Fic: Uncontainable (Complete)
Title: Uncontainable
Links: AO3, LJ
Author: 30percent
Pairing: John/Sherlock, John/Mary (background)
Rating: Explicit
Status: Complete
Category: Slash
Word count: 2936
Disclaimer: Not mine, alas.
Warnings: None
Summary: But the more Sherlock relaxes against him, the more something jitters in John’s gut, his bloodstream, his very cells. The more he soaks up the heat and weight of Sherlock against him, warm and breathing, the more something splits apart in his chest, a dam breaking, an uncontainable craving for more.
Read it on AO3, LJ
***
John stands on the third stair, two fingers pressed to the bannister, gaze fixed to the threadbare carpet near the landing. If he could hear the tick of a clock, he might know just how long he’s stood here, feet pinned in place, but instead time moves with a viscous uniformity that leaves each moment indistinguishable from the last.
Mrs Hudson emerges from 221A, tea towel in hand. “Oh, it is you. I thought I heard someone come in a bit ago.”
He forces a polite smile and a huff of breath. “Yep, yeah, uh…” He pulls out his phone, glancing at the dark screen, as if that could possibly explain why she’s found him motionless on the stairs. “Just checking in on him. How’s he been?”
“Well, at least he’s finally out of that dreadful hospital. I’ve been bringing him a bit to eat, now and then, but he doesn’t like me fussing. He says he’s fine, but you know him…."
John’s fingers tighten against the bannister, a quick involuntary clench, but his voice is mild. “Do I?”
“Well, he has changed, but I’m sure you still know him better than any of us, dear.”
A quick jab of pain, at that, and he quirks his lips. “Not likely.”
She just clucks her tongue. “I’ll nip up there in a few minutes with tea, how about that?”
Something akin to jealousy rears its head, and John instinctively deflects. “No, it’s -- it’s fine. I’ll make some. I’ll browbeat him into drinking it, if I have to.”
She falls silent, and only the weight of her gaze between his shoulderblades prompts him forward. He climbs the stairs with leaden feet, but all too soon he reaches the threshold of 221B.
He peers in the open door. The room is still, and altogether too quiet for half two on a Wednesday. The lights are out, but hesitant afternoon sunlight percolates through cracks in the drawn curtains.
He’s about to rap his knuckles against the doorframe and call out a greeting, when he spots Sherlock on the sofa. Far more still than the dust motes eddying through the room, Sherlock’s shoulders face him, as static as any piece of eccentric furniture dotting the flat.
John’s hand falls to his side. It’s impossible to read the difference between sleep and mind palace with Sherlock, so he errs on the side of caution and crosses the room on quiet feet.
When he’s close enough to see beyond the imposing line of Sherlock’s shoulders, the sudden vulnerability of closed eyes and dark curls against unnaturally pale skin is a shock. He stares at Sherlock’s loosely curled hand, palm up, utterly still against the sofa cushions, and just for a moment he wonders: if he pressed his fingers to deceptively fragile wrist, would he even feel a pulse, or just slowly cooling skin? A dizzying spin of vertigo rushes through him, and his hands clench.
“Sherlock,” he blurts, before he can think to let him sleep.
John has witnessed Sherlock unconscious on the sofa countless times: whatever the man claimed, going without sleep for days on end was not conducive to brain work. Sherlock simply refused to admit defeat in the form of retiring to his bedroom, instead snatching catnaps amongst case files and forensic reports, springing into motion at the buzz of his mobile or knock at the door.
And so John has never seen him linger between sleep and wakefulness, and he isn’t prepared for twitch of eyes behind closed lids, the long, slow blink, or the haziness in those usually clear grey eyes as they focus on John. It’s nearly indecent, like walking in on a stranger undressing, or a stage actor without makeup. The back of John’s neck turns warm.
“John?” The sound of Sherlock’s voice, rough and low with sleep, sends a wave of goosebumps up John’s spine. Sherlock starts to roll onto his back, only to flinch and press his hand to his side.
