Downpour (Sherlock/John, NC-16.5)

[buttsnax]

Downpour (Sherlock/John, NC-16.5)

Author:
buttsnax
Fandom: BBC's Sherlock
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: NC-16.5 (NC-17 if you squint)
Word Count: 5,776
Warnings: orb-con, sex that looks like rape but isn't thought could be interpreted as such (interpretive rape)
Summary: Sometimes it rains, sometimes it pours. (Usually it just rains.)

Author's Note: This is a gift for watdaughter written as part of the johnlockgifts exchange. My giftee wanted a "getting-back-together ficlet/Crossdressing and genderplay," specifically with John in women's lingerie. I hope this does the job.



Sherlock Holmes, Class 3 Illustrious Investigator, was trying very hard to be a Class 3 meteorologist.

It’s going to rain, he thought. His supporting evidence: the drooping, charcoal-colored sky hovering overhead (a pitch-black cloud would have been cause for alarm, but if one had formed it was nowhere near); the thickening air and damp, clinging chill; the fact that it had rained every day for the last two-hundred and forty-two years. And it was already raining. But that clue seemed almost too obvious.

Unsatisfied, he pulled his orb out of his coat pocket. It activated instantly, recognizing his hand. He was a man of precision, and acting on a hunch alone posed too great a risk to the work. He was rooting out dissidents in ward five and would be counting on sufficient rain cover to conceal his movements. His orb couldn’t work with any reliability if the sky dried out.

“Update forecast,” he commanded. The orb’s glassy surface rippled out from its center, pulling data about its environment much like Sherlock had, though its prediction accuracy made it the superior weatherman. When it had finished crunching the available indicators-location, temperature, humidity, dew point, moon phase, barometric pressure-it produced a ding.

“Rain for the next twelve-hundred years,” the orb announced emotionlessly.

Sherlock nodded. His assessment was correct then. He’d check the orb once more after he reviewed his work briefing, just to be sure.

Halfway through downloading the report, it buzzed, alerting him to a new message. He frowned, gripping the orb a little tighter. If this was Lestrade checking up on him-may she be exalted until the end of days, Sherlock corrected himself-he’d tell her he was thinking about jumping again. That hanging threat was his only recourse from the hovering. Dying would slow his productivity.

He opened the message and saw that his suspicions were unfounded. The sender wasn’t the director, but instead someone he hadn’t seen in years. Someone he’d never expected to see again.

Sherlock held his breath as he played John’s message.

“Sherlock, listen, it’s John. Has it really been, what? Three-four years? God, that seems so long. Look, I really hope this is the right orb. You have no idea how hard it was to track you down. You’re not listed in any directory and I had to pay a guy just to-nevermind. What I called to tell you is I’m back in the City for a while. I was hoping we could get together sometime for lunch, or supper even. Your choice. It would be nice to reconnect after all these years. Please say yes. I’ll be disappointed if you don’t. I want to hear how you’re doing. Drop me a line when you get a chance, okay?”

Sherlock’s finger traced the orb’s circumference counterclockwise as he rewound the message and played it back several times, each instance revealing a little more of the portrait he’d let fade with age. John sounded older (expected), but his voice had lost that edging uncertainty Sherlock remembered. The war must have mellowed him.

He shuttered his eyes and thought of the last time they’d seen each other. He’d run through this scene a thousand times before, by why not once more? They were in their apartment. John was facing the bed. His voice rose determinedly as he talked of enlisting, even as Sherlock, unable to articulate a compelling counterpoint, had begged him not to.

“I’m enlisting,” John had said, calmly packing his suitcase.

“I beg you not to!” Sherlock had begged. Looking back, he could have been more creative.

He’d been standing in the doorway, blocking John’s exit from the bedroom. He had tried goading John into arguing with him-that tack that usually worked-but John had heard this number enough times now to catch on. Sherlock’s strategy was (supposed to be) simple: stall John long enough the war burned itself out, therefore eliminating the problem. The conflict couldn’t last forever. He just needed more time.

