Fic: We Only Part To Meet Again (2/5)
We Only Part To Meet Again - Part Two
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Warnings: Sexual situations.
Spoilers: The Reichenbach Fall.
Beta: The glorious
lady_t_220.
Summary: One year after Reichenbach, John is sent to Corsica on an errand for Mycroft. What he doesn't expect to find is a second chance to say all the things he never said.
Part One
****
“Goodbye, John.”
Before John can say anything, Sherlock is falling and John thinks he lets out a cry but he can’t be sure. He stumbles forward, heart thumping in his chest, only to be knocked over by a passing cyclist. Dazed and confused, he drags himself to his feet and rushes to the crowd that has gathered.
“I’m a doctor, let me come through. Let me come through, please. No, he’s my friend. He’s my friend. Please.”
He pushes and elbows his way to the front and then his legs go weak and someone is pulling him away just as he grabs hold of Sherlock’s wrist. There is blood, too much blood, and blue eyes staring out at nothing.
“Oh, Jesus, no.”
John starts awake, his chest heaving. Apparently even the knowledge that Sherlock is alive isn't enough to stop the nightmare that has tormented him for the last twelve months. He rolls out of the bed and creeps down the hallway, pausing at the open door of the main bedroom. There is no sign of Sherlock and for a moment John panics - until he remembers Sherlock's unpredictable sleeping habits.
He tiptoes down the stairs and into the kitchen and then spots Sherlock out on the veranda, dressed in threadbare pyjamas. He is smoking, which John supposes he shouldn't be so surprised about. The tip of the cigarette flares red as he takes a drag before blowing the smoke out into the darkness.
John joins Sherlock out on the veranda and looks out at the sea, letting the low susurrus of the waves calm him. He feels Sherlock's gaze tracking over him - no doubt reading the evidence of his nightmare in his rumpled pyjamas, red eyes and tense muscles - but the other man says nothing. He takes another drag of his cigarette. They stand there in silence as Sherlock gives a long, slow exhale and then stubs the cigarette out in a nearby ashtray. He returns to his previous position and his long hands wrap around the veranda’s banister, his fingers flexing. Sherlock clears his throat and John looks up expectantly, but Sherlock is still staring out into the darkness.
“There are things I wanted to say,” Sherlock finally murmurs.
“When? Earlier?”
“No,” Sherlock answers, his voice strained, “When I was saying goodbye.”
John doesn’t know if he can listen to this, not after the nightmare he just had, but there is something in Sherlock’s profile - in the way he won’t look at John - that stops him from speaking up.
“Of course, they listened to the call. During the inquest.”
“Yes.”
Sherlock hums in acknowledgement and for a moment John thinks that is all he is going to say.
“It was odd, trying to find the right words. Trying to make it believable.”
“It was believable, trust me,” John grinds out and Sherlock looks at him for the first time, eyes dark as they flick over him.
“John, I -”
“It’s fine.”
“Is it?” Sherlock asks, curious.
“Well... no. No, it’s not fine. It’s... I don’t know what it is. But the fact that you’ve actually admitted you were wrong, for once... that helps.”
“I wasn’t wrong. I did what I had to do in order to -”
"Sherlock, shut up," John pleads. "Just stick to you’re sorry, okay. And tell me what you wanted to say.”
Sherlock holds his gaze for a long moment and then with a soft smile he turns his gaze back to the beach. It is quiet for a while and John is about to prompt him again when Sherlock swallows, looking endearingly awkward, before he squares his shoulders and soldiers on.
“I would have told you that you, John Watson, are a good man. And that I don’t know what I did before you... And I don’t want to say goodbye.”
Sherlock’s voices breaks on the last words and he takes a shaky breath, his eyes trained on the darkness in front of him.
“And if I'd been braver I might have said that I love you... and that I’m not entirely sure how I’m going to survive without you.”
John’s world is tipped upside down for the second time in a day. He doesn’t know what those words mean to Sherlock, but they mean something and his head is spinning.
“Sherlock,” he says, taking Sherlock’s arm, “Sherlock, look at me.”