John drops into a crouch on instinct, pressing his hand to Sherlock’s bicep. “No, don’t move.” He licks his lips. “I just wanted to… to, uh, see how you were doing.”
“Mm. About typical for gunshot recovery, I’d expect. Though I do despise being typical.” The quirk of his mouth tells John he’s supposed to laugh, but something tight clutches at his chest, instead.
John’s fingers tighten around Sherlock’s arm, and he forces them to release, one by one. “I’ll make tea.”
He stands, and marches toward the kitchen without waiting for a response. Sherlock’s voice follows him, low and hoarse, far slower than his usual staccato. “Don’t bother. Mrs. Hudson already made some.”
John’s shoulders twitch, but he doesn’t change course. “She told me. She also said you didn’t drink it.”
John stands in the kitchen while he waits for the kettle, back against the counter, tapping his fingers against its surface in a jittery rhythm as he watches Sherlock’s unmoving form. The kettle hisses.
He spins, and as he pours boiling water over tea bags, his hands shake. Droplets hit his fingers, and he curses.
By the time he’s back in the sitting room, two mugs of tea in hand, Sherlock’s eyes are shut again. John sets both mugs down on the side table, and crouches next to the sofa, again. Indecision rises up, something pressing at his chest, akin to panic but far sharper.
He sinks a hand into Sherlock’s hair, and barely stops his fingers from clenching. He fights his voice down to a murmur, and wills it not to shake. “Sherlock, wake up.”
Sherlock twitches, and his eyes blink open. They widen, and John becomes abruptly aware of his fingers tangled in Sherlock’s hair. He yanks his hand back, and flushes.
“Here, drink your tea. You’re dehydrated.”
Sherlock frowns. “I’m fine.”
“I’m a doctor. Drink it.”
John slips an arm around Sherlock’s torso on his good side, levering him up to a sitting position, Sherlock leaning heavily against him. He draws away carefully, as Sherlock braces his elbows against his knees and takes the tea, but John’s fingers linger against the planes of his back, measuring the rise and fall of his breaths. Sherlock shudders.
John presses his hand to Sherlock’s forehead, then wraps his fingers around his wrist to measure his pulse. Light, and a little too fast. “When did you last take a pain pill?”
“Last night.”
“Sherlock!” Jesus, no wonder he can barely move. “Enjoying lying around in agony then?”
Sherlock frowns. “I needed to think.”
“You and your brain. Where are they?”
“Bathroom.”
As soon as John is sure Sherlock can sit up by himself, he stands and strides into the kitchen for a glass of water, then fetches the codeine from the bathroom. By the time he returns to the sitting room, Sherlock is paler than before, and a light sheen of sweat stands out on his forehead. John hands him the pills, and holds the glass for him to take a drink.
Sherlock trembles, and lets his breath out in a hiss after he swallows the pills. John wraps a hand around the back of his neck, his thumb moving restlessly over shockingly warm skin. “You idiot.”
Sherlock lists forward until his forehead leans against John’s shoulder. “I might have... waited a bit long,” he mumbles into John’s jumper, his breath drifting under the collar of John’s shirt.
John lets out his breath on a measured sigh, stirring the short hairs at the back of Sherlock’s neck. “Obviously. Can’t think like this, can you?”
Sherlock pauses for so long John thinks he won’t answer. “No.”
“Want to lie down?”
Sherlock shakes his head mutely, his curls tickling against John’s nose. John moves his hand up the line of Sherlock’s spine to cup the back of his head, and turns his face to sigh into Sherlock’s hair, relief flooding through his veins. He sets the water down and wraps both arms around Sherlock’s back, tracing a thumb over the sharp line of one shoulderblade.
Sherlock gradually steadies, sinking more heavily against John. His long arms wrap around John’s sides and his hands splay at the small of John’s back.
But the more Sherlock relaxes against him, the more something jitters in John’s gut, his bloodstream, his very cells. The more he soaks up the heat and weight of Sherlock against him, warm and breathing, the more something splits apart in his chest, a dam breaking, an uncontainable craving for more.
