My apologies for the aeonian delay. Here's to hoping this chapter makes it up to you.

p.s. You can listen to the song Sherlock plays for John, The Lark Ascending by Ralph Vaughan Williams, by following the link here: watch?v=3b0rN43q6jo. The narrator talks over the beginning of the song, which is extremely irritating, but it's a good rendition nonetheless.

VIII. Flash Point

"Oh! Oh! Oh!"

Mrs. Hudson's startled exclamations echoed up the stairs from the ground floor, snapping John from his telly-induced stupor. Instinctively, he leapt from his chair, scattering the remote control and half the sandwich he'd been colorlessly gnawing at for the past hour, and bolted for the door. His first thought, judging from her cries, was that the landlady was in danger, but he'd hardly made it down the first flight of steps before he decided that no, these specific "oh, oh, ohs" sounded more pained than terrified, and that maybe Mrs. Hudson had finally taken that tumble, and thrown out her troubled hip at last.

He was already calculating precisely how to lift and handle her by the time he rounded the corner on the stairs, pivoting on his heel—

And stopped short, for there was Sherlock.

He was standing just inside the front door, slightly damp from the evening mist and gathered in the arms of Mrs. Hudson. John stilled upon the landing, heart in his throat. The detective had hardly made it three steps into the building before being ambushed by the landlady, apparently, and though he looked more chuffed than annoyed at her fawning, he also looked pale, and worn, and thinner by a hair; for the first time in John's memory his thick wool coat seemed more necessity than fashion statement. The doctor's hand tightened on the railing. Neither Mrs. Hudson nor Sherlock seemed to have noticed his presence.

"Oh, Sherlock," the landlady was cooing, running her hands lovingly, if a bit frantically, across his cheeks and shoulders and through the fringes of his hair, "just look at you. Just look at you. Where on earth have you been?" She hardly gave him time to respond before, suddenly serious, she gripped his face between her palms, forcing the detective to stoop a bit to accommodate her hold. "You've had us all deathly worried, young man," she chastised, staring him straight in the eye. "I'll have you know I'm very cross."

Sherlock glanced down, and pointed to her stained and flour-dusted apron.

"You've been baking," he said, his words squashed-sounding from between her hands. "Biscuits, mm—no. Pies. Mincemeat pies for John and—" he sniffed the air, "—lemon tarts for me." He smiled. "So, not so very cross after all."

"Oh," huffed Mrs. Hudson, releasing his face to cuff him on the arm in reprimand. "You really have no manners at all, have you, Sherlock Holmes?" But it was relief, not anger, in her voice, and when she scooped the detective up into another embrace Sherlock returned it, looking uncharacteristically tender as he slid his arms around her torso and allowed Mrs. Hudson to lay her head against his chest.

It was in this small pocket of quiet, heartfelt homecoming that the detective's eyes at last slid upwards, finally finding John's from where the doctor was still standing rigid on the stairs.

"Hello, John," he said.

At Sherlock's words, Mrs. Hudson unlatched herself from the detective's body and whirled about, extending a breathless smile to the doctor. "Oh, John, look, Sherlock's come home," she warbled up to him. "Isn't it wonderful?" Her expression was bright and warm, but when she saw John's nervous apprehension it turned scolding. "Now, you stop your gaping and come down here this instant," she snapped at him, one hand on her hip and the other flapping to beckon him to the ground floor. "Sherlock is back and we're all very happy, and you're going to give him a proper welcome, John Watson, if it kills me."

John descended the stairs as if in a dream. By the time he reached the lower level the landlady's motherly attentions had gone back to Sherlock, arranging his scarf just so and smoothing out the edges of his coat collar. Sherlock's eyes, however, remained set on John.

"Sherlock," croaked the doctor, staring at him as he came to a stop a few feet away.

"John," answered Sherlock, staring back.

They might have gone on staring helplessly at one another forever, John supposed, if not for Mrs. Hudson at last muttering an admonishing "Oh, honestly" and stepping forward to grab them both by the wrists and tug them into close proximity. "In all my days," she said, as they each stumbled forward and came to a halt just inches apart, "I have never met a pair more stubborn than the two of you. Now, if you'll only just let me…" And, with both John and Sherlock looking dumbly on, she forcibly laced their fingers together until the two men were standing before her front to front, hand in hand.

"There," she said, heaving a deep sigh of satisfaction and standing back to admire her handiwork. "Isn't that better?" Neither man seemed capable of answering; John's throat was a veritable desert and Sherlock looked altogether flabbergasted. Mrs. Hudson lay a hand on each of them as if in blessing, then, choked up and eyes glistening, succumbed to glee and pulled them both into a tight hug. "Oh, my boys," she said happily. "Oh, my boys. Now, up you get," she said, pulling away, bustling around them with girlish excitement to push them in the direction of the stairs. "I'll bring up the treats when they're finished cooling."

"I, uh, hang on—" John stuttered meekly after her, but Sherlock was already marching towards the stairs, dragging the flummoxed doctor along. They made it to the first floor in silence, and John nudged the door open, letting the detective enter first. "Well," he said, at a loss for anything better to say, "welcome home."

