I'm alive and well! So sorry for the absence, but it's been mad with university and assignments. Honestly, my only free time is in the weekends and during those I'm either preparing work for the next week, or relaxing because I'm too tired to write stories. Sad but true. So I sincerely hope that you all will be understanding if it takes time for me to update. I have a major essay that will be submitted by December, and then another in January so I'm just warning you; I might not be able to update until the middle of December. My bachelor depends on these essays. But on the other hand, the new chapter could be a Christmas present to you for being so kind. :) /sycamoretree

Chap. 26 The desire

As John was washing the cups and plates after meeting with Samir in the flat, he found himself grinning in pure contentment. The only sad thing about the unexpected guest was the reasons which had led him to visit in the first place, and maybe also the pathetic fact that the Lebanese restaurant owner was the only person beside John and Sherlock who had been to the flat after they moved in. Not that John planned on making Mycroft's flat a permanent home, but maybe he was becoming fond of it nevertheless. Maybe it wouldn't feel so strange if he invited Mrs. Hudson, Greg, and other pleasant people to a funny Christmas party.

John caught himself smiling again at his soapy hands as if they had brought him the biggest happiness in the world, so he reined in his enthusiasm and put down the plate he was currently holding to dry, if not a little domestic.

It had been brilliant to talk to someone for a long time, and the conversation had moved from topic to topic as both he and the, at first, tentative man lost their initial shyness.

The doctor had come home to see Sherlock listening intensely to what Samir was saying, but it was clear that they were almost finished with whatever they talked about. After John had said hello, Sherlock had summarized Samir's information and impressions of what he had been through when the anonymous gangster blackmailed him.

That wasn't pleasant to hear, and John hated seeing the usually joyful man sag with paranoia, though he remained calm for Samir's sake. What John had done was profoundly apologizing for not contacting the man earlier after Mycroft and his men were done investigating Samir and the case. He was quite guilt-ridden when he clearly saw the state of the terrorized man, and forgot that his own life hadn't been easy either, until Sherlock subtly reminded him of that.

John and Samir had both suffered from criminal acts, but that essentially meant they were bound together. While Samir blamed himself for not warning John with more than blinking in Morse when the doctor came to have lunch and later failing to identify the accent of the masked man, John accused himself of getting Samir into unnecessary trouble by coming back to the place frequently, thus forcing Samir to repeatedly become a tool.

Sherlock had retorted in a condescending tone that both of them were idiots for feeling guilt for something neither could help when it was obvious that the real culprit was the gangster with the gun and poison. The detective had then retreated to the kitchen to prepare tea, with alarmingly loud noises, probably annoyed at the irrational behaviour of normal humans.

But in their solitude, John and Samir ended up mollifying each other, especially once it became clear that no-one had any hard feelings. They moved on to other things; things that didn't concern the trauma they had shared. With his patience, kindness and relaxed demeanour, John had even managed to coax Samir into opening the restaurant again, because the doctor missed his favorite lunch place.

Samir had brightened at the compliment and quietly pointed out that maybe he wouldn't make fish and chips for the doctor for some time, to which John had laughed and replied that maybe he didn't want fish and chips anyway. Sherlock had rolled his eyes in sufferance at the simple and uninspiring conversation before he dashed towards the kitchen again, apparently to find indispensable napkins.

As he finished doing the dishes, John emptied the sink from dishwater and bent his neck sideways to relax the muscles there.

"Your position was inadequate, and the bent back resulted in the strained muscles in your nape," a calm voice explained and John looked at the entrance to the kitchen where Sherlock leant into the doorway with an elegant look about him.

"Maybe it was the amount of time I spent doing all the dishes when you were off doing nothing," John retorted, though with a teasing tone Sherlock perceived.

"I served. Only fair if you took care of the cups," the detective finished triumphantly before crossing his arms before his chest. John dried his hands on a towel nearby and changed the subject.

"Interesting meeting Samir here today. Thanks for handling him before I got home."

