Fic: I'll Shake Hands With You In Hell, NC-17, John/Sherlock, Dean/Castiel - Part Eight
Title: I’ll Shake Hands With You In Hell
Pairings: Sherlock/John, Dean/Castiel
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 55,000
Warnings: Explicit sex, alcohol abuse, graphic violence, angst, language, suicidal thoughts, gore, implied torture, dark themes.
A/N #1: Supernatural/Sherlock crossover (post-Reichenbach; goes AU after SPN 7.19).
A/N #2: Written for sncross_bigbang. Original story idea from the wonderful lunasky3. ♥
Awesome fanvid and fanmix by trickster88 can be found here. ♥♥♥
- - -
Summary: Less than two months after what the press have deemed ‘The Reichenbach Suicide’, John Watson makes a deal that condemns his soul to Hell for eternity. At the same time, Team Free Will - still struggling to send the leviathans back to Purgatory - stumbles upon a clue that leads them across the ocean, and straight into the path of two men who are desperately seeking a way to prevent Hell from collecting its due.
The result - an intersection of these two separate worlds, and the teaming up of some unlikely allies - is the story of how John Watson’s life collides with the world of demons and monsters, and of how he and Sherlock are given one final chance to make things right between them, even as a dangerous web begins to tighten its hold around London, and John’s clock starts to steadily tick down the days to his last night on Earth.
Part One - Part Two - Part Three - Part Four - Part Five - Part Six - Part Seven
- - -
When they hit solid ground again, all five of them slamming a little harder into the floor then John has gotten used to, they’re surrounded by the peeling walls of some generic motel room. Castiel begins to stumble as soon as they materialize in the room, and when Dean and Sam both reach out to catch him, stopping him from falling, John remembers something critical that hasn’t happened yet, something that’s gotten lost under the wave of adrenaline that’s still shaking its way across his body.
“Thank you. From both of us.”
He can hear the soul-deep gratitude in his voice, but Dean simply shrugs as best as he can while trying to hold Castiel upright, even as Sam smiles slightly and reaches out to take the knife from John, both of them looking like this is something they’ve done so many times before, it barely seems to phase them anymore.
“No worries, honestly. I’m just glad we could help.”
Sam’s already sliding the knife into the front of his jacket as he speaks, apparently with no concern for the blood he’s going to end up smearing everywhere, and Dean tightens his grip on Castiel for a moment as he continues to do his best to keep the angel upright, even as he quirks out a tight grin in their direction.
“Yeah, no worries - s’all part of the job. We’ll get you home as soon as we’ve all had some rest, alright? In the meantime, this place is paid for, and we’re a room over, and if you need anything - shampoo, whatever - that’s my bag in the corner, so just - help yourselves.”
There seems to be nothing to say to that, no way that John could protest how insane it is that these three have saved John and Sherlock in ways that go far beyond the parameters of a job - so all he does is nod as they leave the room, closing the door behind them, and then John’s closing his eyes, his brain and body apparently not able to process everything all at once, and christ, how the hell could Sam and Dean and Castiel deal with something like this on a regular basis?
“How - and they call this their job? That’s just - absolutely insane.”
His voice is just about as weak as his body, his muscles not quite succeeding in their attempt to keep from shaking, and when he opens his eyes again, it’s to find Sherlock watching him, that expression of amazement still written across every inch of his face. He’s - quite the sight, really, dust and dirt making a mess of his coat and hair and face, though - thanks to Castiel’s skills - there’s at least no blood seeping out from across his body, and John ducks his head down as he puts a hand against his own stomach, where he had been bleeding out not ten minutes ago.
“And - wow. Angel magic. That’s actually, wow, just -”
He stumbles on his words when Sherlock’s hand suddenly presses against his own, the fingers slowly inching out across the fabric as though searching out the place where John had been injured, and when John raises his eyes again, Sherlock is watching his face instead of their hands, something visibly vulnerable dancing around the edges of his expression. It feels like being punched in the chest, almost, and John twists his hand to curl their fingers together, holding on tight to Sherlock as they simply stand there and stare at each other, and, wow, if John’s heart kicks up the pace anymore, it’s quite possibly going to beat clean out of his chest.
“Christ, Sherlock. This is for real, right? We’re actually - we’re both free, right?”
Instead of a verbal answer, Sherlock simply stares at him for a moment longer before he nods, his fingers squeezing a little tighter around John’s, almost tight enough to hurt - and with that tiny bite of pain, it hits him, suddenly, that, yes, this is indeed actually real. That this is real, that they’ve both been saved from an eternity in Hell - and when Sherlock moves in a bit closer, never once taking his eyes from John’s, it’s like something deep inside John breaks open. He’s not quite sure how he ends up with his hands fisted in the front of Sherlock’s coat, how he ends up nudging Sherlock backwards, but he knows that Sherlock doesn’t resist when John gently maneuvers him back against the wall, his hands sliding down to dig in hard against John’s back as he gasps something into John’s mouth, the soft sound getting lost somewhere between them, swallowed up under the movement of their lips sliding together. It doesn’t last for long - christ, John still even has Moriarty’s blood on his hands, smearing into Sherlock’s coat where John’s fingers are curled into his shoulders - but by the time John pulls away, his breathing’s already coming ragged, and Sherlock’s lips are much redder than before, a fitting counterpoint to the splash of colour that’s crept across his cheekbones.
“I - shit. Sorry, I -”
“Why did you stop?”
John just barely manages to hold in a groan, the roughness in Sherlock’s voice shooting straight through him, and the only thing that stops him from burying his face into Sherlock’s shoulder is the mess of blood there.
“I’m still covered in blood. You’ve been traumatised by a demon. I just killed someone. I hardly think -”
“Wash your hands, then.”
“That’s your biggest concern?”
“I wasn’t traumatised -”
“Yes, you damn well were.”
“- and unless Moriarty’s death is causing you unnecessary angst -”
“It’s - yeah. That’s really never gonna be a problem.”
“Then there’s a sink in the bathroom.”
“I - fuck, Sherlock.”
“If you’re interested.”
“Sherlock.”
“Yes?”
Whatever John was going to say - whatever smart remark he was going to come up with - gets completely lost when he realizes that that last part hadn’t been Sherlock making a joke. That he hadn’t been trying to make light of this situation, that there’s not even a trace of humour on his face, and that his breaths are coming as quickly as John’s are, his eyes never once breaking away from where they’re fixed on John’s own - and when Sherlock raises a hand to rest it over where John’s heart seems to be trying to beat out through his cardigan, all John can do is swallow hard and try to remember how to breathe.
“John. Go wash your hands.”
John isn’t sure what kind of noise he makes, but it sounds, even to his own ears, rather pathetic, and he stares at Sherlock for a moment longer before he somehow convinces his legs to get him into the tiny bathroom, the sink staining red as he grabs the soap and goes to work, scrubbing across his skin and underneath his fingernails, his knees not quite steady and his breathing still coming too quickly. By the time he gets the blood off and gets back out to the bed, Sherlock’s already stripped himself down to nothing, and John barely has time to breathe through the sight before Sherlock’s making quick work of his clothing, stripping him naked and pulling him down on top of him on the bed. There’s something desperate about the touches, almost, and it makes something twist inside his stomach, makes his breathing come sharp in a way that has nothing to do with the slide of skin on skin, and John’s just about to breathe out some kind of reassurance when Sherlock’s pressing their lips together again, licking into his mouth in a frankly filthy way that sends a bolt of lust straight down to John’s cock, makes him bite out a groan into the kiss.
“Sherlock - shit.”
Sherlock’s only response is the ragged sound of his breathing, and then his hands can’t seem to stay still, sliding across every bit of John they’re able to reach, his fingers and palms making a sweep of his body that leaves John doing his best to not dig his teeth into Sherlock’s shoulder. When Sherlock’s hands slide up to cradle his cheeks, holding him in place as Sherlock presses their lips together and pants out shaky little breaths against his mouth, John’s chest begins to ache, his blood pounding a little too hard in his temples at the way Sherlock can’t seem to get close enough.
“Sherlock - hey, it’s alright. I’m not going anywhere.”
Sherlock’s hands suddenly go still against him, his fingers resting just above the curve of his ass, almost as though he hadn’t expected to be called out - and then he’s pressing his face into John’s shoulder and mouthing damply at the skin there, even as one hand slides away from John’s body to fumble for something on the bed - and then, insanely, there’s something cool being pressed into one of his palms, and when John glances down to find his fingers curled around a container of lube, small and still sealed and suddenly feeling like a brand in the palm of his hand, something deep inside him seems to flare hot and needy and desperate, even as sudden panic makes him freeze against Sherlock’s body.
“Uh -”
“Found it in Dean’s bag.”
Sherlock’s voice is a rough murmur against his skin, his mouth still pressing damp against the curve of his shoulder - but John barely processes the words, his mind too busy trying to deal with the implications of the tiny container in his hand. Sherlock’s fingers slide, then, suddenly, pressing in against the curve of his ass and sliding along the skin there, and John can’t stop himself from squirming, a flare of unease mixing in with his arousal, because this isn’t - he’s not. This isn’t something he’s sure of yet - something he’d never even considered until Sherlock - but then, even as Sherlock mouths yet another damp kiss against his skin, he shifts underneath John and lets his legs fall open, leaving John to slide in between his thighs with almost indecent ease, and John is suddenly having serious difficulty getting enough oxygen.
“Jesus, Sherlock.”
