

“You’re really still hung up on that?” John asked, baffled and a little dumbfounded. "I thought we settled this already." Sarah scoffed at him.

“Of course I'm not 'hung up' about it. I’m just saying that you’re not the type of guy who just says that to say it.”

“You’re right, I’m not.” John stared at Sarah expectantly. She stared back.

She tilted her head back slightly as the subliminal message behind John’s words processed in her head.

“So you love him.” Sarah remarked. John nodded sharply, folding his arms in front of his chest. “After a week.” John stared at her for a moment.

“And?”

Sarah looked like she wanted to throttle the doctor.

“You can’t just love someone after a week!”

“Why not?”

“You barely know him!”

“And you know exactly what we’ve been up to, huh?” John remarked with bitter sarcasm. He grabbed his duffle and threw it over his shoulder.

“That’s not what I’m saying, John.” Sarah growled. “I’m saying-”

“You’re saying a lot of shit is what you’re saying.” John growled back, walking towards her before pushing past and through the doorway. “It’s our relationship, not yours, so butt out.”

“Relationship?!” Sarah shrieked. John was grateful most of the cast and crew were gone by now, but there was no doubt in his mind his phone would be flooded with texts by the end of the night.

“Yes, relationship.”

“How the hell-”

“Why is it so hard to believe!?”

Sarah stared wide-eyed at John, who was now shouting in her face in the hallway. His voice thundered down the hall and his eyes held a rage she had never seen his eyes hold before.

“Why?!”

Sarah opened her mouth to speak, but John’s shouting erased the majority of her thoughts. John glared poisoned daggers at Sarah, waiting with his temper at a rolling boil.

“Is it ‘cause it’s not you?” John’s tone was venomous and bitter. “Is it ‘cause he’s a man? What is it?”

“I…” Sarah’s voice trailed off. She closed her mouth and swallowed. “I just… didn’t think you’d say it so soon. It’s not like you.”

“And you know me so well, don’t you?” John spat back with a snarl. “We broke up four years ago, Sarah. I’ve been through a lot of shit since then.”

Sarah frowned, looking away slightly. “I… Yeah. I guess you have.” She glanced up at John, watching him roll his eyes and turn around. He started to walk away and Sarah quickly said, “Just don’t rush too fast.”

John opened the backstage door that led onto the street. “I’ll go whatever speed I damn well feel like, thank you.”

He walked out and the hydraulic metal door closed behind him with a loud thud.

Chapter Text

While John worked, Sherlock spent most of his day solving cold cases or answering emails to his blog. With everyone inside because of the turning weather, murderers were far too infrequent for Sherlock’s taste. If someone did commit a homicide, however, it was almost always too dull to warrant any active participation on Sherlock’s part.

So, Sherlock busied himself. At least, John assumed he did. And the doctor was partly correct. The activities Sherlock got up to did keep him busy.

John walked into 221b and saw several boxes surrounding Sherlock as the eccentric detective sat on the rug-covered floor, looking at something in his lap.

At the sound of the door opening, Sherlock looked up and smiled.

“Ah, hello.”

John looked at the boxes and the puzzled and slightly worried expression was oddly adorable to Sherlock.

“Uh… Hi.” John stepped in and closed the door behind him, setting down his duffle bag. “What’s…?” He gestured to the cardboard carriers and looked expectantly at his lover.

“Oh, these are yours.” Sherlock looked back down at something in his lap. John couldn’t see what it was; a box was obstructing his view.

“They’re mine.” John repeated. Sherlock hummed. John opened his mouth to speak, paused, and then continued, “I didn’t order anything, though.”

“Oh, no,” Sherlock’s hand moved and John heard a page turn. So the detective was holding a book. “No, these are from your flat.”

John stared, shook his head a little in disbelief, then tilted his head slightly.

“Excuse me?”

Sherlock answered as he admired the book of some description in his lap. “You’ve spent every night here for the past week, so I figured it would be beneficial to us both if you moved in. Closer to Bart’s, more time together, and I can take you on cases.”

John blinked, struggling to process what Sherlock was saying.

“So you moved me in without telling me.” It wasn’t a question. It was a statement of fact. Sherlock hummed absently.

“You’re busy,” Sherlock turned the page again, “I’m not. Painfully bored, actually.”

“You got bored so you moved me in.”

“In a sense, I suppose.” Sherlock looked up at John with a withering look, “You were thinking of moving in but refrained because you didn’t want to rush things.”

John’s eyes went a little wide and he blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“You’ve been bringing things here of your own accord and leaving them. Shampoo, conditioner, movies from your flat, just to name a few things. You leave for work then come back here afterwards. You shower, eat, and sleep here. You already practically live here, John. We are in a committed relationship. The only logical reason why you would keep from moving in is, from what I can gather, some sort of social norm where you have to wait a longer period of time before doing so.”

After Sherlock finished, he looked down at the book in his lap. “On a different note, I must say I appreciate the sentimental scrapbook your mother created. Or was it your grandmother? The writing inside is female but-”

The book was closed in Sherlock’s lap by John’s hand. Sherlock looked up and saw John kneeling in front of him, eyes carefully stoic. Sherlock could feel John’s hand shake on the book.

“What’s wrong?” Sherlock asked, concerned. John took a controlled breath.

“Even though you’re right,” John’s voice held a carefully measured lack of emotion, “I need you to not just… do things, like this. Not without at least warning me.”

Sherlock frowned.

“Are you mad?”

John licked his dry lips. “No.” He paused. “I just don’t… respond well to…”

Sherlock remembered what he deduced about John a few days ago and winced.

“You prefer to be in control. A self-preservation mechanism most likely…”

Sherlock moved the book off of his lap and took John’s hand, gently tugging him closer as a hint to sit down. John complied and Sherlock straddled John’s lap, wrapping his arms around John’s neck and hugging him.

“I apologize. I didn’t consider how it would affect…” Sherlock’s sentence trailed off and he sighed, mildly relieved when John wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s waist and let Sherlock hold John’s head to his chest, resting his cheek on the top of John’s head. “I thought you would be pleasantly surprised, not left feeling powerless, and I’m sorry I didn’t ask you about it first.”

John shook slightly, burying his face into Sherlock’s chest. “It’s fine.” He breathed. “I want to move in. I don’t know why I’m…”

Sherlock squeezed John in his arms. “I took the control from you and your mind is panicked. You have every reason to feel upset, John.”

John let out a shaky exhale and his fingers twitched on Sherlock’s back.

“You are in control,” Sherlock murmured, rubbing John’s back. “This was a big step and I took control over your situation from you, but know that all you need to do is give me the command and I will move everything back to precisely where I found it.”

“No,” John nuzzled his face into Sherlock’s clavicle. “No, it’s okay. Just… give me a minute.”

“Anything you need, mon cher.” Sherlock kissed the top of John’s blonde head and rested his cheek on it once more. “I made sure not to leave anything of obvious sentimental value behind. You still have say over what you want to keep and what you want to get rid of, okay mon cher? And the flat is still yours, I didn’t cancel the lease. All I did was move your personal items over, nothing more and nothing less.”

John nodded, taking measured deep breaths with long exhales. “Okay. Okay.” He breathed out. “Thank you.”

“Does it help to know the details?” Sherlock asked, concerned he was making things worse. John nodded again.

“Yeah, it does.” John swallowed. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” Sherlock said sternly. “I made the mistake, not you.”

John wrapped his arms loosely around Sherlock’s hips, resting his cheek against Sherlock’s shoulder and leaning into his partner. Sherlock couldn't help but think if it had been anyone other than John, he wouldn't have admitted he made a mistake. Not even to himself, let alone out loud.

“I love you.” John mumbled.

“I love you, too.” Sherlock hugged John’s head to his shoulder and rubbed the doctor’s back, following repetitive soothing circles. “I’m sorry.”

“I know.” John pecked a quick kiss to Sherlock’s shoulder. The detective’s button up was soft and comforting. “I forgive you.”

Sherlock smiled sadly and closed his eyes. His knees ached from bearing his weight above John’s lap, but he didn’t care. It was a willing price to pay.

“What does mon cher mean?” John asked softly. “I know it’s French but…”

“It means ‘my dear’.” Sherlock answered. “My mother taught us French along with English.”

“Is she from there?”

“She was born in England but moved there as a child, then moved back after meeting my father at an art show."

"An art show, hmm?"

"He was attending a fine arts school in Paris and he went to the show to gather information to later include in his term paper." Sherlock elaborated. "She says they looked at the same artwork and he asked her to translate the description posted on the wall beside the composition. They ended up talking about the piece, which in turn led them to peruse the exhibition together. Father then asked her to dinner, mother accepted, and voila.”

John smiled softly.

“Sounds like the plot to a romance movie.” Sherlock chuckled at John’s comment. He couldn’t help but agree.

They were quiet for a long while, until Sherlock couldn’t refrain from announcing his deduction any longer.

“You had a stressful day at work. Dull day. Coworker drama.” Sherlock mentioned quietly. “Rehearsal was better, judging by our phone call, but something happened afterward that upset you.”

“Is it that obvious?” John tried to joke, although he sounded exasperated and solemn.

“You rushed to leave. There’s foundation under your jaw.”

John sighed.

“Sarah took it upon herself to tell me to slow things down with you.” John shook his head slightly. “I wouldn’t listen to her. She’s just angry that I’m saying I love you to you after less than two weeks and never said it to her over four months.”

“Oh…” Sherlock thought for a long moment. John was relaxed in his arms, now, and the worry left with the tension.

Well, at least some of it.

“Did you?”

“Did I what?” John asked with a yawn.

“Did you love her?”

John shrugged. “I don’t know. We dated in my first year of being a GP four years ago, just after mum passed and just before I joined the RAMC, so I didn’t pay much attention to what I felt. I was too busy figuring out what I wanted to do since I was out of training and bored with what I studied for.”

“Oh.” Sherlock paused then concluded, “You two ended things mutually, though.”

“For the most part.” John agreed, nudging Sherlock to sit on his thighs. Sherlock sat down, immediately feeling some relief on his knees. “I was emotionally distant and I think she took it personally. She never admitted that she did, though.”

“Was it personal?” Sherlock questioned, leaning back to look at John’s face. John shook his head.

“No, not at all. She was nice, funny, normal… I just…” John’s jaw clenched. Sherlock waited patiently, reaching up to stroke his thumb over John’s jaw. “I’ve never done well with ‘normal’. It’s why I went into the RAMC.”

“Ah.” Sherlock nodded softly. “That makes sense.”

“It does?” John had a little humor to his tone, but he was genuinely disbelieving of Sherlock’s response.

“Of course it does. You spent a childhood in chaos. Your brain has learned to equate normalcy or a lack of conflict with the calm before the storm, so to speak.”

John laughed once. “Heh, yeah, I’ve heard a few therapists say that before.”

Sherlock smiled softly. “Feeling better, I see.” John smiled softly back at the man on his lap and nodded. Sherlock looked nervous. “Do you still want to move in?”

“Absolutely.” John pressed a quick kiss to Sherlock’s lips. “Are you still willing to deal with my trauma disorder?”

Sherlock grinned.

“Absolutely.” The detective kissed John back then clambered off his lap, sitting on the floor beside him. “I’ll help you unpack.”

As Sherlock started to twist his body to stand up, John swung his leg over Sherlock’s and pinned them to the floor. As John sat down on Sherlock’s lap, the detective’s eyes widened.

“Oh, you’ll help me unpack alright.” John smirked at Sherlock, wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s neck.

Then Sherlock found his back hitting the floor and John’s tongue in his mouth, and he moaned.

Just as quickly as the kiss began, it ended. John sat back on his heels and looked down at Sherlock as if he was a starving man faced with a feast.

“Mind if we switch this time?” He asked. Sherlock was confused as to what that meant. Well, until John shifted over Sherlock’s lap and the fabric covering his arse ghosted over Sherlock’s crotch. Then the meaning became crystal clear.

“O-Okay.” Sherlock wasn’t sure how he felt about the proposition, but he was eager to learn regardless. John grinned and pushed himself up to his feet.

“Let me get clean real quick, then.” John walked off toward the kitchen. “We could also try out that toy, you know.”

As John entered the hallway, he heard Sherlock scrambling to his feet and snickered.

Chapter Text

John didn’t feel the desire to bottom often, and even when he did feel that desire like a coil around his lumbar, the soldier was almost always still leading the dance. The man could count on one hand how many lovers had ever melted him into complete submission.

So when John walked out of the bathroom and saw Sherlock sat naked on the bed, looking up wide eyed from the opened packaging of the sex toy they’d bought together, he figured Sherlock wouldn’t be added to that count.

Well, he wasn’t entirely wrong. Just mostly.

John smirked softly and dropped the towel in the hamper next to the door, murmuring teasingly “Reading the instructions, love?”

Sherlock gave his partner a half-hearted glare and focused on the toy’s remote again, pressing the back plate into place with a solid snap!

“What instructions?” Sherlock pushed the remote up a notch and heard the toy vibrate against the plastic packaging it was on top of before turning it back off. “’Put in batteries and shove it up your arse’?”

John laughed and Sherlock tried to hide his grin as the blonde walked over to the edge of the bed.

“Mm, they should put that on the packaging.” Sherlock snickered. John curled a finger underneath the detective’s chin and tilted his face as he leaned in, pressing a kiss to his lips. As he leaned away and met his partner’s eyes, John asked softly, “Still okay with switching places?”

Sherlock thought for a few seconds then nodded. He looked a little nervous and insecure. John gave him a warm, gentle smile.

“If it makes you feel a bit more comfortable, I tend to still take the lead regardless of what position I’m in. So you don’t have to take complete control, okay?” John gently pulled Sherlock’s plump bottom lip down with his thumb, watching it bounce back into place as his thumb slipped off of it. “Though I’d love to see you try.”

Sherlock quirked a brow.

“Is that a challenge?”

John didn’t answer. He just grinned and leaned in to mouth at Sherlock’s lips, his tongue sweeping over that perfect cupid’s bow. Sherlock’s hand rose to cradle John’s face as the kiss deepened. His skin shivered when John moaned a tiny, breathy noise.

Suddenly John was spun and flung onto his back, bouncing on the mattress from the momentum. Wide eyes and parted lips stared agape at Sherlock, and the detective watched from where he stood between his lover’s spread legs as John’s pupils flared and he huffed out a breath.

“There’s something you ought to know about me by now, mon cher.” Sherlock murmured in a deep baritone, leaning over the doctor to swipe a bit of saliva away from the corner of John’s mouth with his thumb.

John stared dumbly at the gorgeous face inches away from him. Sherlock smirked.

“I can’t resist a good challenge.”

The voice Sherlock used as he practically growled that sentence made John shiver and his breathing hitch.

“Who said I didn’t know?” John whispered with a glimpse of defiance in his eyes.

Sherlock simpered.

“You may be a skilled actor, John,” Sherlock reached for the bottle of lubrication he set beside the vibrator, “but you certainly were not feigning your surprise just now.”

John chuffed. “Huh, wonder where I heard that before.”

You may be a skilled actor, Doctor Watson, but you were certainly not acting in that moment.

Sherlock remembered the text conversation and narrowed his silver eyes down at John’s face.

“I’m sure you’ll remember soon enough, Captain.” Sherlock’s tone was playfully dark as he popped the cap on the lubricant. “Now roll-”

John’s eyes flared with heat and he grinned wolfishly, pushing himself upright long enough to wrap a hand around the back of Sherlock’s neck. He fell back onto the bed, bringing Sherlock down with him, and shoved his tongue past Sherlock’s lips as his legs wrapped around Sherlock’s waist.

Sherlock wrenched the hand free from the back of his neck and pinned John’s wrist to the bed with a firm grip, pulling back to glare down at John. He should’ve expected that John wouldn’t give up control so willingly, that the stubborn army doctor would fight back in an effort to rile Sherlock up.

John rolled his hips, grinding his erection into Sherlock’s pelvis in a half-hearted attempt to rut against him, and grinned mischievously.

“Do you enjoy annoying me so?” Sherlock teased, his tone entirely jovial, and John snickered.

“Oh absolutely.”

John tried to reach up to Sherlock’s neck with his free hand and Sherlock dropped the lubricant onto the comforter in favor of intercepting the rogue limb. He pinned it above John’s head on the mattress, matching his other hand.

“Alright?” Sherlock questioned in a whisper, squeezing John’s wrists lightly. John seemed a bit confused until Sherlock pointedly gestured with his head to John’s shoulder.

“Oh, yeah, I’m good.” John’s face softened into a smile, and Sherlock mirrored it. “I’ll tell you when it’s too much.”

“Promise?” Sherlock asked, pleased when John nodded.

As quickly as it started, the soft moment ended.

“Because if you keep being difficult, you’ll be lucky to feel your hands let alone use them.” Sherlock threatened, eyes narrowing down at John. John grinned.

“And how are you going to go about that, hmm?” John countered, flexing his fingers and feeling the tendons move against Sherlock’s grip.

“That store gave me plenty of ideas.” Sherlock growled, grinning when John’s smug look faltered somewhat.

“Maybe I’ll act up just to see you use them.”

Sherlock leaned down to John’s face, bearing more of his weight on John’s wrists, pleased when John’s breathing hitched again.

“Another time, John. When we have the right… restraints.” John’s erection twitched at the sinfully purred word and the images it elicited and Sherlock smiled. There was a certain thrill to watching John react to his words and actions. “I’d rather have some more experience first.”

John smiled back. “Fair enough. But we’re buying handcuffs next time we go to that store.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Why? I could just as easily steal a pair from Lestrade.”

John laughed. “The toy store ones have padding, love.”

“Oh.”

“Besides,” John strained against Sherlock’s wrists, trying to lean up to his lover’s lips, “I think a pair of puffy black handcuffs on you would look divine.”

Sherlock’s breathing stuttered in his throat and he swallowed dryly. He took in a deep breath and squeezed John’s wrists, pressing them tighter to the mattress.

John had already proven his acting capabilities to Sherlock. Now it was time for Sherlock to return the favor. He pushed away the uncertainty he felt and dawned a cloak of confidence and bravado.

“Don’t. Move.” Sherlock ordered. “Understood?”

John licked his dry lips.

“Understood.” He repeated.

Sherlock released John’s wrists and grabbed the discarded bottle of lube, watching John in his peripheral as he poured a small amount into his palm. True to his word, John didn’t move. He merely watched Sherlock from his place splayed out on the bed, waiting.

As a reward for good behavior, Sherlock leaned down and left tender kisses over John’s chest. The soldier jumped when he felt Sherlock’s hand ghost over the back of his thigh, following it down to his rear. The lips at his chest skirted around the sensitive peaks of his pecs, distracting him somewhat from the slick, cold finger rubbing at his entrance.

John reflexively buried his fingers in Sherlock’s hair and his lover stopped. John whined and Sherlock glared.

“Hands on the bed.” Sherlock murmured lowly. John silently lifted his hand from Sherlock’s head and laid it on the mattress, pleased when Sherlock smiled. “Very good, Captain.”

John whimpered and gripped the comforter, and Sherlock flicked his tongue across his nipple just to hear that noise again. The brunette teased John’s chest with licks and kisses as he slowly worked John open, and John was about ready to pin the lanky bastard down and ride him through the mattress when Sherlock’s face drifted south and the tip of a long finger pushed past the muscle.

The blonde lifted his head and his breath was stolen from him by the sight he found. Sherlock’s silver eyes, those damn silver eyes, stared up John’s body through long lashes at him as a tongue licked across his abdomen. That gorgeous back was arched so beautifully as his mouth worked. John groaned and his head fell back, his eyes closing.

This man would be the death of him, John was certain of it. And it was the only death John would be happy to experience.

"Toy or no?" Sherlock murmured. John's answer was a low rumbling noise, making Sherlock laugh softly.

"Been too long." John confessed breathily. Sherlock curled his finger and rubbed and John's abdomen twitched. "Should be perfect for you, though."

"How long is too long?" Sherlock absently asked, fascinated by how John's body reacted to him.

"God," John sighed heavily. He stared at the ceiling thoughtfully for a moment. "Before I got shot, I think. So probably a couple years."

Sherlock nuzzled his nose into the crook of John's pelvis, distracting him as he added a second finger.

"I hope this isn't too dissatisfying of an experience after such a wait." Sherlock whispered as he trailed soft kisses over the tender tan skin beneath him.

John lifted his head and stared confusingly at his lover.

"What do you mean?"

"Well…" Sherlock let the confident act slip a little, "I lack the experience your other partners had."

John's expression softened.

"Sherlock, I can count on one hand how many people reduced me to a desperate whining mess, and they all took several attempts at it. You took ten minutes."

Sherlock blushed lightly and ran his hand up John's side, face still shyly tucked into John's pelvis.

"Besides, if you end up enjoying the role reversal, I'll happily let you plow my arse through the mattress however often you want."

Sherlock laughed and John grinned. Sherlock chanced a look up at John's face and his worries disappeared, at least for the time being.

"I admit it's difficult for me to…" Sherlock struggled to find the right word. John's grin faded to a warm smile and he pushed himself onto his elbows, grabbing a pillow from the head of the bed with a grunt.

"Be in charge?" John offered in a strained voice before settling the pillow behind his shoulders and head. Sherlock thought about his answer for a few seconds before he nodded. "Well, that's to be expected. You're more of a sub than a dom. And you don't have to be in charge when you top, you know."

"I’m a what?" Sherlock questioned curiously, taking a moment to add more lubrication to his fingers before starting the preparation process again.

"A sub." Sherlock's baffled expression reminded John of just how sheltered from the world of sex the brunette was. "Oh. Uh, sub means submissive. So a sub is someone who feels most comfortable submitting to somebody else, and a dom is the opposite. Dom means dominant."

"Hmm, interesting." Sherlock murmured. "And everyone uses these terms?"

John blushed slightly.

"Not everyone, no. Certain communities do. It's become more commonplace in the general population, though."

Sherlock gave John a curious glance.

"You say that as if you were in those communities before it became common vernacular."

John swallowed.

"Well, it was used pretty often in the queer community when I started exploring that part of my sexuality. Similar to how top and bottom refer to who's fucking who, but more… intense, I guess."

Sherlock considered asking John about when he discovered his sexuality and how, but decided to table that discussion for another time.

Likewise, John considered telling Sherlock about the BDSM community but swiftly decided against it. He was no blushing virgin, but Sherlock certainly was and that made John a bit shy by proxy. He didn't want to scare the poor man. John wasn't into the more extreme stuff, but there was no telling what Sherlock would find 'too much'.

"And what are you?"

All concerns about the conversation they'd need to have at some point immediately dissipated with one curl of Sherlock's fingers. John shuddered when Sherlock pushed his fingers further and brushed against his prostate.

"Are - ah, right there - are you asking what my sexuality is or if I'm a dom or sub?"

Sherlock tried to recreate the movement he just made and beamed proudly when John groaned.

"Both."

"Uh - fucking hell - I'm bi. Usually a dom. Prefer to top." John stretched an arm above his head to grab at the pillow there. "But Jesus Christ, with fingers like yours I'll make an exception."

Sherlock giggled and John chuckled with him.

"I'll have to do some research into those terms," Sherlock admitted, slowly withdrawing his fingers, "but I think you're prepared, now."

"We'll certainly see," John joked lightly and reached for Sherlock. "Come 'ere."

John wrapped his arms loosely around Sherlock's neck as he pulled him in for a kiss. Just the feeling of Sherlock's lips against his made John feel like he could finally breathe again. He never wanted to stop.

Sherlock pulled away just enough to breathe, "Ready?"

John's eyes gleamed in the dim light of Sherlock's - no, their - bedroom, and he smiled up at his lover. Sherlock was so transfixed by the colors and emotions swirling in John's irises that he almost didn't hear John whisper,

"I love you."

John's confession was followed by a soft press of his lips to Sherlock's mouth, hands moving to cradle his face. Sherlock followed John's mouth as he pulled back, leaning over the soldier.

Being in love with John Watson was a high not even cocaine could compete with.

Sherlock felt strong calves wrap around his back and pull him closer, and he grabbed the lube and gave John one last taste of his tongue before leaning back. John watched him pour some lubricant onto those long fingers and the army doctor licked his lips eagerly, struggling not to groan at the sight of Sherlock wrapping a hand around his tip and working the lube down his shaft.

"Fucking hell that's gorgeous." John breathed, rolling his head on the pillow to get a better angle. At the sight of the exposed neck beneath him, perfectly tanned and toned with strong tendons jutting beneath the stretch of skin, Sherlock pressed the flat of his tongue against the surface and licked. John shivered under his tongue, and Sherlock held himself at the base and pressed his hips closer, guiding the head of his erection to John's entrance. John held his breath with excitement in his eyes and Sherlock wondered if he was lining himself up correctly until the tight muscle finally gave way and the tip pushed inside.

John moaned, and Sherlock shuddered above him. He'd never heard John moan like that before.

It was one of the most beautiful sounds he'd ever heard. He wanted to hear it for hours.

"Bite me." John pleaded. Sherlock's brows furrowed.

"I'm sorry?"

"Remember the lovebite I gave you?" John prompted. "Give me one."

"Did the bite feel good, baby?"

Tentatively, Sherlock shifted his weight above John and John's breathing hitched as Sherlock moved inside him. The teeth at his neck were a wondrous distraction, however. He hissed when Sherlock bit down and sucked hard, feeling his erection twitch between them.

Sherlock looked down at the mark he left and smiled shyly.

"Did I do it correctly?"

John hummed, "It felt bloody amazing, so I'd assume so." He ghosted a hand over the chest above him, fingertips trailing over flushed skin. "I'll check your handiwork later." He teased. "We're a bit busy."

Sherlock giggled and licked the mark he left, feeling John shiver beneath him.

"You can push further," John swallowed to steady his voice, "I'm ready."

Sherlock leaned back slightly to watch as he tilted his hips forward and pressed slowly. John was burning hot and tight like a vice grip around him, and the sensation was heavenly. It wasn't nearly as good as having John inside him, but almost nothing was as good as that.

He pushed his hips forward, glancing at John's face a couple times to make sure he wasn't hurting him, but the nails twitching against his biceps and John's closed eyes and slack jaw kept any rogue paranoid thoughts at bay.

John groaned lowly from his chest when he felt Sherlock bottom out inside him and shivered. Sherlock absently stroked his hand over John's shoulder. He could feel John's muscles spasm around him, could feel John breathe heavily and even felt the vibrations in John's body when he made that gorgeous pleasured noise. There was so much sensation surrounding him that he could barely think.

"Fuck you feel good," John heaved, followed by a laugh. Sherlock laughed breathlessly with him. John met his eyes and said, "Experiment to your heart's content, Mr. Scientist." John gave him a wolfish grin. "And don't be afraid to really give it to me. I can take it."

Sherlock smirked. He rolled his hips shallowly and the sinful grin on John's lips faltered slightly.

"You can, hmm?"

"Oh yeah," John huffed out, blown-out pupils staring half-lidded up at Sherlock. He watched the detective wrap long fingers over his hips and hold onto him, and his heart raced in his chest.

"That makes me think you want me to be rough with you."

John moaned softly as Sherlock tested the waters with a couple gentle thrusts. They were entirely not enough but teased his prostate all the same.

"I wonder what gave that away." John teased, his hands reaching to grab onto Sherlock's thighs.

They were suddenly pinned above his head and the abrupt push of Sherlock's length deep into him made him yelp in surprise and pleasure.

"What did I say about your hands, soldier?" Sherlock growled.

John fought back a moan, but only managed to reign in his self-control when the noise had already started to leave his mouth. The tail of the moan ended in a low growl. Sherlock grinned toothily.

"You don't just like to be controlled, do you?" Sherlock deduced, watching John's eyelids flutter as he rolled his hips in an exaggerated circular motion, being sure to press tighter when he was pushing back in. "You love it."

John's back arched off the bed as Sherlock pressed his hips close to his lover's. John felt the strain on his shoulder but couldn't care less.

"You love to be pinned down." Sherlock's voice rumbled like thunder next to John's ear. "Don't you?"

"Yes." John whispered his confession. All his willpower went into keeping his hips from moving. Sherlock didn't say it, but he assumed he would get in trouble if he tried to speed things up.

"Does it feel good to give up control?" Sherlock purred, hips rolling in a slow rhythm.

"Mhm." John whimpered.

"Are you going to be a good soldier and follow commands?"

John whined and nodded.

"Say it."

John shook when Sherlock hit his prostate and moaned.

"I'll be good," John panted, "please, please I'll be good."

Sherlock stopped grinding his hips into John and started to pull and push his hips instead, thrusting weakly into the blonde beneath him. John moaned lowly.

"Keep your hands above your head, Captain." Sherlock remarked as he let John's hands go. He wrapped his hands over John's hips again and John gripped the comforter in anticipation, relaxing his left shoulder into the mattress. It would be sore later. He didn't care.

Sherlock sped up slightly and John's eyes fell closed, his mouth opening as heavy pants left his lips. After a minute he opened his eyes long enough to get a good look at the gorgeous scene above him, wanting to remember this moment for the rest of his life.

Sherlock dug his fingers into John's skin and snapped his hips forward and John moaned sharply, back arching for a few seconds.

"Harder." John ordered in a plea. "Fuck me harder."

"If you keep being good." Sherlock breathed shallowly, dragging his nails up John's thighs. John's skin shook under his touch and he moaned under his breath. "You're so tight."

John gave a long, drawn out whine in reply.

"Please." John begged.

Sherlock thrusted hard into his lover and John clenched his jaw, fighting back the urge to shout.

"Fuck yes," he hissed. "Yes. Just like that. God you feel so fucking good."

Sherlock kept up the pace, falling into the rhythmic push and pull of his muscles. John gripped the pillow behind his head, gritting his teeth and groaning through them.

Sherlock could feel his orgasm approaching and scratched his nails over John's thighs.

"I'm close." He warned. John opened his eyes again and gazed up at Sherlock in awe.

"Hard and fast." John ordered. "Don't stop."

Sherlock did as John said and John breathed out a surprised whimper, eyes threatening to roll at the swift pleasure. He was so close, his stomach burned and his muscles were clenching up, and Sherlock angled his hips just slightly and oh god. John lowered his hand to his side and clawed at the comforter before forgetting the rule entirely and reaching for Sherlock's thigh with one hand and wrapping the other around his painfully hard erection. He stared up at Sherlock in complete amazement as his hand worked his leaking cock as fast as it could go.

Sherlock bent over him and ground his hips upwards as John felt Sherlock’s erection throb inside him and warmth fill his arse. John let go of Sherlock's thigh to wrap an arm around his neck, bringing his lover close while his hand grabbed at Sherlock's shoulder and his nails bit into the pale skin, rolling his hips into Sherlock’s. He was so close, so close-

"Oh my Go-" John choked out and convulsed, spilling out over his hand and onto his chest. He came so hard he even managed to get Sherlock's chest right above him in the crossfire.

Sherlock looked down between their bodies and hummed happily, hands stroking over John's sides, before he tucked his face back down into John's neck and licked and kissed the bruising skin. John shivered again and took in a sharp, unsteady breath once his lungs were working again.

“Fuck, Sherlock.” He panted, closing his eyes as his hand squeezed his spent erection. “Fuck.”

"Told you I was a great actor." Sherlock whispered smugly into John's lovebite, the air warm and wet as it traveled over the mark.

John turned his head toward Sherlock's and hummed confusedly, breathing heavy, before panting his reply, "Oh. For a second -I thought you - were saying you faked - your orgasm." Sherlock laughed. "I was gonna say - I literally feel it - in my arse - right now." Sherlock laughed harder and John breathily chuckled.

“I don’t think – I’ve ever – came so hard.”

Sherlock slowly pulled out from his lover and got up to grab the towel from John's earlier shower, noticing the unused vibrator on the bed.

Maybe next time, he grinned inwardly and strutted off toward the hamper by the bathroom door. John lazily watched him strut away and smirked.

He'd definitely have to bottom more often.

John groggily woke up to find himself surrounded by warmth and long limbs, mouth parted and dry. He licked his teeth and lips, thirsty and more tired than he'd felt in days. He went to rub his eyes when his shoulder throbbed in protest. He winced and blearily looked over at the time on Sherlock's alarm clock.

1:42 AM

He wondered why he was awake, he didn't have work after all and he didn't have a nightmare, at least he didn’t feel like he had. Then his bladder made itself known.

John went to crawl out from under Sherlock's elaborate leg entrapment and found another sore part on his body. This one, however, wasn't usually sore.

His exhausted brain wondered why his arse felt like somebody kicked it to the moon, then his eyes fell onto Sherlock's stirring form and remembered what happened. Vividly.

He smirked down at his lover, giving him a quick peck on the head.

"'s alright. Going to the loo," he reassured. Sherlock hummed. "Be right back."

John groaned and winced again as he got out of bed and stumbled sleepily to the bathroom, closing the door and turning the light on.

"Christ," John cursed and squinted. "Need to get a night light or somethin'."

By the time he was washing his hands, his eyes had adjusted somewhat. In a half lidded, barely functional daze, John turned to walk out into the hall.

Something dark in the mirror caught his eye and he looked over. He smiled.

A dark patch marked his skin, surrounding bite marks. John remembered Sherlock's teeth at his throat and reached up, rubbing his thumb over the tendon it stretched across, smirking. For a beginner, it was good. Not as dark and harsh as John would've done, and it was above the collar line of any of his button ups or jackets, but that was what made it unique and he loved it.

Footsteps approached the door before it gently swung open with a soft creak, and John looked up at Sherlock's face in the mirror.

"My turn." The brunette declared sleepily. John smiled. Sherlock arched a brow at John's hand cupping his throat.

John noticed and turned his neck toward the mirror, stretching the tendon and feeling the bruise protest at the movement.

"Just admiring your handiwork." John whispered lowly. He caught Sherlock's gaze lower in the mirror, focused on John's neck for a few long seconds. "I love it."

Sherlock smiled and kissed John's cheek.

John turned his head and pressed a chaste peck to the side of Sherlock's mouth as the taller man pulled away.

"And I love you." John added softly.

"I love you too." Sherlock whispered back. "I've really got to go, though."

John chuckled and kissed Sherlock quickly, giving his arm a soft squeeze, before walking out into the hall.

"Thirsty?"

"Immensely." Sherlock answered as John closed the bathroom door for him.

Chapter Text

John brushed off Sarah’s abhorrence to their quick commitment as just resentment and jealousy, but Sherlock was less sure. Maybe John was just saying certain things to make Sherlock happy. Maybe he didn’t really feel that way, yet.

Maybe they were moving too fast? What if they moved too fast and the relationship fell apart? Just the thought of losing John felt like a catastrophe. Sherlock didn’t think he could go back to how he was before John came into his life.

What if he went back to cocaine? What would Mum think? He’d never get another case again. Hell, he wasn’t even sure if he wanted to have another case if John wasn’t there to solve it with him.

He would be useless.

A failure.

Someone gripping his shoulders firmly and gently shaking them brought Sherlock back to the current moment. He blinked and found that he was struggling to breathe.

“Sherlock? What’s wrong?” John’s worried face filled Sherlock’s vision. He could feel his heart racing in his chest and his thoughts kept spinning in the background of his mind, making it hard to focus.

“I-” Sherlock tried to choke out. His throat felt dry and tight. Panic filled his chest as an unwanted visitor, but not as an unfamiliar one.

Sherlock looked down at his hands, noticing how they trembled above his lap when he tried to hold them steady. John followed Sherlock’s eyes down and noticed the same thing, and the similarities between Sherlock’s symptoms and John’s history with night terrors connected in his mind.

“Sherlock, breathe.” John’s voice was soft and careful, but a brief deduction of clinical whizzed past Sherlock’s vision almost before he could note what it said. “You have to breathe.”

“I’m trying,” he wheezed. One hand rubbed at his sternum, trying to force the muscles to loosen their restrictive hold on his rib cage, while the other clutched the edge of the couch cushion. John held Sherlock’s hands, shifting his grip so Sherlock’s fingers curled over his palm.

“I’ll breathe with you. When I squeeze, you hold your breath, okay? Look at me.”

Sherlock did as he was told and nodded shortly, starting to wheeze despite not talking. John took a deep breath for four seconds then squeezed Sherlock’s hand, monitoring the effectiveness of Sherlock’s breathing as it tried to mimic his own. He then loosened his grip and breathed out for five seconds, repeating the process several times.

After a minute, Sherlock was breathing easier but was still trembling. John waited an extra thirty seconds before asking, “How are you feeling now?”

“Not good,” Sherlock answered honestly, “but better.”

“Better is still progress.” John joked lightly. “Think you can breathe, now?”

Sherlock nodded, taking another deep breath. He held it for a few seconds and John watched and waited patiently. He would kneel in front of Sherlock for however long it took, knees be damned.

“Panic attack.” Sherlock explained. He swallowed dryly. “Coupled with anxiety attack.”

“Go big or go home, ya know?” John tried to joke. Sherlock rolled his eyes halfheartedly at it, but John was content enough with the fact that Sherlock reacted at all. “I take it this isn’t your first one?”

Sherlock chuckled darkly. “No, no it’s not.” He took another deep breath and closed his eyes. As he released the exhale, he added, “It should be over in a minute or two. I’m okay.”

“Yes, you are.” John reassured, rubbing his thumbs over Sherlock’s hands to help add to the grounding distractions. “Anything I can do?”

Sherlock felt his chest start to tighten and his exhaled breath was a little shaky. He wasn’t surprised that John noticed.

“Come here,” John murmured softly, standing up with a grunt then sitting down on the couch facing Sherlock. He leaned back and pulled Sherlock’s shoulder blades to his abdomen, wrapping his arms over Sherlock’s shoulders and hugging him loosely. “This used to help me.”

Sherlock could hear John’s heart beating behind his head, a soothing melody that made the arms wrapped around him feel all the more comforting. Instead of restrictive, they felt protective, despite the majority of his body lying on the couch. At the fleeting intrusive thought, Sherlock bent his knees and put his feet on the cushion, pulling his legs closer to protect them.

“I heard there was a secret chord,” a familiar voice started to sing softly behind Sherlock. It was far more sweet and gentle than Sherlock had ever heard John sing in rehearsal. Sherlock could hear the lungs behind his ears inflate and deflate and could feel the song vibrate through John’s chest as he sang it. He wasn’t sure why, but he found the connection to John’s chest as the blonde sang just as relaxing as the song itself. “That David played and it pleased the Lord. But you don’t really care for music, do ya?”

The slow, melodic rhythm the lyrics held was soothing to hear, Sherlock found. Perhaps it was just because John was the one singing it? He would have to experiment further.

“Well it goes like this, the fourth, the fifth. The minor fall and the major lift. A baffled king composing hallelujah. Hallelujah, hallelujah…” John sang the word several times in that same soft and sweet tone akin to a lullaby, and Sherlock felt his body relaxing as he focused on it.

“Well your faith was strong, but you needed proof. You saw her bathing on the roof. Her beauty in the moonlight overthrew ya…” John struggled not to yawn. Damned conditioned responses. “She tied you to the kitchen chair. She broke your throne and she cut your hair. And from your lips she drew the hallelujah.”

John sang the chorus of hallelujahs once more, stopping when he noticed that Sherlock wasn’t trembling or struggling to breathe anymore. He waited a moment, just holding the detective, before he asked,

“Feeling better?”

Sherlock hummed absently then yawned, and John chuckled.

“Yeah, that song makes me sleepy too.”

Sherlock turned his head and leaned his cheek into John’s bicep, closing his eyes. “Where did you learn it?”

“My mum.” The blonde confessed. “She’d sing it to calm me down.”

Sherlock hummed softly in response. “She was Catholic.” John nodded, then realized Sherlock couldn’t see him and replied with a simple yes. Sherlock mumbled his deduction, “You don’t hold her faith currently, but you used to.”

“Like most kids who grew up Catholic.” John remarked with sass. Sherlock snickered.

“Touché.”

John’s smile faltered slightly. He courted his fingers through Sherlock’s hair.

“What caused you to lose faith? If you don’t mind me asking, of course.”

John’s smile faded entirely. A memory of a very particular moment came to mind.

“When mum was sick.” John swallowed. “She…” The soldier paused, struggling to find the right words to explain such a complex situation. Sherlock mistook it as a trigger and sat up, turning his torso to face John.

“You don’t have to answer, John.” Sherlock reassured, shifting so he faced John completely before crossing his legs on the cushion. He took John’s hands and held them, resting their hands on his legs between them.

John looked down at the floor and licked his bottom lip, absent in his thoughts. His jaw clenched the longer he thought. Sherlock started to feel worried that he triggered a flashback until John spoke in a painfully emotionless voice.

“Pops slept around. He had a decent job, something in the legal field I think but not an attorney. I don’t remember exactly what anymore. But that didn’t stop him from hiring prostitutes, getting pissed, smoking a pack a day, gambling… basically anything Pops could commit as a sin, he tried.”

Sherlock listened closely, watching John’s face as he spoke. He stared down at the floor blankly, as if he was dissociating, but he’s sentences were clear and concise. Perhaps he was only partially dissociating, then?

