Archive of Our Own

Everything was a lie.

The simple gold wedding band sat dull in the dim light of the flat. The only illumination flickered from the fireplace behind him. Subdued flames did little to make the polished metal shine. The light instead cast long shadows across the room. The gold ring sat in silence on the scuffed coffee table. It was unmoved by the horror it represented.

Lies. He was surrounded by lies. The wedding band and the promise it represented. Lies. The woman attached to it. Lies. The man she shot. Lies. So many endless lies and manipulations. From her. From him. From everyone around him, it seemed.

Everything was supposed to be normal. She was supposed to be normal. Sherlock was supposed to be dead. This period in his life was supposed to be over. Two years. Two fucking years. How could he do that to him? How could he… expect it not to matter? Did it not matter? Did it not matter to him? Two years! Sherlock bloody Holmes could lie to anyone. Everyone. Manipulation was how he got what he wanted. Manipulation of anyone. Everyone. Even John. Always John.

John closed his eyes as he roughly scrubbed hands through his hair, struggling to calm his swirling thoughts. He could feel Sherlock's gaze on him. The man was only back from hospital, for the second time, after sorting out his internal bleeding. He should be lying down. He had been lying down but evidently he didn't find it wise to leave John alone. Instead, he'd reappeared and stood mute and watchful, lurking near the entrance to the kitchen.

John tugged hard at the back of his hair as he meekly muttered to himself, "It isn't fair. It isn't fucking fair."

He chose this. Sherlock said he chose this. It was his fault. It was always his fucking fault. No one else was ever to blame. No one. Not Mary. Not Sherlock. It was his fault she was a killer. It was his fault. It was his fault that Sherlock was a liar. It was his fault. His fault for Sherlock's death. His fault for Sherlock's time away.

His fault. His fault. His fault.

John gave a strangled sob but then quickly released his hair and violently kicked the coffee table. It was solid wood. It skidded a length along the worn carpet but then came to a stop upright against the sofa. The ring still sat more or less unmoved on its surface. "It isn't fair!!" he shouted at the top of his lungs, the neighbours and Mrs. Hudson be damned. He pointedly ignored Sherlock's gaze from behind him, instead gasping for increasingly more panicked breaths as he stared at the unmoved ring.

His fault.

“John,” Sherlock spoke calmly but John flinched at the sound of his voice. That voice. He closed his eyes as if it would block out any further words from that baritone. He refused to respond.

There was a pause, the room quiet but for the crackling fireplace, before he heard Sherlock slowly step forward. John's eyes flashed back open to toss the bastard a look. He wasn't interested in sympathy.

Sherlock had both hands in his dressing gown pockets. He came to a stop behind and to the right of John as he stood in the middle of the room. Sherlock's eyes were imploring yet laced with uncertainty. He didn't speak but John could read the plea to calm himself down.

His fault.

He ought to be able to deal with this. He ought to be able to roll with the punches. John chose this. Why did he do this to himself?

His anger flared at the compassion written on Sherlock's features. Was he not entitled to shouting his pain?! He turned to sneer up at the taller man, voice tight and breathless, "I have the right to be upset by all this, Sherlock. I have the right!"

Silence.

The large, compassionate eyes remained but Sherlock didn't respond. Not with words. Only with those big, beautiful eyes pleading... pleading for something...

It was too much. It was too much to see emotions flashing across Sherlock's features but not be able to trust his own reactions. Was it all more manipulation? Did he mean those pleading looks? What was real? Why couldn't the bastard just scoff at him and call him dull and leave him to fume on his own. It was so much easier. Before. Before when Sherlock didn't look at him like he was right now. Why didn't he look at him like this two years ago? He would have…

John broke the gaze and growled his frustrations. Too late. Too fucking late. "Fuck!"

Sherlock's gaze dropped to his feet at the shouted profanity. A meek glint of light off the ring snapped John's gaze back to the table.

Lies. All of it. Lies everywhere.

In one smooth motion he upended the coffee table, finally sending the wedding band flying to some unknown corner of the room, books and papers crushed as the solid wood slammed satisfactorily against the floor. The tremor of the floorboards and the resounding thud were pleasing. He stood staring down at the mess, panting as his breath still came in stressed gasps.

“I’m sorry John,” Sherlock spoke in the softest tone. He had apologised countless times since his return, and every time sounded as honest as the last. It stung to hear the honesty and not be sure he could believe it.

John spun on his heels and turned his anger and frustration and hurt on the man standing resolutely beside him. His words came out clipped and venomous. "Are you?! Are you really? Do you really fucking understand? Does the great Sherlock Holmes have a bit of fucking empathy for once?" He narrowed his eyes on Sherlock and growled, "I don't believe you."

Sherlock blinked at the words, narrowing his own eyes on John for a moment, as if trying to recognise the man spewing all that anger at him. “Of course I am,” Sherlock spoke, his voice soft, his gaze flickering with obvious hurt at John's words. "Of course I am truly sorry."

There was a glimmer of belief in John's gaze but then he pushed it aside. Lies. It was always lies. "Fuck off with that. It might have worked on Janine but you're just telling me what I want to hear, aren't you?" He shook his head and glanced away from Sherlock, stepping past him dismissively as he moved to his chair. "You did get better at manipulating everyone over those two years, I'll give you that." He sat and pointedly looked anywhere but at Sherlock.

He could still feel Sherlock’s eyes following him, wide like saucers at the dismissal of everything he said as lies. “John,” he started, opening his mouth to say more, but then going silent once again.

How could the man wrap so much emotion into his words, now that he was back? His name, merely his name on Sherlock's lips, and yet it spoke of so much more, so much unsaid.

John's gaze finally slid to Sherlock standing as he'd left him, planted in the middle of the room, with quite real tears welling up in his eyes.

“I don’t want to lose you,” Sherlock whispered, daring to take a step closer to John’s chair.

Of all the possible replies, John was not prepared for the honest plea. He blinked. As mad as he was, as much as he lashed out, as much as he needed to vent, he hadn't seriously considered being done with Sherlock, truthfully he could never ever be done with Sherlock, and yet the other man clearly seemed to think John was on the verge of walking away from it all. The cynical side of him sneered that Sherlock was fully capable of crying on command but the plea and the tone and the look of devastation tore at him. The anger slid from his shoulders.

"Oh don't be an idiot," he scoffed in what was still a pained but teasing tone. "I could never… not ever... Sherlock, sit down, before you collapse. You should be in bloody bed."

“I’m fine.” Sherlock took the long stride to John’s chair, kneeling beside it. John's eyes widened but it didn't stop Sherlock from taking one of John’s hands, covering it with his own. “John… what I’ve done, what I’ve put you through… I have never done a single one simply to hurt you. I’ve only ever wanted to protect you. Don’t you see?” He clung to John’s hand, meeting his gaze head-on, his tears still threatening to fall. There was something different. Something all the more honest in Sherlock's eyes. He meant those words. He meant them.

Something in John gave. He breathed softly, Sherlock's stark honesty rubbing off on him, "Protect me? Is that… is that why you were gone? Sherlock, one little measure of hope… that's all I would have needed."

“I couldn’t…” Sherlock nearly too firmly shook his head. “Any type of contact would have put you in danger until I took down Moriarty’s network completely. Do you believe it was easy for me?” He didn’t release John’s hand, the tears in his eyes sliding free when he finally blinked. “It was naïve of me to believe nothing would have changed. That everything would be the same when I returned.”

John sat staring a long moment at the man still kneeling in front of him. He'd never before seen Sherlock so… desperate. The tears felt real. They were an after thought. They didn't fall until Sherlock blinked. They weren't for show. If they were for show, he'd be crying buckets. They were small and heartbreaking. A tiny, locked away part of him lamented that the first real tears he saw from Sherlock were over himself.

More of the wall he'd built over those two long years crumbled. John turned his hand in Sherlock's grip to press his palm to Sherlock's, brushing his thumb lightly along the man's inner wrist. "I had imagined," John started gently, "that you were focused on The Work. That you hadn't thought of me. That that was why you never contacted me. Until you needed me. Here. In London. That maybe… maybe I didn't matter." He released a breath, and before Sherlock could counter the comments, he reached with his free hand to wipe at Sherlock's tear streaked cheeks. "I know that's wrong, but I… Sherlock, I nearly didn't make it those two years without you." His own eyes flashed with memories of dark, drunken nights blurring together into oblivion. "Have you any idea…"

“All I ever thought of was you,” Sherlock admitted. “All I have ever done since the day I left has been for you, John. And I’m sorry for any pain I’ve caused…” His eyes travelled down to their hands together, shifting the position of their hands and sliding his fingers between John’s, threading them together in a bold move. John's heart skipped but the move was nothing compared to the next words on Sherlock's lips. “I don’t know what I would have done if… you were not here to return to.”

Threaded fingers tightened their hold on Sherlock as John soothed, "But I did make it. I never did… pull that trigger." He alluded to the suicidal thoughts but brushed them aside, for both their sakes. "I'm only sorry it hardened me, but I had… Sherlock I didn't know you were coming back. I thought… and then all that grief and sorrow was for nothing. You. Here. Again. I can't…" The last of his walls fell to the wayside as John's own emotions spiked and his voice cracked. "Promise me. Promise me, even if it puts me in danger, that you will never ever again do such a thing to me."

Sherlock’s eyes were full of compassion at John’s confession. He wasn’t quite the same since his return. Emotions bubbled easily to the surface. He was more open. The empathy in those shining, indescribable eyes… he never thought he'd see such depth in Sherlock's gaze. The words were soft but firm when they came. “I promise.”

He believed him. God help him, he believed him. Even though Sherlock would apparently do anything to protect him, he promised to bring John with him if leaving again was necessary. John pursed his lips and nodded, looking away a moment, struggling to hold back his own emotions. He would not lose Sherlock again. He would not be lied to again. Not like that. He moved his free hand to cover the back of Sherlock's still clinging to him. He took a steadying, deep breath through his nose and met the other man's nearly desperate gaze. "I believe you, and I…" He shook his head, no words feeling right. There were too many questions and too many promises and too many declarations aching to come out of him. He took in those beseeching eyes and finally gasped, "Why did you never look at me like this two years ago?"

