Another hard night in a string of many. John doesn't really fall asleep. So when he hears something downstairs, he's up immediately.
Gladstone bounds down the stairs, barking excitedly. John leaves his crutches behind and follows, his limp creating an odd rhythm as his bare feet fall softly against the steps. He wonders if it's an old rival of Sherlock's come to vandalize the place - but the voice makes him stop.
He stands in the doorway, looking both so very tired and like he's seen a ghost. Then, very quietly, as if speaking too loudly will wake him up from a dream, he says,
Sherlock doesn't look terrible but as he barrels to the desk -- and out of John's sight for the moment -- it's really hard to tell. The drawer is flung open. Papers are rustled. "And this is all of them? You're sure?"
Gladstone is still happily prancing after his master, snuffling his pant leg and Sherlock slams the drawer shut again.
"Do you realize how long this took me to get up? All right, it was spread out over months, but that doesn't give you any excuse to move them."
Pound-pound-pound.
And then there's a pause. And Sherlock moves back into view at the bottom of the stairs.
"You promised," he says with the stress in his voice of an old and sickly man, "that you'd stop following me. You promised that--" He believes he's seeing a ghost-- No, that's false, though he does feel haunted. Sherlock has spent the last four months talking to this man whose name he only remembered three days ago. His mind had given him hallucinations of John Watson as it was healing itself.
John, his tether, served this purpose even when he was not with him.
The touch throws Sherlock off, though and he takes a step back just as John throws his arms around him. Warm. Breathing. Alive.
This is not John-in-his-mind. This is John-of-the-flesh.
"Switzerland," Sherlock breathes, bending slightly to repair the five inch heigh difference between them.
John frowns a little, worried that the time away has done something to change Sherlock's feelings. He doesn't think that's the case, though, and he embraces Sherlock again. His nose presses to the man's chest.
"Switzerland ... We all thought you died - I came home and Lestrad said -" He feels frantic. It's a lot of emotion in a short period of time. "I didn't know what happened to you. Everything just stopped."
He squeezes the man, trembling as he keeps himself from crying.
John is warm. John smells like the cologne Sarah insisted on and Sherlock found himself captivated by. He has a weight to him that is not unpleasant. The moment John touches his hair, Sherlock's arms are around him. He's come back to life, literally, in the embrace of the blond.
"I told you I'd be careful," he says, because that ought to make everything all right again, shouldn't it?
There's explinations, but can't they wait?
It's been nearly a year since Sherlock's touched John. He'll likely stand here all night until he gets his fill.
Though he knew he likely smelled poorly from three frantic days of travel after struggling to be released from the facility he found himself in, there was no time for his typically long shower. John hardly seemed to mind. Sherlock nods instead and grips John's hand. His leash doesn't want him to get lost.
Gladstone thunders passed them on the stairs and waits patiently for the men to reach the top. Sherlock notes John's gait as they proceed, he moves to the time of the dog's stubby tail on the floor. He's been shot, Sherlock notes. He's been suffering from insomnia. He hasn't been eating well.
Sherlock follows John into bed, shedding his dusty, worn clothing. Their noses touch.
"John," he says with stale breath, setting his hand on John's throat. "You really did get dark."
"And you're back much too soon," Sherlock points out. "Your tour isn't meant to be over until next week. I would have been early."
He has such a competitive complex. Even now. Of course, Sherlock doesn't have to deal with a return from the dead. He has nearly four months of absent memories to have held him over. Noting the grip on his waist, Sherlock gazes across the darkness into John's eyes.
The man had truly grieved for him. That more than makes up for the breakdown at the fence, in Sherlock's eyes at least.
"Was there a memorial for me? Did more people go than went to Mycroft's?"
Bah, class. ><consulting_detFebruary 28 2011, 20:45:22 UTC
Sherlock's finger slip down the curve of John's throat and across his shoulders to his elbow before they slip into his shaggy hair. He's not been grooming himself, he notes with an odd pleasure and gives the hair in his grasp the smallest of tugs.
"No, you're not leaving me again," he breathes hotly in John's ear. "I can't get a decent cup of tea anywhere and waling Gladstone is too much effort."
Sherlock buries his face against John's throat, inhaling deeply.
