Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Written based on this prompt by bloodsoakedleather: John is in love with Sherlock but hiding his feelings. Sherlock is an occasional drug user and when he's high he becomes sexually aggressive and possibly violent towards John, but never remembers what he's done the next day. John willingly allows Sherlock to use and abuse him on these occasions and never complains and never tells Sherlock the truth because he's afraid to lose Sherlock and would rather have him like that than not at all.

Since you just read the prompt, I think you can figure out why this is M. Just so you know though, it's not true smut. Just dirty enough that I don't think it's T.

This will be a little angsty at the start. If you can't tell from the prompt as well.

TRIGGER WARNING: Dubious consent in several flavors. Also, domestic violence (or something kind of like it).

John didn't give up on waiting for Sherlock until four hours after he said he would be home. That was embarrassing enough on its own, so this sick twisting in his gut just added insult to injury. There was no reason why John should feel like a teenager who was stood up on a date— but even so, that was precisely how he felt.

It's not like their engagement had been particularly formal. Sherlock mentioned in passing that he'd be back around nine and John had replied that he had been craving Thai all week and Sherlock responded, "Brilliant, grab a takeaway, will you?" and was out the door. So no, it was in no way official, but surely it implied that Sherlock at least intended to come home, you know, tonight.

John wanted to say that he only stayed up waiting until midnight because he was worried. Sherlock was prone to getting himself into dangerous situations. He even wanted to think that he was up so long so he could chew Sherlock out for having no consideration for John's time—what a waste of an evening, sitting around waiting for his stupid flatmate to come home.

But with the Thai food cold and uneaten in the kitchen and John's nearly physically painful hurt feelings, he wasn't in the mood to pretend.

Here was the honest truth, the one he would probably never say out loud. John's work day had basically been hell, and the only thing that got him through it was that he had plans with Sherlock. He and Sherlock would eat together, and Sherlock would complain through the whole thing but John would force him to finish a plate and then they would turn on telly and Sherlock would deduce and insult the news anchors and John would laugh and scoff and sigh and be internally overjoyed at the time they spent together, even if everything revolved around Sherlock. If John was very lucky, Sherlock would pay John one of his infrequent compliments and then they would sit on the settee together and he could just feel Sherlock there beside him, and that would be enough—well, no, not enough, not nearly enough, but as close to enough as John could ever get and—God, he was in love with the man, wasn't he?

It's not like he was completely shocked by the sudden realisation. He'd been completely infatuated with the man for ages—possibly since their very first case together so many years ago—but when the clock stroke midnight the thought appeared, having the same effect as cops had when showing up at parties back in uni—sobering, frightening, and unavoidable.

At that, John sighed and stood. He shoved the untouched food back into its packaging and in the fridge. In the moment where he realised how much he really did love Sherlock, he had never felt so lonely. He purposefully took as long as he could to get to the stairs, hoping that Sherlock might be heard turning the key. Even if Sherlock would never feel the same, all John wanted was to see him in that moment. That would be enough. It would have to be enough.

But as John went up the stairs, the sound of his feet on each step was his only company, and the flat was utterly silent—and somehow, even with the painful stabbing in his chest to pair with his restless innards, he fell asleep.

"John."

"John."

"John, wake up."

The only reason John obeyed the command was because Sherlock sounded funny. It was serious and forceful, but somehow indistinct in a way Sherlock never was.

Blimey, what time was it? From the fogginess in John's head and the lack of early morning light from the window, it was no decent time.

Indeed, when he glanced at the clock, it was half past three.

He looked up at Sherlock standing over his bed. It was too dark to see his face, so John couldn't guess what he was doing here.

"Is someone dead?" asked John. "Because we've discussed that the only reason to bother me at this time is if—"

"John, shut up."

John was ready to argue at that point, about to sit up and tell Sherlock to get the fuck out, but then something inexplicable happened. Sherlock proceeded to climb onto the bed, straddling John's hips.

John only then got a good look at Sherlock, since he was in the light of the window. His shirt, always so meticulously pressed, was rumpled and partially unbuttoned. It wasn't tucked in—and it took John a moment to realise that was because there was nothing to tuck it into, as he wasn't wearing trousers. Just black, silk pants.