His hands run up and down Sherlock’s back, and his heart thumps in his chest, and he’s nearly light-headed with the effort to keep his breath steady. His hands shake and shake until his whole body is nearly vibrating with the need for something to escape.
His fists open and close against the fabric of Sherlock’s dressing gown, fingers tangling in soft fabric, and he rubs his cheek against Sherlock’s hair but it’s still not enough, not nearly. He presses his lips to Sherlock’s forehead, and to his temple, murmuring his name, and Sherlock makes a soft broken sound against the hollow of John’s throat, arms tightening around John’s ribcage.
John drops his head to brush his lips over the warm skin below Sherlock’s ear, the quick low throb of blood under skin intensely satisfying beneath his lips. He slides his nose along Sherlock’s cheek and presses his lips to the corner of that mouth, Sherlock’s breath coming fast and shallow against John’s cheek. John’s mouth drifts over Sherlock’s, the barest catch of warm skin, and his heart hammers in his chest.
And then Sherlock shoves John away with startling force.
John falls back, catching himself with the heels of his hands against the rug, barely avoiding the coffee table. Horror blooms hot under the collar of his shirt. “Fuck, Sherlock I’m so--”
Sherlock blanches and clutches his chest, even as his face twists, eyes red. “I don’t need your pity,” he spits.
Shock leaves John breathless for long moments, but then his fists clench in the rug under him, and rage burns quick and dangerous down his spine. His jaw works silently. “You think this is pity? Fuck you,” he spits, entirely unintentionally.
Sherock’s mouth drops open in shock, his eyes going wide, and the temerity of it, Sherlock there on the sofa alive and affronted at John, nearly turns him inside-out.
“You. You, just--” John swallows. “You rip everything out of me, and you want to call it pity?”
Sherlock braces his arms against his knees, but not before John sees them shake. Silence sits brittle between them for long moments. “You want Mary,” Sherlock finally says.
John laughs, and the sound makes both of them flinch. “What do you know about what I want?”
Sherlock’s brow furrows. “Haven’t I made it easy for you?”
John scoffs. “The last thing you do is make things easy.”
“You, with Mary. I laid it all out for you! All you have to do is go back to the way things were. Isn’t that what you want?”
“Is that what you’ve been doing?”
“Of course it was!”
“Well it’s not up to you! This is up to me, and Mary! And maybe that isn’t what I want!”
“Then what do you want?” Sherlock’s breath is harsh in the quiet room, and he wraps one arm about himself to press against his side.
John slaps a hand against the coffee table. “Jesus, Sherlock, how am I supposed to know?” His voice nearly breaks, and he sucks in a handful of ragged breaths before he continues.
“Apparently everything I ever believed in was complete bollocks, so I don’t have a fucking clue. But whatever I do, it’s my decision! You don’t get to go around and just… arrange my life however you please.”
Sherlock’s lips form a thin line, and when he speaks it’s nearly a murmur. “It doesn’t please me.”
“Oh, come off it. You love everything going your way.”
“I despise it!” Sherlock yells.
It’s John’s turn to be shocked, his next retort dying on his lips.
“How dense can you possibly be, John? You think I want you, and Mary, together? You’re supposed to be here, with me, at Baker Street!”
“Then what’s all this shite about?”
“It’s what you want, isn’t it?” Sherlock hisses a sigh through clenched teeth, and closes his eyes. “You-- you. You deserve it, John. What you want.”
The only sound is John’s heart pounding in his ears. He clears his throat. “Can you just. Leave it. Please?”
Sherlock’s eyes open, and his gaze slides off toward the corner of the room. “Of course.”
A thread of suspicion enters John’s thoughts. “Did you do something?”
Sherlock’s frown turns mutinous. “No.”
“But you had something planned. God, don’t tell me. Wait, no-- what was it?”
Sherlock clears his throat. “I’d considered requesting her assistance on a case or two. Inviting you both for dinner. Christmas with my family.”
“Christmas with your-- for the love of god Sherlock, don’t do that, please?”
“Now that I… understand… that the parameters have changed, I will not engage in any further attempts at… matchmaking,” Sherlock says stiffly.
