There was someone at the end of the bed, someone who certainly had no reason to be there, that was his first thought when his eyes slowly opened to the dimly lit room, door open to the hall and orange light streaming in from behind a tall black silhouette.

"You were shouting."

The voice was familiar, not overly so but - Sherlock. John groaned and pushed up, his sleep shirt stuck to his body with sweat, hair stuck up in messy patches, his breathing a little laboured.

"Yeah..."

John replied, closing his eyes and breathing in - out - in - out.

"Yeah, it happens just - just give me a minute."

The shadow hovered for a long moment, standing in the door way like an unwelcome ghost - John had plenty of those as it was.

"I won't ask you again. Just give me a goddamn minute."

His voice was low and hoarse, heavy from sleep but determined with the slightest hint of danger. Only then did the slave nod and retreat, John left to fall back down onto his pillows, finger tips tapping at the cotton covering his chest.

The dreams hadn't started until the infection, it ravaged him - really tore him apart and then they had just...stayed. Clung to him like vines of ivy, constricting, making it hard to breathe, to survive. His strong hands clutched tightly into the twisted sheets, face twisted as he tried to fight off reoccurring images of his hands wrist deep in some poor kids guts, trying to stitch skin that kept breaking beneath his fingers.

"Fuck".

He hissed.

"Fuck"

John sat up, pushing the twisted quilt from his body and placing his bare feet onto the carpet, wriggling his toes in the rough material for a long moment, head bowed. He wasn't ashamed. He wasn't. The man pushed up and stepped softly out into the living room, the slave sat upon the floor with his back against the couch. John ignored him, passing straight through into the kitchen. Routine and method. Mug, tea bag, kettle, milk - no sugar. Hot water, steam, a burning touch to the palm of his hand. Grounding. He took it back with him and settled down onto the sofa, feet resting beside where Sherlock sat.

They were silent for a long time, not awkward, yet not exactly comfortable either. He wanted to be alone and at the same time he wanted to be - anywhere other than in his room, suffocating on memories he couldn't...had no chance of being able to control. The figure beside him shifted, moving to his knees and looking up at him with story, owlish eyes.

"You dream about the war."

"I thought you weren't supposed to speak unless spoken too."

John snapped, eyes flashing dark before he sighed, face draining of colour. He scrubbed at his face with his free hand.

"Apologies."

"No, it's..."

The slave took the mug from his hands with John watching every movement. His facial expression remained calm, pale milky skin tainted with an odd glow from the street lamp light creeping in through the gap in the blinds.

Sherlock shuffled silently closer, using strong slender hands to part his thighs and lodge himself between them.

"I'm supposed to be here to make you feel better..."

John snorted, shaking his head slowly.

"Is that what they told you? You shouldn't even be here - humans shouldn't be in captivity."

"Quiet."

John paused, aware of the fact that he should probably consider some kind of punishment, but he found himself unwilling to be concerned by it. Quiet was good, so who was he to argue? The touch of warm hands through the cotton of his pyjama trousers was a comfort. He had been without for long enough and Sherlock's strange almost alien beauty contradicted any argument he could possibly think of. Instead of saying anything John gave a short nod, settling back against the cushions and closing his eyes. He could feel guilty later, now at least - he just needed to feel something.

It wasn't like before, no sharp sounds or desperate noises. All of Sherlock's actions had a purpose, a perfect control that John would envy if he had the presence of mind to register it. His cock was out, cradled in the palm of one hand, Sherlock stroking him to a slow rhythm that must have been playing in his own head. He hadn't been hard but Sherlock coaxed him, allowing the blood to slowly drain south, filling him out. With sensual, considerate motions.

Small noises found their way from Johns throat and past his lips into the quiet room, mixing neatly with the rustle when sherlock shifted on the floor, or the quiet breaths and his own beating heart. John reached out and touched a hand to the soft curls, ethyl washed, brushed and unknotted.

The first touch of lips was a kiss, a careful pucker and quick lap of a talented tongue, a tease but without the intent of torture. The process was lazy, the man's tongue drawing slowly up his shaft, massaging the glands at a pace set silently between the pair of them. Johns had were never insistent, just an existing anchor, one keeping him grounded while Sherlock and his mouth had him reaching up into space.

Even when the slave swallowed around him John managed to stay still, to just open his eyes and look down at swollen lips as they stretched around him, wide eyes locked upon his which had been open and watching his expression the entire time. Sherlock started then - bobbing his head, lifting off and paying delicate attention to the head, fingers playing with the sensitive foreskin right down to the soft skin of his sac, tugging gently, kissing from base to tip. Everything was slight, easy - nothing John had to think much abut other than the gradual increase of pleasure, the tightening in his chest and the pit of his stomach.

Whether his eyes were open or closed John knew the slave was watching, seeing through him in a way that should have unnerving, probably would have been is he weren't so out of it. A soft 'Christ' fell from his lips, head falling back and any sense that he would be ale to hold on slipped through his hands in a single beat of his fluttering heart.

"Please." John murmured.

Now that wasn't right, was it? Pleading, begging for a slave - or just another human being. John closed his eyes tightly against any thought that threaten to invade this- this euphoria and fixed his mind on the draw of lips, the slight increase of suction and the hand now wrapped around the base of his prick to ensure his entire length was covered.

"Go on..."

A brief moment of cool air as Sherlock whispered words over the tip of his cock, giving no time for a response before he was down again. More vigorous now, taking John deep enough that he felt the contraction f the man's throat, the way he feared on him -

"Fuck - "

He clenched his fists, one hand flying up, pulling at his own hair, desperately trying to stave off the inevitable. But why? Why deny himself when - oh...oh...

It didn't hit like a gunshot, didn't surprise him or crash sparks of white over his vision. The process of his orgasm was long, drawn out - a slow ragged bucking of his hips, spilling out past the slick pucker of Sherlock's lips. John's eyes rolled, his whole body going stiff for a long moment until all his bones apparently disappeared from under his skin and he was left, the warmth of Sherlock's mouth falling away, useless and sated.

"Don't..."

John croaked, reaching out blindly, eyes still closed. He caught Sherlock's curls again and with a light tug guided Sherlock to sit over him on the couch, taking a moment to breath in the scent of himself on the slaves breath. There was one single quiet moment where he debated his next move before cock his head and pressing their lips together once for a few brief seconds, slowly coming back to that place where he was John Watson - doctor, soldier...reluctant slave owner.

"Go to bed."

He breathed, refusing to open his eyes and look, fearful of what might happen if he did. To his surprise the weight upon him lifted and when he heard the door click he finally dared opening his eyes again, looking to was the closed door with a blank expression.

"Oh John..."

He groaned, falling back again and promising himself that the release forms would be completed and sent off by the next afternoon.