Sherlock tried to lean forward clumsily, but it turned into falling and he caught himself on his elbows when his face was only a few inches away from John's. Only then did John get a good look at his eyes.

Something was wrong. That was obvious. His eyes, always so keen and bright, looked dull.

John, groggy as he was, made a pretty quick deduction at what this uncharacteristic behaviour meant—probably the realisation ought to be blamed on his knowing Sherlock very well rather than him being incredibly clever or anything, but at the moment, all that mattered was that he understood.

"Sherlock," he said carefully, looking into the eyes that were nearly all pupil with trepidation. "Are you… high?"

Sherlock sighed. "As always, you're concentrating on the wrong things."

That was basically a yes, John thought somberly. Not that he needed one. Sherlock was obviously on something. But John decided the best way to deal with it at this moment was to play along. "Alright, what should I be paying attention to then?"

Instead of responding, Sherlock grabbed John's hand, and in a shocking—if not completely unwelcome—gesture, pressed it against Sherlock's cock. Which, John noticed with bewilderment, was hot and hard against his palm.

"Sher—"

"I need you, John."

John stared up at the other man in something between astonishment, elation, and panic. His hand was still firmly against Sherlock's prick, and John had only just noticed that Sherlock's hand was no longer holding it there. He told himself he needed to move it—but god if this isn't what he's wanted for fucking ages and he could feel himself getting hard too and this was so wrong but how could he fight it? This was Sherlock. John's everything.

But one part of John's sanity and control was still intact, and it was the only part that was able to speak—the rest was struck silent in something like reverence.

"Sherlock, if you think I'm doing this when you're high, you're mad."

Sherlock groaned—it was supposed to be in annoyance, but it sounded distinctly sexual and thus the sound went straight south, making John feel dizzy. "John, this is not the time for your morals." He then proceeded to grind himself into John's hand. Even though, logically, the action shouldn't have stimulated John, as he wasn't being touched in any erogenous regions, he and Sherlock gasped in unison at the sensation.

"Fuck, Sherlock," John sighed unintentionally. "You're gonna be the death of me."

His eyes looked strangely focused for a moment as he stared John down intently enough to make the older man squirm beneath him. "And you'll be the death of me if you don't let me…" He didn't finish. He didn't need to.

John should have felt a lot of things. Indignation that Sherlock was forcing himself on John—no matter if John wanted it or not. Fury at the fact that Sherlock was high—John thought he had stopped all that ages ago.

But somehow, Sherlock's clumsy seduction was working. John's breathing was uneven, and the hand that before had been resting was now grasping at Sherlock's crotch—seemingly of its own will.

"Yes," Sherlock hissed out between his teeth. "John, you want me too. I can see it. We both know it. Come on."

Sherlock was rutting into his hand now—smooth and languid, surprisingly unrushed considering the desperation in his voice.

At this point, John couldn't really say he was in control of the situation. And he was going to feel guilty in the morning no matter what he did next, at this point.

He'd already lost.

And it didn't help that he'd wanted to lose in the first place.

The only reason John could tear his hand away from Sherlock was because he immediately used both to take Sherlock's neck so he could pull him into a hard, frenzied kiss.

Sherlock hummed his satisfaction at getting his way as their lips connected, but John was too busy internally combusting to notice.

God, John had needed this for so long. His fingers tangling into those soft, raven curls. Sherlock's hands gripping John hard wherever they landed before seeming to get bored and finding somewhere else to fondle.

And then it got better. Because at the loss of John's hand, Sherlock had to find something else to grind against.

And what he found was John's now achingly-hard cock.

Oh, fuck, yes.

And John was sure he hadn't said that aloud. Until he realised he actually had.

It seemed to encourage Sherlock. He took both of John's arms and shoved them above his head, grasping them in one hand. He then knelt down and bit John's neck hard. Too hard.

Now John didn't mind getting a little rough, but his wrists felt like they were already bruising and Sherlock might've broken skin on his neck. It was a little much for John's taste.

"Sherlock, Jesus, that hurt."

Sherlock met eyes with John and glared, clearly not caring much about John's complaint. It stunned him into silence.

What exactly… was this?