A smirk grazed the alluring detective's lips. "So I managed to be civil to one of your acquaintances, then? Good to know I'm learning."

John chuckled at the amusing sarcasm and spun around to lean against the counter.

"Samir told us a great deal what happened behind that plastic curtain of his in the restaurant. Not so surprising that he's scared now," he mumbled with a serious tone and watched Sherlock's dark brows furrow.

"Yes, though he only added his own personal point of view on the case. He didn't actually share any information we don't already have."

Sherlock shifted in the doorway and his jaw tensed in an alarming way. John decided to interfere before the detective showed his frustration with the case.

"Hey, I just had an idea. How about throwing a Christmas party here in a few weeks? Even though I'm working on the clinic I'm still available in the evenings, just like the rest of our friends. I'm thinking of Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and other people."

Ice-blue, winter-cold eyes pierced him from across the room and John trailed off. "You don't want a party?" he asked cautiously but Sherlock's shoulders slumped before dread rose in him.

"I suppose it could be tolerant, since it only occurs once a year. And I do have my laptop should I be bored… The elevator will enable Greg and Mrs. Hudson to easily get here."

"But? Sherlock, talk to me," John coaxed gently, sensing there was something the man kept to himself. Maybe that was why he lingered by the door, as if reluctant on entering the kitchen and coming close to John. Sherlock fingered the buttons on his jacket and huffed loudly, resembling a martyr.

"Who else will come, hmm? We don't have many other regular friends. Will you invite a whole bunch of ex-girlfriends, or what?" Sherlock asked haughtily and undid his jacket, left it open for three seconds before buttoning it again. John took a deep, strengthening breath, willing himself to not be irritated with Sherlock's obvious, naïve distress.

"Not many girls would be willing to spend hours with me here, I promise you that. That is not standard relationship procedure for normal people. An ex is an ex and isn't entitled to go to a Christmas party," John declared, slightly ashamed by the knowledge of just how many women there were i London that wouldn't be invited to the party. Then he relented, because they were probably better off without him anyway.

Sherlock toed the floor beneath the threshold. "So exactly who else is there who you consider worthy of an invitation?" he spat as disgust flashed over his face and made John tip his head and wonder with a half laughing voice, "Sherlock, are you jealous?"

If the tall man had been equipped with ears and tail, they would probably bend back by now. "No! Never. As if I… would submit to that primitive and purely illogical feeling," Sherlock squeaked and happened to slip on the threshold and land on the floor with clattering soles and non-existent fluidity. A broad smile spread on John.

"You are! You are jealous! For me?"

Colour bloomed on Sherlock's cheeks. Indignantly, and once more unbuttoning his jacket, he hissed, "Well, it's your mysterious guests that will trample this flat and I have not grasped what kind of people they are, and God knows how they will react to alcohol and… John it's an established scientific fact that many people hook up at Christmas parties, and with alcohol reducing the judgement in certain individuals…"

John lost the smile and grasped each elbow defensibly. "I'm not sure what you're implying here, Sherlock. That people wouldn't throw themselves at me unless if they're inebriated, or that I'll flirt with them even when I'm with you?"

He did in fact feel a bit insulted. Sherlock took a bold step forward and scowled, though his eyes darted cautiously. "John, you are jumping to conclusions. Yes, you are charming to people, sober or inebriated, but since we have not declared our relationship to the world, you are as far as they know single and no-one would see anything wrong in making a pass at you even though I'm standing beside you! Add alcohol to the mix and it's bound to be an exceptionally memorable party. I can't predict how these strangers will behave and I'd rather not have to fend them off if you find them delightful."

Okay, so maybe John's heart melted a bit at that declaration. He tilted his head and scratched his neck. The simple truth was easy to deliver. "I was thinking of maybe inviting Mike Stamford from Bart's, and Molly, colleagues from the clinic, that sort of thing. No ex-girlfriends. I'll be all yours that evening, I promise."