"Mm," hummed Sherlock absently, scanning the kitchen as if taking in all the minute changes that had occurred in his ten-day absence. John couldn't imagine what he was seeing; to the doctor, everything seemed little more than dark reminders of the trying circumstances of the past three weeks: there was the table, where Sherlock had shot up…the refrigerator, where John had shattered the mug after exploding in anger…the sitting room floor, where Sherlock had busted John's nose so badly the bruises were only now mostly faded. The violin, the beetles in their cases, the hooks by the door, the windowsill. Every object in the flat seemed laden with awful memory.

"You threw out all the fingers, I suppose?"

Startled, John swiveled up to Sherlock. "What?"

"The fingers," said Sherlock again. "The ones from Molly?" He was staring forlornly at the table, where his experiments had been set up the last night he was in 221B. "You've thrown them out." He sighed. "Honestly, John, I was only gone a few days; I really can't have you getting rid of all my things the moment I'm not around to stop you. It's horribly disrespectful, and not at all advantageous for the Work." Irritated, he turned to face the doctor, and John could see his eyes were cold and full of steel. "I think you owe me an apology," he said.

John was aghast. "I…you…you must be joking," he breathed, and as he spoke he could feel his heart pounding, his lip pulling back into snarl. At his side, his palm coiled into a fist. "Tell me you're joking," he demanded.

"Something succinct and heartfelt would be preferable, if you can manage it," answered Sherlock, rolling his eyes in obvious impatience, and oh, John really was going to punch him now; growling, he widened his stance, rolled his shoulder, made to pull his arm back…

…And stopped. Sherlock was smiling at him. Well no, not really; in truth the detective still appeared agitated, even mad, but suddenly John could see the coy spark tucked behind the anger in his eyes, and the way his lips were pressed tightly together the way they usually went when he wanted very much to grin but was trying hard to keep a straight face.

"Oh my god," John breathed, thunderstruck. "You are. You are joking. Fucking hell, Sherlock. Fucking hell…" The left side of Sherlock's mouth twisted up into a tiny smirk.

John didn't know which one of them started laughing first. It hardly mattered, though; in that one splendid, golden moment all the tension in the room seemed to break open and fly away, and everything just became ridiculously, uncontrollably funny. They laughed until they had tears in their eyes, and until John was doubled over, clutching at stitches in his side.

"You know what the best part is?" he wheezed up Sherlock, who was himself still consumed with giggles. "I didn't throw those bloody fingers away. God knows why, but I didn't."

"Boxed them up and put them in the fridge, did you?" asked Sherlock.

"Actually," said John, "yes."

"Good man," said Sherlock with a sharp nod, and that set them off laughing again, until they were both gasping for breath and leaning lightheaded against the wall. John was the first to recover.

"Jesus, I almost hit you," he wheezed.

Sherlock shrugged. "Not undeservedly, I suppose," he murmured, and suddenly the awkward reality of their situation came crashing down around them once more, and the atmosphere between them chilled. John cleared his throat, scratching uncomfortably at the back of his neck. Sherlock was staring at him, he realized, looking a little uneasy for the first time John had seen that night, and again the doctor found himself shocked by how gaunt he'd become in such a short time, how incredibly spare. He seemed to be waiting now for John to take the initiative, for the other shoe to drop—for the doctor to remember he was angry, heartbroken, bitter—but the truth was that all John felt at that moment was distinctly overwhelmed.

"Sherlock—" he began.

"John, I—" said Sherlock at the same time, and both men snapped their mouths shut, and turned away with frustrated frowns.

"I need a bath," Sherlock mumbled to the floor, after a beat.

John nodded, staring in the opposite direction, at the tattered edge of the grease-stained rag hanging from the oven. "Yeah, all right," he said. But Sherlock didn't move away, and after a moment the doctor could feel the detective's eyes on him again.

"I think I can find my way from here, John," he said eventually, shaking his arm a bit, and only then did John realize they were still—still!—holding hands. Dismayed, he quickly pulled his fingers away from Sherlock's and stumbled out of the detective's space.

"Sorry," he mumbled, backing away towards the worktop. "I'll just…er…" He cast his eyes about, searching for a point of focus. "Yes. You go wash up and I'll make coffee or tea or, or something…" He glanced anxiously to his watch, then back to Sherlock. "Are you hungry? Do you want anything?"

Sherlock's answer was a long, cryptic stare. "Whatever you like, John," he said eventually, peeling his attention from the doctor and turning down the hall. "I'll be out in a while."

"Right," answered John weakly, watching him go. The bathroom door sounded very loud as it clicked shut.

Seconds later, the taps opened up, and the pipes in the walls creaked and groaned and shuddered to life. John turned and put the kettle on.

Sherlock emerged from the bath twenty minutes later in a cloud of mist, pink-skinned and damp. His hair had been parted at the side and combed away from his face, still wet enough to appear almost black, and he'd put on slippers and also his heaviest robe over his pajamas, all of which John noticed from his spot on the couch when the detective strode into the front room with a mug of tea in one hand and the other hand stuffed in a pocket, and said to the doctor, very determinately: "You threw away all the painkillers in the medicine cabinet."

John frowned, pressing his lips together, then muted the television and exhaled a long, slow breath. "Mycroft forwarded me a copy of the lab tests," he said at last, staring at a spot on the floor near Sherlock's feet. "I'm sorry."

But Sherlock shook his head. "Don't apologize, John," he said. "It was the right thing to do."

