Fic: You've Begun To Feel Like Home (9/9)

[yalublyutebya]

Rating: Mature
Pairings: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Warnings: mentions of child abuse, drug abuse, character death(s), slash, sexuality issues, religious issues, angst, unrequited love. General warning: this features the Church quite heavily so if you have a problem with that for whatever reason, you might want to give this one a miss.
Spoilers: General spoilers for both seasons
Beta:



lady_t_220

Summary: Sherlock Holmes is everything Father John Watson should probably disapprove of. He's an atheist, a rationalist, an addict, and gay. But none of those things is enough to stop him from being the most fascinating person John's ever met.


Part Nine: What Wondrous Love Is This

Sherlock's eyes remained fixed on John's neck, whilst John's gaze continued to flick somewhat nervously back and forth between Sherlock and Lestrade. Nobody said anything for a long time until Lestrade cleared his throat and spoke up.

"What happened to the dog collar?" the Inspector asked with all the bluntness of a lifelong policeman, gesturing vaguely towards his own neck.

John blinked and forced his gaze away from Sherlock to Lestrade.

"I, uh... I don't need it anymore."

“Oh?”

“Yeah. I’m... I’m leaving the priesthood," John said, risking a quick glance at Sherlock.

Sherlock’s eyes widened just a fraction, just enough for John to notice, before he glanced at Lestrade and quickly reined himself in again.

“Huh,” Lestrade said. “I didn’t think you were allowed.”

“They can’t really stop you,” John said with a smile.

“No, ‘spose not.”

Lestrade shoved his hands in his pockets and cleared his throat again as an awkward silence descended.

“Well, I’d best be off,” Lestrade said. He turned to Sherlock, who said nothing, then gave a nod in John’s direction. “Nice to see you again, Father.”

John didn't bother pointing out that it wasn't necessary to address him by that title anymore.

“You too,” he answered, rising to his feet.

“Bring that file back as soon as you can,” Lestrade told Sherlock, receiving only a distracted hand-wave in reply.

John watched as Lestrade rolled his eyes and then, finally, left them alone. The flat was quiet as they both listened to the sound of Lestrade’s retreating footsteps, and then the door shutting downstairs. John turned his attention back to Sherlock, only to find the other man staring at him in astonishment.

“You’re leaving the priesthood?”

The fact that Sherlock was repeating something was a pretty clear indication of his state of mind.

“Yes,” John said, unable to hold back a small smile.

“Why?” Sherlock countered.

“I’d hoped that was pretty obvious,” John murmured.

Sherlock seemed to contemplate that for a moment, shucking off his suit jacket and sinking slowly to the sofa, before raising his eyes to John’s.

“The Church is your life. It's everything to you. I don’t understand.”

John moved forward to perch on the coffee table opposite Sherlock, leaving less than a foot of space between them.

“Sherlock,” he said softly. “I love you. I’m in love with you. Whatever happens, I can’t make myself accept that that’s a sin. If I continued to be a priest, I’d have to denounce these feelings and repent, and I’m not sure I can.”

Sherlock was agonisingly silent, but he held John's gaze, and John could see the emotions he was holding back - almost as if he was afraid to believe what he was hearing.

"How far along are you in the process of leaving?" Sherlock asked in a tight voice.

"Far enough that I'd really like to kiss you right now," John said quickly, bravado propelling him forward, onto the sofa next to Sherlock.

Sherlock looked a little bewildered and, when John reached out to press a hand to his cheek, his eyelids fluttered helplessly and he swallowed hard.

“Can I kiss you?” John whispered, eyes fixed on his plump lips.

Sherlock gave a tiny nod of permission and John smiled, closing the distance between them and pressing his lips to Sherlock’s.

The first touch was incredibly gentle, a simple slow brush of lips with no urgency behind it. Sherlock's hands came to rest tentatively on John's shoulders and John smiled against his mouth, leaning in to the kiss. The memory of the pool - that he had viciously suppressed until now - came flooding back, mingling with the present and overwhelming him with the feel of Sherlock; the warmth of his breath, the softness of his lips, the gentle pressure of his hands.

They parted just as slowly as they had come together and John finally saw a smile spreading across Sherlock's face. It faded slightly a moment later when Sherlock spoke up again.

"I thought I'd lost you."

"Then you're an idiot," John said playfully, taking Sherlock’s hand in his and twining their fingers together. It was such a simple act, but it made John flush with swelling warmth.