The last statement seemed to please and embarrass Sherlock. Several times he opened his mouth to speak only to close it. After a minute he inhaled and his entire shape seemed to alter from tense to shy and formal.

"Well, I see. Umm. So, a calm party then."

John nodded earnestly and awaited Sherlock's next move. The detective was studying the floor and looked young with his blushing cheeks.

"I guess I could live with that," Sherlock murmured and John decided to step into his personal space and tenderly placed his hands on the curves of Sherlock's waist.

"Good that you told me what was bothering you, so that we could sort it out together. But you don't have to worry about anyone whisking me away even if I'm laughing at their joke, or smiling at them. I'm with you, silly."

John nudged Sherlock's head up with his forehead and sought out the by blood accentuated lips. At first, Sherlock was tentative but after a while John felt his lips begin to work against his.

John pressed himself into the tall man and the close proximity had him reliving the very tempting snog on the sofa, which was why he, instead of plunging his tongue into Sherlock's wet cavern, nibbled delicately on his lower lip before leaning back an inch and emitted with his eyes on Sherlock's parted lips, "I'll come out soon. I can tell you when, so you know, too. I don't want to flirt with women when I'm with you. And I want the world to know that you're my boyfriend."

Sherlock's jaw flexed but his eyes were illuminated. "That pedestrian term…"

John pulled back in order to take a closer look at the detective and found that his expression was one of unabashed delight.

"I could learn to accept that term when it applies on us," Sherlock smiled and at once it wasn't a big deal when John followed Sherlock into his bedroom to spend the night there.

Saturday morning. Blessed weekend. And John made sure he made the most of his free hours. He had rolled over to Sherlock' side of the bed and bumped into the still sleeping detective which inevitably woke him up.

Without uttering a word, it was clear to both of them that they were in a certain kind of mood. In silence, John maneuvered Sherlock so the man straddled him, thus giving the virgin control over the level of intimacy and as Sherlock easily settled on his belly, John gasped at the tangible weight on him and what it caused for his fluttering insides.

But it was the man with the wild nest of black curls, wrinkled pajamas, and visibly tented trousers who surprised him next by skimming his warm fingers along the edge of John's t-shirt. Questioning grey eyes searched for his and John nodded stupidly, unable to disturb the silence when Sherlock sat on him and fiddled with his clothes.

Almost as if he was dragging it out on purpose, Sherlock bunched up the t-shirt and John arched, then lifted his arms and head to help pulling off the garment. The first thing Sherlock did once he had gotten John out of his shirt was scanning his torso and then purposely bending over John and diving in to taste the skin that created his scar on the back of his shoulder.

It happened so fast that John barely registered it, but then he felt the tongue there. A sharp gasp escaped him and all of a sudden he had a firm hand pressed against the back of Sherlock's head. Sherlock tried to nip at the area with his teeth.

"Ahh! Sherlock…fuck!" John moaned before a violent tremble went through his body and the hand involuntarily relaxed its grip on Sherlock's hair. He gritted his teeth and dread washed over him as he sunk back onto the mattress, arousal vanishing.

Clearly confused by his response, Sherlock raised his head and looked into John's contorted face and his expression turned alarmed when John couldn't bear to meet his clueless gaze.

"John?"

Sherlock's voice was husky, maybe from sleep, maybe from excitement, but worried.

"Yeah?" the doctor whispered back brokenly and sniffled before covering his eyes with a hand. He heard the detective shift on him and at length Sherlock brought his head down to brush his soft lips over each of his displayed knuckles before John drew a shaky breath.

"What's wrong, John?"

John felt tears gather despite his firmly shut lids. This wasn't what he had planned, and it was his fault he was ruining their morning and he was swallowed by self-disgust at his weakness. He revealed in a broken whisper while keeping the hand as a barrier between him and Sherlock, "Of all the options…Sherlock, I can't understand you. Why would you want to lick my scar when there are so many other places on me to choose?"