Already resembling a soldier, John marched past him carrying a single suitcase, then, as though compelled to by some invisible force, returned to brush a weak kiss against his cheek. It was cheating, Sherlock thought. If this was to be their last hurrah, he deserved a kiss that at least acknowledged what it was they were so casually throwing away. As it were, the one he’d been offered just didn’t feel like goodbye.

It had been raining then, too.

More than five years had passed since John left, and it had been just as long since they’d spoken. Before now Sherlock didn’t know if John was even alive. He’d heard rumors of John’s whereabouts, but nothing verifiable. His own research, bits and pieces of intel he’d collected from Lestrade (may she be exalted until the end of days) had dead-ended some two years ago. In the meantime work had become a diversion, distancing him further and further from his search while honing him into a well-oiled machine. But his mechanics were complicated, and probability stated even the most efficient machines break down with enough wear.

It was the orb that noticed his hands were trembling.

“Initializing earthquake protocols,” it chimed, launching a search for viable shelters nearby.

“Ah, no, that won’t be necessary,” Sherlock said quickly. He purged the offending thoughts and the trembling ceased. “Sometimes my hands shake when I become . . . emotional.”

“Initializing ex-boyfriend protocols,” his orb chirped eagerly.

Sherlock frowned.

“Cancel,” he commanded. Then: “Hold on. What exactly are those protocols?”

“All messages from sender Dm. Lt. John Watson will be deleted. Any numbers from this sender will be blocked. Automatic counseling appointments and location tracking are optional sub-protocols. Would you like to initiate at this time?”

“No.” He wondered what kind of person would warrant those protocols.

The orb waited to receive instruction. Sherlock paused. “Send message to John as follows: ‘John, hey, this is Sherlock. It’s great to hear from you. Yes, we should catch up. I’m occupied at the moment-work-related, it would bore you-but I . . . I think I’d like to see you as soon as this evening, if you’re free. How does Patrice’s in ward six at around five-thirty sound? You remember Patrice’s, don’t you?’”

The orb blinked: message sent. He released the air he’d been hoarding and immediately felt lighter.

Now, to think. If all went as planned, he’d wrap up the job by four, leaving him with an hour to freshen up and practice whatever needed practicing. Small things, like smiling, had hindered the work. He would need to relearn them if he was seeing John tonight. He was cutting it close, time-wise, but he didn’t know how long John would be in the City and thought it stupid to waste even a day. John had already deserted him once. There was no reason it couldn’t happen again.

He checked the weather forecast: rain for the next thirteen-hundred years. Figured.

---xxx---

The informant’s intel was accurate and Sherlock’s weather assessment had proved correct. He was able to infiltrate the hideout with relative ease; as usual, the traitorous collaborators were woefully unprepared. His orb was able to draw sufficient power from the surrounding rain to cloak him from view. The cameras would have only displayed a slight ripple as they recorded his passage.

Once inside, he’d been more than a match for any of the men individually. One by one, he cleared each room with methodical precision. Upon locating his assignments he scanned each of them for evidence of treason-and he ensured he always found it. By necessity this had to be done after the target had been dispatched, but simply being within the building was proof enough of complicity. “Proof’ was really more of a guideline, anyway. As for the men, they carried no identification, and none of them could afford an orb-even if they had been of high enough standing they could not have borne it-but several wore the cross-and-triangle tattoo now popular amongst traitors and renegades.

“It’s done,” he told the orb when he’d finished. The last one standing had been interrogated then disposed of, though Sherlock learned little from the traitor he did not already know or suspect. He put on a pair of gloves and left the building through the front door.

The work complete, Lestrade-may she be exalted until the end of days-would expect a detailed report in addition to Sherlock’s oral summation within the day. For now it would have to wait. John had accepted his supper invitation, so time was of the essence if he was to look presentable.

He motioned at one of the many peace officers manning the fortified security checkpoint at ward four, and when the guard looked at him askance, flashed his orb in annoyance. This was effective at getting him into the building. In the changing room he undressed and stepped into a shower, pulling the curtain closed around him. He’d stored his orb in a locker, more so for his own privacy than for its safekeeping.