John had already realised that he wasn't in control of this situation in the slightest, but this… it was getting a little strange for him.

Sherlock stopped glaring quickly though, and he sucked on John's ear and licked down to his collarbone and then he was grinding against John's cock again and was kissing him again—and sure, he bit too hard and was still squeezing John's wrists uncomfortably tight… but this was Sherlock. All he had ever needed was Sherlock to touch him like this. And John knew, somewhere inside, that this was his one and only chance to have this with Sherlock.

John still wasn't kissing back though. There was something obstinate and prideful inside him that wouldn't be forced in this way.

And maybe Sherlock knew that. Because he froze. Let go of John's hands. Looked John in the eyes again, his face barely an inch away.

"John. Please say I can."

And that brought a warm feeling to his stomach. Even though Sherlock was not himself in the slightest, he was still asking John's permission. John convinced himself it was some sort of real concern.

"Let me have you."

And that was what undid John. In that moment, John pretended it was romantic. That he didn't mean "have you" in the indelicate way.

And he said, "You've always had me."

Sherlock grinned wolfishly and descended once more.

In the morning, John was felt sore and dirty. He woke with nobody in his bed—but that was hardly a surprise. Sherlock had ended their rutting session by fucking John's mouth, and then seemed to immediately lose his hyperactivity.

Even as John was still trying to catch his breath, Sherlock dragged his feet as he left the room, obviously experiencing the crash after a high.

And John had been so confused, so disgusted with himself, feeling like so much shit that he just fell right asleep.

John woke up knowing what he had done. Sherlock wasn't in his right mind and John, completely sober, took advantage of him.

He had somehow managed to convince himself that, even on drugs, nobody can take advantage of Sherlock. But Sherlock was human just like anyone else.

Would Sherlock be angry? It was hard to know. Sherlock never reacted to anything like a sane person would.

But the worst part of it all, the part that made John want to hide in his room forever, wasn't that the whole thing had been unpleasant and he was glad it would never happen again. No, that wasn't the case at all.

He loved it. As Sherlock did everything too forcefully, and left without John even finishing, John loved every fucking second. He would replay it in his mind over and over in the future, because he was able to have Sherlock that close and that was enough. It had to be enough.

That was the real reason why John felt like less than a human right now. Not because Sherlock had treated him like one. But because he had let Sherlock do something like that high, which was completely wrong, and all he wanted was to do it again.

Fuck. What the hell had he come to? Sherlock was his friend. He could never do something like this to him ever again. He knew that.

Not that he would ever get the chance, he thought with an internal sigh.

And at that, he jumped out of bed. He had to apologise. He may have damaged he and Sherlock's relationship forever by letting this happen, and that was the worst thing John could imagine.

He went downstairs and Sherlock was on the settee, a pillow over his head. If what had happened last night hadn't happened, John would punish Sherlock for his drug use by thrusting open the curtains, making Sherlock get assaulted with all the light that was likely to be killing him.

But instead, John sat in his chair, looking at the ground.

There was a long silence as John tried to decide how to bring it up.

But Sherlock broke it before John could. "Alright, I know you'll have something to say. Go on then." John blinked and looked over at Sherlock. "You always say something. Just get on with it."

John worked through those words in his head. John had a feeling he and Sherlock weren't having the same conversation. To figure out what the hell his flat mate was talking about, he'd have to play dumb.

"What are you on about?" John asked.

"Oh, come on, you always give me grief. Don't act like this will be any different."

Give him grief? Seriously, what the hell was Sherlock talking about?

"Erm… Sherlock, I honestly—"

Sherlock grunted in annoyance, taking the pillow off his head. If John didn't know he had been high last night, maybe he wouldn't have noticed the way Sherlock flinched at the brightness of the room. He was otherwise quite the same as always, with his unruly curls and grey-blue eyes.

"John, must you insist on being dense? What, do you want me to say it, is that it? Yes, I didn't come home last night, no, I didn't get killed." He put the pillow on top of his head again. "So if you're going to lecture me about how you were worried and I should call when I'm not coming home on time, just get it over with, because I'd like to get things done today."

John spent another moment being completely baffled before he realised…

Sherlock didn't remember.