John glanced up. The detective was staring at him from across the room, resolute despite the fair amount of color in his cheeks. John's scrutiny seemed too much for him to bear, however, because the moment the doctor's eyes met his own he shuffled in place and rearranged his arms, then took a sip of tea, and remained looking at his cup. "I suppose you want to talk about it, then," he said.

John scrubbed a hand across his mouth, shifting his gaze slowly to the window and the night sky beyond as he allowed the gravity of exactly what Sherlock was offering sink in. Because it was true; John did want to talk about it, and desperately. So desperately, in fact, that he'd thought of little else for the better part of three weeks, ever since Sherlock's first relapse. The detective had ruined quite a bit with that, thought John, and upset quite a good deal more, and John had been so angry, really he had, mostly because he wasn't any good at dealing with guilt and shock and failure, but also because he hated Sherlock for making him deal with those things, and, more importantly, because John hated himself for hating Sherlock.

But here, now, things could begin to be different. Now, thought John, he could have answers. Now, Sherlock was giving John the power to make him reveal everything, and this time it wouldn't explode into a Mycroftian melodrama, the way it had the night after Mrs. Hudson found him, or a knock-down, drag-out fight, the way it had after the Camberwell case. It would just be Sherlock, sitting in his leather chair and picking morosely at his tea tag and telling John everything. Where he'd gone. What he'd done. Why he'd done it. Every detail. John could finally know.

John had wanted that, once. Now that the opportunity was before him, though, it didn't feel nearly as vindicating or satisfying as the doctor had imagined it would, just hollow, and a little spiteful. After all, John didn't want Sherlock under the heel of his boot, browbeaten and defeated. He didn't want Sherlock owing him for the rest of his life, shackled by a debt he couldn't ever truly repay.

John just wanted…well, Sherlock.

John's attention drifted back to the detective. "If you want to tell me about it, you can," he said, letting the words flow out of him unencumbered, surprised at how easy they were to say. "Honestly, though, I'd much prefer to see you come over here help me eat all this food Mrs. Hudson brought up." He held up a plate laden with a partly consumed slice of the mincemeat pie the landlady had delivered while Sherlock had been showering, and scooped another bite into his mouth. "It's really good."

Sherlock's mouth fell open just a bit. "…Are you being serious?" he asked. "Is this payback for in the kitchen earlier? Because, I—John, if it is, you need to tell me—"

"Sherlock," said John, waving his fork a bit to silence him. "I promise, it's perfectly fine. Now, go get a piece of lemon tart and come sit down. I know you want to."

Still Sherlock hesitated, shuffling on his feet. At last he bit his lip, eyes darting a final time from John to the kitchen and back again, and asked, totally completely seriously: "Did Mrs. Hudson put raspberries on top?"

"You know she did," John said, hastily stuffing another forkful of food into his face to keep himself from snorting into the flatware, and Sherlock nodded sagely and drifted into the kitchen, appeased.

He returned with a piece of dessert nearly size of his plate—though the doctor didn't complain; the way he was Sherlock really could do with a few generous helpings of sugar and fat—and came and sat down on the couch next to John. It wasn't awful. In fact, thought John, it was quite a lot good, better than it had been in weeks. The doctor couldn't remember the last time they'd actually managed to enjoy each others' company, but now, miraculously, it seemed they were, and in no time it all it felt at least like a semblance of the old camaraderie they used to so effortlessly share—Sherlock and John, together again.

They'd made it through nearly an entire rerun of Top Gear before John leant back against the cushions, crossed his legs, and said to the detective, "I got you a Christmas present, you know."

"You did not," Sherlock immediately answered, not even bothering to pry his eyes from the television. John grinned.

"I did."

"No, you didn't," Sherlock said, forming the words rather amusingly around a last forkful of lemony filling before setting his plate down to look sharply at the doctor. "I would have noticed."

"I had Mrs. Hudson order it," John explained. "It's been hidden in her broom cupboard for nearly a month. I nearly forgot about it, to be honest, but tonight she brought it up along with all the cooking. Care to see what it is?"

Sherlock's set his jaw, looking for all the world like he thought he ought to say no but in actuality wanted nothing more than to say yes. "I'll go get it, then," said John, saving him the trouble, and made a quick trip to the kitchen, returning with a small, rectangular object wrapped in nondescript brown packing paper.

"It's not much," said John, turning it over in his hands as he brought it back to the couch. "I just—well, you'll see." He handed it to Sherlock. "Open it."

In all the time John had known Sherlock, the detective had always made a very big show of guessing the contents of presents before he opened them (sometimes, even, when the presents were not for him but for John—a habit which was, in John's own words, annoying). In the beginning John thought he did it just to show off, and while he'd later learned that this was not entirely untrue, he'd also learned that the slightly truer reason was the simple fact that Sherlock was impatient—most of the time, he could deduce what the gift was quicker than he could open it.

This time, though, Sherlock didn't make any guesses. He didn't even shake it, or inspect it closely, just carefully set John's gift in his lap and picked apart the wrapping until it fell away and their contents were revealed.

"Rosin," he said, staring for moment at the little brick and then up at John. "You got me violin rosin."

"I know you're running low," John told him. "I had a peek in your case back in November."

"Guy Fawkes Night," said Sherlock automatically. "Yes, I remember. You left your fingerprints all over the latches."

John laughed. "Nothing gets by you," he said.