Once clean, he dried and clothed himself, spending more time in front of the mirror than strictly necessary. It had been a while since he’d taken a serious interest in his appearance, and he was surprised to see how much he’d aged. Time had done work on his face. The drugs, he admitted, may have helped it along. Well, it wasn’t as though he could exchange his face for another one, even if they had threatened him with it on several occasions.

He adjusted his collar and roughed up his hair the way he was sure John remembered it, his coffee-colored curls lifting from his head as they dried. The length suited him. He noticed flecks of blood on his scarf and remembered this checkpoint lacked laundry service. He carried it to the trash and reluctantly tossed it into the bin.

“Another one, sir?” asked an attending guard on his way out. He must have noticed it was missing. Sherlock had seen the guard here before.

He shrugged. “‘Fraid so. Something always has to splatter.”

The guard sympathized. “Have you considered just buying a red scarf instead?”

Without warning, Sherlock leaned forward and clapped the guard on the shoulder. The man jumped. “That’s genius!”

“Thank you, sir,” said the guard as he recovered. “I’m glad I could . . .” Sherlock didn’t hear the rest, his back already turned.

The time was five past five. A quick orb check confirmed it was raining. There was less of it now, no longer coming down in sheets. Satisfied, he caught a cab to Patrice’s. On the way, he reflected.

These were the facts: he’d lived with John for two years before it fell apart. John was not his first, but he may as well of been. He knew he was in love; he’d had all the symptoms. It made sense he'd likened it to getting high. John was a dopamine drip, and of course Sherlock gave himself too much.

By year one, things started downhill. John had grown restless. At thirty four years old he wanted a different life. Sherlock agreed. There was no richness in routine. He just assumed that life would include him. At the time the war began Sherlock was still consulting for Internal Defense at his brother’s request. Mostly spying, then. He did it because his mind needed the work. John, he just wanted to help people. His talents were wasted at the clinic.

The cab entered ward six through Vehicle Inspection. Once past the gates, he directed the driver to park two blocks from Patrice’s. Two blocks were enough time to clear his head. He paid the fare, got out of the cab. Brought out his orb, checked the weather. Sucked in a breath. The rain picked up again.

“Is Sherlock emotional?” the orb asked suddenly. “Please confirm source of tremor.”

He looked down-his hands were shaking. Not an earthquake.

“Sherlock is fine. Source has been identified and contained. Disregard similar readings unless instructed otherwise.” He didn’t like that the orb was learning him. It was started to look for signs of life in places it shouldn’t.

Patrice’s was filled only a third to capacity when he arrived, probably due to the rain. Good. A quiet atmosphere produced better conversation. He disregarded the hostess and scanned the establishment for John, then realized he had no idea what John looked like now. Something akin to panic gripped him. What if it had been so long that they failed to recognize one another, unaware they were both standing in plain sight?

His panic subsided when he heard a familiar voice calling him.

“Sherlock!”

He looked around the restaurant for its source. John stood up from a corner booth, shorter than he’d remembered, and enthusiastically waved him over. He wore an olive-green dress uniform, and his beard (beard!) was trimmed close to the skin. A matching cap was tucked under his right arm. His hair was cropped short, hugging the shape of his head.

Sherlock tried to greet him and settled for simply “John.” It was all he could manage at the moment.

John grinned.

“Get on over here so I can hug you, dammit,” he said, motioning Sherlock toward him with greater gusto. Sherlock’s stomach bottomed out as he closed the distance. If he couldn’t restore himself soon he’d be useless by the end of the evening. John would have to carry him out of the restaurant. Supper would become a scene out of a bad romance novel.

When he got to the booth John met him around the side of the table and they embraced.

“Good to see you,” John murmured, squeezing his shoulder. “It’s been too long.” Sherlock knew the feeling. He wanted to say something similar in return but found that all he could do was be held. John seemed happy to oblige, so maybe that was okay.

The hug ended far too early but then Sherlock had always operated on his own schedule. He shrugged off his coat and plunked down opposite John facing the window, the coat cast to the edge of the seat.

“How have you been?” they blurted at the same time, too excited to behave themselves.