John sighs. “Thank you.”
Long moments of silent stretch between them, Sherlock utterly still but for the quick blink of his eyes, gaze fixed into the distance. He draws a sudden breath. “I may have been… premature. Before.”
John frowns.
Sherlock sighs. “When I… pushed you away. I was not operating with a… complete data set.”
John licks his lips. His heart accelerates, but his words are even. “Are you trying to say you want me to kiss you?”
Another handful of breaths, and then Sherlock’s gaze locks with his, a nearly physical force. “Yes.”
And then John’s surging forward, one hand gripping the back of Sherlock’s neck, the other sliding into his hair. Only a bare thread of awareness of Sherlock’s injuries prevents him from bearing him back against the sofa as he finds Sherlock’s lips, warm and pliant under his.
Sherlock is ready for him this time, head tipping back, hands twisting in John’s jumper. He moans against John’s mouth, and the sound shoots straight through John’s gut, wrapping a fist around the base of his spine as he sinks his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth and pulls him closer, closer.
He can’t get enough, his hands sliding up and down Sherlock’s spine, his shoulders, back up his neck and into his hair. He’s dizzy with it, warm skin under his hands, Sherlock’s mouth hot and desperate against his.
He breaks away only when the need for oxygen leaves him light-headed, running his lips up the line of Sherlock’s jaw and down the column of his neck, mouthing wet kisses against the frantic thrum of his carotid. Sherlock’s groan is so low it rattles his bones, vibrates the skin under his teeth. “Jesus, jesus, fuck, Sherlock,” he murmurs.
He’s in free-fall, and there won’t ever be a soft landing, not with Sherlock -- he’ll just keep accelerating until he’s lost. He presses his mouth to the soft skin under Sherlock’s jaw, and tries to slow his breathing, to pack away the near-frantic need that escapes his skin like water through a sieve. When he thinks he’s grown steadier, he draws back, fingers sliding reluctantly through the fabric of Sherlock’s dressing gown. But then he opens his eyes to the sight of Sherlock’s eyes gone wide and dark, and his cheekbones gone flushed he’s reeled back in, unerringly toward that mouth, already so addictive and so warm against his.
Finally they still, foreheads pressed together, sharing the same breath. John’s hand curls around the base of Sherlock’s skull.
Sherlock murmurs into the space between them, low and urgent. “Move back in.”
“Hmm?” The words barely register, and John opens his eyes slowly. Sherlock’s are still closed, brow furrowed in a grimace.
Sherlock’s eyes snap open as John watches. “Here, with me. You’re staying with Harry, you’re sleeping on her sofa, it’s destroying your neck and your blood pressure is almost certainly twenty points higher thanks to her drinking. Stay here instead. Your room is unoccupied, Mrs Hudson would be thrilled and quite willing to remove the tree frogs I’m sure--”
John sighs. “Sherlock. Just leave it, okay?”
Sherlock’s mouth shuts with a click, and his eyes slide away. “Fine.”
John runs his thumb along Sherlock’s jaw, and sighs. “Now lie down before you fall over. I’m making food, and you’re eating it.”
Sherlock’s nose wrinkles, but he doesn’t protest. “Yes, doctor.”
John chooses to ignore the thread of sarcasm, and stands and walks toward the kitchen without looking back. He draws a few careful breaths, measuring the progress of air through his lungs until he no longer feels like he’s about to come apart at a cellular level.
He heats up tinned soup and prepares toast in silence, and not a sound drifts in from the sitting room.
When he returns with a bowl and plate and serviettes tucked under one elbow, he finds Sherlock sprawled on his back, staring into the distance, the fingers of one hand drifting over his lips. As John draws closer, he rearranges his hands to steeple below his chin, brow furrowing.
John arranges the soup and toast on the coffee table while Sherlock casts him sideways glances, and then sits on the edge of the sofa, slipping an arm under Sherlock’s ribcage and urging him upward.
Sherlock’s body is a warm line pressed against his side, and he drops a quick kiss into the tousled curls below his chin without a second thought.
How quickly habits change.