“He ended up giving Mum HIV.” John’s face contorted into a mixed expression of pain and anger. “And after he got put away, Mom took the restitution and put it toward university for me. Considering he nearly…” John closed his eyes and Sherlock squeezed John’s hands in his.

“John, look at me.” John took in a shaky breath but opened his eyes, meeting Sherlock’s. “If you want to talk about it, that’s okay, but I don’t want you to push yourself into an episode. Take it slow.”

John offered a barely visible smile, his eyes softening. He nodded and forced himself to take in a slow, deep breath. Once he had exhaled, he continued talking.

“I don’t remember how old I was when it happened. I barely remember what happened after I got to shore. One moment I was falling asleep in the backseat and the next I…” Sherlock squeezed John’s hand to ground him. John took the gesture as a reminder to breathe, so he took in a deep breath. “Pops had been drunk driving and crashed into the River Lea. I woke up to him hurriedly getting out of the car, letting the water in, and I saw the woman he picked up in the passenger seat and she – her neck was bent the wrong way-”

“John, John stop.” Sherlock said sternly, holding John’s face and turning his head so the blonde looked at him. “You’re spiraling, mon cher. Focus on me for a moment.”

John hadn’t realized he’d begun to shiver and his chest had tightened, and he nodded shortly.

“O-Okay.”

Sherlock kept his eyes on John’s as he made a point to push his shoulders back and straighten his posture, taking in a slow deep breath. John mimicked him, his breathing a bit more sporadic than Sherlock’s. He could feel some of the tension ease from his shoulders as he focused on exhaling at a steady rate.

He offered Sherlock a tiny smile.

“Thank you.”

“Anything for you, John.” Sherlock rubbed his thumb over John’s cheek. “Why don’t you tell me about something you enjoy?”

John smiled a little wider. “Well, I enjoy being with you.” Sherlock rolled his eyes playfully.

“I meant for you to tell me something I don’t already know.” Sherlock teased, and John smirked with amusement.

“Alright, well…” He thought for a moment. “I’ve not done it since uni, but I used to draw.”

Sherlock perked up with surprise. “You did?” John smiled sheepishly.

“Yeah. Well… I had to draw a fair amount of bodies and anatomy for notes and study sessions, and I enjoyed doing that. And when I was younger I went to art therapy for a while.”

“I’m glad you found it enjoyable.” Sherlock leaned forward and pressed a quick kiss to John’s forehead. “Perhaps you should begin drawing again.”

“Maybe.” John didn’t dislike the idea, but he’d have to think about it a bit more. He wasn’t sure what he would actually draw now, considering the fact that he no longer had to draw the human body repeatedly for school or abstract emotional pieces for a therapist. But perhaps the mindless drawing of something he’d drawn repeatedly for years would be good for him, still.

Sherlock smiled softly. “You seem calmer. Do you feel calmer?” John nodded. “Good. Do you wish to continue or stop?”

“Continue.” John both didn’t want to talk about it and felt compelled to talk about it at the same time. He took a steadying breath and continued. Focus on the facts, he reminded himself mentally. Just like on the witness stand.

“I waited for the water to fill the car before I could get out, and then I swam to shore. By then someone who had seen Pops crash had pulled over and called 999. They figured he was a drunk on his own, but then they heard me yelling for him and…” John sighed and paused, shoving the panicked memory away as it crept into his mind. “Pops had run away. The escort he hired was killed on impact. The couple that pulled over sat with me while the police questioned me then took me to the Yard. Mum picked me up, Pops got arrested, and I went to therapy for a few years. Mum got paid restitution, filed for divorce, and put the money toward university for me.”

John rubbed his thumbs over Sherlock’s hands absently. “Then she started to get sick. She got diagnosed with HIV, forced Pops to pay her more for knowingly giving it to her, and before she could put it toward Harry or me she got bronchitis. She got progressively more prone to getting respiratory infections over the years, until she finally got antibiotic-resistant pneumonia and…” John clenched his jaw.

Sherlock tilted John’s chin up with a careful touch. John struggled to meet his eyes.

Avoiding eye contact.

                                                                                                                Ashamed?

         No.                                                              

                                                                  Uncomfortable.

                                                                                                                Too personal.

“Take another moment, John.” Sherlock put his hand on John’s shoulder and rubbed his thumb over the doctor’s shirt. “You look as if you’re ready to run out of the flat.”

“Stop reading my mind.” John joked half-heartedly. Sherlock smirked a little.

“Don’t think so loudly, then.” He teased back. John’s flicker of amusement across his face lifted Sherlock’s mood substantially. “I love you, John.”

John’s face softened. “I love you, too. I really, really do.”

Sherlock leaned forward and pressed a smiling kiss to John’s lips. He could feel John slump his shoulders as his body relaxed into the gentle press of their lips.

After a long moment, Sherlock leaned back and took a deep breath. Kissing John never failed to make him a little breathless, even if it was just a simple touch.

John looked at Sherlock with so much adoration it made Sherlock’s chest hurt. “What was I talking about?” John tried to joke, although he was partly serious.

“Your mother contracted pneumonia and you lost your faith.” Sherlock reminded him. John inhaled deeply, shoulders rising with his chest, and he nodded.

“Right.” He swallowed, thinking for a moment about what to say. He struggled to remember that period of his life, but one clear moment always stood out.

“Mum was in the hospital and our church’s preacher and priest came and visited her, as well as some church friends. We all said prayers and talked about mundane things, and when Mum got tired they left and I stayed. She was exhausted, I mean she basically fell asleep right away, and I was left to just sit there and… think.”

John tilted his head and his lips tightened into a line for a brief moment. “I just… I kept looking at her crucifix necklace around her neck, her rosary on her chest, and her bible by her side and… I was so angry. I felt betrayed. Here was this almighty being that supposedly loved his believers, who did miracles and saved people and Mum was… There was no saving her that time. But she held out for days and I… I was so pissed. What kind of God takes such a loyal follower and makes them suffer for days before they finally pass?” John curled his lip in a disgusted snarl. “Not a God I want to follow, that’s for damn sure.”

John paused for a few seconds and his disgusted turned into visible pain and remorse.

“I… I kept begging God to just take her.” He admitted brokenly. “Take her so she wouldn’t be in pain anymore. I watched her vitals, studied her care sheet, read prayers for her when she couldn’t speak without coughing…” The doctor shook his head and hung it. “After she died I got rid of all the religious paraphernalia I could. The only thing I kept was her rosary. She had it since she was a kid, I think she said her grandfather made it for her or something, and she carried it everywhere with her so it felt… wrong, I guess, to get rid of it. The rest of her religious stuff I donated to the church or a shelter, though.”

Sherlock let go of one of John’s hands and brushed his short blonde hair back, relieved when John closed his eyes and let out a slow exhale.

“You kept most of her personal items, though.” Sherlock remembered. “The scrapbook, for instance.”

John smiled. “Yeah, she started that with her grandmother. When her grandmother passed, Mum kept it and later worked on it with me and Harry. Harry didn’t care for it much, but she liked taking the pictures for it.”

“Where was she when your mum was…?” Sherlock’s question trailed off, worried that he broached yet another painful topic.

“She was in rehab, thank god.” John breathed. “They let her come and visit mum once a day, and when it came down to her last hours they let me supervise her for up to 24 hours before bringing her back. She wanted to go back after two hours of mum being gone, and I didn’t blame her. She needed the structure and I needed to be alone.”

Sherlock nodded slightly, processing the information. He glanced away for a moment, thoughtfully staring at the floorboards. The detective looked back at his partner who was looking down at their joined hands between their laps.

“I’m sorry.”

Sherlock furrowed his brows slightly.

“For what?” He couldn’t think of a reason that John needed to apologize for.

“For making this about me.” John licked his lips. “You were having a panic attack and I didn’t give you a chance to tell me what caused it.”

Sherlock tilted his head.

“You comforted me and I asked a deeply personal question. You answered my question with an equally personal response.”

“No, I told you my life story.” John tried to sound like he was joking, but it was painfully obvious that he wasn’t.

“I didn’t say the answer had to be a short one.” Sherlock retorted playfully. “Besides, who said you couldn’t ask me now?”

John’s facial expression was difficult to read. Sherlock could see several conflicting emotions occurring as John thought: pain, agreement, guilt, indecision, concern.

John looked up at his partner.

“What made you so panicked?”

Sherlock felt anxiety building in his chest but pushed it down.

“I was… ruminating. On what Sarah said.” Realization crossed over John’s eyes. “Then my thoughts became more intrusive.”

“Like?” The care and worry in John’s eyes was something Sherlock didn’t think he’d ever truly get used to seeing.

“I thought about the possibility that she was correct, and what that might mean for us. What if we separated, what if you said that you love me just to make me happy and didn’t really mean it, what if-”

“I do mean it.” John interrupted. Sherlock stopped speaking, his mouth parted and his eyes on John’s. “I’m not the same person she met four years ago, Sherlock.”

Sherlock closed his mouth. He’d heard John say that before. John noticed the uncertainty in Sherlock’s careful expression and frowned slightly.

“You’re also not like anyone I’ve been with before. You’re eccentric, blunt, brutally honest, wild… I don’t have to wonder about your intentions or your honesty or your history with past partners or whatever else. You don’t have that social norm about relationships ingrained into you like I do, so when you said you love me that first time I…”

John’s eyes softened. He smiled. Sherlock watched him and he couldn’t help but smile, too. Sherlock could tell that John was remembering something, most likely their first time having sex when he told John he loved him.

“I knew you meant it. You felt it. And looking down at you in that moment I realized I loved you, too. I don’t know when it happened but I fell in love with you, and it’s been without a doubt the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Suddenly John was shoved onto his back on the couch and someone was lying on top of him. Sherlock buried his face into John’s neck and long arms wrapped around John’s torso tightly, Sherlock’s hold and his weight making it a little hard to breathe. John tried to chuckle but it came out more like a wheeze, and he draped his arms over Sherlock’s back.

“I love you too.” John joked, patting his partner’s back. Sherlock mumbled something, something in French, and John couldn’t help but be a little bemused. “So no more worrying about how fast or slow we’re going, alright? I want to live with you and tell you I love you and chat with your Mum over dinner when your brother is a twat.”

Sherlock gave a wet laugh and John realized he was crying. He hugged Sherlock tight and nuzzled his face into the man’s curly hair, closing his eyes.

“Though I’d like to wait at least a year or two before we get married. Which was incredibly wholesome, by the way. If cuteness was lethal in high doses I would’ve gone into cardiac arrest.”

Sherlock groaned at John, feeling embarrassed, and John laughed.

“Besides, there’s no reason to rush things. Let’s enjoy what we have for a while, alright?” Sherlock hummed. “Sound good?” He nodded his head. He could hear John’s smile in his voice, “Good. Feeling a bit more confident, now?”

Sherlock squeezed John in his arms and grumbled as he smooshed his face into the crook of John’s neck. John grinned.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

Chapter Text

Feeling the need to reassure Sherlock that he was wanted and that John was committed, John took Sherlock to move the rest of his things. Besides, Sherlock obviously wasn't wrong when he deduced John wanted to move in, and John could use the help. Most of the stuff Sherlock brought over the day before was exactly what he said they had been: sentimental and essential. However, there were a few things John wanted to take with him that were neither.

They were eating a late lunch at a great Chinese place near John's flat when someone started a scene.

Sherlock noticed them enter, and they caught his attention easily. Two middle aged men wearing simple shirts, coats, and matching political affiliation hats walked up to the counter.

Low intelligence

                                                          Low socioeconomic status

                                                                                                                 Coworkers

                                                                        Lovers?

        Factory employees

                               Aggressive

John noticed Sherlock staring across the room and glanced over, noting the men as well. Ah, they were that type of bloke, and there were two of them. Great.

The soldier hoped they’d be smart enough to keep their mouths shut in such a diverse setting. His arse was still sore from last night and he didn’t care to get in a fight.

The two older men ordered their food and sat down, unfortunately deciding to sit a few tables away, and John smiled softly at Sherlock.

"Ignore them." He whispered. Sherlock looked back at John and his lips tightened. He wasn’t sure ignoring them was the best option, but Sherlock decided after a few seconds that if either one of the men started to act suspicious he would notice it quickly.

They talked softly back and forth, and after a few minutes they forgot the pair had entered in the first place. They only remembered when a name was called by the Asian man behind the counter and one of the two men stood up. Sherlock felt relieved at the knowledge that they would be leaving soon.

John's ears perked up when he heard the man grumble under his breath as he passed. It was too hoarse and too low for John to make out the words, but one look at Sherlock told him that his partner had heard it, too. Sherlock gave him a questioning look. John shrugged lightly.

Movement behind the man at the other side of the restaurant caught John’s attention. The soldier saw a woman standing at the right side of the long counter, ordering for herself and her daughter while the man gathered his order, and for John the tension in the room immediately spiked.

Sherlock saw a mild look of horrified concern on John's face and followed his gaze, turning in his seat.

They were Muslim. And by the way the woman spoke as she ordered her take out, she was an immigrant from the Middle East. From Pakistan, Sherlock deduced.

They watched the man stalk up to the counter, grab his bag, and snarl bitterly at the two girls,

"Fuckin' Pakis."

The woman looked over. Her head was covered by a hijab, but her face was not, and it portrayed her confusion and disbelief at what she heard.

“Excuse me?”

The bloke glared at her, taking her response as retaliation, “You ‘eard me. Go back to yer own country. Nobody wants you here.”

John was standing up from his seat before he could think of a better plan.

"Leave them alone." John ordered, glaring at the man as he turned to walk back toward his friend.

The man seemed a bit confused that someone was calling him out.

"You're really defending them?"

"Yeah, I am." John countered. He glanced at the mother and daughter, seeing a grateful look on the mother's face.

"You've got no idea what you're defending then, mate," the man retorted, "cause if you did you wouldn't be."

"I know exactly what I’m defending. I defended people like them for three years." John pointed toward the man's friend, "now take your food and get the hell out."

"Why don't you get the hell out?" He shot back. He then turned on the woman and shoved a finger in her face. "And take this Muslim terrorist cunt with-"

Suddenly the man was being pushed away and John was forcing himself between them. Sherlock rushed and joined his partner, keeping his eyes on the first man’s coworker still standing by the table. His deductions from earlier joined the newer deductions Sherlock was making now, and quietly he formulated the best method of disarming the pair.

"Touch them and I'll break your fucking arm." John growled.

The man laughed. "Sure you will."

Sherlock steeled his gaze at the aggressor. "I wouldn't test your luck if I were you."

"Oh you're gonna chime in too, huh?"

Sherlock ignored the poor attempt to intimidate him.

"Just go away!" The mother pleaded with the man. John reached an arm out to his side to protect her as the man stepped toward them.

The man took another step.

Intimidation. Not intent on actual harm. Egotistical.

"If you value your limbs, you should most likely stop.” Sherlock interrupted. Unsure of whether it was a threat or not, the confusion caused the man to pause just long enough for Sherlock to add, “I've watched him tackle a drug addict to the ground and choke them out." Sherlock added. "Besides, don't you have shelves to put up with that coworker of yours? Or are you still hiding your sexuality from your wife?"

The man finally dropped his failing facade of toughness and ferocity, his eyes going wide. His partner's eyes shot wide as well, and his face turned bright red.

"You could take your food and leave," Sherlock continued, standing straighter and looking directly into the man's eyes, reveling in the way it made him squirm uncomfortably, "or I could tell you about how your partner secretly fetishizes Asian men and that’s why he chose this restaurant. He lied. He’s never been here before, evident by his ignorance toward the menu while ordering earlier. No, he wanted to eat here so he could -"

They were both running out the door before Sherlock could further rip them to shreds. John glanced over at Sherlock's profile and had to fight down the strong urge to kiss him senseless.

A few blissfully quiet seconds passed, the patrons all listening and waiting to see if the two suspects returned, when the mother broke the silence.

"Thank you." She whispered gratefully. John and Sherlock turned to look at her and her daughter.

"Are you okay?" John asked.

He didn't realize he had slipped into Pashto until the woman stared at him in astonishment.

"You speak Pashto?" She replied in disbelief. John recognized the phrase from times he'd surprised civilians in Afghanistan with his limited knowledge of the language. There were certain phrases he knew just from exposure, and a few words he learned from the odd translator or two he met. He knew a bit more Dari compared to what he knew of Pashto, but they were somewhat similar.

He made a so-so gesture with his hand.

"Small."

The woman smiled.

"Impressive." She complimented. "My English… not very good.” She frowned.

John smiled back at her. "I think it's very good. Certainly better than my Pashto."

“Why, uh, know it?” She questioned, her arm around her daughter’s shoulders relaxing.

“I was a… uh…” John thought for a moment, translating into Pashto, “soldier,” then gestured to himself. Her eyes lit up.

“Oh,” she repeated the word for soldier.

“Doctor.” John added. It was certainly far more difficult to remember the fragmented pieces of the language now that he was so separated from it. “No more.”

The woman smiled. “Oh, you are… were… um… soldier doctor?” She tried. John chuckled.

“Yes. In Afghanistan.”

“Ohhh, I see.” She hummed. “You know Dari?”

Just then the Asian man at the counter called for an order and the woman looked over, thanking the server with a nod and taking the bag. He apologized to her for the customer’s actions, but it was clear he struggled with English just as much if not more than the Pakistani woman did. He was trying to tell the woman it was free, but she didn’t understand. John stepped in.

“Food.” He gestured to the bag in her hand, speaking in Dari. He stuttered as he tried to pronounce the next word correctly. “Free.”

“Ohhh,” She hummed, nodding politely at the smiling man behind the counter. “Thank you.” She looked back at John, bag in hand. “You speak Dari as well?”

“Oh, um,” John’s brows furrowed as he translated in his head before he spoke, “Small but better.”

The mother laughed and clapped, looking amazed. Her daughter looked up at her excitedly, mentioning something about a father and telling him something, and the mom seemed to vehemently agree.

The woman looked back at her protectors and thanked them profusely, saying in broken English, “My husband, waiting. Thank you. Very nice meeting you.”

“It was nice to meet you, too,” John replied sincerely, “Stay safe.”

They walked off excitedly, food in hand, and Sherlock and John looked at each other once the door closed.

“You didn’t tell me you knew another language.” Sherlock stated, his tone holding an interrogative air to it.

John blushed.

“Oh, um, I don’t- I mean- not really.” John replied sheepishly. “I just know a few phrases and words. Things I heard a lot while on patrol, that’s all.”

John blushed while Sherlock stared at him hungrily. His cheeks reddened further when Sherlock leaned closer and whispered in his ear, “I’m impressed, Captain.” The detective kissed his partner’s cheek and took his hand, walking them over to their table.

John remembered how Sherlock verbally assaulted the assailant into leaving and squeezed Sherlock’s hand.

“I’m impressed with you.” John admitted lowly, a small grin on his face. “How did you know all that about that bloke?”

“Simple eavesdropping and observation, truthfully. He has a pale stripe of skin on his ring finger, but no ring, so he’s either divorced or cheating. He muttered something when he passed us, probably a slur of some kind, but not loud enough for us to understand him. He’s self-conscious and projecting, as most individuals with that type of hate do. He didn’t react that way toward the Pakistani woman and child, however, meaning there was more emotional distance between him and them. He couldn’t relate to them, therefore felt no shame in vocalizing his hate.

The man’s acquaintance mentioned something about favoring this restaurant when they walked in, but as I mentioned before he’d never actually been to this restaurant previously. Spent too long looking at the menu, and the menu isn’t much different from other Chinese restaurants. So, he doesn’t have much experience with them. He didn’t want the other man to know. Why, you may ask? He didn’t want to draw attention. At least, not from him. He kept looking at the cashier while the cashier worked, looking him up and down, very obviously interested in him. The main assailant looked at his friend in a similar way. They were involved at one point, most likely, and he wanted more. His ring mark was too prominent to be from an old divorce, so he was cheating.”

John listened intensely, resting his head on his joined hands, elbows on the table. When Sherlock was done explaining his reasoning, John breathed out in awe, “Fascinating.”

Sherlock looked up from closing his food container and blushed. John smirked.

“Well, I believe I’m officially moved in, now.” John commented, changing the subject. Sherlock smiled.

“I believe so, Doctor Watson.”

“Want to head back home, or is there something else you want to do?”

Sherlock grinned wolfishly, standing up from his seat and leaning down to John’s ear.

“The only thing I want to do is you.”

John’s smirk faltered, arousal hitting him like a slap to the face.

“Then-” John coughed a little to clear his throat, “Then is there anything you need to do?” he rephrased.

Sherlock gave him a Look. John stiffened.

“Baker Street?”

“Baker Street.”

Chapter Text

It was supposed to rain during rehearsals again. John wasn’t surprised that Sherlock met him at the theatre, in fact he was grateful. He’d had a bit of a nightmare last night, he couldn’t remember about what exactly, but bad dreams always put him on edge for the rest of the day. Noises that didn’t usually bother him would on days like today. Conversations about certain topics would get under his skin, making him uncomfortable.

Admittedly, John found it harder and harder to act like he was in love with Sarah. He didn’t want to touch her. Every stage kiss left him feeling nauseated. If Sherlock’s face was anything to go by after those moments, John concluded, then the detective was just as nauseated by the sight as he was.

It was the end of rehearsal when Robert pulled Sarah and John aside.

“I need to talk to you right quick.” Robert said softly to them, ushering them to the side of the stage and away from their cast mates and the crew. John could tell something was wrong by the expression on Robert’s face.

“What is it?” John asked. Robert frowned.

“Has something happened?” Robert asked the two leads, looking between them. “Something between you two?”

John looked over at Sarah. Sarah looked at Robert, avoiding John’s gaze.

“Nothing, Robert.” She reassured. “Everything’s fine.”

Robert didn’t look convinced.

“Are you sure?”

John’s jaw clenched.

“We had a…” John paused. “An argument. After rehearsal a few days ago.”

Sarah glanced over at John’s profile. He could see her glare at him in his peripheral.

“About?” Robert focused his gaze on John, seeing that John was willing to talk.

“Personal matters.” Sarah interrupted. “Nothing you need to worry about.”

John sighed softly. Robert frowned.

“Well whatever the argument was about,” Robert said, “you two need to sort it out. It’s impacting your performance.”

“Yes sir.” John said simply, nodding.

“Remember, if you two can’t work together-”

“Then one of us has to quit.” John answered, still nodding. “I understand, sir. We’ll work it out.”

Robert smiled softly. He’d known since casting began that John and Sarah used to be an item. Both had reassured him that they could work professionally together, and they’d kept that promise until recently.

“Thank you.”

The director walked away, and John looked at his ex-girlfriend.

“Sarah-”

“I’ll leave.” She interrupted, storming down to her dressing room. “Robert likes you more anyway.”

John furrowed his brows in confusion, swiftly following after her.

“Sarah, wait.”

She opened the door to her dressing room, trying to close it on John, but John shoved his boot in the crack and kept the door open.

“Sarah.”

She glared pointedly at John and held the door on his foot.

“Why are you acting like this?”

“Like what?”

“Like… you’re mad at me for something but won’t tell me why.”

Sarah rolled her eyes. “I’m not mad at you. Now leave me alone.”

“Not until you tell me what’s going on.” John declared, shaking his head. “I promised Robert we’d work it out.”

“Yeah, you did.” Sarah spat. “I didn’t promise anything.”

“Oh for the love of-” John pushed the door open harshly and forced his way in, closing the door behind him and blocking it with his body. Now, Sarah was trapped in the room with him.

Sarah huffed indignantly and stormed over to her makeup bag, grabbing wet wipes.

“Could we at least attempt to act like adults?” John pleaded with his ex. “It’s not like you to be so…”

“And you know me so well, don’t you?” Sarah countered angrily. John’s face softened at the realization of where he’d heard that before.

“Are you still angry about me and Sherlock?”

Sarah rolled her eyes. “Angry? Please.”

John watched her face in the mirror as she wiped the stage makeup from off her cheek.

“Oh my god.” He breathed. “You’re jealous.”

Her eyes went wide.

“You’re jealous of him.”

Sarah pursed her lips and avoided John’s eyes in the mirror.

“I’m not jealous of your…” Sarah trailed off before swallowing around the lump in her throat.

“Boyfriend.” John finished for her. Pain at the confirmation that Sherlock was John’s boyfriend flickered across her face. “He’s my boyfriend, Sarah.”

“I’m not jealous of your boyfriend.” Sarah snarled, saying the title with disdain. “Okay?”

“Do you…” John started, pausing as he tried to find a better way to ask his question. “Do you still…?”

Sarah looked at John’s face in the mirror, and John gave her a pointed stare back, and she appeared horrified.

“Like you?” Sarah nearly shrieked. “God no. No no no.”

The relief that painted John’s features was unmistakable.

“I just…” Sarah sighed and lowered the makeup wipe, seeming resigned to something. The duo stood there for a moment, John watching Sarah battle something internally.

She glanced up sheepishly at John.

“I don’t understand… why you didn’t… love me, too, you know?”

John frowned.

“Sarah.”

“Was I not good enough?”

John sighed.

“You were.” He stepped closer. “We just didn’t work out. That’s all.”

Sarah’s lips tightened. John frowned and walked closer, standing in front of her.

“You are good enough, Sarah.” John reassured her. “I had a lot going on. Too much to deal with. And even if everything hadn’t happened with my mum and work… We make great coworkers, just not anything more than that. You know that, right?”

Sarah nodded.

“I do. I know that. I feel the same way. I guess… I just got angry when I heard you on the phone with…”

“Sherlock.” John supplied with a small smile. “My boyfriend’s name is Sherlock.”

Sarah offered a small smile back.

“I’m sorry.” She whispered. “I guess I got a little jealous and defensive.”

John smiled, happy to see they were working this out.

“And I’m sorry I yelled at you. I could tell it scared you.”

Sarah shook her head. “Don’t be sorry. I was acting like a bitch, I deserved it.”

John smirked softly.

“Alright, then I’m not sorry.”

Sarah grinned.

“Good.”

John held his hand out to Sarah.

“Are we okay, then?” Sarah’s grin softened and she nodded, shaking John’s hand.

“We’re okay.”

John left her with a pleased smile, closing the door on his way out. He heard a low rumble outside the exit door. Rain must be coming or already here, he realized as he walked toward his own dressing room.

Walking in, he saw a familiar face.

“Well hello,” John purred happily, walking up to his favorite detective. Sherlock smiled and wrapped his arms low around John’s waist.

“Where were you?” Sherlock asked curiously. “And why do you smell like perfume?”

John squeezed Sherlock’s biceps and pressed a quick kiss to the taller man’s lips.

“Long story. I’ll tell it while I’m getting cleaned up.”

Sherlock held John closer and John laughed a little.

“I like your fringe.” Sherlock commented, brushing a few fingers through the black streak. John smirked.

“Enjoy the black while it lasts, darling. It’ll be down the drain in a few minutes.”

“Goodbye little black streak.” Sherlock joked, making John laugh.

Sherlock kissed John’s forehead, but it felt a bit different then the times he’d kissed John’s forehead before. John remembered the stage makeup still on his face and reached around Sherlock to the countertop lining the wall, grabbing a box of wet wipes from one of the drawers.

John went to move away, but Sherlock held him close and whispered, “Let me.”

Sherlock turned them so John was sat on the counter and he stood between the doctor’s legs, gently wiping away the makeup on John’s face.

“Story time.” Sherlock reminded John, who was currently relaxing into Sherlock’s touch with his eyes closed.

“Oh, um.” John opened one of his eyes, looking at Sherlock. “Robert wanted Sarah and I to make up, so I had to go to her dressing room for a bit.”

Sherlock froze for a moment. John stared confusedly at him before he realized what that sounded like:

A lie to cover up cheating.

“Wow, that sounded better in my head. Uh, Robert said he could tell something was wrong,” John continued, hoping to ease Sherlock’s mind. “Sarah was acting all pissy, so I had to tell him for us that she and I had an argument after rehearsal last time. He told us to work it out or one of us had to leave the play.”

“What?” Sherlock breathed, astonished. John smiled to reassure him.

“It’s okay. He’s known about our failed relationship since the start. I told him about it because I felt like he needed to know, in case something like this happened. He told us right away that if we couldn’t be professionals, he’d have to cut one of us loose.”

Sherlock started to clean John’s face again, swallowing down some of his fear.

“And how did the talk with Sarah go?”

John closed his eyes and Sherlock cleaned the lids.

“She didn’t want to work it out, not at first, but I followed her to her room and forced her to talk to me. We’ve worked it out. At least, we worked it out enough to where we can work the rest of the shows together. I’m still a bit miffed to be honest.”

“I don’t blame you.” Sherlock murmured. He leaned forward and kissed John’s lips before making a face and pulling away. “Eeugh, cleaner.”

John snickered and his eyes lowered, half-lidded and flirty.

“Don’t worry, baby, I’ll taste good soon. I’ll taste like you.”

Sherlock blushed. John grinned.

“You really like compliments, huh?” John teased his lover. Sherlock’s face flushed a darker color and he swatted at John halfheartedly with the wipe.

“Shut up.”

Sherlock stepped away so John could undress and rinse the black spray-on hair dye from his hair, and John was still grinning when he ducked his head under the faucet. He idly wondered just how much Sherlock enjoyed compliments.

Chapter Text

The rain that had started at the end of rehearsal followed John all the way home. Dealing with Sarah put him more on edge than he initially realized. One minute he was standing outside the flat with Sherlock…

The next he was standing in the middle of a field, soaked to the bone.

No. Not a field?

His mind slowly recognized where he was. It was a park. He could see the perfectly manicured sidewalk several meters away, light posts illuminating the concrete. A few trees and bushes decorated the beautifully manicured grass.

A darkened figure was running toward him.

John’s heart jumped to his throat. He was ready to turn tail and run the opposite direction when he was met face-first with a thick cold coat.

“John?” Sherlock said worriedly, arms wrapping around the soldier’s shoulders. At hearing his boyfriend’s voice, John relaxed into the arms surrounding him. He was shivering violently.

“What…?” John chattered, looking around slowly.

“You had an episode, mon cher.” Sherlock explained. “Let’s get you to the flat.”

“I don’t…” As quickly as the thought entered, the thought left. He couldn’t remember what he was going to say.

It didn’t matter, however. Sherlock was guiding John back toward the sidewalk, their shoes squelching in the grass, with an arm around John’s shoulders and a hand on the soldier’s bicep in case he tried to run again.

“I’ll explain when we get inside.” Sherlock promised. “How does tea sound?”

John leaned into Sherlock’s side, and the detective was grateful that he was tall. Otherwise John would’ve easily pushed him over.

“Are you still with me?”

The soldier made a noise. He acknowledged the question but didn’t give an answer. Struggling to stay grounded, Sherlock deduced.

“Can you feel my hand?” Sherlock asked over the rain, giving John’s arm a gentle squeeze. John nodded. “Good, that’s good.”

“Where…?”

“You’re in London. Regent’s Park.” Sherlock reminded John. The soldier was shaking uncontrollably, so much so he was having trouble walking. Limping.

“I’m going to pick you up. Is that okay?”

John shook his head vehemently. Sherlock frowned.

“You’re limping, John.”

John took a deep breath in. “Don’t carry me.” The soldier clenched his jaw and leaned into Sherlock, gripping his coat.

“Use me as a crutch then. Is that okay?”

John nodded. Sherlock noticed he was holding his left arm close to his stomach.

“The fight is over, Captain. You’re home. You’re in London.” Sherlock said lowly to John, feeling his lover relax a little at the reminder.

The walk back to the flat was slow and a bit agonizing, but by the time they reached the front door John could walk a bit better. The stepped inside the foyer and Sherlock closed – and locked – the door before helping John pull his drenched coat off. This way, if John went running again, the door would either stop him or confuse him long enough that Sherlock could catch up before he got outside.

Their teeth chittering from the cold rain filled the small foyer.

“What happened?” John questioned, watching Sherlock unlace the soldier’s boots for him before doing the same for himself. John slipped out of them, his socked feet squishing on the hardwood floor.

“There was some thunder and you began dissociating, but then something spooked you and you went bolting through Regent’s Park.” Sherlock answered, toeing off his own shoes.

“Oh.” John frowned, watching Sherlock remove both of their pairs of socks. “I’m sorry.”

Sherlock kissed John’s wet forehead. “Don’t be ridiculous. Now come.”

The detective took his partner’s hand and helped him walk up the stairs, being careful not to slip and fall. The fact that John hadn’t made a flirty comment about what Sherlock said worried him.

They stepped into their flat and shed their wet clothes in the bathroom, drying off with a couple towels, before changing into warm night clothes. Sherlock guided the still-shaking soldier to the living room and sat him down in the armchair by the fireplace, pulling a blanket over him and tucking it protectively around him.

As he prepared and lit the fireplace, he asked John, “How are you feeling, now?”

John didn’t answer. Sherlock turned and saw him staring at the fireplace blankly.

“John?”

He still didn’t answer. Sherlock’s lips tightened into a line and he cursed mentally. The detective walked over to John and gently rested a hand on the armchair’s arm.

“Captain?”

John blinked and breathed a bit deeper. His brows furrowed.

“It’s just a flashback, Captain Watson.” Sherlock reassured, glancing around before pulling his desk chair over. He needed to get another armchair for the flat. “It will be over soon.”

John’s eyes started to tear up. Sherlock’s frown deepened.

“I’m going to hold your hand, okay, mon cher?” Sherlock warned before pulling the blanket back and reaching for John’s left hand, which was wrapped around the soldier’s abdomen.

Sherlock held the trembling hand gingerly, rubbing his thumb over the back of it.

“Can you feel that?” Sherlock whispered in the quiet flat, accompanied only by John’s shallow breathing and the crackling of the growing fire. John nodded his head just barely. “That’s proof you survived, John. You’re alive. You’re with me.”

John blinked several times, sniffling, but Sherlock didn’t let the soldier’s hand go.

“What do you see, mon cher?”

After a few moments, John whispered, “Murray.”

Sherlock squeezed John’s hand. Visual hallucination.

“And what do you hear?”

John turned his head slowly, as if he was trying to lean away from something or someone.

“A fire.”

Sherlock smiled. No auditory hallucination.

“That’s right. I lit a fire in the fireplace. We’re in our flat, John.”

John blinked slower, murmuring, “I’m tired.”

“I’m sure you are. We just got back from rehearsal.” Sherlock squeezed John’s hand again. “Tell me when you feel my hand squeeze yours, okay, John?”

John tried to nod, eyes staring blankly at Sherlock’s chest, now. Sherlock squeezed and held the squeeze until John murmured a few seconds later, “Now.”

“Very good, mon cher. Let’s do it again. Tell me when you feel my hand squeeze yours.”

Sherlock squeezed and John replied quicker this time. “Now.”

Sherlock smiled. “Brilliant. You’re doing brilliantly.”

John looked down at their joined hands and smiled softly.

“I love you.” He whispered. Sherlock’s smile wavered with the strong emotion that filled his chest. Even when the soldier was only half-aware, dangling between reality and psychosis, he still told Sherlock he loved him.

“I love you, too, John.” Sherlock whispered back. “Do you know where you are?”

“Home.” John replied, sounding more coherent. “I had an episode.”

“Yes, you did.” Sherlock confirmed. “Do you know where in the flat we are?”

“By the fireplace.” John replied after a moment, glancing at the object in question. Sherlock smiled wider. John was starting to focus on things around him again.

“Yes, we are. What’s on your lap?”

“A blanket.”

“And what are you wearing?”

“A jumper.”

“And?”

“And bottoms.”

“What kind of bottoms?”

“Plaid ones.”

John wiped his eyes, taking in a slightly shaky breath.

“I think I’m back.”

Sherlock squeezed his hand one last time before he stood up and kissed John’s forehead. He was warming up nicely, sitting next to the fireplace. He arranged the blanket around John’s body again and brushed the somewhat damp fringe from John’s face.

“I’m going to make some tea. Will you be okay on your own?” John nodded and Sherlock kissed John chastely on the lips. “Want the television remote?”

“Please.”

Sherlock walked over to the couch and grabbed the remote for John, giving him another small kiss, and walked into the kitchen. He made quick work of John’s tea, figuring it would help ground the soldier in the present and therefore made it top priority. The detective was stirring the tea in John’s favorite mug when he heard a familiar show jingle start. He recognized it from last night, after John’s nightmare, when the soldier requested they stay up a little and watch television. He found the show choice odd, as it was just a comedy based in an office setting, but John explained it in a way that made sense:

"It's simple and I don't want to think. I want to laugh."

Sherlock brought the tea out to John, seeing the soldier staring at the television with interest. When Sherlock neared, John looked over and smiled at him.

“Thank you, love.” John said gratefully, resting a hand on Sherlock’s hip as the detective leaned down to give him a kiss.

“Anything for you, mon cher.”

Chapter Text

Sherlock woke with a groan. His body hurt, his head hurt, and he was covered in sweat but freezing. He felt around the bed for John and his hand brushed against hot skin.

“I’m here, baby.”

John’s voice was gravelly and stuffy.

Uh oh.

Sherlock opened his eyes, and his suspicion was confirmed. John’s face was pale and his nose was red. He was sitting up with his back against the headboard, an open book in his lap and a box of tissues next to him.

John reached over and brushed sweaty curls from Sherlock’s face. “Are you sick, too?”

Sherlock nodded and immediately regretted the movement. His head pounded. The detective closed his eyes and leaned into John’s side. The doctor felt Sherlock’s head for his temperature. The detective was hot and clammy, shivering under the blankets.

John frowned, remembering how long they spent in the rain. Because of him.

“I’m sorry.” John said guiltily. Sherlock wrapped his arm around John’s and buried his face into John’s side.

“You’re staying home?” The brunette asked hopefully. John hummed.

“I called in sick.” John leaned closer so he could kiss the top of Sherlock’s head. “We can suffer together.” Sherlock let out a tiny laugh.

“How did you sleep?” Sherlock asked hoarsely. John held Sherlock’s hand while the detective snuggled closer.

“Better than I expected.” John admitted. “Not great, mind you, but I don’t remember dreaming so I’ll take it.”

“Good.” Sherlock kissed John’s side. “You had a rough day yesterday.”

“I did.” John nuzzled Sherlock’s hair. “Thank you for taking care of me last night. I love you.”

Sherlock tilted his face upwards and kissed John softly. John pulled away after a moment, and Sherlock peeled his sweaty, sticky skin off of John’s. He groggily got out of bed with a groan and clambered on weak knees over to the bathroom.

When he was done, he went to the kitchen, having heard John get up and move there. John was standing there in nothing but pajama bottoms, a pair of blue ones. Sherlock noted hungrily how they hugged his hips, watching John pull a cutting board from the cupboard.

“I’ve got some ibuprofen and water for you right here,” John gestured toward the counter by the fridge. Sherlock hummed appreciatively and took the medicine, gulping the water down. It was ice cold. At least, it felt that way.

“I’m sticky and gross.” Sherlock complained. John smiled.

“Are you hinting you want a shower?”

John felt a face nuzzle the top of his head as he cut up celery. Sherlock hummed into John’s hair.

“Mhm.”

“Let me get soup started and we’ll take one. Unless you want to shower alone?”

Sherlock scoffed at the notion. John smirked.

“Forget soup.” Sherlock wrapped his arms low around John’s waist. “Shower.”

John rolled his eyes. “It won’t be a fun shower, love. It’ll feel too cold.”

“Then take a warm one with me.”

“And raise our temperature even more? No.”

“But John,” Sherlock whined.

“No, Sherlock.”

The detective pouted and buried his face in John’s neck. John ignored the sickly breath burning his shoulder as he poured the cut up celery into the pot on the stove.

“If you’re still interested after the boring shower, we’ll figure out something. But first, let me get things cut up and in the pot.”

Sherlock ignored John and rubbed his nose against the doctor’s neck, humming softly with closed eyes.

“I love you.”

Sherlock smiled against the doctor’s neck, murmuring back, “I love you, too. Hurry up.”

John laughed softly, starting on cutting up the onions. Sherlock started to sway on his feet, shifting back and forth, and John followed him with a grin. It was a bit harder to cut up the onions with Sherlock swaying them, but John managed.

"You know," the doctor started with a playful tone, "it's hard to hurry up when you're moving us."

"Mm, sounds like a personal problem."

Chapter Text

It wasn’t long until they were stepping into the shower, vegetable soup simmering on the stove.

“Jesus fucking Christ.” Sherlock cursed as he stepped under the water, nearly recoiling at the freezing cold sting it left on his burning skin. John didn’t let him step out or away from the stream, however, and after a few moments the water didn’t seem as cold. John joined him, grimacing as he stood rigid like a plank under the stream, Sherlock moving to the side for him to take his turn.

“I hate being sick.” Sherlock grumbled, grabbing John’s shampoo and pouring some into his palm.

“We shouldn’t be sick for long.” John reassured, relaxing as his body adjusted to the cool water. “Assuming we rest like we should, that is.”

Sherlock lathered the shampoo into the blonde strands of John’s hair. The army doctor closed his eyes and basked in the feeling of Sherlock’s fingers on his scalp. He was already starting to feel a bit better. Or maybe that was the oxytocin talking.