Sherlock laughed and put up his hands, now sorted from earlier. He had this. “You first. My stories can’t possibly top yours. You’ve lived your fair share of adventures now."

“Well, I can’t say that’s a lie,” John said, relaxing into his seat. “I was on active duty in the central combat zone for over eighteen months. Half of that in the Lingerie Corps.”

Sherlock nodded. “I noticed the stripes. Congratulations.” He’d recognized the prestigious L-Corps gold brassiere pinned to John’s shirt-breast-a mark of distinguished service. His uniform glittered with other decorations, earned under extreme conditions no doubt, but that one stood out proudly. So John had found his purpose, then. Sherlock was genuinely glad.

“Volunteered after the insurgents took out Camp Donovan,” John continued. “I got a promotion to Damsel First Class after about a month, then a battlefield commendation to Dame Lieutenant after Biscay. After that, well, things just took their course.”

The waiter brought them their menus.

“Anyway, you look like you’ve been busy,” John said, nodding at Sherlock. He assumed John was referring to the circles under his eyes. “What’s Mycroft got you doing now? Still consulting for Internal Defense?”

“In a sense. I’ve been promoted.”

“Hah! So they finally realized they couldn’t run the place without you.” John looked over his dinner options, but Sherlock could tell he'd already made up his mind. Back when they came here more frequently, John's regular was the Shepherd's Pie.

“I suppose you still can’t tell me what you actually do there,” he added, pretending to be reading the menu.

“Nope,” Sherlock replied, delivering his best smile. “I’m afraid I’d have to kill you.”

“I’ve had enough of that lately,” John said, pushing the menu to the edge of the table. Sherlock chastised himself for saying something so stupid.

"It wouldn't really interest you anyway," he amended, setting his down as well. "It's all administrative work these days."

The waiter came by and took their orders. Sherlock was having mutton. As he’d predicted, John asked for the Shepherd’s Pie.

"If you've been promoted, that means you're taking orders directly from Lestrade now," John wondered aloud.

"May she be exalted until-"

"-the end of days." John grinned and they both chuckled. Their feet ran into each other beneath the table, but neither retreated. It was beginning to feel like old times.

John caught up on current events over supper. He wanted to know if the City's police force was still as ineffective as ever. It was. He asked if wards thirty-three through thirty-seven were really just as poncey as he’d remembered. Even more so. He was shocked to see the going price of an umbrella-what the hell had happened to the economy? The war. They joked the weather (still raining) and the lack of good Shepherd’s Pie outside the perimeter, laughing until their stomachs hurt. An older Woman seated across the room shot them a dirty look when she knew they were looking. John smiled and waved.

Eventually, inevitably, the conversation turned serious. Sherlock learned that John had saved his commanding officer's life after their convoy ran over an IED-he’d had to amputate in order to free the man from the truck-and that the whispers he'd heard about the army pulling out of the poorly controlled eastern arena were correct. He also learned that John tried to contact him, but after endeavoring for months by mail with no response he'd given up. Sherlock was stunned. He hadn’t received even a postcard, taking the silence to mean that John had moved on, figuratively or literally.

Late into their meal, John reached over and cupped his hands, which to Sherlock’s surprise were entirely still.

“I’ve got a commendable discharge if I want it, Sherlock. With full honors. I going to take it."

Sherlock’s orb buzzed from under his coat. He ignored it. "But the war."

John shook his head. "I've made as much difference as I can over there. I'm ready to come back now.” His leg inched closer under the table, and their knees touched. "I was hoping we could give us another go. If you wanted."

It took Sherlock a moment to understand what John was offering. He'd wondered if this might happen but thought it premature to prepare for it.

“John,” he spoke carefully, shelving every impulse. “You’re not making this easy for me. I've been operating these past five years under the assumption that you wouldn't be coming back." He didn't want to say 'I thought you were dead.' It seemed melodramatic, with John now sitting in front of him.

The waiter brought them their check. Sherlock handed the him a payment stamp before John could protest.

“I need to process this,” he said after the waiter left, watching John’s face for a sign of, what? Disappointment? Regret? He wasn’t sure. “I can be a friend, but anything more is . . . too complicated right now. I’m not the same person I was before. You might not like who I’ve become.” An understatement.

