Author note: This story is a sequel to my two earlier fics, "Always The Last To Know" and "Completely Amazing." It would probably make more sense to read one or both of those first, as they both tell how John and Sherlock got to this point, since the opening scene is an epic snogfest!

Just FYI: My Sherlock is based on a close relative with Asperger Syndrome. I don't see Sherlock as being a true sociopath/suffering from antisocial personality disorder. I do think he misses a lot of social cues, and has developed his "sociopath" persona as a defensive mechanism due to years of being misunderstood.

Disclaimers: Sherlock belongs to Steven Moffatt and Mark Gatiss, Sherlock Holmes originally belonged to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I own nothing. This makes me very sad. However, if Mr. Cumberbatch or Mr. Freeman (or both! together!) ever feels a need for a little temporary ownership, I'm sure we could come to an arrangement. ;)

Warnings: Sherlock/John. Slash, slash, slash. If guy-on-guy is not your cup of tea, then for heaven's sake, go ahead and avert your eyes now. References to previous abusive relationship.

Many thanks to my lovely beta, Skyfullofstars. And thanks to the marvelous MirithGriffin for Sherlock's "new face, fresh out of the box." Thanks for letting me borrow the phrase! ;)

This fic has been translated to French by the lovely Hanako_Hayashi. Read it here: /www. fanfiction s/ 8313100/1/ La_chanson_de_Sherlock

Traduction française par la belle Hanako_Hayashi. Lisez-le ici: /www. fanfiction s/ 8313100/1/ La_chanson_de_Sherlock

Please read and review!

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Chapter 1

" Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth,
for your love-making is sweeter than wine.
In his delightful shade I sit,
and his fruit is sweet to my taste.
My love is mine and I am his. "

– Song of Solomon

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I'm kissing Sherlock. Even better, Sherlock's kissing me.

Isn't this the point where I wake up?

Up until yesterday, I didn't even realise how badly I wanted this to happen. The last 24 hours have been a life-changing whirlwind. I had drinks with Sarah, and finally poured out my heart to her about my confusion over everyone's obsession with my relationship to my mad flatmate. She gently, but ruthlessly, pointed out that it's obvious to everyone (although it hadn't been obvious to me) that I'm besotted with Sherlock.

After a long night of soul-searching, I came to the realisation that she's right. God help me, I'm bewitched by this ridiculous, marvelous madman. I'd rather spend a Saturday afternoon with him, rooting through a skip for severed fingers (if only I were being hyperbolic with this example), than spend that same time with anyone else doing something normal. Normal isn't for me.

So it's good that I've found Sherlock.

Because now, at this moment, things are better than they've ever been in my life. We're sprawled across the sofa, shirts untucked, hair mussed, arms and legs tangled together, and we're trading breaths and our tongues are circling and dancing, and I'm all too aware of a certain hot, hard pressure against my hip, and notice that either my own jeans have shrunk in one specific area, or my erection is becoming a…errr…growing problem. If I don't calm things down, I'm going to come in my pants like a randy teenager. It's hard to believe I'm pushing forty.

I reluctantly pull back, a feat made even harder by a little whimpering sound from Sherlock. (Oh my God, me, I did that to him!) I stroke his cheek, kiss his neck lightly, laughing softly into his ear.

He pulls back, studying me, that adorable, confused half-smile on his face that he gets when he's uncertain what the joke is. I both love and hate that expression. I love it because it's so charmingly awkward, as though he's trying on a new face, fresh out of the box, and isn't sure if it fits right. But it breaks my heart, too, because I see the little boy inside, the one who is certain that everyone is laughing at him again. I hasten to explain my laugh, to ease the fears of that much younger, vulnerable Sherlock inside.

"Well, I guess I can stop saying, 'I'm not gay' to Angelo, Lestrade, and everyone else we know."

Sherlock's smile broadens into the real smile, the one that so few people ever see. My heart pounds with the realisation that he trusts me enough to share that smile with me. The smile is a magical thing, transforming Sherlock's face from a perfect, unapproachable sculpture to a set of creases and laugh lines that mirror the amazing soul inside.

(Hey, I told you I'm smitten.)