They took their time cleaning up, and Sherlock mentioned nothing about fooling around by the time they were getting out and drying off. In fact, he looked like he was ready to collapse on his feet.

“Off to the couch with you.” John patted Sherlock’s underwear covered arse. “I’ll change the sheets. They’re covered in sweat.”

“I should help you.” Sherlock murmured. John shook his head and started pushing the tired detective down the hall.

“You should rest.” John corrected.

“You should too.”

“I’m not as sick as you, baby.”

Sherlock grumbled as he begrudgingly let John guide him to the couch.

“Why not? You were far more drenched than I was.”

“I’m healthier than you.” John teased, though it was mostly true. Sometimes John had to fight to remind Sherlock to eat more than a bag of crisps once a day.

John pushed on Sherlock’s shoulders until he was sitting on the couch cushion, and then nudged him until he was lying down. The doctor pulled a blanket over Sherlock’s almost naked body and kissed his pale forehead.

“You took care of me yesterday. Let me take care of you.”

Sherlock watched him walk off, his frown fading.

“Lock, did those meanie’s hit you again at school? I’ll find you a bandage.”

“It’s alright, Victor, don’t worry about me.”

“You helped me with my physical therapy yesterday. The least I can do is help you with a small cut.”

Sherlock closed his eyes, exhaustion pulling him back under the waves of sleep as he listened to John walk about the flat.

The blonde was checking on the soup half an hour later when he heard Sherlock mumbling to himself. His eyebrows furrowed and he turned the stove off before quietly walking over to where Sherlock slept on the couch.

The detective was murmuring in his sleep. Likely a product of his fever, John decided. The doctor sat down on the edge of the couch, next to his lover’s long lanky legs. Sherlock didn’t stir.

Curious, John listened closely, wondering what Sherlock was dreaming about. He caught a name he hadn’t heard before.

“Breathe deep, Victor…”

John rested his hand on Sherlock’s side.

“You’ve got to cough it up…” A moment later, Sherlock’s face scrunched up in disgust. “Gross.”

His lover smiled softly, adoring the cute way his nose scrunched up.

“… Do you want to read?” Sherlock paused for a long moment. “… I can read to you, Victor. ‘s okay…”

John wondered what Sherlock was dreaming about. He’d never mentioned a Victor before, and he had always given John the implication that he didn’t have many friends growing up. Or at all, really. In fact, the only friend of Sherlock’s that John had met was Lestrade, and the doctor was tentative to call Lestrade Sherlock’s friend just yet. He was more accurately a coworker.

Sherlock began to mumble incoherently again, but John could pick out a few words here and there:

“… nervous system… sensory perception… product of sensation…”

John’s eyes widened slightly when he remembered something Sherlock said.

“I… had a friend. A childhood friend. He found abnormal psychology fascinating.”

John frowned.

“On days when he was feeling ill, we would sit in my family’s library… Mother even bought him a couple books about sensation and perception.”

John stroked his thumb over Sherlock’s blanketed side.

“Admittedly, I also… struggled… after he passed.”

The doctor’s lips tightened into a line, and he stared at Sherlock’s closed eyes. The detective smirked softly.

“Are you asleep…?” Sherlock whispered to his old friend, and John’s heart broke for him. He couldn’t imagine losing a close friend to illness like Sherlock did. It was hard enough to lose his mum.

The doctor thought over what Sherlock said at the beginning of his dream. It sounded like a lung infection of some sort. The routine nature Sherlock’s voice held suggested it was something that happened all the time to Victor. Without more detail, John couldn't accurately guess a disease or disorder, but whatever it had been must have been respiratory, chronic, and fatal.

John leaned over and kissed Sherlock’s forehead, whispering softly, “Sherlock, love, wake up.” The heat he felt against his lips from the kiss worried him slightly.

Sherlock didn’t wake up, so John rubbed his side and brushed loose curls from Sherlock’s face, whispering to him. When he started to stir, John smiled.

“’Ello, love.” John murmured lovingly. “Soup’s ready.”

Sherlock yawned and stretched, and John pressed his lips to his lover’s for a blissful moment.

As he left Sherlock to wake up, John wished he could’ve met the friend that brought Sherlock so much joy.

Chapter Text

After some food and a day spent relaxing and sleeping off their sickness, Sherlock woke up feeling much better. The new bed sheets felt and smelled wonderful, he didn't feel hot or drenched in sweat, and light gently poured in over the carpeted floor. Sherlock stretched lazily and hummed.

At feeling his lover move, John stirred. Sherlock rolled over and burrowed his face into John's bare neck. The doctor's skin felt pleasantly warm, nothing like the sickly furnace he had been yesterday. Sherlock sighed happily and nuzzled the crook of soft skin. Shivers went down his spine at feeling John's stubble scratching his cheek. He hadn't shaved yesterday and the resulting stubble was definitely showing this morning. The strands were an auburn brown color, markedly different from the greying blonde strands on his scalp.

"Good morning to you, too." John teased as Sherlock nuzzled his neck and curled into him like a tired cat, wrapping an arm around Sherlock's shoulders and pulling him flush against his side."You are adorable, you know that?" Sherlock practically purred as he snuggled into the handsome blonde army doctor he was lucky enough to call his own.

"You're not sick." Sherlock ignored John's remark, pressing a kiss to John's cheek. John smiled and turned his head, meeting Sherlock's lips with his own.

"Neither are you." John deduced in response, smirking against his boyfriend's mouth. Sherlock cupped John's cheek and licked along John's smirking lips, pleased when John's breathing faltered and his lips parted. Sherlock dipped his tongue past John's lips and groaned in relief at the taste of him.

It was a few minutes later when they pulled away to breathe when Sherlock finally thought to ask, "Work?"

John grinned and rolled them, gently pushing Sherlock onto his back. He ducked his head down to mouth and lick at Sherlock's neck, enjoying the soft sounds Sherlock made in response.

"No shift today." John breathed between kisses. "I'm all yours, darling."

Sherlock buried a hand in John's hair, shivering at the way John's stubble grated his pulse point. He moaned when John sucked a lovebite on the spot.

"Hungry?" John asked jokingly, tongue lapping at the bruise he left behind.

"Starving." Sherlock breathed harshly, gripping John's hair and pulling slightly so he could clash his mouth against John's. John growled lowly at the gorgeous sting on his scalp, biting Sherlock's bottom lip. Sherlock palmed John's semi-interested length, grinning when the blonde gasped.

John rolled his hips into Sherlock's hand.

"Are you trying to tell me something?" John remarked with a cheeky grin.

"Tell you something?" Sherlock replied in his baritone voice. "No. Demand something? Yes."

"Oh, we're demanding now, are we?" John teased. Sherlock squeezed John through his boxers and John shivered. "I'll take that as a yes."

"You better," Sherlock threatened lowly, pushing on John's chest. John raised an eyebrow and Sherlock sat up, leaning over to the bedside table.

"I've never been with someone who demanded to suck me off before." John mused, watching the tilt of Sherlock's shoulders as he searched for something.

"Complaining?"

"About your gorgeous mouth on me? Never."

John watched a shiver run down Sherlock's spine and grinned wolfishly. Oh yeah, he'd definitely have to see how much Sherlock "liked" compliments.

Seeing something that sparked his interest, Sherlock grabbed the device and pulled it out from the drawer, showing it to John. It was the vibrating plug they'd bought together. "I want to use this, too, though."

John's eyes softened at the conflicted look on Sherlock's face. He looked almost sad.

"We can do both, baby, don't worry." John told his partner, reaching out for the toy in his hand. "Grab the lube."

Sherlock barely heard John's command. He hadn't even considered doing both of those activities at the same time. The idea planted dirty images in his head. He fought them off as he grabbed the lubricant from the same drawer.

"Do you want to...?" Sherlock offered, handing the lube to John. John raised an eyebrow, but when Sherlock nodded toward the device in his hand the realization came to him.

"Oh, no." John pushed himself toward the headboard, putting his back against it. "I've not bottomed enough to use it safely." The blonde patted his thigh, smiling at his boyfriend. "Besides, we got it for you."

Sherlock smiled and straddled John's lap, melting onto it when John started to kiss him like they had all the time in the world. The brunette was so lost in the kiss the world could've burned down around him and he didn't think he'd notice. John's beard scratching against his face... It was ticklish but arousing at the same time. It was an odd sensation.

John pulled away for a moment to breathe and open the lube bottle.

"God, you're getting really good at kissing." John admitted, breathing a bit heavily. Sherlock smirked.

"I can't wait till I'm really good at... other things." Sherlock traced a finger down John's bare chest, following the path down to the bottom of his sternum.

"What do you mean?" John closed the bottle and set it aside. He wrapped an arm around Sherlock's waist to reach behind him. "You already are. You're brilliant."

Sherlock blushed and cupped John's face in his hands, pressing their lips together. John's teeth at his lips and his tongue in Sherlock's mouth distracted Sherlock from the fingers pressing and rubbing against his entrance.

John pushed a finger in and Sherlock's lips parted, hands still cupping John's face. The blonde felt hot air being panted into his mouth and opened his eyes, watching Sherlock's closed ones in half-lidded awe.

"Christ, baby." John breathed. "I've half a mind to say fuck the toy and take you all for myself."

Sherlock whined at John's words.

"I'm-" Sherlock gasped when John pressed his finger all the way inside. "I'm all yours, already."

The brunette felt John tremble as he leaned down and kissed him again, mouthing at thin lips.

"Say-" John mumbled between kisses, "that again."

John pulled his finger out and thrusted it back in. Sherlock rocked his hips backwards into John's hand.

"I'm all yours."

John groaned and held the back of Sherlock's head, searching for Sherlock's tongue with his own. The detective moaned on John's lap, shaking his hips as John worked a second finger inside.

"Just a little bit longer," John promised. "You've been so good. So good for me, baby."

Sherlock shuddered and John smirked knowingly.

"Such a good boy. My good boy." John purred, licking and sucking on Sherlock's clavicle. "My brilliant, gorgeous man."

"John." Sherlock breathed desperately, rolling his hips into John's fingers.

"I love seeing you like this. You look so fucking good."

Sherlock moaned.

"Goddamn you make it look easy. Taking two fingers like they're nothing. I've never seen someone who can just take it like you can."

Sherlock snaked a hand along John's jaw to his hair, another hand gripping onto his shoulder.

"One day I want to see just how rough you can take it. How rough you can take me. I want you to think of me every time you try to sit down."

"John," Sherlock whimpered, "John please."

"You like dirty talk, don't you? Love to get praised?"

Sherlock nodded sharply. John slowed his fingers, holding Sherlock's body close to his to stop him from rocking back into them.

"So good, darling. You ready for the toy?"

Sherlock distractedly rubbed his hands over John's chest.

"Please." He whispered, big eyes looking at John pleadingly. John smiled.

"God I love when you beg."

Sherlock's pupils flared into huge pools of black and John grinned, shoving Sherlock off his lap and onto his back. Sherlock stared up at John with wide eyes, still struggling to process the heat that coiled around his spine when John said those words.

John grabbed the toy and opened the bottle of lube, hurriedly spreading the liquid over the silicone and discarding the bottle to the edge of the bed.

The brunette pulled his legs to his chest, watching his boyfriend's every movement. His heart was racing in his chest with anticipation, eyes shining with excitement. John gave Sherlock a lopsided smile and kissed one of the taller man's calves.

"Here we go, baby." John purred, lining the tip of the toy up with Sherlock's entrance. "It might feel a bit cold, but it'll warm up quick, I promise."

The blonde pressed the toy closer, easing it forward, until the muscle gave way and the toy slipped in with a smooth glide. Sherlock's brows were furrowed adorably, intrigue and confusion on his features. Then the toy bottomed out and those eyebrows rose, his mouth parting slightly.

"Is the remote in the drawer?" John asked, hand rubbing over the outside of Sherlock's thigh by his chest.

"I believe so." Sherlock mumbled. John shifted over to the bedside table and grabbed the remote from inside the drawer. "This feels... weird."

"Bad weird or good weird?"

"Weird weird."

John chuckled.

"Do you want the remote first, or do you want me to keep it?"

"You keep it." Sherlock squirmed a little, noting how the plug didn't give like John would when they were tangled up together. He did like how it rubbed against him, but it didn't have the same satisfaction that John rubbing against him did.

John thought Sherlock was uncomfortable and settled between Sherlock's legs again.

"I'm turning it on." John warned Sherlock before he pressed the power button on the remote, pushing the up button afterwards. Sherlock's eyes went wide.

"Whoamygod-" Sherlock breathed, looking down at his stomach. He could feel the toy shaking around his insides, but he couldn't see any external sign something was occurring. It was an interesting dichotomy. And it felt pretty good, too. Like a slow-burning, building arousal that left his muscles twitching and relaxed.

John smirked, watching his lover's curious eyes.

"Do you want me to surprise you, or would you prefer that I tell you when I'm adjusting it?"

Sherlock lowered his bent legs, planting his feet on the mattress. He curiously poked and pressed on his abdomen.

"I'm not sure." Sherlock hummed absently. John laid a hand over Sherlock's on the paler man's stomach and pressed harder, grinning knowingly when Sherlock's eyelashes fluttered and his mouth parted. John pressed the up arrow again and Sherlock's brows furrowed gorgeously. He could feel the vibrations through the muscle and against his hand.

"Is it a good kind of weird, now?" John joked. Sherlock let out a small moan, and John laughed, pulling his hand away. "Tell me if it's too much, okay darling?"

The vibrations increased again and Sherlock choked on a breath, head tilting back with a whine. With each increase in power, the scientific curiosity Sherlock held toward the experience was chased away by the animalistic urge to follow the high.

John pulled and pushed the end of the toy, watching a full-body shudder run through his partner.

"John." Sherlock groaned. "Give - ah - More, I need more. Please."

"You still want to practice?" John asked, his tone partially teasing and partially curious. And maybe partially hopeful, too. Sherlock opened his eyes and reached up to John's face, whimpering when the toy pressed hard into his sweet spot. John leaned over the detective and met Sherlock's mouth with his own.

"Please." Sherlock whispered into John's mouth, and John's skin felt electrified at the desperate, begging tone to Sherlock's voice.

"I have an idea." John admitted quickly. "Want to learn a new position?"

Sherlock's eyes ignited with interest and he nodded sharply.

"Lay back down." John ordered, pressing a hand into Sherlock's shoulder. "Legs flat." Sherlock complied readily, eyes never leaving John's face as the experienced blonde moved to kneel on the bed by Sherlock's side.

Well, until John swung a leg over and straddled Sherlock's chest, facing away from him. He grabbed the lubricant and opened it, pulling the toy almost out before he applied a bit extra to the toy and slipped it back in. John left it open as he set it off to the side and grabbed the remote.

"If you need to, just copy what I do, okay? And you can use that on me if you want," John explained gesturing to the lube, "you don't need to ask me. I won't be able to answer, anyways."

John looked over his shoulder at Sherlock and grinned wickedly, as if he made a witty joke, but Sherlock didn't get it. Sherlock's eyes went wide when John bent forward above him, presenting himself, before he scooted his hips over Sherlock's face.

Then the soldier's face leaned down to Sherlock's erection and mouthed at it, and the concept became crystal clear to Sherlock. Sherlock turned his head to look up, feeling John's hard length smack him on the cheek. The detective could feel John's breath on his cock when the blonde snorted. Sherlock bristled slightly before he closed his eyes and wrapped a hand around John. He guided the tip to his mouth and sank down - up? - in one smooth movement, pleased when he didn't feel John grinning against his skin anymore. Instead, he felt and heard John moan and wrap his thin lips around Sherlock's tip.

The vibrations increased and Sherlock groaned as he pulled back, swirling his tongue around John's cock. He couldn't stop his hips from twitching into John's mouth, the toy inside him massaging his prostate. Then the toy started thrusting into him and Sherlock keened, his back arching. It was both too much and not enough.

Sherlock held onto John's length and pulled his face away, breathing hard. "John, fuck."

John swallowed Sherlock down and hummed, gripping the detective at the base with one hand and pining Sherlock's hips down with the other. As he pulled back, he pressed the up button on the remote again and stroked Sherlock for a moment, trying to catch his breath, when-

"Ah-!" Sherlock came suddenly, hitting John's cheek, and the blonde recoiled in surprise before he laughed. He jerked Sherlock through it, ducking his head down to look beneath himself and up Sherlock's body. Sherlock looked surprised as John did, but he was busy clutching at the duvet and staring around John's arse to the ceiling. John grinned.

"You got me." John remarked with a giggle after a few seconds, patting Sherlock's thigh to get his attention, and Sherlock glanced down to look at John and his eyes went wide. Then he laughed.

"Sorry." The brunette sheepishly replied. John turned the toy off before clambering with a grunt off Sherlock.

"Don't be." John reassured, grabbing a tissue from the tissue box on the bedside table. He wiped his face clean before he leaned over to Sherlock and kissed him, grinning, "It was hot."

Sherlock grinned back at John and wrapped a hand around John's hip, nudging him in a hint to come closer. John did, sitting back on his heels when Sherlock wrapped a hand around his cock and twisted his torso, bringing his mouth down to it.

"I like to see your face when I practice, anyways." Sherlock breathed hotly across John before licking up the underside, staring up at John from underneath long eyelashes. John cursed and buried a hand in Sherlock's curls.

"I like to see your face, too." John panted, groaning when Sherlock grazed him with his teeth. "Fuck, Sherlock. When'd ya learn that?"

"Just now." He teased, flicking his tongue over the tip. John grinned down at him.

"Show off."

Sherlock arched a bemused brow, and John let out a long moan as Sherlock wrapped those perfect lips around him and sank down as if he'd done it a hundred times before. John couldn't stop his hand from gripping Sherlock's curls and pushing, eyelids fluttering at the wet heat of that curious tongue mapping him out.

It wasn't long until Sherlock was bobbing his head in earnest and John was coming down his throat, shuddering as if he was attached to an electric current. When he finally relaxed, Sherlock stopped sucking on him and pulled away. Those perfect lips were bright red and swollen, just begging to be kissed, and John was much more than just happy to oblige. He leaned down and held Sherlock's face in his hands, kissing him with slow presses of lips.

"Let's clean you up, baby." John whispered when they pulled away, moving on shaky legs to clean his lover of his spend, as well as remove the toy and clean it at least minimally. He tossed it on some dirty clothes and happily rejoined Sherlock in bed, wrapping his arms around him. "So, not a fan of that position?"

Sherlock shook his head, leaning it against John's good shoulder. He trailed a finger over John's sternum. "I prefer to see you." He said shyly. "Sorry." John's smile softened into something adoring and kind.

"You don't need to apologize, love." John kissed Sherlock's forehead. "We're going to find things you don't like, and that's okay."

Sherlock snuggled into John's side and continued tracing absentminded patterns over John's skin.

"What about you? Do you like it?"

John yawned, "Not really, no." He tightened his arm around Sherlock's back, resting his hand on Sherlock's side. "For the same reason. And I like to talk dirty."

"Is that what you were doing?" Sherlock asked. Had it been someone else, John would've thought he was being teased or insulted, but the curiosity from Sherlock and the genuine sincerity in his tone told him the detective truly didn't know.

"When I was preparing you? Yes." John closed his eyes, already prepared for another nap. "Well, kind of. I think you've got a bit of a praise kink, and I wanted to test it for myself."

"Oh?" John hummed. "And?"

"Oh, you do. You definitely do." John opened a single eye, grinning at Sherlock, and Sherlock rolled his eyes and smacked John's chest.

"Shut up."

"If it means we're taking a nap? Gladly."

"You're a prick."

"And you're an arse. No wonder we work so well together."

Sherlock burst out laughing and John chuckled with him.

Chapter Text

It was about a week later when John got the request. He’d forgotten all about the holiday, somehow. Well, he knew how. It was precisely why he kept himself so busy with work, theatre, and Sherlock: to forget the horrors of the past and their reminders. But even then, with all the distractions, he rarely truly lost track of time like this.

John was stepping into the foyer with Sherlock when his phone rang. Figuring it was one of his cast mates or the director, having just left the theatre, John answered it without looking.

“John Watson.”

“Hey, mate.”

John’s brows furrowed, and Sherlock watched the blonde’s confused expression as he hung up the soldier’s coat for him. John pulled the phone away from his ear, looked at the caller ID, and pressed the phone back to his face. He was beaming, now.

“Hey!” John exclaimed, eyes shining brightly. Sherlock had never seen John looked so elated before. “How are you?”

“I’m doing alright. Back in London, now.”

“So you’re off deployment?” John asked. The mention of deployment and John’s excitement told Sherlock exactly who must have called.

“Yeah, I am.” John’s friend sounded happy. Sherlock could hear the voice projecting clearly from the phone, even though it wasn’t on speaker.

“Good.” John smiled. “So you’re calling me wanting to get a pint, yeah?”

“I mean we could do that.” The male voice joked. “Not tonight, though. I was thinking on the eleventh.”

“The eleventh?” John questioned curiously. Then it occurred to him. “Oh. Yeah, the eleventh. That’s fine with me.”

“Uh, okay.” He paused. “Are you, you know, okay? Usually you don’t forget…”

John smiled stiffly. “Yeah, I’m fine. I’ve just been busy.” Sherlock offered a sympathetic smile and kissed John’s cheek. “I work at Bart’s A&E now.”

“Oh, really?” The man remarked with intrigue.

“Plus there’s been other stuff going on. Personal stuff.” John nudged Sherlock with his hip playfully and Sherlock smirked.

“Good stuff?”

“Oh yeah.” John smirked at his boyfriend. “Great stuff, in fact.”

“Well I can’t wait to hear about it, Watson.” There was a noise on the other end of the line and the man cursed. “Speaking of changes, I got to go take care of something.”

A feminine voice distantly chided in a warm tone, “That something is named Charles, Bill.”

“Charles?” John pondered aloud.

“Long story. One I’ll tell over a cold one. Meet at the usual spot about noon?”

John thought about it for a brief moment. “Yeah, that sounds good to me.”

“Good. See ya soon, Watson.”

“See ya, Murray.”

John hung up, still smiling, and Sherlock smiled with him.

“So your friend is back from Afghanistan.” Sherlock deduced. “Permanently, it would seem.”

John’s smile faded with confusion, “What do you mean?”

“His tone. When you asked if he was off deployment, he sounded relieved, like a large amount of emotional pressure was lifted. If he was due to go back, he wouldn’t have sounded as relieved. Relieved, yes, but not as much as he did.”

John glanced down at his phone before absent-mindedly pocketing it.

“He did sound pretty happy.” John admitted, smiling lopsidedly.

“And Charles is his son.”

John’s eyes went wide.

“The noise sounded like a baby’s cry. The woman that spoke, mentioning Charles by name, was his wife. He’s married and has a son.”

“Well, I knew he was married.” John breathed. “I was his best man.” Sherlock pictured John in a tuxedo, perfectly groomed and grinning with a warm sparkle in his eyes, and his heart ached for it. “I had no idea his wife got pregnant, though.”

“It was a recent development, from what I could tell.” Sherlock reassured. “Your friend still isn’t used to it. He wants to surprise you with the information on the eleventh.”

“Well, won’t be much of a surprise, now.” John mumbled. Sherlock rolled his eyes. The blonde patted the taller man’s lower back and started for the stairs, saying, “Come on, I’m starving.”

“I’m right here.”

John turned on the stairs and grinned at Sherlock. “Is Sherlock Holmes flirting with me?” Sherlock approached him, narrowing his eyes as if he was angry, but his struggle to suppress his smile betrayed his amusement. “Be still my beating heart!”

“I’m about to still it for you.” Sherlock growled and John giggled.

“You still it all the time.” John flirted back, wrapping a hand around Sherlock’s side and pulling him closer. With John on the step, he was just about eye level with his boyfriend, now. “Every time you walk into the room, in fact.”

Sherlock blushed and John kissed him softly.

“I love watching you get flustered.” John snickered. “Just a bit of flirting and you’re red as a rose.”

Sherlock glared at John. “And I love watching you stand on the steps to try to make yourself appear taller.”

John gaped at him, eyes going wide, and Sherlock smacked John’s arse before bolting up the stairs.

He heard John thunder, “YOU LITTLE-” and heavy footfalls followed him up the steps. Thanks to Sherlock’s long legs, damn those long legs, he got to the door when John had reached the middle landing. John watched him close the flat door as he was just a few steps away.

The soldier tried the door. It was locked.

“Who is it?” Sherlock called, trying to sound innocent but he was still giggling.

“Open this door.” John threatened, but Sherlock could hear the playfulness in his tone.

“Why should I?”

“I can think of several reasons.” John growled lowly. Sherlock grinned, pressing his back to the door and leaning against it.

“Like?”

“Like I’ll kick it in if you don’t.”

“Threatening me through a locked door, John? Doesn’t seem very effective.”

“I could go into detail about our sex life.”

“Mm, no you won’t. Evident by the fact you won’t even specify one sexual encounter in particular.”

John was quiet for a few seconds, and Sherlock was about to worry that he’d crossed a line when John’s voice, close to the door, said,

“Not everything about me is small, baby.”

Sherlock felt his cheeks heat. He didn’t understand the reference, but he knew that tone and that John was flirting with him.

John felt someone move behind the door and grinned knowingly, waiting as the door opened. The moment it did, he pushed his way in and slammed it closed.

He spun them and pinned his partner against the door with his body.

“Again, just a little bit of flirting,” John remarked with an evil grin, “and you’re putty in my hands.”

“It’s your tone.” Sherlock admitted. “I didn’t understand what you meant, I just knew that tone.”

John arched an eyebrow. “You didn’t get it? ‘Not everything about me is small?” Sherlock just stared at John blankly, wrapping arms around John’s shoulders. “It’s a dick joke, love.”

Sherlock thought for a moment before murmuring, “What’s the joke?”

“That I’ve got a huge dick.” John laughed, sounding a bit like he couldn’t believe Sherlock wasn’t understanding it. Sherlock frowned and John kissed him. “No, no sad faces. I’m not laughing at you, I’m laughing at… Well, people don’t usually explain dick jokes, so it’s kind of weird and funny to be explaining one now.”

“You have a huge dick?” Sherlock repeated questioningly. John was about to gape at him again when he realized he was being serious. That’s right, he’s never been with someone else, John remembered suddenly.

It was the soldier’s turn to blush.

“I, well, kind of.” John sheepishly answered. It reminded Sherlock of when they were checking out at the sex toy store.

“This is quite a bit bigger than what I’d recommend for a beginner.”

The cashier’s concern at the size of the toy they were purchasing came to mind as Sherlock watched John ramble on. He remembered John being just as flustered then, too. Especially when Sherlock flippantly remarked that John was much bigger.

“I’m definitely bigger than, um, average.” John was bright red. He licked his lip. “It’s why I spend longer prepping you. Well, longer than most people spend prepping their…  Because they’re not as… um… big.”

Sherlock watched John’s flushed face as he nervously avoided direct eye contact, looking at Sherlock’s cheek or away from his face entirely as he spoke. It was…

“You’re cute when you’re embarrassed.” Sherlock quoted, remembering when John had told him something similar many times before, and kissed the embarrassed man’s forehead. He took the soldier’s hand and led him to the kitchen. “Why don’t you come show me?”

John’s hands went to Sherlock’s sides and he yanked Sherlock backwards. Sherlock stumbled back into John’s chest and John took that time to snake his hands under Sherlock’s shirt to his bare ribs, tickling him.

“I’m cute when I’m embarrassed, hmm?” John growled under his breath, teeth barred in a grin. Sherlock giggled and squirmed against him.

“Dammit, John, I was trying to flirt!”

“I’m cute, hmm?!”

“You are! Like when – you stand on the – steps!” Sherlock added, nearly shrieking when John found just the right spot in his search to make Sherlock squirm. “Stop it!”

“That’s not what you said last night.” John shot back, leaning to Sherlock’s ear and pretending to moan, “Oh John, oh my god! Don’t stop!”

Sherlock flailed, hitting John’s arms and trying to push him away.

“I didn’t say that!” Sherlock protested in barely controlled laughter while John continued to tease him, laughing as he tried to speak.

“Oh John, fill me up- with your huge-” John couldn’t keep up the bit anymore, holding onto Sherlock as he burst into laughter, tears in his eyes. Sherlock was laughing just as hard, leaning back into his boyfriend with a hand over his lover’s arm that was around his stomach, holding him.

Once they came back down from their laughing fit, they wiped tears from their eyes. Neither could remember a time where they laughed so hard.

“You’re an idiot.” Sherlock kissed John’s blonde head.

“You’re dating me.” John countered.

“Yes, but you’re still an idiot.”

It was a while later when Sherlock remembered something that Murray had mentioned. They were eating dinner with the news on in the background, waiting for the weather report to start. Sherlock stood to take their plates to the kitchen, and John was about to object when Sherlock remarked, “Your leg is bothering you.”

John rolled his eyes and Sherlock walked off with their empty plates.

“Damn my leg.”

When Sherlock returned, he sat down with John, deciding to broach the topic.

“What’s on the eleventh?”

John stiffened. Sherlock studied him, watching as he licked his bottom lip in his usual nervous way. Uncertain, Sherlock deduced. Figuring that uncertainty was about whether he should answer Sherlock, the detective continued.

“Whatever it is, I know it holds personal significance to you. And to your friend. You have a tradition, meeting at a particular place at a particular time.”

John took in a deep breath. Preparing himself for something.

“It’s Remembrance Day.” John answered. Sherlock’s eyes softened. “Every year, if we’re off duty, we pay our respects. We have… well, we have a few friends buried here in London and we visit them.”

“I see.” Sherlock hummed, looking down at the couch thoughtfully. He never really celebrated Remembrance Day before, not that he celebrated most holidays.

His fingers stroked over the calloused skin of John’s palm. He was quiet for a long moment before tentatively asking, “Do you… want me to go with you?”

John thought silently. Sherlock waited, distracting himself by touching John’s hand.

“Not to the grave site.” John admitted softly. “That’s something… That’s something for just Murray and I.” Sherlock nodded, a little disappointed in not being included but ultimately understanding why. “Afterwards, though, if Murray and I get drinks or something, you’re welcome to join.”

“Are you sure?” John’s boyfriend whispered softly, as if he was afraid to question anything. John smiled, trying to reassure him.

“I’m sure. This year… it’ll be different.” John swallowed. “I didn’t… have all these… issues, before. Not to this degree, at least.”

Sherlock nodded, showing he understood, and leaned into John’s side.

“And you calm my mind better than anyone else can.” John added, kissing Sherlock’s curls. Sherlock nuzzled John’s shoulder.

“Ditto, mon cher. Ditto.”

Chapter Text

John smoothed out his uniform, looking himself over in the mirror. He’d requested today off months in advance, knowing that even if Murray was still overseas and John was left to drink a Bailey’s and dull his mind with tele, it would still be a particularly challenging day. Thankfully, Murray was back and could provide him a distraction.

The army doctor grabbed his beret from where he’d placed it on the bed and walked out, smoothing his hand through his fringe and brushing it back. If there was one thing John was proud of, it was his ability to clean up his appearance well. Freshly shaved, fresh haircut, crisp Royal Army uniform with shiny medals and polished shoes – he looked ready for a formal ceremony, not so much a trip to a cemetery. But he didn’t have many reasons to wear his uniform, now, nor many reasons to dress up in general, so why not?

As footsteps trailed down the hall, Sherlock glanced up from where he had been typing on his laptop in his armchair. John had spent far longer getting dressed than Sherlock expected him to, and he was curious as to what took him so long. Usually, John was ready in a matter of minutes. Half an hour later, however, and Sherlock was starting to get suspicious.

When John rounded the partition, the one separating the kitchen and the living room, Sherlock’s eyes went wide and his mouth parted in awe. John didn’t notice him staring; he was busy pulling his phone from his pocket to check the time.

The soldier could feel someone’s eyes burning a hole through him and looked over at where he’d left Sherlock to work on cold cases, finding the man practically drooling as he eyed the soldier up. John smirked.

“Like what you see, love?” John teased, putting his phone back in his pocket. At John talking directly to him, Sherlock found his eyes and closed his mouth. “Take a picture. It’ll last longer.”

John had meant it as a joke, but Sherlock thought it was a brilliant idea. He picked up his phone from the arm of his chair and held it up at John, snapping a series of pictures. A few captured John as he smiled and laughed. Sherlock noticed the beret in John’s hand and ordered, “Put the beret on.”

John grinned cheekily and did as Sherlock demanded, fighting off the blush that threatened to rise when Sherlock ordered him around. He smiled at the camera as Sherlock took another picture. He’d never had a partner take photos of him before, let alone photos just for the sake of having a picture of him. John tried not to think of it too much, feeling his cheeks heat.

“Satisfied?” John asked. Sherlock lowered the phone and smiled sweetly at the pictures he’d taken.

“For now.” Sherlock lamented. “I’ll be truly satisfied when I suck you off in that.”

John’s eyes went wide and he blushed bright red.

“Shame-” John tried to speak, but his voice came out hoarse. He cleared his throat and tried again, sounding less affected. Sherlock still smirked at him as he spoke. “Shame I’m running late.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and stood. “Please, John. Late for you is still five minutes early for everyone else.” The detective playfully chided, walking over. He kissed John chastely on the lips. “Off you go, mon cher. Plenty of time for that later. As much as I’d love to do it now, I certainly endeavor to take my time with you in that uniform.”

“God I hope so.” John mumbled, reaching up to curl a finger under Sherlock’s chin to bring him in for another kiss. “I love you.”

“I love you, too. I’ll have my volume up in case you call.”

“Okay. I’ll only call if it’s serious.” John kissed him again. “Enjoy your cold cases.”

“I’ll certainly try.” Sherlock hummed. “So far they’re simple. Dull. Ask Murray if he’s heard of any good murders.” John laughed.

“Maybe he is the murderer.”

“That would certainly be interesting.” Sherlock joked, pleased when John chuckled. “Now go. Before Murray kills you for being on time.”

John rolled his eyes and gave Sherlock one last kiss – it was incredibly difficult to stop himself from peppering Sherlock’s face with kisses, but the threat of being late made it possible – before he walked out the door and down the steps.

It was a couple hours later when Sherlock received a text. Figuring it was John, he picked up his phone and opened it.

On my way back. How does Dragon’s Gold Brewery sound?

Is that what they call foundries these days? Gold breweries? –SH

Or do they use gold to brew drinks? That doesn’t sound very appealing. –SH

Is the bartender a dragon? Now THAT would be appealing. –SH

They have wine.

John chuckled when Sherlock’s sarcastic replies abruptly ended.

You have my attention. –SH

You’ve been very bored while I’ve been gone, huh. It wasn’t a question.

Is it that obvious? –SH

Considering the rambling? Yes, it’s obvious.

I’ll be there in twenty. We’re meeting Murray at four.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and set his phone down. Plenty of time to finish this cold case.

By the time John opened the front door downstairs, Sherlock was setting his laptop off to the side, having finished emailing Lestrade his findings. He listened intently to how John ascended the stairs. Slight limp, Sherlock noted, slow pace. In pain?

Sherlock stood and stretched and John walked into the flat, burgundy beret in his hands again. John’s face seemed calm if not reserved.

“How was your visit?”

“It was fine.” John paused. “Well… Not ‘fine’ as in pleasant, but…”

“I know.” Sherlock reassured, walking over to greet John properly. John’s rigid posture relaxed in Sherlock’s arms when the detective kissed and hugged him. “Feeling dissociated?”

John shook his head. “Not yet. Just thoughtful.”

“Well, that is the cause for the holiday.” Sherlock cupped John’s smooth cheek. He had adored John’s stubble, but he adored John’s face shaved as well. Perhaps he just adored John’s face. “Pain?”

“What kind?” John joked darkly.

“Physical.” Sherlock elaborated. “You’re limping slightly.”

“I think it’s just the weather and the day.” John explained softly. “My shoulder started aching on the way there.”

“Want to take some medicine?”

“I’ll be drinking later.” John shook his head. “Best if I don’t mix the two.”

“Fair enough.” Sherlock pulled John to his chest and hugged him tightly. “I love you.”

John smiled against Sherlock’s silk shirt. “I love you, too.”

Chapter Text

“Watson!”

A booming voice exclaimed cheerfully, rolling like thunder across Dragon’s Gold Brewery. John found his hulking friend seated in a booth by a window and grinned, tugging Sherlock by the hand to follow him. Sherlock did, weaving with him through tables and patrons until he saw the beaming face of a giant.

Hazel eyes burned bright like the sun when he saw John, and Sherlock studied their interaction as the fellow Englishman stood to hug his mate hello. It was nearly laughable, the way the behemoth had to bend both his knees and his back to reach the far shorter man. Murray was several inches taller than Sherlock, likely about 6 foot 5. John came up to the man’s sternum.

“Christ, mate, I thought you dressed like an old man before.” The man with pale brown hair grinned and patted John’s shoulder. Sherlock was a bit confused at that. He thought John looked amazing. He was wearing a navy blue jumper and white collared shirt under his coat, some worn blue jeans that had turned a lighter shade from his use, and those brown leather shoes he rarely wore. To Sherlock, John looked adorably ordinary, and he loved it.

“Oh fuck off.” John huffed, rolling his eyes and waving his hand away. John gestured to Sherlock with a warm look in his eyes. “This is my boyfriend, by the way. Sherlock.”

“Boyfriend, eh?” Murray reached out a hand for Sherlock to shake. “Bill Murray, but Wat calls me Murray.” It was large and strong, calloused like John’s. The trio sat down as Murray continued, “So you finally decided to settle down, Watson?”

“I could say the same to you, you know.” John countered indignantly, but there was a smile tugging at his lips.

“I’ve been married for years, mate! You’re just now realizing I settled down?”

John smirked knowingly. He was about to speak when a waitress came up to the table.

“What would we like to order tonight, gentlemen?” Sherlock glanced over her briefly, deducing several things. Much of it was boring. Simple things like how her hair wasn’t naturally blonde and she was a gold digger. Dull.

She looked at John, and Sherlock bristled. She licked her lip. John hadn’t noticed. He was looking at a menu.

“A Bailey’s for me, thanks.” John murmured.

“And to eat, sir?”

“Steak and chips.”

“How well?”

“Medium well.”

“A great choice.” She smiled warmly, far too warmly for Sherlock’s taste, and looked to the detective next. She was markedly less enthusiastic about taking Sherlock’s order.

“Glass of house red.” Sherlock said. “With chips.”

The waitress nodded, writing down the order, then glanced at Sherlock with a polite smile before directing most of her speech to John.

“I’ll be right out with that.”

She walked off, and John noticed that Sherlock relaxed. Figuring he was just tense from the crowded pub atmosphere, which had fueled some of his terseness with their waitress, John squeezed his hand below the table, hoping to comfort his partner.

Murray sipped his drink – bourbon – before interjecting his thoughts.

“So, how has civie life been treating the infamous Captain Watson?”

John rolled his eyes again.

“Infamous suggests I was famous to begin with, idiot.” John countered. Murray didn’t contest, just listened. “It’s been…” The blonde army doctor struggled to find the right words. He didn’t want to lie, but he didn’t want to go into detail either.

“A difficult adjustment.” Sherlock answered for him, a slight questioning tilt to his voice. John met Sherlock’s eyes and smiled gratefully.

“Difficult?” Murray asked, sounding somewhat worried. “How bad is the aftermath, then?” He gestured with his drink to John’s shoulder. “Last I saw of you was when I carried you off the helipad to the base hospital.” John sighed.

“It healed remarkably.” John replied carefully. “I have a normal range of movement in the joint. Struggle to grasp small or thin objects, though. But I still have the arm, so I’ll take it.”

“Any fibro?”

“Nope. How I managed that I still don’t know.”

“You’re not using that cane, though.” Murray remarked. “Mike told me they sent you home with a cane.”

“Yeah, turns out it was psychosomatic. Well, mostly psychosomatic.” Murray’s eyes widened slightly. “You talked to Mike?” John asked, redirecting the line of questioning. Murray nodded.

“It was late last year. He emailed me, letting me know he ran into you and you had gotten shot.” Murray smirked lopsidedly. “Poor bastard didn’t know I already knew. I didn’t know about the cane, though.” The smirk faded. “Psychosomatic, huh?”

John’s lips tightened into a thin line. He licked them.

“Yep.” He replied shortly, nodding.

“How’d you fix that?” Murray looked genuinely intrigued, and admittedly Sherlock was as well. He’d never been told by John how the soldier managed to get rid of his limp.

“Theatre, actually.” John seemed a tad embarrassed. “My therapist suggested it.”

“Therapist?”

“Trauma therapist.”

Murray’s eyebrows rose. “Oh.”

John was almost relieved when the waitress came back, handing them their drinks. John smiled politely with a tense, short nod of appreciation as he took the drink. Sherlock noticed the woman try to touch John’s fingers in a phantom caress and glared over his wine glass.

“Just a bit longer for the food.” She reassured them, seeming a bit perturbed by Sherlock’s staring as she walked off. The detective watched her check on one of her other tables, leaning over suggestively to a salt-and-pepper haired man.