Sherlock studied John’s eyes a moment before gently wondering, “Isn’t it obvious?”

John merely grunted in reply, giving a shake of his head.

Sherlock shifted on the floor, sitting back on his heels but not sliding his hand away from John’s. “The hardest part of those two years was being away from you. Knowing I couldn’t see you, I couldn’t talk to you and I couldn’t attempt to do so without putting you in danger. You kept me going and I didn’t realise how much I needed you until then. Not as a colleague, not as a partner, but as something else, something more. Something I wasn’t able to grasp until then. I had a glimmer of hope that upon my return things would be different. I didn’t realise it would be too late.”

John tilted his head, mouth slightly ajar, at the blunt answer. He supposed he'd expected something… else. He'd spent so long thinking it would never happen and then that it could never happen. Sherlock… had spent two years coming to terms with the idea of… more?

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I had to… let go. It took me nearly two years, two whole years, to get over the idea that maybe… maybe if I hadn't been so worried to break this… if I had tried to… Then maybe you wouldn't be dead. I had to let go of more than just my colleague or friend or best mate. I had to let go of the unrealised idea of you and me. It hurt beyond belief." John took a deep, steadying breath. He was never good at this but at least the words flowed, even if they were halting and strained. "Mary was different but well now we fucking know why, don't we. I don't… I can't… There is no way to forgive her, Sherlock. She shot you. I don't care what sort of chivalrous side of yours wants to claim she didn't mean to kill you. Yes a headshot would have been cleaner but if she really truly gave a shit about me, she would have taken your help, she would have shot you in the leg, or she would have simply fucking ran. She didn't. She shot you. In the bloody chest. You died. There is no forgiving anyone. Ever. Who would harm you, who would kill you. Hm? No forgiving someone who would do either knowing full well what you mean to me."

Sherlock looked down at his words. When he spoke it was low and quiet. “She saw an opportunity and she took it. She knows what you mean to me, the single most important person to me,” he met John’s gaze again. “It’s always been you, John. You kept me alive through those two years I spent running. The thought of perhaps seeing you again one day. You kept me alive when I was shot, the thought of leaving you again, the thought of not being able to protect you from her, from anyone. You are what keeps me going.”

It was all almost too much and too real and too close to what he'd always wanted to hear, to what he thought he could never hear. John released a breath and the tease came out of it's own accord, in a small way hoping to break the intensity of the moment. "I keep you right. As you said at my own bloody wedding. Too bad my first wedding was to the wrong person sat at my side that day."

The corner of John's lips curved into a smile. This was ridiculous. Yet he couldn't say no to Sherlock. He could never say no. Not ever. It was a relief to release the panic and the pain and wrap his thoughts around the promises and the tender looks. He could not help but believe him.

He took in Sherlock still crouched before him. "You really ought to be in bed, you know. I'm sorry to have kept you up." He gently rubbed against the back of Sherlock's hand. His own just barely covered the expanse. The large, lanky bastard.

Right.

"Come on. Up." He shifted and stood, careful to keep Sherlock's hand in his own, and pulled the man upright with a gentle tug. Sherlock resisted only a moment before he allowed John to guide them back through the kitchen and into the bedroom. There was only a moment's hesitation as John released Sherlock's hand to pull back the covers. Sherlock was a bit like a lost puppy without the lead. He shifted worriedly on his feet, frowning at the bed.

"Do I look like I'm going anywhere?" John teased the man as he toed off his shoes and pulled his jumper up over his head. "In. Now. Doctor's orders."

Sherlock lit up in a smile at John’s reassurances and carefully slid off his dressing gown, tossing it aside before climbing into the bed. He winced as he shifted further back to make space for John, sliding under the covers. He gingerly lied down fully, pressing a hand over his wound as he made himself comfortable. He watched John with wide puppydog eyes in expectation as John added jeans and his socks to the pile of clothing. He was still in his undershirt and pants as he climbed onto the bed with him.

There was a surreal moment of shuffling under the covers and deciding to leave the light on, as he wasn't certain either of them would sleep, but at least Sherlock was now warm and lying down.

John settled his head on an overly stuffed pillow and fought the urge to breathe in deeply at the scent of Sherlock on them. He knew he was in Sherlock's normal spot. John chewed on his lower lip even as he couldn't fight back a grin at Sherlock looking back at him with the same wide-eyed look of delight and shock he'd had most of the latter part of their conversation. He gripped at the top edge of his comforter with one hand, staring like a bloody owl at the sight of John in his bed.

"Oh for god's sake," John chastised though it didn't really come out very harsh as he was lost to chuckles halfway through the words. "You don't have to stay over there." He reached out underneath the blankets, making for Sherlock's very upper chest, not wanting to accidentally brush against his bandaged wound. He slid himself closer with an arm hooked around Sherlock's chest. Not that Sherlock needed any more encouragement. Sherlock’s smile grew as John moved himself close in such a gentle manner. The move encouraged Sherlock to slide his left arm around John himself, his long fingers brushing over John’s shirt and resting his hand over John’s back. His eyes fell closed at the gentle embrace, his fingers curling and twisting John’s shirt, clinging to him and pulling him even closer, or attempting to, with the little strength he had at the moment. The move tugged at John's heart. The quiet intensity of Sherlock's need to keep him close was breathtaking.

“John,” he sighed, clinging to him further, as if failing to do so would cause either of them to disappear. John oh so carefully tightened his own arm around Sherlock's upper chest, his own pressed lightly to Sherlock's side, as he settled his head next to the other man's.

"Right here. I promise I'm not going anywhere." He twisted his own fingers in Sherlock's top, working to reassure in return. He kept his own eyes open. He greedily took in Sherlock's lengthening breaths as he relaxed. His gaze skipped from lips to dark lashes to messy curls. Everything close. Everything real. Everything he'd ached for two years over missing. He stayed quiet, hoping perhaps the man might drift asleep. He could do with more rest, much more rest. Sherlock relaxed. For bloody once he was the one being reassured this evening instead of John. He slowly loosened his hold on John, though he kept his arm around the smaller man.

Eventually his eyes fluttered back open and his head turned to meet John’s gaze, taking him in with startlingly brilliant blue-green eyes. The two of them studied the other's face, heart beats ticking by, as they openly appraised each other as if this were the first time they truly looked at one another. It was certainly the closest they'd ever been while not inebriated or exhausted. Sherlock's face was the most open John had ever seen. Those big, doe eyes that had been silently adoring John since his return were in full force.

Truth.

He had to believe in the truth of all this. Sherlock wouldn't play him, not with this… His mind supplied him with the image of Janine and he closed his eyes, furrowing his brow as he winced. An insane corner of him hoped Sherlock had changed his sheets since that woman, at the very least, slept in his bed. God did he have a right to ask, after everything with Mary? He took a deep, steadying breath and opened his eyes to see Sherlock's gaze more puzzled. Had he deduced what just ran through John's mind?

John pushed forward anyway. Honesty. Answers. He couldn't handle skirting around any truths any fucking longer. "This is…" John paused, his voice in the silent room sounding far too much an invader on the moment, but he had to ask anyway. "This right here. It's different than… than Janine?" He swallowed. He silently implored Sherlock not to shut down over the question.

Sherlock’s expression actually softened, his eyes remaining locked to John’s, as he answered without hesitation. “Of course it’s different than Janine. She was nothing but the key into Magnussen’s office and information. It’s an absurd comparison,” he spoke firmly, reassuring, for once not trying to lace disdain over being asked a question. “Nothing happened,” he added softly after a moment, “no type of… intimacy took place, if you wanted to know.”

The immediate answer and the way it was delivered was precisely what he needed to hear. The thought of being played by Sherlock… He wouldn't survive. It would be the end of him. He flushed slightly but god did he love that she never truly had her hands on him. "It's selfish of me to be glad of that fact but I still am."

“Selfishness is underrated,” Sherlock murmured with a flash of meaning behind his eyes.

John grunted. If anyone knew the pros and cons of selfishness, and lately selflessness, it was the man in front of him.

He gently twisted Sherlock's shirt in his hold at his far side. "The sight of her in your lap." He shifted his head forward along the pillow, settling his forehead to Sherlock's. "The thought of her in this bed." His heart hammered as he kept Sherlock's gaze, so close and so open. There was no counting how many colours were in his eyes. His nose brushed to Sherlock's. "Those bloody kisses." He brushed his lips to Sherlock's in the lightest of kisses and felt the man shiver. He kept eye contact as he breathed against the other man's lips, "I spent years and years thinking you'd never want kisses."

“I don’t want just anyone’s kisses,” Sherlock sighed against his lips. “I only want yours… I’ve only ever dreamed of yours...”

"Sherlock," John could only gasp his name at those words. His eyes fell closed and he kissed him. Soundly. His lips parted and he teased his tongue over Sherlock's lower lip until the man parted his own lips for him. John hummed reassuringly into the kiss as it swiftly deepened. It was like none of his daydreams. Sherlock was jarringly real and yielding and responsive. John pressed himself more firmly along Sherlock's side and tilted his head further. He worked to tease and memorise every nook of that brilliant mouth. Sherlock actually hummed into the kiss, sliding his hand further up along John’s back, fingers brushing through John’s hair as he cupped the back of his neck, pressing him further against himself. John groaned into the kiss. He couldn't help responding to Sherlock's encouragement. He shifted a leg up over Sherlock's and moved to half cover him without thinking the idea through, his mind gone with Sherlock's tongue teasing his own.

The weight of half of John settled on top of Sherlock shot a spike of pain shot through the man beneath. “Shit-" came his immediate and sharp complaint. "John!" He broke the kiss but didn't push John off, instead quickly alerting him of the pressure to his wound.

Oh god he was an idiot. "Fuck! Sorry!" He instantly shifted up off Sherlock's chest, sliding back down onto his own side. "I'm so sorry. Are you alright?" He pulled the bedding down enough to lift up Sherlock's top to check the bandages himself.

“Yes,” Sherlock grunted but let John take a look, allowing himself to collapse on the bed. He took slow, deep breaths to focus on something other than the pain. “I’m fine…” Sherlock sighed, his body relaxing as the pain dissipated.