Sherlock turns to him, reluctantly, and he looks so confused, as if he's bracing himself for a rebuttal, that John doesn't need to ask.
"Sherlock," he says again, because he can, because Sherlock is alive and here and he's looking at John as if John might be about to crush him. John smiles and reaches up, traces his fingers down the scar at Sherlock's right temple. Sherlock watches him carefully for a few seconds and then he is crowding into John's personal space, his shaking hands cupping John's face as he presses his lips against John's.
"John," he whispers against John's mouth. It's a desperate, broken sound that makes John want to hold on tightly and never let go.
John twines his hand in Sherlock's hair, pressing back into the kiss. Their lips brush over and over until it's not enough, not now that John has the taste of Sherlock on his lips. He pushes forward, locks their mouths together even as he does his best to drag Sherlock down to a more convenient height. Sherlock lets out a low moan against his mouth and rounds his spine, fitting them together as best he can.
John kisses him hungrily, a year of desperation pouring out into the kiss, but then he has to force himself away; he has to see Sherlock’s face and know that this is real. Sherlock looks bewildered and utterly overwhelmed and John smiles, pressing his hand to Sherlock’s cheek. He draws Sherlock back into another kiss, slower but no less intense than before.
Months ago, John had spent several pointless hours imagining this very moment but he could never make it real enough, could never picture Sherlock like this: sensual, eager and nervous all at once. Sherlock presses close, his height overwhelming but somehow arousing at the same time, and he kisses John as if he might never get the chance again. They part momentarily, breathless, with their foreheads pressed together.
"I love you too," John whispers, "Of course I do. I thought I’d never get to tell you. And I missed you so -"
He cannot finish because Sherlock's mouth is on his again, desperate and insistent, and John can taste the salt of tears between them but he honestly can't tell if it's him crying, or Sherlock, or both of them.
“Sherlock,” he breathes into the kiss, “Sherlock.”
“Come to bed with me,” Sherlock murmurs as he pulls away, breathing the words against John’s temple. “Come to bed. We won’t do anything you don’t want, but I- I need you there, John. Please.”
John has no intention of refusing and he nods, pressing into the caress at his temple. Sherlock stays there for several moments, and then finally tears himself away, shining eyes looking down at John.
****
They don't make it to the bed. They get as far as the doorway before Sherlock grabs John again, as if he can't bear to wait five seconds longer. He pins John against the doorjamb, hands framing his face as he kisses him softly, over and over again. He whispers John’s name in between kisses and all John can do is hold on as he is consumed with desire and affection and desperation. His hands grip Sherlock’s hips tightly, keeping him close.
“I can’t believe you’re really here,” Sherlock murmurs against John’s jaw as his kisses meander slowly downwards to John’s neck.
“That should be my line,” John jokes weakly. His hands clench even tighter on Sherlock’s hips when Sherlock presses an open-mouthed kiss against the base of his neck. He allows this for a few moments but then draws Sherlock’s mouth back to his own.
John likes to think of himself as an experienced man. He’s almost forty, after all, and he’s had a fair number of sexual partners although he’s never - not once - been attracted to another man. Strangely, it is not this which makes him suddenly nervous, or makes him hesitate where on any other occasion he would have tackled his partner to the bed by now. He thinks it might be the knowledge that he never thought he would have this chance with Sherlock, even before he believed Sherlock to be dead and gone forever. Sherlock has always been aloof, except on a very few memorable occasions, and to see him like this, to know that he wants John so desperately, is overwhelming.
“Stop thinking,” Sherlock scolds, breaking the kiss and leaning his forehead against John’s.
It is such a Sherlock thing to say that John smiles, leaning into Sherlock's body.
"You said something about a bed?" John whispers and Sherlock instantly tears himself away and moves further into the room. He doesn't even look to see if John is following. He knows John will follow him anywhere.
John's nervousness returns once they're actually on the bed but he has no time to hesitate because Sherlock is pressing close and kissing him again. In the face of Sherlock's obvious desire, John cannot find it in himself to keep second-guessing, not with the little time they have together. He wraps his arms around Sherlock, one hand on his nape, the other at the base of his spine and loses himself in the kiss. Sherlock gives a choked moan and pushes even closer, clinging onto John’s pyjama top.