“How bad…?” Murray trailed off, but he couldn’t take back the question now. John softened, noticing how his friend was obviously concerned about him. He cares, John reminded himself, he’s a doctor. He’ll understand.

“I have PTSD.” John admitted softly. “She says it’s… Well, I can work, so I guess it’s not that bad. There are a lot of people that can’t, you know?”

“Don’t sell your symptoms short, John.” Sherlock interrupted, stroking his thumb over the back of John’s hand in his. “Keep in mind that one of your symptoms impacts your memory, too. You’re not likely to recall how often you dissociate.”

“Yeah, it’s not good to compare your shit to others.” Murray agreed, glancing at Sherlock. “So I guess I ought to ask you, huh?”

“I’ll only answer such questions if John wants me to.” Sherlock defended, leaning into his boyfriend’s side to kiss his cheek.

“Fair. If it’s any consolation,” Murray softly interjected, deciding not to ask at all, “I’m home for… similar things.”

It was John’s turn to raise his eyebrows and widen his eyes.

“You are?” He breathed. Murray pursed his lips and nodded shallowly.

“They’ve not determined if it’s PTSD yet, though.” Murray explained. “Just that I’m not fit to serve another tour.”

“Is it about…?” John stopped, wondering if he wanted to know the answer. Murray smiled sadly.

“You being shot?” He whispered. John looked pained as Murray confirmed, “Yes. It is.”

John sipped his drink thoughtfully, feeling Sherlock squeezing and rubbing his hand.

“It’s just been nightmares, so far.” Murray reassured. “Scared Riles a couple times when I’d space out or wake up startled and sweaty, but, I don’t, you know, have flashbacks or whatever. Hallucinations, sometimes, but not… I don’t forget where I am, you know? Just hear shit, see glimpses of things, that kind of stuff.”

John’s jaw tightened and Sherlock set his drink down to hold on to John’s bicep.

“It started after you woke up from that coma-” Sherlock’s eyes widened at what Murray said so nonchalantly, “and it kept getting worse until, I don’t know, March? It’s hard to keep track.”

“I’m… sorry.” John whispered, just barely audible. In fact, Sherlock suspected Murray only knew what John had said because he could read John’s lips. Murray’s brows furrowed.

“For what?” He laughed darkly. “For getting shot? That wasn’t your fault, mate, you know that. I sure as hell don’t blame you for it.” Murray sipped his drink, joking afterward, “What you should be sorry for was being so damn heavy. Nearly broke my back carrying your arse around.”

John’s lips twitched with a smile. Sherlock could tell by the way Murray watched John over his glass as he drank that he was lying. He was just trying to get John to laugh.

“All’s well that ends well, though!” Murray said excitedly. “I’m home for good, now. And just in time, too.”

“Oh?”

Murray smiled brightly. “Riles and I… we have a baby, now.”

John tried to act surprised, but the lingering guilt he felt made it difficult for the actor. Had it been a stranger, Sherlock posed, they wouldn’t have noticed. But obviously Murray knew John better than that.

His brows furrowed in confusion. “You don’t seem surprised.”

Before John could lie, Sherlock said, “I deduced it and told him.”

“What?”

“After the phone conversation you had with John, I deduced you were married and had a child named Charles. Recent addition, given the newborn crying in the background.”

“Oh.” Murray was silent for a moment. “You got all that from a phone call you weren’t even part of?”

Sherlock smirked arrogantly. John rolled his eyes a little.

“Don’t stroke his ego, mate.” John teased Sherlock, warning Murray. Sherlock’s smirk turned into an annoyed frown, eyebrows furrowed and eyes glaring at his partner. John looked over at Murray again.

“So, how old is he? The baby?”

“Charles?” Murray clarified. “He’s about a month old.”

“And the pregnancy went well?”

“Oh yeah, you know Riley. Sturdier than a redwood.”

“Good.” John smiled. “I’d love to meet the little lad. Been a while since I saw Riley, too.”

“I’ll invite her along next time.” Murray smiled back. “When Charles doesn’t need to be fed all the time, that is.”

The food finally arrived. The trio had nearly forgotten about it until the waitress walked over, setting two plates down on the table. She gave a warm smile, once again focusing on John.

“So sorry about the wait!” She apologized profusely. “The cook made the steak rare the first time, so I asked him to make another for you.”

“Oh, thank you.” John’s smile was polite, if not oblivious. He did notice the wink this time as the waitress gave him the utensils. His smile became a bit more forced.

Sherlock noted how the woman glanced at John’s right hand as he took the utensils from her, seeming pleased with what she found. Looked for a ring, Sherlock deduced.

Suddenly he remembered how she fretted over the greying man a few tables away. The man had been with a few mates, all male. He’d been wearing decent, if not fairly nice and new, clothing. But clearly she could tell John wasn’t that old, right?

The waitress walked off, and Sherlock watched her with a burning glare that could pierce steel. John saw the hatred in Sherlock’s eyes and kissed his cheek.

Gold digger

                                                                         Single

                                                                                                                Sugar Baby?

                                                               Upper middle class

Sugar Baby

-Looking for new Sugar Daddy

 “Don’t be jealous, darling.” He whispered. Sherlock relaxed a little. He hadn’t noticed Murray leaving for the loo.

“Next time she comes over here, I’m kissing you senseless.” John chuckled. “Ought to write ‘Property of Sherlock Holmes’ on your forehead.”

The soldier snorted, leaning into his lover’s side again. He leaned up to Sherlock’s ear and whispered hotly,

“There’s other ways you can mark me, darling.” John kissed Sherlock’s temple nonchalantly before pulling back, hiding his grin around his Bailey’s when he noticed the red on Sherlock’s cheeks.

“She believes you have money.” Sherlock pointedly avoided John’s comment, trying to cool his blood. “She’s also thinks you’re older than you are. Doesn’t realize that the grey is from stress, not age. Not very bright.”

John quirked a brow. “How do you know?”

“She flirts with all her male patrons with greying hair. Well, the conventionally attractive ones wearing expensive clothes, at least.”

“My clothes aren’t expensive.” John countered. Sherlock pointed at John’s watch with a lazy finger.

“Your watch looks expensive, however.”

John rolled his eyes.

“I’ve had the thing for years.”

“You take great care of it, making it look more expensive. Same for your shoes.” Sherlock swiped a thumb over the screen, cleaning it of a drop of water from John’s drink. “Like I said, she’s not very bright. She thinks you’re middle aged and single, and neither are true.”

John raised an eyebrow and teased, “And how do you know I’m not middle-aged?”

“The scrapbook.” Sherlock reminded him. “Your mother wrote dates and ages beside your pictures. You’re thirty-five. Just turned it this last July.”

John remembered finding Sherlock surrounded by boxes of his things, looking down at a scrapbook his mother had made, and smiled.

“When’s your birthday?” John asked, wrapping an arm around Sherlock’s back.

“January sixth.” Sherlock answered. “I’m twenty-five.” John’s eyebrows shot up.

“Really? I thought you were older.”

“Most people do. It’s my soothing baritone voice.”

John burst out laughing, leaning into Sherlock’s side, and Sherlock grinned proudly at the reaction he elicited.

“Sure it is.” the blonde replied, chuckling.

Chapter Text

“So, how long has this been going on?”

Murray gestured between the lovers with his drink. He’d switched to water an hour ago, hoping to sober up before he got home, but the most sobering act for him was watching Sherlock practically climb into John’s body when that waitress came by to check on them again. To say they had snogged would’ve been an understatement. Her eyes went wide and Murray was honestly surprised they didn’t get kicked out. Maybe she didn’t tell her supervisor because then she’d get in trouble, too.

She was flirting, and obviously, but John had never been great at recognizing when someone was flirting with him when he was in a relationship already. If it wasn’t his partner, he didn’t notice. It was kind of impressive, in Murray’s opinion. He was a bit envious.

The duo looked at each other and thought silently.

“I’ve lost track of time, to be honest.” John admitted sheepishly, an alcohol flush on his cheeks and nose. He’d had a couple Bailey’s by this point.

“Almost a month.” Sherlock recalled. “Three weeks and three days, to be exact.”

Murray’s eyes went wide.

“A month?” He repeated in disbelief. “You’re kidding.”

“No?” John tried, raising an eyebrow. “Why?”

“I would’ve guessed, like a year.” Murray almost exclaimed. John smiled lopsidedly.

“Really?”

“Yeah! You two act like you’ve been dating for ages.”

“It certainly feels that way.” Sherlock murmured and sipped his wine. John narrowed his eyes a little at Sherlock, looking quizzical. Like he wasn't sure if he should be angry or not. Sherlock thought over what he said and explained. “It feels like I’ve known you far longer.”

John softened again.

“I feel the same.” He kissed Sherlock’s cheek. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” Sherlock was grateful for the alcohol heating his cheeks. It hid the blush and the racing of his heart.

“How did you two meet?” Murray asked, intrigued. If he was shocked by John telling Sherlock he loved him, he didn’t show it.

“At the theatre.” John reminisced with a smile. “I had a flashback during rehearsal and he happened to be there, waiting for his own rehearsal to start. He helped me, we talked a bit, and I asked for his number.”

“That’s certainly one way to meet a new partner.” Murray joked lightheartedly.

“Not everyone meets their future spouse at a bar, mate.” John teased him back and Murray rolled his eyes.

“John said he used to be called Three Continents Watson.” Sherlock remarked. Murray grinned mischievously and John sighed.

“Don’t get him started.” John lamented, and Murray chuckled.

“I gave him the nickname, you know.” Murray told Sherlock, and Sherlock raised an interested eyebrow. “Germany, America, Afghanistan.” Murray listed off, lifting a finger for each one. He wiggled the last finger as he continued, “Before we got deployed to A, it was England.”

“Afghanistan, you say?” Sherlock looked over at John and John took a large swish of his Bailey’s, hoping to drown out the conversation.

“Oh yeah. I was walking past the officer’s quarters one night and I overheard John getting hot and heavy with-”

“Murray please.” John groaned, covering his face with a hand. His ears were turning pink and his cheeks felt like they were on fire. Murray ignored John’s plea.

“-a major a few weeks after we got there. Teased him ever since.”

“Murray, I’m going to kill you.” John threatened, but it came out more like a warning than a serious threat.

“A major, you say?” Sherlock hummed, glancing at John’s bright lobster red face hiding beneath his hand.

“No joke, a major.” Murray gossiped. “Don’t remember the bloke’s name, now. He got injured and sent home a couple months after we arrived. I don’t think anything came of it, the stress relievers. Well, not that Wat’s told me.”

“I’m literally right here you arseholes.” John grumbled, setting his drink down. “Ugh, I hate you both.” He buried his face in both hands, wishing he could sink into the floor.

“Stress relievers?” Sherlock mused curiously.

“Yeah, they got together a few times. Unless he was lying,” Murray paused for John to intervene, “it was a casual thing. Get back from patrol, bit of rough sex, then back to being mates.”

“It was just casual sex.” John grabbed his drink. “Why you’re bringing it up now, I don’t know.”

“Because I like to annoy you.” Murray answered honestly. “And you don’t react the same way when I bring up that woman in Germany.”

“Yeah, because she wasn’t our commanding officer.” John knocked the drink back and took a few large gulps. He set it down and made an unpleasant face.

He refused to admit he was embarrassed. It didn't make his face hot knowing Sholto had been the one to discover John's kinks and utilize them to the best of his ability, like some kind of mental war game, to bring him to a shivering mess of a man at the end of a rigorous night. It definitely wasn't embarrassing for his best friend to tell the love of his life about it, not knowing just how emotionally intimate their rough casual sex had actually been. Not embarrassing at all. Not at all. Nope.

While John was in denial, Sherlock studied him.

She wasn’t military, therefore not as attractive? Sherlock pondered. The data didn’t add up. There had to be more to it. The detective remembered his partner bringing up that few had ever taken control from him during sex. Perhaps this major had? His reaction suggested this was the case, but there were still other possibilities.

“Have you heard his other nicknames?” Murray asked Sherlock, and Sherlock’s interest was immediately piqued.

“No?”

“We called him the usual shit, you know, like Cap or Doc. There was my personal favorite, Shorty.”

Sherlock snorted and John rolled his eyes.

“And when he was joking around or pulling pranks, we called him Jester.” Sherlock laughed and John smirked, enjoying Sherlock's reaction more than anything else.

“He pulled pranks?” Sherlock repeated. “What kind of pranks?”

“Oh, harmless ones.” Murray reassured. “Most of the time it was during training drills. There was one time, I think I’ve got the video still, where we were supposed to practice a breach and clear and John drop kicked the door open.”

“God, Rick was so pissed.” John chuckled. “My personal favorites were my one-liners. I was always proud of those. Still am.”

Murray laughed, putting his forehead in the palm of his hand as he thought hard. “God, what was it you said that one time? I got grazed by something and you said… Oh! You said, ‘I now pronounce you legally dead’.” John guffawed and nodded, remembering the incident.

“You asked me, ‘can I get a second opinion’, and I- I said- ‘sure, you look fat in those trousers’.”

“What was it you told Peters? When he got shot in the leg?”

“Fuck, I can’t remember.”

“It was something about a red hat.”

John’s eyes lit up with the memory and he burst out laughing. “Oh my God, that’s right! We’d been bantering all day, saying things like ‘are you sure you’re a soldier’ and ‘did you skip boot camp somehow’, and when I was treating him I asked if he was sure he was shot because I couldn’t find the bullet hole. He apparently thought I was joking and shot back with ‘are you sure you’re a doctor’, and I told him ‘I have a red hat’.”

Murray’s booming laughter resounded through the bar and Sherlock rolled his eyes, watching the two best friends reminisce. It was like watching an exhibit at the zoo. He didn’t want to intrude lest the animals stop interacting naturally. They may stop telling stories if he intervened.

“I must’ve been living up to the Jester nickname pretty good that day, because the squad pranked me back when we returned to base, though. I remember going for a jog the next day and-”

“And they rolled a plastic grenade out in front of you when you went by!” Murray squealed. “I caught it on video, scream and all!”

“Of course you filmed it.” John rolled his eyes. “Whatever. I don’t mind playing the fool to cheer people up.”

“Playing?” Murray teased him, and John narrowed his eyes.

“Hey, I was serious ninety percent of the time. I think I earned a few moments of being a dumbass.” John thought for a few seconds. “Besides, I was surrounded by you lot.”

“A few moments?” Murray repeated. “Yeah, sure, only a few moments.”

“Oh fuck off.” John stifled a grin. “I think it was sometime after that a smoke grenade broke outside the armory. Do you remember that? We found them marching in a circle in the smoke singing an off-key marching tune.”

“I think I caught that on video, too. I’ll have to check. Man I want to watch that again.”

“I desperately want to see said videos as well.” Sherlock remarked, face hurting from the smile that was plastered on it. The years of pain in John’s eyes had melted away during the conversation, leaving him with nothing but pleasant memories of his friends, and Sherlock wanted to see that face again. Besides, seeing John before the trauma was incredibly tempting.

“I’ll find them and we can have a watch party.” Murray said. “Have you two come over so we don’t have to leave the little one with a babysitter?”

“Fine by me.” John finished off his Bailey’s. “I’ll be busy for the rest of the month, though, between work and the theatre.”

“That’s fine. We’re in no rush, mate.” Murray reminded John happily, raising his glass of water. John smiled and clinked his Bailey’s against Murray’s glass. It was odd to think that he had made it to this moment, celebrating his survival in London with Murray, when he had been so sure that he would die overseas, certain of it long before he got shot.

Sometimes it felt like just yesterday he woke up in an all-white sterile room, wondering what the bloody hell happened to his arm. Sometimes it felt like it was happening now. Most of the time, however, it felt like a lifetime ago.

Chapter Text

Sherlock guided a slightly off-kilter John into the flat, giggling when the inebriated soldier furrowed his brow and watched his feet climb the steps. Once they made it into the flat and Sherlock closed the door, he noticed John collapse into his armchair by the window and sigh happily. He was tipsy but not entirely drunk. It was a pleasant feeling that warmed his body.

“Mm, Home.” John mumbled in a pleased, gravelly voice, his eyes closed. They opened when they heard footsteps stride across the flat in a graceful gait. He eyed Sherlock’s rear hungrily while the man started a fire in the fireplace, seeking to warm the cold living space.

“Speaking of which, it appears Mrs. Hudson is out.” Sherlock deduced, putting the lighter back in its place on the mantle.

“She is?”

“I didn’t hear her television, and she always watches the news before bed.”

John hummed absently, still staring at Sherlock’s arse. Sherlock looked over his shoulder when the doctor didn’t comment on what he said, and he smirked. John didn’t notice that he had been discovered, however, and kept admiring with a smile. Sherlock turned his body to face the soldier fully and John looked up at Sherlock’s face, watching him walk over.

“We need another armchair.” Sherlock complained before climbing into John’s lap, legs dangling off the side.

“Or you could keep using my lap.” John grinned cheekily. “I’m sure as hell not complaining.” 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“I think alcohol makes you frisky.” He deduced, stroking a finger over John’s jaw. 

John rumbled a low noise in his chest in agreement.

“I’ve been told it gives me quite the mouth.” John flirted, half-lidded eyes focused on Sherlock’s.

“Whoever told you that obviously didn’t know your mouth sober.” Sherlock trailed his finger from John’s chin down the front of John’s neck, grazing his Adam’s apple with a fingernail. John’s breathing hitched and his eyes went dark.

Sherlock’s eyes went wide when John held his head with both hands and pulled him to his lips. John’s tongue forced itself past Sherlock’s lips and searched for his partner’s tongue, groaning when he found it and tasted the remnants of the red wine from earlier. Sherlock practically melted in John’s lap as John kissed him as if he owned his mouth.

John’s hands frantically struggled to unbutton Sherlock’s shirt, but it was near impossible with how they were positioned. At least it felt that way. He growled in frustration and pulled back.

“Off my lap.” John ordered. Too dazed and turned on to worriedly question why, Sherlock stumbled as he quickly complied. John scooted forward in the armchair and immediately went back to work, hands parting the fabric and pulling the tails from Sherlock’s trousers.

John’s tongue licked over Sherlock’s abdomen and Sherlock’s hands buried in John’s hair.

“Pull.” John ordered between licks. Sherlock didn’t immediately comply, and John glared at him. “Grab my hair and pull it.”

The order caused something white hot to bloom in him and he did as John said, grabbing a handful as best he could with John’s short hair and tugging. John’s heavy breathing hitched and he moaned. The pain and pleasure mixed together and left John mindless, aching for more. Harder. Rougher.

Sherlock’s eyes went wide. John grabbed Sherlock’s hips and pulled him closer, stretching his spine to wrap his lips around one of Sherlock’s nipples. The pale brunette keened, arching his back. John’s hands moved from Sherlock’s hips up his sides, sliding under the loose shirt to touch bare skin. He sucked a lovebite onto Sherlock’s pec and scratched his nails down Sherlock’s back, shivering when he moaned above him.

“So beautiful,” John breathed as he stared up at Sherlock's body. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

His tongue wetted a path over Sherlock’s sternum, calloused hands rubbing over the lean muscles of Sherlock’s sides before curving around to palm his tented trousers. Sherlock gasped and whined.

“What do you want, baby?” John purred. Sherlock’s eyelids fluttered as John groped him, rubbing in a slow tortuous circle. Sherlock arched his hips into the contact, trying to press closer. John gripped his hip tight and locked his elbow, keeping Sherlock from chasing after his hand. “Use your words, soldier.”

Soldier.

A full-body shiver ran from the top of Sherlock’s spine to his curling toes.

“Anything.” He whispered. “Please.”

“Anything?” John repeated. His hand squeezed the bulge in Sherlock’s pants.

“Yes, yes please,” Sherlock whimpered.

“You’ll take anything I give you?”

Sherlock nodded, biting his bottom lip to keep from babbling more pleas.

“Good answer.”

John grabbed either side of Sherlock’s shirt in two handfuls and pulled him down to his lips, kissing him hard. Sherlock nearly stumbled into John’s lap from the force of it. John bit Sherlock’s bottom lip and the brunette moaned into the soldier’s mouth.

“Fuck, I love the noises you make.” John slurred, letting Sherlock go. “Bedroom. Go.”

John was standing up and pushing Sherlock’s chest before the detective could comprehend what was being demanded of him. Once he understood, however, he grabbed John’s hand and raced down the hall. John let himself be tugged along, dirty images of everything he wanted to do to Sherlock filling his mind.

They crossed the doorway and Sherlock let go of John’s hand, letting John back him up to the bed and push him onto it with his hands on his shoulders. Sherlock stared up at John with blown pupils as the army doctor pulled his jumper over his head and off his arms. Sherlock sat up and started undoing the buttons of John’s shirt for him, fumbling a little in his rush to do it quickly.

John’s hands went back to their favorite pastime – touching Sherlock. They stroked over Sherlock’s chest and collarbones, his neck, down over his shoulders, before ending at his jaw, tilting it up so John could capture his lips again. He felt the fabric being pulled from the waistband of his jeans and slipped his arms out of the sleeves, letting the shirt fall to the carpet behind his feet as he kissed his partner sloppily, too focused on getting naked.

“Gonna fuck you so good,” John promised mindlessly into Sherlock’s neck, tilting Sherlock’s chin away so he could have more room to kiss and bite. Sherlock moaned and grabbed at John’s shoulders, fingers twitching as he stopped himself from digging his nails in. John noticed. “It’s okay. Scratch me.”

Sherlock was about to ask if he was sure when John went back to assaulting his neck with his mouth. Sherlock’s fingernails bit into John’s skin lightly and John’s eyelids fluttered. It was just a taste, but it was a damn good taste. John wanted more. He wanted a lot more. He wanted to be decorated all over by those nails.

John’s hands unbuttoned Sherlock’s trousers as he mumbled, “Need you, need inside you.” Sherlock helped John pull his trousers off, his pants following. John studied the sculpture beneath him, his mouth dry, watching Sherlock pull John’s belt free from his jeans.

"I need you, too," Sherlock confessed, weak fingers fumbling with John's button, "so much."

"What about me?" John questioned, hands moving to help Sherlock free the blonde of the rest of his clothes. "What do you need?"

"You." Sherlock breathed. "All of you."

John's eyes softened before they closed altogether, Sherlock pressing his lips to John's. The way Sherlock said those words left John's heart aching behind his rib cage.

He clumsily kicked his pants off and crowded Sherlock onto the bed, humming an appreciative sound into Sherlock's mouth when the detective parted his knees for John to slip between.

"Then you'll have all of me." John breathed his confession into Sherlock's parted lips, pleased to feel Sherlock shiver at his words. "I'm yours."

Sherlock whimpered, eyes threatening to tear up. He was relieved John pulled away for a moment to grab the lube from the bedside table. He needed room to breathe. The weight of his emotions was crushing his chest.

"I'm yours, too." Sherlock whispered in barely coordinated breaths.

John thought back to how Sherlock had claimed his mouth and stole the air from his lungs in the pub just a few hours ago. God that had turned him on. Mortified him a bit, too, but part of him couldn’t care less who saw it happen.

"Say that again." John popped the cap open and applied some lubricant to his fingers. His voice was dark and rough. 

"I'm yours, Captain Watson." John's pupils flared and Sherlock grinned. "I'm your soldier."

John's eyes ignited, going wide for a brief second, before an animalistic growl rumbled in the back of his throat. He leaned down to Sherlock's mouth, devouring his moan. John pressed his fingers against Sherlock's entrance and rubbed in circles, mumbling as he worked his boyfriend open.

"Damn right you are. Fuck, is it weird that I love calling you that? Calling you 'soldier'?" John's finger slipped in but he kept going.

"Not at all, Captain." Sherlock purred breathlessly, rolling his hips into John's hand. "I like it."

"You do?" The excitement in John's eyes was undeniable.

"I love it."

"Good, 'cause you are one." John left open mouth kisses over Sherlock's inner thighs. "You're my civilian soldier."

“And you’re my Captain.” Sherlock brushed wild tufts of John’s fringe away from his forehead, beyond proud of himself when John nearly purred, leaning into the fingers against his scalp.

John worked a second finger into Sherlock and the detective was rocking down into John's hand trying to hurry things up. John watched with a glazed over look in his eyes.

"I want to fuck you so hard." John groaned. "I want you shouting for it, begging for it."

Sherlock whimpered, murmuring tiny little pleas. He stifled a cry when John added a third finger.

"Fuck, what if I scratched my name into your back? What if I - I bent you over and - would you like that?"

Sherlock's cock twitched against his stomach at the image.

"John please," Sherlock begged, clutching at his arm. "Fuck me already."

Sherlock begging sounded like a gorgeous symphony to John's ears. He almost kept going just to hear Sherlock beg more, but he couldn't bring himself to wait any longer. He was so hard, so painfully hard.

He slicked his erection with some extra lube and shuddered. The contact felt so good. But something even better was waiting beneath him, hands roaming over his chest while their owner pleaded in breaths for John. It was like Sherlock knew John got off on the control the detective gave him. John wouldn’t be surprised if Sherlock did know, despite never having told him.

John held himself at the base and lined up with Sherlock's hole, testing the tension with a few presses of his tip against the muscle. Sherlock was almost silent, holding his breath and waiting, so hopeful. So beautiful.

John tipped his hips forward and eased in, rocking his hips and watching Sherlock's face with a slack jaw as he bottomed out, pressing his hips up against Sherlock's arse. John grabbed a handful of that gorgeous arse and kneaded it.

"This arse, holy fuck." John rolled his hips, nerves singing when Sherlock moaned. "God, it just takes and takes."

Suddenly a hand smacked Sherlock's arse and he yelped, hip arching away from the contact reflexively. John grabbed his hips.

"Don't you run away, now." John snarled in a growl that originated from his chest, rubbing the sore spot he smacked.

"What- was that?" Sherlock panted, struggling to make a coherent thought while John rubbed his erection against that ball of nerves buried deep inside him.

"Did you like it?" John asked instead.

"I think so." Sherlock admitted, and John grinned.

"One more." John warned, massaging Sherlock's arse. "Ready?" Sherlock nodded and John gave him a quick smack on the arse, trying to be more gentle. Sherlock jolted and let out a high-pitched moan. "Yeah, you liked that, didn't you?"

"Yes," Sherlock hissed. John grinned wolfishly.

"I'm gonna be rough, okay?" John warned. Had it been anyone else, he wouldn't have warned them, but it was Sherlock and Sherlock was very new to this. God, John couldn’t wait for the day he didn’t need to warn him. It would be glorious.

Sherlock looked up at John with bright and dangerous eyes and nodded eagerly, gripping the comforter beneath him. John leaned down and kissed him hard, pleased when Sherlock wrapped those tense arms around his shoulders instead and held on tight.

John started pumping his hips into the tall beauty under him and growled when Sherlock's fingernails dug into his shoulders. Sherlock moaned and cried out when John's length collided with his prostate just right, sending delicious spikes of pleasure through his body. He barely had time to process the first thrust before the next was already there and gone.

The blonde clutched Sherlock's body, one hand on his hip and the other wrapped around his shoulders, sweating with the effort of keeping this punishing pace. Sherlock's grip on John's shoulders slipped and he scratched John's back, panicking when John hissed at the pain.

He was about to apologize when John growled and bit his neck hard, scratching his own nails over Sherlock's thigh. Sherlock shuddered and scratched down John's back again, eyes rolling back when John sped up his thrusts, and he held onto John's hips like a lifeline.

"Fuck yeah," John panted, "claw me up, soldier."

"John - Fuck!"

John moved his hand from Sherlock's shoulder blade to grab a handful of dark curls on the back of his head, pulling hard. Sherlock whined loudly and dug his nails into John's hips.

"What did you call me?" John hissed. Sherlock could barely remember. "It's Captain to you, private."

"Captain," Sherlock mumbled mindlessly, "oh fuck, Captain - fuck!"

"Good boy." John praised, snapping his hips harder. "You're so good. Take it so good."

"I'm close." Sherlock whimpered. "John- Captain-" Sherlock hurriedly corrected, "touch me, please touch me."

"Not yet." John leaned away, giving his hips more leverage. 

"I - I can't-" Sherlock shouted when John's hips hammered into him at the new angle, body convulsing.

"Fuck, did you just-?" John breathed in awe, watching Sherlock come onto his stomach. He wrapped a hand around Sherlock's coming cock and pumped into him at the same rhythm, mouth agape at how Sherlock squirmed and writhed. "Oh my god, that's - fuck, that's beautiful. You're so fucking perfect, holy shit."

John let Sherlock's spent erection go in favor of gripping his hips tight and chasing after his own orgasm. Sherlock shivered and shook from the overstimulation, working his fingers around his sensitive length, his eyes rolling back and closing.

He heard John's telling grunts of effort and focused on his lover, staring up at John's tightly closed eyes and deep furrowed brow.

"Look at me." Sherlock ordered, cupping John's face. "I want to watch your face." John opened his eyes and stared down at Sherlock. He was so close, so painfully close.

And then finally he was coming, and the force of it knocked the air from his lungs in a strangled gasp. His hips stuttered as they tried to keep moving through it, so Sherlock rolled his hips into John's to help keep the sensations going. Sherlock watched John's eyes go unfocused for a long moment as he spilled into him, watched him struggle in a shallow breath through his tight chest for a few long seconds, before his eyes focused on Sherlock's again and he let out a heavy breath, resting a hand on Sherlock's hip to still him.

Sherlock smiled, stroking his thumb over John's cheekbone.

"I am immensely honored to have witnessed that."

John smiled lopsidedly down at Sherlock, a bit amused.

“And I’m immensely honored to have come inside you.”

Sherlock burst out laughing and John grinned cheekily, watching Sherlock’s eyes crinkle with his laughter. John slipped out and grabbed a few tissues from the box on the nightstand, cleaning Sherlock up, then walked off to the bathroom to throw them away.

When he came back, Sherlock was blushing hard. John raised an interested eyebrow.

“What is it?” He asked as we walked back over, smiling brightly. Sherlock sat up and turned him around, finger tracing a line down John’s back.

John felt a sharp sting as Sherlock did that, and realization of what made Sherlock blush came to him. He looked over his shoulder at his boyfriend, who was studying his back with a somewhat concerned gaze.

“Don’t worry, darling.” John turned and pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s forehead. “I like it rough. I especially like those scratches.” He flirted, smirking. Sherlock smiled softly. “Did you like the ones I gave you?”

Sherlock nodded shyly, wrapping arms around John’s torso and pulling gently in a hint for John to join him in bed. John smiled and did just that, curling up under the covers with Sherlock’s head on his shoulder, forehead pressed into John’s neck.

Chapter Text

As their relationship became more committed, Sherlock found it increasingly testing to attend John’s rehearsals. It certainly made it difficult that John’s ex-girlfriend was his costar, and they kissed not once but twice during the play. But, Sherlock knew John would be disappointed if he didn’t watch at least one showing, so Sherlock steeled himself for battle and left for the theatre.

On my way, Sherlock texted John as he sat in the back of the cab. Ready for your first show? –SH

I think I am. No bad weather tonight, right?

Last I checked, as of twenty minutes ago, there isn’t a storm until Monday. –SH

Wonderful. It’ll be past midnight by the time I’m ready to go. Cast has to meet and greet people for a few minutes after show end.

Leftovers and The Office? –SH

You read my mind.

Sherlock was pulling up to the theatre and stepping out when his phone buzzed. He pulled it out, noting the crowd past the glass doors engulfing the small room he’d first sat in almost three weeks ago.

If you want to head home and not wait for me, that’s okay.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

Don’t be ridiculous. Now focus on getting ready. –SH

The detective walked inside and ordered a glass of wine before giving his ticket to the ticket taker by the house doors. He recognized the girl from the video a cast mate had taken of John. She was the technician that had been scared by John’s scream. He’d seen her only once or twice since then. She must have been put in charge of taking tickets and ushering audience members to their seats.

“Do you need me to help you find your seat?” She asked Sherlock. Sherlock smiled politely, but not genuinely.

“No, that’s quite alright.”

He walked past and through the opened double doors, heading toward the center of the house and sitting in the middle, not too close but not too far from the stage. He wanted to see John in all his glory. He was also aware of something John’s character was going to do, and wanted to see it up close and personal.

Sherlock resigned himself to the knowledge that he’d see John kiss his ex-girlfriend in perfect clarity. He’d be sure to make up for it later.

The moment he saw John aboard the fake docked ship, his heart soared. The army doctor looked just as delectable in his costume as he always had during rehearsals, but the spotlight shining on him enhanced his beauty tenfold. He would have to thank the costume designer for their work. It was magnificent.

That clover green scarf looked especially gorgeous against John’s skin. It brought out the greens in John’s eyes. He’d have to get the soldier a jumper with that color. Perhaps he could steal that scarf from the costume designer.

Sherlock watched John waltz about the stage in practiced, graceful coordination, solidly grounded in the moment. He could see why, now, John’s therapist had suggested theatre to John. The doctor could separate himself from reality safely. He could leave behind the troubles of his own life and become someone else, at least for a moment.

John’s deliverance of My Friends was Sherlock’s favorite moment. He cradled the newfound razor box in his palms like the most precious gift given to man, and sang with such painstaking emotion in his voice that the hair on Sherlock’s arms stood up. It was one of the few, if not the only, moment where John’s voice was allowed to hold such delicate softness.

Sometimes John showed through the façade of Sweeney Todd. Once such instance was toward the end of the play, where Sarah leaned into John’s shoulder as they sat on the stage, looking out at the audience while wave sounds played. John sat there, looking utterly bored and uninterested, if not a little disgusted, by Sarah’s song, while the woman sang about getting married by the sea. Sherlock couldn’t help but smile, watching John’s minute facial expressions. His eyebrows were especially expressive. He could portray a hundred different emotions with his eyebrows alone, Sherlock was sure of it.

There was one moment in the show that Sherlock had heard about but never witnessed for himself, and he was ecstatic to witness it finally.

At the height of Sweeney’s mental instability, after his missed opportunity with Judge Turpin and shoving Missus Lovett aside, John directed his attention to the audience. He stepped down to the aisle from the stage.

“Al-right! You sir, how about a shave?”

He stepped further down the aisle, gesturing to audience members with wide, manic eyes, acting as if he was running down London streets and the audience members were mere passerbys.

“Come and visit your good friend Sweeney!”

John grinned toothily as he rounded the corner of seats, pointing with his straight razor to a bearded man near him.

“You sir, too sir? Welcome to the grave.”

He glanced around the wide-eyed faces of the audience, back straightening as he declared slowly in song, “I will have vengeance. I will have salvation…”

His eyes glanced around again, starting to walk quickly.

“Who sir, you sir?” John pointed then snarled, “No one's in the chair, Come on! Come on!”

He scanned the faces on the aisle, looking for someone to focus on. His eyes spotted a familiar man in an aisle seat that watched him with an amused smile.

Perfect.

“Sweeney's waiting.” John leaned toward Sherlock, growling in his face with a scowl, “I want you bleeders.”

Sherlock’s pupils widened as John snarled in his face. John gave Sherlock a wink and shot up straight before he gestured to someone else farther down the aisle, shouting, “You sir!” He stretched his arms wide as he walked to the opposite side of the theatre house from where he started, back toward the stage. “Anybody!? Come gentlemen now don't be shy!”

He pivoted on his heel, turning to face the house, as he walked backwards, keeping an eye on his position relative to the stage. He didn’t want to trip on the steps.

“Not one man.” John sang loud and confident, commanding the room. “No, nor ten men. Nor a hundred,” John turned his back to the audience, stomping up the stage steps, “can assuage me. I will have- you!”

With John back on stage, Sherlock could breathe again. All he could think about was John in his face and the look he gave Sherlock. And that voice, by God that voice…

The play couldn’t end fast enough in Sherlock’s opinion. While John was out greeting audience members and taking pictures, Sherlock snuck backstage. All the techies knew Sherlock already, so he didn’t bother to hide himself from them. They would assume John knew, and to be fair after that performance John ought to know Sherlock would be waiting for him. What did he expect, growling in his face like that, would lead to?

When John walked in afterward, a bit disappointed that Sherlock had seemingly left, he went to his dressing room. The rest of the cast went around talking to their family members or friends who had watched the show, so John was one of the few cast members to be down in the dressing hall.

He was surprised to find the man in question stalking towards him when he stepped into his dressing room. John’s eyes lit up and darkened in the same moment, noticing a particularly hungry look in Sherlock’s eyes that set his body on fire.

Sherlock pushed the door closed and crowded John against it, narrowing his eyes down at his boyfriend.

“So, did you like it?” John curiously asked.

“I can’t believe you feel the need to ask.”

Suddenly a tongue was in his mouth, teeth on his lips, and his back was pressed into the metal door. He heard it lock with a twist and click!

It was odd, sucking face with someone while they wore makeup. The skin texture that Sherlock recognized was off; it didn’t feel like it was John’s cheek he was holding, despite knowing fully that it was. It also tasted awful, so he tried to avoid exploring anything outside of John’s lips with his tongue.

John made it easier to avoid for them both by pushing Sherlock back a little.

“I’ll take that as a yes?”

Sherlock simpered as he looked down at his boyfriend.

“What did I say about asking that?” Sherlock retorted, grabbing John’s lapels and dragging him over to the vanity. “Don’t be asinine. Of course I liked it.”

Sherlock let go of John’s lapels once his backside was pressed against the counter, and he knelt down. John watched the dark head of curls with wide eyes as long fingers took apart his trousers.

“You should’ve expected this,” Sherlock continued in a low voice, eyes not leaving John’s crotch as he worked the fabric off, “talking to me the way you did. With that damn voice.”

“When-?” John stopped himself as the realization of what Sherlock was referencing came to him. “Oh.”

Sherlock shimmied John’s pants to his thighs, just enough to free his half-hard length, and immediately went to work. John’s eyes shot open and he gripped the counter with both hands, mouth parting open.

“Oh.”

The kneeling brunette licked over John’s shaft and sighed softly, happily, as if he’d been waiting all day for this. John’s jaw clenched and he watched Sherlock’s head bob and sway as he worked John over like he treasured him.

The scarf around his neck, all his clothes, was suddenly too much, too hot, and needed to be off right then. He undid the scarf and tossed it on the desk, fingers hastily unbuttoning his dark brown leather vest and shucking it off.

“Better – oh – better be quick.” John warned Sherlock in heavy breaths, fingers working at his shirt now. Sherlock ignored him, not that he could reply anyways.

When Sherlock noticed the shirt fabric getting looser, he turned his head so he could look up at John and still tease him with his tongue. His narrow eyes singled in on John’s neck.

“Scarf on.” Sherlock demanded, holding John at the base so he could talk. John looked puzzled.

“Why?”

“I like the color.” Sherlock stroked his hand up John’s erection and flicked his tongue over the tip, enjoying the way John shuddered above him. He teased lightly, “It brings out your eyes.”

John pushed the shirt off his arms and tossed it on the counter away from them, grabbing the green scarf and laying it over the back of his neck, not bothering to tie it.

“Anything else – your Highness?” John teased back. Sherlock’s eyes glazed over for a moment.

“Talk to me.” He whispered. “Use that voice again.”

John’s eyes gleamed. He went to speak when he heard footsteps walking above them. Sherlock swirled his tongue around his tip and his knees wobbled.

“Later.” John promised then gestured to Sherlock and his length between plush lips, “You’re being loud enough as is.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed and he glared at John before sinking his mouth down as far as he could go. His jaw ached with the stretch but watching John’s eyes try to roll back and his shoulders shake was worth every second he struggled to breathe. John’s hands gripped the counter edge, knuckles white, and Sherlock gagged and drew back.

“Ooh my God…” John breathed out heavily. His knees felt so weak he was shocked he was still standing.

“Use your words, soldier.” Sherlock hoarsely murmured, tongue slicking the underside of John’s cock on his lips.

John shivered at Sherlock’s words, vaguely remembering when he said the same thing to Sherlock, and stared up at the ceiling. He almost couldn’t believe this was happening. It seemed like a fantasy or a dream.

The army doctor looked back down to watch Sherlock’s head bob, and noticed Sherlock’s hand moving beneath them, in Sherlock’s lap. John groaned lowly.

“Are you…?” John tried to be quiet. “Oh my God.”

“Use that voice.” Sherlock ordered, mumbling around John’s tip before he sucked. John clutched at Sherlock’s curls, hips twitching into his lover’s mouth.

“God,” John growled. “Fuck yeah, that’s good.”

Sherlock’s eyelashes fluttering told John he was apparently using the right voice. John grinned.

“You like my voice, don’t you?” Sherlock’s cheeks heated and his hips squirmed a little. “Like when I talk to you?”

“Mmhmm,” Sherlock hummed around John’s length, aching when it throbbed against his tongue in response.

“I hear people upstairs.” John scratched at Sherlock’s scalp. “They’ve got no idea – no idea – that you’re sucking me off right now.”

Sherlock closed his eyes, letting John’s words eat through his resolve like sulfuric acid.

“That you’ve got my cock buried down your throat.”

His jaw went slack, melting beneath John, and sped up his hand with his mouth.