"I wasn't sure you'd smell the same," he mumbles a tiny confession. If John thinks he'll get any sleep tonight, he has another thing coming. Sherlock can't sit still and seems obsessed with touching and poking at him.
He inhales a little at the tug on his hair, then exhales shakily when he feels Sherlock's breath hot against his ear. John grips at Sherlock's hip.
"It took me weeks to stop making two cups of tea," he murmurs.
John presses a kiss to Sherlock's hair, then coaxes him up so John can kiss at his forehead and his cheeks. Eventually he makes it to Sherlock's lips.
The kiss starts off sweet. John doesn't want to rush into things after all. Then he remembers how badly he wanted to kiss Sherlock when he saw him at the fence, then how much he missed kissing him while he was away at the war, and then how he thought he'd never kiss Sherlock again and their last would have been that indifferent brush of lips at the door. The sweetness fades away quickly into something more firm and desperate.
He hasn't slept properly for months. One more night won't hurt.
Sherlock doesnt care about his breath of the fetid scent of dried and old sweat on his skin. He is not self conscious despite how long he takes in showers or the way he dresses. Lips parted, Sherlock literally whines against John's mouth.
How perfect. How perfect this is.
Shimmers and whines give way to moans. Sherlock is unbelievably vocal about it all. He arches into each touch. He watches each face that John expresses.
"Harder," he whispers, half way through. He wants to feel it. To know that John is actually here and not that teasing hallucination.
John feels like he's hearing Sherlock for the first time. He does everything he can to pull those wonderful sounds from his lips, mustering up energy he didn't know he had to comply with Sherlock's request to go harder.
He kisses and bites at Sherlock's throat, licking up trails of sweat along his chest. His hands grip everywhere. He'll probably leave bruises - he doesn't care, he needs Sherlock more than he's needed anything before in his life. It's not romantic. Then again, they never are.
When they finish, and John can barely catch his breath, he allows himself a moment of tenderness. He stretches out on top of Sherlock and nuzzles into his throat, pressing soft kisses to the skin there.
It's a different sort of tenderness that really makes Sherlock see John for who he is. The soldier leaving for war tore at his heart and made him confront it. The hallucination at the hospital, nameless, taunting him, set into focus how dearly John was a part of him and how indispensable he was to Sherlock as a whole.
Now, this man -- oh, gender hardly mattered, the qualifier was his mind and not his body -- was taking from him something he spent his entire life with and hadn't even realized it.
Sherlock's deep, complete, and utter loneliness is gone.
He closes his eyes at each kiss to his throat and makes this long, exasperated noise. "It's bizarre," he murmurs, shocking himself that the words at the barracks were not just sadness at the loss of John. "But... I still love you."
Gladstone bounds down the stairs, barking excitedly. John leaves his crutches behind and follows, his limp creating an odd rhythm as his bare feet fall softly against the steps. He wonders if it's an old rival of Sherlock's come to vandalize the place - but the voice makes him stop.
He stands in the doorway, looking both so very tired and like he's seen a ghost. Then, very quietly, as if speaking too loudly will wake him up from a dream, he says,
"I put them in the desk."
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Gladstone is still happily prancing after his master, snuffling his pant leg and Sherlock slams the drawer shut again.
"Do you realize how long this took me to get up? All right, it was spread out over months, but that doesn't give you any excuse to move them."
Pound-pound-pound.
And then there's a pause. And Sherlock moves back into view at the bottom of the stairs.
"John?"
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John reaches out to run his fingers over a curl, down Sherlock's cheek, dropping his hand in disbelief.
"You complete bastard, where have you been?"
Pained knee or not, John is down the last step with his arms around Sherlock's neck in seconds.
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"You promised," he says with the stress in his voice of an old and sickly man, "that you'd stop following me. You promised that--" He believes he's seeing a ghost-- No, that's false, though he does feel haunted. Sherlock has spent the last four months talking to this man whose name he only remembered three days ago. His mind had given him hallucinations of John Watson as it was healing itself.
John, his tether, served this purpose even when he was not with him.
The touch throws Sherlock off, though and he takes a step back just as John throws his arms around him. Warm. Breathing. Alive.
This is not John-in-his-mind. This is John-of-the-flesh.