Sherlock's mouth quirks up even further, and he regards me with a raised eyebrow. "Are you no longer attracted to women, John?"

"At the moment, I'm only attracted to you. I can't imagine anyone, male or female, ever attracting my interest again."

"In the past, I have observed you noticing attractive individuals of both genders, John. My guess would be that you are not gay, but bisexual, or perhaps, pansexual."

"Pansexual?"

"Attracted to particular individuals, rather than a general gender." Sherlock clarifies. "A lot of people don't appreciate the distinction between the two sexualities."

"Hmmf. Dr. John Watson: Pansexual. You might be right." I pause for a moment, then find myself giggling madly. "At first I thought pansexual might mean attracted to guys in green outfits who can fly."

Sherlock's eyes twinkle at me. "Actually, John, you might be proving my point. A woman has often played Peter Pan, both onstage and in movies, because the truss harness required for flying causes intense discomfort for male actors. Does Sandy Duncan get your motor running?"

"Tosser." I tackle Sherlock back into the sofa cushions, zeroing in for another kiss. "I think you have ample evidence of who gets my motor running."

He hooks his leg around mine, managing to flip us over so I'm on my back, with his long, lean body pressed above mine. I groan as intense heat pools in the base of my spine.

"Indeed."

oOoOo

And Sherlock and I are kissing again. Kissing Sherlock is nothing like kissing anyone I've ever dated. He has that same precision and quest for perfection that he brings to every skill he has. He is simply amazing. How could I not have known that he was right for me until now?

Sherlock pulls away, lips swollen and reddened from the kisses (my kisses!), and smiles down into my eyes.

"All right?"

"All right, Sherlock."

He nestles back down against my chest, cradled in my arms, and wraps his arms tightly around me. I feel his long, slim fingers making idle circles across my ribs. We lie that way for ages, but eventually my stomach betrays me, growling noisily in the quiet flat. Sherlock huffs with laughter against my chest.

"Chinese or Indian, John?"

I grin. "Chinese, I think." Sherlock lifts his mobile from his pocket and swiftly texts in our favorites from the Chinese place at the end of Baker Street. Twenty minutes later, the bell chimes. I start to sit up. Sherlock growls and presses me back down.

"Let Mrs. Hudson get it."

"Sherlock, I'm not making her pay for our meal. Let me go, and I'll come back and feed you those prawn crackers you like."

Sherlock grumbles, but lets me up.

I rush down, beating Mrs. Hudson to the door by a few steps. I pay the deliveryman, then turn to return upstairs – to find Mrs. Hudson before me, shrewdly regarding me with a twinkle in her eye.

"And about bloody time, too, John Watson."

I gape at her, astonished. So often she's so…dotty, absentminded. Then suddenly she'll have moments where she's almost as perceptive as Sherlock.

She grins, roguishly. "I thought you two would never sort things out. For goodness' sake, boy – what took you so long?"

"I…I…" There are no adequate words. Her question is a valid one. What took me so long? "…I don't know."

"Silly gits, both of you. Too stubborn to see what everyone else saw, plain as day."

Impulsively, I reach out and give her a quick hug, swamping her with bags of Chinese takeaway. She swats me on the arm, smiling fondly.

"Go on then. I'll put some nice scones outside your door, so you have something tasty for breakfast in bed tomorrow." She winks at me. "Now get back up there to your man."

I rush back up the stairs to my…flatmate…friend…boyfriend?

Lover?

Maybe soon.

oOoOo

Much later in the evening, after much cuddling and giggling, plus plenty of snogging, we've settled down to lounge in each other's arms on the sofa. I'm absolutely chuffed to see this side of Sherlock. He's always been far more tactile with me than with anyone else. Most people aren't allowed to touch him, other than a cool handshake. He allows me to touch him, even manhandle him at times, but there's still always been a reserve there, a line I couldn't cross.

Now here we are, twined together on the sofa, kissing and stroking, and he doesn't seem to be having any reserve about being touched and stroked. In fact, he keeps pulling me closer, twining his arms tighter around me, his hands and mouth exploring, discovering new tastes and smells, as though he is cataloguing the unique details of every inch of my face and neck for future reference.