“That fucking mouth,” John’s voice was strained, watching Sherlock with dazed eyes in awe. “Jesus Christ, that fucking mouth-!”

John gripped Sherlock’s hair and his hips jerked forward as he came, shaking in his boots as Sherlock worked him through it with his tongue. He pulled away and swallowed, and John leaned back into the counter, barely able to stand.

“John.” Sherlock whimpered. John’s eyes fell open and saw Sherlock spill over his own hand, and John groaned softly.

“God, that’s gorgeous.” John huffed, curling a finger underneath Sherlock’s chin. “Come here, baby.”

John bent over and kissed Sherlock slow, with long strokes of his tongue. Sherlock made a soft pleasant noise as John brought him back down to earth, cradling his pale face and mouthing at swollen lips.

“You’re so perfect, you’re absolutely perfect.” John praised in whispers, “You’re so good to me, darling. Sweetheart, my baby. I love you.” He grabbed a tissue from the vanity and cleaned off Sherlock’s hand, wiping and dabbing at a spot that had dripped onto his suit trousers. He helped Sherlock stand on wobbling legs and went about cleaning off his stage makeup, ready to go home and collapse.

Within a few minutes after they finished, they heard the rest of the cast coming down to clean up, laughing and congratulating each other on a performance well done. John and Sherlock smirked at each other as Sherlock helped John wipe away the spots of makeup he’d missed.

Chapter Text

John took the latex gloves from Lestrade and readied his hands, listening to Sherlock and the Detective Inspector discussing the details of the case while he examined the victim’s body. Their voices reverberated around the walls of the community pool, and Sherlock casted a studious eye over the scene.

“Reminds me of your first case, Holmes.” Lestrade remarked dryly, watching John as he lifted the white sheet off the deceased male. Sherlock hummed absently.

“Yes, Carl Powers.” Sherlock remembered. “No one would listen to me when I said it was murder. No one but you, of course.”

“Well you were a child, Sherlock.”

John glanced over at Sherlock, eyes finding his boyfriend’s profile, and he smiled briefly at the thought of a young Sherlock yelling at a group of Yarders about murder and the obviousness of it all. He focused on the body in front of him again, noticing something intriguing.

“Are we done?” A male voice interrupted the conversation, sounding annoyed. John glanced up at the man, noticing Sherlock bristle at his presence. “The sooner I get the body to Molly, the sooner I can run tests.”

“Anderson-” Lestrade sighed and John tried his best to ignore the arguing continuing above him.

“Do shut up.” Sherlock snapped, earning a glare from Anderson. “John is working.”

“The man drowned! What is there to figure out?”

 “Drowning is a diagnosis of exclusion.” Sherlock murmured. “I would think you would know that, being a forensic scientist and all.” Sherlock snarled the title with disdain.

“He didn’t die by drowning.” John concluded, agreeing with Sherlock. Sherlock, Lestrade, and Anderson all shifted their undivided attention to John. John moved on his knees so he could brush the man’s leg hair out of the way, gesturing with a gloved finger, “There’s burn marks on his skin by his calves, likely caused by electrocution. They’re very faint, though, hidden by his leg hair.”

Sherlock’s eyes lit up and glanced around the room, searching for something, when he turned around and noticed a supply closet behind them. He ran over to it and threw the door open.

“Uh,” A female voice said, the woman dark-skinned and eying Sherlock warily. “What’s Freak up to?”

John’s eyes went wide and his lip curled in a snarl. He was about to say something when Sherlock came running back, holding an extension cord.

“He was tied and thrown in,” Sherlock proudly proclaimed, handing Lestrade the cord like a cat showing its owner its caught prey, “then the killer connected the cord to the outlet and electrocuted him.”

“And you know that…?” The woman rolled a hand, waiting for an explanation. Sherlock rolled his eyes in reply.

“Electrocution, unless the source is in close proximity to the skin, does not leave marks. Meaning that since marks where left, however faint they are, the source of the electrical current was close to both legs, not just one. Most electrocutions in pools occur because of poor grounding for lights, pumps, or poor wiring. He was found away from the edge of the pool, so that rules out light fixtures and the pump.”

“But if his legs were tied before he was thrown in, why didn’t he try to escape?” John pondered aloud. “He didn’t just let himself be tied up.”

“Perhaps a drug of some kind.” Sherlock thoughtfully replied, moving to stand by John, who was starting to stand up, offering the soldier an arm. John took it, grunting with the effort of righting himself on his feet again. “Why he would opt to electrocute him when the man was drugged, however, is still unknown. He could have easily just as stabbed him or thrown him in to drown.”

The group was silent for a moment, both John and Sherlock deep in thoughtful consideration, when the woman from before spoke.

“Right.” She hesitantly remarked. “And you just happened to know he used the extension cord?”

“It was the only logical conclusion.” Sherlock ignored her dubious tone.

“So why wasn’t he tied up when we recovered him?” Lestrade asked Sherlock, sounding genuinely curious and hopeful that Sherlock had an answer. John could see why Sherlock preferred Lestrade over the others.

“Well, it’d look suspicious, wouldn’t it?” John answered for Sherlock. “I know I’d think murder if I found someone tied to an extension cord in a pool.”

“John’s correct.” Sherlock gave John a fond look. “The killer wanted to make it look like an accident.”

The consulting detective looked at Anderson with a stern stare.

“He almost succeeded, too.”

Anderson rolled his eyes.

“Molly would’ve found those marks later,” He argued, “you know that.”

“Possibly, but John found them now.” Sherlock pointed out. “Far quicker than your lot could.”

“Alright, alright,” Lestrade intervened, stepping between them. They weren’t going to get physical, he knew that, but if he didn’t force them physically to separate he also knew they wouldn’t back down from the fight.

As expected, Anderson stormed off and the female officer glared at Sherlock, muttering under her breath as she walked off after him.

“Freak.”

“Pleasure seeing you as well, Sally.”

John watched her walk off with a burning fire in his eyes. It was one thing to argue with Sherlock, as Anderson had. It was another thing entirely to resort to name-calling like some child.

With the Yarders leaving and taking the tension with them, Sherlock focused on the victim once more.

“Now to figure out why someone would want to kill you, and who.” Sherlock muttered softly to the body, tilting his head as he pondered the possibilities.

Chapter Text

After interviewing the pool cleaner as well as a few of the volunteers that worked at the community center, they narrowed down the time of death to an 8 hour time span. John couldn’t accurately determine a time of death based on sight alone, not if this was electrocution like they suspected, so they had to resort to establishing unverified time frames.

The pool was closed at 9 o’clock at night and the body was found at 5 o’clock the next morning. The cleaner was an older gentleman, likely on the spectrum considering his behavior, and they had no reason to believe he had been the culprit. He seemed shaken by the experience of finding the body and even at one point asked John for a hug like a timid child seeking comfort. John tried to ignore the fact it was a stranger who was likely twice his age if not more when he gave the man a polite hug, but was grateful he’d done it when the man seemed to calm down and answer questions easier.

A volunteer, a kind-looking woman nearing middle age with a couple grey strands in her brown hair, walked over while they were interviewing the cleaner to ask the older man if he was okay. The cleaner nodded and she smiled, giving him a tight hug.

“Thank you, Sherry.” He mumbled to her. She rubbed his back.

“Of course, Gerald.”

Once Sherlock and John were done interviewing Gerald the cleaner, they were getting ready to leave when Sherry stopped by and thanked John for indulging the older man in a hug. John smiled, suspicions confirmed when Sherry relayed that Gerald was the kindest man she’d ever known but that he doesn’t understand social etiquette and gets upset when strangers don’t understand that he just wants comfort.

“He’s not trying to be creepy,” She whispered, “he just… people assume the worst when an old male stranger wants a hug, you know?”

“I know. I could tell there’s not a dangerous bone in his body, though,” John joked and Sherry chuckled.

“Not at all. He gets upset when a bird flies into the window, even if it flies off just afterwards.” Sherry smiled softly at the memory. “Well, thank you again. And I hope you catch whoever did this.” She gestured to the pool and Sherlock nodded sharply.

“We will.” His tone was definitive, leaving no room for arguments, and John couldn’t help but agree. They would find out who did this. Hopefully they would get to find out why, too.

As they walked toward the exit together, John saw Sally talking with Lestrade and he bristled. Sherlock sensed his lover tensing beside him and followed the army doctor’s glare to Sally’s profile.

“What’s wrong?” Sherlock questioned curiously. John’s eyes glanced between Sherlock and Sally, wondering why the connection wasn’t being made in Sherlock’s mind.

“It’s her.” John gestured with his head toward the female officer, and Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“And?”

John’s brow furrowed in disbelief.

“She called you a freak, Sherlock.” He admonished.

“So?”

“So?” John repeated, confusion gripping him so potently he had to shake his head to rid himself of it. “That’s not okay!” He hissed.

Sherlock stared at him blankly. He didn’t understand the outrage on John’s face and in John’s body language. Sherlock had been called the freak, not him, so why was he angry? It didn’t make sense.

“Why are you angry?” Sherlock asked. John was almost shocked to hear no emotion in Sherlock’s tone, just curiosity.

“I- What?” He breathed, brain malfunctioning. “I already said why. She called you a freak.”

Empathy, Sherlock’s mind supplied. It seemed like a foreign concept to him, that someone would feel angry on his behalf. He’d felt angry on the behalf of others, before, but no one usually felt angry about slights against Sherlock except, well, Sherlock.

“Don’t worry yourself with it.” He tried to reassure John that it was fine, but his usually eloquent words were rattled by old emotions. “Sally is not the first and she won’t be the last to call me that, John. It’s fine.”

John’s reaction to Sherlock saying those words didn’t make sense as the detective watched John’s face twist into a mixed expression of horror, rage, and determination.

“It’s not fine. Not if I have anything to say about it.” John growled, leaning up to press a chaste, if not hard, kiss to Sherlock’s cheek before storming off. Sherlock realized what John was doing once it was too late to stop him.

John stomped up to Sally and Lestrade, and the Detective Inspector regarded the soldier with a wary expression. John ignored him, however, focusing on the female officer he’d been talking to. It took her a moment to realize Lestrade wasn’t listening to her, nor was he looking at her, and when she finally noticed she turned to find a very pissed John Watson.

“Um, hello?” She tried, confusion and a tinge of concern in her voice.

“Sally, was it?” John asked pointedly, eyes glaring a hole through hers. She turned her body to face him, finally.

“Uh, yeah?”

“From now on, you will call Sherlock by his name.” John ordered. “Do I make myself clear?”

She stared in utter and complete confusion.

“What?”

“You heard me.” John snarled. “If I hear you call him a freak one more time I will put your arse on the ground.”

Her eyes widened.

“Are you threatening me?” She laughed once in disbelief.

“Consider it a promise.” John watched what little humor she felt at the notion she’d been threatened fade at the guilt-free admission from John. “You’re supposedly a professional. Act like it.”

She tilted her head, narrowing furious eyes at John.

“And I should listen to you because…?”

Lestrade’s eyes went wide, as did John’s, and Sherlock finally caught up and grabbed John’s arm.

“John, let’s go.” Sherlock whispered. John wrenched his arm free when Sherlock tried to drag him away.

“He gets off on this.” Sally carried on. “The weirder the crime, the more he gets off. He’s a psychopath.”

“And you know him so well, don’t you?” John shot back, practically foaming at the mouth. Sherlock was mildly impressed that so much rage could be contained in such a small body. “The only freak here is you.”

She growled and went to speak, and John roared,

“You shut your mouth and listen to me!”

Her eyes flashed with fear for a moment. Everyone froze around them, watching.

“You shut your fucking mouth and you listen to every word I say, do you hear me?!” John thundered. Sally stared. “Do you hear me?!”

Sally jumped when John shouted in her face, nodding automatically.

“Never, in my entire life, have I met such a disrespectful, rude bitch like you.” John insulted loudly, not caring who heard. “And you call yourself a Yarder?! Disgraceful. It’s fucking disgraceful! You should be ashamed of yourself.”

With no one to stop him, John kept going.

“Calling people names like some fucking child. How old are you, fucking twelve?!” The disbelief in John’s voice was unmistakable. Sally began to shrink down, the fight leaving her. John’s words were hitting with perfect accuracy. “You’re lucky this isn’t Afghanistan because if it was, if I was in charge, I’d have you eating dirt until sundown. God knows you would’ve learned some fucking respect then. And you’re going to learn some fucking respect now.”

John crowded her, snarling as her eyes widened further, “No one’s stopped you before, but I’m here now, princess. That shit isn’t going to fly with me.”

With one last glance at Lestrade, John nodding shortly to him, he scowled at Sally’s stunned face and stormed off, grabbing Sherlock’s coat sleeve and dragging him away.

“Come on, love, let’s get to work.”

John was so furious, his body radiated rage like heat from a vat of molten metal. So furious, in fact, he didn’t realize Sherlock was having a reaction until they were outside the premises and he was being tugged into an alley nearby by Sherlock’s strong grip.

John’s brow furrowed then softened when Sherlock spun around and held onto John with a vice grip intensity. His body shook against John’s, and suddenly he was choking out tearful sobs into John’s shoulder. John frowned, worried he’d done something wrong, and hugged Sherlock loosely.

“What is it?” John whispered. “Did I say something wrong?”

Sherlock shook his head, burrowing his face further into the crook of John’s neck. He thickly stumbled over his words, hoping John could make sense of them by the end.

“No – I don’t – I’m not used to – In the past – no one, they didn’t-”

John’s worry faded away as he realized what Sherlock was trying to explain.

He’s not used to someone willing to fight for him.

The blonde wished he knew Sherlock sooner. He couldn’t have prevented Sherlock’s childhood bullies from attacking him, but he could have and would have prevented Sally from feeding those flames of pain for however long she had been.

The soldier wrapped his arms around Sherlock and held him tight, happy to do so now that he knew Sherlock wasn’t mad at him.

“It’s okay, love.” He whispered soothingly in Sherlock’s ear. “I’ve got you. I’m here. No one’s going to call you that ever again, not while I’m around.”

Sherlock didn’t reply, but John didn’t expect him to. He was still sobbing into John’s shoulder for minutes afterwards. John whispered reassuring words, rubbing his back and grabbing the handkerchief from his coat pocket for Sherlock to blow his nose into. Separating himself from John to do so, Sherlock avoided John’s eyes as he stuffed the kerchief into his trouser pocket, wishing he could hide himself entirely.

“Feeling better?” John tentatively asked. Sherlock nodded with a slight movement of his head.

“Sorry.” He whispered. John pulled Sherlock back into his arms, hugging him tight.

“Don’t be sorry, darling. There’s nothing to be sorry about.”

“I ruined your collar.” Sherlock tried to joke, but it was clear as day that he was avoiding the real reason he was sorry.

“Damn my collar.” John kissed Sherlock’s ear softly, his soft voice soothing on Sherlock’s frayed emotions. “You needed to cry. That’s what matters. Not some damn clothing.”

They were silent for a long while. John ignored the slight ache in his calf from standing for so long. It was nothing compared to whatever emotional pain Sherlock was going through. He couldn’t imagine the turmoil Sherlock went through, or even what he was currently going through, but he could be there to comfort him and by God he would. He’d stand there as long as Sherlock wanted him to.

Sherlock had been there for him for night terrors, flashbacks, hallucinations… He didn’t dare step away when Sherlock needed him for emotional reassurance and comfort for once.

After half an hour of standing in silence, John rubbing Sherlock’s back and pressing feather light kisses to his temple, Sherlock leaned away and wiped his eyes with his hand. John watched him with a loving look in his eyes that threatened to break Sherlock again.

Sherlock cleared his throat, thirsty and tired.

“Back to work.”

Chapter Text

Sherlock and John were in the cab, riding to a place of interest for the pool electrocution case, when John felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. It only vibrated the once, however, telling him it was a text.

With Sherlock seemingly back to normal and demanding that they focus on the case instead of returning home, John felt comfortable enough diverting his attention from his boyfriend for the moment. He pulled the phone from his pocket and looked at the text.

How is Sherlock?

John regarded the question with uncertain curiosity. The only reason he replied was because of who the sender was.

He’s been better. I thought you had higher standards for Yarders?

We do. I don’t know what got into her. I’m going to have a talk with her and Anderson.

John glanced over at his boyfriend, who was expectedly in his Mind Palace trying to process everything. John’s lips tightened into a line, unsure whether to believe Lestrade or not.

This has been going on for a while. Sherlock told me so. Why didn’t you do something sooner?

Lestrade took a long time to reply. So long, in fact, that John figured the man just didn’t want to. It was fifteen minutes later when the inspector finally replied.

I tried. Then things spiraled, got more intense. Sherlock didn’t use to be so… cooperative. Would throw insults like candy. Told all three if they can’t work together then none of them work at all. It quieted things down some. For a while. As long as they could work together, they would work.

John frowned. He didn’t agree with Lestrade’s method of bargaining for peace with an ultimatum. But, that wasn’t his call to make. He hadn’t been there.

Something changed recently, though. Sally got more confrontational with Sherlock more often. Sherlock used to be the instigator, but Sally’s been starting it more often now. I don’t know why. One of the things I’m going to talk to her about.

The soldier licked his bottom lip, trying to keep himself from grinding his teeth.

I wasn’t kidding about putting her arse on the ground. If she does that again, Lestrade, I WILL do it.

Understandable, mate. I’ve wanted to do it myself sometimes. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry for her behavior. You were right when you said no one stopped her before. I tried, but I didn’t try hard enough to actually stop her. I let it continue so I didn’t have to deal with it. I’m sorry to both you and Sherlock for that.

John softened somewhat as he read the message and the one Lestrade sent soon after.

Thank you for doing what I couldn’t. And thank you for taming the wild Sherlock Holmes. He’s been the closest thing to pleasant to work with for the first time since I’ve known him. So thank you.

There were a lot of things that John wanted to say, but he opted instead to simply reply:

Tell Sherlock you’re sorry. He deserves your apology, not me.

John pocketed his phone after he sent the text, ignoring the vibration in his coat pocket when someone texted him. He knew it was Lestrade replying, and he hoped the detective inspector would tell Sherlock himself he was sorry. Sherlock deserved to hear it from the man himself, and if Lestrade wasn’t brave enough to do it then John wasn’t going to do it for him.

They pulled up to the place in question and John patted Sherlock’s knee, bringing him out of his mind.

“Come on, love.” John murmured to him, kissing his cheek, and Sherlock’s lip quirked lopsidedly in a tiny smile. He loved that John found little excuses wherever he could to touch and kiss Sherlock, just to show his affection.

Sherlock climbed out and led the way, John happily following behind.

As they talked to family members of the deceased, they learned that the man, as well as the family, was fairly well off in the financial department. The victim worked at his family’s business, specifically with electrical wiring and programming, overseeing the electrical engineering department. At hearing this, Sherlock and John shared a look.

The family explained that the victim had gone out the night before to have drinks with his work colleagues. It was a routine occurrence, and they thought nothing of it when he didn’t show up before sunrise. He had a tendency to drink too much and wander off.

Sherlock found it odd that the family was so sure that it had been a drunken stumbling into a locked community pool.

 Murderer had access to pool after hours. Key?

A younger male walked into the living room, coat still on with the collar pulled up. Sherlock studied the man as he eyed Sherlock and John up.

                  Nervous

                                                                 Coat sleeves wet

       No rain outside

                                                                                                                Armed

                                                                 Bruise partially obstructed by collar

            Suspect probability: High

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the man, and he shrunk under the scrutinizing stare, looking away and avoiding him. Sherlock pulled out his phone and texted Lestrade, telling him to come here at once. At the very least, he could have the man arrested for possessing a firearm.

“Hey mum? What’s going on?”

“Oh.” She sighed sadly and walked over to her son, taking his hand. “It… Well there’s no easy way to say this, Regan. Roger… he was found dead this morning.”

Regan’s eyes went wide. He breathed, “He what?”

“You’re his brother, I presume?” Sherlock questioned. Fake emotions. Not close to victim.

The young male glanced over at Sherlock and nodded slightly, uncomfortable with meeting his eyes.

“Where did you come from, may I ask?”

“I went for a walk.” He shifted on his feet.

“You’re not headed to work?” John questioned next. The boy’s eyes widened slightly and he took a few seconds to respond, stuttering a little.

As he replied, Sherlock’s phone notified him of a text. Lestrade was on his way.

“Oh, I, well I’ll be leaving in a bit. I’ve got a job to head to instead of the office. I always leave later when I’ve got those.”

The mother smiled softly, squeezing her son’s hand. “My Regan here works with Roger. When we put Roger in charge, he had to focus more on the personnel side of things so Regan stepped up and took care of the technicalities. He gets asked to fix complicated wiring systems all the time.”

Sherlock noted several interesting pieces of information the mother readily gave. For one, she spoke of her deceased son as if he was still alive. She hasn’t come to terms with it yet, meaning she had no idea it was going to happen. There was also the minute wince that Regan gave when her mother mentioned Roger’s promotion. Jealousy.

“Actually…” The mother paused, her kind smile fading. “Wait, weren’t you going to the community pool today?”

Brief panic flashed in Regan’s eyes.

“Oh, yeah I was. Why? What’s wrong?”

“The community pool was where we found your brother.” John carefully elaborated. The man’s face dropped, but something didn’t feel right about his reaction.

“Oh.” He breathed. “What… happened?”

“He was found in the pool. The cleaner arrived before opening hours and found the door unlocked and Roger already deceased.” John answered vaguely, not wanting to give more information than necessary.

“I see.” Regan whispered. His mother rubbed his arm with a frown, trying to comfort him.

“You wouldn’t happen to have a key to the building there, would you?” John asked. Regan nodded.

“Well, I did. I couldn’t find it this morning.”

“Odd.” Sherlock remarked lowly, eyes boring holes into the man’s skull. “All keys to the building were accounted for at the scene.”

“Really? He must have taken my key last night, then.”

The detective arched an eyebrow.

“Why would he do that?”

Regan shrugged.

“When was the last time you saw Roger?”

“At the end of work yesterday. Six in the afternoon.”

“Really? Because your mother said you went drinking with him after work.”

Regan’s eyes went wide with horror. His body tensed.

“Oh, I forgot. Yes, I drank a little after work with him and some employees.”

“Did you leave together?”

“No, I left early. Roger likes to get shitfaced. I don’t. Besides, I had work today.”

The group heard a car driving up the street, stopping in front of the house, and Sherlock asked the question he’d been dying to know:

“Why do you have a gun?”

Regan looked out the front window, taking notice of the police car parking, and the color drained from his face.

Going to run was the last deduction Sherlock made before he raced after the boy, chasing him out of the house.

Chapter Text

John’s heart was pounding in his ears. He could barely hear his feet hitting the pavement, the sound was so deafening. His eyes focused on the back of Sherlock’s head as the detective easily left him behind in the chase, focused entirely on the suspect running away.

Sherlock grinned as he ran, adrenaline coating his veins. He felt alive, he felt magnificent, and he was going to catch that bastard. All the emotions of the day were locked away, now, and he was living in the moment.

Regan turned down an alley and Sherlock followed him, John following moments later. He heard a scuffle down an offshoot of the alley and raced toward it, worried that Sherlock was in danger. When he rounded the corner, he wasn’t prepared to find Sherlock trying to wrestle a gun free from the culprit’s hand. John watched, grabbing his gun and thanking past John for deciding to bring his service weapon just in case.

Sherlock was a skilled boxer, John noticed, as the detective kneed his opponent in the ribs. He only hoped Sherlock could disarm the man or at least turn them so John could have a clear line of fire.

Regan yelled in anger and exertion as he shoulder barged Sherlock into the wall opposite them. The back of Sherlock’s head hit the brick wall once, then a second time when Regan elbowed his face. Sherlock’s grip loosened and the young man wretched his hand free.

In the same second the man lifted the gun to aim at Sherlock, he was falling to the cobblestones. A thunderous crack of sound threatened to shatter Sherlock’s eardrums when it happened, and he stared at the man’s face as it contorted in pain, grasping at his shoulder.

Suddenly someone was touching his shoulder and stepping into his line of sight, and he looked down at John. He hadn’t heard John approach. In fact, John was talking and Sherlock couldn’t hear him over the ringing in his ears.

He looked further down at John’s hand and saw a gun as he holstered it, adjusting his coat over the weapon to conceal it.

John’s hands worriedly brushed over Sherlock’s chest and sides, checking for blood, then focused on checking his face.

Finally, finally, Lestrade caught up to them, gun drawn after hearing the gunshot. When he saw the suspect lying on the ground writhing in pain, he ran over and eyed the scene confusedly, grabbing a pair of handcuffs from his waist.

“Sherlock, can you hear me?” John said to his boyfriend, curling a finger underneath Sherlock’s chin. Sherlock watched his lips speak and heard nothing but warbled vocal tones, but he could understand what John had asked and shook his head. John quickly checked his ears, pleased to find no blood. Sherlock’s nose was bleeding, however, but John concluded it hadn’t been broken considering when he touched it to examine it Sherlock hadn’t shoved him away or screamed.

John sighed in relief then grabbed Sherlock’s attention again before gesturing to his own ear and mouthing, “No blood.”

Sherlock nodded slightly, watching Lestrade and some paramedics haul the suspect away on a stretcher. John curled his finger under Sherlock’s chin again and mouthed, “Hearing loss not permanent.”

John waited until Sherlock nodded his understanding before he led them out of the alley and down to the street, stealing a couple paper towels from Lestrade for Sherlock’s nose, where Sherlock waved for a cab. As they sat down in the backseat and Sherlock tilted his head up, pressing a paper towel to his nose, John told the cabbie to take them to Baker Street and held Sherlock’s hand.

Sherlock started tapping on John’s hand to get his attention, and it took John a few seconds to realize he was writing a letter and drawing a question mark with his finger.

     J?

He turned his hand over when John pulled his away, and John wrote his reply on Sherlock’s hand.

     YES?

     U HAVE A GUN?!

John chuckled when Sherlock added the exclamation point to his question, grinning to himself.

     YES

Sherlock smirked softly and leaned into John’s side. He continued their secret conversation after a moment.

     THANK U

John smiled warmly.

     ANYTIME

He drew a heart on Sherlock’s skin and Sherlock’s cheeks turned pink. Sherlock mimicked John, drawing a heart on John’s hand in return, pleased when John smiled wider.

By the time they got back home, the nose bleed had stopped and Sherlock could hear again. John was immensely grateful that Sherlock hadn’t lost his hearing or gotten a concussion, and if his constant hovering around Sherlock the rest of the day was any clue, he was still worried about the detective.

Sherlock admittedly loved the extra attention.

Chapter Text

John groggily lifted his head, thinking the ringing of his phone was his alarm. He rolled away from Sherlock’s back, removing his arm from around his partner’s waist, and groaned as he sat up slightly and reached for his phone.

Why am I so tired? John thought idly as he grabbed the device. As he brought his arm back, noticing it was just an hour after they fell asleep, Sherlock slurred the question,

“Who is it?”

John’s brows furrowed as he realized it was a phone call. He read the name.

His heart dropped.

“For fuck’s sake.” He cursed and sighed. He clicked the green phone icon and held the device to his ear. “Hey Clara, what’s-”

“John I need you to come here.” John sleepily glanced over at Sherlock as his partner turned on the lamp on his bedside table. Clara, whose voice was typically soft and timid, was shaky and tearful, “Someone mugged us and Harry got hurt.”

John’s eyes shot wide open, all sleepiness gone in an instant.

“Where are you?” The soldier demanded, flinging the covers off his legs and shoving himself out of bed with a grunt.

“Regent’s Park.” The relief in Clara’s voice caused it to break. “Please John, hurry.”

“I’ll be there in five minutes, let me get some trousers.” John reassured before he tossed the phone on the bed, grabbing his jeans from earlier and yanking them on. He grabbed the phone again, barely taking notice that Sherlock was grabbing his own trousers from the floor. He brought the phone to his ear and pulled his socks and shoes on. “Did you call the police?”

“I did, they’re on their way.” John could hear Clara whisper to someone.

“Is Harry breathing?” John asked, throwing a quick glance at Sherlock. His partner wasn’t too far behind in getting dressed, but at the question John posed he gave John a concerned, if not mildly surprised, look.

“Yes, yes she’s breathing.” The doctor heard Clara swallow on the other line. “She’s awake, but she’s bleeding.”

The soldier got up and jogged to the bathroom, grabbing his first aid kit.

“What side of Regent’s?”

“I think we’re at the Thames side? We walked over from Queen’s Walk and didn’t get far inside when he mugged us.” Clara paused and John continued through the kitchen.

“Why’d you have to fight him?” Clara asked, and John was momentarily confused until he heard a very familiar female voice distantly through the phone line.

“He called you a dyke. ‘Course I’m gonna kick the fucker’s ass.”

To say John was relieved that his sister sounded sober was an understatement. He jogged to the sitting room and saw Sherlock with his coat buttoned up holding the flat door open. Sherlock tossed John his coat and John yanked it on, listening to Clara.

“He called us both dykes, Harry!”

“So? All the more reason to kick his ass, then.”

 John grabbed his duffle bag from the floor next to the coat rack, dumped everything out, then threw the med kit inside and zipped it up. It certainly sounded like his sister.

“Was she stabbed?” John asked, throwing the bag across his back and yanking the strap tight.

“Y-Yeah.” Clara responded. “Twice.”

“Where?”

“Her stomach.” Fear and worry swelled in her voice. “John please hurry, there’s a lot of blood.”

“I’m running there now.” John reassured, jogging down the stairs with Sherlock leading the way. “Put pressure on the wounds for me, okay? It’s going to hurt but it’ll help her.”

“You’re running?” Clara asked in disbelief, her fear heightening.

“We live a street away, it’s faster. I’ve got to hang up, but if I can’t find you I’ll call you back. I’ll be there in a couple minutes, just keep applying pressure.”

John and Sherlock stepped outside. The cold air hit like a slap to the face.

“Okay.” Clara sounded unsure and scared, but there wasn’t much John could do to reassure her. He had to focus on getting there as quick as possible.

John hung up and immediately bolted down the sidewalk with Sherlock following. For once, Sherlock was struggling to keep up with John and not the other way around. Despite the cold, and the bullet in his calf, John ran as if his leg had never been shot. It was surprising but not entirely unexpected. From what Sherlock could deduce, John’s sister had been stabbed more than once in Regent’s Park and her wife had called John, and John was nothing if not fiercely loyal. The soldier was high on adrenaline and sprinting so fast Sherlock struggled to see his feet actually hit the pavement.

He was going to be very sore later, Sherlock lamented. John made a horrible patient.

They ran across the street and entered on the east side of the park, closest to the Thames. John slowed but didn’t stop, searching for two figures among the darkness.

“John!”

John’s attention snapped toward the sound almost at the same time it happened, which Sherlock found was mildly impressive to witness. He saw the soldier in John’s eyes, the combat medic hardened by experience and resolve, much like he had seen when he visited John at the A&E.

Sherlock followed his gaze, seeing two feminine figures in the dark, one sitting on the grass and the other lying down next to them, perhaps fifty meters away. He noticed John was struggling to find them.

“There.” Sherlock pointed, and John glanced at his hand for a brief second before he followed the pointed finger and it clicked. He and John sprinted toward the two figures, dead leaves crunching beneath their heavy footfalls.

“John-” Clara sobbed with relief, leaning over Harry. It was hard to see color in the dark, but they both were dressed in nice casual clothing. Clara’s shoulder length brown hair was pulled back behind her ears, but a few strands fell in front of her face. Her hands were bloody and she didn’t look down at them on Harry’s stomach, keeping her chocolate colored eyes focused on their surroundings instead. Black tears leaked down her face from her makeup.

Date night, Sherlock deduced.

John’s sister looked markedly different than her brother. She still had her brunette hair, which John had lost with stress and sun bleaching, but it was a pale brown or a dark blonde color more than it was true brunette. Her hair was pulled back into a simple ponytail and went past her shoulders. Her eyes were blue and she wore barely, if any, makeup, on her pale skin. Well, pale compared to John.

John loosened the strap across his chest as he got closer and pulled the bag over his head, slowing and falling to his knees across from Clara. He unzipped the bag and Sherlock stood beside him, waiting for orders on how to help.

“I need light.” John ordered simply. Sherlock fished out his phone as John pulled his med kit out of his duffle.

“Good to see you too, Johnny.” Harry teased. John glanced at her as he grabbed scissors from his kit and rolled his eyes.

“I’m sure it is. Good to see you sober, Harry.” John’s tone was stern, but not entirely unkind. He was being sincere. It wasn’t good to see Harry like this, especially not after their last fight, but it was good to see her sober for a change. “I trust Clara’s keeping you on the straight and narrow?”

“Not so much the straight part.” She joked. John smirked softly, watching his sister throw a grin at her wife.

Sherlock shone the light on Harry, who squinted and looked past John.

“Fuck that’s bright,” She cursed under her breath, closing one eye. John leaned forward and looked around Clara’s hands, noting where he needed to cut the fabric. He grabbed the edge of her spotted button-up and started to cut. “Whoa, what are you doing?! This is my good shirt!”

“Harry, it’s covered in blood.” Clara reminded her. John ignored them both, cutting around Clara’s hands. “It’s ruined anyways.”

Harry scowled. “Fine. But we’re buying another one.”

“Alright, Clara, pull your hands away.” John interrupted, reaching over and grabbing a few gauze pads. Clara did as instructed and John grabbed the cut fabric and dropped it on the ground beside them, focusing on the wounds. He applied gentle pressure and carefully parted the skin to look inside, dabbing away the blood that pooled as a result. Non-serrated, slightly angled upward, about three centimeters in length and ten centimeters deep.

John sighed with relief.

“Well I don’t think it hit anything, and if it did it damaged the peritoneum and the small intestine, so that’s decent enough news.” John murmured to himself as he laid the gauze over Harry’s wounds. “The fact that the bleeding pushes externally instead of internally is very good, though.”

“English, doctor boy.” Harry teased him. John rolled his eyes.

“You’ve got a thick abdominal wall.” John shot back, applying pressure to the gauze pads. Harry groaned and her face contorted in pain. Clara took Harry’s hand and held it in hers. “You’re lucky it didn’t hit your liver. Poor thing’s been damaged enough, the last thing it needs is to be stabbed.”

“Hardy har.” Harry mockingly replied. “You calling me fat?”

“No, I’m calling you well-cushioned.” John grinned playfully. Harry swatted lazily at his bicep with her free hand. “On a serious note, you look much healthier now.”

Harry smiled. “Thanks, Johnny.” She glanced up at his hair. “Damn, you got old.”

John chuckled. “Yeah, yeah I did. Feel old too.”

Sirens could be heard over the wind, and Sherlock turned his head toward where they had entered the park. John took this time to try and sneakily shift off his knees and onto his rear without worrying Sherlock. His boyfriend turned back, assessing that they had another couple of minutes, and saw John grimace just as he sat down fully.

The detective placed the phone on the ground, letting the light shine upwards into the sky, and sat down next to John.

“Here, mon cher, rest your shoulder.” Sherlock reached out and rolled his coat sleeves up to keep them from getting bloody. He placed his hands over the doctor’s and John begrudgingly moved his hands out of the way, allowing Sherlock to apply pressure.

“It’s not my shoulder that’s bothering me.” John remarked, grabbing a few gauze pads from the kit. He handed a couple to Clara and wiped his hands off on them.

“What’s wrong with your shoulder?” Harry asked with a puzzled expression.

Suddenly John remembered he never told Harry about being invalidated. He swallowed.

“I think that’s a story for another time.” Sherlock answered for John, glancing at him. John noticed his boyfriend looked concerned. “Are you okay?”

John nodded.

“Just my leg.” John reassured. “I think I ran too fast is all.”

Sherlock smiled softly. “Well, I have to admit I was struggling to keep up with you, which was new.” John chuckled.

“Yeah, usually it’s the other way around.”

There was a brief few seconds of silence before Harry asked,

“Are you two dating?”

John blinked and looked at his older sister. “Oh, uh, yeah, sorry. This is Sherlock, my boyfriend.” John smiled at his partner. “Sherlock, this is my sister Harriet.”

“Wish we were meeting differently, but you know…” Harry’s sentence trailed off and she offered a playful smirk. Sherlock could see a semblance of John in that expression.

“I suppose it’s better than never?” Sherlock tried.

“True enough.” Harry laid her head on the grass and looked up at the sky. She was quiet for a few seconds before continuing, “Oh, and John?”

John quirked an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“Thanks for, uh… helping me.”

The army doctor smirked.

“I guess my joining the RAMC wasn’t too bad after all, huh?”

Harry rolled her eyes. “Yeah, yeah, rub it in why don’t you.”

Sherlock could tell Harry still held a little resentment toward her brother for choosing the military over her, but not to the same degree that she used to. Perhaps being sober and more independent had opened her eyes to her own flaws? It was a hopeful theory, but not an unfounded one, in Sherlock’s opinion.

Within the next minute the sirens were coming from directly outside the park gate. A couple paramedics rushed through with a stretcher and the whole group felt relief wash over them. John helped one of the paramedics lift his sister onto the gurney, and Sherlock decidedly kept quiet. There was no use chiding John for straining his shoulder when he was in such a protective mindset.

Of course, a few Yarders walked over as they wheeled Harry away, talking to Clara and the two men for a brief moment. Clara ran off to join her wife in the ambulance, and the police asked John and Sherlock to vacate as well.

John gathered his bag and med kit, pulled the duffle over his head, and looked back at the place where Harry had been laying. His mind wandered to what Harry had said the mugger called his sister and his sister-in-law, and John gritted his teeth. He looked back at where they had come from, seeing Clara jogging away to catch up with Harry.

“Sherlock?”

The detective turned to face his lover, having been looking at their surroundings for possible leads.

“Yes?”

“Care to take me on as a client?” John asked, turning his head to look over at Sherlock after he finished speaking. Sherlock smirked.

“I would be honored, mon cher.”

Chapter Text

John didn’t want to kill the man. He didn’t really want to maim or torture him, either. He just wanted to throw a few punches and lock the bastard up afterwards.

But then the bigot had to open his mouth, and John saw red.

Thank God he didn’t bring his gun. John probably would have done something he’d later regret if he had brought it with him. Although the man likely deserved to get shot, John didn’t need to go down for premeditated murder.

The mugger wasn’t a difficult man to track down. Sherlock had a few acquaintances in the homeless population of London, something Sherlock called his “homeless network”, and John could narrow down likely body types and heights based on the angle of Harry’s wounds and the strength required to push the knife through the skin and subsequent tissues. Between the two of them, they were a force to be reckoned with.

Also, the bastard was sporting a black eye and busted lip from Harry kicking his ass, so it was kind of obvious.

They walked down the street, not too far away from Regent’s Park but also not too close to their flat, and Sherlock had an idea. He reached down and held John’s hand, watching his lover furrow those expressive eyebrows of his and cast a confused look at the detective.

Sherlock smirked. Realization flickered in John’s eyes, and he smirked back. Sherlock quickly texted the officer that had interrogated them as witnesses just half an hour before, letting them know that they’d want to stay in the area and wait for Sherlock’s signal.

Holding hands, they walked along the sidewalk toward the Thames and chatted idly about Christmas plans for the better part of an hour. For the most part, they were honest plans, but Sherlock made sure to emphasize how expensive certain gifts would be and how rich his family was. They were rich, of course, but both Sherlock and his parents knew the detective didn’t have access to their wealth, nor did he want it.

Sherlock was lying about how desperately he wanted to buy a new tailored suit for the definitely real Christmas ball his mother was hosting when he heard a third pair of footsteps following behind John and he. He couldn’t help but grin a little, and John noticed and turned around.

Immediately, John had a knife pointed at his chest.

“Give me your money.” The mugger was just a couple inches taller than John and wore a painter’s one-use face mask. He had a stained grey beanie and a black hoodie, but John noticed the man had a black eye forming on his left and the bridge of his nose was swollen.

Harry was right handed.

John held his hands up, pretending to be non-confrontational, and said with a light smile, “Oh, come on, you don’t want to do this.”

“Like hell I don’t,” the hatred in the mugger’s voice was potent as he tossed out the slur, “you fuckin’ fairy.”

John’s fake smile instantly dropped. Both Sherlock and John’s eyes widened at the insult. Sherlock glanced at John, and he saw a rage inside John’s eyes that Sherlock didn’t know John could possess.

In a matter of seconds John was grabbing the man’s wrist and punching the inside of his elbow, forcing the mugger to reflexively drop the knife. John grabbed the man by the throat and shoved him to the wall roughly, hearing air being forced out of his lungs by the impact. The soldier wrapped his calf around the man’s leg and knocked the leg out from under the assailant, the man’s back slipping down the wall. The mugger collapsed to the ground and John glared daggers at him. He yanked the mask off and tossed it to the sidewalk.

Sherlock took the chance to grab the knife and text Dimmock where they were located.

“Want to say that one more time?” John challenged, a pissed grin on his face. The assailant glared up at him.

He tried to get up and throw a punch at John, but the soldier saw it coming. John deflected the punch with practiced ease and threw one of his fists into the bloke’s jaw in retaliation, satisfied when the man fell back and shouted in pain.