"I am," Sherlock agreed, squeezing John's hand tightly. "I... I can't believe you're giving up everything, just for me."

"There's no 'just' about it. I want to be with you, Sherlock. I'm only sorry it took me so long to realise it."

This time, Sherlock leaned in and kissed him, and John reached out to pull him close. He buried his free hand in those dark curls and opened his mouth under Sherlock's. Sherlock moaned and kissed him harder, releasing his grip on John’s hand to move his hands to either side of his neck, angling him exactly where he wanted him. John clung to Sherlock tightly, letting him take the lead, tilting his head and welcoming the slide of Sherlock's tongue over his. John groaned and fisted his hands in Sherlock's shirt, filled with a hungry passion he hadn’t experienced in a long time.

A moment later, Sherlock pulled away and buried his face in the side of John's neck.

"Sorry," Sherlock mumbled.

"Why are you apologising?" John asked breathily, leaning into the brush of Sherlock's lips over his neck.

"I don't want to rush you into anything. I know you haven't been...intimate with anyone for a long time."

"That is generally the definition of celibate," John agreed, rubbing his hands up and down Sherlock's sides, heady with the power - the permission - to touch.

"You might as well be a virgin," Sherlock commented, his tongue tracing over John's jaw and drawing a gasp from him.

"I don't think virginity is something that grows back," John said, arching into Sherlock's caress.

He appreciated the sentiment - it had been a long time - but all the same he wanted nothing more than to drown himself in Sherlock. They had both been so miserable, thinking that they could never have this, and it seemed important to connect on this basic level as a first step towards healing some of the hurt.

"Sherlock," he murmured, moving to brush his lips over the other man's. "I've spent the last two weeks imagining what it would be like to be with you. Now, I'd quite like to actually live it."

Before Sherlock could have a chance to protest any more, John pressed their mouths together, sliding his hand round to Sherlock's nape and holding him close. He wanted to learn everything about this man; wanted to find out all the hundred tiny things only a lover could know - what made him sigh, what made him blush, what made him weak at the knees. He was admittedly a little lightheaded at the thought of all the possibilities.

Sherlock pulled away, looking down at John with pupils blown wide with desire. John reached up and smoothed Sherlock's hair off his forehead, smiling warmly at the sight of his flushed face.

"I love you," Sherlock whispered, his fingers tracing John's lips.

"I love you, too," John answered, drawing him down into another kiss.

****

In almost twenty years - nineteen years and about six months, in fact - the only touches John had had were handshakes and friendly pats to the arm and shoulder. Nothing like this. Nothing like the gentle scrape of nails on the back of his neck, or the warm slide of a tongue against his lips. The simple feeling of being so close to someone - mouth to mouth, chest to chest - was exhilarating, after so long without. It was like a whirlwind of sensation, of feelings, that John had almost forgotten.

Sherlock broke the kiss and pressed his forehead to John’s, his hand burning hot against John’s side.

“Will you stay?” Sherlock asked meaningfully, his eyes boring into John’s.

“Yes,” John said. “God, yes.”

Sherlock drew away and rose slowly to his feet, holding his hand out to John. John’s eyes flicked to his fingers, then back to his face, and he reached up and placed his hand in Sherlock’s, letting the taller man pull him to his feet. Sherlock gave him a look filled with heat and quickly turned, tugging John along with him as he made his way to the bedroom.

Sherlock released John’s hand once they had crossed the threshold and came to a stop by the bed, hovering with an anxious look on his face. John experienced his own sudden rush of nervousness, but he quickly pushed past it, crossing to Sherlock and pulling him down into a kiss. John wound his arms around Sherlock’s waist and ran his hands sensuously up the line of his back. Sherlock made a stifled noise against his mouth and his hands grasped at John’s shirt, trying to pull him even closer. They stumbled, just a bit, and John’s legs hit the side of the bed.

John pulled away, panting, and looked up at Sherlock. He looked a little overcome himself, his chest heaving, his skin flushed pink. John smiled up at him and moved to sit on the edge of the bed, watching as Sherlock’s eyes went impossibly darker. John took Sherlock’s hand in his and gave a little tug, coaxing him to sit.

“Been a long time since I’ve enjoyed the pleasure of a double bed,” John joked quietly.

Sherlock looked between John and the bed and then, before John could quite keep up, he was being pushed onto his back, Sherlock looming over him.