"I don't know what to say, John," said Sherlock to him then, looking up at him with sad, honest eyes. "I didn't get you anything." John sighed, then sat down, and gently nudged the brick of rosin into Sherlock's wrist. "Play me something?" he asked.

Sherlock's brows shot up so quickly John thought they stood half a chance of flying off his face. "You…want to hear me play?"

"Only if you're up for it," said John, "...and as long as you promise to not to try to murder me with your violin this time." His lips twisted into a smirk, but when Sherlock's owlish stare remained deathly serious, John sobered, too. He cleared his throat. "You really do play beautifully, Sherlock," he said.

Sherlock considered this a moment, then without another further ado stood up, crossed the room, and snapped open his instrument case. He spent quite a bit of time at the pegs, face set in concentration as he expertly coaxed the violin back into tune, before turning back to face John with the neck in one hand and the bow in the other.

"What do you want to hear?" he asked.

"I suppose I should ask for Auld Lang Syne," said John, "considering you missed New Year's."

Sherlock scoffed. "A bit pedestrian, don't you think?"

"All the more reason for me to make you play it anyway, as punishment," teased the doctor, settling back into the cushions with a thoughtful expression. "Play whatever you like, then. Artist's discretion."

"Really, John," muttered Sherlock, wrinkling his nose but quite unable to keep a faint glow of smugness out of the turn of his lips or the point of his chin, "Artist. Like I'm bowing for pennies in the street."

"Right, what was I thinking," said the doctor, really smiling now, laughing despite himself. "Consulting detective's discretion, then. Mad scientist's discretion. Total complete wanker's discretion. How's that?"

"Better," Sherlock murmured, still looking annoyed but now also undeniably pleased. He turned and swept his violin to his chin, focusing his gaze out the window.

He didn't, however, play. He made several attempts, but each time stopped short before his bow touched the strings, apparently unsatisfied with whatever piece he'd been about to begin.

"Sherlock?" John asked, after several false starts, and finally the detective broke his playing stance, dropping bow and violin to his sides. When he turned to face the doctor his brow was creased in annoyance, as though he'd come to a decision but wasn't happy about it. "I'm going to need an accompaniment," he huffed.

"Can't much help you there," John said. "I never could carry a tune."

"Not from you," said Sherlock, rolling his eyes and setting his instrument on the table before heading out to the kitchen and then to the back of the flat. "Just wait there a moment," he called out, and the doctor could hear him rummaging about his room before he returned with a set of small, portable speakers.

"I've never heard you play with someone else before," John told him, leaning forward with new-found curiosity as the detective arranged the equipment on the table and plugged the audio jack into his mobile.

Sherlock sighed, keeping his eyes glued to his phone's screen as he thumbed through his library for the track in question. "I don't normally like to," he said. "Not very good for thinking, other people's thoughts, and I prefer keeping my own time. Still," and here he stood up, having apparently found what he was looking for, and tucked his violin back beneath his chin, "it does, every now and again, have its advantages."

He breathed deep, and pointed the bow in the doctor's direction. "For you then, John," he said, and from the speakers the first few notes of a piano began to play, and Sherlock set his bow against the strings.

The song began low and dark, filling the sitting room with tender, ghostly noise. From the first bars on John sat rapt, captivated entirely; Sherlock's body swayed like willow as he played, his talented fingers flying upon the frets—he held his violin as one would hold a lover, the doctor realized, and found that he was blushing, and that he couldn't, didn't want to, look away. The piano spoke, Sherlock's violin answered, and then the melody swelled and burst open into a bright symphonic flurry, cheerful and somber in turns, metered and arrhythmic, like a pair of complementary voices engaged in cosmic dance, holding each other afloat in a space made for them alone.

At last the song drew to a close, ebbing into a last few mournful trills and then finally to silence. When the final note was done, Sherlock sighed and dropped his arms. "Well," he said, inclining his head slightly towards the doctor but still looking out the window, "Merry Christmas, John."

The doctor's chest felt too tight to speak. Finally, head still awash with unutterable emotion, he managed to say, "That was unbelievable. What was it?"

"The Lark Ascending," answered Sherlock, switching off the speakers before the next song could begin and laying his violin away. "By Ralph Vaughan Williams."

"I've heard it before," murmured John. "A long time ago. I can't place where or when, but it sounded familiar."

"I should hope so," said Sherlock. "It's one of the most famous classical pieces to come out of England in a century."

"Well, in any case," John told him, "it was lovely. Remarkable, really. Thank you."

It was only then that John came back to himself enough to realize that something was wrong: Sherlock was very nearly panting. Alarm bells blaring in his head, the doctor leapt to his side, even as the detective cringed at the attention and waved him off.

"I'm fine, John," he said, but as John drew nearer he could see what a lie it was: Sherlock's chest was heaving now, and he was leaning heavily against the edge of the table.

"You're exhausted," John murmured. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"I did just play you a twelve-minute piece," he said, "from memory, and with no proper warm-up."

"You're still convalescing," John reminded him.

Sherlock frowned, looking ever so slightly troubled. "Well, yes," he said. "There's also that. But I'm back home now, and you'll be able to take care of me, so—" His mouth snapped shut as soon as he realized what he was saying. Suddenly shy, he turned around, busying himself the details of his violin case. "Not that I'd expect you to, John," he said quickly, firmly ignoring the doctor behind him. "I'll manage on my own, of course, I've recovered from much worse, I…I…" His voice trailed away as John's arms encircled him from behind. "John," he whispered. "What are you doing?"