“What, not used to a fairy fighting back?” John spat bitterly at the poor bastard, hearing sirens in the distance. Sherlock manhandled the bloke onto his stomach with John’s help, pulling a pair of handcuffs out of his coat pocket and cuffing him.

A bit confused, John asked, “Where the hell did you get handcuffs?”

Sherlock smiled smugly. “Stole them from Lestrade’s office.”

John laughed softly, and Sherlock was relieved to see the unbridled rage that had dominated his eyes dwindle to angry embers.

When Dimmock arrived and hauled off the culprit, Sherlock took John’s hand and gestured toward the sidewalk.

“Ready to go home?”

John smiled and squeezed Sherlock’s hand in his.

“Now I am.”

They walked away, heading back through Regent’s Park, as the police vehicles pulled out into traffic. The duo were surrounded by the sounds of leaves rustling and cold wind blowing past them as they made their way through the park in the dark, following the trail of old yellowed street lights every couple hundred feet.

The lovers had been walking silently for a while when Sherlock decided to voice a thought of his.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you that angry before.”

John glanced over at his partner and struggled to think of what he should say when Sherlock added:

“Is it weird that I kind of liked it?”

John’s eyes went wide and a surprised laugh burst from his lips, devolving into a fit of giggles that had him leaning into Sherlock’s side for support. Sherlock smirked, looking down at the head of greying blonde hair against his upper arm.

Once John could speak, he flirted, “You ‘liked it’, hmm?”

“Not so much the ‘you being angry’ part, but yes.” Sherlock admitted, squeezing John’s hand. “I especially liked the way you disarmed him. Simple but effective.”

John bumped his hip into Sherlock’s.

“Your military kink is showing, love.”

“Oh piss off.”

John laughed heartily and Sherlock chuckled with him, unable to keep up the angry façade with John’s laughter in his ears.

They were almost back to the flat when he noticed John limping. Sherlock stopped the pair and rested a hand on John’s shoulder, squatting down and picking up the shorter man bridal style. John squeaked in surprise and clutched onto Sherlock, arms around his neck.

“What are you doing?!” He demanded.

“You were limping.” Sherlock replied, calm as ever.

“That doesn’t mean you need to carry me!”

“Perhaps,” Sherlock conceded, “but I want to. Besides, you’d keep going until you were crawling across the ground if I’d let you refuse my help.”

John glared at Sherlock’s profile and sighed, resigning himself to his fate. He let Sherlock carry him up to their flat’s front door when he wormed his way out of Sherlock’s grip. Pleased that John let him carry the soldier thus far, Sherlock didn’t argue when John walked up the steps.

He guided John with hands on the shorter man’s shoulders toward the bedroom, telling him,

“Off to bed, mon cher. I’ll get your medicine.”

“I think I’m going to soak in the bath, first.” John grimaced as he walked. “Get my muscle relaxer? The methocarbamol?”

“I will. Go soak in the bath.” Sherlock kissed the back of John’s head as the soldier opened the bathroom door. Sherlock grabbed a glass of water from the kitchen and John’s prescription, listening as John got into the bath with a groan of pain.

Walking in, he handed over the water and pill to John for him to take. John gave the glass back, and Sherlock bent down and kissed John’s forehead.

Something vibrated on the floor, and both men looked over at John’s trousers. Sherlock bent down and fished out the device that had been notifying them, unlocking John’s phone.

The D.I. said you found the man that stabbed Harry. Thank you, John. For everything.

Sherlock read the text aloud to John, and John smiled.

“Text her back for me?” He asked. “I don’t want to risk my phone falling in the tub.”

Sherlock hummed and sat down on the floor, putting his back against the tub near John’s chest. It was as close as he could get without getting in the bath, and he didn’t want to leave John’s side.

John is in the bath and cannot reply, but he’s pleased to have helped. –SH

Oh! I didn’t expect a reply, to be honest. Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows at that. Tell him thank you for me, then.

“John?”

“Mm?” John’s reply was almost inaudible, just a distant hum of acknowledgement.

 “Why would Clara not expect a reply from you?”

“What?” John slurred, lifting his head from the lip of the tub.

“Clara said she hadn’t expected a reply.”

John was quiet for a long moment before he murmured, “She used to write me when I was overseas. Sometimes I’d reply, but most of the time I ignored her.”

“Why?”

“Harry made it clear she didn’t want to talk to me.” John sighed. “I didn’t want to talk to her, either. Clara was trying to get us to work it out, and… I got tired of being the adult. Being the one expected to take care of things while Harry got to act like a child.”

Sherlock’s lips tightened into a frown as he thought, brow furrowing slightly, and he stared down at the message Clara left on John’s phone.

“What about now?”

“What about it?”

“Do you want to try now?”

The bathroom was silent for a long while. Sherlock didn’t dare speak, too afraid of interrupting whatever thoughts John was sorting through.

“Maybe.” John finally whispered. “I’ll think about it.”

“You have plenty of time to make a decision, mon cher.” Sherlock murmured sweetly to him, moving to stand up off the floor with a grunt. “You’re under no obligation to make things work. I certainly wouldn’t blame you if you decided not to try. It would be hypocritical.”

John nodded slightly, absentmindedly agreeing, and smiled when Sherlock tilted his chin up to kiss him softly. Sherlock left John’s phone on the counter for when the doctor finished soaking his sore muscles, opting not to reply to Clara. That was for John to decide upon.

Chapter Text

“You still need to text your mum.”

Sherlock groaned, rolling his eyes. He turned onto his side, facing the back of the couch, wrapping his robe tighter around his body. John side-eyed his form laying on the cushions, sitting in the new armchair he’d bought, newspaper in his hands. They had finally wrapped the play last week, and he was discovering the highs and lows of spending more time with Sherlock Holmes.

Currently, he was dealing with one of his “moods”, as Sherlock had once called them.

“I said I’m bored, John, not dying.” Sherlock snapped. John looked down at the newspaper again.

He didn’t bother trying to read it. He’d been trying for the past hour and getting almost nowhere.

“Sure sounds like you are.” He argued. “Dying, that is. I’m fully aware you’re bored.”

Sherlock turned and flopped dramatically onto his back, groaning louder.

“I need a case.”

“Thirty-seven.”

“I. Need. A. Case.”

“Thirty-eight.”

“Would you stop that?!”

John clenched his jaw and lowered the newspaper, finding Sherlock glaring at him. John glared back.

“I already told you to text Lestrade. I can’t make him reply to you, Sherlock.” John stood up from his chair and grabbed Sherlock’s phone from the desk, tossing it onto Sherlock’s chest as he passed by, grabbing his boyfriend’s discarded cup of tea. “Try calling him if you’re so desperate.”

Sherlock snarled angrily, but John ignored him, walking off toward the kitchen. Sherlock scowled, disappointed that he didn’t illicit a reaction, then picked his phone up and unlocked it.

He checked his recent messages, finding nothing from Lestrade.

“Text your mother, Sherlock Holmes.” John reminded him pointedly from the kitchen. Sherlock glared daggers at where the sound came from. “Do you hear me?”

Sherlock considered not replying, wondering how far he could push John, when John raised his voice a few seconds later.

“Sherlock.”

“Yes, yes,” Sherlock gave in with an exasperated voice, “Fine, I’ll text her.”

Still frowning and angry, Sherlock typed out a text to his mother and hit send.

John and I will come over for Christmas. –SH

He had half a mind to throw his phone out the window, now that the deed had been done, but miraculously refrained.

Wonderful! Ask him if he’s spending dinner with us or his own family. –WH

Sherlock’s anger softened, rereading the message. He was about to tell his mother that John had no family on his side, when he remembered Harry and Clara.

“John?”

Someone sighed in the kitchen.

“Yes, Sherlock?” The soldier replied tiredly, expected yet another tirade about being bored. He was surprised when Sherlock’s voice maintained the soft, careful tone he’d just used.

“Will you…” Sherlock paused. “Are you, rather, wanting to see Harry for Christmas?”

The clinking of tea cups in the sink stopped. Sherlock listened intently, hoping he hadn’t crossed a line. John hadn’t talked about Harry since the night she was stabbed, and that was three weeks ago.

John appeared in the threshold between the kitchen and the living room, and Sherlock ran his eyes over him. John licked his bottom lip in his usual nervous fashion.

             Anxious

                                                                      Conflicted

                                                                                                                Wary

“I… don’t know.” John admitted softly, staring blankly at the floorboards, lost in thought.

“You’re worried to open that door again.” Sherlock deduced. John flicked his eyes up to Sherlock’s. “Understandably worried.”

The blonde nodded, agreeing, and rubbed his face. Stressed.

“Have you talked to Clara?”

“Since that night?” John sighed. “Yes, I have. In texts.”

“And was it… okay?”

John thought for a long moment.

“Yeah, it was. But I’ve never had a problem talking to her.” John walked over and sat with Sherlock on the couch. Sherlock let John have his space, setting his own phone off to the side for the moment.

“Well… maybe you could ask your therapist.” Sherlock suggested, crossing his legs so he could face John on the couch. John’s lips tightened into a line, weighing his options. “They were correct in thinking theatre would help you, after all.”

“True.” John hummed. “Okay. Yeah. I’ll ask her.”

Sherlock smiled. Pleased that he did something right, he leaned over and kissed John’s cheek.

“I’ll tell Mum we’ll eat dinner with her and Father on Christmas.”

“No Mycroft?” John joked. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Don’t remind me of his existence.”

John chuckled and patted Sherlock’s knee, getting up to continue the washing up from lunch. Sherlock grabbed his phone and texted his mother.

It’s complicated. John is estranged. We’ll eat dinner. –SH

As Sherlock set his phone down, another text notification popped up on his screen. Seeing who the sender was, his eyes darkened.

Are we doing Christmas dinners now? –MH

Sherlock tossed his phone away and it clattered on the rug. The brunette was disappointed that the screen didn’t shatter.

“I need a case.” Sherlock sulked, talking to no one in particular. John answered him from the kitchen.

“Thirty-nine.”

When John was finished cleaning up, he realized that Sherlock hadn’t replied. Odd, he thought to himself as he walked into the living room. He found Sherlock curled on his side facing the back of the couch and the detective’s phone in the middle of the floor. Frowning with concern, he strode over to the device on the floor and picked it up.

The movement made the device light up, and he caught a glimpse of the text from Mycroft. John’s jaw tightened and he huffed out a sigh from his nose. John hadn’t personally received any texts from the elder Holmes brother; in fact he hadn’t heard anything from Mycroft since he gave John “a lift” to rehearsal months ago.

Passive-aggressive prick, John cursed mentally.

An idea came to mind, one that hopefully would distract them both, and he stepped over to the coat rack. Sherlock, noticing that the pace and tone in John’s movements changed, looked over his body and searched for John just in time to see his coat be tossed across his waist.

“Come on, we’re going Christmas shopping.”

Sherlock groaned loudly and fell back into his sulk, curling up tighter.

“Sherlock.”

“No.”

“We’ve got to do it at some point anyways,” John argued, “and you’re bored. You have literally nothing better to do.”

“I can think of a hundred things better for me to do than buying meaningful gifts for my family, especially Mycroft.”

John rolled his eyes.

“Who said you had to buy him a nice gift?”

The short blonde watched the wheels turning in Sherlock’s mind. John smirked lopsidedly.

“I’m sure as hell not.” John continued. “At least, not this Christmas. Maybe a few Christmases from now I’ll consider it.”

Sherlock sat up and laid the coat off to the side so he could stand and take his robe off. John grinned.

The detective pulled his coat on, adjusting it on his shoulders with a sharp tug on the lapels.

“I’m getting him the worst gift.”

John chuckled and patted Sherlock’s back, “That’s the spirit, darling.”

Chapter Text

Sherlock and John strolled through the shopping complex, holding hands and smiling as they talked idly about gift ideas. It was nice to be back in the warm indoors after walking in the cold.

“What does your mother want?” John asked, glancing at store names and through shop windows as they passed by.

“I’m not sure.” Sherlock hummed. “She spends a lot of her time shopping as it is.”

“Oh? For what?”

“Clothes.” Sherlock absently replied, deducing people they walked past for entertainment.

“Good thing I didn’t plan on buying her clothes.” John joked. “She likes to cook, though, right?”

“I believe she does now. She didn’t use to.” Sherlock noticed John studying a storefront and slowed down, allowing him to stop and ponder it. “I don’t know much about her in detail, to be honest.”

“How?” John searched the storefront for something interesting. “You spent your entire childhood with her.”

“Not exactly.” Sherlock admitted. “She spent most of my childhood following Father around to various art shows or working. She was also an event coordinator, so she travelled a lot.”

John’s heart saddened at the admission and he frowned. “Who took care of you, then?”

“Mycroft mostly. Sometimes a nanny.” Sherlock turned and glanced over the heads of passerby, seeking out an interesting ‘gift’ for his brother. “Now that she’s retired and Father is slowing down, she’s trying to make up for lost time.”

The blonde was glad that Sherlock wasn’t paying him much attention, because it allowed John to scowl at the information presented to him. Sherlock’s mum seemed kindhearted, but she had kept Sherlock from forming an attachment to her by being so distant.

No wonder he dislikes interacting with her, John solemnly thought.

“Well, I suppose late is better than never?” He tried. Sherlock hummed absently. “What do you want to get her?”

Sherlock took a deep breath, staring blankly ahead as he thought aloud:

“She likes reading. Nonfiction crime novels. She also likes cooking, now, so a cooking tool of some kind may act as a good gift. There’s also her affinity for pop culture merchandise, though I know nothing of what she likes. Also she likes animals. A pet? No, not in one place long enough to care for a pet properly. At least, not a dog or cat.”

“We’re not buying her a pet.” John definitively said. “What about jewelry?”

Sherlock considered it for a moment. “Jewelry is a good possibility. Difficult to purchase an accidental copy of jewelry, unlike with clothes.”

“Alright, we’ll start with jewelry.” John decided for them, walking them over to a store. “She doesn’t care about price tags, right?”

“Correct.” Sherlock followed behind John, letting him lead the way down the mall corridor. “As long as it is aesthetically pleasing, she will be happy.”

They wandered through the store, looking at several displays, before settling on a gold necklace chain with an opaque white opal hanging delicately down. It didn’t take them long to find something for Wanda, but Sherlock noticed John eying a display at the counter for engraved dog tags. He filed that information away for later review.

As they left the store, John murmured, “I didn’t want to say it in there since it was so quiet, but I liked that blue necklace you pointed out. It would look great on you.”

Sherlock blushed lightly and squeezed John’s hand. John chuckled at his boyfriend’s reaction, earning himself a hip bump from Sherlock.

“Now for your father.” John redirected the conversation.

“Easy. Painting supplies. He’s always excited about new supplies.”

John smirked. “Alright, we’ll save that for last then. How about Mycroft?”

“Now that is the question.” Sherlock murmured to himself, looking around. “It can’t be too mean or Mum will be cross.”

“Well, Prince Hamlet, let’s keep walking.” John joked, pulling Sherlock by their joined hands to explore the mall. “Maybe we’ll find some inspiration.”

Find inspiration they did. They found in a bookstore a pink novelty notebook with the British crown and white text that said “Keep Calm and be a Queen” on it. Sherlock grinned proudly as he bought the atrocious gift, picturing Mycroft’s face when he would inevitably see it.

John found something similar in the same store and laughed as he showed it to Sherlock. It was a navy blue mug with “Future Brother-in-Law” written in all capital letters in white font. Sherlock giggled, and that was all the approval John needed to buy the mug. He bought a bar of chocolate as well and put it inside, and laughed heartily when the bookstore attendant offered to put a bow on the gift for a little extra.

Of course, John said yes.

They left the bookstore and walked down the mall corridor, heading toward the hobby store across the complex, and Sherlock spotted a pet store on the way. He gripped John’s hand tighter and led him over to it, and John followed with a smirk. This is one way to keep Sherlock entertained, he figured, unsurprised when Sherlock led him around the store.

The couple petted the smaller animals like bunnies and hamsters, even a few ferrets, and then Sherlock noticed the birds. Specifically, one species of bird in particular caught his eye. He left John’s side as the doctor stroked a finger cautiously over a tan rabbit’s head.

Sherlock stopped in front of the rainbow feathers of the large bird, watching the creature narrow judgmental eyes at him. The detective offered his forearm. The macaw studied him with sly eyes for a long moment.

It deemed him worthy and stepped up slowly, waiting to see if Sherlock would try to attack it.

“I won’t hurt you.” Sherlock reassured. The corner of his lip curled upward in a smile as the bird settled on his forearm. He was glad he was still wearing his coat. Those nails were quite sharp.

As he admired the bird, he felt someone pressed into his side, an arm wrapping around his waist.

“I see you’ve found what you’d look like as a bird.” John joked, laughing when Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed.

“I choose to take that as a compliment.” Sherlock muttered. John kissed Sherlock’s coat shoulder.

“As you should. It’s a beautiful bird.” John grinned and whispered in Sherlock’s ear, “You’re a pretty bird, too.”

Sherlock blushed lightly, distracting himself by stroking a finger over the bird’s neck feathers.

“Macaw, right?” John questioned, tentatively reaching out to mimic Sherlock’s touch.

“Correct. Specifically the green-winged macaw. South American species.” Sherlock remarked. “Often confused with the scarlet macaw, green-winged macaws are gentler and larger than scarlet's. They also have red feathers in the bald patch by their eyes that scarlet's lack.”

John listened with a small smile, fascinated by Sherlock’s knowledge. He watched his boyfriend carefully stroke the bird, putting it back when the bird shifted on his arm, letting Sherlock know it wanted off.

“Why do you know that?” John asked his lover, arm wrapped around his waist still. “About those two birds, that is.”

“I was interested in pet birds growing up.” Sherlock replied, still watching the macaw as it got settled on its perch. “Mum wouldn’t let me get one. Too noisy.”

“Fair.” John relented. He’d been wincing off and on from the ever-constant screeching of the other parrots in the room since they walked in the store.

They walked out and finished their shopping trip, and John was sure to call Sherlock his pretty rainbow bird a few more times just to get a reaction out of his boyfriend. Often times that reaction was a playful shove or a demand to shut up, but he enjoyed the attention all the same.

Chapter Text

His therapist suggested that he follow his gut, but John wasn’t sure what his gut was telling him. She suggested talking to Clara one-on-one first, establishing boundaries and gathering information that might sway his decision, and John figured that was as good a place to start as any.

They met during Clara’s lunch break at a café in the same building as her employer. Sherlock was off at Bart’s working on an experiment, which meant he was likely bent over a microscope studying the effects of toxins on different blood types and blood disorders. Therefore, he was adequately busy, and John didn’t need to worry about coming home to the entire living room being rearranged.

When he saw Clara, he walked over and offered her a small smile. She was sitting at a table eating a sandwich when she noticed him approaching. She offered a timid smile in return and stood up, giving him a small hug.

“Hey, Clara.” John greeted as he sat down. “How are you?”

“I’m doing alright.” Clara replied, sitting down as well. “Harry is healed up and back to work.”

“She’s working?” John asked, surprised. He’d never seen Harry hold a job for longer than a couple months.

Clara smiled proudly and nodded.

“She’s working at the Tesco near our flat.” Clara elaborated. “It’s not much, but… you know.”

“I know.” John reassured with a tiny smile. It wasn’t much, but it was more than Harry had done in the past. “How long has she been there?”

Clara thought for a moment, lips pursed.

“I want to say… four months?” John was a bit disappointed it had been such a short time frame, but there was hope in Clara’s voice when she added, “I think she’s going to keep at it this time.”

John wished he could share her optimism.

“How long has she been sober?” John asked cautiously, and Clara’s optimism faltered somewhat.

“Well, she, um…” Clara sighed. “She relapsed recently.”

John frowned. “Oh.”

“The mugger… She said it brought up some bad memories. Of Richard.”

John’s frown deepened. He figured he knew what memory was triggered out. He had to watch Mum console a sobbing Harriet after ordering their father to leave the house when he’d found out she had a girlfriend and retaliated.

“Fair enough.” John sighed sadly, looking at his joined hands on the table.

“She’d been sober for a while before that, though.” Clara added with her usual hopeful tone. “Over three years.”

John’s sad face shifted into a solemn smile.

“How recently did she relapse?” John questioned, smile fading. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer.

“A couple weeks ago. She’s back to doing AA again. I’ve got her an appointment to see her therapist in a few days.”

“Good, good.” John felt relief at hearing that Harry was at least seeking help. “Thank you, Clara.”

“Of course.”

“For everything.” John’s jaw clenched. Emotions swelled up in his chest, and he didn’t know where they were coming from exactly. “You’ve done so much for her, and… even after everything, with the breaking up and getting back together and me leaving for the Army, you managed to take care of her better than I ever did.”

Clara’s eyes softened and started to shine.

“You tried, John.” She whispered. “She didn’t want to be helped until…” Her voice trailed off, and she swallowed thickly. “Well, I guess now is as good a time as any to tell you… She almost died.”

John’s eyes closed when Clara confessed that to him, his shoulders tensing.

“She drank too much and… if I hadn’t found her…” She paused for a moment, trying to reign her emotions in. “I had to go to therapy after that, and I kept having nightmares about it, and I think she finally felt guilty enough to… change. She didn’t care if she died, but… I think seeing me struggle was too much.”

John was shaking. Part of him wasn’t surprised, but a part of him was still shocked. He knew something bad would happen eventually, logically he knew even when he cut contact that it was only a matter of time, but part of him still couldn’t comprehend that it happened. Harry had always been uncannily lucky like that, avoiding near death experiences by the skin of her teeth.

“I’m glad she made it.” John whispered, unsure of what to say in response. “I wish… I wish I knew. And could’ve helped.”

Clara reached over and took John’s hand, squeezing it gently to reassure him.

“I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d worry, and… you needed to focus more on not getting shot.” She tried to joke.

By the pain in John’s eyes, she knew she said something wrong. John let out a shaky breath and coughed, trying to clear his throat of the lump that was lodged inside. What John’s boyfriend had said about John’s shoulder was brought to the forefront of her mind again. It had come up several times since then, and she had wanted to ask John about it but never knew how.

“About that.” John’s jaw clenched. Clara waited patiently for him to talk, knowing John well enough not to push him to do anything when he was feeling strong emotions. “Two years ago, I, uh…”

A flash of a memory appeared in John’s mind and he closed his eyes tightly, willing it away. Clara saw his face contort in a wince and squeezed John’s hand. John took in a deep breath, opening his eyes and focusing on the table and his hand in Clara’s.

“I was shot.” He finally admitted in a breath. “Twice.”

He didn’t dare look up from where he was staring, not wanting to see the pain in Clara’s face.

“What?” She breathed, bordering on barely audible. “What happened?”

John rolled his shoulders, feeling them tensing with the memory and trying to rid himself of the ache that was starting in his left shoulder.

“I was treating someone when I was shot from behind. By a sniper. My, um, my mate, Murray?” John glanced up at Clara, waiting for her to remember the man.

Clara nodded, whispering, “Yes, yes I remember him. You used to study with him for tests.”

John nodded shortly. “Yes. Well. He was there, and he was the one who…” John trailed off, blinking rapidly a few times. “He saved my life. Somehow. Almost didn’t make it, but…”

Clara’s chin wobbled and she stood up, walking around the table to hug John tightly. John gave a surprised look and breathed in shakily, left hand trembling on the table as he wrapped his right arm around Clara’s back.

“I’m so glad you’re okay.” She whimpered. “Oh my God, John. Why didn’t you tell me?”

John’s eyes teared up without his permission and he closed them.

“I don’t…” John swallowed and tried again. “I don’t like thinking about it.”

“Is that what your boyfriend meant? When he said for you to rest your shoulder?” Clara worried over John, leaning away and placing gentle thin hands on both John’s shoulders. “Which one is it? Where?”

“My left one.” John choked out, wiping his eyes. “Buggering hell.”

“Twice?” Clara repeated, her hand rubbing over John’s left shoulder blade, staring at the clothing covering it. John shook his head.

“Only once in the shoulder.” He cleared his throat as he tried to steady his voice. “The other is in my calf. The bullet.”

“The bullet is still there?” She breathed in horror, looking down at John’s legs. “Which one?”

“The right one.”

She frowned, tears staining her cheeks. John grabbed his handkerchief and dabbed them away.

“I’m sorry. I made you ruin your makeup.”

“My makeup?” She said in disbelief. “You’ve been shot and you’re worried about ruining my makeup?”

“It was almost three years ago.” John dismissed. Before he could even finish the sentence Clara was cutting him off.

“No, none of that. I don’t care if it was ten years ago or last week, John. I can redo my bloody makeup.”

John couldn’t help but give a little smile at Clara’s aggressive care.

“How are you now?” Clara demanded, taking the handkerchief from John to press under her eyes carefully.

“Physically? I’m… pretty great, considering.” John swallowed, his mouth feeling dry. “Mentally…”

His pointed silence made Clara frown. Seeing her worried face, John quickly added,

“But I have a therapist, one that specializes in trauma disorders, so… I’m in good hands. She’s already helped me a lot. So don’t worry.”

Clara smiled, both pained and relieved.

“I’m glad.” Clara went to say something when her phone chirped repeatedly. She sighed and grabbed her phone, swiping something. “That was my break alarm. I’ve got to head back in ten minutes.”

“I’ll let you eat and settle down, then.” John stood up. “I’m sorry I sprung all that on you.”

“It’s okay.” Clara set her phone down and hugged John tightly, and John hugged her back, being gentle as to not squish her too hard. She was emotionally as strong as compressed diamond, but physically she was delicate like a flower. “I’m glad you told me.”

“When I realized I never told you two that night… I knew I had to, even if Harry and I never talked again. I had to tell you at least.”

“And I’m glad you did.” Clara repeated, letting John go to smile gratefully at him. “If you ever need anything, John, just ask.”

“Likewise, Clara.”

Clara kissed John’s cheek goodbye politely and John left, pocketing his handkerchief.

Chapter Text

“Alright, let’s watch this video of yours.”

The three men settled down in the sitting room once the electronics were hooked up correctly and Murray pressed the play button on his laptop. They watched for a brief second as the video buffered on the television before starting.

The camera shook before settling on a few figures, illuminated in night vision.

“I got it working!” Murray exclaimed proudly. A few men cheered from the sidelines. “Alright, let the races begin!”

In the present, John threw his head back and laughed. Murray grinned knowingly at him.

“Is this-”

“Oh yeah.”

“Oh my god.” John laughed again. “I forgot you videotaped this.” Sherlock watched the video with confused amusement.

The camera panned to two soldiers making lightsaber noises and aiming lasers up in the air, gesturing with the sights as if they were having a lightsaber battle. Murray laughed behind the camera and John said, “Oh my God, Murray, look.”

As Murray panned the camera the other way, John’s arm could be seen for a moment pointing toward another group of men. Two soldiers sat on the ground on their tailbones while another lay prone and aimed the laser perpendicular to them a couple yards away. They started scooting towards the finish line, shoving each other and grunting with the effort a few times as onlookers laughed heartily.

“I’m still impressed that no one broke anything.” John chuckled.

“Oh, like when somebody broke the smoke grenade?”

John held his stomach and laughed. “Please tell me you found that video.”

“Oh, you bloody well know it mate.”

Sherlock was torn between watching the video and watching John. At any moment he could catch a glimpse of the soldier before he was invalidated, he could see his John before they even knew of each other's existence, but John was decidedly not a focal point of this first video. So, Sherlock found himself watching John and Murray converse about different soldiers, allowing himself to fade into the background to observe.

Years of John's pain melted away from his face in an instant at seeing his glory days playing out on the television screen. His eyes shone with life in a way that Sherlock had typically only seen after cases, where adrenaline was high and the serious mood was lifted by light-hearted banter. His posture was relaxed, joyful even, and he was even gesturing with his left hand while his right was cradling Sherlock's on the detective's thigh. Sherlock theorized that this version of John sitting beside him currently was the closest semblance to the famed Captain Watson that he would ever meet.

The camera was shaky for a moment as the person manning it adjusted their grip. Once it refocused on the subject of the shot, a young brunette John wearing his RAMC uniform with his hands in his pockets strode into frame. Following him was a tanned soldier with chocolate-colored eyes.

“Captain Watson, I’ve got a question.” Murray said behind the camera. John and the other soldier looked over. John noticed the camera and rolled his eyes.

“Oh lord, Murray, what now?”

“How many Mexicans does it take to screw in a lightbulb?”

John narrowed his eyes. “I…” he sighed in defeat. “How many, Murray?”

“Juan.”

John shook his head, knowing it was best to just let Murray tell his shitty jokes than try to stop him. Both men burst out laughing when the other soldier said in a thick Spanish accent,

“How many Mexicans does it take to beat an Englishman’s ass, pendejo?”

Murray and John both snickered in present day and Sherlock arched a bemused brow.

“I knew Juan’s reaction would be worth it.” Murray grinned. John rolled his eyes.

“You just liked pissing him off.”

“Of course I did! His reactions are priceless!”

The quality of the camera changed and the frame was far more consistently shaky, suggesting a mobile camera attached to a person’s clothing. The person clicked something into place near the camera and adjusted it.

“What’s this?” John asked, mildly confused. He could see desert and other soldiers in combat armor, but he didn’t recognize the area from being on base.

“Let’s just say one of our army mates got me some footage.” Murray replied vaguely and in a mischievous tone. John raised an eyebrow at Murray’s comment but, figuring it was easier to claim plausible deniability later if he refrained, he didn’t ask more questions.

“Alright, ready to go.” Murray said his usual tone of humor replaced by seriousness.

“Copy that.” John said over the radio. “Fifth North, board the APC when able.”

A soft cut in the video with text saying A few minutes later… popped up on screen. Considering the height of the camera, it was mounted on Murray’s helmet. John was walking beside Murray, now, in the middle of an Afghani road. The two soldiers walked side by side in quiet calm, the sound of a river gently crashing against the shore to their right faintly gracing the camera’s audio.

“Alright?” Murray questioned. John hummed a calm affirmative.

Murray glanced over, and John opened his mouth to speak. His hair was sun-bleached from exposure, turning his hair into a dark blonde, but he wasn’t grey yet. Suddenly he furrowed his brows and looked into the distance.

“What the…?” He whispered, raising a hand to the radio at his shoulder. “Whiskey, what the hell are you guys doing?”

Murray looked ahead and the camera showed a faint outline of shapes around a wooden boat.

“Boarding the APC, Captain.” Another voice replied over the radio. Murray erupted in laughter and John groaned.

“When I said ‘APC’ I didn't mean the bloody skiff!”

Several voices laughed over the radio, and the footage ended with a few of the men standing to get out of the rowboat.

“Count on Whiskey to lighten up the mood, ey?” Murray joked before swigging his beer. John chuckled.

“He was one hell of a lad.”

The slightly somber mood, Sherlock deduced, was well as the use of past tense suggested the man was no longer alive. He squeezed John’s hand in his and the doctor glanced over at him. John gave Sherlock a soft smile that said ‘I’m fine’, and Sherlock studied his eyes for a moment before relenting.

Instead of Murray’s perspective, the camera showed someone following a line of soldiers making their way through a dense woodland area. Captions along the bottom indicated who was speaking and what they were saying.

“Fucking… whispering.” Someone murmured behind the cameraman. The leader stopped progressing and turned to look at the soldier in question. John’s face was tired looking with dark circles around his eyes. His hair was still dark blonde, but there were several grey hairs that stood out in the shaded light of the forest.

“Sorry?” John’s voice replied in a tense tone.

“Whispering on the left.” The soldier clarified. “Do you hear it?”

Both men stared at each other for a moment in silence. The soldiers a few yards away stopped as well, not daring to progress past their Captain’s point.

“Whispering?” John repeated.

“Yeah. Do you hear that?”

Another pause punctuated the air for a long moment.

“Don’t go Lost on me.” John tried to joke. “Don’t go invisible smoke monster or some bullshit.”

The soldier laughed softly. “Oh, no no no, it’s gone now.”

The screen faded to black and white text saying A few minutes later… appeared on screen before the next video faded in.

Ahead of John, at the edge of the forest, stood a group of individuals waiting on a squadron to arrive. John sighed in relief and joked as he approached,

“Ah, reinforcements. Listen, if Carson starts saying weird shit, just ignore him, alright?”

“Fuck you!” Carson called out from behind John, causing the other soldiers around them to laugh.

“I seriously thought the bloke was at his breaking point.” John commented. It took Sherlock a few extra seconds to stop focusing on John’s fatigue trousers. They hugged his arse and toned legs beautifully, especially when he had been crouch walking.

“Did he actually hear something or was he hallucinating?” Murray questioned, looking over at his friend. John sipped his Bailey’s. "I meant to ask when we got back to base but we had that firefight later and I totally forgot."

“Little bit of both, I think. He hadn’t slept since we left Sanjin.”

“Ah, alright.”

John sat in the passenger seat of a Humvee travelling up a dirt road with cliffs on either side, enjoying the simple conversation being had behind him between the rest of the soldiers. The quiet radio screeched to life after a moment.

“I’m a fucking mountain goat.” Murray’s voice said through the radio. The squadron laughed and John raised his hand to his radio on his shoulder to respond.

“You’re 80 to 90 tons, Murray.”

“I’m a 90-ton mountain goat. So what? I ate a bit. Are you fat shaming my tank? Fuck you!”

The soldiers roared with laughter, including their captain, who responded between laughs with,

“You’re one slow-ass mountain goat, mate.”

John and Murray laughed on the couch and Sherlock rolled his eyes at the two men in the video. Past Murray continued to call John obscenities over the radio and soon the other soldiers were joining in, cracking jokes at the expense of both medics. With every joke the three men in the present day chuckled or laughed or rolled their eyes.

"John'sa fwaggot." one of the foreign soldiers said in a lisped, slurred unrecognized accent some time after the radio chatter had died down. John glanced back at the soldier in question before looking at one of the soldiers next to him, utterly perplexed.

"Did he just call me a 'fwaggot'?" He remarked in absolute disbelief. The soldier nodded and held his stomach, laughing heartily.

"Eah I call'd yeu'a fwaggot!" The foreign soldier responded in barely intelligible English.

John stared at him blankly.

"I… what?"

"I shed yeu'a fwaggot yeu umb wick."

John looked at the rest of the group. "Does anybody know what this fucker's saying?"

Another soldier mumbled something in another language - Norwegian, according to the subtitles. "I swear I am surrounded by idiots."

"Great, now Locke is speaking Elvish." John jokingly complained. The group laughed and the Norwegian-speaking soldier rolled his eyes with a smile.

"Thanks for the subtitles, mate." John thanked Murray, sipping his drink once he finished laughing. "I still couldn't understand that bloke."

"No one could, and I doubt they can now!" Murray exclaimed. "I'm still trying to figure out where the fucker's from."

"Vietnam."

John and Murray both looked at Sherlock with perplexed expressions.

"How…?" Murray's question trailed off. The group heard the next clip start and Murray paused it, intrigued to know what Sherlock knew.

"Well, Hue to be specific. The region is known for its thick accent and the residents having great difficulty pronouncing English words. I had a case once where my client was from Hue. He had immigrated to England and thought he was being stalked by a Vietnamese gang that followed him."

“Seriously?” Murray breathed in astonishment. “What happened?”

“It wasn’t a Vietnamese gang. It wasn’t really even a gang. It was just a group of criminals that was staking his place out, waiting for the best time to rob him. Quite boring.”

John rolled his eyes at Sherlock’s comment about the case being boring and kissed his cheek.

“Brilliant.” John complimented. Sherlock blushed.

Chapter Text

“That was a blast, mate. Give me a copy, yeah?”

Sherlock blinked and focused on the present once more. He’d been staring like a starving man at a buffet at the frozen image of John on the screen when it suddenly disappeared. Sherlock immediately saved the image to his Mind Palace. A jogging John Watson, shirtless and golden in the morning sunrise, wearing nothing but his desert camo fatigue trousers and a pair of tan combat boots: it was unfair, really. How was Sherlock expected to focus on anything besides the rhythmic bouncing of John’s dog tags off his defined chest? His eyes were drawn to it like a moth to a lightbulb.

The fact that John was scared half to death seconds afterwards by a fake grenade rolling into his path didn’t sway Sherlock’s decision that the video had been the best of the bunch.

John wiped a tear of laughter from his eye and Murray finished off his second bottle.

“I figured you’d want one. I’ve got a copy for ya already.” Murray stood and walked over to his laptop and fished out a CD case from his bag. “Even put it on a CD for ya, old man.”

“Oh fuck off.” John chuckled and Murray set the CD on the desk.

“Only if you pay for the cab.” Murray teased. John rolled his eyes and Murray laughed.

The army doctor walked his best friend down to the curb, saying goodbye with a hug, and then walked back upstairs. He opened the door and found Sherlock still staring absently at the blank screen, and he quirked a brow.

“Love?” John said, watching his boyfriend’s profile. Sherlock blinked and quickly glanced over to John, a blush on his cheeks. John’s brow stayed up as he smirked, leaning against the door frame.

“You alright?”

“Yeah-” Sherlock’s voice was hoarse and strained. He coughed to clear it and tried again. “Yes, I’m… I’m alright.”

John grinned. He wasn’t sure what caused Sherlock’s arousal – he had a guess – but he was certainly happy to capitalize on it all the same.

The soldier pushed himself off the door frame he was leaning on and closed the door. Sherlock swallowed as John neared, their eyes locked on each other. John straddled his lap and held his face, kissing him teasingly slow, and Sherlock melted beneath the soldier.

“Did you see something you liked?” John asked in a breath, hand sliding down Sherlock’s front to cup the crotch of his dress trousers.

Sherlock’s breathing hitched and he shivered. John’s grin turned wolfish.

“You did, didn’t you?” He purred. “I wonder what it could have been.”

“You already know.” Sherlock deduced breathlessly.

“I assume it has something to do with the videos.” He licked a stripe up the side of Sherlock’s neck, pleased when Sherlock shivered again and moaned a tiny noise. “Care to tell me specifics?”

“The last one.” Sherlock closed his eyes. It was impressively difficult to think with John’s mouth on his throat. “The jogging one.”

“Ohhh,” the soldier rumbled, “you liked that one did you?”

“’Like’ is an understatement.”

John chuckled darkly.

“You prefer your army men half naked and out of breath, hmm?” John teased, leaning back to look at Sherlock. He curled a finger under Sherlock’s chin and held it with his thumb, guiding Sherlock to look at him. The detective appeared utterly frazzled and he adored it.

“Just you.” Sherlock corrected. “Just my army man.”

John’s grin softened into a loving and lustful, toothy smile.

“You prefer me half naked and out of breath?”

Sherlock smirked. “I prefer you fully naked, usually.” John laughed.

“What if I wore my fatigues?” John questioned with a dirty image in his mind. "Half naked or fully naked?" Sherlock’s pupils flared.

“Do you have them?” The hope in Sherlock’s voice was unmistakable. John’s grin could have rivaled the Cheshire cat as he stood up. The soldier beamed as he ordered,

“Wait there.”

What followed must have been the longest ten minutes of Sherlock’s entire life. Had John not ordered him to wait, he likely would’ve followed him to their bedroom. What would he have done if he’d gone? Sherlock wasn’t sure, but it likely would not have resulted in John walking out looking like a gift to humanity.

“Always knew a second set would come in handy.”

John stood at the threshold of the kitchen and the living room, and he looked even better in person than he did in those videos. He was in full desert camo fatigues, the shirt bearing his last name on his left shoulder, embroidered professionally with black thread. The collar of an olive green undershirt peaked out from underneath John’s collar. The shirt was neatly tucked into his fatigue trousers, which had been tucked into his thick tan combat boots. A red cross on a white strip of fabric was sewed onto John’s left sleeve, beneath a small patch of the United Kingdom’s flag. On John’s head was a burgundy beret with the symbol of the Royal Army Medical Corps at the front, the same one Sherlock had seen John wear before.

Sherlock stared at John, his mouth slightly parted, and John grinned smugly, putting his hands in his trouser pockets.

“So you like it, huh?” Sherlock didn’t process John’s teasing remark, just merely stared. “Sherlock?” No response. “I didn’t break you, did I?” John laughed, cheeks flushed pink.

Sherlock closed his mouth and swallowed before standing, and suddenly John felt more like prey than predator.

The detective crowded John into the kitchen and against the table with enough force to send the solid wood object screeching backwards several inches. John’s eyes were wide as Sherlock grabbed his head with both hands and kissed him like he owned John’s mouth. Just when he started to mold into Sherlock’s demanding lips and tongue, his boyfriend was pulling away and dragging him by his shirt down the hall.

John fell onto the bed, breathless from Sherlock’s relentless kissing, and his beret fell off his head from the force of Sherlock’s shove. John looked up at the tall figure standing between his legs, his breathing short and his face flushed from the alcohol.

“Gotta admit,” John huffed, watching his partner roughly unbuckle his olive green belt then unbutton his trousers, “Didn’t expect this reaction.”