He didn't remember any of it.

He thought that he just never came home last night, that John didn't even know about his drug trip.

It was only then that John realised that his bruised wrists and wounded neck were clearly visible. Good thing Sherlock wasn't feeling as good as he was acting, because he obviously hadn't noticed if he hadn't said anything about it.

So John decided this was a good time to dig deep into himself to find his inner actor. And he said stiffly, "Well, what's the point? You didn't listen last time. Why would you now?" Then he stood up and stomped up the stairs.

He quickly put on a long sleeved jumper, but then he looked in the mirror at his bite mark. It was mostly a dark purple and black bruise, but there were faint teeth marks where he had, in fact, broken skin. It stung something fierce.

How was he to hide it? He didn't ever wear clothes that covered his neck. Surely Sherlock would notice.

And then John remembered something. He dug through his drawer to see if he still had it.

One time, one of his girlfriends had left makeup in his bathroom. And he never threw it out.

God, what had he come to that he was going to put makeup on himself?

More importantly, why wasn't he telling Sherlock what happened? Sherlock deserved to know.

But in truth, John was terrified. What would Sherlock say? What would he do? And John didn't even want to breach the drug use. He wanted to tell Sherlock that he had to stop, to take the drugs from him and flush them down the toilet, but Sherlock was an adult. John couldn't treat him like a child and take his toys away.

And so John, coward that he was, put makeup on his bite and proceeded to say absolutely nothing about what had happened.

Time passed, and it healed, both physically and emotionally. His bruises faded until they were gone, and he stopped feeling incredibly guilty about what had happened. Then he stopped feeling hurt that Sherlock had only slept with him because he was high. And then everything was normal, and John was close to forgetting it all. Close.

And then, months and months later, John was reading a book, and Sherlock had left hours ago—didn't say where he was going, which was pretty normal for him.

And Sherlock walked inside, slamming the door too hard. John jumped, turning and getting ready to yell—

He saw the eyes immediately and knew it was happening again. In the light, he could even see how irritated his nose looked.

"Sherlock," John said, standing up. "You need to lie down."

"No," Sherlock growled, "I don't." And he surged forward and—god, was this really happening again?—crowded John into the wall.

"Sherlock—"

"God, John, do you even know how hard it is the keep my hands off of you?" Sherlock's hands were running smoothly down John's body, making his flesh prickle with goosebumps. "I have to live with you every day and resist the urge to—god," he said reverently, running his nose up John's neck.

Sherlock… wanted this? Always wanted this?

No. There was no way. He was high.

But John was shaking, his breath echoing loudly in the otherwise silent room as Sherlock pressed kisses to John's neck—much gentler than last time. John rested his head against the wall behind him, shutting his eyes and just trying to breathe while Sherlock touched him like this. How could he think about his morals when he couldn't even remember how to breathe?

"John, I want to be inside you. All I want…" He took a bite of John's neck—but luckily, not quite as hard as last time. Or maybe John was already so turned on that he couldn't feel it properly. It was hard to know. Last time, he had been so confused that his arousal didn't burn very hot… but this time, John knew what was going to happen the moment Sherlock started to step towards him. So all he could feel was seemingly all the blood in his body going down to his cock as Sherlock started undressing him.

"Sherlock…" John said, his voice sounding far away. "You—we can't just—we don't have—"

"I have everything we need," Sherlock said impatiently. He then, quite unexpectedly, swung John around and shoved him onto the settee. By now John was only in his pants. He wasn't even sure how it happened.

And then Sherlock, in one quick movement, took John's prick from inside his pants and sunk his mouth down onto it.

"Oh fuck," John groaned—embarrassed that it came out almost as a yell in his surprise.

God, Sherlock felt good. Too good.

And John was so occupied with the feel of Sherlock's perfect mouth on him that he didn't notice what else was happening until he felt the cold, lube covered finger against his opening.

Even high, Sherlock was much cleverer than John. It'd just been a distraction.

But then the finger was inside. John was lying if he said he'd never experienced penetration before. He'd known about his tendencies towards men since uni, but he didn't get into any sexual relationships until Afghanistan. But they'd happened—with one man, in particular, on a pretty consistent, frequent schedule. But once he left, he never saw that man again, and never was with any other men. He had never been open about that side of him. When he started living with Sherlock, he knew that he couldn't hide it from him if he had any relationships with men. So he stuck with women, who he was equally pleased with.