Sherlock makes some barely audible noise of acknowledgment, his face still pressed in tight against his shoulder, and his breathing sending a burst of warm air across John’s skin - and even though he still hasn’t gotten it together enough to speak, he pulls back so that Sherlock has no choice but to look at him, his eyes sliding open to fix on him in the dim light of the crappy motel lighting. He’s - he already looks completely debauched, somehow, with his flushed skin and his hair all over the place, and his pupils so dilated there seems to be more black than blue - but it’s the vulnerability in his expression, more than anything, that’s making John’s pulse kick it up another notch across his body.
“Are you -”
“I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t sure.”
His voice sounds as rough as John feels, but his eyes are steady, and John stares at him for a moment longer before he exhales sharply and nods, leaning down to press a hard kiss against Sherlock’s mouth, his breath getting caught between Sherlock’s lips when Sherlock opens his mouth to let John in. They stay like that for a moment, their lips moving together as John tries to bite down the nerves in his body, and then he pulls back to pop open the cap of the container, lube spilling out slippery and wet against his shaking fingers, even as Sherlock watches him with an expression that already looks a little desperate. John swallows hard against the sight and then leans in to kiss him again, even as his hand slides down between them to wrap around the soft skin of Sherlock’s skin, a slippery slide that leaves Sherlock groaning against his mouth - and then John remembers something that draws a moan from his throat in a bad way, his head falling to rest against the curve of Sherlock’s shoulder.
“Condom. Fuck. Goddammit. We don’t have -”
“You’re clean.”
“I - shit, how the hell would you know that?”
“We both had full-spectrum STI and HIV tests after the case with the exploding corpse -”
“Oh, hell, how are we talking about that right now?”
“- and unless you’ve been with someone since -”
“I - no, I haven’t, but -”
“Then you’re clean. Now, for the love of - could you please just - do something -”
Sherlock’s voice sounds incredibly tense, suddenly, the words cutting off into a noise of frustration as he arches up against John’s body, and John realizes that he’s been cradling Sherlock’s cock this entire time, the curl of his fingers nothing more than a light tease, and - yeah. Alright. So Sherlock has a point. A rather valid point. And when John slides his fingers down the length of him, and Sherlock goes limp and shaky underneath him again, all John can do is squeeze his eyes shut and blindly press his mouth into the curve of Sherlock’s shoulder, because - yeah, this is actually happening, then, and it’s enough to make John feel lightheaded.
“I - fuck. Alright. How do you - hands and knees, or -”
“Easier on my knees.”
Sherlock bites out the words into his mouth, his entire body twisting underneath him as John drags a thumb underneath the head of his cock, and then he pulls back to slide himself off Sherlock as he twists over onto his hands and knees - and while John might instantly regret losing sight of his face, jesus christ, is that a sight. Sherlock’s body seems to go on forever, all pale skin and sharp edges, and when John slides a hand down the middle of his back, the full-body shudder he gets in response leaves his cock pulsing hot and heavy between his legs.
“John.”
“I - yes?”
“I’ve done this to myself. I’ll let you know if you hurt me.”
The shake around the edges of Sherlock’s voice, mixed with the image that slams into his mind - John makes a noise that he didn’t even know he could make, something between a groan and a whine, and then he’s pressing up close behind Sherlock, his fingers sliding down to circle wet and soft against the entrance to Sherlock’s body. When Sherlock’s only response is to exhale sharply and twist a little bit closer, John takes a steadying breath and slides a finger inside, heat shooting out across him when Sherlock shudders and fists his hands into the blankets beneath him, and John is suddenly about three seconds away from hyperventilating, because this - is insane. Because he had never thought he’d get to see Sherlock like this at all - had certainly never thought that Sherlock would ever trust anyone enough to get into position - but here they are, somehow, with Sherlock twisting underneath him as John slides his finger a little deeper, and Sherlock panting out noises that sound like he’s barely getting enough oxygen into his lungs.
“Sherlock?”
Sherlock just nods sharply and closes his eyes, biting out a groan and pushing back into John’s hand, and John tampers down on his own arousal as he leans forward to start mouthing up the length of Sherlock’s spine, dragging his lips along whatever skin he can reach as he slides his finger in and out as slowly as he can, waiting for the muscles to gradually give way around him. He might have never done this to himself before, but he knows how this is supposed to work, knows full well that he won’t be rushing a damn thing here, and he waits until Sherlock shudders out another nod before he nudges in a second finger, feeling the muscles stretch around him as he pushes inside, and his cock jumping at the groan that slips from between Sherlock’s lips.
“Are you -”
“I’ll tell you if I need you to stop.”
Sherlock already sounds rather wrecked, the rasp in his voice going straight to John’s cock, and John very deliberately takes a steadying breath before he bites down carefully against Sherlock’s back, remembering the way he had reacted to nails there - and when Sherlock twists up almost violently into the contact, John manages a shaky smile against his skin as he slides his fingers in deeper, dragging his teeth along one of Sherlock’s shoulders as he does so, getting a curse for his efforts. He doesn’t let up the pressure, then, working his way across Sherlock’s back with his lips and teeth as he curls his fingers up inside him, because that’s two fingers, now, and he’s a doctor, he knows how this works - and when he finds the spot that he’s looking for, and Sherlock nearly jackknifes clean off the bed, it’s enough to draw a groan from John’s throat, even as Sherlock rasps out a noise that sounds like it’s been torn from somewhere deep inside him.
“Sensitive, then?”
He does it again without giving Sherlock time to respond, heat burning up across his skin as he strokes his fingers slowly inside him, wanting to hear more of those noises - and when Sherlock bites out another moan and then twists up against John’s hand, John takes a steadying breath and begins to carefully trace a third finger around the entrance to his body, just barely dipping the tip inside.
“Alright?”
Sherlock nods, his head hanging down towards the bed and a sheen of sweat starting to sneak across his back, and John never takes his mouth away from Sherlock’s skin - shoulders, neck, back, spine - as he slowly works a third finger inside, the insane heat of Sherlock’s body making him shake nearly as bad as Sherlock is, and by the time he has all three fingers inside, Sherlock has gone still underneath him, his damp skin trembling underneath the press of John’s mouth.
“Sherlock?”
When there’s no kind of verbal response, John lifts his head to find that Sherlock’s squeezed his eyes tightly shut, the muscles of his entire body drawn tense, and his fingers turning white in the bed sheets - and, yeah, sure, Sherlock had said he would tell him if he needed to stop, but given the questionable nature of Sherlock’s self-preservation skills, John thinks he can be forgiven for having a little doubt. After a second of watching Sherlock just vibrate underneath the press of John’s fingers, John molds himself back up against Sherlock’s back and gets a hand around his body, sliding it up the length of Sherlock’s cock as curls his fingers inside, finding his prostate and gently grazing his fingers across it, and when Sherlock nearly knocks John out with how hard he bucks, John figures he’s on the right track. He does it again, and then again, keeping the pressure steady around Sherlock’s cock as he stretches out the muscles inside him, curling his fingers up against his prostate before sliding them away to give Sherlock a chance to breathe, repeating the motions until Sherlock is jolting up hard against him with every touch, and by the time the muscles around his fingers are starting to feel a little bit looser, Sherlock’s cock is hot and hard and damp in his hand, and he’s rasping out John’s name like it’s some kind of curse.
“John - please -”
“You… think you’re good?”
“Yes. Fuck. Now would you please just -”
Sherlock cuts off his own words as he reaches back and catches hold of John’s wrist, tugging in a way that clearly indicates that he wants John’s fingers out, and John mouths a shaky kiss against his spine as he starts to work his fingers out of his body, drawing a low groan from Sherlock’s throat as John’s fingers slowly slide free. Sherlock seems to just shake for a second, his breathing coming in a low rasp, before he’s muttering another curse and twisting over onto his back again, his fingers curling in tight and hot against the skin of John’s arms, and his legs sliding up to curl around John’s hips like they’ve always been meant to be there.
“There. Like this.”
His eyes are blown wide in his face and his hair is a mess, his skin flushed bright and pink clear down to the curve of his throat, and John barely notices Sherlock prying the lube from his hand, too busy leaning in to press his mouth against that blush, until the slow slide of Sherlock’s lube-slicked palm around John has him stuttering out a groan. He’s barely managed to get air back in his lungs before Sherlock is dropping the bottle back to the bed and pushing up closer against John’s body, tightening his legs around his waist and dropping his fingers down to curl into the blankets beneath him, and John guides his cock against the entrance to Sherlock’s body, bracing his hands against the mattress and biting down on his own sudden nervousness, because, christ, this is so not the same as having sex with a woman, and even if he knows how this is supposed to work, the last thing he wants to do is screw something up and ruin this for Sherlock.
“If I hurt you -”
“Yes, yes, I know.”
“No, seriously, Sherlock. I mean it. If you -”
“Yes, fine, I’ll tell you if I want you to stop, now would you please just -”
Sherlock’s gritted out words get choked off into a groan as John nudges forward, the muscles of Sherlock’s body sliding open to let him just barely slip inside, and then Sherlock is gasping and squeezing his eyes shut as his head falls back against the pillow, leaving the curve of his neck in a position that John would love to be taking advantage of, if he wasn’t suddenly having trouble simply remembering how to breathe. Sherlock’s just - he’s all tight heat around him, his body shaking hard underneath John, and John rasps out a bite of air as he drags his mouth against the side of Sherlock’s neck, dragging his teeth gently across the skin as he keeps pushing forward, trying to listen through the haze of heat for whatever sounds Sherlock might be making. There’s nothing but the sound of his heavy breathing, broken once by something that sounds high pitched and a little desperate, but John’s going to trust him to know when it’s too much, keeps pushing forward, a slow slide that finally ends with John pressed deep inside him, and Sherlock’s nails digging hard and painful into the sweaty skin of his back.