“I doubt that,” John said, but he withdrew his hands. His expression hadn’t changed. “You’ll always be a mystery to me. But I understand your apprehension to start over. I left on bad terms. That’s not an easy fix.” He looked at the wall, then turned back to Sherlock and grinned. “Hey, at least we’re here, still enjoying each other’s company after all this time. That’s got to count for something, right? It’s a goddamn miracle either of us are still alive.”

Sherlock smiled, a real one this time, but inside it felt like he’d swallowed a stone. “True.”

They stood up. John embraced him again before they left.

“Hey,” he said after pulling away, his hand lingering on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Call me if you need anything. Literally anything. You have my orb coordinates. I’ll be in the City for at least a week. Longer, if I put in a request for an extension. Let’s do supper again before I go. Promise?”

“I promise,” Sherlock said, relieved he was even able to. “Take care of yourself, John. We’ll see each other . . . soon.

He left Patrice’s, starting in the opposite direction as John, who was now racing to catch the next northbound train to ward nineteen. Sherlock had his own arrangements. He'd buy another scarf at the shopping district in ward two, as the ward six market had since closed, and finish that report for Lestrade, may she be exalted until the end of days. That buzz during dinner was another friendly reminder the work was never really quite over.

---xxx---

He progressed through each ward in descending order, relying on muscle memory to take him in the right direction as he lost himself in his head. There were still a great many people out enjoying the evening, but most passed him by in blur. He slowed when he reached the checkpoint to ward two, careful to nod a hair deeper to the pregnant officer policing the entrance.

“Don’t stay out too late,” she warned as he held up his orb. The couple in line beside him stared in envy, clutching their City-issued IDs.

The shops of ward two glittered like gems as Sherlock strolled down the promenade. A small group of Women, orb bearers probably, tittered in his direction, but none were bold enough to comment. What they were after didn't interest him.

A couple blocks further he proceeded into the garment quarters, catching the eye of the peace officer guarding the quartered off Women's section. He looked down. Staring would have been inappropriate. He hadn’t earned his right to shop there.

He tried on several scarves, deciding on a red one as had been suggested. He’d taken so many risks that day it only made sense to keep going. A mirror check had confirmed it flattered him.

Hitting the streets, he thought about how much John’s appearance had changed when his own hadn’t evolved much at all. Regardless of whatever mental scars he’d accumulated, his army career had left him with straighter posture, improved muscle tone, and a commanding presence that Sherlock found very . . . effective. Confidence was attractive, and so was a troubled man. He was naturally drawn to problems. He couldn’t pretend it hadn’t aroused him in some form when John talked about the war. The work had fucked him up, or maybe he'd always been this twisted. Some things didn’t need an investigation.

The night grew on, and the din of nightlife had faded to low murmurs. By now there were few people hanging around outside. Most of them had retired for the evening, heeding the City’s suggested curfew. Probably about time to get a cab. If he’d been smart he could have used his orb to-

His orb. He hadn’t realized it was buzzing. Hoping it was John, he fished it out of his pocket and read the warning just in time to hear the first scream.

Sherlock looked up to see the reaper cloud spreading like an inkblot just a couple of blocks away, a chaotic black mass swallowing the weaker clouds around it. A siren sounded nearby, spooking a cat out from under a cheap City housing unit. The static charge hummed over his exposed skin, and every hair, even the ones he didn’t know he had, stood on end. It would have been quite funny if it wasn’t also so utterly horrifying.

There was a second scream, then a third. He squinted and witnessed two small, wriggling shapes being sucked into the air, then realized those were people. He felt the pull and knew that if he didn’t start running now he would be next.

He turned and fled, every step a small struggle as the reaper cloud drifted toward him, a terrible, unfeeling monolith. Meanwhile the orb continued to buzz in warning, sending vibrations into his palm again and again. The warning would have made little difference to someone standing beneath the cloud when it formed. Not even an orb could predict when and where it would arrive. Everything after that was reaction.