“I’ll think about it.”
Links: AO3, LJ
Author: 30percent
Pairing: John/Sherlock, John/Mary (background)
Rating: Explicit
Status: Complete
Category: Slash
Word count: 2936
Disclaimer: Not mine, alas.
Warnings: None
Summary: But the more Sherlock relaxes against him, the more something jitters in John’s gut, his bloodstream, his very cells. The more he soaks up the heat and weight of Sherlock against him, warm and breathing, the more something splits apart in his chest, a dam breaking, an uncontainable craving for more.
Read it on AO3, LJ
***
John stands on the third stair, two fingers pressed to the bannister, gaze fixed to the threadbare carpet near the landing. If he could hear the tick of a clock, he might know just how long he’s stood here, feet pinned in place, but instead time moves with a viscous uniformity that leaves each moment indistinguishable from the last.
Mrs Hudson emerges from 221A, tea towel in hand. “Oh, it is you. I thought I heard someone come in a bit ago.”
He forces a polite smile and a huff of breath. “Yep, yeah, uh…” He pulls out his phone, glancing at the dark screen, as if that could possibly explain why she’s found him motionless on the stairs. “Just checking in on him. How’s he been?”
“Well, at least he’s finally out of that dreadful hospital. I’ve been bringing him a bit to eat, now and then, but he doesn’t like me fussing. He says he’s fine, but you know him…."
John’s fingers tighten against the bannister, a quick involuntary clench, but his voice is mild. “Do I?”
“Well, he has changed, but I’m sure you still know him better than any of us, dear.”
A quick jab of pain, at that, and he quirks his lips. “Not likely.”
She just clucks her tongue. “I’ll nip up there in a few minutes with tea, how about that?”
Something akin to jealousy rears its head, and John instinctively deflects. “No, it’s -- it’s fine. I’ll make some. I’ll browbeat him into drinking it, if I have to.”
She falls silent, and only the weight of her gaze between his shoulderblades prompts him forward. He climbs the stairs with leaden feet, but all too soon he reaches the threshold of 221B.
He peers in the open door. The room is still, and altogether too quiet for half two on a Wednesday. The lights are out, but hesitant afternoon sunlight percolates through cracks in the drawn curtains.
He’s about to rap his knuckles against the doorframe and call out a greeting, when he spots Sherlock on the sofa. Far more still than the dust motes eddying through the room, Sherlock’s shoulders face him, as static as any piece of eccentric furniture dotting the flat.
John’s hand falls to his side. It’s impossible to read the difference between sleep and mind palace with Sherlock, so he errs on the side of caution and crosses the room on quiet feet.
When he’s close enough to see beyond the imposing line of Sherlock’s shoulders, the sudden vulnerability of closed eyes and dark curls against unnaturally pale skin is a shock. He stares at Sherlock’s loosely curled hand, palm up, utterly still against the sofa cushions, and just for a moment he wonders: if he pressed his fingers to deceptively fragile wrist, would he even feel a pulse, or just slowly cooling skin? A dizzying spin of vertigo rushes through him, and his hands clench.
“Sherlock,” he blurts, before he can think to let him sleep.
John has witnessed Sherlock unconscious on the sofa countless times: whatever the man claimed, going without sleep for days on end was not conducive to brain work. Sherlock simply refused to admit defeat in the form of retiring to his bedroom, instead snatching catnaps amongst case files and forensic reports, springing into motion at the buzz of his mobile or knock at the door.
And so John has never seen him linger between sleep and wakefulness, and he isn’t prepared for twitch of eyes behind closed lids, the long, slow blink, or the haziness in those usually clear grey eyes as they focus on John. It’s nearly indecent, like walking in on a stranger undressing, or a stage actor without makeup. The back of John’s neck turns warm.
“John?” The sound of Sherlock’s voice, rough and low with sleep, sends a wave of goosebumps up John’s spine. Sherlock starts to roll onto his back, only to flinch and press his hand to his side.
John drops into a crouch on instinct, pressing his hand to Sherlock’s bicep. “No, don’t move.” He licks his lips. “I just wanted to… to, uh, see how you were doing.”