A huff of giddy laughter escaped John as he tightened his arms around Sherlock's waist, pressing his face between the detective's shoulder blades. "I'm hugging you, you mad bastard," he muttered, positioning his smiling cheek sideways against cotton and vertebrae. "What do you think?"

Sherlock sounded utterly baffled. "But…why?"

"Why?!" Because I'm happy you're home! Because I'm happy you're safe! John's brain filled in instantly. "Because I missed you," he said instead, and perhaps, when all was said and done, that was truer. It seemed to resonate with Sherlock, in any case, for he stilled at John's words, then slowly made an about face, turning in the doctor's arms until they were facing one another.

"And that's what people do, then," he asked carefully, staring intently down John, "when they've missed each other? They…hug?"

John shrugged. "Well, yeah, when they care about each other," he said. "Yeah, Sherlock. They do."

Sherlock pressed his lips together. His expression was potently intense, but familiar, the one John knew was reserved solely for puzzles and criminals—the one the detective wore when he had to quickly suss out truth from a web of complicated data. Yet John only saw it a moment, for no sooner had he made that conclusion than Sherlock swept forward to return his embrace, trapping him in a strong-armed bear hug that had the detective's body pressed fully against John's own and his head burrowed deep in the crook of John's shoulder, tickling the doctor's nose with several sudden handfuls of damp, dark curls. It was so sudden, so unexpected, that the doctor actually laughed, ruffling a playful hand through the locks and breathing in the smell of the detective's shampoo, eucalyptus oil and tea tree and mint.

But then Sherlock's body gave a little heave against his own, and the smile dropped from John's face.

"Sherlock…?"

John's only answer was another was another tiny heave of Sherlock's shoulders against his chest, followed by another, and another. "Oh, Sherlock," John sighed, "it's all right. It's okay." Sherlock quavered, then began to cry openly.

"I-I'm sorry," he said, between loud, broken sobs.

"No, Sherlock," John murmured, gently petting the detective's hair away from his face with one hand, holding him at the waist with the other, "it's fine. It's fine."

"It's disgusting," Sherlock corrected, blinking rapidly and looking furious with himself as he reigned in his sobs and pushed himself away, using the back of his robe sleeve to sop up the sniffle from his nose and then the heels of his hands to catch whatever more was threatening to fall from his eyes. "It's the transport, John," he said, voice watery and rough, "it's—it's defective; it's not supposed to… My god, how can anyone bear this—I hate it, John, I hate it, I hate it, I hate it!"

John reached up, catching the detective's tear-stained face in his hands. "Sherlock!" he ordered. "Calm down. Look at me."

"My mind is in ruins, John!" Sherlock wailed back at him, twisting out of John's grip. "Nothing's in the right place, nothing's working the way it should…" He groaned, clutching fistfuls of his hair. "God, I'd kill for a cigarette…"

"Sherlock—"

"I can't keep doing this, John!" the detective shouted, bucking off the hand John had tried to lay upon his shoulder. "I can't! I've tried and tried but I just CAN'T!"

The pain in his voice was shocking, but John had very little time to react; no sooner were the words out of Sherlock's mouth than like a popped balloon all the fight went out of him in a rush, and he slumped forward, limp. John and collected him up, pulling their bodies together again and cradling Sherlock's face against his neck. "It's all right, Sherlock," he murmured. "Come on now, it's okay. I've got you." When the detective had calmed a bit, he brushed his fingers through the curls at the nape of Sherlock's neck said to him, very softly, "You know, you don't have to do anything you don't want to do, Sherlock."

"But I do want to, John," Sherlock whispered back, and then, right at the place where his neck stretched into shoulder, John felt a sudden hot tongue peek out and very quickly lick a tiny, wet stripe along his skin.

The world tilted just a bit off its axis. John gasped.

In a flash the tongue was gone, and Sherlock pulled away. "I'm sorry," he mumbled hastily, flushed from his hairline to his neck. He looked shocked by his behavior, and just the tiniest bit appalled, but stayed rooted where he stood, apparently too mortified to move. "I apologize, John, I-I shouldn't have, it wasn't, I—"

"Wait."

Sherlock's mouth snapped shut. John swallowed around the lump in his throat, tried and failed to look the detective in the eye, and wound up staring at his neck instead, where a tiny mole anchored his nervous energy in place. "If I told you I wanted to," he whispered, carefully, as if each word held a great, untested power, "would you want me to, Sherlock?"

"You're not gay," blurted the detective, looking terrified.

"But would you want me to?" John asked again. He was still staring at Sherlock's mole.

The detective squirmed, biting his lip. "But, I thought…" he said, "I thought Mary—"

"Sherlock," John said, and even though he didn't mean to use his captain's voice then he did, and the detective froze and John looked him in the face, and Jesus fucking hell, they were so close. "Listen to me, Sherlock. If I told you I wanted to. If I told you it's what I wanted. Then. Would you?"

Sherlock closed his eyes, opened them again. His lips parted; through them John could see his tongue, his teeth, he could see the pores on his nose, the tiny scar on his jaw where the detective had once told John was the place he'd cut himself first learning to shave. John leaned in, ghosted his mouth across it. "Would you, Sherlock?" he said.