"John," Sherlock said in a low murmur. "I want to touch you. Will you let me touch you?"“

John nodded and wrapped his arms around the other man, drawing him close and arching into the contact as Sherlock pressed his open mouth against John’s pulse-point. One large warm hand smoothed down John’s front until it reached his waistband, and then tugged his shirt out of his trousers, sliding underneath to press against his skin. The first touch was electrifying, drawing a helpless gasp and a sudden, desperate need for more. John slid his own hand down Sherlock’s back and struggled with his shirt until he could get his hand underneath and rest it at the base of his spine. He felt Sherlock’s smile against his throat and closed his eyes, savouring the sensation of Sherlock’s smooth skin under his hand and, simultaneously, the almost ticklish dance of Sherlock’s fingers over his stomach.

Sherlock’s mouth found his again and John moaned, burying his free hand in Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock’s palm worked its way up to his chest, leaving gooseflesh in its trail. Long fingers traced the edge of John’s ribs and then slid up over his pectoral, brushing his nipple and causing him to take a sharp breath. It was almost too much to bear, a sensual flood that affected all his senses.

“Are you okay?” Sherlock asked, pulling away.

“I’m okay.”

“You’re shaking.”

John hadn’t even noticed but he was in fact trembling - his body’s unconscious response to the deluge of sensation. He let out a short laugh, but when Sherlock went to pull his hand away, he covered it with his own.

“I’m fine. Really.”

Sherlock studied him for a long moment, seeming unsure.

“Get your shirt off,” John said firmly. “I want to touch you properly.”

Sherlock’s eyes went wide with surprise, but he instantly leaned back on his elbow, nimble fingers going to his shirt buttons. He stripped the garment off in no time, throwing it off to the side of the bed before settling beside John, propped up on his arm. John rolled onto his side, mirroring Sherlock’s position, and studied him for a few beats, before reaching out and skimming the backs of his fingers down the centre of Sherlock’s chest.

“You’ve always been so beautiful,” John murmured, following his hand with his eyes as he curved it over the dip of Sherlock’s waist.

“John,” Sherlock said with feeling, leaning in and pressing his mouth to John’s.

John kissed him back hungrily, sliding his tongue against Sherlock’s, as Sherlock’s fingers worked at the buttons of John’s shirt. Somehow they managed to get the shirt off, discarding it somewhere along with Sherlock’s, and as soon as John’s skin was bared Sherlock pressed in close, dropping his head to press his mouth to John’s sternum. John let out a moan and sank back on the bed, twining his fingers in Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock mouthed over his collarbone and trailed down to his ribs, his tongue a ticklish pressure on the sensitive skin there. John’s breath hitched and he pressed as close as he could.

The lean, hot length of Sherlock’s body was pressed up against him, the insistent nudge of his erection against John’s thigh leaving him in no doubt as to how much Sherlock wanted this - wanted him. The thought flooded John with heat, the intensity of his own desire banishing any nerves that had lingered tenaciously in the pit of his stomach. God help him, he wanted this man with every fibre of his being.

The hesitant brush of Sherlock’s hand on John’s waistband jolted John out of his thoughts and he pulled away, staring up into Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock searched his face, as if he was still looking for a sign that John needed to stop. John covered Sherlock’s hand with his own and dragged it down to press over his trouser-covered erection, determined to dispel any doubts the other man still had.

The first touch of Sherlock’s hand - even through his clothes - caused John to let out a choked moan and Sherlock finally gave a slightly sly smile, grinding the heel of his hand against John’s erection. John’s hands flew to the other man’s shoulders, holding on tightly as his eyes rolled back into his head at the breathtaking sensation.

“Clothes. Off. Now,” he got out, trying hard to keep breathing through the maddening pressure of Sherlock’s hand.

Sherlock took that as his cue to finish stripping John and John struggled to return the favour, eventually giving up as Sherlock pushed his hands away and finished the job himself.

They finally settled under the covers, skin to skin, and John couldn’t hold back anymore, dragging Sherlock towards him. He smoothed his hands down Sherlock’s back until he could get a good handful of his buttocks, and brought them together hard. Sherlock gasped but then pushed back, pressing John into the mattress and climbing over him, pressing them flush from head to toe. John bucked against him, heady with the feeling of Sherlock’s body pressed the length of his, and caught Sherlock’s mouth in a hungry kiss.