You know, until he fell in love with Sherlock.

But anyway, the point was that he hadn't had anything inside him for years, and the feeling was both strange and refreshing at the same time. Somewhat nostalgic, even.

Really, he should have been relieved that Sherlock was even bothering stretching him first.

John was almost at the point where he was going to question what was happening, but then Sherlock found his prostate. He cried out, weaving his fingers in Sherlock's hair. Fuck, fuck, yes, just like that.

He wasn't even sure whether he said that out loud at this point.

The stretching didn't last long enough, John knew that, but he didn't care. When Sherlock pulled down his own pants to release his cock, John was basically gasping for it.

In fact, he was almost literally gasping. "God, Sherlock, please," he groaned.

Then Sherlock was inside him. It stung because of the lack of proper preparation, but John was so gone he could barely feel it.

In fact, John was in the middle of having a moment. Because yes, Sherlock was fucking him, and that felt good… but all John could think was, 'I can't be closer to Sherlock than this.'

I love you.

He wasn't sure if he said that out loud either. He wasn't sure if he even cared anymore. Because this was Sherlock, and he was closer than he could ever be, and that was enough. It had to be enough.

It became a habit. Not particularly frequent—once a month at most, but usually there were much longer gaps—but it still was consistent. If Sherlock ever came home high, he wanted to fuck John. And John inexplicably would let him. And each time, John felt worse about it and each time he needed it more than the last time.

He would always tell Sherlock the truth, because John knew he wouldn't remember.

"God, you're beautiful."

"I love you so much."

"Fuck, I need you."

He always said it. And he meant it. And Sherlock would respond like he meant it too, and John would know he didn't mean it in the slightest, and then Sherlock would forget.

How could John need this so badly while it hurt him so deeply?

It was an effort to pretend everything was normal. The more time that passed, the more energy it took. Because even though it hardly ever happened, John was getting used to being able to touch Sherlock. He would be standing at a crime scene and look at those keen eyes and those sharp cheekbones and all he wanted to do was reach out… but he couldn't. And he'd never be able to. Not when Sherlock was in his right mind.

John had been cycling through girlfriends even more desperately than usual just to try to forget about it—but it hadn't helped in the slightest. He couldn't sit with any of them for longer than five minutes without thinking back to Sherlock. And they all knew it too. They'd meet Sherlock and they'd know. And then they were gone.

So, in conclusion: John was screwed. Pun not intended.

John was so tired when he got back to the flat that he felt like he wouldn't even be able to climb up the stairs to his room. Just the stairs up to the door were an effort.

Work was hell. He pulled a double because someone else went home sick and some flu was going around—which made them both short-staffed and very busy—and John needed to pass out right about now. Not to mention he and Sarah had gotten into a row yesterday and still weren't talking, so it was tense as hell at the hospital.

When the lights were off in the flat, he somehow figured that meant Sherlock was in bed. Even though logically, that made no sense at all. That's how tired John was.

And then a light next to John's chair flicked on. Sherlock was sitting there, eyes lidded and dull.

Fuck.

"You've got to be kidding me," John muttered to himself, before saying more loudly, "Have I ever mentioned that your drug habit, no matter how infrequent, is a bad thing?"

Sherlock stood up, walking towards John. If he'd heard what John said, he was pretending he didn't.

Sherlock crowded against him, pressing him against the recently closed door. He bent down and bit at the tender skin at John's neck.

Problem was, John was so tired and grumpy, and this was so sudden, that he wasn't turned on at all. Sherlock's roughness was just a little too much for John on a normal day—but today, when he wasn't even horny, it skipped pleasure and went straight to pain.

"Sherlock, what the hell?" He shoved against his flatmate, who stumbled back and had to catch himself on the settee. "Don't I get any say in—"

John didn't know what would happen when he refused Sherlock. He didn't ever think the day would come. But here it was, and Sherlock's reaction was nothing like John could have ever predicted.

Sherlock, when he caught his balance once more, came forward and closed his hand around John's neck.