Sherlock pulled the waistband of John’s pants away from his body with one hand and gripped the doctor’s erection with the other, letting go of the fabric as he ducked his head down and put his mouth around the tip. John tensed, gripping the sheets with one hand as the other gripped the hair on the back of Sherlock’s head, and he cursed in a strained voice. Sherlock pushed his mouth further down John’s length and hummed happily as he licked and sucked, and John shook.

He felt large hands with long fingers roughly slide up his fatigue shirt before digging into the fabric, and he ached to have those fingernails scratching into his skin.

Sherlock pulled back and sucked hard on John’s tip and John bucked into his mouth, groaning in a high pitch.

“Fuck, Sherlock…” John whined. “That fucking mouth.” Sherlock flicked his tongue along the slit and John clenched his jaw, growling, “Fuck.” The growl sent a shiver down Sherlock’s spine, one that John could feel by his lover’s mouth twitching around his erection and the shudder he watched run through the detective’s arms.

John pushed Sherlock’s arms off his chest, sitting up and propping himself with an elbow, his other hand on the back of Sherlock’s head while the taller man knelt on the floor. He rolled his hips into Sherlock’s mouth and the detective opened it and stuck his tongue out, looking up at John’s face as his lover’s cock glided across his tongue. Sherlock smirked smugly up at John and John snarled, gripping a handful of Sherlock’s hair and dragging him up to his lips as he leaned down, making the taller man whimper at the slight pain of his hair being pulled. The kiss was bruising, full of teeth and tongue, and ended when John pulled away to growl, “Fucking tease.”

The soldier let go of Sherlock’s hair and sat up fully, gripping Sherlock’s shirt and yanking him forward, forcing the detective to straddle his lap. Once he was seated, John started undoing his shirt buttons as he kissed him, nipping at his bottom lip. Sherlock moaned and wrapped his arms around John’s neck, burying his hands in the blonde’s short hair and enjoying the cool air on his heated skin as his shirt was parted. John moaned into the detective’s mouth when his long fingers scratched against his scalp.

“Take it off.” John both demanded and begged against Sherlock’s lips, pushing his lover’s button up off his shoulders. “Take it all off.”

Sherlock leaned back in John’s lap and let his button up drop down his arms before grabbing it and tossing it onto the floor. He moaned when John mouthed and licked at his collarbone. “Yes sir.”

John whimpered then growled into Sherlock’s skin. “Good soldier.” He groped the perfect arse on his lap then smacked it. “Bottoms off and lay down. Now.”

The brunette clambered off John’s lap with weak legs and fumbled with his dress trousers before pulling them down, along with his pants, to his knees while John stood up and tossed the beret that was now very much in the way into the closet. He stepped out of the fabric and kicked his other leg free, then lay on his back where John had been sitting.

“Good boy.” John praised, opening the bottle of lube and pouring some onto his fingers. “You’re going to be so good for me, aren’t you? Follow all my orders?”

Sherlock bit his lip to keep from whimpering and nodded. John rubbed a finger against Sherlock’s entrance.

“What do you say?” John demanded. Through the fog in Sherlock’s mind, he realized what John was looking for in response and hurriedly breathed his reply.

“Sir yes sir.”

John pushed against Sherlock’s entrance, easing a finger inside, and Sherlock grabbed handfuls of the bed cover.

“That’s better,” John murmured, “but it’s not perfect. Try again.”

John’s finger was entirely not enough, but the anticipation of more had Sherlock reeling. He rambled desperately,

“Sir yes sir, Captain Watson sir, I’ll do whatever you –” The blonde soldier found Sherlock’s prostate and stroked it, pleased when Sherlock whined and arched his back. “Please, please Captain, oh my god.”

“Begging already, baby?” John leaned over and licked lines over Sherlock’s abs, free hand holding Sherlock’s hip in case he tried to buck. “Don’t work yourself up too much, now. Not unless you think you can come twice.”

John added a second finger, and Sherlock moaned.

“I can do it.” Sherlock’s hands tightened in the covers. “I want it, please, I can do it Captain.”

The soldier arched an eyebrow, gazing up Sherlock’s body at those pleading lips. He stopped his hand and gently held onto Sherlock’s chin, tilting it until they met eyes.

“Seriously, now. Be honest. Do you want to try?” John asked, the Captain Watson mask slipping, and Sherlock swallowed and nodded. John smiled softly. “Then we’ll try. It’s okay if we find out you can’t, okay?”

“I got close before.” Sherlock reassured. “I can do it.”

John smirked. “We would’ve tried this sooner had I known, then.” The soldier started moving his hand, coaxing Sherlock’s entrance into relaxing for him. “While I’ve got you calmed down a bit, do you like everything so far? The roleplay?”

Is that what this is? Sherlock wondered.

“Of course I do.” Sherlock huffed. John grinned.

“Good.” He leaned over and kissed Sherlock with a soft press of his lips, teasing him with the touch, and then licked into Sherlock’s mouth. John curled his fingers and pressed, brushing against Sherlock’s prostate. Sherlock’s lips parted in a strained moan and John whispered into the small distance between them, “Such a good soldier. My good, brilliant man.”

Sherlock’s back arched as John kept his hand still, working his fingers over the bundle of nerves setting Sherlock’s body on fire. John’s free hand stroked over Sherlock’s chest, pinching and rubbing the sensitive peaks. Sherlock moaned and writhed, throwing an arm over his head.

“You’re going to come twice for me, aren’t you?” John purred dangerously, that damn voice doing things to Sherlock that the detective couldn’t put words to. It was akin to hooking his pleasure receptors up to an electric current.

All he could do was whimper in reply.

“One day I’ll have you come twice with me inside you.” John scratched his nails down Sherlock’s side. “You’ll do that for me, won’t you?”

“Yes – Yes sir.” Sherlock panted. “Yes Captain – Captain Watson.”

John bit Sherlock’s waist and sucked a mark into his skin, rumbling happily when Sherlock mewled and writhed on his hand.

“Please, Captain – please – I’m so close-”

John wrapped a hand around Sherlock’s length and pulled long and hard, thumb tracing the head, then started pumping his hand around his lover. Sherlock moaned loudly, his knuckles going white as he held onto the bed cover. He felt the tingles spread through his body until they were shaking the foundation of his being, spilling over John’s hand and onto his stomach. John coaxed him through the aftershocks before pulling away from him entirely. Sherlock breathed heavily with his eyes closed, hearing the lube pop open then close again seconds later.

John couldn’t stop his hips if he wanted to. He leaned over his boyfriend and lined himself up with Sherlock’s entrance, pushing into him. The detective almost shouted as John pressed as tightly into him as he could, biting down onto the thick fabric collar of John’s shirt. His fingers dug into the dense fabric, desperate to grip something, anything, as John rolled his hips and moaned. John let go of his lover to unbutton his fatigue shirt, and Sherlock grabbed his hands to stop him.

“Trust me.” John breathed out heavily, moving as if Sherlock’s hands weren’t on top of his. Sherlock let John’s hands go, focusing instead on watching John part that miracle of clothing while he filled him up so completely. It was a tight fit, John hadn’t used a third finger, but neither cared. Sherlock’s orgasm helped loosen him up.

John arched over Sherlock’s body as he pulled the shirt off, licking and pressing open mouth kisses to the pale chest under him. He grabbed the collar of his undershirt and tugged it over his head and down his arms.

Sherlock heard the clinking of metal and was momentarily confused, until John bunched up the shirt and tossed it across the room. He saw silver discs of metal dangling from a necklace chain that John was wearing. His heart skipped a beat.

It nearly stopped when John grabbed his fatigue shirt and pulled it back on, leaving it unbuttoned. Sherlock’s face must have told a story because John’s grin was ear to ear and incredibly smug.

“Like what you see, baby?” John murmured, his fingers and palm stroking down Sherlock’s chest and stomach before ghosting over his penis, rubbing over it as John pushed his hand back up Sherlock’s body.

Sherlock reached out and gripped the dog tags, yanking John’s face closer. John took the hint and kissed Sherlock so hard his head was pressed into the mattress.

“Fuck me.” Sherlock growled. “I need it.” The words made John moan.

He didn’t need more convincing. John pumped his hips into Sherlock like a jackhammer, making the detective shout. John gripped Sherlock’s throat, not tight enough to choke him but enough to remind him to be quiet, and gritted his teeth as he focused on giving Sherlock everything he had.

Sherlock couldn’t take his eyes off of John. It was a shame he couldn’t see the lower half of his lover because of the bed, but the half that he did get to see was phenomenal by itself. John’s tanned skin was flushed from the alcohol and exertion, spreading down to his collar bones. His fatigue shirt and dog tags bounced with the inertia of his movements, the tags making a metallic clank and soft thud as they hit each other and John’s sternum.

John hit Sherlock’s prostate and the taller man nearly crawled out of his own skin, his back arching off the bed. John’s hand snaked under Sherlock’s lower back to hold it up as he pressed his hips as tight as he could into his lover, sucking a lovebite into Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock moaned and whimpered and pushed his hands under John’s shirt to claw at his back, pulling him closer to Sherlock’s chest. He felt John’s erection twitch inside of him as John moaned into Sherlock’s ear.

“Fuck yeah, I love it when you scratch me.” John said in a gravelly voice, grinning into Sherlock’s neck. “Marking me as yours.”

“Cause you’re mine.” Sherlock panted, rubbing his hands up John’s tender back. “My Captain.” John bit his neck and groaned at the words.

“I’m yours, baby.” John whispered as he licked where he had just bit, feeling the ridges of teeth marks he left there. “And you’re mine. All mine.”

“Yes.” Sherlock whined, moaning as John began to thrust into him again. “I’m yours.”

“Say it again.”

Sherlock looked up into John’s eyes as he pounded into him, digging his nails into John’s arms as he leaned back to get leverage.

“I’m yours-ah!” Sherlock was nearly cut off when John’s erection hit his prostate, making his body convulse. “I’m yours. Please Captain- right there.”

John wrapped his hand around Sherlock’s throat and gave it a squeeze. “Damn right you’re mine.” Sherlock wheezed as John kept rubbing against his prostate. “I’m close.”

Sherlock propped himself up on his elbow and grabbed John’s shirt, yanking him to his lips. John’s hips faltered for a brief second, trying to coordinate his mouth on Sherlock’s and his hips at the same time. Sherlock and John panted against each other’s lips as John chased his release, wrapping a hand around Sherlock’s leaking erection. John remembered the mess already on Sherlock’s stomach and he moaned.

“Oh god, yes yes yes-” Sherlock whimpered, rocking his hips into John’s. He scratched his nails over John’s thigh, and John’s hips jolted into him, making both men moan. “Claim me, Captain. I’m yours.”

John growled, the sound utterly animalistic, and he gripped Sherlock’s hips tightly and poured everything he had into pounding into Sherlock. Sherlock’s hands gripped the sheets and his mouth parted, the lower half of his body supported by John’s hands. John grunted, the muscles in his neck bunching up and his jaw clenching, as he buried himself hilt deep into Sherlock’s body and ground his hips in a tight circle, coming inside his partner in an earth-shattering orgasm. His vision filled with television static and his lungs refused to function for a moment. He felt hands touching his chest, his neck, caressing his face before lips left sloppy kisses on his jaw and mouth. John parted his lips and Sherlock slipped his tongue inside, moaning as the doctor throbbed inside him.

When John could breathe again, he went to disconnect himself and finish Sherlock off, but Sherlock stopped him from moving away. The detective wrapped his long legs around the soldier’s waist tighter, keeping him close, and John took the hint. He wrapped his hand around Sherlock’s erection and started pumping his hand over him, slowly dragging himself back and forth against Sherlock’s prostate.

Sherlock keened and grabbed at John’s back, digging his fingers into John’s fatigue shirt while the soldier lapped at the sweat on Sherlock’s neck and chest. He pinned John’s hips against his with his legs as he came, spilling over John’s hand and onto his own stomach and chest a second time. He whimpered something resembling a sob as he shook beneath John, the doctor stroking him through the aftershocks.

“So beautiful.” John breathed hard, one hand teasing Sherlock’s chest. He shuddered violently under the light contact. “You’re so beautiful, baby. I love you so much.”

“John.” Sherlock sobbed and John let him go, slowly pulling out from his boyfriend. Sherlock winced as he did. John pressed loving little kisses to his flushed face.

“You’re the best. You’re perfect. God, I’m one lucky bastard.”

Sherlock threw weak arms over John’s shoulders, wanting him closer but too drained to pull John to him, and John nuzzled his nose against Sherlock’s cheek.

“Let me clean you up, first. Then we’ll cuddle.”

Sherlock whined in annoyance when John moved away, arms falling limply to the mattress. His lover grabbed a few tissues and wiped Sherlock clean, tossing the soiled tissues away before manhandling an exhausted detective under the sheets. The soldier took off his boots and the rest of his clothing then climbed under with him, lying on his back and helping his tired lover lay on him. A head full of wild curls plopped onto John’s shoulder, a long-limbed body resting like dead weight over John’s torso.

John pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s forehead. His heart swelled with adoration in his chest when Sherlock’s lips twitched into a smile.

He remembered the idea he had at seeing the dog tags when they had gone Christmas shopping a few days ago and lifted his head, reaching behind it. Sherlock opened sleepy eyes and watched John struggle with maneuvering something behind his neck. John pulled a chain out from behind him.

Sherlock realized what the chain was connected to once John clasped the chain behind his curls, feeling the dog tags trapped between their chests shifting with the pull of the chain, and his heart stopped. John adjusted the joined necklace, brushing Sherlock’s curls upwards from his neck to settle it underneath the wild things, and smiled.

Sherlock tilted his face toward John’s. He couldn’t find the words to adequately explain what John giving Sherlock his dog tags meant to him, so he poured his emotion into a kiss instead.

When they parted, John whispered, “I love you, too.”

Chapter Text

Sherlock woke up the next morning in a completely different position than he remembered falling asleep in. His face was buried into the back of John’s head, nose in his hair, and his arms were wrapped around John like he was hugging a stuffed teddy bear. They were on their sides with John’s back against Sherlock’s chest.

John had been dozing off and on for the past hour, enjoying being held and having nowhere to go, so when Sherlock stirred he stirred as well. He rested an arm over one of Sherlock’s around his torso, hand laying over Sherlock’s and fingers curling to hold it.

“Morning.” John slurred sleepily. Sherlock hummed, curling into John’s warmth.

“When did we move?” Sherlock’s voice was hoarse. John smirked.

“I went to the loo and when I came back you wrapped around me like an octopus.”

Sherlock smiled.

“Serves you right.”

John chuckled. “For daring to leave the bed?”

“Exactly.”

“How dare I listen to my body,” John joked.

“How dare you indeed. While I’m sleeping no less.” Sherlock mumbled, nuzzling John’s hair. John laughed.

“Well, now that you’re awake, can I listen to my body and make breakfast?”

Sherlock hummed thoughtfully and let John go, stretching.

“I suppose.” He playfully sighed, smirking at John when the blonde looked over his shoulder to glare at him. John rolled his eyes, a smile teasing his lips, and got out of bed with a grunt of effort.

“I was starting to wonder if you’d ever wake up.” John joked, grabbing a pair of boxer briefs from his dresser. Sherlock relaxed into the bed and closed his eyes, basking in the morning-after glow that still permeated his muscles.

“I blame you.” Sherlock rumbled in a deep voice. John grinned.

“I blame you.” John countered, pulling the boxer briefs on. “I’ve never been with someone who routinely made me come so hard I saw stars.”

Sherlock blushed and his heart soared at the compliment. Statistically, he couldn’t believe what John was telling him. He knew John was a well-traveled individual in the romance department. The likelihood that Sherlock was the only person to make John feel that way was statistically miniscule.

John rolled his shoulders, oblivious, and grabbed a pair of sweatpants and a jumper. He had just finished pulling the waist of the sweatpants up over his hips when he heard Sherlock walk over to him, instead of to the bathroom like John assumed he’d gotten up to do.

Pale arms wrapped around John’s waist and Sherlock nuzzled his nose into John’s neck.

“Do you mean that?” Sherlock’s voice was soft and shy. John smiled.

“Of course I do. Sex with you is the best I’ve ever had.”

Sherlock squeezed John in his arms and John’s heart melted at the gesture, butterflies in his rib cage. John turned his head and kissed Sherlock’s curls.

“Now put on some pants ‘fore you catch a cold.” John playfully patted Sherlock’s bare thigh next to his. “Captain’s orders.”

John ordering Sherlock with his rank definitely didn’t help Sherlock’s blushing face.

The detective went to the bathroom, listening to John start a fire in the fireplace, then got dressed in pajamas and his favorite jumper of John’s, a tan knitted one. He was halfway down the hall when a phone rang in their bedroom. Intrigued, he walked back.

He was disappointed to find that it wasn’t his phone ringing for a case from Lestrade. In fact, it wasn’t his phone at all. It was John’s phone, and the caller was Clara.

Sherlock picked up the phone and walked down the hall, saying aloud, “Clara is calling.”

“Oh Lord, now what?” John groaned, holding his hand out. Sherlock stopped next to him in the kitchen, handing the phone over, and John answered before putting the phone on speaker and setting it on the counter.

“It’s John.” The soldier answered, opening a cabinet to grab a skillet.

“Hey.” A familiar voice said. John was momentarily confused.

“Uh, hey Harry.” John responded, albeit warily. “Everything okay?”

“Actually, no. Everything’s not okay.”

Sherlock put a hand on John’s shoulder and took the skillet from his hand, gesturing to the phone, and John tightened his lips into a line before nodding and grabbing it. Before he could take her off speaker, Harry demanded,

“Why the fuck didn’t you tell me you got shot?”

John stopped, finger hovering over the speaker button. His jaw clenched.

“You told Clara and not me?” She continued. “Your sister-in-law and not your actual sister? What the fuck, John!”

John sighed, “Harry-”

“No! Don’t you fuckin’ Harry me you fuckin’ prick!” Harriet shouted. “Two years and when you finally remember to tell your family, you tell her before you tell me. What the actual fucking hell, John.”

Sherlock set the skillet down on the stove and focused on John, watching his shoulders tense as he listened to his sister shout at him.

“I wanted to wait to tell you.” John said in a strained, barely controlled voice. “It’s not as easy as it sounds.”

“’Harry, I got shot in Afghanistan’. Sounds pretty fuckin’ simple to me!”

“You weren’t the one who got shot!” John shouted, finally losing control of his temper.

“Harry, what are you doing?!” Clara exclaimed in the distance. John’s eyes squeezed closed and a pang of hurt washed through his chest. “I told you not to call him about this!”

“He’s MY brother! I’ll call him about whatever the hell I want!”

Sherlock walked over to John and pried the phone from his hand. The memory of John confronting Sally fresh in his mind, he calmly and coldly interrupted the conversation, watching John look at him.

“You will not call him.” Sherlock ordered. “Not now, not ever. This is precisely why he did not tell you.”

“And who the fuck are you?”

“Harry!” Clara gasped.

“I’m his fiancée.” Sherlock took John’s hand and guided it to the dog tags around Sherlock’s neck, lying over the jumper Sherlock was wearing. “I have his best interests at heart. You do not.”

John’s eyes softened as his fingers grazed over the smooth metal indents bearing his name and blood type.

“You don’t even fuckin’ know me, how the fuck would you know?”

“Harriet stop.” Clara ordered.

“I know you’re an alcoholic, recently relapsed. Currently intoxicated.” John’s eyes widened at what Sherlock said. “You broke up with your wife several years ago. Gave John the phone Clara had given you as a gift. He still uses it. It has an engraving on the back dedicated to you. It was a last ditch effort to buy his loyalty, wasn’t it? But then John went to Afghanistan anyway, didn’t he? And you needed someone to take care of you, so you got back together with your wife.”

Harry was silent, so Sherlock continued, relaying all the information he’d gathered and deduced about Harriet Watson.

“Clara wrote letters to John while he was overseas. She tried to maintain a relationship neither party was committed to, which was admirable to some degree. Foolishly optimistic, however. John was tired of being the adult, and rightfully so. You didn’t want help, you wanted to be cared for. You felt slighted by John leaving, tried to guilt him back in. He chose the army over you anyways. You still resent him for it, despite it being the correct choice. You got better, after all, and he found a new family of sorts that respected him regardless of what they could get out of him.

What you fail to realize, Harriet Watson, is that therapy only works if you want the help. You are so caught up in your fear of being replaced that you fulfil that prophecy yourself. Calling John to shout abuse at him because he trusts your wife more than he trusts you, yet you’ve given him no reason to trust you. You’re afraid your wife is the sister John wanted. You’re jealous. But instead of trying to be a better sister, to earn his trust, you attempt to guilt him into compliance. Like father like daughter, am I correct?”

Nothing. Sherlock wasn’t surprised at a lack of response.

“John’s trauma is not yours to know. John’s trauma was not Clara’s to share. John’s trauma is his, and you are not privy to anything it entails. Anything he tells you is a gift, an act of trust, and you’ve proven time and time again you are untrustworthy.”

Harry remained silent for so long Sherlock checked to see if she had hung up. He was surprised to find that the older Watson sibling hadn’t hung up on him. It was like her, from what Sherlock knew, to run away from accountability.

“John did not tell you because he can barely tell himself some days.” Sherlock added quietly, looking down at his boyfriend. John’s dark blue eyes were stormy and red. Sherlock wiped the pad of his thumb over John’s eyelid, smearing the water that had gathered there. “And that is okay.”

John smiled weakly up at Sherlock.

“Give me my phone.” Clara snapped suddenly. Both men watched the device and listened with interest. “I can’t believe you.”

Someone stomped off, but the phone didn’t disconnect. Instead, Clara continued talking.

“I’m so sorry, John. I told her a little of what you told me, just because I thought she should know since she’s your sister, but… Sherlock’s right. If you wanted to tell her, you would’ve told her yourself. I thought I was doing you a favor since you don’t like to talk about it.”

Sherlock looked at John, waiting to see if he wanted to respond, before he told Clara to shove it and hang up. John swallowed.

“I know, Clara. I know you were… just trying to do the right thing. And I think if it hadn’t been Harry... I don’t think I would’ve minded.”

“I thought she’d understand because of what happened with Richard, you know? Before the crash? With the girlfriend thing?”

John’s jaw twitched.

“You would think so.” John replied tersely. “But I guess not.”

“She is not to contact John again.” Sherlock demanded sternly. John went to speak, to reassure Sherlock he was fine, when Clara spoke instead.

“She wasn’t supposed to contact him about this in the first place.” Clara sighed. “I told her not to. I even told her how hard it seemed for John to tell me, and that it might trigger something and he was having a hard enough time as it was.”

“I’m fine, Sherlock.” John whispered to his boyfriend, rubbing his back to reassure him.

 “What she did was reprehensible.” Sherlock frowned, hugging John tightly.

“I know,” Clara replied sadly, not realizing Sherlock hadn’t been talking to her, “I’m so sorry.”

John grabbed the phone from the counter and hung up abruptly, ending the conversation, and hugged Sherlock tightly back.

“No Christmas.” John said definitively. “Not with them.”

“Absolutely not.” Sherlock agreed, rubbing John’s shoulder blades. “Your next therapy appointment?”

“In two days.”

“Good.” Sherlock kissed his head. “Let’s get back to morning-after breakfast, mon cher. No reason to let her ruin our morning in.”

John smiled lopsidedly, letting Sherlock go and watching his boyfriend walk over to the stove.

“Sure thing, fiancée.” John lovingly teased as he passed behind Sherlock, putting water in the kettle. Sherlock blushed. “Wasn’t my intention when I gave you my dog tags, you know.”

“I know.” Sherlock bumped John’s hip with his own and John chuckled. “You mean more to me than what the word ‘boyfriend’ connotes, though.”

John smiled wider.

“I couldn’t agree more.” He wrapped an arm around Sherlock’s back and leaned upward to kiss his boyfriend’s cheek. “Consider this a promise. For the future.” He patted Sherlock’s chest, where the dog tags were, and walked off to the fridge to grab ingredients.

Sherlock watched John cook with a smile.

Chapter Text

Sherlock knew exactly what he wanted to get John for Christmas. Acquiring it was easy enough. Hiding it? A little more difficult, but not by much. John rarely looked in the closet as it was, so he hid it in a box at the bottom, beneath a pair of shoes. To anyone else, it was just a shoebox. To Sherlock, it was the wrapping for John’s present.

And what exciting wrapping it was.

When Christmas Eve finally came, and John was finished at the hospital and on his way, Sherlock grabbed the box from its hiding place. He opened it and got to work.

John had a feeling Sherlock was up to something. He had no idea what, but for the last few days Sherlock would repeatedly check the time despite there being no reason to. Except for the night before Christmas Eve, oddly enough. Which meant the detective had something planned that wasn’t their usual talk, dinner, sex, and sleep routine.

The soldier didn’t anticipate, however, that they would skip past the talking and eating portion of their night.

He arrived as he usually did, except with a wrapped gift for Sherlock and a bottle of the same brand of wine they had drank on their first date, and went inside. He set his things down, called up to Sherlock that he was there, and took off his coat, gloves and scarf. John heard Sherlock yell at him to hurry up and he laughed, rolling his eyes.

“My God, what is so pressing that you can’t wait for me to take my coat off?” John called up in retaliation.

“Get up here and find out!” Sherlock shouted back, making the soldier laugh again. John picked his presents for Sherlock back up and walked upstairs, opening the flat door. He looked around the living area and was a little confused when he didn’t see Sherlock.

“Um, Sherlock?” John said, walking toward the kitchen. He set the presents down on the table and glanced down the hall. The bedroom door was open. “You back there, love?”

Sherlock walked into the doorway and John’s mouth parted, his eyes going wide.

His partner was wearing a black lace lingerie teddy with a matching lace robe, untied and hanging open in the front. The tall brunette with moussed curls also wore sheer black thigh-high stockings that were held in place by an elastic strip of black fabric on each thigh, the connecting points on the outside of his thighs decorated with a simple rose gold metal stud.

Sherlock smirked at John, watching the soldier’s eyes travel over him. John’s dumbfounded reaction was worth every minute of fixing his hair and fighting with the elastic fabric bands that crossed over his back and sides beneath the robe. The teddy had been a puzzle to put on, but when he saw his back in the mirror before putting on the matching robe, it had been worth the trouble. Now, seeing John practically drool as he ogled him, it was more than worth it.

Sherlock’s grin was devilish. It made John’s groin ache even more than the outfit.

“Merry Christmas, Captain Watson.” Sherlock purred. John knew that Sherlock was fully aware of what that voice did to him, especially when it was paired with his rank. It was like a siren’s call. He gestured for John to come hither with his finger, tilting his chin up with a cocky expression. “Come unwrap your present.”

John closed his mouth, licked his dry lips, and his hungry eyes fixated on Sherlock’s. Sherlock felt an adrenaline rush when John stalked toward him from the other end of the hallway, gripping his blue jumper at the back of his collar and yanking it over his head, tossing it to the hardwood floor. Sherlock started to back away further into the bedroom and John sprinted at him, taking Sherlock by surprise.

The soldier grabbed Sherlock’s biceps and kept him from backing away as he shoved his mouth against Sherlock’s. Suddenly Sherlock felt himself be picked up by arms wrapping around his thighs and lifting, his lips breaking away from John’s as the blonde practically chucked him onto the mattress.

“Oh, you’re not getting away that easily.” John growled, undoing the belt around his waist. His eyes never left Sherlock’s body. “Not when you look like that.”

“I look like what?” Sherlock teased, grinning smugly up at John and rolling his head to the side as he looked at the soldier. He stretched his arms above his head, making the lace fabric covering his front press into his skin and the ends of the robe fall away, showing his bare sides. A strip of black elastic fabric stretched long his side and disappeared behind his back. John wanted to know where it led. He wanted to map it with his mouth.

John’s brain stopped functioning for a few seconds. Amused, Sherlock sat up and shifted to sit with his knees folded and his arse on the bed, hands stabilizing his upper half by planting themselves between his parted thighs on the mattress.

“What do I look like, Captain?” Sherlock’s voice was fatally smooth and baritone. Then he tilted his head to the side so innocently, shifting his shoulders forward to accent his covered chest. “Please? I’m dying to know.”

“Don’t you-” John chuckled darkly, narrowing his eyes at Sherlock as he yanked his belt free from his jeans, the loops be damned. He shook his head and stalked over to the edge of the bed, standing in front of Sherlock. “Don’t you dare fucking beg right now, you goddamn fucking tease.”

Sherlock grinned up at John. “I didn’t know you could get so aroused that you get angry. I like it.” Sherlock’s eyes drifted down to John’s undershirt. It did nothing to hide the muscles beneath it. “Tell me what I look like, Captain. Please?”

Those silver-blue eyes darted back up to John’s and he snarled. He grabbed Sherlock’s chin with his thumb and his pointer finger, holding it in place as his eyes glanced over the features of Sherlock’s face.

“Fucking hell, you look like sex on legs.” John tilted Sherlock’s chin up and away, admiring the lace fabric covering his lover’s shoulders and the sheer stockings the loose robe fell on. “You look like the definition of lustful temptation.”

John gazed into Sherlock’s eyes again.

“If you beg one more time I’ll come on your face, so I’d choose your words carefully, baby.”

Sherlock chuckled, rising up to sit on his heels and press his lips to John’s.

“I’d love you to,” Sherlock confessed in a whisper, “but I’ve got other plans.”

“Oh?” John breathed, his hand moving from Sherlock’s chin to cup his cheek. Sherlock hummed lowly, starting to feel lightheaded from the arousal John was causing in him. “They better involve me fucking you.”

“They do, Captain. Preferably until I can’t walk. But first,” Sherlock pressed a kiss to John’s mouth that stole the air from his lungs. As Sherlock pulled away and reached for the end table, John watched him with a dazed expression.

Sherlock held up a silicone ring. John recognized the purpose and smirked.

“You want me to wear that for you, baby?” John asked, smooth as polished steel and just as deadly. Sherlock shivered. He fought the instinct to submissively reply.

“I’d say please, but…” John chuckled.

“Wait till I get it on before you start begging, darling.” John leaned his face down and kissed the curly haired brunette, mouthing at his lips before parting them and licking along Sherlock’s bottom one. As Sherlock opened his lips and moaned around John’s tongue, the soldier gently grabbed the cock ring from Sherlock’s open hand and tossed it to the bed.

He pushed on Sherlock’s shoulders and pulled the detective’s knees out from under him as the man fell onto his back. John’s hands felt the sheer stockings covering Sherlock to above his knees and suddenly remembered they were there. He leaned back from where he had been over Sherlock’s chest and held Sherlock’s calf with one hand, the other sliding over the fabric.

“Fucking hell, I forgot you had these on.” John admired the soft feel of the fabric against his palms. “They look great on you.”

“You like them?” Sherlock asked, even though he knew the answer. John pressed open mouthed kisses to fabric and skin, hands groping and massaging Sherlock’s legs.

“I adore them.” John replied, the sound a groan from deep within his diaphragm. Then he noticed a distinct change beneath the stockings. “Wait… did you shave your legs?”

Sherlock blushed with embarrassment. “It was too itchy otherwise.” John smiled.

“Baby if you wanted to shave off every hair on your body to feel more comfortable, I wouldn’t give a single damn.” John lowered Sherlock’s leg to the mattress and leaned over his torso again. “Your comfort is paramount to me when it comes to our sex, okay?”

Sherlock was momentarily distracted by John’s tongue lapping at his pulse point on his neck.

“What if I want it rough?”

John grinned against Sherlock’s neck. “Oh, you want it rough?” John grazed his teeth over the jutting tendon running down the length of Sherlock’s neck. “If you want it rough, I can give it to you rough, sweetheart. All you’ve got to do is ask.”

Sherlock exhaled a shaky breath, letting out a moan when John bit him and sucked on the skin.

“I’m going to mark every inch of you,” John breathed hotly across Sherlock’s jugular, “inside and out.” He sucked another lovebite into Sherlock’s tender neck. “And don’t be afraid to be rough with me, too, okay? I can take it.”

“Take what?” Sherlock asked. John licked over the two lovebites he left and Sherlock’s eyelids fluttered.

“Whatever you’re willing to give me. I’m yours.” John licked the dip of Sherlock’s clavicle and Sherlock tilted his head back with a slight shiver. “You’re not the only one who likes to get marked and claimed, darling.”

“Oh?” Sherlock hummed as he felt John’s throat rumble a pleased little growl above his chest. “In what way?”

John grinned up Sherlock’s body at him.

“I want to feel your nails in my thighs a week from now.” John teasingly scratched his fingernails down Sherlock’s sides. “I want you to claw my back and bite me. Do you want to know why I want you to do that?”

Sherlock breathed out a shaky, “Yes.”

“I want you to do that because,” John’s low baritone voice purred as he mouthed at Sherlock’s hip bone, “it means I fucked you right. Fucked you mindless.” John licked the crook of Sherlock’s pelvis. “And I want to wear those marks like the badge of honor they are.”

John felt Sherlock’s body shiver at his words and grinned wolfishly, leaning back and caressing Sherlock’s bare thighs. John could see through the lace Sherlock’s erection wanting attention, but then drifted his eyes over the rest of Sherlock’s beautiful frame.

“That’s it, I can’t wait for later.” John walked toward the door before breaking into a light jog, calling out, “Stay right there!”

Sherlock was almost glad he had a moment to himself. John’s words and the idea that John wanted Sherlock to claim him, that he wanted to be Sherlock’s, was overwhelming to say the least. He knew John wanted Sherlock, but it was something else entirely to desire wanting to be Sherlock’s. There was a possession hinted at that he admittedly adored. They were both possessive individuals, John had said as much about himself on their very first date, and Sherlock was learning he was very similar in a romantic regard. Perhaps it was because it turned John on, and Sherlock got off on turning him on? Didn’t matter. In the end, it made him happy. It made them both happy.

The detective heard John jogging back down the hallway a moment after he left. When John entered the bedroom, he was carrying a wrapped gift. It was the one he had brought in with him.

“Open this.” John ordered, holding out the gift to Sherlock while the other hand started to pull his undershirt up his torso. Sherlock pouted.

“But I want to undress you.”

Sherlock watched John’s pupils flare. His breathing hitched.

“You want rough, huh?”

John’s question was a challenge, but it took Sherlock a little off guard. Sherlock was always up for a challenge, though.

“Yes.”

“Open the present then get on your knees.” John glared. His tone was firm, almost a growl, leaving no room for arguments. “That’s an order.”

John was almost amused when Sherlock ripped the wrapping open and clambered off the bed to kneel in front of John, leaving the gift on the covers. The excited detective didn’t care to even look at his present, far too interested in the soldier.

“Good. Now look at the damn gift.” John teased, tossing the box to him. Sherlock looked at his hands and saw a box. “Open it.”

Sherlock opened it, and saw a micro SD card. Sixteen gigabites. Compatible with a mobile phone. Easy to remove and store away. Perfect for hiding information.

“Give it to me.”

Sherlock looked up and saw John shirtless above him, the soldier holding his hand out. He looked at Sherlock expectantly. Sherlock obeyed, taking the SD card out of the box John put it in and placing it in John’s open palm.

John pulled his phone out of his pocket, talking as he opened up the compartment to put the SD card in.

“I was going to be a tiny bit more romantic, but I’d rather use it now than miss out on capturing this.” John smirked down at Sherlock and pointed the back of his phone down at him.

“Smile for the camera, baby.”

Sherlock’s eyes lit up with recognition and he beamed up at John. The soldier tapped his phone and it made a shutter noise. John sighed happily.

“So that’s for…” Sherlock trailed off, too excited to finish his sentence. He jumped up from his kneeling position and lunged at John, wrapping his arms around John’s shoulders. A string of gratuitous babbling poured out of Sherlock’s mouth and John chuckled.

“Glad you like the idea still.” John teased. “Let me take a couple more photos. You look like a goddamn model, and I don’t want to waste a second of it.”

Sherlock stepped back and hopped onto the bed, turning to look at John. His eyes shone like a child on Christmas Day. It was adorable.

“I want pictures of you in your fatigues.” Sherlock declared. John grinned.

“I’m sure I could be persuaded into wearing them again.” He purred.

John took a couple quick photos then ejected the SD card and put his phone and the card on the bedside table. He grabbed the silicone ring from the bed.

“I’ll take more the next time you wear this for me, but for right now,” John moved to the center of the room and stood at parade rest, his legs shoulder width apart and his hands behind his back, “I think you deserve a reward for good behavior, don’t you?”

Sherlock’s cheeks flushed and his body felt ignited. His eyes fell to the crotch of John’s jeans. His eyes darted back up to John’s, asking silently for permission, and John smirked and nodded. Sherlock climbed off the bed and knelt down in front of John, eye level with his pelvis. John smiled down at Sherlock, taking one hand from behind his back.

“God, I want to see you like this every day for the rest of my life.” He cupped Sherlock’s cheek and stroked his thumb over the sharp cheekbone he adored. “You look so good on your knees.”

Sherlock shuddered at John’s words. He felt his erection throb in response.

“You want to undress me?” John brushed his fingers over Sherlock’s slicked curls. Sherlock nodded sharply. “Say please.”

“Please.” Sherlock breathed out a little too quickly. John’s smirk widened.

“Good boy.” John praised, curling a finger under Sherlock’s chin while his thumb pulled down the plump bottom lip just above it. “Such a pretty mouth, too. Even prettier when it’s put to work.”

Sherlock whined a little desperate noise and John licked his lips.

“Go ahead, baby.”

The second John gave permission Sherlock was tearing into his jeans. He unbuttoned and unzipped the trousers and pulled them down, John’s pants following them soon after. As the clothes hit the floor, piling over John’s shoes, John handed over the silicone ring to Sherlock.

Sherlock wasted no time. He leaned forward and licked up the underside of John’s shaft, groaning with pleasure at the taste. John tilted his head back and hummed from low in his ribs, sighing as Sherlock mouthed at his swollen erection. He closed his eyes and wrapped his lips around the tip, swirling his tongue and flicking the tip of it over the leaking slit. Sherlock loved the bitter taste, but loved John’s reactions even more. The soldier placed a hand on the back of Sherlock’s head, and Sherlock looked up at him from under his lashes. John’s lips were parted slightly as he looked down at Sherlock, dazed and lustful. Sherlock had half a mind to get up and kiss him, to taste his tongue.

He removed his mouth and guided the ring onto John’s cock, gently pushing it down to the base. It was a tight fit since John was already erect, but Sherlock was adamant on making it work. Once it finally hit the hilt, Sherlock took John back into his mouth and started to bob his head in earnest. John groaned and his thighs shook by Sherlock’s head.

“Fuck, you’re getting good at that.” John huffed. “Incredibly good.”

Sherlock hummed in response around John’s tip and John’s hips bucked forward. John was almost concerned until he saw Sherlock’s eyes try to roll.

He grinned.

“Oh, you liked that?” John snaked his fingers into Sherlock’s curls at the top of his head. Sherlock’s gorgeous eyes looked up at John, long lashes fluttering like butterfly wings.

John pushed his hips forward and back, just a little to test it, and Sherlock moaned around him. John felt like his skin was on fire at the sight and sound alone. He gripped Sherlock’s hair and held his head in place, stopping Sherlock from continuing to bob his head.

“If you need me to stop, tap my thigh.” John told the man on his knees. “Understood?” Sherlock nodded slightly, trying not to wince at the pull on his hair.

John pushed his hips forward, watching his length disappear behind Sherlock’s perfect Cupid’s bow, and the soldier groaned lowly. He pulled his hips back and forth at a steady rhythm, being sure not to shove or choke Sherlock. The man was only just now two months into learning about this world, so even though he looked and at times could act like a porn star John had to remind himself that he wasn’t. Regardless, the sensation of dragging his erection over Sherlock’s curious tongue was heavenly.

When John started to pant, he pulled his hips away and let go of Sherlock’s hair. The sound Sherlock’s red and swollen mouth made when John’s cock fell from it was filthy and wonderful.

“God you are beautiful.” John leaned down and shoved his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth, kissing him hard. Sherlock hummed, pleased, and cupped the sides of John’s face. John kept his parted lips against Sherlock’s as he breathed, “Up on the bed. Now.”

The soldier leaned back and Sherlock beamed, jumping up to his feet and onto the bed.

“Robe off, lovely.” John purred, toeing his shoes off and stepping out of his jeans and pants, leaving them piled on the shoes in the middle of the room. He walked over as Sherlock lowered his shoulders, the loose fabric easily slipping off. He bundled it up and tossed it to the other side of the bed, eyes never leaving John’s.

“Now what, Captain?” Sherlock’s tone was innocent, but John knew he was anything but that.

“On your front.” John ordered. Sherlock grinned wickedly and rolled over, lying on his stomach and facing away from John. The first thing the soldier saw was the crossing pattern of fabric over Sherlock’s shoulder blades and mid-back. The black provided a breathtaking contrast to Sherlock’s pale skin.

Then he spread his thighs, and John’s heart nearly stopped. A ruby red gemstone was where Sherlock’s entrance was, and John realized immediately what it was decorating.

A butt plug.