John could feel the rapid pulse of Sherlock's heart in his lips. At last, the rumbling vibration of his voice burst forth: "Yes."

"Okay then," breathed John, and without another word or thought tipped forward and pressed his lips against Sherlock's partly open mouth.

For a long while they stood just like that, eyes open and staring at one another through the haze of double vision as John's lips sat lightly against Sherlock's, just barely touching his front teeth. Hardly textbook romance, the doctor would think later—Sherlock's eyes were red from crying and John likely still had all kinds of odd food smells on his breath—but even so Sherlock didn't flinch or duck his head, and the longer the two stayed touching the more John felt something oddly transfixing in the point of contact, something that made him ravenous for more. He puckered his lips and pressed against Sherlock harder, just enough to cause the detective's shallow breathing to hitch, and then pulled away.

"Sherlock Holmes," he whispered against the detective's mouth, threading one hand up through the curls at the back of Sherlock's head to keep the detective in place, "I do believe you are the single most maddening man on the face of the earth." He let his free hand drop to Sherlock's hip, dragged his teeth along the rim of the detective's lower lip. "I'm going to kiss you now," he said. "Okay?"

"We…you've already kissed me," Sherlock mumbled back, looking and sounding thoroughly dazed, and also like he couldn't quite believe what he was saying.

"I mean I am really going to kiss you," said John, tightening his grip on Sherlock's hip and pulling their bodies sharply into contact, and Sherlock gasped and his eyes went wide and he said, "Oh."

They came together in a clash of teeth and tongues. Sherlock, John would remember forever after, tasted in that kiss like lemon.

When at last they broke apart Sherlock was left gasping for air, and John used his grip in the detective's hair to tip his head back, exposing the long, sinewy column of Sherlock's neck and kissing his way along his jaw. Sherlock whimpered, clutching fistfuls of John's shirt, and when John reached the soft, sensitive skin right beneath the detective's ear he opened his lips wider and then closed them in a loving bite, rolling a bit of skin between his teeth. Sherlock's next exhale was a broken shout; he faltered, the backs of his thighs landing against the table's edge, and John seized the opportunity to press harder against him, still working Sherlock's neck and for the first time feeling very distinctly the beginnings of a bulge in the detective's trousers.

For a wild, wicked moment John had half a mind to take him in hand right then and there, but instead he slowed his movements, trailing his hand across Sherlock's chest to locate his nipple and rubbing his thumb across the pert little bud until it stood out through the fabric of the detective's shirt. The detective whimpered, arching his back in the doctor's arms, then clutched at the curves of John's rear and pulled the doctor straight into the vee of his spread legs. The table groaned under the weight of their efforts.

"You're so sensitive," John whispered, awestruck.

"S-sorry," Sherlock gasped back. The doctor couldn't help but laugh.

"No, no," he said, kissing trails at the detective's neck again, working up this time, taking care to put his lips on each and every mole, "it's good. It's sexy."

"Really?"

"Bloody hell, Sherlock," John breathed, kissing him again, hastily, before grinding his half-hard erection into the detective's leg. "Does it feel like I'm lying to you?" And then, simply because he couldn't restrain himself any longer, he reached between their bodies and cupped Sherlock's cock in his palm.

Sherlock's eyes rolled back in his head, and oh, thought John, that was a sight to savor, except that at the same time Sherlock's knees went slightly weak and his hand flew out to steady himself against the edge of the table, upsetting a stack of books and then the lamp in quick succession and sending the whole lot tumbling to the ground with a crash.

The sound startled both men back to their senses. Breathing heavily, they whipped about to stare at the fallen items, then, excruciatingly slowly, turned back to one another. Sherlock's fingers were still dug firmly into John's arse; John's hand was still pressed roughly against the detective's crotch.

"I don't want to stop, John," Sherlock whispered.

It took the doctor a few tries to find his voice. "…B…Bedroom, then?" he asked. Sherlock nodded.

John swallowed, then dutifully backed away, fairly certain his brain was operating at about fifty percent capacity. He glanced down, saw the hard line of himself down the leg of his pants—Jesus—then shook his head to clear it. "Okay, er, sorry, just let me…" Awkwardly sidestepping around the detective, John fumbled through what remained upon the messy table for his wallet and with shaking hands extracted exactly two condoms.

"Okay?" he asked, looking back at Sherlock.

Sherlock's eyes flicked to the foils, then back to John. "Okay," he said.

John nodded. "Okay."

"...Okay."

"Okay."

"For god's sake, John!"

"Right, sorry," said the doctor, and grabbed Sherlock by the hand, leading him from the sitting room. "Come on, then."

It was no surprise to either man that that night they wound up in Sherlock's room, not John's. Sherlock had the bigger bed, from a completely practical standpoint, and the en suite, and to John it just seemed right, a fitting setting for the culmination of…well, whatever this was going to be.

The room was quiet and still when they entered. John released his hold on Sherlock's hand, then tossed the condoms to the nightstand and turned on the small lamp there to give the room some light. He felt jittery and profoundly anxious; finally, at last (so suddenly?), this was all really happening—bed, condoms, hard-ons, Sherlock in profile, illuminated by soft yellow light—

Sherlock.