Sherlock managed to balance himself on one arm and reached between them, wrapping one large hand around both their erections and pressing them together. John gasped and rocked into Sherlock’s hand, blind instinct leading him as he lost himself in the feel of so much bare skin. John never wanted this moment to end, wanted to draw it out into eternity, but Sherlock’s tight grip and the slide of his hips and the way his mouth parted helplessly against John’s all combined to drive John out of his mind. His skin felt like it was on fire, and he couldn’t seem to breathe properly, but he couldn’t care less. Sherlock choked out a moan and John was helpless to do anything but follow him into oblivion.

****

John woke to the unfamiliar warmth of another body wrapped around his. Dawn had broken outside and the faintest light peeked through the curtains, revealing the sleeping figure next to him. Sherlock was sprawled half on his front, one heavy arm splayed over John’s stomach and his head resting on John’s arm. He stirred almost as soon as John looked at him and pale eyes fixed on John for a long moment before Sherlock shifted even closer, tucking his head against John’s shoulder. John smoothed a hand down the length of Sherlock’s back, pressing a kiss to his hairline as he hummed contentedly.

Sherlock seemed to tense unexpectedly at the gesture and when he spoke up his voice was muffled against John’s skin.

"I don't deserve this...you.”

John pulled back with a start, and Sherlock turned his face up reluctantly.

"Don't say that," John said fiercely, cupping Sherlock's face in his hands. "You do."

"You're too good for me."

"No. No, I'm not," John said. "You've never seen how amazing you can be. I have. And if I do nothing else with my life, I'm going to make you realise just how incredible you are."

"John," Sherlock’s voice was thick with emotion as he pressed his hand over John's.

John leaned in and kissed him hard, determined to drive those thoughts out of his head. Sherlock pressed against him and when John eventually drew back, Sherlock hooked a leg over his, apparently determined to get as close as possible.

"You're brilliant," John said, his mouth pressed to Sherlock’s hair. "And beautiful. And I love you so much."

He brushed his hand over Sherlock's arm where it rested over his stomach once more and twined their fingers together.

"I love you, John," Sherlock said quietly, his mouth brushing against John’s shoulder. "I think I always have."

John smiled and hugged Sherlock closer, lazily stroking his back. They lay there for some time, wrapped up in each other’s arms, breathing in time.

The quiet was pierced by the sound of Sherlock's phone beeping. Sherlock pressed a parting kiss to John's skin and rolled over with a groan, leaning over the edge of the bed to retrieve his trousers. John couldn't help but admire the view - the long line of his back, the curve of his behind.

Sherlock rolled onto the empty stretch of mattress next to John, fingers flying over the buttons of the phone.

"It's Lestrade," he said, with excitement in his voice. "There's been another murder in the case I'm working on."

He paused and turned his head towards John.

"Do you want to come?" he asked, his eyes lighting up.

"To a crime scene?"

"Of course."

John considered it for a moment and then smiled.

"Alright then."

Sherlock grinned and threw himself out of bed, grabbing John's clothes from the pile on the floor and throwing them at him.

"Get dressed. There's no time to lose."

John laughed but moved to get dressed as quickly as possible.

"Won't Lestrade mind?" John asked as he was tucking his shirt in.

"Oh, who cares about Lestrade?" Sherlock answered with a dismissive wave, rushing towards the door. John hurried after him, caught up in the flurry of excitement.

Sherlock came to an abrupt stop in the bedroom doorway and John almost collided with him. Sherlock spun round, ducked his head down and pressed a short hard kiss to John's lips. A moment later, he was moving into the kitchen and heading for the door.

"Come on, John," he called, smiling back over his shoulder. "The game is on!"

THE END

****
Notes: I am genuinely sad that this is over. I've been absolutely floored by the response this story has received, so thank you to every single one of you for reading. I won't rule out any more glimpses into this universe, because I adore them, so keep your eyes out in future.

Once again, I have to give thanks to my beta, lady_t_220. She is the Church expert in this partnership and thanks to her, this story was brought to life. I am extremely grateful for her help, guidance, encouragement and diligence.

This story also owes much of its provenance to the beautiful 'Thorn Birds' by Colleen McCullough. I urge you all to read it, or watch the mini-series. Although not if you want your heart to remain intact...

**Now read the 'epilogue', Where Hearts Are Sure**