“Shit.”
It’s strained even to his own ears, and he takes a long moment to just breathe against Sherlock’s neck, his heart nearly about to pound out of his chest, and - this is not going to last long, not with the way Sherlock is clenched tight and hot around him, not with the way Sherlock’s fingers keep pressing in harder and harder against his back, tiny shocks of pain that only go straight to John’s cock. After a long moment, he gets his head up from Sherlock’s neck to try to meet Sherlock’s eyes, watches as Sherlock pants for air and keeps his eyes squeezed shut, tension tightening the lines across his face, and when John leans in to brush their lips together, keeping the contact as gentle as he can under the circumstances, Sherlock makes that little desperate sounding noise again.
“Sherlock - shit - are you -”
“Fine, just - John - move, dammit, don’t just -”
“Are you -”
“Yes, I’m sure, just -”
John cuts off the words with a slide of their lips, Sherlock’s body clenching nearly tight enough to hurt as John carefully begins to move, keeping the motions as slow as he can, his arms nearly shaking from the effort - until Sherlock bites out his name and pushes up against him, his legs tightening around him and his feet digging in hard against the bottom curve of John’s back, pulling him in closer as Sherlock bites down against his lip - and when John jolts against the contact, there’s a strained laugh against his mouth, even if the noise still sounds a little desperate.
“Harder.”
“Jesus, Sherlock -”
He cuts off his own words on a groan as his hips snap forward, his body seeming to think that Sherlock’s idea is a very good once, and then Sherlock’s breathing out that laugh again, a soft little strained sound that cuts out into a groan when John changes his angle a little bit, leaving Sherlock jumping underneath him like he’s been electrocuted.
“There - John, that’s - that’s good, just there, just -”
Sherlock Holmes, spread out beneath him and babbling, his eyes squeezing shut again as his head falls back, sweaty hair making a mess of the pillow underneath him, and John suddenly can’t keep it together any longer, knows that Sherlock doesn’t want him to keep it together - and when he finally lets go, just a bit, moves a little harder, it’s like some kind of dam breaking, like they’ve finally started something that there’s no chance of stopping. He tries to keep his cock aimed against that spot inside Sherlock, tries to keep Sherlock twisting hard and gasping for breath underneath him, and as soon as he realizes that Sherlock’s gotten a hand down in between them, wrapping it around his own cock with a groan, it’s a wave of pure heat across his entire system, and jesus, that’s already the rush of an orgasm that he can feel gathering across his body.
“I’m - christ, I can’t -”
Sherlock’s only response is to nod sharply as he keeps breathing hard right up against his mouth, their lips no longer close to anything that even remotely resembles a kiss, and John wants to make this last longer, wants to give Sherlock something more for his first time - but Sherlock’s already drawing up tight underneath him, his face burying into John’s neck as he starts to bite out tiny noises that sound like he’s falling apart, and John closes his eyes as Sherlock’s body begins to tighten up around him, stealing away whatever air he had left. When Sherlock suddenly goes perfectly motionless underneath him, barely even seems to be breathing, John presses himself as close as possible, squeezing his eyes a little tighter as Sherlock begins to shake against him, his cock spurting warm and wet between them as he makes an almost pained noise against the skin of John’s neck. It’s - the sight and sound and feel of it all pushes John right to the edge, leaves him hanging there as he somehow keeps it together enough to keep fucking Sherlock through it, and as soon as Sherlock goes limp underneath him, John grits his teeth together and makes his own hips go still, not wanting to push Sherlock to a place of being uncomfortable.
“Sherlock - are you - fuck - do you need me to stop? Are you -”
“Don’t stop.”
Sherlock’s voice is low and hoarse and exhausted, sounds like the very epitome of fucked out, but even if that’s permission, right there, it’s still not enough to make John move, even if it takes everything John has to keep his hips still where they are.
“You - christ - you sure?”
Sherlock’s only response is to bite down hard against his neck as suddenly squeezes his body tight around John, and John makes a noise he didn’t even know he was capable of as his hips snap forward again, a surge of pure need sweeping across his body when Sherlock breathes out a low moan at the sudden slide inside him. He’s got to be somewhere close to too much right now, got to be a least a little oversensitive, and John can feel the way his legs are trembling from holding their position around John’s waist, can feel the way his feet are digging in desperately against the curve of his back - but Sherlock’s still not saying no, is actually clutching at him to draw him even closer, his breathing coming harsh against John’s mouth and his hands going back to sliding across every inch of skin they can reach, as though he still can’t get close enough - and so John simply kisses him like he doesn’t need to breathe, kisses him as he tries to press them as close together as he can, his cock sliding into Sherlock’s body and making Sherlock grit out a gasp on every thrust. It doesn’t take long for John’s mind to start fracturing at the sight and sound and feeling of it all, and when Sherlock drags his mouth down to bite down hard against John’s shoulder, the spark of pain finally snaps John towards the edge and then over it, pleasure twisting through him and his body shaking helplessly as the world washes white around him, pulling him down under a wave of sensation. He only distantly realizes that he’s ended up with his face buried into Sherlock’s neck and his body collapsed on top of Sherlock, but the second he makes a weak attempt to pull away and give Sherlock room to breathe, Sherlock’s arms snap up to tighten around John with surprising strength, keeping him pinned against his body as Sherlock stutters out a breath right next to his ear.
“Stay. You’re not hurting me.”
He sounds - somewhat rattled, almost, in a way John is pretty sure he’s never heard before, and John’s suddenly got way too many emotions to deal with, too, making a mess inside him even as his chest tightens painfully at the sound of Sherlock’s voice - and all he can do is nod and shift just far enough to slip free of Sherlock’s body, Sherlock flinching slightly underneath him as John’s cock slides out. John bites down a sudden wave of guilt, tries to say something, tries to apologize, but Sherlock’s already shaking his head and pulling him in close again, and all John can do is let himself be pulled, pressing his face back into the sweaty curve of Sherlock’s neck. There’s silence for a few seconds, nothing but the sound of their ragged breathing as Sherlock’s heart beats far too quickly against John’s chest, and even though all John wants to do is close his eyes and just hold on as tight as he can, just wants to enjoy the press of Sherlock’s body and the pleasant limpness in his own limbs, well - if Sherlock’s anywhere close to how overwhelmed John is right now, then the last thing that John’s going to do is close his eyes and leave Sherlock alone to deal with everything.
“Sherlock?”
He can hear the hesitation in his own voice, and when Sherlock doesn’t respond, John gets it together enough to lift his head up, taking in Sherlock’s flushed face and sweaty hair, the way his mouth is hanging open slightly. He looks shocked, almost, as though he hadn’t been completely prepared for what had just happened, no matter what he had said about knowing what he was asking for, and John bites down a surge of unease, because if he’s screwed this up, if he’s done something wrong, if he’s somehow ruined things between them - but even as John watches him and tries to not panic, Sherlock’s eyes slide closed and the corners of his lips curve up ever so slightly at the edges, an expression of contentment seeming to wash across his entire face.
“Interesting.”
“Interesting?”
“I do believe I’ve found something I enjoy as much as solving cases.”
John’s mouth - which had dropped open to protest the insanity of labelling what they’d just done as interesting - snaps shut so quickly it makes an audible click, and he’s pretty sure the warm mushy feeling inside him would best be suited for some teenage romance novel, because - that, really, says it all. Because there can’t be a better compliment than that, not from someone like Sherlock Holmes, and John only realizes how hard he’s suddenly blushing when Sherlock’s lips sneak up a little further at the edges, his fingers coming up to press against the side of John’s cheek.
“I trust your experience was also satisfactory?”
“Christ, Sherlock.”
He’s still blushing as he grits it out, biting down hard against the mess of emotions that suddenly want to spill out into some sappy declaration of love, and when Sherlock’s smirk simply turns up into an actual and honest grin, one of the most genuine expression of happiness that John has ever seen from him, John can’t help but return it, his own smile suddenly stretching wide enough to hurt as he huffs out a light laugh and lets his head drop back down to Sherlock’s chest. There is - there’ll be more they need to talk about, likely, but if Sherlock is content, then, well, that’s really all John needs to be concerned about right now, and he closes his eyes as he listens to the beat of Sherlock’s heart against his ear, not even attempting to wipe the smile away from his lips.
- - -
Several hours later, and not long after Sherlock and John have managed to drag themselves out of bed and into the shower, making out like a couple of randy teenagers the entire time, Dean comes knocking on the door with Castiel in tow, and then proceeds to just stand there in the doorway and smirk at them both, as though everything about them is suddenly incredibly funny.
“What?”
There’s no real heat in his voice - after everything that’s happened, Dean could probably ask John for a lung and a kidney, and John would happily agree - but he can feel himself flushing a bit, and he just barely resists the urge to raise a hand up to his damp hair, very much aware of Sherlock standing close beside him. Castiel is looking as bland as ever, as though he has no idea why Dean seems far too amused by this entire situation, but John somehow has the horrible idea that they both know exactly what he and Sherlock had been up to.
“Next room over, remember?”
Dean’s still smirking, the expression making him look about ten years younger, but John can’t really pay attention to that, too distracted by the heat he can feel rising even further in his cheeks, because, yeah, he’s an adult, and sex is nothing to be embarrassed about - but he still hadn’t ever thought that being overhead having sex by an angel would make it onto his list of most dubious life accomplishments - and from the sudden smirk on Sherlock’s lips, this situation isn’t going to get any better.