Sherlock looked over his shoulder to see John’s face, having heard him go still and silent. John stared at Sherlock’s arse with slightly parted lips. He licked them and laughed once.

“Merry fucking Christmas.” He breathed, leaning his face down to Sherlock’s rear end. He licked the cleft of Sherlock’s ass and massaged the cheeks in two firm hands, smiling against the skin when Sherlock moaned. “How long have you been wearing this?”

“Twenty minutes before you arrived.” Sherlock admitted, laying his head on the bed and closing his eyes. It was oddly relaxing to have John groping his rear. John growled and nipped at Sherlock’s cheek, making him jump slightly.

“And Mrs. Hudson is out, yeah?” John huffed. Sherlock could feel the question being breathed onto his back. Sherlock hummed affirmatively, and he could feel John lean over his back. Against his ear, he heard John whisper, “Good, because I plan to make you scream.”

Sherlock shivered and whined a little at John’s comment. He shook his hips side to side, wanting John to hurry up, but John merely laughed darkly.

“Oh no, no I meant what I said earlier.” John rubbed his hands over Sherlock’s sides, fingers gently tugging on the fabric strands as they moved over them. “I’m going to mark every inch of you.”

John left lovebites all over Sherlock’s back, his thighs, and several more on his ass. By the time he was done, Sherlock was shifting his body trying to relieve his painful erection with the friction from the lace over it. John gripped his side and flipped him over, mocking a disappointed expression.

“Oh no you don’t.” John growled, grabbed Sherlock’s knees, and yanked him to the edge of the bed. Sherlock stared up at John with surprised eyes and a heaving chest. “I’m not done with you yet.”

John ducked his head down and wrapped his lips around one of Sherlock’s nipples over the lace and swirled his tongue, making Sherlock moan sharply and arch his back into John’s mouth. One hand gripped the back of John’s head and the other gripped his shoulder. John sucked and flicked his tongue over the peaking skin and rubbed his fingers over the other nipple, teasing it between two fingers. Sherlock whined and long legs wrapped around John’s waist, pulling his hips closer.

John left a few more lovebites over Sherlock’s front on patches of skin that he could see which surprisingly wasn’t very much. His back was decidedly more exposed. John figured he knew why. So when he was pleased with his work, he leaned back and rubbed his hands up and down Sherlock’s covered chest, groping his pecs. Sherlock’s sensitive nipples being rubbed over caused him to gasp.

“I can’t get over how gorgeous you are.” John admired, breathing heavily. It was hard work marking that much skin. “I’m so fucking lucky.”

“You’re about to be so fucking dead if you don’t fuck me already.” Sherlock snarled. John grinned.

“So turned on that you’re angry?” John teased. Sherlock glared.

John reached between them and nudged the red gemstone between Sherlock’s cheeks. He grinned proudly when Sherlock’s eyes rolled back and his hips twitched. The blonde couldn’t help himself – he pressed against the gemstone with a fingertip and made a circular motion, causing the plug to swirl inside Sherlock, pressing against him in all the right ways. Sherlock’s high pitched groan and his long fingers gripping the comforter was a memory John truly wished to never forget.

“Please,” Sherlock whined, “please, I need more.”

“You need more?” John repeated, pinching the red gemstone and pulling the plug out just a few centimeters before pushing it back in. Sherlock let go of the sheets to instead dig his nails into John’s thighs, pulling them closer to the edge of the bed and Sherlock’s hips.

“Yes,” Sherlock hissed.

“Yes what?” John pulled and pushed the plug again. Sherlock opened his eyes and stared up into John’s. The doctor could barely see the man’s irises because of how large his pupils had dilated.

“Yes Captain.”

John’s grin was predatory and hungry. He gave a pleased little growl and pulled the plug back, waiting for Sherlock’s body to give and release the toy.

“Good boy.” John murmured. Sherlock’s nerves lit up at the praise. The toy slipped out and John tossed it onto the other side of the bed. He was immensely grateful he laundered their spare comforter yesterday for this exact occasion.

The soldier pulled the elastic that ran between Sherlock’s cheeks to the side with one hand and lined himself up with the other. John tilted his hips forward and slipped in easily, fully pushing his length in with one smooth thrust. It was a heavenly sensation unlike any he’d ever experienced, especially considering his size. He didn’t ever just smoothly fit in, so when he did this time he shuddered and his eyes threatened to roll. Sherlock moaned loudly when John bottomed out and his fingernails dug into John’s thighs again.

“Jesus Christ you feel so good.” John purred, letting go of the elastic and wrapping both hands over Sherlock’s pelvis, thumbs hooking underneath the lace. “I’d fuck you for hours if I could.”

“I’d pay to see you try.” Sherlock’s voice was strained. John snickered.

“I’m sure you would,” John retorted, “you insatiable bastard.”

Sherlock smirked up at John and rolled his hips, grinding up into John’s pelvis, and his mouth parted into an open-mouthed smile. John groaned from low in his chest and tightened his grip on Sherlock’s hips, thumbs digging into lovebites on his hip bones. Sherlock whimpered at the mixture of pleasure and pain, eyes falling open to look at John.

“Still want it rough?” John asked breathily. Sherlock nodded. “How rough?”

Sherlock’s eyes darkened as they looked up half-lidded at John.

“Fuck me like you hate me.”

If the fluttering of John’s eyelashes and the way his breath stuttered as he sucked it back in was anything to go by, Sherlock said the right thing. John pushed and pulled his hips to a steadily increasing rhythm, huffing out in a low voice,

“Happily.”

Then John started thrusting into him fast and dirty, practically yanking Sherlock’s hips into his as he pushed them forward, and Sherlock was left mewling on the bed. He threw his arms over his head and gripped the comforter, letting out a loud moan with every thrust against his prostate.

After a few minutes John let go of the brunette’s hips long enough to forcefully push Sherlock’s thighs to his chest and grab one of Sherlock’s hands, pulling it to wrap Sherlock’s arm around the back of his thighs. Sherlock took the hint and held his legs up to his chest with both arms wrapped around them, letting out a shout when John leaned forward and hammered his hips into Sherlock.

“Ah!” Sherlock threw his head back and keened when John slammed into his prostate. “Yes, yes, right there-!”

Wordlessly, John slipped out and manhandled Sherlock’s arms free, pulling his legs back down and flipping Sherlock onto his stomach. Sherlock let out a startled shout, then a whine, as John pulled Sherlock’s hips off the bed and ordered,

“Feet on the floor.”

Sherlock immediately complied, bracing his weight with his feet on the carpeted floor. He hissed when John pulled the lace covering his erection, now painfully hard, to the side, letting the cool air of the bedroom touch his heated skin. Sherlock jumped up slightly when John slid his cock back inside him roughly. John wrapped one hand over Sherlock’s shoulder and held one of Sherlock’s hands behind the lovebite-covered expanse of his decorated back.

“John,” Sherlock whimpered, face buried in the comforter and his erection swinging between his parted thighs. He felt John lean over his back, grounding his hips into Sherlock’s arse, and the hand that held onto his shoulder wrapped around the front of Sherlock’s throat and squeezed.

“What was that, soldier?” John’s growling voice made Sherlock shudder.

“Captain…” Sherlock panted and wheezed the correction, arching his neck into John’s hand.

“That’s what I thought.” John snarled, letting go of Sherlock’s throat and watching his head fall onto the bed again. He ground his hips into Sherlock’s, rolling them in a tight circle, as he scratched his fingernails down Sherlock’s back. “Look at you, covered in my marks. Fucking gorgeous.”

Sherlock moaning was the only response John got out of him, making the soldier grin.

“If you’re good and you lie there and take it, I’ll let you ride me.” John started to thrust his hips again. “I know how much you love to ride me.”

Sherlock tried to hum an affirmation but it came out as a high-pitched whimper instead.

“Sound good, baby?”

“Yes,” Sherlock panted and whined, “Yes, please- please Captain.” John pushed his hips faster, his skin feeling like the surface of the sun when Sherlock begged for him.

“You’re mine.” John growled lowly, pounding into Sherlock’s body, and the detective gritted his teeth and clenched the comforter in his free hand.

“I’m yours!” Sherlock huffed, short of breath, “I’m yours.”

“Damn right, baby.” John grunted, shifting his hips slightly.

He pounded into Sherlock’s prostate and the man screamed into the mattress. The sound was glorious, even if it was muffled slightly.

When John felt Sherlock’s body start to tense and tremble, he stopped. Sherlock whined indignantly and tried to push his hips back, but John slipped out of him and wrapped his arms around the melting detective, guiding him to stand up.

“You fucking beautiful creature,” John poured over with praise, “an absolute treasure.” The soldier climbed onto the bed, putting his back against the head board and slipping down a little to make more room on his lap, “Come here.”

Hurriedly, Sherlock scurried over and straddled John’s hips, watching the soldier hold the base of his erection so Sherlock could focus on getting the right angle. He pulled the elastic between his cheeks to the side and lowered his hips, feeling John’s tip leak over his perineum before it finally slid back home. Sherlock sat down fully and moaned, letting the elastic go and rubbing his hands over John’s sweaty chest.

John rolled his hips upwards into the detective and the man threw his head back and shuddered, hands digging their fingernails into John’s pecs slightly. Sherlock started to bounce after a moment and John groaned, hands wrapping around Sherlock’s waist to help guide him down.

“There you go, baby,” John heaved out in heavy breaths, “just like that.”

“John,” Sherlock breathed, hands curling over John’s shoulders and gripping them tightly. “John.”

“Yeah?” John leaned forward and Sherlock’s hands slid down to his shoulder blades.

“Ah,” Sherlock whined, struggling to think, “fuck. I… I need…”

“Tell me.” John licked Sherlock’s clavicle, tasting hard-earned sweat. Sherlock shivered and moaned, his erection throbbing painfully.

“Touch me.” Sherlock begged. “Please, John, please.”

John wrapped his hand around Sherlock’s erection and Sherlock nearly came unglued, moaning wantonly and scratching his nails across John’s shoulder blades. John moaned at the sound and the feeling of Sherlock marking his back and stroked Sherlock in time with the detective bouncing on his cock.

“Come for me.” John huffed, “Come on, baby.”

Within a few moments, Sherlock came hard with a long, drawn out yell. His come decorated John’s chest and their stomachs, and he spilled over through the aftershocks as John thrust his hips up into him and stroked him through it.

Then his back was hitting the bed and John was pounding into him. He screamed, clawing at John’s sweaty bare back as his lover shoved his length into him, overstimulating his prostate. His spent erection dribbled a little more as Sherlock lost himself to the lust clouding his mind. All he cared about or could comprehend was the painful ecstasy he felt as John fucked him like he hated him.

He adored it.

John wrapped his hand around Sherlock’s erection between them, pumping his fist around the swollen glands. Sherlock writhed, clawing at John’s back and the bicep of the hand working Sherlock’s cock. John’s name was barely decipherable amongst the broken moaning and the headboard hitting the wall.

“I know you’ve got more for me,” John grunted. “Come on. Come on my cock again, baby.”

John’s filthy words sent Sherlock screaming over the edge, writhing on the bed and gripping the comforter beneath him with both hands, turning his knuckles white. John released the detective’s erection after a few more strokes and chased his own orgasm, pummeling his hips into Sherlock’s. His hips stuttered and John, normally fairly quiet in bed, shouted as he came.

“Fuck!”

He buried his hips into Sherlock’s as far as they could go. Sherlock, despite being mindless and disoriented from his second orgasm, felt John’s cock pulse and throb inside of him and whined. Sherlock loved the feeling of John coming inside of him.

Sherlock felt John collapse onto him, both men breathing as if they just ran a marathon, and they both lay mindless and utterly boneless, wrapped around each other.

“That… was…” John panted, barely able to breathe out the words, “the best… sex… I’ve ever… had.”

Sherlock groaned, a little hoarse from his screaming and still only slightly aware, and John hummed tiredly in response.

Chapter Text

John was the first to wake up. He was stiff as a board but in all the wrong places. He groaned and stretched, grimacing as overexerted muscles complained. Blinking awake and rubbing his eyes, he looked around the room.

A dull diffused light shone in through the window pane, casting the room in grey. Snow fell outside. Clothes laid haphazardly about the floor, the bedroom door still open from last night, leeching the warmth from the room. Somehow they managed to curl up under the covers and the comforter despite John not remembering much of anything after he touched Nirvana last night.

John’s stomach growled angrily at him, having not eaten since lunch yesterday. He felt hungover, but vaguely recalled the wine he bought being left unopened on the kitchen table. So much for a romantic Christmas Eve dinner with wine.

Sherlock’s idea was better, anyways.

Glancing over, he felt and saw Sherlock curl into his side, arms wrapping around his bicep and hugging John’s limb to his chest beneath the covers. Sherlock burrowed his face into the warm space between the tip of John’s shoulder and the mattress beneath.

“Morning.” John slurred sleepily.

Sherlock groaned. John chuckled.

“Feel hungover?”

“M-hm.”

“Me too.” John rubbed his eyes with his free hand. “I don’t remember anything after I came.”

“Cleaned us up.” Sherlock mumbled thickly, his voice hoarse. “Turned the heat on. Went to sleep.”

“I did all that?”

Sherlock shook his head. “I did.”

John’s eyebrows rose. He stared in tired shock down at Sherlock’s head.

“You did?” Sherlock hummed. “The fuck was I doing, then?”

Sherlock giggled then yawned and stretched his legs, pressing them against John’s as he replied, “You were asleep.”

“I passed out?”

“No, just fell asleep.”

John was quiet for a while, and Sherlock groggily let go of his warm boyfriend to stretch. His muscles were sore and his body was covered in bite marks and bruises that protested his every movement, but it was worth it. Last night was more than worth it.

“Damn.” John breathed after a moment of reflection. “I must be getting old.” He joked.

Sherlock sighed. He would have rolled his eyes had they been open.

“I fell asleep, too.” Sherlock confessed. “I woke up a couple minutes later when my body rudely reminded me you were still inside me.”

“What?” John laughed once, part surprised and part amused. “I fell asleep inside you?”

“We both did.” Sherlock smirked softly, leaning over to kiss his boyfriend. “I would have happily let you stay there. My arse refused, however.”

John chuckled and kissed Sherlock back.

“Well, thank you for taking care of us.” John murmured against Sherlock’s still slightly swollen lips. “And Merry Christmas.”

Sherlock smiled.

“Merry Christmas.” He pulled away, pressed a kiss to John’s stubbly cheek, and rolled toward the edge of the bed. “Hungry?”

“Starving.”

Sherlock winced as he got out of bed, and John smirked, watching his lanky boyfriend. He grabbed his phone from the nightstand and pressed the SD card back in as Sherlock stumbled over to the dresser.

“Bit sore?” John teased. Sherlock rolled his eyes, opening his drawer and grabbing a pair of boxers.

A camera shutter sounded off, and Sherlock looked toward the sound curiously. He found John lying in bed with the back of John’s phone pointed across the room at him. John grinned and the camera shutter clicked again.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John. John giggled and took another picture. He watched through his phone as his boyfriend strode over, finding his hand empty as Sherlock snatched his phone. For a brief second John was worried Sherlock was angry.

Then the camera was pointed at him, and he heard a picture being taken. He laughed, shouting in surprise when Sherlock yanked the covers off of him and took another picture.

“You little brat!” John cursed as he laughed, reaching up and grabbing Sherlock’s arm to pull him closer. He ended up tugging his lover off balance, causing him to fall onto the bed and over John’s legs.

Sherlock giggled and rolled off of the blonde, shrieking when John followed him and tickled his sides. John laughed and held Sherlock after a moment, nuzzling his smiling face into Sherlock’s neck and pressing a soft kiss to the bruised skin.

“I love you.”

Sherlock turned around in John’s arms and hugged him tightly around his torso.

“I love you, too, mon cher.”

John’s stomach growled loudly and both men laughed. Sherlock playfully patted the doctor’s stomach.

“Yes, yes, I love you too.”

John laughed heartily, giving his lover a teasing shove, and they both climbed out of bed.

“I had a whole evening planned, you know.” John remarked as Sherlock continued getting minimally dressed, rolling his sore shoulder.

“Mm, I deduced as much. I heard you set wine down in the kitchen.”

“How do you know it was wine?” John asked. He knew by now not to question Sherlock’s deductions, but he asked anyway. He wanted to hear why Sherlock knew. It was always fascinating.

“The object was made of glass but heavier than one of your Bailey’s. Single object, not a pack of drinks. So wine or champagne. You don’t care for either, meaning you don’t know many brands or types of either, but you know I do, so you likely bought it with me in mind. We’ve drank wine together before, but not champagne, so you bought the wine because you knew I would like it. You’re thoughtful like that. A hopeless romantic or something. I’m not sure of the term.”

John grinned warmly, amazed and hopelessly in love.

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows, realizing something, and turned and looked at John.

“Are you mad I redirected the evening?”

John shook his head and stood up, walking stiffly over to his brilliant boyfriend and kissing him softly with a press of lips. Sherlock deduced John was in pain and worry kept him from relaxing into the kiss fully.

“Your idea was far better than mine.” John whispered against Sherlock’s lips. The corners of Sherlock’s mouth twitched into a smile as John rested his hands on Sherlock’s waist. “Care for a shower, first?”

“I thought you were hungry.” Sherlock poked John’s stomach.

“I am.” Arms wrapped around Sherlock’s waist and pulled him against John, the short blonde licking at Sherlock’s clavicle.

“You’re in pain.” Sherlock deduced aloud. John hummed absently. “You need food to take your medication.”

“That I do.” John grazed a bruising lovebite with his teeth and Sherlock’s skin shook beneath John’s mouth. “A shower would help. Especially the kind of shower I want.”

“A warm shower would help, yes.” Sherlock agreed, playing dumb and innocent. “As would your medication.”

“Care to help me…” John scratched his nails down Sherlock’s side, murmuring sinfully in Sherlock’s ear, “… loosen up?”

John’s stomach growled. Sherlock giggled and cupped John’s face with both hands.

“I’ll gladly help you, mon cher. After breakfast.”

John scowled a little.

“Don’t doctor me.”

Sherlock laughed and took John’s hand, dragging him toward the kitchen.

“Don’t be such a horrid patient, then.”

Chapter Text

The shower had helped somewhat, but not enough. By the time Sherlock and John arrived at his parents’ home, the snow was still falling and John was still limping. Much to his displeasure, John was forced to take his cane. His shoulder was also bothering him, so he traded his jumper for a blue dress shirt and a charcoal grey vest. It would restrict his movement in his shoulders somewhat and apply pressure, which at the moment felt nice.

Sherlock helped him out of the cab once they arrived, holding John’s hand as well as the bag of gifts as they walked up to the door, and the youngest Holmes brother didn’t bother to knock. He opened the door and ushered John inside.

“Sherlock-” John hissed in a whisper. “You’re supposed to knock.”

“Why? It’s my mother, not the queen.”

“It’s called etiquette.” John chided, begrudgingly allowing Sherlock to guide him inside. “It’s not your home.”

“Your leg matters more than politeness.”

“Hello?” Mrs. Holmes called from the kitchen warily, having heard the door open and voices whispering.

John and Sherlock spoke at the same time.

“Hello.” John greeted.

“It’s me, Mum.”

Wanda gasped and rushed into the hallway, her face bright with a warm smile as she saw her son and her son’s partner.

“Oh I’m so glad you came.” Mrs. Holmes hugged Sherlock first and went to hug John, then noticed his cane. “Oh goodness! Bad day, is it?”

“It’s the weather.” John forced a polite smile. Mrs. Holmes tsked.

“Snow is magical… when you’re young and healthy.” She joked lightly and patted John’s arm. John chuckled. “Make yourself at home, dear. Sherlock, be sure to-”

“Ask John what he wants to drink, yes, I know mother.” Sherlock sighed. Mrs. Holmes smirked.

Sherlock led John into the living room, pleased to see that Mycroft had not arrived yet, and led John to the plush couch against the wall. The room was decorated for the holiday with a tree in the corner and lights strung around the olive green walls flickering with white light. Sherlock placed the bag of gifts by the tree then walked off to grab John and him a drink. The red brick fireplace warmed the room, a fire lit in its hearth, and John noticed there was a stocking with his name beside Sherlock’s and smiled fondly.

“Oh Siger!” Mrs. Holmes remarked happily a room over. “John’s here! Come on, come on!”

John smirked with amusement as he listened to Mrs. Holmes guide, presumably her husband, into the living room from the hallway. The soldier took a moment to stand, grimacing and trying to hide it with a smile.

“You didn’t need to get up…!” Mrs. Holmes worriedly lamented, both Holmes parents watching John struggle to stand up as they approached.

“Nonsense.” John replied, voice a little strained, and reached out a hand to the grey-haired senior he’d not yet met. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir. I’m John, Sherlock’s boyfriend.”

Siger was tall like both Holmes boys with thick brows, his hair shock white. A pair of glasses hung off his neck by a cord like a necklace, resting over a buttoned plaid shirt and a grey cardigan. He looked oddly ordinary, considering his sons. With both of Sherlock’s parents standing next to each other, he could certainly tell how Sherlock got such high, sharp cheekbones. Both of his parents had pronounced facial features, although Siger had more round curves unlike Wanda’s sharp angles.

Siger shook John’s hand with a smile. His grip wasn’t as strong as John expected it to be. It was more tempered and reserved and not the usual strong, sharp shaking of a father sizing up their child’s romantic partner.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you as well, John. I’m Siger, Sherlock’s father.”

“Please, sit!” Wanda stepped forward and gestured to the couch, offering a hand to assist John in sitting back down. “Get off that leg. Be comfortable!”

“I’m sure he can decide what to do for himself, honey.” Siger placed a hand on Wanda’s back. “No need to fret.” Wanda seemed to calm slightly.

Sherlock walked in and Siger smiled brightly, giving his youngest a hug hello.

“Sherlock! How have you been?”

“I’ve been well, father.” Sherlock gave John a glass of water. The blonde offered his boyfriend a smile before he slowly sat back down. Siger sat down in an armchair near the fireplace and Sherlock sat with John on the couch. “How was the gala?”

“Boring. I could’ve finished a painting in the time I wasted there.”

John grinned and the pale brunette beside him chuckled. Sherlock certainly took after his father in that regard.

“Speaking of that,” John interrupted, “I wanted to say your work is remarkable. I saw the pieces in the dining room. Sherlock told me you’re a painter?”

“Yes, I am. A restoration artist, but I do paint in my free time as well.” Siger smiled, proud but not arrogantly so. Sherlock didn’t take after him in that regard, then. “Wanda told me you were an army doctor?”

John’s heart sank a little at the impending conversation, although he knew it was only a matter of time before the topic came up. He nodded, still smiling.

“I was injured and sent home.” John explained then gestured with the cane. “Usually I don’t need my cane, but weather changes and such tend to make it difficult to get around.”

Sherlock leaned into John’s side, resting a hand on John’s arm, and John smiled at him. He knew, as Sherlock stroked his thumb over the fabric of John’s dress shirt, that his boyfriend was attempting to keep him grounded more than mere reassurance, but he didn’t mind. It was soothing, the repetitive motion, and with the pain he was feeling a bit of grounding was probably a good idea.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Siger empathized. “You work at Bart’s now, right? Wanda mentioned you working there.”

“In the A&E, yes.” John nodded. “I tried working as a GP, both before I joined the RAMC and after I was sent home, and both times it was just too… dull. Besides, I figured I’d be more help in the A&E than anywhere else.”

The front door opened before Siger could reply or ask more questions, and Sherlock scowled preemptively.

“Hello, Mummy.” A low voice greeted. Mrs. Holmes smiled warmly at her eldest son and hugged him.

“Oh Mykie, it’s good to see you.”

As the quiet conversation in the hall shifted over to the kitchen, Siger whispered to his youngest son and his son’s partner.

“I heard about what Mycroft did. I’m sorry.”

John smiled politely. “Oh, it’s fine. It gave me a chance to ask him what he wanted for Christmas.”

Siger snorted and laughed.

“And what did he say?”

A voice said from the doorway,

“I told him we didn’t celebrate Christmas.”

The three men glanced over to where the sound came from, and they saw a familiar auburn-haired balding man with a hawk-like nose, umbrella in hand.

“Well,” John started, standing up with a grimace. Mycroft watched with narrowed, cold eyes. The army doctor limped a few steps over to Mycroft and continued, “things change, don’t they?”

John held out a hand toward Mycroft. Mycroft eyed him suspiciously, and John was a little surprised when the elder brother reached out and actually shook his hand.

“That they do, Doctor Watson.” Mycroft murmured. John smiled.

There came a knock on the door, and everyone stared in the direction of the foyer confused. Well, all but Mycroft and Mrs. Holmes. In fact, Mycroft…

Blushed?

“Is that him?” Wanda asked as she trotted down the hall. Mycroft sighed.

“Yes, yes it is.”

She opened the door and beamed happily.

“Oh, it’s a pleasure to meet you! Come in, come in, don’t stand in the cold!” From where he was standing, John couldn’t see who was at the door.

He certainly recognized the voice.

“Thank you, Mrs. Holmes.”

John’s eyes went wide.

“Please, call me Wanda.”

He watched the familiar man step into his line of sight, the door closing behind him, and they met eyes. The salt-and-pepper haired man smiled sheepishly.

“Greg?!” John exclaimed, absolutely baffled. The detective inspector laughed.

Sherlock pressed into John’s side to peer into the foyer and his jaw dropped, eyes going wide like saucers. Greg laughed at Sherlock’s shocked face. He’d never seen the brunette look so gobsmacked.

“Lestrade?!” Sherlock shrieked. Mycroft rolled his eyes, but his face was bright red.

“Yes, yes, I invited the detective inspector. Would you all stop screeching like banshees?”

Chapter Text

“So, when did…?”

John and Greg were sat in the living room by the fire, listening to the Holmeses cleaning up after dinner. Mrs. Holmes had refused to let John and Greg help, telling them firmly they were guests and were to be treated as such, which meant this was the perfect time to ask questions.

Greg smirked.

“We’ve been casual for a couple years.”

John’s eyebrows went up.

“Years.” He repeated in disbelief. Lestrade nodded. “But you’re together now?”

“As of last month.” Lestrade’s smirk softened into a smile. “He won’t admit it, but I think seeing Sherlock with you helped.”

“How?” John asked, baffled.

“Sherlock being happy in a relationship showed him relationships weren’t all bad, I think? I’m not sure. He’s not explained it.”

“I was under the impression Mycroft didn’t do…” John gestured to Lestrade, words failing him for a moment. “That.”

“He wants people to think that,” Greg lowered his voice, “but it turns out the Holmes brothers are more human than they care to admit.”

John snorted.

“Fair enough.”

Sherlock was about to interrupt the conversation to argue that he was anything but a normal human, having been eavesdropping in the hall, when someone touched his shoulder with a light tap. He glanced over and saw Mycroft, and he scowled.

Mycroft held up a cigarette and gestured to the back door with a slight nod, and Sherlock’s interest was piqued.

They walked outside and down the steps to the concrete patio, and Mycroft handed his younger brother a smoke. Knowing that they had limited time until someone came looking for them, Mycroft spoke while Sherlock lit his cigarette.

“I have a few things I would like to say.”

“I’d prefer if you didn’t.” Sherlock grumbled then took a drag. The nicotine coated his lungs and he sighed happily. Mycroft, as usual, ignored him.

“I’m… pleased, for you and John.”

Sherlock glanced over at his older brother and narrowed studying eyes at him. Mycroft was difficult to read, typically, but he was noticeably uncomfortable and, dare he say, vulnerable.

“I apologize for incorrectly deducing the sincerity of your relationship with him.”

End the charade. Caring is not an advantage.

Mycroft apologizing was already shocking, but admitting he deduced something incorrectly?

“Are you dying?”

Mycroft rolled his eyes.

“As much as you would wish so, no, I’m not ill.”

They smoked quietly for a brief moment when Sherlock’s curiosity ate threw his self-control.

“You and Lestrade?”

Mycroft tilted his hawk nose up, uncomfortable with Sherlock’s line of questioning.

“A somewhat recent development.”

“You like him, though.” Sherlock deduced. “You… love him?”

Mycroft scoffed.

“Don’t jump to conclusions.”

“You brought him to the first Christmas dinner we’ve had in a decade.”

Mycroft took a long drag of his cigarette before lamenting, “I think you’ve spent too much time with John in the world of goldfish, brother mine.” If Sherlock could have rolled his eyes straight out of his head, he certainly would’ve in that moment.

“I think you’ve spent too much time up on your high horse, your majesty.” Sherlock snarled back. Mycroft bristled. Sherlock expected an equally snarky comment about his relationships in return, but neither had the chance to say anything more.

The back door opened and both brothers stood up straight and turned on the spot, hands behind their back, as their mother shouted “Boys!”

They both spoke at the same time, saying two vastly different sentiments.

“Yes Mummy?”

“Mycroft started it!”

Mycroft glared at his younger brother and Sherlock pointedly ignored him.

After putting out their smokes at the incessant demand of their mother, they went back inside. John immediately smelled the smoke on Sherlock, but the detective attempted to lie and say that it had been just Mycroft smoking. John wasn’t fooled and told him to wash his mouth out if he expected a kiss anytime soon. Sherlock, begrudgingly, did as John ordered.

Then, it was time for presents, and Sherlock was beyond excited. He couldn’t wait to see Mycroft’s face when the older brother opened his present from Sherlock and uncovered the preteen girly notebook declaring him a queen.

“If I knew you were coming I would’ve gotten you something.” John told Lestrade, sitting between the detective inspector and Sherlock on the couch. Mycroft sat next to his guest (partner?), and Mr. Holmes stood by the tree while his wife sat in an armchair by the fire. John had offered to help the senior, but he’d refused to let even his sons aid him. It was apparently a tradition.

“What, you didn’t plan to get me something for Christmas anyways?” Lestrade teased John and the army doctor laughed. “Its fine, mate. You keeping Sherlock entertained is enough of a gift for me.”

“John.” Siger said as he handed over a cardboard clothing box with a print of a snowflake on it. John recognized it from what they had brought in the bag of gifts and was only mildly surprised to see it was from Sherlock.

“Saved me a gift?” John leaned back into the couch, resting the box on his lap and smiling lopsidedly at his boyfriend. “I figured you wouldn’t want to give gifts here.”

“Well I saw you place a gift in the bag for me, so I thought it was only fair.” Sherlock huffed. John grinned.

“Greg.” Siger spoke as he walked over, handing a gift bag with tissue paper sticking out toward the detective inspector. Lestrade smiled kindly and took the bag, glancing at the name tag for a moment before flicking his eyes toward Mycroft.

John uncovered his gift from his boyfriend and beamed. He pulled out a familiar olive green scarf and leaned into Sherlock’s side, seeing a matching olive green jumper beneath.

“How did you get this?”

“I bought it from Catherine.” Sherlock said in a low voice to John, smiling with a small tilt of his lips. John remembered the costume designer and smirked. “Besides, it’s tradition for cast and crew to take souvenirs, is it not?”

John kissed Sherlock’s cheek. He didn’t bother answering Sherlock, knowing the detective already knew the answer was yes, and set everything back in the box to keep it safe.

“Thank you, love.”

“It was purely for selfish reasons.” Sherlock joked. John laughed, knowing his lover was at least somewhat serious considering the encounter they had after John’s first showing.

“That reminds me, John,” Mrs. Holmes interjected, grabbing John’s attention, “what play will you perform next?”

“I’m not sure.” John admitted. “I may wait until spring comes around and see what’s in production, I may not.”

“Are you hoping for another musical?”

John thought about it for a few seconds.

“I’m not sure about that either, to be honest.”

“Well, when you find out let us know.” Mrs. Holmes smiled brightly like a ray of sunshine. “Siger and I want to watch the next one.”

John smiled. “Will do, Wanda.”

“Speaking of Wanda,” Siger murmured, handing a gift to his wife. “Here you go, honey.” Sherlock and John watched her look at the name tag and smile sweetly at them.

She opened the small box and her eyes glistened as she gazed at the white opal necklace with parted lips.

“Comme c’est joli!” Mrs. Holmes breathed. “Oh it will go so well with that dress I bought!”

“I’m glad you like it.” John smiled.

Siger handed Sherlock a wrapped gift and John smiled, seeing that it was the one he had brought for Sherlock. Sherlock turned the gift around in his hands, studying it closely.

                                                         Box underneath wrapping

        Metallic sound

                                                                                                                Extra padding

“Just open it, love.” John chided, struggling to keep his excitement in check. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John as he realized John had wrapped his gift with the intent of making it more difficult for him to deduce.

He tore the wrapping free, finding a jewelry box inside. Carefully he jostled the lid free and smiled at the charm and familiar necklace. The charm was a small black pitted stone with an irregular, natural shape, and the necklace was the same necklace John had pointed out to Sherlock after they left the store. It was a royal blue stone, a blue onyx if he remembered correctly, and it was cut and shaped into a triangle with silver wire wrapped around it delicately and intricately.

“You went back and bought it?” Sherlock whispered, his tone nothing short of adoring and touched.

“Of course I did. Then I gave you my dog tags, so I thought I’d get something for those, too.” John said in amusement. Neither of the men noticed that anyone was listening in on their conversation. “Do you know what this is?” John pointed at the black stone alongside the necklace.

“Something naturally produced and uncut, if the shape is anything to go by.” Sherlock shook his head. “Other than that, I don’t know. Is it a stone?”

“It’s called pirate glass.” John explained, shifting on the couch. “It’s black sea glass.”

“Pirate glass?” Sherlock repeated, smiling and watching John reach beneath Sherlock’s shirt collar to grasp the silver chain around his neck.

“Worn, old glass from very old black glass bottles that got lost at sea. Well, they look black in normal light.” John pulled his dog tags free from under Sherlock’s shirt and unclasped them. “In harsh light, this one looks green. I checked.”

The idea that John researched a gift for Sherlock so thoroughly, enough to tell him about what kind of material his jewelry was made of, warmed Sherlock to his core.

“Your mum told me about you playing pirates when you were little.” John admitted, smiling a little sheepishly. “I may have called her on a lunch break when I couldn’t figure out what kind of charm I wanted for the tags.”

Sherlock giggled and swallowed around the emotions in his throat.

“You didn’t have to go through all that trouble.”

“No, I didn’t,” John agreed and slipped the charm onto the chain and then secured the necklace around his boyfriend’s neck once again, “but I wanted to. You deserve it.”

“You spoil me.” Sherlock whispered. His voice shook with the weight of his feelings. John’s face softened into a loving, sweet gaze.

“It’s one of my favorite past times.” John joked, pleased when Sherlock laughed. “But now you have options. Something you can wear every day if you wanted, and something else that’s a bit more polished than my ratty old tags.”

“Well, I happen to adore your ‘ratty old tags’, Captain Watson.” Sherlock wrapped his arms around John’s neck and pulled him in for a tight hug. “I adore you.”

John hugged his detective just as tight in return, smiling into Sherlock’s shoulder.

“I adore you, too.”

When Sherlock pulled away a moment later, he kissed John soft and sweet for a brief few seconds before letting John tuck the tags back under Sherlock’s dress shirt. He wanted nothing more than to curl up in John’s lap. Damn social conventions.

“And you don’t need to worry about breaking it. They’re supposed to be pretty sturdy. Sturdy enough to survive tackling a suspect, I’d assume.” John grinned when Sherlock laughed softly. “Besides, it looks a bit rough around the edges already, just like my tags, so don’t worry about scuffing it.”

“I feel like I should have gotten you jewelry, too.”

John rolled his eyes. “I don’t look good in jewelry. Not like you do.”

“I beg to goddamn differ. I saw you in those dog tags.” There was a certain heat in Sherlock’s eyes that made John’s heart race.

John grinned cheekily. “Okay, maybe that kind of jewelry.”

“The very manly strong military kind?” Sherlock teased.

John laughed and Sherlock chuckled. “Yeah, get me a rifle round on a leather cord and call it a day.”

Sherlock giggled and hugged John tightly again, murmuring a soft thank you in his boyfriend’s ear.

As they hugged, they heard someone sniffle. John shifted back into the couch, both men turning to observe the source of the sound. They found Mrs. Holmes watching them with glistening eyes and a shaking smile.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and groaned, “Mum...”

Chapter Text

As Sherlock expected, Mycroft’s reaction to his present was to roll his eyes and toss it onto a pile of discarded wrapping paper. Mycroft glared at him and Sherlock grinned proudly. Mycroft didn’t bother acknowledging the gift any further with a pointless conversation of why, as that itself was fairly obvious, and instead focused on opening the gift from Lestrade.

Mycroft had gotten Lestrade a new wristwatch, one that could send and receive phone calls, and Lestrade had appeared more than a little shocked at the gift. Mycroft explained that it would be practical for Lestrade to have something in easy access that could place a call, especially if Lestrade left his phone in his car as he was wont to do. Greg had a feeling there was more to the gift than just practicality, though he appreciated Mycroft’s explanation all the same.

Lestrade had bought a custom tie pin for Mycroft. It was difficult to buy something for the British Government, but even more difficult when Greg remembered the man could buy anything he wanted without issue, so Lestrade resorted to buying something custom. It was a pin in the shape of an umbrella, reminding Lestrade of their first kiss. They had been standing underneath Mycroft’s umbrella when Lestrade conjured up the courage to do it.

By the glint in Mycroft’s eyes, Greg assumed he made a good choice.

Siger, of course, loved the new paint supplies that Sherlock and John had gotten him. There were colors in the set that he no longer had to make from scratch, and he’d used the brand before. They were exceptionally reliable. He couldn’t wait to paint.

Siger’s gifts for both of his sons were original paintings. Mycroft’s was a winter landscape with spruce trees and a frozen lake, and in the center sat a lonely campfire. Sherlock’s was a fall landscape of a park with gorgeous autumn leaves falling, people walking around and sitting on benches. There was a couple sitting on one of the benches that Sherlock recognized.

He pointed out the painted versions of them to John, and John radiated joy at the sight.

One of the last gifts to be doled out and opened was John’s to Mycroft. John watched with a grin as Mycroft eyed him suspiciously then carefully opened the gift. He’d deduced it was a mug just by the shape and feel in his hands, but there was no way to know what was on the mug or what was inside it, either.

The first part of the gift Mycroft saw was a bar of chocolate sitting inside the mug, a bow placed on top. It was one of those bows that companies offer up during Christmas time, meaning John opted to have them “wrap” his gift at the store. He wasn’t sure what to make of that detail.

He pulled the navy blue mug out of the bag and turned it so he could look for writing, and he didn’t have to look hard. In all capital letters in white font was written “Future Brother-in-Law”.

Mycroft’s eyes widened. Sherlock guffawed and John snickered.

“What does it say?” Lestrade asked, leaning closer to his partner to look over his shoulder. He read the mug and laughed. His eyes widened a little and he glanced at John next to him.

“Are you two…?”

Sherlock held John’s hand.

“Officially?” John asked. “No. Not yet, that is.”

“What are you talking about?” Mrs. Holmes demanded curiously, standing up and rushing over. Mycroft showed his mother the mug and Mrs. Holmes gasped, hands covering her mouth.

She squealed.

“You’re engaged?!” She shrieked, crowding around Sherlock and hugging her son’s head to her chest tightly. John watched with an amused smile, laughing lowly.

“John just said we weren’t, mum.” Sherlock groaned in a muffled voice into his mother’s bicep.

“Oh I’m so excited!” She ignored her son blatantly. “Siger, did you hear that?!”

“Yes, honey, I heard.” Siger sighed with a grin.

“I’ve got to tell the girls!” She screeched and went running off toward the kitchen, and Sherlock followed after her, cursing. The rest of the group laughed, watching them run off, and Siger followed after his son and wife a moment later. If anyone could reel her in, Siger could.

Greg followed just to watch the action, leaving John and Mycroft to sit in the living room alone.

John listened to the distant squeals of excitement and his boyfriend’s annoyed groaning with a grin.

“Doctor Watson.”

The blonde glanced over at the auburn-haired Holmes on the couch with him, grin fading to a small smile.

“I… want to thank you.” Mycroft whispered. His eyes kept drifting from John’s, as if it was difficult for him to maintain eye contact while he spoke. “I have not seen my brother so happy since he befriended Victor.”

John waited for the ‘but’ to come, but it never did. The knowledge that Mycroft was being genuine in his words was surprising.

“I was afraid you would…” Mycroft sighed. “That you would hurt him. He was hurt too many times in the past.”

“I know.” John murmured back. “He told me. Not in detail, but he told me.”

Mycroft studied John with not entirely unkind eyes, and John could see a sliver of Sherlock in that stare.

“You will keep him safe?”

The soldier smirked a little and nodded sharply.

“Of course. With my life.” John promised. He almost didn’t hear Mycroft when he whispered just under his breath,

“His loss would break my heart.”

John’s smile faded as he regarded Mycroft. For the first time in the limited time that John had known Mycroft, the man seemed genuinely sentimental. John held his hand out to Mycroft.

“As it would mine.”

Mycroft eyed John’s hand, understanding the silent agreement that was taking place as he shook Captain Watson’s hand.

Protecting Sherlock Holmes was their shared priority.