John's heart broke a little to see him; he looked so achingly nervous. If John was feeling apprehensive Sherlock likely felt positively petrified, thought the doctor, but his words in the sitting room, I don't want to stop, John…

"Come here," said John softly to him, holding his hands out. Sherlock swallowed, then took the two steps forward he needed for John's hands to slip gently under the lapels of his robe and lift it up over his shoulders. It fell to the floor in a heap of satin, and John pressed a reassuring kiss to the corner of Sherlock's jaw. "Now help me with this," he whispered, taking the detective's hands and leading them to the hem of John's shirt, and then carefully raised his arms to let Sherlock tug it over his torso and head and then discard it alongside the robe. When it was, John stood still and let Sherlock duck close, eyes scanning the newly revealed contours of John's upper body as the points of his fingers ran lightly across his abs, his neck, the ridges of his collarbone. When they came in contact with the raised skin of John's war scar, however, they stopped short.

The doctor sighed. "You can, Sherlock," he said, reaching up to give the detective's upper arm an encouraging squeeze. He tipped his head away, to give him a better view. "I don't mind."

Sherlock's eyes flicked up to John's, just once, before his fingers resumed their exploration. "Does it hurt?" he asked, touching experimental circles against the raised knot of the entry wound, then out along the surrounding area, where the infection had taken hold and left the skin twisted the skin.

"Not anymore," said John, sighing gently as Sherlock kneaded into the flesh, then swept his hand around to John's back to feel for the gnarled array of the exit wound. "It did, though, for a long time."

Sherlock bent low, pressing his open mouth against the scar. "Is it numb?" he whispered.

John bit his lip. "In some places," he said.

"Here?" asked Sherlock, and leant forward to lave his tongue across the puckered flesh. The touch went straight to John's cock.

"Christ, Sherlock," he swore, fighting hard the sudden impulse to pin the detective to the floor and grind into him, hard.

"It's such an odd thing," the detective whispered, sounding altogether shocked he could with such minimal effort elicit such a vocal response. "It's such an odd, fascinating thing. I've seen you undressed before; I've seen this very scar. But I've never felt affected by it quite this way. I don't understand why…it doesn't make sense…" Sherlock shook his head, then stood straight to look at John directly. "I want to know every part of you, John," he said. "I want to taste every part of you there is. Do you think I could? I want to learn you completely." He licked his lips as his attention fell slowly to John's mouth, seemingly drawn there by some inexplicable gravity. "I want to do things," he murmured, trance-like. "…Certain things…"

"Certain things?" echoed John, nearly breathless. "Like what?" Slowly, the detective inched forward, until John felt the unmistakable prod of the long, hard length of him pressing into his hip.

"John," he gasped, tucking his head against the doctor's neck, clutching him nearly hard enough to bruise. "John, please, may I…?"

John swallowed, biting back what he was sure would have been an absolutely indecorous groan. Sherlock's body was taut as wire. And he was already moving subconsciously, making little abortive thrusts against John's waist that were slowly but steadily escalating into a rhythm… John closed his eyes, holding him as he moved. He seemed to need something specific from the contact, from John's body hard against his, and whatever it was John was all too happy to oblige: a slow, powerful desire was blooming deep his belly the longer Sherlock kept at it, bright as flint glass, hot as kiln fire, that made John wavery and wild in a way he hadn't felt since adolescence. It was the feeling of the edges of himself being burned away in a crucible of desire, the feeling of being subsumed by force. Sherlock smelled like musk and sweat; his touches were clumsy and heavy and hot. With every thrust forward he knocked John up against the wall.

John had never been on the receiving end of passion like this before. Contrary to much of London's tabloid chatter, he had never been intimate with another man. He knew the mechanics of it, of course—he had a cock of his own, after all, not to mention a medical degree, and he'd even been in the army, where such things did sometimes happen and were generally considered part and parcel of the service, even if they did happen in relative secrecy and were never talked about later. But not for John. For John, personally, having sex had always meant having sex with women—full stop, end of story.

But then Sherlock had come swanning into his life. And now, there was this. And, well.

Not quite the end, apparently.

It would have taken Sherlock bloody Holmes to do it, thought the doctor. No other man, he was sure, would have ever managed to get him pinned up against a bedroom wall, mad with want and rock hard in his pants. But, as always, Sherlock was different. Sherlock was…he was…

Oh Jesus, he was—

John's eyes snapped open as Sherlock's now increasingly erratic movements brought their groins together for the first time. Tensing, he all but howled into the curve of the doctor's neck, and the raw animalism of the noise sent electricity jolting along every nerve of John's body, shattering what very little remained of his control. Quick as lightning, the doctor reconfigured his grip on Sherlock's arms and wheeled the man around mid-thrust, marching him wordlessly to the bed and forcing him down by the shoulders until he was sitting sprawled on the soft expanse of the quilt, legs open and panting.

"Take your clothes off," John ordered, standing over him, his own hands flying frantically to work his belt buckle open. "Now, Sherlock, please."