“Indeed. I believe we owe you a bottle of lube.”
Sherlock sounds a little more smug about this then he probably should, but John can’t even be bothered to give him hell for it, because the dumbfounded expression on Dean’s face is suddenly bringing a reluctant grin to his own. The smirk’s slid away to be replaced by a slightly dropped jaw, and, amazingly, it’s Castiel who’s smiling a bit now, his hand coming up to rest gentle on one of Dean’s shoulders.
“It’s alright, Dean. I will acquire us a new bottle.”
Dean goes an interesting shade of red and actually sputters something before he glances up and down the hall, even as John hears a door open nearby, voices suddenly sounding much too close for this conversation. He can’t wipe away the grin, though, and then Dean’s stepping into the room and actually pointing a finger at Sherlock, face still flushed more than a little red, even as Castiel shuts the door behind them while still wearing that tiny smile.
“Alright. I’ll let it go this time -”
“You did say for us to help ourselves.”
“Cause I’m guessing you two have finally got your shit together, and that’s - ya know. Good for you, and all that. But if you ever steal my lube again, I will find some nasty way to get even, I swear.”
“And will we be seeing you again?”
John doesn’t mean to put a damper on the general contentment in the room, but with their deals broken, and the leader of the leviathans killed, he’s not sure why Sam and Dean and Castiel would ever return to Baker Street again. It comes to him, suddenly, that for all that these three have saved him and Sherlock, saved them in so many different ways, they’re still more or less complete strangers. Hell, he doesn’t even know Sam and Dean’s last name, or why Castiel seems so sick, or how an angel even ended up riding shotgun with a couple of monster-hunting humans.
“Cas is gonna take you wherever you wanna go. Personally, I’d suggest Mycroft, as much as he seems like a pompous asshole, ’cause Cas and Sam and I can’t hang around England and stamp out all the leviathans for you.”
“Do you - with the leader dead, though. Do you think Sherlock and I are -”
“While you might not be as high on the to-do list, I wouldn’t say you’re in the clear. And now that you know that things really do go bump in the night, well -the leviathans are a particularly nasty version of that, and whatever you do with your lives for the next while, you’d better be damn well ready to switch from civilian to hunter whenever you need to.”
Dean’s frowning as he speaks, and, yeah, that does sound a little bit daunting - but considering what their lives had been before all of this, the idea of switching from civilian to soldier isn’t exactly anything new, even if there’s an added supernatural component now. And while John doesn’t much like the idea of glancing over his shoulder for nasty mouths full of giant teeth, he’s pretty sure that he and Sherlock can handle whatever comes in their direction, now, as long as they have Mycroft’s resources and Sherlock’s brain and Sam and Dean’s knowledge and lore.
“Yeah, well - our lives weren’t exactly safe before all of this. We solve crimes for a living, and spend a good chunk of our time chasing down criminals and dangerous serial killers.”
“Hadn’t pegged you two as cops.”
“I - no, we’re not. Sherlock’s a consulting detective - basically means the police come to him when they’re stuck. I fill the medical role, I guess. Checking out the corpses, things like that.”
“And that’s what you two do? Solve crimes just for the hell of it?”
“Still somehow seems saner than chasing down demons.”
John can’t stop the grin that curves across his lips, can’t stop the hint of warmth that sneaks into his voice - because without these three and their demon-hunting, he and Sherlock wouldn’t even be here, and, yeah, that’s really not something he wants to think about for too long - and when Dean gives him a small smile in return, John suddenly wants for this not to be the moment when they all part ways for good. Wants to find out the story behind these three, want to ask them how this became their lives, wants to get to know them all better - but then Dean’s clapping a hand against Castiel’s shoulder and moving back a step, his eyes sliding from John to fix on Sherlock.
“Your brother has my number. I can’t promise we’ll always be able to jump the ocean for you, but it’s worth a try.”
“Thank you.”
“No worries. And Sam’s already checking out something we got wind of a few towns over, but he said to say bye for him, so - yeah. Good luck, and all that. You two take care of each other, alright?”
Dean’s voice seems to soften ever so slightly, suddenly, as he glances between the two of them - and then Castiel has his hand on John’s shoulder, and the last thing John sees before the room disappears is the sight of Dean raising a hand in what looks like an awkward little wave. The room they materialize in seems to be some kind of bunker, the walls and floors both made out of concrete, and when Castiel starts to stumble as soon as they’re in the room, John reaches out to steady him, getting his hands under his elbows and doing the best he can to keep him upright.
“You okay?”
“Yes. I - yes, I’m alright. This is the address Mycroft provided. I assume he is here somewhere.”
“Probably planning some grand entrance.”
But Sherlock’s voice is lacking the vitriol it normally would have, and he’s watching Castiel, too, his expression soft and almost a little fond as John helps the angel to get himself steady again. As soon as Castiel straightens up and seems to set his shoulders against whatever invisible weight he seems to be carrying, John takes his hands back and steps away again, his shoulder brushing up against Sherlock’s as they stand there and stare at Castiel, who stares right back at them in that ridiculously intense way of his that John is starting to find rather endearing.
“So. Guess this is goodbye for now, then.”
“I suppose so. Dean says I’m not particularly skilled in the art of human farewells.”
He actually looks a little concerned about it, too, his face creased in a way that seems to suggest perplexity, and John has to fight down an unexpected wave of affection, suddenly trying to convince himself that it’s probably not proper etiquette to hug an angel, even if said angel has saved your life several times over.
“Yeah, well - I’m pretty sure saving our lives kinda trumps an awkward goodbye.”
“I had some help with that, though. Dean thinks that both of you would make excellent hunters.”
“Really?”
Castiel simply nods, still staring at him as though he can see right through him, and John doesn’t bother to fight the twitch of his lips, the slight flush that sneaks across his cheeks. Before he can find a response, though, Castiel is taking a step backwards from them, his eyes flicking across them both as he moves away.
“If you ever have need of us in the future, I - while I am not sure how much longer I will be able to fly, I will do my best to get here, even if that involves convincing Dean to get on a plane.”
There’s barely any emotion in the words - at least that John can hear - but there’s obviously nothing good about how much longer I will be able to fly, nothing good about the implications of that sentence - and he’s suddenly about to lose the fight to refrain from hugging this angel standing in front of them, his chest tightening and his throat clogging up around whatever response he might have had - and even though Sherlock thankfully still seems able to speak, his voice doesn’t sound much steadier than John’s probably would have been.
“I - while I do not understand your condition - for lack of a more precise word - if there is anything that John or I could do -”
“It is a long story. Perhaps, if we meet again, I might tell you.”
“I would like that.”
Castiel’s only response is to nod once again, silently, and John suddenly finds his voice again, wanting to get the words out before Castiel disappears, even if they come out disjointed and a little shaky around the edges.
“Thank you, Cas. Seriously - just, thank you. To all three of you. For everything.”
“I am simply glad we could help. I have seen Hell. Nobody deserves that fate.”
And with that parting comment - a sentence that feels rather like getting punched in the chest - Castiel is gone, nothing but a flutter of feathers to accompany his departure. For a long moment, all John can do is stare at the spot where Castiel had disappeared from, and he’s just turned to face Sherlock when there’s the sound of a door opening, and they both glance across the room to watch Mycroft sweep into the room, his umbrella tapping along beside him and his face pinched up in a way that John is pretty sure does not bode well.
“Ah, brother dear. So glad you could finally make it.”
“Mycroft. Managed to save the country yet?”
“All in good time. I suppose you two want to be part of this, now?”
“Depends on what, exactly, you’re doing here. Either way, Dean suggested talking to you before John and I decide whether or not we can go home, and I agreed, so - here we are.”
“Interesting.”
“What?”
“Oh, nothing terribly urgent.”
“Mycroft, honestly, if you actually want to start fighting already -”
“Just that I have never once, in our entire lives, heard you refer to anywhere as ‘home’.”
Mycroft’s haughty composure doesn’t slip for a second, the words coming out as snooty as ever, but the implications hang in the air between the three of them until Mycroft turns away, waving a beckoning hand over his shoulder as them as he walks back into the other room. Beside John, Sherlock has gone a rather endearing shade of pink, and he seems to be doing his best to glare holes into his brother, his lips pressed together and his eyes fixed firmly on Mycroft’s retreating back. John, for his part, is simply giving up on trying to fight a smile, something inside him swooping low and hot with pleasure as he reaches down to squeeze Sherlock’s fingers between his own, a quick glance confirming that Mycroft is still facing safely in the other direction.
“C’mon, Sherlock. We’ll get home, eventually. For now, how about we go see what crazy scheme your brother’s concocted to save the world, alright?”
He doesn’t bother to even attempt to keep the happiness out of his voice, because even though they’re stuck in some dark bunker, they’ve both been freed from the threat of Hell, and John’s apparently not the only one who thinks of Baker Street as the only home he’s ever known - and put all that together, and John is pretty sure he has every damn reason to be over the moon right now. The contentment in his voice seems to get through to Sherlock, too, who drags his gaze away from Mycroft and back to John’s face, before he drops his eyes down to where their hands are joined together - and when Sherlock smiles ever so slightly and curls their fingers even closer together, John feels the touch like Sherlock’s actually reached into his chest and squeezed, and jesus, this is actually insane. That somehow, miracle of all miracles, they’ve made it this far, that they’ve cheated death in more ways than John cares to count - and that now, amazingly, they have the chance to spend the rest of their lives discovering little moments like this, moments when everything feels right and wonderful and safe, possibly for the first time in his entire life.