In his momentary moment of frozen panic, he was only able to process that 1) Sherlock was not trying to choke him in any sexy sort of way and 2) John had never been taking this drug use seriously enough.

John didn't know how long he was too surprised to move, but by the time he was functioning again, his lungs were burning and his throat hurt.

Then he remembered that he was a soldier and he could take Sherlock no problem.

It didn't take long to get Sherlock off him, to press him to the ground. "Sherlock, you moron, what in hell are you doing? I've let you do this to me, over and over, but I'm done with it. This was never right, for either of us. I shouldn't be condoning your drug use either. I'm finished. Deal with it."

John got up and turned to go up the stairs.

For some reason, he thought it was over.

He was halfway to his room when Sherlock clumsily began to follow him. John turned to say something and saw that he was carrying a rattan cane.

Where the fuck had that come from?

John ran up the steps and slammed the door. There was a smattering of feet, and then a dead stop right outside John's door.

Silence.

And then the banging started.

John gaped at the door. Sherlock was trying to break it down.

He knew that cocaine caused over-aggression, but this was nothing like John had ever seen before. Sherlock… was trying to really attack him.

When had this gotten so far out of hand?

"Sherlock, seriously, what the fuck is wrong with you? Even high, this is out of character."

The banging stopped. It was quiet again. Had John gotten to him?

And then, oh so quietly, in the blandest voice imaginable: "When I get in there, I am going to kill you."

John stood, suddenly made of stone. He wasn't even breathing.

Because he knew Sherlock well enough, even high, to know when Sherlock meant what he was saying.

And he meant it this time.

Holy fuck. What was he gonna do?

John dug through his drawer and found his pistol, checking it for bullets. He doubted he could ever shoot Sherlock, even if he was about to murder him, but he felt a little better with it there in his hand anyhow.

The banging continued. John wasn't sure what Sherlock was even hitting the door with. It sounded like his shoulder, at first—but either John's imagination was getting away with him or Sherlock had grabbed something better for breaking down doors. The sound was louder, and wood was splintering beneath it. Good thing he was high, or he would realise how good he was at picking locks and John would really be in a pickle.

Was there any point in trying to talk Sherlock down? John wasn't sure, but he didn't know what else to do at this point.

"Sherlock, come on, I'm your best mate. I don't want to fuck you this one time and suddenly you're threatening homicide?"

Sherlock didn't reply, which John didn't think that was a good sign. He just kept bludgeoning the door.

John realised that the centre of the room wasn't the best place for him to stand. He looked around and decided the closet was his best option. A dead end, but maybe Sherlock would come in, not see him, and leave. With how he was acting, it was possible.

All John could hope now was that Sherlock would get distracted, bored, tired, or some mix of the three.

John was in the closet, trying to stay calm, for an immeasurable amount of time before suddenly, the banging stopped.

John didn't feel like he should be comforted by that.

There were several options. None of them were appealing.

One, he realised he could pick locks. Not good.

Two, he passed out from overdose. Even worse.

Three, he weakened the door enough to get in already.

The best case he could think of, however, was that Sherlock had gotten distracted and left the area.

Problem was, John was seriously concerned Sherlock was unconscious. John wanted to go out there and check.

But he was worried if he left the closet, he was asking to get attacked.

Fuck, what the hell was all this? How did this happen to him? He was hiding from his best friend, the one person he ever truly loved, because the man was threatening to kill him. The man that would never love him back. The man that never considered his own feelings.

And John was just petrified he might be hurt out there.

John sat in the corner for another moment before he stood resolutely. He wasn't going to abandon Sherlock to possibly die no matter what.

He had his gun ready as he went over to his door. It was visibly damaged from the inside. He grabbed the handle, took a breath, and quickly opened the door.

Sherlock was sitting against the wall, his chin resting against his chest as his head sagged.

John immediately assumed he wasn't awake, but then Sherlock looked up, a dreamy smile on his face. "There you are, John. I want to… you're… Mmm…"

John took a sigh of relief. No more violent outbursts. He bent down in front of his friend. "Sherlock, you need some rest. Come on. I'll take you to bed."