"Oh yes you sound perfectly pain free," John muttered, more annoyed at himself and his lack of control than anything else. What a bloody fantastic doctor he was.

John ghosted fingers over the bandages plastered over Sherlock's bullet wound. They seemed to be intact and still in place. There was no sign of blood seeping out at the sudden pressure, not enough to discolour the bandages at any rate. The stitches were likely still in place. He breathed a sigh of relief and soothed with a hand pressed to Sherlock's exposed bare skin.

"I'm sorry. You're not yet due for any more medication, and the dose is low, thanks to… certain extra curricular activities of yours." He pointedly narrowed his gaze on Sherlock but then his features smoothed out as he took in Sherlock beside him. He brushed his thumb lightly along the man's smooth skin as he kept his hand in place on his chest.

“I’ll be alright.” Sherlock was off any drugs, at least at the moment. “I was truly merely undercover,” he repeated, as he always did when the subject was brought up. He had promised John he would stay away from any type of substance and John had been able to keep an eye on him for the past few days, at least. What with the hospitalisation and all. Sherlock slid a hand down to cover John’s partially resting over his wound. “Aren’t you going to kiss me again?” His lips curled into a small grin.

"You silly git." John's worry slipped away at the tease. He pressed close to steal another deep kiss, only to break it with a salacious smack of lips to tease in return, "I mean to kiss you endlessly." He ran his tongue along Sherlock's lower lip as he slid his hand smoothly up and over to Sherlock's far nipple, brushing fingertips over it.

Sherlock smiled at the sensation of John’s tongue over his lip, his eyes falling closed at the hand sliding over his chest. John couldn't help adoring the way his dark lashes sat against his flushed cheeks. The man shivered and his lips parted further as he sighed at the new kind of touch. John took in his every reaction. He gave a low, encouraging hum as Sherlock moved a hand up into John’s hair, running his fingers through it. Even if all they could manage were kisses and teasing touches, it would be enough. God anything with Sherlock would be enough.

He kissed him again, not forgetting the request for more, and let it deepen once again. It was miraculous how responsive Sherlock was to every tease and touch. His thumb circled and flicked over the firming nipple before he gave it an experimental pinch and roll between his tugging fingers. Sherlock gasped at the teasing pinch to his nipple, his fingers gently tugging on John’s hair. So responsive.

His lips and tongue focused on exploring John’s in return, swirling his tongue around the other man’s and slowly exploring every nook of his mouth, giving a quick flick of his tongue to the roof of John’s mouth. There was no attempting to hold back John's moan. Fuck, Sherlock was good with that tongue, but then he'd always daydreamed that it would be as talented on him as it was at rattling off deductions. He sucked firmly on Sherlock's tongue as the man explored. His hand gave one last teasing tug, earning another gasp, before he released the nipple and let his hand roam. He brushed palm and fingertips down Sherlock's far side and broke the kiss as he moved his hand up over Sherlock's toned stomach. The two of them were a panting mess, lips bruised and tingling. He wanted to touch. He wanted to tease. He should let Sherlock rest but he couldn't bear the thought of being the one to slow them down. He kissed those lips but quickly moved to trail kisses along the dusting of scruff on Sherlock's jaw, lightly nipping at the skin. His hand stilled just above the waist to Sherlock's pyjama bottoms. He made his way back to Sherlock's ear and murmured, "Can I touch you? I promise to keep my hands to myself if you'd rather I didn't."

Sherlock shivered against him, giving John’s hair a firm tug, before responding in a low purr, his lips brushing over John’s cheek. “God, yes…” His free hand slid around John to his back, pushing his t-shirt up, Sherlock’s fingers brushing along John’s skin, earning a gasp into Sherlock's ear. Fuck, it was surreal to have those hands on him, after staring at them for so long.

"Yes," he encouraged back to the other man. He kissed his way down Sherlock's impossibly long, elegant neck and sucked here and there at the skin. His hand slipped lower, beneath the covers, and he grinned against Sherlock's neck at finding a firm tent in Sherlock's pyjama bottoms. He gave a low, pleased purr and squeezed at the length trapped beneath.

Sherlock gasped at the touch, giving another firm tug to John’s hair. The sounds this man made. Fuck. His fingers dug to John’s back, clinging to him, as he involuntarily rolled his hips up into the touch. He tightened his hold around the cock trapped beneath. “John,” Sherlock gasped, running his fingers through short blond hair.

"More?" he teased against the man's neck, waiting for a groaned affirmation, before he released his hold and slipped his hand beneath the waist of those bottoms. He moaned to find Sherlock wearing no pants. Not that he was truly bloody surprised. He teased fingertips down the hard length before he wrapped firmly around the base.

His heart skipped. Sherlock. Sherlock moaning in that ridiculous baritone of his. Sherlock hard and panting and wanting him. It was a ridiculously miraculous thing.

John shifted back up to Sherlock's ear as he started to slowly stroke. His voice was filled with wonder as he breathed, "I dreamed so many nights of touching you but nothing compares, nothing at all, Sherlock. I want you. I want you in every last way, love. Over and over again. Oh please."

Sherlock arched his back, moaning in response at John’s words and touch, but currently far too overwhelmed to manage anything more. It was gorgeous. John couldn't help a smug grin pressed against Sherlock's ear as he stroked, squeezing on the pull up, pausing to rub his palm against the leaking head, before he moved back down. Sherlock's hips rocked as he clung to John, digging long fingers into John's back. God, he didn't care. He had Sherlock moaning. That fucking voice, moaning for him, moaning at his touch.

John brushed his cheek against Sherlock's as he shifted to rest his forehead to the other man's. He took in the sight of Sherlock flushed and panting and bruised lips hung open. Oh fuck. He steadily increased his strokes, squeezing harder, knowing the man wasn't going to last. It had been years since he'd touched another bloke but it was easy to read Sherlock, which was never something featured in his daydreams years ago. Sherlock bucked under his strokes, struggling to tip over the edge. John ran his tongue over Sherlock's lower lip and dropped his voice into a gentle growling command, "Come for me now, love."

It was very nearly on command that Sherlock came, only lingering another moment, clinging and rocking his hips into John’s grip, before he finally climaxed, pulsing in John's hand with a long, loud moan.

“John!” he gasped, pulling John down for a hard, hungry kiss. His whole body trembled as the intense waves of pleasure washed through him. He was bloody gorgeous. He moaned and whined into the kiss, the rolling of his hips slowing as the intensity of the climax faded. John's strokes stilled in time with Sherlock's thrusts, coming to a stop to hold him possessively at the base as he softened.

John broke the kiss with a wet smack, letting Sherlock catch his breath, as the man turned into a limp noodle beside him. He was such an adorable mess, made so by John himself. He couldn't help but be ridiculously proud. He gave one last stroke, simply to see Sherlock squirm at the over-sensitised touch, and released him.

"You're a stunning mess," John hummed. Sherlock gave a low rumbling chuckle. John brought his seed coated fingers up to his lips and leaned back enough to suck them clean, smirking around each finger.

Sherlock's eyes went wide at his sucking his fingers clean of his seed. “Christ, John…” he sighed, biting down on his lower lip as he watched him intently. “Come here.”

He pulled John closer. John managed a verbal protest but couldn't truly say no to the request. Sherlock spread his legs to let John settle between them and cover him with his body despite his chest wound. John did his best to prop himself up on his elbows and keep his weight off Sherlock. He pushed John’s pants down to his thighs in a swift move, his eyes set on John’s cock, flicking from one point to another. John could have sworn it was as if he had never seen another man’s cock before, or perhaps he was gathering as much information about John’s anatomy as was possible. John sucked in steadying breaths as he allowed the man to look all he wanted. He never bloody minded being Sherlock's focal point. John's lips curled up into a grin as Sherlock remained a bit entranced by the sight of him hard and exposed to scrutiny. He almost looked mentally shut down at the sight. John shifted his weight onto his knees and leaned back, ignoring Sherlock's grunt in protest. He shucked his simple cotton shirt off and tossed it to join the clothes on the floor, then slid his pants off, one leg at a time. "You might as well take a good look at everything."

A small smile tugged at the corner of Sherlock’s mouth as John stripped from the last of his clothing, even if Sherlock was still fully dressed. John mentally shrugged. If Sherlock wanted to look, he might as well see it all. Sherlock scanned him with his eyes, every inch of him, clearly taking that moment to memorise every single inch, before his gaze went back to John's hard cock jutting upright. He reached down to it, tentatively brushing the tips of his fingers to the length, before he wrapped them around it, tightening his hold on John’s cock. Christ what gorgeous long fingers wrapped around his length. Sherlock gave it a gentle squeeze, sliding his thumb up to tease at the head.

"Fuck," John whined and shifted back down onto his elbows, leaning his head forward to rest it against Sherlock's. "Yes, love. Oh god, I won't fucking last, not after seeing you undone." He thrust gently into Sherlock's hold but let the other man guide the pace.

Sherlock stroked slowly, squeezing as he slid his hand up, smoothly sliding it back down before firmly pulling up again, taking up a slow, steady pace. He met John’s gaze and studied his reactions as he stroked. Those big, brilliant eyes of his seemed to catalogue everything. He cupped the back of John’s head with his free hand, pulling him for a kiss, humming into it as he continued to stroke him. John moaned into his mouth as Sherlock brushed his thumb over the head every couple of strokes. Oh god, those delicate but strong fingers on him, finally. John's eyes fell closed. He bucked against the slow pace but it was deliciously agonising. It was still all so surreal. Sherlock wanting to touch him. His cock ached. He was so close but the bastard insisted on steady strokes. He finally had to resort to breaking the kiss and begging against Sherlock's lips, "Faster… more… please…"

Sherlock smiled against his lips, not seeming to respond to the plea, before he actually released his hold. John whined loudly in protest, hips swaying forward toward Sherlock, only to groan at the sight of Sherlock bringing his hand up to spit over his palm. Oh holy hell… His now slick fingers returned back to stroking. “Are you coming for me, John?” he growled against the other man's lips, blissfully quickening his strokes, raptly watching John as he worked him toward his climax.