“Mm. About typical for gunshot recovery, I’d expect. Though I do despise being typical.” The quirk of his mouth tells John he’s supposed to laugh, but something tight clutches at his chest, instead.
John’s fingers tighten around Sherlock’s arm, and he forces them to release, one by one. “I’ll make tea.”
He stands, and marches toward the kitchen without waiting for a response. Sherlock’s voice follows him, low and hoarse, far slower than his usual staccato. “Don’t bother. Mrs. Hudson already made some.”
John’s shoulders twitch, but he doesn’t change course. “She told me. She also said you didn’t drink it.”
John stands in the kitchen while he waits for the kettle, back against the counter, tapping his fingers against its surface in a jittery rhythm as he watches Sherlock’s unmoving form. The kettle hisses.
He spins, and as he pours boiling water over tea bags, his hands shake. Droplets hit his fingers, and he curses.
By the time he’s back in the sitting room, two mugs of tea in hand, Sherlock’s eyes are shut again. John sets both mugs down on the side table, and crouches next to the sofa, again. Indecision rises up, something pressing at his chest, akin to panic but far sharper.
He sinks a hand into Sherlock’s hair, and barely stops his fingers from clenching. He fights his voice down to a murmur, and wills it not to shake. “Sherlock, wake up.”
Sherlock twitches, and his eyes blink open. They widen, and John becomes abruptly aware of his fingers tangled in Sherlock’s hair. He yanks his hand back, and flushes.
“Here, drink your tea. You’re dehydrated.”
Sherlock frowns. “I’m fine.”
“I’m a doctor. Drink it.”
John slips an arm around Sherlock’s torso on his good side, levering him up to a sitting position, Sherlock leaning heavily against him. He draws away carefully, as Sherlock braces his elbows against his knees and takes the tea, but John’s fingers linger against the planes of his back, measuring the rise and fall of his breaths. Sherlock shudders.
John presses his hand to Sherlock’s forehead, then wraps his fingers around his wrist to measure his pulse. Light, and a little too fast. “When did you last take a pain pill?”
“Last night.”
“Sherlock!” Jesus, no wonder he can barely move. “Enjoying lying around in agony then?”
Sherlock frowns. “I needed to think.”
“You and your brain. Where are they?”
“Bathroom.”
As soon as John is sure Sherlock can sit up by himself, he stands and strides into the kitchen for a glass of water, then fetches the codeine from the bathroom. By the time he returns to the sitting room, Sherlock is paler than before, and a light sheen of sweat stands out on his forehead. John hands him the pills, and holds the glass for him to take a drink.
Sherlock trembles, and lets his breath out in a hiss after he swallows the pills. John wraps a hand around the back of his neck, his thumb moving restlessly over shockingly warm skin. “You idiot.”
Sherlock lists forward until his forehead leans against John’s shoulder. “I might have... waited a bit long,” he mumbles into John’s jumper, his breath drifting under the collar of John’s shirt.
John lets out his breath on a measured sigh, stirring the short hairs at the back of Sherlock’s neck. “Obviously. Can’t think like this, can you?”
Sherlock pauses for so long John thinks he won’t answer. “No.”
“Want to lie down?”
Sherlock shakes his head mutely, his curls tickling against John’s nose. John moves his hand up the line of Sherlock’s spine to cup the back of his head, and turns his face to sigh into Sherlock’s hair, relief flooding through his veins. He sets the water down and wraps both arms around Sherlock’s back, tracing a thumb over the sharp line of one shoulderblade.
Sherlock gradually steadies, sinking more heavily against John. His long arms wrap around John’s sides and his hands splay at the small of John’s back.
But the more Sherlock relaxes against him, the more something jitters in John’s gut, his bloodstream, his very cells. The more he soaks up the heat and weight of Sherlock against him, warm and breathing, the more something splits apart in his chest, a dam breaking, an uncontainable craving for more.