And he did take Sherlock to bed. He dressed him and got him under the covers, and he shut Sherlock's door and went back up to his own room.

He should have felt better. Safe.

But he didn't. When he got to his room, his bed felt too open. What if Sherlock woke up in a fit again? Even though he felt silly doing it, he went back into his closet, his gun cradled to him. He brought his blanket and pillow. Before going in there though, he placed loud objects all over the floor, hoping Sherlock would knock them over and wake him up if he came back in.

Probably he should have left the flat. But he couldn't bring himself to. He didn't know why.

No, he knew. Because he wanted to make sure Sherlock was alright. Didn't matter if he was petrified. Sherlock would be okay, and that would be enough. It would have to be enough.

He was going mad, obviously. He knew it in his bones as he drifted into fitful sleep.

When John woke the next morning, he didn't know why he was so uncomfortable at first. Sitting up, with what was obviously his pistol clutched in his hand.

Then it all came rushing back.

He opened his eyes quickly—to see Sherlock standing over him.

Before John could help himself, he panicked. His eyes widened and he made to point his gun at Sherlock.

It took him another second to really look at his flatmate. He was dressed and sober, that was obvious. John relaxed, hoping Sherlock didn't notice the reflexive move.

But of course he did.

Sherlock's face was blank, as always, as he looked down at John.

Then Sherlock said, "Probably I could try to deduce what happened, but I think that, just this once, hearing it from you might be a more efficient way to go about this."

No, of course he didn't remember. John always half hoped he would. This time he had been desperate for it. But no. Nothing.

John stood up, brushing himself off. He didn't know how to make up a lie. There was nothing he could say that would make sense. This all looked very strange.

And then Sherlock's gaze locked in on something below his face. His eyes widened in something akin to fear—which was strange in that face, to say the least.

"John—what happened?"

John took a moment to remember… but then he could recall Sherlock trying to strangle him. His neck must've been bruised.

"Well," John said gruffly. "I think that's obvious. I've been attacked."

John shoved past him, putting his gun away and starting to put all his stray items scattering the floor back on his bookshelf and desk.

"Was someone searching for something?"

It was weird to hear Sherlock asking questions instead of just assuming. But then again, he was always off the morning after he was high.

"How would I know? I was in the closet, as you can see."

Sherlock grabbed John, spinning him around. He was probably getting ready to reprimand his flatmate for making a mockery of something when Sherlock was—for once—taking it seriously.

But John, again, acted reflexively. The moment Sherlock grabbed him, he yanked his arm away, pressing himself against the wall.

The look of shock on Sherlock's face was almost satisfying. Almost.

But it didn't last long. Because then Sherlock figured it out. His eyes got huge, and he exhaled quickly. He backed up a step.

"John," he breathed. "Was this… Did I…"

Seeing Sherlock look like that was too much for John. John never wanted Sherlock to look tortured like that. Not in a million years. Whether he deserved it or not.

So he stepped forward, saying, "No, of course—"

"Don't patronise me," Sherlock snapped. "I did this. I attacked you downstairs, then followed you up here and tried to—" He stopped in his tracks, and then said, "But I don't remember any of it. How do I not remember? I don't forget things."

"Don't forget things?" John scoffed. "How about every time you get high, you idiot?"

John didn't mean to say it. He was very out of sorts this morning and didn't realise what implications his words would have.

Sherlock met his eyes sharply.

"Ignore m—" John started, but Sherlock wouldn't have it. He took a step forward.

"John. You don't mean… I've done this before." Not a question. "I come home and I attack you?" Sherlock asked, appalled.

John didn't know what to say. He was trying to think of something.

But obviously, Sherlock thought faster.

"No, I've never hurt you before. And I don't have a history of this kind of violence, I know that. Not unless I wasn't getting something I wanted. Yes, that's it. I come home and I want something from you. Last night you wouldn't give it to me, so I got frustrated. Ah, yes, simple."

No no no, John begged internally. Don't figure it out. God, please, don't figure it out.

"What, do I want to do experiments on you?"

Sherlock was smiling now. John still didn't think it was funny.

Actually, now that they were talking about this… "Sherlock, why the hell did you start using again? I thought you were over this."