Pairings: Sherlock/John, Dean/Castiel
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 55,000
Warnings: Explicit sex, alcohol abuse, graphic violence, angst, language, suicidal thoughts, gore, implied torture, dark themes.
A/N #1: Supernatural/Sherlock crossover (post-Reichenbach; goes AU after SPN 7.19).
A/N #2: Written for sncross_bigbang. Original story idea from the wonderful lunasky3. ♥
Awesome fanvid and fanmix by trickster88 can be found here. ♥♥♥
- - -
Summary: Less than two months after what the press have deemed ‘The Reichenbach Suicide’, John Watson makes a deal that condemns his soul to Hell for eternity. At the same time, Team Free Will - still struggling to send the leviathans back to Purgatory - stumbles upon a clue that leads them across the ocean, and straight into the path of two men who are desperately seeking a way to prevent Hell from collecting its due.
The result - an intersection of these two separate worlds, and the teaming up of some unlikely allies - is the story of how John Watson’s life collides with the world of demons and monsters, and of how he and Sherlock are given one final chance to make things right between them, even as a dangerous web begins to tighten its hold around London, and John’s clock starts to steadily tick down the days to his last night on Earth.
Part One - Part Two - Part Three - Part Four - Part Five - Part Six - Part Seven
- - -
When they hit solid ground again, all five of them slamming a little harder into the floor then John has gotten used to, they’re surrounded by the peeling walls of some generic motel room. Castiel begins to stumble as soon as they materialize in the room, and when Dean and Sam both reach out to catch him, stopping him from falling, John remembers something critical that hasn’t happened yet, something that’s gotten lost under the wave of adrenaline that’s still shaking its way across his body.
“Thank you. From both of us.”
He can hear the soul-deep gratitude in his voice, but Dean simply shrugs as best as he can while trying to hold Castiel upright, even as Sam smiles slightly and reaches out to take the knife from John, both of them looking like this is something they’ve done so many times before, it barely seems to phase them anymore.
“No worries, honestly. I’m just glad we could help.”
Sam’s already sliding the knife into the front of his jacket as he speaks, apparently with no concern for the blood he’s going to end up smearing everywhere, and Dean tightens his grip on Castiel for a moment as he continues to do his best to keep the angel upright, even as he quirks out a tight grin in their direction.
“Yeah, no worries - s’all part of the job. We’ll get you home as soon as we’ve all had some rest, alright? In the meantime, this place is paid for, and we’re a room over, and if you need anything - shampoo, whatever - that’s my bag in the corner, so just - help yourselves.”
There seems to be nothing to say to that, no way that John could protest how insane it is that these three have saved John and Sherlock in ways that go far beyond the parameters of a job - so all he does is nod as they leave the room, closing the door behind them, and then John’s closing his eyes, his brain and body apparently not able to process everything all at once, and christ, how the hell could Sam and Dean and Castiel deal with something like this on a regular basis?
“How - and they call this their job? That’s just - absolutely insane.”
His voice is just about as weak as his body, his muscles not quite succeeding in their attempt to keep from shaking, and when he opens his eyes again, it’s to find Sherlock watching him, that expression of amazement still written across every inch of his face. He’s - quite the sight, really, dust and dirt making a mess of his coat and hair and face, though - thanks to Castiel’s skills - there’s at least no blood seeping out from across his body, and John ducks his head down as he puts a hand against his own stomach, where he had been bleeding out not ten minutes ago.
“And - wow. Angel magic. That’s actually, wow, just -”
He stumbles on his words when Sherlock’s hand suddenly presses against his own, the fingers slowly inching out across the fabric as though searching out the place where John had been injured, and when John raises his eyes again, Sherlock is watching his face instead of their hands, something visibly vulnerable dancing around the edges of his expression. It feels like being punched in the chest, almost, and John twists his hand to curl their fingers together, holding on tight to Sherlock as they simply stand there and stare at each other, and, wow, if John’s heart kicks up the pace anymore, it’s quite possibly going to beat clean out of his chest.
“Christ, Sherlock. This is for real, right? We’re actually - we’re both free, right?”
Instead of a verbal answer, Sherlock simply stares at him for a moment longer before he nods, his fingers squeezing a little tighter around John’s, almost tight enough to hurt - and with that tiny bite of pain, it hits him, suddenly, that, yes, this is indeed actually real. That this is real, that they’ve both been saved from an eternity in Hell - and when Sherlock moves in a bit closer, never once taking his eyes from John’s, it’s like something deep inside John breaks open. He’s not quite sure how he ends up with his hands fisted in the front of Sherlock’s coat, how he ends up nudging Sherlock backwards, but he knows that Sherlock doesn’t resist when John gently maneuvers him back against the wall, his hands sliding down to dig in hard against John’s back as he gasps something into John’s mouth, the soft sound getting lost somewhere between them, swallowed up under the movement of their lips sliding together. It doesn’t last for long - christ, John still even has Moriarty’s blood on his hands, smearing into Sherlock’s coat where John’s fingers are curled into his shoulders - but by the time John pulls away, his breathing’s already coming ragged, and Sherlock’s lips are much redder than before, a fitting counterpoint to the splash of colour that’s crept across his cheekbones.
“I - shit. Sorry, I -”
“Why did you stop?”
John just barely manages to hold in a groan, the roughness in Sherlock’s voice shooting straight through him, and the only thing that stops him from burying his face into Sherlock’s shoulder is the mess of blood there.
“I’m still covered in blood. You’ve been traumatised by a demon. I just killed someone. I hardly think -”
“Wash your hands, then.”
“That’s your biggest concern?”
“I wasn’t traumatised -”
“Yes, you damn well were.”
“- and unless Moriarty’s death is causing you unnecessary angst -”
“It’s - yeah. That’s really never gonna be a problem.”
“Then there’s a sink in the bathroom.”
“I - fuck, Sherlock.”
“If you’re interested.”
“Sherlock.”
“Yes?”
Whatever John was going to say - whatever smart remark he was going to come up with - gets completely lost when he realizes that that last part hadn’t been Sherlock making a joke. That he hadn’t been trying to make light of this situation, that there’s not even a trace of humour on his face, and that his breaths are coming as quickly as John’s are, his eyes never once breaking away from where they’re fixed on John’s own - and when Sherlock raises a hand to rest it over where John’s heart seems to be trying to beat out through his cardigan, all John can do is swallow hard and try to remember how to breathe.
“John. Go wash your hands.”
John isn’t sure what kind of noise he makes, but it sounds, even to his own ears, rather pathetic, and he stares at Sherlock for a moment longer before he somehow convinces his legs to get him into the tiny bathroom, the sink staining red as he grabs the soap and goes to work, scrubbing across his skin and underneath his fingernails, his knees not quite steady and his breathing still coming too quickly. By the time he gets the blood off and gets back out to the bed, Sherlock’s already stripped himself down to nothing, and John barely has time to breathe through the sight before Sherlock’s making quick work of his clothing, stripping him naked and pulling him down on top of him on the bed. There’s something desperate about the touches, almost, and it makes something twist inside his stomach, makes his breathing come sharp in a way that has nothing to do with the slide of skin on skin, and John’s just about to breathe out some kind of reassurance when Sherlock’s pressing their lips together again, licking into his mouth in a frankly filthy way that sends a bolt of lust straight down to John’s cock, makes him bite out a groan into the kiss.
“Sherlock - shit.”
Sherlock’s only response is the ragged sound of his breathing, and then his hands can’t seem to stay still, sliding across every bit of John they’re able to reach, his fingers and palms making a sweep of his body that leaves John doing his best to not dig his teeth into Sherlock’s shoulder. When Sherlock’s hands slide up to cradle his cheeks, holding him in place as Sherlock presses their lips together and pants out shaky little breaths against his mouth, John’s chest begins to ache, his blood pounding a little too hard in his temples at the way Sherlock can’t seem to get close enough.
“Sherlock - hey, it’s alright. I’m not going anywhere.”
Sherlock’s hands suddenly go still against him, his fingers resting just above the curve of his ass, almost as though he hadn’t expected to be called out - and then he’s pressing his face into John’s shoulder and mouthing damply at the skin there, even as one hand slides away from John’s body to fumble for something on the bed - and then, insanely, there’s something cool being pressed into one of his palms, and when John glances down to find his fingers curled around a container of lube, small and still sealed and suddenly feeling like a brand in the palm of his hand, something deep inside him seems to flare hot and needy and desperate, even as sudden panic makes him freeze against Sherlock’s body.
“Uh -”
“Found it in Dean’s bag.”
Sherlock’s voice is a rough murmur against his skin, his mouth still pressing damp against the curve of his shoulder - but John barely processes the words, his mind too busy trying to deal with the implications of the tiny container in his hand. Sherlock’s fingers slide, then, suddenly, pressing in against the curve of his ass and sliding along the skin there, and John can’t stop himself from squirming, a flare of unease mixing in with his arousal, because this isn’t - he’s not. This isn’t something he’s sure of yet - something he’d never even considered until Sherlock - but then, even as Sherlock mouths yet another damp kiss against his skin, he shifts underneath John and lets his legs fall open, leaving John to slide in between his thighs with almost indecent ease, and John is suddenly having serious difficulty getting enough oxygen.
“Jesus, Sherlock.”