His hands run up and down Sherlock’s back, and his heart thumps in his chest, and he’s nearly light-headed with the effort to keep his breath steady. His hands shake and shake until his whole body is nearly vibrating with the need for something to escape.
His fists open and close against the fabric of Sherlock’s dressing gown, fingers tangling in soft fabric, and he rubs his cheek against Sherlock’s hair but it’s still not enough, not nearly. He presses his lips to Sherlock’s forehead, and to his temple, murmuring his name, and Sherlock makes a soft broken sound against the hollow of John’s throat, arms tightening around John’s ribcage.
John drops his head to brush his lips over the warm skin below Sherlock’s ear, the quick low throb of blood under skin intensely satisfying beneath his lips. He slides his nose along Sherlock’s cheek and presses his lips to the corner of that mouth, Sherlock’s breath coming fast and shallow against John’s cheek. John’s mouth drifts over Sherlock’s, the barest catch of warm skin, and his heart hammers in his chest.
And then Sherlock shoves John away with startling force.
John falls back, catching himself with the heels of his hands against the rug, barely avoiding the coffee table. Horror blooms hot under the collar of his shirt. “Fuck, Sherlock I’m so--”
Sherlock blanches and clutches his chest, even as his face twists, eyes red. “I don’t need your pity,” he spits.
Shock leaves John breathless for long moments, but then his fists clench in the rug under him, and rage burns quick and dangerous down his spine. His jaw works silently. “You think this is pity? Fuck you,” he spits, entirely unintentionally.
Sherock’s mouth drops open in shock, his eyes going wide, and the temerity of it, Sherlock there on the sofa alive and affronted at John, nearly turns him inside-out.
“You. You, just--” John swallows. “You rip everything out of me, and you want to call it pity?”
Sherlock braces his arms against his knees, but not before John sees them shake. Silence sits brittle between them for long moments. “You want Mary,” Sherlock finally says.
John laughs, and the sound makes both of them flinch. “What do you know about what I want?”
Sherlock’s brow furrows. “Haven’t I made it easy for you?”
John scoffs. “The last thing you do is make things easy.”
“You, with Mary. I laid it all out for you! All you have to do is go back to the way things were. Isn’t that what you want?”
“Is that what you’ve been doing?”
“Of course it was!”
“Well it’s not up to you! This is up to me, and Mary! And maybe that isn’t what I want!”
“Then what do you want?” Sherlock’s breath is harsh in the quiet room, and he wraps one arm about himself to press against his side.
John slaps a hand against the coffee table. “Jesus, Sherlock, how am I supposed to know?” His voice nearly breaks, and he sucks in a handful of ragged breaths before he continues.
“Apparently everything I ever believed in was complete bollocks, so I don’t have a fucking clue. But whatever I do, it’s my decision! You don’t get to go around and just… arrange my life however you please.”
Sherlock’s lips form a thin line, and when he speaks it’s nearly a murmur. “It doesn’t please me.”
“Oh, come off it. You love everything going your way.”
“I despise it!” Sherlock yells.
It’s John’s turn to be shocked, his next retort dying on his lips.
“How dense can you possibly be, John? You think I want you, and Mary, together? You’re supposed to be here, with me, at Baker Street!”
“Then what’s all this shite about?”
“It’s what you want, isn’t it?” Sherlock hisses a sigh through clenched teeth, and closes his eyes. “You-- you. You deserve it, John. What you want.”
The only sound is John’s heart pounding in his ears. He clears his throat. “Can you just. Leave it. Please?”
Sherlock’s eyes open, and his gaze slides off toward the corner of the room. “Of course.”
A thread of suspicion enters John’s thoughts. “Did you do something?”
Sherlock’s frown turns mutinous. “No.”
“But you had something planned. God, don’t tell me. Wait, no-- what was it?”
Sherlock clears his throat. “I’d considered requesting her assistance on a case or two. Inviting you both for dinner. Christmas with my family.”
“Christmas with your-- for the love of god Sherlock, don’t do that, please?”
“Now that I… understand… that the parameters have changed, I will not engage in any further attempts at… matchmaking,” Sherlock says stiffly.
John sighs. “Thank you.”