As the cloud loomed overhead, he approached an intersection. A lone taxi pulled around a corner, and Sherlock waved, desperate to flag it down. Sensing the driver had no plans to stop, he picked up his pace and threw himself against the hood of the cab right as it tried to pass.

He smacked the windshield and went tumbling to the ground. The driver stopped and opened his door, the plan achieving its intended effect.

“Oi mate, are you nuts?” the man yelled in a panic. Sherlock resiliently pulled himself to his feet. The driver stared at him and shook his head. “Come on, get in then.”

Sherlock didn’t waste any time, barrelling into the passenger seat with such force he bounced against the leather. The driver dipped back into the carriage and hit the gas, speeding away in a squeal of burning rubber.

“221B Baker Street, ward twelve,” Sherlock gasped out, head falling to the side as he concentrated on recouping his breath.

The driver glanced at him through the rearview mirror. “Cuttin’ it a little close there, ‘doncha think? You’re damn well lucky I stopped.”

This was true. If he’d been on the ground any longer the reaper cloud would have taken him. It only took what it could lift, and to be outdoors and unsecured when the cloud arrived spelled certain death. People, animals, trash, anything lightweight with poor foundations-all were fair game. The City’s transport fleet was supposedly safe, but the cabbie wasn’t about to test fate.

Live with the rain, die by the rain. A quote from some philosopher whose name he couldn’t recall. The line made more sense to him now.

Only when they’d gotten far enough away from the Cloud to have reasonably passed the reaping zone did Sherlock look out the window behind him. The Cloud had begun to contract, a sign it was returning into the sky. The public probably wouldn’t know how many people had been taken until the City issued an official report the next day, but he wouldn’t be among them.

When the cabbie dropped him off he didn’t even ask for the fare. “Hey, take care of yourself, mate,” was all he’d said before driving away. People were telling him that a lot lately. Another sticky note for the fridge.

He closed the door and was met by a cold, empty hallway. Mrs. Hudson was probably already asleep. Good for her. Upstairs felt even lonelier. He considered finishing his report, but the thought of it made him sick. Life suddenly seemed too short to waste on traitors and their tattoos. What he needed right now was John.

He reached into his coat pocket to pull out his orb, then realized he was already holding it. He ignored the seven messages from Lestrade, may the bitch be exalted until the end of days, and drafted a new one.

“John. It’s Sherlock. I’ve been thinking about what you said at Patrice’s. About wanting to start fresh. Can you spend the night? I really, really want to see you. Actually, I think I need to.” He could feel his hands shaking but this time the orb didn’t mention it. “I’m in ward twelve now. 221B Baker Street. Please come.”

The message sent. He received a response within less than a minute: “I’m on my way.”

Good. Yes. John was coming. The energy this gave him was enough to overcome any doubts about composing his report. He would finish it, get it out of the way so he could see John uninhibited. Drinking would put him in the right mood. No coke, not tonight. There was only about a gram left anyway. His high would be over before it began.

He tugged the cork out of a half-empty bottle of port and went to pour a himself a glass, then thought, why dirty another dish? He swigged the wine right there, feeling dangerous and sexy even as some escaped the lip and dribbled down his chin. On the wall the clock ticked eleven-forty-four. There was still time left before his report was officially late. He paced the room, drinking and dictating while his orb took notes. Six kills, no new intel, it rained. Done. He signed the report with “fuck you” and told his orb to send. Then he laid down on his bed, thought of John, and waited. At some point he finished off the port.

When his orb buzzed he shot out of bed and rocketed down the stairs to the front door, moving just as fast as he’d been when he was running from the reaper cloud. He opened the door, and when he saw who it was, flung himself at John like a ragdoll.

“What have you been drinking?” John asked, laughing as he caught him. He may have also been a little concerned. He was still wearing his uniform, though he’d left the cap at home.

Sherlock giggled and pressed closer. “Booze.” He saw no need to elaborate.

“I can see that. There’s some on your chin. Hey, mind if we go inside? It’s wet out here.”

Sherlock tugged him into the building. “Upstairs.”

They bounded up a story, John’s hand cautiously supporting Sherlock’s back in case he fell. Really, he was fine. John underestimated him.