In no time he has me gasping, desperate for more, for closer contact. I pull away a bit, and raise trembling fingers to fumble with the buttons of that damn sexy plum-coloured shirt. Sherlock's burning gaze never leaves mine (God, those eyes) as I work at his buttons, sliding the silky fabric back to expose uncharted skin.

I slip my hands into his shirt, peeling it back over his shoulders, dropping it to the floor beside the sofa. His torso is exquisite. I remember being stunned the first time I saw Sherlock without a shirt. I had been expecting to see ribs, perhaps a slightly sunken sternum, and jutting vertebrae. Instead, although he is very slender, Sherlock is corded with strong muscle, and his body is a work of art, all sleek muscle and alabaster. Sherlock is like a flesh-and-blood version of Vitruvian Man.

(Yes, yes, I know. Smitten, remember?)

I pause long enough to snatch off own shirt, ignoring buttons to simply drag it over my head, then hurling it with force across the room. Later we will find it dangling from the horn of the cow skull on the wall, but at the moment, neither of us pay any attention – there are much more urgent matters at hand.

Now that I'm actually allowed to touch Sherlock's perfect porcelain skin, I plan to take full advantage. I lean in and tongue along his clavicle to his suprasternal notch. At the sensation of my tongue stroking into that sensitive hollow, Sherlock groans and throws his head back, exposing his long, swanlike throat. His throat works convulsively as I kiss my way up to his jawline, then I capture his full lips with mine.

I gently nip his lower lip, and when he breathlessly parts his lips in a gasp, I seize the opportunity to deepen the kiss, sliding my tongue along the roof of his mouth. He plunges his hands into my hair, pulling me closer. Our bare chests are pressed together, and our still-clothed erections slide against each other with delicious friction.

I release Sherlock's beautiful mouth and start to kiss my way down his smooth, whipcord-muscled chest, and flick my tongue across his rigid nipple. Sherlock gasps, "John!" and gives a convulsive jerk.

Nnnngg…he is so incredibly sensitive there. I raise my left hand to tease his right nipple as I continue to lave his left one with my tongue. Sherlock writhes and moans, lost in sensation.

I continue my exploratory mission down Sherlock's belly, dipping my tongue into his navel, eliciting another groan, and Sherlock's hands clutch spasmodically at my shoulders. I give his (unbelievably sexy) navel one more swirl of the tongue, then lift back up to kiss him once more, sliding a hand beneath him to grab a lush handful of his arse.

This is going too fast. All I want is to keep going, to discover the mysteries of Sherlock's body, watch him unravel beneath my hands and mouth. Being with him is a miracle, and I never want this to end.

But I realise now that Sherlock is trembling, and gasping for breath. And…this is all so new, so sudden. These feelings that I have for Sherlock aren't actually new, they've been growing for some time. Still, until yesterday I hadn't really examined my feelings for Sherlock, and I had believed myself to be heterosexual. You could safely call it a rather momentous experience. Maybe slowing things down a bit might not be the worst idea.

I kiss Sherlock once more, then pull away and lean up on one elbow, stroking his neck in small circles with my free hand. Bloody hell, he's more than trembling…he's shaking like a leaf.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, what's wrong?"

Sherlock's eyes open but his gaze won't meet mine. I pull away, moving to a sitting position, and gently take his hand to pull him up beside me. Carefully, I drape an arm around his shoulder, loosely, so that he doesn't feel trapped. He sits, hunched, hands fisted into his soft curls, staring at the floor.

"Sherlock? Please talk to me. Please."

No answer.

"Sherlock." I get to my knees in front of him, and am horrified to realise that he's rocking back and forth, ever so slightly, lost in his own head. "Sherlock!"

"I'm sorry, John," he whispers. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry…sorry…sorry…"

"Sherlock, you have nothing to be sorry for. Nothing!" I reach up and softly touch his hands, gently uncurling them from his tumbled locks and gripping them in my own. "Please, love, please tell me what's wrong. What did I do?" My own hands are shaking now. How have I hurt him?