"Better question," Sherlock said, "is why did you let me? This is completely out of character for you. Why would you let me use if you knew I was doing it? Unless… the thing I ask for is something you don't mind. Maybe even enjoy. But then last night you said no… which means there must have been—"

Sherlock stopped dead in the middle of his deduction rant.

He was starting at nothing, his face having gone smooth again.

Fuck. No.

John was absolutely sure.

Sherlock figured it out.

Fuck. Now John was screwed. Really screwed. More than he had been when Sherlock was trying to murder him.

He had to say something.

"Sherlock, I know how many boundaries I must have crossed. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I don't—know what—I—" No words felt adequate. John's guilt, gnawing at him for so long, was now eating him alive.

And then Sherlock spoke. "You broke boundaries? Are you kidding?"

John met Sherlock's eyes. "You weren't in your right mind. I never should have let you. I know that sober, you never would have wanted it. But I…" He sighed. "I was weak. And I wanted to pretend that you wanted me. I… There's no excuse. It was wrong. I'm a shitty excuse for a human being, and you—"

"You… want me?"

The question caught John off-guard.

"I… uh…" Too late now. No point in lying. "I thought… you already knew. Since, you know, you know everything."

Sherlock's face was still impossible to read.

Then Sherlock stepped forward. "John," he breathed. "All this time…"

"All what time?"

Another step. They were close now. Too close. Not close enough? John wasn't sure. But he knew his heart was pounding and this fear wasn't the same as before—and not completely unpleasant either.

"John," Sherlock said again. "I… I only use on days when I can't ignore them."

"Ignore… what?"

"My… feelings."

John stared up at Sherlock without comprehension—but somewhere inside, he was beginning to get it, because his heart was beating still faster.

"For so long, I couldn't control them. I tried to ignore them, but it got too hard. The drugs helped. Or this whole time I thought they did. But when I used, I just came home and… John, I never meant to hurt you."

"I know you didn't," John said mechanically, because he was feeling very detached at the moment. This couldn't be real. No way. He was just mindlessly comforting Sherlock, even though the genius was making no sense.

"No, John, I need you to listen to me. I had no idea what I was doing to you. I… I apologise. Sincerely. I never would have—I shouldn't have—John, I never want to hurt you."

And maybe an apology shouldn't have been enough, after everything.

But somehow, it was.

"I know you don't," John repeated, but with feeling this time. John took a step forward so they were chest against chest. "But do you mean what you said? That you… have feelings for me?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Don't be daft, John. Why would I say it if I didn't mean it?"

John couldn't have dreamt this up, because never in his wildest imagination did he think he could be this lucky.

"Sherlock," John murmured, putting his head into the crook of the taller man's neck.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock repeated.

"Me too. We were pretty stupid."

"I think we have ample time to make it up to one another."

John grinned. "Yes, I believe so." A long pause where they just held each other. "No more drugs, Sherlock. I mean it."

John felt Sherlock's smile against the top of his head. "Why would I need cocaine when I have you now?"

The sound that came out of John's throat was alarmingly close to a giggle.

"I can't believe Sherlock Holmes just said that."

"Oh, why don't you put it on your blog, if you're so intrigued," said Sherlock drily.

John looked up at him, a mischievous look in his eyes. Sherlock's eyes went dangerous. "John, don't you dare."

"You'll have to catch me to stop me," John teased, running down the steps.

He let himself be caught, and Sherlock tackled him onto the couch. Sherlock was hovering above him, his eyes bright like they were supposed to be.

John grinned and craned his neck upward to steal a kiss.

"I love you," John said.

"I… well, you too," he said, embarrassed.

John smirked.

Even that lame response was enough. Definitely enough.

Hope you liked it! Please review!

Currently working on a chapter fic with this prompt (also from bloodsoakedleather), if anyone is curious:

AU. Moriarty is basically himself, high powered, dangerous, crime lord etc. One of our boys is his lover and one of our boys is his employee. Doesn't matter which is which, I can see both ways working for different reasons. Moriarty is violent and abusive towards his lover. A chance meeting at the office (some other work related scenario) leads to the employee falling in love and entering a secret affair with the obviously unhappy lover and deciding to rescue him from Moriarty.