Sherlock makes some barely audible noise of acknowledgment, his face still pressed in tight against his shoulder, and his breathing sending a burst of warm air across John’s skin - and even though he still hasn’t gotten it together enough to speak, he pulls back so that Sherlock has no choice but to look at him, his eyes sliding open to fix on him in the dim light of the crappy motel lighting. He’s - he already looks completely debauched, somehow, with his flushed skin and his hair all over the place, and his pupils so dilated there seems to be more black than blue - but it’s the vulnerability in his expression, more than anything, that’s making John’s pulse kick it up another notch across his body.
“Are you -”
“I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t sure.”
His voice sounds as rough as John feels, but his eyes are steady, and John stares at him for a moment longer before he exhales sharply and nods, leaning down to press a hard kiss against Sherlock’s mouth, his breath getting caught between Sherlock’s lips when Sherlock opens his mouth to let John in. They stay like that for a moment, their lips moving together as John tries to bite down the nerves in his body, and then he pulls back to pop open the cap of the container, lube spilling out slippery and wet against his shaking fingers, even as Sherlock watches him with an expression that already looks a little desperate. John swallows hard against the sight and then leans in to kiss him again, even as his hand slides down between them to wrap around the soft skin of Sherlock’s skin, a slippery slide that leaves Sherlock groaning against his mouth - and then John remembers something that draws a moan from his throat in a bad way, his head falling to rest against the curve of Sherlock’s shoulder.
“Condom. Fuck. Goddammit. We don’t have -”
“You’re clean.”
“I - shit, how the hell would you know that?”
“We both had full-spectrum STI and HIV tests after the case with the exploding corpse -”
“Oh, hell, how are we talking about that right now?”
“- and unless you’ve been with someone since -”
“I - no, I haven’t, but -”
“Then you’re clean. Now, for the love of - could you please just - do something -”
Sherlock’s voice sounds incredibly tense, suddenly, the words cutting off into a noise of frustration as he arches up against John’s body, and John realizes that he’s been cradling Sherlock’s cock this entire time, the curl of his fingers nothing more than a light tease, and - yeah. Alright. So Sherlock has a point. A rather valid point. And when John slides his fingers down the length of him, and Sherlock goes limp and shaky underneath him again, all John can do is squeeze his eyes shut and blindly press his mouth into the curve of Sherlock’s shoulder, because - yeah, this is actually happening, then, and it’s enough to make John feel lightheaded.
“I - fuck. Alright. How do you - hands and knees, or -”
“Easier on my knees.”
Sherlock bites out the words into his mouth, his entire body twisting underneath him as John drags a thumb underneath the head of his cock, and then he pulls back to slide himself off Sherlock as he twists over onto his hands and knees - and while John might instantly regret losing sight of his face, jesus christ, is that a sight. Sherlock’s body seems to go on forever, all pale skin and sharp edges, and when John slides a hand down the middle of his back, the full-body shudder he gets in response leaves his cock pulsing hot and heavy between his legs.
“John.”
“I - yes?”
“I’ve done this to myself. I’ll let you know if you hurt me.”
The shake around the edges of Sherlock’s voice, mixed with the image that slams into his mind - John makes a noise that he didn’t even know he could make, something between a groan and a whine, and then he’s pressing up close behind Sherlock, his fingers sliding down to circle wet and soft against the entrance to Sherlock’s body. When Sherlock’s only response is to exhale sharply and twist a little bit closer, John takes a steadying breath and slides a finger inside, heat shooting out across him when Sherlock shudders and fists his hands into the blankets beneath him, and John is suddenly about three seconds away from hyperventilating, because this - is insane. Because he had never thought he’d get to see Sherlock like this at all - had certainly never thought that Sherlock would ever trust anyone enough to get into position - but here they are, somehow, with Sherlock twisting underneath him as John slides his finger a little deeper, and Sherlock panting out noises that sound like he’s barely getting enough oxygen into his lungs.
“Sherlock?”
Sherlock just nods sharply and closes his eyes, biting out a groan and pushing back into John’s hand, and John tampers down on his own arousal as he leans forward to start mouthing up the length of Sherlock’s spine, dragging his lips along whatever skin he can reach as he slides his finger in and out as slowly as he can, waiting for the muscles to gradually give way around him. He might have never done this to himself before, but he knows how this is supposed to work, knows full well that he won’t be rushing a damn thing here, and he waits until Sherlock shudders out another nod before he nudges in a second finger, feeling the muscles stretch around him as he pushes inside, and his cock jumping at the groan that slips from between Sherlock’s lips.
“Are you -”
“I’ll tell you if I need you to stop.”
Sherlock already sounds rather wrecked, the rasp in his voice going straight to John’s cock, and John very deliberately takes a steadying breath before he bites down carefully against Sherlock’s back, remembering the way he had reacted to nails there - and when Sherlock twists up almost violently into the contact, John manages a shaky smile against his skin as he slides his fingers in deeper, dragging his teeth along one of Sherlock’s shoulders as he does so, getting a curse for his efforts. He doesn’t let up the pressure, then, working his way across Sherlock’s back with his lips and teeth as he curls his fingers up inside him, because that’s two fingers, now, and he’s a doctor, he knows how this works - and when he finds the spot that he’s looking for, and Sherlock nearly jackknifes clean off the bed, it’s enough to draw a groan from John’s throat, even as Sherlock rasps out a noise that sounds like it’s been torn from somewhere deep inside him.
“Sensitive, then?”
He does it again without giving Sherlock time to respond, heat burning up across his skin as he strokes his fingers slowly inside him, wanting to hear more of those noises - and when Sherlock bites out another moan and then twists up against John’s hand, John takes a steadying breath and begins to carefully trace a third finger around the entrance to his body, just barely dipping the tip inside.
“Alright?”
Sherlock nods, his head hanging down towards the bed and a sheen of sweat starting to sneak across his back, and John never takes his mouth away from Sherlock’s skin - shoulders, neck, back, spine - as he slowly works a third finger inside, the insane heat of Sherlock’s body making him shake nearly as bad as Sherlock is, and by the time he has all three fingers inside, Sherlock has gone still underneath him, his damp skin trembling underneath the press of John’s mouth.
“Sherlock?”
When there’s no kind of verbal response, John lifts his head to find that Sherlock’s squeezed his eyes tightly shut, the muscles of his entire body drawn tense, and his fingers turning white in the bed sheets - and, yeah, sure, Sherlock had said he would tell him if he needed to stop, but given the questionable nature of Sherlock’s self-preservation skills, John thinks he can be forgiven for having a little doubt. After a second of watching Sherlock just vibrate underneath the press of John’s fingers, John molds himself back up against Sherlock’s back and gets a hand around his body, sliding it up the length of Sherlock’s cock as curls his fingers inside, finding his prostate and gently grazing his fingers across it, and when Sherlock nearly knocks John out with how hard he bucks, John figures he’s on the right track. He does it again, and then again, keeping the pressure steady around Sherlock’s cock as he stretches out the muscles inside him, curling his fingers up against his prostate before sliding them away to give Sherlock a chance to breathe, repeating the motions until Sherlock is jolting up hard against him with every touch, and by the time the muscles around his fingers are starting to feel a little bit looser, Sherlock’s cock is hot and hard and damp in his hand, and he’s rasping out John’s name like it’s some kind of curse.
“John - please -”
“You… think you’re good?”
“Yes. Fuck. Now would you please just -”
Sherlock cuts off his own words as he reaches back and catches hold of John’s wrist, tugging in a way that clearly indicates that he wants John’s fingers out, and John mouths a shaky kiss against his spine as he starts to work his fingers out of his body, drawing a low groan from Sherlock’s throat as John’s fingers slowly slide free. Sherlock seems to just shake for a second, his breathing coming in a low rasp, before he’s muttering another curse and twisting over onto his back again, his fingers curling in tight and hot against the skin of John’s arms, and his legs sliding up to curl around John’s hips like they’ve always been meant to be there.
“There. Like this.”
His eyes are blown wide in his face and his hair is a mess, his skin flushed bright and pink clear down to the curve of his throat, and John barely notices Sherlock prying the lube from his hand, too busy leaning in to press his mouth against that blush, until the slow slide of Sherlock’s lube-slicked palm around John has him stuttering out a groan. He’s barely managed to get air back in his lungs before Sherlock is dropping the bottle back to the bed and pushing up closer against John’s body, tightening his legs around his waist and dropping his fingers down to curl into the blankets beneath him, and John guides his cock against the entrance to Sherlock’s body, bracing his hands against the mattress and biting down on his own sudden nervousness, because, christ, this is so not the same as having sex with a woman, and even if he knows how this is supposed to work, the last thing he wants to do is screw something up and ruin this for Sherlock.
“If I hurt you -”
“Yes, yes, I know.”
“No, seriously, Sherlock. I mean it. If you -”
“Yes, fine, I’ll tell you if I want you to stop, now would you please just -”
Sherlock’s gritted out words get choked off into a groan as John nudges forward, the muscles of Sherlock’s body sliding open to let him just barely slip inside, and then Sherlock is gasping and squeezing his eyes shut as his head falls back against the pillow, leaving the curve of his neck in a position that John would love to be taking advantage of, if he wasn’t suddenly having trouble simply remembering how to breathe. Sherlock’s just - he’s all tight heat around him, his body shaking hard underneath John, and John rasps out a bite of air as he drags his mouth against the side of Sherlock’s neck, dragging his teeth gently across the skin as he keeps pushing forward, trying to listen through the haze of heat for whatever sounds Sherlock might be making. There’s nothing but the sound of his heavy breathing, broken once by something that sounds high pitched and a little desperate, but John’s going to trust him to know when it’s too much, keeps pushing forward, a slow slide that finally ends with John pressed deep inside him, and Sherlock’s nails digging hard and painful into the sweaty skin of his back.