Sherlock's fingers clutch convulsively around my own. He looks up to see the shock and worry in my face, and amazingly, seeing my distress seems to help. He sits back a bit, regaining some composure, and lifts my hands to his mouth, pressing a trembling kiss onto our clenched knuckles.

I rise from my position on the floor, and carefully sit beside him on the sofa. Gently disentangling our hands, I lean forward and gather him into a careful embrace. After a moment, he leans his head against my chest and sighs deeply.

"Sherlock, why…what happened there? Did I hurt you? Where did you go?"

Sherlock swallows hard and nuzzles against me, then murmurs, "No, you didn't hurt me, John. I'm sorry…I didn't mean…"

"Stop it, Sherlock. I told you, nothing to be sorry about. Nothing. No. More. Apologies." I put my hand under his chin, lift his face so his eyes can meet mine. "Got it?"

He swallows again and nods. The trembling has subsided entirely, and he's almost as limp as a rag. I shift us around so that my back rests in the corner of the sofa, with my left leg straight out along the seat, then pull Sherlock up to lie back against my chest, and I bring my right leg up on the other side of him, so that he is entirely cradled against me, surrounded by a loose, safe embrace.

"Now. Tell me."

For a moment, I think he is going to refuse. Then he sighs deeply, and whispers, "I'm sorr– I mean; I don't know what happened, John. I guess I panicked."

I hesitate, for a moment, but I have to ask, have to know. "Sherlock, didn't you…did you not want me to kiss you? Have I misread the situation?"

"No!" He squirms around a bit to face me, so we can make eye contact, and the sincerity in his eyes is unmistakable. "I love kissing you, John. I just panicked for a moment. It's been such a long time since I…since…and I had forgotten how…how…" His voice trails off, and I struggle not to jump in, to fill the empty space with reassuring words. He needs to find a way to say whatever he needs to say on his own.

Watching Sherlock struggle for words is excruciating. He's always so quick, so witty, and Undisputed King of the Last Word. Seeing him so lost, so helpless – it's breaking something inside of me.

"John, I've been desperately hoping that I've been reading you right, and you might…care...for me. And now I think it might be true, and it scares me to death."

Oh. I lean forward, softly brushing the gentlest kiss across his lips. "Sherlock…I spent last night wandering Regent's Park, thinking about you. I realised last night that I've come to…care…oh, bloody hell. This is so hard, and I don't know why. I guess…I'm scared to tell you, scared I'll frighten you off."

Sherlock's intense moonstone eyes bear down into mine, almost compelling me to keep going.

"Sherlock, I realised last night that I'm in love with you." I can't keep looking at him, that silver gaze is just too much. My stomach is jerking and roiling in a panic. It's never easy to make the 'I love you' leap, and I've certainly never declared my heart to a man before. And Sherlock can be so distant, so clinical. Surely 'I'm in love with you' will be too much for him to tolerate?

Sherlock's long, elegant fingers curve along my jawline, turning my face back up, forcing me to meet his gaze. His voice is slightly hoarse, shaky. "John…I'm in love with you, too."

Oh.

Oh, God, yes.

oOoOo

Sherlock leans in and captures my lips with his own, for the sweetest kiss I've ever known. They are gentle, tender kisses this time, lightly stroking our tongues together, softly sliding our lips against each other. I love him. And he loves me.

A miracle.

I don't want to break the spell, so I try to keep things slow and soft. Sherlock's hands are wandering across my chest, and I have both of my hands buried in his silky curls. I've never felt so lost in someone else – the rest of the world could fall away and I'd never notice, as long as I could stay right here, in his arms.

Practicality finally brings us back down to earth, however. I realise that the fire has burned out, and the room is getting quite cold against my bare chest and shoulders. Sherlock suddenly shivers, and I tighten my arms around him to warm him.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?"

"What do you say we move this to the bedroom?"

The minute I say this, I wish to God I hadn't. Sherlock – freezes. There's no other word for it. His body goes absolutely rigid, and his skin actually seems to drop in temperature. Everything in his body language is screaming No.

"Sherlock…Sherlock! Don't go away again. Please. Talk to me. Something is obviously wrong. Please talk to me, my love."