"Yes oh yes," John groaned in reply, mouth hanging open against Sherlock's. He thrust into the wet strokes. The sound of slick fingers working his cock was something stunning. His fingers twisted at the bedding to either side of Sherlock. He kissed the man, hard and desperate, as it only took another few strokes and he was coming. He groaned into the kiss, muffling it some, as his hips jerked and he pulsed in Sherlock's hand. He shuddered as he coated it and Sherlock's bare stomach beneath him in his seed. He broke the kiss gasping as the last of his climax washed over him. He could feel Sherlock's appraising gaze on him. He whimpered and slowed his thrusts to a stop, "Sherlock…"

Sherlock’s lips twisted into a wider smile against John's parted lips as he studied him through the last of his climax, gaze flicking from place to place in order to not miss a single detail. He continued stroking John’s cock for a number of moments, even after his thrusts stilled, only slowing down gradually to a stop.

John's eyes opened lazily as Sherlock released him. His jaw dropped further agape as Sherlock copied John’s earlier move and brought his hand up to his lips, flicking his tongue out to lick it clean, sucking on a couple of fingers. He hummed at the taste of John’s seed, clearly both appraising and enjoying the experience. Those bright, gorgeous eyes of Sherlock's glinted at the tease as he met John's stunned expression.

"Fucking hell, love…" He'd never imagined Sherlock with a sexual appetite, never dared to dream that the man would want what he might have to offer. The sight of Sherlock's flushed cheeks and bruised lips wrapped around a digit to suck John's seed off his skin… it was breathtaking and mind-blowing all at once.

John's limbs gave out on him and he shifted with a grunt to settle on his good side, pressed to Sherlock's side as tightly as possible. He gently settled a possessive leg over Sherlock's thighs and reached with a hand to thread fingers into Sherlock's hair and turn him for a deep, adoring kiss. He could taste himself on Sherlock and god the combination was twisting his stomach into wonderful butterflies. He sighed heavily into the kiss as it broke, "I should clean you up and let you sleep."

Sherlock chuckled against John’s lips at the offer, though it was a happy and pleased chuckle. It's a sound John's not heard quite nearly enough and it's combined with a big, silly grin on Sherlock's face. He was positively beautiful when he smiled. “But I want you right here with me,” Sherlock sighed. He tightened an arm around John to keep him put, though his eyes turned sleepy as he slowly blinked, his energy draining after their wonderful, impromptu activity.

"Who said I was going anywhere. hm?" John kissed his cheek and brushed his nose against the lightly scruff covered skin. "If only you weren't still recovering," he murmured to the lanky man clinging to him, his mind wandering to all the things he wished to do. "But we have time. So much time." So much time to make up for. John pushed the thought aside and shifted to grab a far corner of the sheet. He wiped Sherlock's stomach clean as best he could manage and tossed the corner back across the bed. He pulled the man's top down and the covers up over them. He settled his head beside Sherlock's and wrapped his left arm around the man. "Rest and then I'm forcing you to eat. Doctor's orders."

Sherlock sleepily nodded, letting his eyes fall closed. “Mhmm,” he hummed, letting himself truly relax and drift off in John’s arms. It was a tiny miracle. Of course, he'd seen Sherlock drugged asleep at the hospital and hell drugged asleep at home in this very bed but he'd never watched the man fall asleep. Asleep willingly and contentedly in John's arms.

He'd been shouting at Sherlock not even an hour ago and yet here they were now. One conversation. They'd been circling so close. One honest goddamned conversation finally set him here. He moulded himself around Sherlock while staying clear of the bandaged wound. It was… okay. Everything was going to be okay. Maybe. He watched the sleeping man's relaxed features. Was he really prepared for all this? All this? With a madman? But Sherlock was the only one to fit perfectly against his heart, from the moment they met. The man kept him feeling alive. The man pulled on every chord inside of him. He would fight for this. This second chance. This only chance at a life worth living.

He closed his own eyes a good while later when they would no longer stay open to watch the rhythmic breathing of the man who had always owned his heart.

Sherlock woke to the smell of fresh tea and the warmth of sunlight streaming in through the sheer curtains. He felt good, for the first time in quite a while. He slowly cracked open his eyes, his eyelids feeling heavy from the unusually long hours of sleep. The soft humming of the laptop beside him caught his attention first, his eyes travelling up the left side of the bed. His lips curled into a smile as he spotted John sitting beside him, the other man's gaze flicking from the keyboard to the screen, as he slowly typed with his index fingers. He was dressed back into his plain undershirt and pants, from the looks of it. Sherlock sighed, licking his dry lips, and carefully rolled onto his good side to face John.

“You’re here,” he spoke in a slightly hoarse voice. John. John in his bed. John still in his bed. It was a marvel. It was a miracle. It was a feat he'd nearly given up on achieving.

"Of course I'm here," John absently chided as he finished a sentence on his laptop, which was merely blurry little black lines for Sherlock at this point. Only then did he save and set the laptop aside. Sherlock could feel him shift into doctor mode, gaze moving around making his own deductions of Sherlock's state. "I've never seen you sleep so soundly. I thought maybe the promise of tea would get you to come back to reality." He smiled and brushed warm fingers through Sherlock's hair. "How are you feeling?"

Sherlock’s drowsy smile widened at the feel of John’s fingers brushing through his hair. It was still a new and wonderful sensation to be touched in such a tender manner by John. It was something he had tried to imagine during his years away, and long before then, in his quieter moments.

“I’m feeling better,” he admitted, bringing a hand up to rub his eyes. His movements were slow still as the rest of his body continued to wake. He knew that look in John’s eyes as the doctor inspected him, yet he had never found it as endearing as he did now. John's concern was always something to make his heart skip, but to see it currently on his features was truly magnificent.

"You do look better," John finally murmured in a soft, reassuring tone. "For once you listened to your body and let yourself recuperate with a bit of solid sleep." He winked at Sherlock and slid his hand from Sherlock's curls to his shoulder. "Come on. Up you go. You're at least drinking that tea while you're awake, but I'd be happier if you ate the biscuits too." He shifted pillows and gently pulled to manoeuvre Sherlock upright enough to be handed his tea.

Sherlock allowed himself to be moved around, pushing upright mostly with John’s help. He sat up and leaned back against the pillows. His wound was sore but he felt a lot better sitting up now than he had felt the last few days. “What kind of biscuits?” His stomach growled just at the thought of food, definitely a good sign. John seemed to hear it as he flashed a pleased smile. “I would love a cuppa,” Sherlock sighed, shifting to get fully comfortable against the pillows. He was happy to let John look after him while he healed. He did always enjoy having John’s attention, though he quietly hoped the man was not merely still in his bed to look after his injuries.

John reached behind himself for a further mug and brought it carefully over to the other man. "It should be just about right. It hasn't been waiting on you too long." He winked as he handed over the cup, fingers brushing against fingers in the exchange, ending in a caressing squeeze to Sherlock's wrist. He turned again and retrieved the small plate of biscuits. He set them in Sherlock's lap and reached for his own ignored mug.

John wrapped fingers around the ceramic and studied Sherlock as he gingerly sipped his tea. "Fine? Still warm enough? Not too much sugar? It's admittedly been some time since I made you tea… sadly."

Sherlock carefully held the mug, slowly bringing it up to his lips, testing how warm the tea was before giving it a try. He hummed at the taste. “It’s perfect,” he smiled at John. “You still remember just the way I take it.”

John lit up at the comment. He'd missed that. He'd missed everything about John, and even now he wondered if he would stay with him, if they would go back to living together, or if John would return to his new place, even without Mary, and if he would merely carry on with his own life.

Sherlock watched the warm liquid a moment, studying the brew, before glancing down to the biscuits on his lap. He slowly reached for one, giving it a small bite, quietly eating it and sipping more tea, a bit lost in his thoughts. They swirled about in his mind. He wasn’t ready to let John go. Not again. Not ever. How was he to keep John here? How was he to convince him not to go? There had to be a way. He simply wasn't good with all this. He had no experience. Was it right to declare that John move back in? Would John take it badly if he did? He didn't want John to take anything badly. He had to get this right.

He furrowed his brow as he fell into visualising various possible outcomes to his various possible actions that morning. A half dozen John's occupied the room in his meandering thoughts, in various scenarios. One rushed to dress, one leaped for the shower, another laughed. He had to narrow it down to the John moving to kiss him. How could he -

"You know," came John's voice, cutting through the haze of mixing thoughts. Sherlock blinked and turned his head to meet the actual John's gaze. "I can tell when you slide into that Mind Palace of yours."

Sherlock grunted at the obvious piece of information. He already knew this. He turned back to working out how to dismiss the outcome of John rushing for his clothes.

The actual John tilted his head at Sherlock. "There's no case and nothing you should be frowning at your tea over. So you had best not be fretting about me."

Sherlock blinked at the comment. John could so easily read him, in a way no one else ever could. He chewed on his lower lip for a moment, his eyes meeting John’s. He still trusted the man more than anyone in this world, and yet he felt uneasy telling him his current thoughts. Sherlock opened his mouth to speak but remained quiet, an endless number of thoughts and scenarios still flashing through his mind. He closed his eyes, willing himself to focus, the room clearing of all but the actual John, before he opened his eyes and met his gaze.

He went for simple honesty. “Will you stay, John?” He wasn’t sure if it was the best manner to ask, and he hoped John wouldn’t feel forced to stay here if he actually wanted to leave. However, this was his home. This was their home. It had been for so long and Sherlock couldn’t bare the thought of John leaving. Not ever. And certainly not now.

John tilted his head further to one side and pursed his lips at the question. Sherlock struggled not to blush. Oh no he'd asked wrong. He opened his mouth to attempt to salvage the comment but then John spoke first, in a firm no-nonsense tone, "Of course I'm bloody staying. Is that really…" He sighed as he trailed off and his features softened, letting Sherlock's heart slow down a bit, no longer worried John was about to run away from him. "Sherlock Holmes, you are and will forever be a fucking idiot." He kissed Sherlock's cheek and soothed, grinning as he turned back to his tea, "I get half the wardrobe and dresser space and you're not allowed to store anything but clothing in them, understand? No test tubes, no body parts, no nothing."