He could sense how the body tensed above him and as the weight left him, he felt so rejected it was as if he had been stabbed in the heart. Moisture spread around his eyes when his palm caught the rolling tears. Mutely, the detective promptly pulled away John's sheltering hand and made him look into his eyes. He was still straddling John, just not sitting on him.

"John."

The golden-haired man sniffed and blinked up as he watched Sherlock's completely soft face. He should feel too exposed but that expression had him immobile on his back. Sherlock curiously tilted his head. "What do you see when you look at your scar?"

Frowning at the strange question, John bit his lip before replying with a strained voice, "Death. How close it was I didn't make it. Ugliness. Blood and pain, so much pain. And expensive therapy sessions." At the end, a corner of his mouth twitched upwards but he remained saddened and vulnerable.

Sherlock braced his torso by planting his elbows on the sheet on either side of John's head, and came to stretch his body over him, as if protecting him from everything in the outside world. He brought his face close and inspected the redness around John's eyes. "Can you guess what I see?" he mumbled.

"No idea; you're an unforeseeable bloke," John replied with some irony and peered up at the unaffected man.

"I see life."

John's eyes widened and his quivering mouth fell open. Sherlock went on. "I see you fighting your way back to life, and refusing to give up. That makes the scar beautiful, because it isn't remnants of a wound; it's a reminder of how your body and you fought to live so you had to develop new skin above the area. And furthermore," Sherlock said and lowered his head slowly to wait for John's reaction but the doctor didn't stop him, "although I don't believe in fate, this scar is, one among other reasons, how we came to meet at Bart's."

Sherlock's angled his face below John's left collarbone and sucked gently on the paler, star-shaped skin and John felt a ripple run through him, not so much from the sensations as from the sheer meaning behind the gesture. Sherlock mumbled with his lips still against his scar, "That is why I don't think it's marring you, John. The whole of you is beautiful to me."

He finished by planting a delicate kiss on the skin and leant back to evaluate his work and John's expression. Neither of them was aroused any longer, but John was more at ease and wiped away the dampness on his face, relieved although still a bit upset. Sherlock waited for him.

"Sherlock?"

A fragile smile graced John's lips and warmth spread inside as he took in the vision of Sherlock on all four leaning over him, neither repulsed or annoyed. Sherlock raised an elegant eyebrow.

"Hold me, please."

Without analyzing why, Sherlock cradled John to his chest and the doctor clung to him like a baby monkey, albeit a bit heavier and larger. It was nice to just hug Sherlock with a naked chest. Seemingly on instinct, Sherlock caressed the back of his neck soothingly and sometimes swept a fingertip insistently over the scar while John seemed to concentrate on taking deep, slow breaths.

"I'm holding you, I'm holding you," Sherlock reassured him and held him tight.

John needed Sherlock as much as the detective needed him.

"I'll have you know, young man, that I still have a few belongings of yours. I managed to save them from the fire by placing them in my nightgown."

Sherlock altered between being boundlessly excited and incredibly annoyed at the news. Naturally, he could have had used of those items earlier. Still, he more than anyone knew how to tread carefully around the lady who spoke in the phone. And he admitted he was keen on retrieving these small objects that undoubtedly were of importance to him simply by being his property.

"Mrs. Hudson, you are a star," he uttered fairly kindly and could hear faint clicks in his ear. Immediately he deduced that his former landlady was changing channels on her TV while talking to him and he scowled at that revelation. Wasn't he worth all her attention?

"Oh, you!" Mrs. Hudson admonished with a titter before finally spilling the beans and for once, Sherlock appreciated that she had a habit of telling things and gossip.

"It was just trinkets you'd misplaced in my flat. One of those magnifying glass of yours, a note with some scribbled words, and a photo of sooty fingerprints on a fire hose."

Unable to remain cool to the fact that Mrs. Hudson had saved a memento from the case with the Fake Firefighter, Sherlock's grimace melted into only a mildly impatient expression.

"Really? And pray tell why you didn't tell me this before."