He slowly raises haunted eyes to mine, but whispers, "It's nothing – I'm fine. We can use my bedroom. I just put fresh sheets on this morning, and I promise that all experiments are cleared out." He gives me a terrible 'other people' smile, the one that doesn't reach his eyes. The smile that I'm coming to think of as his 'just-for-John smile' is nowhere to be seen.

"Sherlock…" but he's already standing, tugging at my hand to encourage me to follow him. Bewildered, I trail him to the bedroom, worried sick about the turn this evening has suddenly taken.

oOoOo

In Sherlock's bedroom, we stand, facing each other, for a long, silent moment. I reach out and stroke Sherlock's cheek, longing to see the happiness that shone out of his eyes a short while ago. Where did that inner light go?

Sherlock reaches for my belt buckle, opens it, and efficiently peels off my jeans and pants in one swift movement. Startled, I reach to reciprocate, but he steps back, drops his trousers and pants, and moves onto the bed.

"Sherlock…"

He pulls back the duvet and top sheet, then to my shock, he drops onto his elbows and knees, presenting his perfectly-shaped arse toward me. I stand, dumbstruck, as he whispers, "I'm…I'm ready, John."

Sweet Jesus. What the hell is this?

"Sherlock?" I take a cautious step toward him, unwilling to get too close until we sort out whatever is going on. "Sherlock…my love…what are you doing?"

"I'm ready for you to have sex with me, John." His voice is rough and quavery, and it breaks my heart.

"Sherlock Holmes, turn around and talk to me. Right. Now."

Sherlock turns, looking confused and terrified. Terrified! Of me?

"Is that not what you wanted, John? You said we should move to the bedroom. I assumed you were ready to have sex."

"Sherlock…there are so many things to address in that statement…I hardly know where to start. First, though…" I turn and lift his blue silk dressing gown from the hook on the door, and wrap him in it. I can't bear to see him so vulnerable. We're going to get to the bottom of this, but I need him to keep his dignity while we do it. Then I seat myself beside him, on the edge of the bed, and pull the duvet over my lap. Can't hurt to keep a little dignity of my own.

"My sweet, sweet love, first of all, unless both of us are ready for it, nobody's having any sex here tonight. Somehow…I'm not getting the 'ready' vibe from you, despite your statement to the contrary." I reach out and take his cold hand in my own. "Second of all, and most importantly, Sherlock, you are absolutely terrified. I've only seen you like this once before – when we were at Dartmoor, and you'd been drugged. Since I know there are no mad scientists releasing clouds of vaporised fear-stimulation chemicals in our flat, I can only conclude that you are scared of me."

Sherlock hangs his head, refusing to meet my eyes. More than anything else, that shatters me. He has always been able to look me in the eye, has always been merciless with that quicksilver gaze. This obvious fear and shame that he's projecting is crushing me.

"Sherlock, look at me. Please. Tonight you told me the most wonderful thing in the world, that you love me. I love you, so much. Please – look at me."

Slowly, Sherlock lifts his head, and his red-rimmed eyes stare into mine. I reach out and cradle his face in my hands.

"Sherlock, I need to ask you some questions. I need to understand. Do you trust me?" He leans toward me, rests his forehead against mine, and sighs.

"Yes, John."

oOoOo

I pause before speaking, trying to phrase my questions in my head. I need to tread so gently here…

"Sherlock, you know that I don't really have much sexual experience with men. In fact, there's only been one encounter with another man, back when I was at university." I hesitate, deciding not to go into my experience with women, as I have the feeling that first, Sherlock has already deduced that information, and second, that he might feel intimidated by comparing our sum total of partners.

Sherlock shifts uncomfortably, probably reading me as clearly as he reads whatever slide is under his microscope at the moment, and I wonder why I ever bother trying to keep anything from him.

"Will you tell me, Sherlock, how much experience you have?" He doesn't answer right away, and I hasten to add, "I'm not looking to compare a 'score" or anything, love. I just want to see if my suspicions are correct."

Sherlock's mouth quirks up wryly. "I'm rubbing off on you, John. I think deducing the number of sexual partners that your potential partner has had would come under the heading of A Bit Not Good."