Sherlock’s smile was wide. He immediately nodded at John’s ground rules. Of course. He would do whatever it took, and yet the rules were so incredibly… adorable. “Tubes and body parts stay in the kitchen,” he unanimously agreed. He cast one long look at John beside him. He was staying. John was staying.

He carefully turned to set his mug and the plate of biscuits on his night table. He took John’s tea from his hands and set it aside as well. Before John could protest, he carefully moved with as much grace as he could muster, trying not to hurt himself, while he shifted onto his knees and over to straddle John’s lap. It was a bold move, perhaps out of character, but so many things Sherlock did as of late were a surprise even to himself. He'd given in to his own spontaneity and desires since returning. He cupped John’s surprised face and kissed him deeply, letting the kiss linger for a long moment, pouring into it his joy at John's declaring his intentions to move in, before he parted it with a wet smack, immediately opening his eyes to study John’s reaction.

There was a brief moment of simple, happy bliss on John's features before he opened his eyes. He blinked rapidly, his lips still slightly parted, as his brain caught up with suddenly having a lap full of Sherlock. He finally moved his hands to rub his palms up over the pyjama bottoms hugging Sherlock's thighs. "So setting domestic ground rules gets you going?" he teased with a quirk of one corner of his lips. He brushed his nose against Sherlock's and dropped his voice to whisper, more honest and open, "I'm not leaving, Sherlock. Not ever. So long as… you want me here, then I promise I will be here."

“I always want you here,” Sherlock spoke emphatically against John’s lips. “This is where you belong, John. Together is where the two of us belong.”

John's eyes flickered with emotions, most apparent being agreement and adoration. He breathed light and breathless in reply, "Yes. Right here. We both belong right here, love."

Sherlock copied John’s move, brushing their noses together, before softly pecking his lips again. He slid a hand up into John’s hair. He hummed into a deepening kiss, his fingers playing through John’s short hair as the kiss lingered. John moaned low into the kisses, his hands finding their way to grip Sherlock's hips. Sherlock's heart raced. Kissing John made him lose control over his body and faculties. He was the one and only person who would ever see him like this, the one person who owned his heart from the moment they met. The one soul he would give up everything for. Only John. Always John.

John pressed him down more firmly onto his lap and tilted his head to one side to better return Sherlock's intense kisses. They turned deeper, hungrier as John took the lead. Sherlock trembled at the sound of John's pleased humming into the kisses. The man's hands moved from his hips to push up his shirt, ghosting fingers over Sherlock's skin. He slid the cotton smoothly up his chest and teased palms over his nipples. Only then did he break the kiss with a flourish of his tongue. He shucked the shirt off Sherlock and tossed it aimlessly aside. Their lips immediately crushed back together for another searing kiss.

John's hands slid around him, along Sherlock's back, only to stop as they brushed over not smooth but rough skin. The kiss ended abruptly with John's face furrowed in concern. "What…?" he breathed, hands more gingerly tracing over the still unseen scars.

Sherlock gasped at the kiss ending so suddenly, feeling John tense against him. He pulled away, blinking down at John, as he felt the man’s fingers trace over his back. “Hm? Oh. It’s nothing. Kiss me. Now John,” he sighed against John’s lips, sliding his hands to the front of John's shirt and pulling him closer to continue kissing him.

John immediately stiffened and jerked his head back. His hands were groping wildly now at the scars criss-crossing Sherlock's back. His eyes went wide. "Sherlock, no. Stop. What happened? When…?" He stopped immediately with the question of when, the answer obvious even to John. His features softened and compassion filled his gaze. "Let me see them. Please." He attempted a reassuring smile but it did not quite reach his eyes. "I promise I'm not done kissing you."

Sherlock sighed but he did relax at the promise that he was not done with kissing. He slowly moved off John’s lap, kneeling beside him on the bed and turning around to sit with his back to John. He glanced down at his palms, simply waiting for John to react, fully expecting a long list of questions. Not that he minded. John had a right to ask such questions, and Sherlock was always innerly pleased when John's own search for knowledge shone through. “Can’t blame them for trying,” he commented in a low voice as he felt John’s gentle hands on his back. “It must have been disappointing to not get anything out of me.”

Fingertips traced over scars. They were firm enough touches not to tickle but light enough to send shivers down Sherlock's spine. There was a collection of them at the middle of Sherlock's back, clearly multiple beatings layered over one another, allowed to partially heal and then added to over time. John's fingertips brushed up away from there toward the few feathering Sherlock's upper back and shoulders. His voice was both quietly compassionate and heatedly angry as he finally wondered aloud, "How long did they have you? Weeks? Oh Sherlock…"

“A couple of weeks. I don’t like admitting to it but I did lose track of time during the number of occasions I was held captive. So it's a rough estimate.” His time away was far from easy. He probably would never completely admit how hard it was, but he couldn’t deny the hardships of taking down Moriarty’s network. For two years that was all he did, in order to keep the people he loved the most safe. Lestrade, Mrs Hudson… John. Always and above all, John.

John released a long breath at his answer. Those fingertips traced back down to the lower scars. "His network caught you more than once?"

Sherlock nodded. “No matter how well I managed to hide my identity, I knew you wouldn’t be safe until I took his whole network down.” It was always something worth fighting for. The thought of John always kept him going. He could not stop. He could not rest. He could not give in.

There was a shifting on the bed and John's bare legs came up to rest to either side of Sherlock, settling behind him. Those hands continued soothing but Sherlock's heart skipped at the soft lips that pressed to his uppermost scar, just below his right shoulder.

"I'm sorry." The words were whispered against Sherlock's skin. John's lips moved to Sherlock's other shoulder and so skipped back and forth, soothing each patch of scars. His eyes fell closed at John’s sweet kisses to his back, feeling those beautiful lips brush over his skin. A soft smile formed on his lips at the loving touch. The blows to his back had long healed and no longer hurt, but the memory of all that time spent away from John was something that still haunted him, and he felt that only now with this turn of events, with everything finally feeling worth the struggle, that he could begin to let go.

“All I ever thought about was you,” he spoke softly, turning his face to one side, watching John out of the corner of his eye. “You weren’t even there and yet you kept me going.”

John's arms slid around Sherlock's stomach, wrapping firmly but clearly conscious of Sherlock's wound. He pressed himself flush against Sherlock's back and raised his head to meet his turned gaze. "I wish I had known. I wish… just one little piece of hope…" He nuzzled his face into Sherlock's curls and released a long, ragged breath. He spoke against his neck, lips brushing gently, soothingly against Sherlock's skin. "I know you couldn't tell me, I know, it's just… None of this would have happened this way if I had known all along that you might, just fucking might be out there… alive…"

“I couldn’t possibly put you in so much danger,” Sherlock whispered, covering John’s hands around his stomach with his own. He sighed, going quiet for a moment as he thought of everything that had happened in the last two years. It swirled in his mind. So much time away. “I’m sorry for everything I put you through, John. I’m sorry I hurt you. I am never leaving your side again, John. I promise.” He could never, even if he wanted to. He had already promised to John that they would run away together if either of them ever needed to hide or disappear. He would never leave John again, even if his mind told him it was the correct course of action, his heart could never let him be away from John again. He shifted his bum forward a bit and leaned back against John, resting the back of his head to John’s good right shoulder.

The man nuzzled at his hair and sighed into his ear, "I know. I'm sorry for everything I've put you through since your return. It was all simply… too much. Too much to let go, too much to accept, too much to change. Too much to trust you again. It was so hard. I'm sorry. I'm so very sorry, love." He kissed just behind Sherlock's ear and added all the more quietly, "I am never leaving you, Sherlock. I am moving back in. I am sleeping in this bed. I am cooking our dinners. You are stuck with me. I promise."

Sherlock released a pleased breath. Of course he forgave him. They forgave each other without any grudges. Sherlock understood John’s right to be angry at him, and he was simply thankful they could put those things behind them.

John shifted and reached to gently tilt Sherlock's face more toward himself with fingers to his chin. He met the man's earnest face. "I'm divorcing, of course. God help Mary if she hurts that baby, whether it's mine or not. That's what I was working on. When you woke. I fielded a few inquires to Greg, floating the idea that I wasn't certain if Mary was stable enough not to harm the baby or herself."

Sherlock studied John, nodding at his plans. He was only sorry that he had to be put through so much more still thanks to Mary Morstan. He wished he could tell John whether the baby was his or not and save him all the grief, but they had been so distant from one another over the last few months that he really couldn’t begin deducing the parentage, if it wasn’t John. “What will you do if the baby is not yours?”

John's fingers shifted from Sherlock's chin to brush lightly along his far jawline. "I half hope it isn't, because if it's not mine, then I can well and truly be done with Mary." He paused, then continued, answering the unasked follow up question, "And if it is mine, well then, she's going to have to be a model mother and not use them against me, or I'll be asking your brother for a bit of help to land me with full custody. And finally, if she ever hurts them, well..." John glanced aside as his features darkened. "She'd meet the same fate."

Sherlock watched him for a moment, quietly beyond thrilled with how determined John was to keep Mary out of their lives. It was not surprising to know John would do anything to keep his child safe. That is, if it was indeed his, which Sherlock had reason to doubt. He was not completely comfortable asking things from Mycroft, but if it came down to protecting John, he would do whatever it took to ensure their safety. Whatever he had to do to keep John’s child and John himself safe from Mary.

He carefully moved again, sliding away from John’s arms, only to shift around on the bed. He settled back between John’s legs, this time facing him and stretching out his long legs to John’s sides. He wrapped both arms around John’s neck, pressing himself close to him. Their chests pressed against each other. “We’ll take care of it,” Sherlock whispered to John’s lips, bringing a hand up to thread into his hair. “Whatever it takes. I still stand by my promise. I’ll always be there for you, John.”

There was an adoring flash of emotions in John's eyes at his blunt restatement of his promise. Warm hands brushed soothingly up Sherlock's sides as John whispered, voice laced with quiet fear and need and so very much more that was beyond interpreting, "Always?" He held Sherlock's gaze with the darkest of blue eyes and his lips brushed against Sherlock's as he spoke. "Always this close? Always only mine?"