"Switzerland," Sherlock breathes, bending slightly to repair the five inch heigh difference between them.
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"Switzerland ... We all thought you died - I came home and Lestrad said -" He feels frantic. It's a lot of emotion in a short period of time. "I didn't know what happened to you. Everything just stopped."
He squeezes the man, trembling as he keeps himself from crying.
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"I told you I'd be careful," he says, because that ought to make everything all right again, shouldn't it?
There's explinations, but can't they wait?
It's been nearly a year since Sherlock's touched John. He'll likely stand here all night until he gets his fill.
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After what feels like an eternity and still not long enough, John looks up at the detective.
"Will you come to bed with me? It just ... Standing too long is uncomfortable."
They can worry about things in the morning.
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Gladstone thunders passed them on the stairs and waits patiently for the men to reach the top. Sherlock notes John's gait as they proceed, he moves to the time of the dog's stubby tail on the floor. He's been shot, Sherlock notes. He's been suffering from insomnia. He hasn't been eating well.
Sherlock follows John into bed, shedding his dusty, worn clothing. Their noses touch.
"John," he says with stale breath, setting his hand on John's throat. "You really did get dark."
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"I've been out in the sun every day for nine months, haven't I?"
He presses up close to Sherlock, positioned so his leg is fine. John's still worried he'll wake up alone, so he doesn't let himself fall asleep.
"I'm sorry," he says, after a moment. "I promised I'd track you down."
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He has such a competitive complex. Even now. Of course, Sherlock doesn't have to deal with a return from the dead. He has nearly four months of absent memories to have held him over. Noting the grip on his waist, Sherlock gazes across the darkness into John's eyes.
The man had truly grieved for him. That more than makes up for the breakdown at the fence, in Sherlock's eyes at least.
"Was there a memorial for me? Did more people go than went to Mycroft's?"
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John watches Sherlock, trying very hard to think of nothing but this moment. Everything else can pushed aside, anyway.
"I'm not going to leave you again."
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"No, you're not leaving me again," he breathes hotly in John's ear. "I can't get a decent cup of tea anywhere and waling Gladstone is too much effort."
Sherlock buries his face against John's throat, inhaling deeply.
"I wasn't sure you'd smell the same," he mumbles a tiny confession. If John thinks he'll get any sleep tonight, he has another thing coming. Sherlock can't sit still and seems obsessed with touching and poking at him.
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"It took me weeks to stop making two cups of tea," he murmurs.
John presses a kiss to Sherlock's hair, then coaxes him up so John can kiss at his forehead and his cheeks. Eventually he makes it to Sherlock's lips.
The kiss starts off sweet. John doesn't want to rush into things after all. Then he remembers how badly he wanted to kiss Sherlock when he saw him at the fence, then how much he missed kissing him while he was away at the war, and then how he thought he'd never kiss Sherlock again and their last would have been that indifferent brush of lips at the door. The sweetness fades away quickly into something more firm and desperate.
He hasn't slept properly for months. One more night won't hurt.
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How perfect. How perfect this is.
Shimmers and whines give way to moans. Sherlock is unbelievably vocal about it all. He arches into each touch. He watches each face that John expresses.
"Harder," he whispers, half way through. He wants to feel it. To know that John is actually here and not that teasing hallucination.
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John feels like he's hearing Sherlock for the first time. He does everything he can to pull those wonderful sounds from his lips, mustering up energy he didn't know he had to comply with Sherlock's request to go harder.
He kisses and bites at Sherlock's throat, licking up trails of sweat along his chest. His hands grip everywhere. He'll probably leave bruises - he doesn't care, he needs Sherlock more than he's needed anything before in his life. It's not romantic. Then again, they never are.
When they finish, and John can barely catch his breath, he allows himself a moment of tenderness. He stretches out on top of Sherlock and nuzzles into his throat, pressing soft kisses to the skin there.
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Now, this man -- oh, gender hardly mattered, the qualifier was his mind and not his body -- was taking from him something he spent his entire life with and hadn't even realized it.
Sherlock's deep, complete, and utter loneliness is gone.
He closes his eyes at each kiss to his throat and makes this long, exasperated noise. "It's bizarre," he murmurs, shocking himself that the words at the barracks were not just sadness at the loss of John. "But... I still love you."
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