“Shit.”
It’s strained even to his own ears, and he takes a long moment to just breathe against Sherlock’s neck, his heart nearly about to pound out of his chest, and - this is not going to last long, not with the way Sherlock is clenched tight and hot around him, not with the way Sherlock’s fingers keep pressing in harder and harder against his back, tiny shocks of pain that only go straight to John’s cock. After a long moment, he gets his head up from Sherlock’s neck to try to meet Sherlock’s eyes, watches as Sherlock pants for air and keeps his eyes squeezed shut, tension tightening the lines across his face, and when John leans in to brush their lips together, keeping the contact as gentle as he can under the circumstances, Sherlock makes that little desperate sounding noise again.
“Sherlock - shit - are you -”
“Fine, just - John - move, dammit, don’t just -”
“Are you -”
“Yes, I’m sure, just -”
John cuts off the words with a slide of their lips, Sherlock’s body clenching nearly tight enough to hurt as John carefully begins to move, keeping the motions as slow as he can, his arms nearly shaking from the effort - until Sherlock bites out his name and pushes up against him, his legs tightening around him and his feet digging in hard against the bottom curve of John’s back, pulling him in closer as Sherlock bites down against his lip - and when John jolts against the contact, there’s a strained laugh against his mouth, even if the noise still sounds a little desperate.
“Harder.”
“Jesus, Sherlock -”
He cuts off his own words on a groan as his hips snap forward, his body seeming to think that Sherlock’s idea is a very good once, and then Sherlock’s breathing out that laugh again, a soft little strained sound that cuts out into a groan when John changes his angle a little bit, leaving Sherlock jumping underneath him like he’s been electrocuted.
“There - John, that’s - that’s good, just there, just -”
Sherlock Holmes, spread out beneath him and babbling, his eyes squeezing shut again as his head falls back, sweaty hair making a mess of the pillow underneath him, and John suddenly can’t keep it together any longer, knows that Sherlock doesn’t want him to keep it together - and when he finally lets go, just a bit, moves a little harder, it’s like some kind of dam breaking, like they’ve finally started something that there’s no chance of stopping. He tries to keep his cock aimed against that spot inside Sherlock, tries to keep Sherlock twisting hard and gasping for breath underneath him, and as soon as he realizes that Sherlock’s gotten a hand down in between them, wrapping it around his own cock with a groan, it’s a wave of pure heat across his entire system, and jesus, that’s already the rush of an orgasm that he can feel gathering across his body.
“I’m - christ, I can’t -”
Sherlock’s only response is to nod sharply as he keeps breathing hard right up against his mouth, their lips no longer close to anything that even remotely resembles a kiss, and John wants to make this last longer, wants to give Sherlock something more for his first time - but Sherlock’s already drawing up tight underneath him, his face burying into John’s neck as he starts to bite out tiny noises that sound like he’s falling apart, and John closes his eyes as Sherlock’s body begins to tighten up around him, stealing away whatever air he had left. When Sherlock suddenly goes perfectly motionless underneath him, barely even seems to be breathing, John presses himself as close as possible, squeezing his eyes a little tighter as Sherlock begins to shake against him, his cock spurting warm and wet between them as he makes an almost pained noise against the skin of John’s neck. It’s - the sight and sound and feel of it all pushes John right to the edge, leaves him hanging there as he somehow keeps it together enough to keep fucking Sherlock through it, and as soon as Sherlock goes limp underneath him, John grits his teeth together and makes his own hips go still, not wanting to push Sherlock to a place of being uncomfortable.
“Sherlock - are you - fuck - do you need me to stop? Are you -”
“Don’t stop.”
Sherlock’s voice is low and hoarse and exhausted, sounds like the very epitome of fucked out, but even if that’s permission, right there, it’s still not enough to make John move, even if it takes everything John has to keep his hips still where they are.
“You - christ - you sure?”
Sherlock’s only response is to bite down hard against his neck as suddenly squeezes his body tight around John, and John makes a noise he didn’t even know he was capable of as his hips snap forward again, a surge of pure need sweeping across his body when Sherlock breathes out a low moan at the sudden slide inside him. He’s got to be somewhere close to too much right now, got to be a least a little oversensitive, and John can feel the way his legs are trembling from holding their position around John’s waist, can feel the way his feet are digging in desperately against the curve of his back - but Sherlock’s still not saying no, is actually clutching at him to draw him even closer, his breathing coming harsh against John’s mouth and his hands going back to sliding across every inch of skin they can reach, as though he still can’t get close enough - and so John simply kisses him like he doesn’t need to breathe, kisses him as he tries to press them as close together as he can, his cock sliding into Sherlock’s body and making Sherlock grit out a gasp on every thrust. It doesn’t take long for John’s mind to start fracturing at the sight and sound and feeling of it all, and when Sherlock drags his mouth down to bite down hard against John’s shoulder, the spark of pain finally snaps John towards the edge and then over it, pleasure twisting through him and his body shaking helplessly as the world washes white around him, pulling him down under a wave of sensation. He only distantly realizes that he’s ended up with his face buried into Sherlock’s neck and his body collapsed on top of Sherlock, but the second he makes a weak attempt to pull away and give Sherlock room to breathe, Sherlock’s arms snap up to tighten around John with surprising strength, keeping him pinned against his body as Sherlock stutters out a breath right next to his ear.
“Stay. You’re not hurting me.”
He sounds - somewhat rattled, almost, in a way John is pretty sure he’s never heard before, and John’s suddenly got way too many emotions to deal with, too, making a mess inside him even as his chest tightens painfully at the sound of Sherlock’s voice - and all he can do is nod and shift just far enough to slip free of Sherlock’s body, Sherlock flinching slightly underneath him as John’s cock slides out. John bites down a sudden wave of guilt, tries to say something, tries to apologize, but Sherlock’s already shaking his head and pulling him in close again, and all John can do is let himself be pulled, pressing his face back into the sweaty curve of Sherlock’s neck. There’s silence for a few seconds, nothing but the sound of their ragged breathing as Sherlock’s heart beats far too quickly against John’s chest, and even though all John wants to do is close his eyes and just hold on as tight as he can, just wants to enjoy the press of Sherlock’s body and the pleasant limpness in his own limbs, well - if Sherlock’s anywhere close to how overwhelmed John is right now, then the last thing that John’s going to do is close his eyes and leave Sherlock alone to deal with everything.
“Sherlock?”
He can hear the hesitation in his own voice, and when Sherlock doesn’t respond, John gets it together enough to lift his head up, taking in Sherlock’s flushed face and sweaty hair, the way his mouth is hanging open slightly. He looks shocked, almost, as though he hadn’t been completely prepared for what had just happened, no matter what he had said about knowing what he was asking for, and John bites down a surge of unease, because if he’s screwed this up, if he’s done something wrong, if he’s somehow ruined things between them - but even as John watches him and tries to not panic, Sherlock’s eyes slide closed and the corners of his lips curve up ever so slightly at the edges, an expression of contentment seeming to wash across his entire face.
“Interesting.”
“Interesting?”
“I do believe I’ve found something I enjoy as much as solving cases.”
John’s mouth - which had dropped open to protest the insanity of labelling what they’d just done as interesting - snaps shut so quickly it makes an audible click, and he’s pretty sure the warm mushy feeling inside him would best be suited for some teenage romance novel, because - that, really, says it all. Because there can’t be a better compliment than that, not from someone like Sherlock Holmes, and John only realizes how hard he’s suddenly blushing when Sherlock’s lips sneak up a little further at the edges, his fingers coming up to press against the side of John’s cheek.
“I trust your experience was also satisfactory?”
“Christ, Sherlock.”
He’s still blushing as he grits it out, biting down hard against the mess of emotions that suddenly want to spill out into some sappy declaration of love, and when Sherlock’s smirk simply turns up into an actual and honest grin, one of the most genuine expression of happiness that John has ever seen from him, John can’t help but return it, his own smile suddenly stretching wide enough to hurt as he huffs out a light laugh and lets his head drop back down to Sherlock’s chest. There is - there’ll be more they need to talk about, likely, but if Sherlock is content, then, well, that’s really all John needs to be concerned about right now, and he closes his eyes as he listens to the beat of Sherlock’s heart against his ear, not even attempting to wipe the smile away from his lips.
- - -
Several hours later, and not long after Sherlock and John have managed to drag themselves out of bed and into the shower, making out like a couple of randy teenagers the entire time, Dean comes knocking on the door with Castiel in tow, and then proceeds to just stand there in the doorway and smirk at them both, as though everything about them is suddenly incredibly funny.
“What?”
There’s no real heat in his voice - after everything that’s happened, Dean could probably ask John for a lung and a kidney, and John would happily agree - but he can feel himself flushing a bit, and he just barely resists the urge to raise a hand up to his damp hair, very much aware of Sherlock standing close beside him. Castiel is looking as bland as ever, as though he has no idea why Dean seems far too amused by this entire situation, but John somehow has the horrible idea that they both know exactly what he and Sherlock had been up to.
“Next room over, remember?”
Dean’s still smirking, the expression making him look about ten years younger, but John can’t really pay attention to that, too distracted by the heat he can feel rising even further in his cheeks, because, yeah, he’s an adult, and sex is nothing to be embarrassed about - but he still hadn’t ever thought that being overhead having sex by an angel would make it onto his list of most dubious life accomplishments - and from the sudden smirk on Sherlock’s lips, this situation isn’t going to get any better.