Sherlock took him in, not in the slightest balking at the question. He would be an open book, for John. “Always, John...” he sighed against his lips. “Where else would I want to be? Who else could I ever belong to? Only the one and only John Hamish Watson.” He brushed his nose to John’s and held his gaze. “I promise. I’ll only ever be yours.”

John's eyes reflected almost too much emotion in them, leaving Sherlock struggling to catch each as they danced behind his features. "Sherlock…" His legs shifted to wrap around behind Sherlock, pressing them tighter together, if at all possible. "I promise the same. I'm sorry for all the hurt I put you through, but from now until the end of my days, I will be only yours. I… I would have you no where else but in my arms, Sherlock Holmes. Always."

John kissed him, full and swiftly deepening, awash in the emotions bouncing between the two of them. He hummed into the kiss and quickly left Sherlock in a daze, his mind shutting down. Yes. Finally. John's hands returned to their task of undressing them. They tugged at the drawstring to Sherlock's pyjama bottoms and teased fingers just beneath, sending shivers through Sherlock as he brushed against his firming length. Oh yes. More of this. Much more.

The kisses parted with a wet smack and a whimper of complaint from Sherlock. John merely smirked and purred low, "On your back again, love." John released him enough to allow him to move, hands swiftly getting Sherlock's bottoms off as soon as the man was settled. John shucked off his own shirt and pants to rejoin the rest of their clothing on the floor.

He settled hovering over Sherlock and his lips traced delicate, wet paths down Sherlock's neck and throat, over his collarbone, and down rather purposefully toward Sherlock's right nipple. He was not at all prepared for the sensation of John's tongue swirling around the areola followed by the firm suction on the nipple itself. Sherlock gasped, arching his back up at the shockingly very good sensation. It wasn’t that he knew nothing about sex, he simply had never been interested in practising it. He was not above giving himself a good wank in the shower every now and then. It was always a good release. However, being touched by someone else and by John, the only person he had ever truly fantasised over, it was beyond incredible.

“John,” he rolled his hips up, rubbing his firming cock to him. He ran his fingers through John’s hair. He gasped as John moved to his left nipple, repeating the tease. “Oh yes…” he arched his back again, feeling quite literally dizzy with how quickly the blood rushed to his cock with the simple touches. He was already impossibly hard. John's mouth moved lower as he shifted back, gentle hands spreading Sherlock's thighs, to settle between them. Little mewling whimpers escaped from Sherlock as those lips went lower still, kissing over stomach and a hip and finally the lightest of kisses to the base of his cock. "Oh!" His hips jerked, thankfully not thrusting up hard enough to smack into John's nose, and his hands twisted roughly in John's hair.

There was a pause. John didn't pull away but he also didn't continue. Sherlock struggled not to beg. He shifted his hips ever so slightly back and forth, like a coiled cat unable to stay still.

John gave a low, husky chuckle and pressed another kiss to his base. This time it was more open-mouthed and wet, sucking at the heated skin. There was no stopping the deep, rumbling moan that fell from Sherlock's lips.

John paused again. He shifted back to Sherlock's hip and earned an annoyed huff. "Tell me honestly, Sherlock." John returned to press a wet kiss just above where he'd left the last. His hands moved to pin Sherlock's hips to the bed. "How much of this-" He pressed another kiss further along Sherlock's length, making his way slowly up toward the glistening head. "-is new to you?" He ran his tongue up to just underneath the glans and swept his tongue along it.

Sherlock gasped at the last touch, his toes curling and his hands twisting in John’s hair. His entire body shivered at the flick of John’s tongue and he nearly missed the man’s question. Was he really asking questions right now? “Stop talking…” Sherlock growled, giving another roll of his hips, so very desperate for more, so damn close to release, before he opened his eyes and glanced down at John looking curious and mildly confused. Was it that obvious? He sighed dramatically, giving up and deflating a bit back down against the bedding. “All of it,” he admitted, his cheeks taking on a darker shade of pink.

John blinked. His head tilted slightly to the right as he worked to fully understand the comment. "All of it is… Christ, Sherlock!" He shifted upright, to Sherlock's great and evident displeasure, and gaped down at him. His wide eyes clearly struggled to accept the information but they didn't show any sort of negative reaction toward Sherlock's non-sexual activity. Only more, as was generally the case with John, that he was working toward accepting that this was far more exclusive territory than he'd imagined, ever more precious than he'd previously concluded. "Fuck, I thought you'd joke it'd been a while or… I don't know. You should have fucking told me sooner. The last thing I want to do is go too quickly for you. I… well I haven't flipped you over and fucked you into the mattress yet but… shit!"

Sherlock frowned at first but his expression softened at John’s clear concern. “You are not going too quickly,” Sherlock reassured him. “Is this truly brand new information?” They never had talked about sex before all this but he'd assumed John had figured out as much.

John shook his head. "I thought… you tried it once or twice and didn't like it maybe…" He still looked concerned, worried over already having misstepped or pressured. Always thinking with his heart.

Sherlock sighed and reached to take John’s hand in his, pulling him down to cover him, John propped up on his elbows to not put too much weight on Sherlock’s wound. He cupped the back of John’s head, leaning up for a gentle kiss, before meeting his gaze again a moment later. “It’s all fine, John. Really. I want this. I want you,” he sighed against John’s lips, taking him in for a moment, before continuing. “You may have to deal with my imminent premature ejaculation but something tells me you can handle it.”

John snorted a laugh against Sherlock's lips at his final words, all at once relaxing at the situation. "I'd like to think I could manage to get you to come around again fairly quickly." He flashed a smug grin against Sherlock's lips. "I haven't… done this with a bloke since before my discharge." His gaze shifted serious and he repeated back, "I've never wanted anything more in my entire life, Sherlock. I want you to more than simply enjoy this. I want it to be… worth our mutual long, ridiculous wait."

John kissed him, full of his own reassurances, and it lingered with a hum. He shifted back down to settle between Sherlock's legs. "I believe I was about to do this…" John's hands went to pin Sherlock down again by his hips. He bent to give a swirl of his tongue around the head of Sherlock's cock before he wrapped his lips below the glans and sucked.

He watched John with wide eyes, his hips jerking the moment those lips wrapped around him. “John…” he gasped, eyes falling closed as he enjoyed every sensation. He slid a hand into John’s hair, tugging on it firmly. The waves of pleasure John’s mouth sent through his body were quite unexpected. Yet, at the same time, he knew the experience with John would be so very intense, and definitely worth the long wait. “Oh darling, that feels good...” He didn’t expect to be vocal but the words just came, the need to praise and tell John just how wonderful his touch felt, and he wasn’t going to hold back.

There was an answering pleased hum to the praise, which felt bloody marvellous from a mouth currently wrapped around his cock. John shifted and took more of him into his wet, hot mouth. Sherlock's fingers twisted tighter in John's hair. It was so unbelievably good. John hummed again and took in more, managing half of his length, only to pull back up and begin to bob slowly, deliberately running his tongue along the underside and teasing over the head on his pulls up. Sherlock arched his back off the bed, his toes curling and his entire body trembling as his climax built fast. Faster than he had expected even though he knew he would never last. It was dizzying. It was entirely so new and so wonderful.

“Christ… John...” he moaned, only unable to buck his hips thanks to John pinning him down. He came with a loud moan, jerking under John’s hold. The intensity of the climax, like the whole experience, was wonderfully new. John's delicious mouth sucked and swallowed and teased, pushing his climax to heights he'd never experienced. He gasped for breath as he pulsed over and over in John’s mouth. His still weak body melted to the bed. He shivered and rocked his hips a number of times more before he started to come down. His mouth gaped open, gasping for breath, struggling to reboot and failing to bring his mind back online.

John released him with a salacious wet smack and a pleased hum. Sherlock's body continued to shiver. "The noises you make, Sherlock… God, I never imagined you so wonderfully vocal." John's voice was a pleasant, husky rumble that sent yet more shivers through Sherlock. The man kissed his skin beside his softening cock and made his way up his stomach and chest. "And you taste bloody deliciously, love." He nipped firmly at Sherlock's collarbone as he reached it. He covered Sherlock again, all wonderful warmth and his own very firm cock pressed to Sherlock's hip, but his weight was up on elbows. Sherlock eventually opened his eyes enough to see a very smug looking John hovering over and watching him. "Enjoy yourself then? Coming back online?" His smug grin only grew at the dazed look still on Sherlock's features.

Sherlock chuckled dreamily at the tease. He cupped John’s face with both hands, pulling him down for a soft, lazy kiss. He tasted himself on John’s lips and tongue. He hummed into the kiss. “That was fucking incredible,” he finally purred against John’s lips, still feeling in a bit of a daze by the breathtaking release. John hummed, still looking smug and pleased with himself. Sherlock blinked his eyes to focus better on John. “You swallowed?” he wondered, his deduction skills definitely not working at the moment, his brain only now catching on to the very obvious. His voice dropped to purr, “You are so sexy, Captain Watson...”

There was the most lovely little gasp from John in immediate response to Sherlock's words. The man's eyes dilated further and widened. Military kink – confirmed. Likely to be wonderfully compatible with his own kink. "Oh fuck, Sherlock," John groaned and thrust just once, gently rubbing his cock against Sherlock's hip. "Of course I swallowed," John growled a bit possessively. "You're mine."

Sherlock sighed against John’s lips, a wide smile forming on his again. He was sure he would not be able to stop smiling today, or ever, at this point. John was his, as they were meant to be all along. “I’ve always been yours,” he whispered in return. “I have always been from the very first day.”

John sighed against his lips. Sherlock kissed him tenderly, slowly deepening the kiss and putting every emotion he had ever held back from John into the one kiss. Although he had been open with his emotions since last night, he just couldn’t ever show John enough how much he meant to him. The kiss broke long minutes later, Sherlock’s eyes flickering open to take in the man who meant everything.

“John,” he whispered against his lips, “would you like to…” He trailed off and held John's gaze, meaning behind his unfinished question bouncing between them.