Long moments of silent stretch between them, Sherlock utterly still but for the quick blink of his eyes, gaze fixed into the distance. He draws a sudden breath. “I may have been… premature. Before.”
John frowns.
Sherlock sighs. “When I… pushed you away. I was not operating with a… complete data set.”
John licks his lips. His heart accelerates, but his words are even. “Are you trying to say you want me to kiss you?”
Another handful of breaths, and then Sherlock’s gaze locks with his, a nearly physical force. “Yes.”
And then John’s surging forward, one hand gripping the back of Sherlock’s neck, the other sliding into his hair. Only a bare thread of awareness of Sherlock’s injuries prevents him from bearing him back against the sofa as he finds Sherlock’s lips, warm and pliant under his.
Sherlock is ready for him this time, head tipping back, hands twisting in John’s jumper. He moans against John’s mouth, and the sound shoots straight through John’s gut, wrapping a fist around the base of his spine as he sinks his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth and pulls him closer, closer.
He can’t get enough, his hands sliding up and down Sherlock’s spine, his shoulders, back up his neck and into his hair. He’s dizzy with it, warm skin under his hands, Sherlock’s mouth hot and desperate against his.
He breaks away only when the need for oxygen leaves him light-headed, running his lips up the line of Sherlock’s jaw and down the column of his neck, mouthing wet kisses against the frantic thrum of his carotid. Sherlock’s groan is so low it rattles his bones, vibrates the skin under his teeth. “Jesus, jesus, fuck, Sherlock,” he murmurs.
He’s in free-fall, and there won’t ever be a soft landing, not with Sherlock -- he’ll just keep accelerating until he’s lost. He presses his mouth to the soft skin under Sherlock’s jaw, and tries to slow his breathing, to pack away the near-frantic need that escapes his skin like water through a sieve. When he thinks he’s grown steadier, he draws back, fingers sliding reluctantly through the fabric of Sherlock’s dressing gown. But then he opens his eyes to the sight of Sherlock’s eyes gone wide and dark, and his cheekbones gone flushed he’s reeled back in, unerringly toward that mouth, already so addictive and so warm against his.
Finally they still, foreheads pressed together, sharing the same breath. John’s hand curls around the base of Sherlock’s skull.
Sherlock murmurs into the space between them, low and urgent. “Move back in.”
“Hmm?” The words barely register, and John opens his eyes slowly. Sherlock’s are still closed, brow furrowed in a grimace.
Sherlock’s eyes snap open as John watches. “Here, with me. You’re staying with Harry, you’re sleeping on her sofa, it’s destroying your neck and your blood pressure is almost certainly twenty points higher thanks to her drinking. Stay here instead. Your room is unoccupied, Mrs Hudson would be thrilled and quite willing to remove the tree frogs I’m sure--”
John sighs. “Sherlock. Just leave it, okay?”
Sherlock’s mouth shuts with a click, and his eyes slide away. “Fine.”
John runs his thumb along Sherlock’s jaw, and sighs. “Now lie down before you fall over. I’m making food, and you’re eating it.”
Sherlock’s nose wrinkles, but he doesn’t protest. “Yes, doctor.”
John chooses to ignore the thread of sarcasm, and stands and walks toward the kitchen without looking back. He draws a few careful breaths, measuring the progress of air through his lungs until he no longer feels like he’s about to come apart at a cellular level.
He heats up tinned soup and prepares toast in silence, and not a sound drifts in from the sitting room.
When he returns with a bowl and plate and serviettes tucked under one elbow, he finds Sherlock sprawled on his back, staring into the distance, the fingers of one hand drifting over his lips. As John draws closer, he rearranges his hands to steeple below his chin, brow furrowing.
John arranges the soup and toast on the coffee table while Sherlock casts him sideways glances, and then sits on the edge of the sofa, slipping an arm under Sherlock’s ribcage and urging him upward.
Sherlock’s body is a warm line pressed against his side, and he drops a quick kiss into the tousled curls below his chin without a second thought.
How quickly habits change.
“I’ll think about it.”