“Indeed. I believe we owe you a bottle of lube.”
Sherlock sounds a little more smug about this then he probably should, but John can’t even be bothered to give him hell for it, because the dumbfounded expression on Dean’s face is suddenly bringing a reluctant grin to his own. The smirk’s slid away to be replaced by a slightly dropped jaw, and, amazingly, it’s Castiel who’s smiling a bit now, his hand coming up to rest gentle on one of Dean’s shoulders.
“It’s alright, Dean. I will acquire us a new bottle.”
Dean goes an interesting shade of red and actually sputters something before he glances up and down the hall, even as John hears a door open nearby, voices suddenly sounding much too close for this conversation. He can’t wipe away the grin, though, and then Dean’s stepping into the room and actually pointing a finger at Sherlock, face still flushed more than a little red, even as Castiel shuts the door behind them while still wearing that tiny smile.
“Alright. I’ll let it go this time -”
“You did say for us to help ourselves.”
“Cause I’m guessing you two have finally got your shit together, and that’s - ya know. Good for you, and all that. But if you ever steal my lube again, I will find some nasty way to get even, I swear.”
“And will we be seeing you again?”
John doesn’t mean to put a damper on the general contentment in the room, but with their deals broken, and the leader of the leviathans killed, he’s not sure why Sam and Dean and Castiel would ever return to Baker Street again. It comes to him, suddenly, that for all that these three have saved him and Sherlock, saved them in so many different ways, they’re still more or less complete strangers. Hell, he doesn’t even know Sam and Dean’s last name, or why Castiel seems so sick, or how an angel even ended up riding shotgun with a couple of monster-hunting humans.
“Cas is gonna take you wherever you wanna go. Personally, I’d suggest Mycroft, as much as he seems like a pompous asshole, ’cause Cas and Sam and I can’t hang around England and stamp out all the leviathans for you.”
“Do you - with the leader dead, though. Do you think Sherlock and I are -”
“While you might not be as high on the to-do list, I wouldn’t say you’re in the clear. And now that you know that things really do go bump in the night, well -the leviathans are a particularly nasty version of that, and whatever you do with your lives for the next while, you’d better be damn well ready to switch from civilian to hunter whenever you need to.”
Dean’s frowning as he speaks, and, yeah, that does sound a little bit daunting - but considering what their lives had been before all of this, the idea of switching from civilian to soldier isn’t exactly anything new, even if there’s an added supernatural component now. And while John doesn’t much like the idea of glancing over his shoulder for nasty mouths full of giant teeth, he’s pretty sure that he and Sherlock can handle whatever comes in their direction, now, as long as they have Mycroft’s resources and Sherlock’s brain and Sam and Dean’s knowledge and lore.
“Yeah, well - our lives weren’t exactly safe before all of this. We solve crimes for a living, and spend a good chunk of our time chasing down criminals and dangerous serial killers.”
“Hadn’t pegged you two as cops.”
“I - no, we’re not. Sherlock’s a consulting detective - basically means the police come to him when they’re stuck. I fill the medical role, I guess. Checking out the corpses, things like that.”
“And that’s what you two do? Solve crimes just for the hell of it?”
“Still somehow seems saner than chasing down demons.”
John can’t stop the grin that curves across his lips, can’t stop the hint of warmth that sneaks into his voice - because without these three and their demon-hunting, he and Sherlock wouldn’t even be here, and, yeah, that’s really not something he wants to think about for too long - and when Dean gives him a small smile in return, John suddenly wants for this not to be the moment when they all part ways for good. Wants to find out the story behind these three, want to ask them how this became their lives, wants to get to know them all better - but then Dean’s clapping a hand against Castiel’s shoulder and moving back a step, his eyes sliding from John to fix on Sherlock.
“Your brother has my number. I can’t promise we’ll always be able to jump the ocean for you, but it’s worth a try.”
“Thank you.”
“No worries. And Sam’s already checking out something we got wind of a few towns over, but he said to say bye for him, so - yeah. Good luck, and all that. You two take care of each other, alright?”
Dean’s voice seems to soften ever so slightly, suddenly, as he glances between the two of them - and then Castiel has his hand on John’s shoulder, and the last thing John sees before the room disappears is the sight of Dean raising a hand in what looks like an awkward little wave. The room they materialize in seems to be some kind of bunker, the walls and floors both made out of concrete, and when Castiel starts to stumble as soon as they’re in the room, John reaches out to steady him, getting his hands under his elbows and doing the best he can to keep him upright.
“You okay?”
“Yes. I - yes, I’m alright. This is the address Mycroft provided. I assume he is here somewhere.”
“Probably planning some grand entrance.”
But Sherlock’s voice is lacking the vitriol it normally would have, and he’s watching Castiel, too, his expression soft and almost a little fond as John helps the angel to get himself steady again. As soon as Castiel straightens up and seems to set his shoulders against whatever invisible weight he seems to be carrying, John takes his hands back and steps away again, his shoulder brushing up against Sherlock’s as they stand there and stare at Castiel, who stares right back at them in that ridiculously intense way of his that John is starting to find rather endearing.
“So. Guess this is goodbye for now, then.”
“I suppose so. Dean says I’m not particularly skilled in the art of human farewells.”
He actually looks a little concerned about it, too, his face creased in a way that seems to suggest perplexity, and John has to fight down an unexpected wave of affection, suddenly trying to convince himself that it’s probably not proper etiquette to hug an angel, even if said angel has saved your life several times over.
“Yeah, well - I’m pretty sure saving our lives kinda trumps an awkward goodbye.”
“I had some help with that, though. Dean thinks that both of you would make excellent hunters.”
“Really?”
Castiel simply nods, still staring at him as though he can see right through him, and John doesn’t bother to fight the twitch of his lips, the slight flush that sneaks across his cheeks. Before he can find a response, though, Castiel is taking a step backwards from them, his eyes flicking across them both as he moves away.
“If you ever have need of us in the future, I - while I am not sure how much longer I will be able to fly, I will do my best to get here, even if that involves convincing Dean to get on a plane.”
There’s barely any emotion in the words - at least that John can hear - but there’s obviously nothing good about how much longer I will be able to fly, nothing good about the implications of that sentence - and he’s suddenly about to lose the fight to refrain from hugging this angel standing in front of them, his chest tightening and his throat clogging up around whatever response he might have had - and even though Sherlock thankfully still seems able to speak, his voice doesn’t sound much steadier than John’s probably would have been.
“I - while I do not understand your condition - for lack of a more precise word - if there is anything that John or I could do -”
“It is a long story. Perhaps, if we meet again, I might tell you.”
“I would like that.”
Castiel’s only response is to nod once again, silently, and John suddenly finds his voice again, wanting to get the words out before Castiel disappears, even if they come out disjointed and a little shaky around the edges.
“Thank you, Cas. Seriously - just, thank you. To all three of you. For everything.”
“I am simply glad we could help. I have seen Hell. Nobody deserves that fate.”
And with that parting comment - a sentence that feels rather like getting punched in the chest - Castiel is gone, nothing but a flutter of feathers to accompany his departure. For a long moment, all John can do is stare at the spot where Castiel had disappeared from, and he’s just turned to face Sherlock when there’s the sound of a door opening, and they both glance across the room to watch Mycroft sweep into the room, his umbrella tapping along beside him and his face pinched up in a way that John is pretty sure does not bode well.
“Ah, brother dear. So glad you could finally make it.”
“Mycroft. Managed to save the country yet?”
“All in good time. I suppose you two want to be part of this, now?”
“Depends on what, exactly, you’re doing here. Either way, Dean suggested talking to you before John and I decide whether or not we can go home, and I agreed, so - here we are.”
“Interesting.”
“What?”
“Oh, nothing terribly urgent.”
“Mycroft, honestly, if you actually want to start fighting already -”
“Just that I have never once, in our entire lives, heard you refer to anywhere as ‘home’.”
Mycroft’s haughty composure doesn’t slip for a second, the words coming out as snooty as ever, but the implications hang in the air between the three of them until Mycroft turns away, waving a beckoning hand over his shoulder as them as he walks back into the other room. Beside John, Sherlock has gone a rather endearing shade of pink, and he seems to be doing his best to glare holes into his brother, his lips pressed together and his eyes fixed firmly on Mycroft’s retreating back. John, for his part, is simply giving up on trying to fight a smile, something inside him swooping low and hot with pleasure as he reaches down to squeeze Sherlock’s fingers between his own, a quick glance confirming that Mycroft is still facing safely in the other direction.
“C’mon, Sherlock. We’ll get home, eventually. For now, how about we go see what crazy scheme your brother’s concocted to save the world, alright?”
He doesn’t bother to even attempt to keep the happiness out of his voice, because even though they’re stuck in some dark bunker, they’ve both been freed from the threat of Hell, and John’s apparently not the only one who thinks of Baker Street as the only home he’s ever known - and put all that together, and John is pretty sure he has every damn reason to be over the moon right now. The contentment in his voice seems to get through to Sherlock, too, who drags his gaze away from Mycroft and back to John’s face, before he drops his eyes down to where their hands are joined together - and when Sherlock smiles ever so slightly and curls their fingers even closer together, John feels the touch like Sherlock’s actually reached into his chest and squeezed, and jesus, this is actually insane. That somehow, miracle of all miracles, they’ve made it this far, that they’ve cheated death in more ways than John cares to count - and that now, amazingly, they have the chance to spend the rest of their lives discovering little moments like this, moments when everything feels right and wonderful and safe, possibly for the first time in his entire life.