John sucked in a breath at the invitation. His features flashed with firm want but he still murmured, "...would you like me to?" He licked at his lower lip as he took in Sherlock's quiet, nearly shy nod. John released a shaky breath. "We could, um… see how you like my fingers. You wouldn't have to do more. Have you ever… experimented back there by yourself?"

Sherlock shook his head. “Not precisely…” His cheeks blushed at the admission. As someone whose sexual life only consisted of wanking seldomly, it wasn’t something he thought of doing or had any type of curiosity about. “You’re more experienced than I am,” he smiled at John and pecked his lips. “I trust you.”

"I trust you in everything, Sherlock," he replied, quick to return the sentiment. He stared a moment, clearly mystified on how little experience Sherlock had in all this yet wanting it all the same with John, but then released a breath and nodded to himself, apparently decided not to question further. His lips twisted into a cheeky grin as he wondered, "But the question really is do you have anything we can use?" He cocked an eyebrow and shifted upright, John's still prominent erection standing proudly and sadly ignored, as the man moved to dig into Sherlock's night table. "Don't tell me we're using olive oil or that I've got to try to calm down enough to go out for things."

Sherlock bit down on his lower lip, taking in the man’s hard cock, as John searched through the side table, wondering if Sherlock had anything they could use for lubrication. “Bottom drawer,” he pointed to the barely used tube of lubricant, his eyes still studying the hard length in front of him. He reached with one hand and wrapped his fingers around John’s length, giving it a firm stroke. John fumbled with the lubricant as he groaned at the sudden attention. “Come up here first,” Sherlock purred at him.

John huffed out a breath as he moved back to straddling Sherlock. The lubricant was tossed onto the nearest pillow as Sherlock stroked John's length again. "Christ," John whined. He reached for the headboard and shifted forward at Sherlock's urging. He settled on his knees to either side of Sherlock's chest and allowed him to inspect and stroke at the same time.

Sherlock licked his lips as he took a closer look at John’s perfect cock. He smiled at the sight, the length deliciously hard and red, particularly the glans, and the slit glistening with a bit of precum. He lifted his head and tentatively flicked his tongue out, lapping up the clear liquid. John keened a moan and leaned his head forward to rest it against the headboard as well, eyes locked on Sherlock. The taller man hummed at the taste, taking a moment to save the information in his mental database, before wrapping his lips around the head of John’s cock. There was a strangled cry from John. Sherlock closed his eyes, humming around it and flicking his tongue over the tip before giving it a firm suck, his hand squeezing up the rest of the length.

"Fuck!" John cried out, his breathing going loud and ragged, as Sherlock focused on sucking and teasing and exploring. Sherlock could hear the sound of John's fingers digging into the headboard. The man trembled above him. He was so very hot and heavy in Sherlock's hand and mouth. He experimented in taking in more and found he couldn't comfortably manage much but John's moaning told him he wasn't doing poorly. He pulled back to swipe his tongue over the head and bobbed back down again. John's moaning deepened in pitch to something that sent shivers through Sherlock. John groaned from above him, all broken words and desperation, "Oh love you have no fucking idea… how goddamned sexy you look right now… with those lips, oh god those lips… on me… oh fuck!"

Sherlock smiled around John’s cock at every moan and groan, every sexy word and the way he would just cling to the headboard. He bobbed a bit faster, managing the quicker pace, and loving every reaction he drew from John. He moved a hand to cup and roll John's testicals. The man moaned seemingly endlessly as he struggled to keep his hips still. There was a strangled little noise of warning but Sherlock was quite aware what was happening next. He moved a hand to steady John as he came and couldn't control the jerk of his hips. John's cock deliciously pulsed against his tongue and in his hand. He hummed as he sucked and squeezed for every last drop of seed. He had tasted it last night, but this was a whole new and wonderful experience, claiming every last drop for himself. Eventually John whimpered as the sensations went from pleasure to overstimulation as the climax subsided.

"Christ…" John gasped as he struggled to stay upright, leaning heavily against the headboard. "Of course you're fucking amazing at everything."

Sherlock opened his eyes to see John grinning dreamily down at him. He sucked on the head of John's cock for another moment before reluctantly releasing him with a pleased purr. He licked his lips as he watched John, beaming a smile up at him looking flushed and sated. “I’m glad I didn’t disappoint,” Sherlock purred up at him, flicking out his tongue and swirling it once around the glans, before finally ending his teasing.

"Far fucking from it," John whimpered at the prolonged attention. His legs trembled as he shifted to kneeling beside Sherlock, sitting back on his heels to collect himself. He ran his gaze of Sherlock, pausing at the lanky man's returning erection, and released a steadying breath. "You're going to be bloody dangerous once you've figured out all these steps," he teased and cocked a cheeky grin, licking at his lips. "I'm looking forward to it." Of course he was. What dangerous situation was John Watson not keen to jump into? He bent to steal a long, lingering kiss, humming into it at the taste of himself on Sherlock's lips, before he broke it to murmur, "Lift your hips. Let me know if this isn't comfortable for you stomach." He nodded toward the bandaged wound as he carefully slid a pillow beneath Sherlock's hips.

It wasn’t uncomfortable but he truly did love John’s concern. He wasn’t surprised, John had always been an attentive and caring man, but with the way their relationship had evolved since last night, it was even more endearing to be treated in such a way. He carefully did as told and then settled himself down on the pillow. He was comfortable and not in any pain. He watched John reach for the tossed aside bottle of lube and move around the bed, settling between Sherlock’s legs. “Should I…” Sherlock wondered, bending his legs and resting his feet flat on the mattress, spreading both legs open in what he hoped was at least an almost correct position. He had seen porn but he was well aware that the sex in porn films was nothing like the real thing.

There was a pleased grunt as John took in the sight. "Did a bit of homework, hm?" John teased lightly, gaze clearly appreciative of the position. He chewed on his lower lip, not sliding his eyes from Sherlock, as he liberally slicked fingers with lubricant. "Shift your hips a bit more toward the edge. Yes there. That'll do, if you're feeling fine." His gaze finally flicked back up to Sherlock's eyes. They seemed to suddenly marvel at the situation. "I can't believe you really want… this… me…" He sighed as he shifted closer and pressed a reverent kiss to Sherlock's spread thighs, first one and then the other.

Sherlock’s eyes fell closed at the kisses, giving a small roll of his hips at the touch. “I only ever want you,” he sighed back to John. He still wasn’t used to such an intimate touch but he wouldn’t want to be touched by anyone else. Before he could open his eyes again, he felt a gentle finger rub to his entrance. He willed himself to relax, taking a deep breath and simply letting John take command of the situation.

"Good," John soothed in a low voice, still sounding reverent for being in this position. "Yes, deep breaths. In and out. It's me. Relax. I would never hurt you, love. We'll go so very slowly." He pressed more gentle kisses to Sherlock's thighs as he continued to rub against his puckered skin. Only as Sherlock managed to calm himself did he gently apply pressure, pushing gingerly in with one smooth motion, until he was in to the first knuckle. It was a new sensation but nothing unbearable, simply new and odd but not in a negative way. "It takes a bit of work to get to feeling truly fantastic, darling. Keep breathing. Yes." He reached with his free hand to gently stroke Sherlock, to add that pleasure to the odd sensation of being stretched. That finger rubbed and stroked and what felt like ages later pushed in further. "There we are." John paused with that finger buried completely. "Doing fine?"

“Yes,” Sherlock nodded at the question, staying relaxed and taking in each sensation that John’s touch and kisses sent through his body. He tried to stop himself from analysing every single move, focusing in the moment and the intimacy of it all. The sensation as John carefully pushed in a second finger was enough to get Sherlock’s full attention. He gasped at the move, letting his hands fall to his sides and brushing his fingers over the bedding, not quite needing to twist his hands in it but nearly waiting for that to happen quite soon.

"You're doing fantastically, love," John hummed at the sight of him. His lips pressed to Sherlock's thigh as he slowed his gentle strokes to Sherlock's cock to merely hold it. "Stay relaxed. Tell me how intense this is for you, if it's too much." Those two fingers inside of him scissored and stretched in new degrees. John's stopping the strokes to Sherlock’s cock made him focus all the more on those fingers inside of him. He took a deep breath in an attempt to relax again before his whole body tensed at the sensation of John’s fingers pushing deeper and stretching him out.

Then John's fingers curled and brushed in the lightest of touches over what he could only assume was his prostate, what with the rush of sensation and pleasure in the extreme. He trembled, his fingers tugging on the bedding, even at the light pressure. Every gentle brush of John’s fingers to that spot sent delicious shivers through him. For all the life of him, it felt as if he were ready to climax, with the way that touch sent him floating away in a sea of pleasure, but he didn’t climax. It was instead a constant wash of pleasure and he marvelled in the sensation. "More," he begged with a low groan and a rock back against those brilliant fingers.

"Oh Christ, you make such a sight, Sherlock. Hard in my hand. Begging for my fingers." He shifted said fingers to more firmly rub against his prostate. Sherlock lost himself to rumbling moans that nearly hummed out of him. "Fuck." Fingers continued to stretch and rub against Sherlock's prostate. Oh my, he could get thoroughly addicted to this sensation. "One more finger, love. Stay relaxed. This may be a bit much." Two fingers slid annoyingly out of him, leaving Sherlock feeling empty, only to gasp and toss his head back, as three well lubricated fingers pushed gently into him. "Breathe, love."

Sherlock twisted the blankets in his hands, tugging harder as he attempted to focus and relax. He did as John instructed, once again taking deep breaths and strunggling to not tense his body and make it all the more uncomfortable. At one point it felt like three fingers were perhaps a bit too much, yet he had seen the girth of John’s cock and knew what was coming next. He had no objections to it, of course, but he had to let himself relax around John’s fingers if he wanted more.

John resumed with stroking Sherlock's cock lightly as a counterpoint to the stretching. Sherlock winced and hissed a couple of times, doing his best to get used to the sensation, until he eventually did loosen, his walls relaxing and letting John’s fingers in without much resistance. John hummed in encouragement, pressing kisses to his inner thighs.