“John,” he breathes when they break for air, pressing his cheek to John’s as if he can’t bear the slightest separation. “John.”
For his part, John is struggling to maintain any kind of composure. He has missed his friend so much, suffered so much in his absence that he wants to bury himself inside Sherlock’s skin. He wants to get close enough to feel his heart beating, feel his blood pulsing. He’s breathing heavily against Sherlock’s neck as he twines his fingers in the fabric of Sherlock’s top for a moment before tugging it out of the way and laying his fingers on the warm skin of Sherlock’s back. Sherlock gasps and then they are kissing again, open mouths coming together in desperation. There is nothing gentle about the way they cling to each other now, fingernails digging into skin and fabric.
“I missed you so much,” John groans against Sherlock’s mouth, urging him closer, closer still.
“John.” Sherlock’s reply is almost a whine now and he wraps a leg around John’s, forcing their hips together.
Some distant part of John registers their mutual arousal but it is soon forgotten in a fog of closer, closer, closer. He has managed to get Sherlock’s top up around his chest and finally succeeds in getting it off, baring even more of Sherlock’s skin to his eager hands. He runs one hand down the length of Sherlock’s spine and Sherlock arches into it, breaking their kiss with a desperate moan. With a bit of shifting, John coaxes Sherlock to settle over him and lets himself wallow in the feeling of being covered, surrounded, by Sherlock. He opens his eyes to find Sherlock looking down at him with a heartbroken expression.
“I didn’t know if I’d ever see you again,” Sherlock whispers.
John doesn't know what to say in reply and his throat feels constricted, dry. He can feel the prickle of tears at his eyelids again and blinks them away quickly. Before he can say anything, Sherlock lowers himself to his forearms and leans in close, pressing his head to John's. John closes his eyes again and wraps his hands around the back of Sherlock's neck, holding him close.
They lay there, entwined, for several long moments. Every point of contact - heads, chests, hips, knees - feels like a revelation. They are breathing into each other, hearts beating in time, and this simple contact feels like one of the most intimate things John has ever done.
"I've thought about you constantly over the last year," Sherlock murmurs, "I've never wanted anyone the way I want you."
Every confession that falls from Sherlock's lips makes John alternately angry, then sad. They make him yearn for a way through this mess. All of Sherlock's words, all of his actions, speak of a need for forgiveness that John doubts he can provide yet. The tightness in his chest - fear, anger, anxiety, grief - is not something that can be assuaged with a couple of late-night confessions. He knows this, but it doesn't stop him from holding Sherlock to him as tightly as possible. It doesn't make him pull away when Sherlock kisses him again.
Desperation finally claws its way to the surface and he forces Sherlock's mouth open wide, plunders it with his tongue as he twines his fingers in Sherlock's wild hair. He is overcome with the need to leave a mark, something tangible that will still be there when he wakes in the morning; something that proves he is not dreaming. His teeth scrape Sherlock's already swollen lips with intent and Sherlock hums against him, presses down until all John can focus on is the heat between their bodies.
John's self-control snaps and in the space of a breath, Sherlock is on his back and John is rocking against him. He still has his hands twisted in Sherlock's curls and he presses his mouth to Sherlock's neck, teeth brushing the delicate skin.
"If you ever do that to me again," John growls, rocking harder against the man below him, "If you ever leave me like that again, I will hunt you down."
Sherlock gasps, head thrown back under John's assault, and his hands scrabble to get a grip on John's waist.
"You can't - you can't break me like that again, Sherlock. Do you hear me?" John grinds out, pressing his face into the side of Sherlock's neck.
"Yes. Yes, John."
Sherlock is pulling them together as frantically as John is pushing down now and he wraps his legs around John's hips as John captures his mouth again. There is nothing left now but need, and somehow they manage to coordinate well enough to create the perfect friction, even through their remaining clothes. All it takes is a minute, maybe two, and John is falling over the edge, groaning into Sherlock's mouth. He is still struggling for breath when Sherlock follows a few seconds later with a gasp of John's name.
****
Part Three