The woman huffed. "I was waiting for you to get in touch with me before you found out I had something you might want. Apparently your affections have been exaggerated, because you, as opposed to John, haven't called me once since the fire."

Internally, Sherlock swore at the trap he found himself in. He had expected the call to only last so many minutes to inform her that she was invited to the Christmas party and he really wanted to get back to his current case but now he was bound to spend at least half an hour grovelling for the lady to be able to secure his possessions. He sighed and breached the subject.

"How are you?" The mundane, superfluous phrase left a bitter taste in his mouth and he shuddered.

A delighted squeal was heard. "I'm alright. I'm staying at a friend but after the holidays I plan to start looking for a new house, preferably one where I can live and have tenants. But there aren't that many houses available with rooms on the first floor and you know how my hip bothers me…"

The lady droned on while Sherlock suffered in silence and repeatedly reminded himself why he was torturing himself.

'A magnifying glass of the best quality, a memento for the archive. You can do this. It isn't worse than the Christmas dinners with Mycroft and the family.'

In the end, he lasted precisely nineteen minutes before cutting off the talkative lady who had warmed up considerably after the 'dialogue'.

"I expect you to bring my things when you come for the party."

Sherlock undid the knot he had managed with his contorted body limbs, a position on the floor beside John's bed which many yoga enthusiasts would have envied him for. Mrs. Hudson exclaimed in an animated tone, "Will that handsome police boy come too? Don't think I missed him in the papers. So sad how the journalists treated him. Frankly, I think they do resemble vultures sometimes."

Sherlock shot a pleading look in direction to the door, wishing against hope that John would for some reason leave the clinic at ten o'clock and come home and save him from the lengthy conversation. His fingers itched to go through the online documents he had found in Scotland Yard's system concerning the investigation on the murdered Mrs. Johnson and her nail polish.

"Lestrade will be present. You can sync your arrivals by taking the lift together!" he all but gritted out and swept his fringe aside with born elegance.

"Oh, speaking of injuries!" Sherlock fisted his hand and prayed for patience, "How is John doing now?"

The question invoked a tiny smile but Sherlock was careful to not let on anything. "He is fine. Working again and everything. He's struck a deal with a restaurant owner nearby the clinic; he'll give the man extra tip for his lunch and the owner will in return give him a discount on the meal."

That information was true, although completely illogical to Sherlock but he supposed it was related to gestures of compensation from both parts. John and Samir would remain friends despite the horrors they had been through.

"Why on earth would he do that for?" Mrs. Hudson inquired and Sherlock grinned and observed the blue sky outside. He wouldn't share recent details about the fire case with her but he quickly came to the conclusion that an honest answer nevertheless wouldn't hurt. "Because he's a nice man."

Mrs. Hudson agreed earnestly. "That he is. Oh, look at the time. Well, I'll be delighted to visit your new home in a few weeks, and send John my love."

Suddenly suspicious at the unexpected turn of events, Sherlock frowned and shot up and skidded to the kitchen in pursuit of the scattered papers. There must be a reason to why the little lady wanted to hang up al of a sudden in the middle of a marathon conversation. And the clever detective had already concluded that she was seated in front of a TV.

"I'll certainly do that, and I'm glad you are well despite the strange autumn," he rambled absently as he simultaneously searched for the proper pages with his free hand. There, the TV guide. Busted. 'Ha! Fawlty Towers shows at 10.00 a.m.'

Somehow he was stung that the lady preferred stupid series over talking to him but he hid the feeling by pursing his lips imperiously.

"Bye, Mrs. Hudson, and enjoy your simpleton comedy," he drawled and hung up just in time to capture an indignant "Sherlock!"

He treated himself to a brimming glass of milk after that accomplishment.

I decided to stop here, because the chapter was becoming way too long for my taste. I have parts written on the next, and even if our heroes were c*ckblocked by a heartbeat here, the next chapter will be very satisfying, ha ha. Until later! And I do welcome reviews.