Fingers curled and rubbed once more directly over Sherlock's prostate. He moaned loudly at John’s fingers firmly stimulating that sensitive spot. His body naturally relaxing with the waves of pleasure. “Oh god, John…” he gasped, rocking his hips down to John’s touch, wanting more. Dear god, he wanted more. He brought a hand to his cock, wrapping it over John’s hand still there, encouraging John to stroke him faster while he moved those three fingers inside of him, convinced he was about to come with the intensity of pleasure washing over him.

There was a happy growl from John and his voice had a low, wonderfully possessive rumble to it as he wondered, "Feeling good, love? Hm?" More wet kisses peppered Sherlock's inner thighs. Fingers slowed to a stop in their stretching. "Do you want more? Oh love, can I please…"

“Yes,” Sherlock purred, giving one more roll of his hips. “Christ yes, John. Please…” He begged, slowly propping himself up onto his elbows, attempting to reach down for John but collapsing back on the bed at the sudden pain from his bullet wound.

John's features instantly flashed with concern. Sherlock took a deep breath, licking his lips, before reaching only one hand down to take John’s away from his cock and urge him up instead.

"You certain you're well enough for this?" John wondered as he shifted carefully up to hover over Sherlock. He soothed a hand along Sherlock's chest and gently slid his fingers from inside of him.

Sherlock whimpered. Empty. Far too empty now. "Please John," he begged again for a second time.

John leaned down enough to rest his forehead to Sherlock's, hands groping for the lubricant once more. "Sherlock… Oh fuck, you look a sultry, sexy mess…" John slicked himself with a few quick strokes, adding far more lubricant than seemed necessary at this point, before he shifted his weight and guided the head of his cock down against Sherlock's worked entrance. It was bigger and blunter than fingers. John watched his every reaction as he pushed, pressing the blunt head in smoothly, stretching. So big and so wide and how was John ever meant to fit? "Breathe. Relax. Come on, love. Oh fuck!" John whined at the end of his attempts to soothe as the head of his cock firmly slid into Sherlock and he stilled, gasping for his own breath.

Sherlock cried at the sensation. So intense yet so intimate in a way he never had experienced before. He slid his arms around John’s shoulders, clinging to him as the two of them stilled completely, letting Sherlock’s body relax once more and adjust to the new, thicker size inside of him. He rested his legs over John’s thighs and pulled him for a wet kiss, moaning into it as he let himself relax all over again. “Fuck yes,” Sherlock growled, giving a roll of his hips. The sensation was intense but he would handle it. He wanted it to be good for him, but he was selfless enough, particularly recently, to want this to be just as amazing for John. He wanted this to mould the two of them into something more, to keep John as his forever.

John whined in a low keening sound and gently pushed in further. "Sherlock… oh love…" He paused at one point but generally pushed in smoothly, filling Sherlock up far more than he would have ever imagined, until finally he felt John's hips come to rest against his bum. John shook above him, eyes closed and mouth agape. He struggled to control his own breathing. Sherlock's fingers threaded into John's hair. The gentle touch sent John's eyes fluttering open. The look of pure bliss, of awe, of joy, of want… So much in John's eyes. Almost too much to deduce. Such an intimate exchange. Linked and clinging to one another. "Sher…" He experimentally rolled his hips, purposefully rubbing up against Sherlock's prostate.

Sherlock’s mouth fell open at that first, wonderful thrust. He fought to keep his eyes open, watching John’s expression and simply loving to see him so taken by the mutual pleasure. As his eyes finally fell closed, he pulled John for another kiss. A wet, sloppy and hungry kiss, letting himself moan freely into it as John’s hips took on a steady pace, each thrust sending the most intense sensations through Sherlock’s body. “Oh darling, yes…” he whined into the kiss, twisting John’s hair in his hands and earning a moan in response. He nearly forgot almost completely about the bullet wound in his chest, utterly lost in the wonderful moment he had never truly allowed himself to imagine.

They finally parted for panted breaths as the slow thrusts stretched Sherlock enough to be able to smoothly glide nearly out and back in again deep, so ridiculously deep. "So perfect, you feel so bloody perfect," John gasped against his lips, emotion laced through his words. "I can't believe… oh love…" His voice trailed off into moans as he experimented in firmer thrusts up against Sherlock's prostate, one hand going to steady Sherlock's hip as the other elbow propped him up off Sherlock's chest wound.

Each thrust had Sherlock moaning. He was not about to hold back, not here, not now. He would enjoy everything. Every kiss, every thrust, every beautiful moan from John. He was here. They were here. Like this. Finally. He would revel in it all. The bed squeaked with each thrust, the headboard lightly banged against the wall. “John… yes!” he cried, wrapping his long legs around John's hips, clinging completely as his mind clouded with nothing but lust and want for John. “So good,” he growled against John’s lips, feeling his climax building up fast, more intense than ever, as John pushed him near closer with each drive in so deep, so gloriously overwhelming, rubbing against his prostate with each thrust.

John was a mess of moans and gasped swears. His control melted. His fingers dug into Sherlock's hip as he steadied him against the harder, driving thrusts. He seemed to loss himself in just how vocal Sherlock was being, which only encouraging him to be louder, and so encouraging John to thrust harder, faster, rougher. Oh it was glorious. John undone. John undone and furiously working the both of them into a frenzy. The slow lovemaking was lost into something loud and demanding and fuck it didn't matter. All that mattered was John. His John.

The peak came far too quickly but the climax was nonetheless incredible, in the truest sense of the word. The pleasure was the most intense sensation he had ever experienced, even beyond any physical pain. He cried John’s name, firmly tugging on his hair, as he made a sticky mess between them. He wanted to feel John’s release, he wanted to hear him moan and fill him, which seemed an odd but altogether appropriate aching need. Sherlock’s head spun as he remained lost in the intensity of his climax, squeezing his walls around John’s cock.

It was somehow still a surprise to hear John's moans turn to shouts of Sherlock's name to the entire flat, to feel that initial shudder run through John, to truly actually be filled as John climaxed and released his seed buried to the hilt. Panted breaths mingled. Bodies shuddered together. The release crashed against both. The two of them were so completely lost to one another.

John.

His John.

Bodies stilled and a rather wonderful weight settled lightly against Sherlock's chest. John slumped but still managed to keep most of himself propped on his elbow to not truly lie on Sherlock's bandaged stomach. John's head drooped down to rest against Sherlock's shoulder, gasping for shuddered breaths against his skin. They were both covered in a light sheen of sweat, both still trembling from the height of their climax. It was remarkably quiet. Nothing filled the bedroom but for their mutual attempts to catch their breaths. Sherlock couldn't seem to do more than cling to John. It was all too much to even begin to analyse.

Eventually John nuzzled his way across Sherlock's shoulder to bury his face against his neck. He muttered one firm but quiet word against Sherlock's skin. "Mine." He took a ragged breath and released it slowly. His voice shifted into a nearly pained plea, "Please. Please always be mine. I can't… lose this… lose you…"

Sherlock shivered at John’s plea, running his fingers through his hair before cupping his face with both hands, pulling him up to meet his gaze. Their foreheads pressed together as their eyes locked, both awash with emotions. “John,” he sighed. “I’ve always been yours, and I’ll stay yours for as long as you’ll have me.” John's breathing hitched at the promise. His eyes flashed with something close to desperation. Sherlock took him in for a moment. He pressed the softest of kisses to John’s lips and quietly whispered against them, “I love you, I always have, even if it took me far too long to realise it.” He had never said those words to anyone before. Absolutely no one got those particular three words from Sherlock Holmes, not even his mother. Only John.

"Sherlock," John gasped against his lips, utter awe written in one name. He kept his weight on one elbow and moved the other hand up to thread into Sherlock's hair, lightly clinging to him. His eyes took in the honesty of the man beneath me. John finally whispered in the quietest of tones, "I have loved you since the moment I laid eyes on you, you silly bastard." John's eyes closed at the rush of emotions, never good with them, never good with blunt emotional moments. Sherlock soothed fingers through his hair, one hand sliding down his back. John managed to continue, voice low but intense, "I love you. I need you. I can't be without you. I love you, Sherlock."

Sherlock’s eyes fell closed with a sigh. Hearing John say those words to him was something he didn’t expect would happen in his lifetime. When he first returned and learned of Mary, he thought it was too late. The subsequent turn of events was most definitely not ideal, he had died and come back to life, but he'd done it all for John. He was and would always be the one person Sherlock cared for the most in the world. He had been ready to let John go, to let him be happy with Mary and do everything in his power to make sure he always had that happiness, yet life had different plans for them once more. All of it made even the brilliant detective’s head spin, but he was grateful for the second chance and he was never letting go.

The pair of them clung to one another as the weight of their words sunk in to each of their minds. John was the first to eventually move. His softening cock slid from Sherlock in the most peculiar sensation and John grunted as he shifted back. He turned his head to press a kiss to Sherlock's wrist and disengaged himself with a softly murmured, "Let me clean us up, love." He dug out a packet of tissues and spent a wonderful amount of time cleaning Sherlock up before seeing to himself. As usual, for John Hamish Watson, he looked after Sherlock first. The doctor in him cast glances at Sherlock's bandages and backside, double checking that everything remained fine.

"You're going to be sore, I'm afraid," John soothed as he pulled the blankets back over them and settled on his good shoulder to Sherlock's side. His arm snaked around Sherlock's bare upper chest and he pressed a kiss to his neck. Likely the side of John that balked at continued emotional contact couldn't help teasing, a smile playing against Sherlock's neck, "I guess that means I'm riding your cock later."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at that comment. A pleased groan escaped him at the promise of not only more but that in particular. “Christ yes...” His smile grew at the mental image of John riding him. Hell even John’s comment of Sherlock being sore later on didn’t faze him. He wanted to try it again, he wanted to try it all with John. They may have lost a lot of time since the day they met, but they had even more time ahead of them. His arms tightened around John. The two of them settled, content and sated. John relaxed and wrapped around him. It likely wasn't long before they'd both be asleep. The euphoria paired with the medication tugged at Sherlock to rest.

He nuzzled his nose against John's grey flecked blond hair. "I want everything with you, John."

There was a happy hum in response. "You'll get everything." John lazily kissed his shoulder. "A lifetime's worth."

"A lifetime together," Sherlock agreed as they drifted together toward sleep.

Everything was right.

END