I grin at him, relieved to see a flash of the old Sherlock – of my Sherlock. This timid stranger is terribly hard to cope with. It's good to know that my Sherlock is still in there.

"I'm guessing that it's one person, Sherlock. Am I right?"

He narrows his eyes at me. I return the stare, and he drops his eyes, nodding.

"Sherlock, was this man…cruel to you? Did he hurt you? Did he hit you?"

Another slow nod. My hands clench into fists in the duvet, and I can feel my blood pressure skyrocket. Keep calm. I take a few deep breaths. Sherlock watches me in consternation.

"Is this," I gesture toward the bed, toward where he had taken such a submissive position, "how your sexual relationship went? Did he expect you to just submit whenever he was ready? Did he not ever make love to you?" Sherlock's eyebrows furrow, and I realise to my dismay that he really doesn't understand what I'm asking.

"Sherlock…the way I was kissing you tonight, down your neck and chest, stroking and touching you – did he never touch you that way?"

He shakes his head, looking as though I'd asked if his former partner had juggled fiery batons before sex, or something else equally bizarre. My heart breaks again for that younger Sherlock, who never had the chance to be caressed and cherished by a lover.

"My love, I'm sorry to ask such invasive questions, but I need to know one more thing. When the two of you…had sex…did he take the time to prepare you first? Did he use lubrication? Did he go slowly?"

Another bewildered headshake. Son of a bitch. If I ever find out who hurt my Sherlock like this…

"Okay, Sherlock. No more questions. You can tell me anything you are comfortable telling me, but I'm not going to demand any more answers right now." I reach down, finding Sherlock's silk boxers in the heap of discarded clothing on the floor. "Here. Put these back on, and let's just cuddle up and go to sleep, okay?"

Sherlock looks stunned. "You don't want sex? You just want to sleep in here?"

"If you wouldn't mind, my love. I want to hold you tonight, and to wake up beside you in the morning. But I think we should wait on sex until we've sorted some things out." His little, confused half-smile is back, and it's even more charming and heartbreaking than ever. I grab up my grey boxer briefs from the floor, and pull them on. Then I move to the other side of the bed, and climb under the duvet. "Come on, Sherlock. Let's get some sleep."

Sherlock joins me under the duvet, and moves hesitantly into my arms. I deliberately twine our bodies together like they were on the sofa earlier, and I can feel his body relax against mine at that already-familiar intimacy. He pillows his head on my good shoulder, and we lie quietly together, me stroking the back of his hand as it rests on my chest.

"John?" His voice is still so tentative, so not-Sherlock. This intense vulnerability might be heady stuff for me, if it's weren't coming from such a terrible source of pain. I tighten my arm around him, turn to kiss the curls that tickle my chin.

"Yes, love?" I feel him nuzzle against me, clearly pleased with the endearment.

"I'll understand if you don't want…if you would rather not…" he growls in frustration, in his obvious annoyance at being unable to articulate properly. Sherlock is never short of a word, this must be driving him mad. I squeeze him again, trying to wordlessly encourage him. "We can go back to the way things were, if you would prefer that. Just…please don't leave."

I reach down, grip his chin and tilt his face up so that he can see my eyes. "Sherlock. I've never wanted anything more in my life. This may be new, but it's real, and it's serious. I'm not going anywhere."

His smile, the just-for-John smile, spreads slowly across his face. He leans up to kiss me softly, then snuggles back down into my shoulder. Almost too softly to be heard, he whispers, "I love you."

Eventually he drifts off, and I watch his sweet, sleeping face, so much younger-looking when it is unguarded, relaxed. I can't get enough of his exquisite beauty, and the thought that he is mine (Mine!) shakes me to the core. The idea that someone could have misused and abused such a precious creature is infuriating. What fool…what monster…could have violated and thrown away such a treasure?

I force my fists to unclench, try to even out my breathing. I will find out more about this tomorrow, I promise myself, and if possible, that the fucking bastard that hurt Sherlock (my Sherlock mine mine mine) will suffer greatly for the wrong he has done. I imagine the ways that I will make him pay.

It is a long time before I can get to sleep.