A quick tour of the apartment led them to the bedroom.

“This is where I think,” Sherlock said as John followed him inside. “I guess I also sleep here, but that’s just not as-”

John pushed him onto the bed and kissed him, his mouth hot and bullying. Sherlock’s first instinct was to pull up his knees and shove away, but John had his lower half pinned pretty good despite the height difference. When he realized he couldn’t move, he grew hard, moaned, and told himself this was normal. Then he told himself to shut up because John was rolling off of him. It left Sherlock feeling weightless, like without John he’d float away.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” John said, almost but not quite regretful. “Was that too much? It’s been a while.”

Sherlock caught his breath for what was probably the hundredth time that day. “You’re fine. That was . . .” He struggled to find the right adjective. “Exhilerating.”

John nodded and unbuttoned the top of his dress shirt. “Good. Because now I’m going to fuck you, just like that.”

He climbed back on top of Sherlock, who welcomed his return with a kiss just as mean as the one John had given him first. The beard won him over when he discovered it could provide additional friction. As John rutted against him he did his best to struggle, just enough so that John restrained him but not enough to scare him into stopping. It comforted him that despite how long they’d been physically separated, their bodies still fit each other just as they did five years ago. Few things were as reliable.

Overheating, he removed his own shirt, fingers stumbling over themselves (buttons had to have been invented by virgins), then helped John with his. Underneath John was wearing his L-Corps designation brassiere, designed to neatly hug his pecs. Sherlock slowed down to touch it, not entirely sure it was safe for him to do so.

He looked up. “Can we . . . ?”

“It’s fine,” John said, pulling his belt from the loops. “You have my permission.” His pants dropped away to reveal an officer’s garter belt and stockings, along with regulation panties that were barely able to restrain their contents. Sherlock shuddered and tried not to touch himself. He was already so close and they’d barely done more than kiss. He should have drank more wine.

“Please, fuck me,” he whined, arching his hips forward. “Please.”

“Call me your pretty, pretty princess and I will,” John joked. He left the bed briefly to look for lubricant and found it in Sherlock’s bedside table, along with a pack of cigarettes. “Very original.”

Sherlock’s pants came off and John kneeled over him, feet planted on the floor. “Let me know if I’m being too rough, okay?” Sherlock nodded but had no real intention of complying. Pain had a way of intensifying things into memory, and he wanted to memorize this moment in its entirety.

John smiled and bent down to kiss him again. It was softer this time, perhaps out of guilt for what he was about to do. He groaned and gripped John’s back, encountering the band of his brassiere. His fingers slipped beneath it, testing its strength, and he wondered what it would be like to wear one. As the kiss wandered to his neck Sherlock couldn’t help himself, and lifted his head to peek over John’s shoulder. He glimpsed under the band and and slammed his eyes shut, but he couldn’t blink away what he’d seen: a small cross-and-triangle tattoo, about the size of fingernail, freshly red and inked over John’s left shoulder.

Somehow the room seemed to grow darker.

He fell backward onto the mattress, almost like he’d been dropped. Above him John had righted himself and was lifting Sherlock’s hips, pushing forward, inside of him. The presence felt horribly unfamiliar, like someone had snuck in and taken John’s place. He shot up, breathing quickly. The force of it pushed John out of the way. Sherlock stood. His limbs felt flimsy, like a cheap doll’s.

“What’s wrong?” John asked immediately, reaching for him. “Are we moving too quickly? I can-fuck, Sherlock, your hands are shaking. Here, let me see you.”

On the nightstand Sherlock’s orb was blinking a dull, angerless red. He covered it with a hand before John could notice and shoved it into a drawer.

“It’s nothing,” he said. “I’m fine. I’d just forgotten to check the weather.”

John looked at him like this was the saddest thing he’d ever heard. Sighing, he gathered Sherlock to his chest.

“I promise I’m not going anywhere,” John murmured. He placed a kiss on Sherlock’s shoulder. “This isn’t like before. I’m staying for good this time.” Sherlock nodded, but didn’t respond.

Outside it was still raining.