Sherlock grunted, hurriedly tugging his t-shirt over his head and throwing it aimlessly across the room. No sooner was his upper body exposed than John, quickly casting off his trousers and underwear, attacked it, lavishing the strong, flat planes of the detective's pectorals with a flurry of reverent kisses. Sherlock's chest was much smoother than his own, dusted with freckles and just the lightest smattering of dark, curly hairs. John's eyes traveled downward, drinking in the sight of the denser trail of fur running from Sherlock's bellybutton to the waistband of his cotton pajamas, before he drew back enough to grab a condom from the nightstand. When he returned, he knelt down in the space between Sherlock's knees, awkwardly negotiating his own now throbbing erection as he shuffled forward as much as he could and gathered the detective's face in his hands.

"All right?" he asked, ducking to find the detective's hooded eyes from beneath his long, dark lashes. Sherlock nodded.

"Yes."

"You're sure?"

Sherlock angled his head, dragging his lips along the ridge of John's thumb before taking the tip of it into his mouth to suck around the nail. "Yes," he said again, and John's cock jumped. No one's voice had a right to go that deep.

Slowly, the doctor slid his hands down the long length Sherlock's torso, finally bringing them to rest at the divots just above his hips, where he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of the detective's trousers. His eyes flicked up to Sherlock's, who hummed in compliance, then raised his hips just enough to allow John to pull the layers of clothing down and away.

John had seen Sherlock naked before, but never aroused. Erect, the detective's penis was built much as he was, long and lean, colored dusky red at the tip but paler at the root, where a nest of wiry hair closed neatly around it and his sac and then down further, extending into the cleft of his buttocks.

"You're beautiful, you know," said John, almost on impulse. Sherlock flushed and looked away. The doctor dropped a hand to the detective's thigh, and then pressed a kiss to his inner knee. "Has anyone ever told you that before?" he asked. Sherlock shook his head. "That's a pity," John murmured, kissing Sherlock's knee again, and then again, a little higher, and then once more, a little higher than that, "because you really, really are."

Sherlock whimpered, tensing at the doctor's incrementally close touches. "John," he whined, drawing out the name, mouth falling open at the way the doctor's breaths were blowing just so against his perfectly rigid cock, "John, I-I can't… John, please…"

"Ssh," said John, soothingly caressing the detective's hipbone as he shifted slightly, then tore open the condom foil with his free hand and his teeth. "Ssh, now, it's all right. I've got you." Gently, with almost excessive care, he rolled the rubber down the whole of Sherlock's length, then paused, giving him a moment to adjust to the feel before grabbing the second condom and putting it on himself. "Okay?" he asked, when Sherlock's breathing began to even out.

Sherlock's response was to fall backward against the duvet in a great breathy rush, landing with his fists clenched and one arm thrown across his red, gasping face. John laughed aloud and followed him back, climbing knees and elbows up onto the bed to position his body over the detective's, caging Sherlock's head with his forearms. Nudging Sherlock's arm aside, he kissed him once, twice, three times, and made to go for a fourth, when a slight twist of Sherlock's arm threw a few rays of lamplight on something John had not noticed before, and hitherto not thought to look for in his lust-addled haze. He froze, chilled to the bone.

Sherlock followed the direction of his eyes, then grunted, making a quick move to pull away. "Don't," John said, catching a hold of his wrist before he could hide the damage. "Let me see. I showed you mine."

Sherlock answered with a miserable groan. "They're not the same," he said, all but spitting the words into the crook of the arm still draped across his eyes that was now the object of John's grave attention. "At least you can be proud of yours." He sounded wretched, but he didn't resist, and seconds later allowed John to unfold and rotate his arm towards the light, just enough to get a good look at his inner elbow. Dotting the skin there were a series of angry-looking scabs, ringed with red and raised slightly against Sherlock's otherwise alabaster skin. They followed the paths of several of his prominent veins, which had darkened slightly with abuse—almost track marks, but not quite.

John spent a long time silently staring. Beneath him, Sherlock fidgeted, feeling every kind of frustrated, and at last said, in a voice laced with more self-loathing than John had ever heard: "Just say it, John."

John could have said a lot of things. Sherlock expected something scathing. How could you? How dare you? Awful. Irresponsible. Stupid. Selfish. I hate you. Instead, John said, "I'm sorry."

Sherlock was stunned. So stunned, in fact, that at John's words he momentarily forgot his shame, and propped himself up onto free arm to look at the doctor directly. "What did you say?"

"I said I'm sorry," answered John, but his voice had turned quiet and heavy with blatant remorse. He was still staring at Sherlock's arm.

Sherlock shook his head, trying and failing to reason his way through the doctor's reaction. "It's not your fault, John," he said. "You said it yourself; no one forced me to do it. You didn't do anything."

"But that's just it, Sherlock," said John, and in a burst of movement he shoved the detective's arm away and surged forward until their noses were nearly touching. "I didn't do anything. And I should've, that night. I should have figured it out. I should have told you."

Sherlock's head was swimming. "Told me what?"

John's eyes went soft. "Do you really not know?" he asked, petting the detective's cheek, reaching up to brush a curl from his bright grey eyes.

"John, I—hah!"

All the air left Sherlock's lungs in a strangled shout as John—with no warning but their heated proximity—suddenly ground his hips down into Sherlock's own, bringing their cocks together in an electrifying press of flesh. Sherlock threw his head back, straining against John's body, and in return the doctor nuzzled into his exposed neck, kissing a line from his clavicle to his jaw.

"You're everything to me, Sherlock," he whispered between pants and touches, moist tonguing and sharp drags of teeth. "That's what. I love you."

"John…"

It was all Sherlock could say, just one breathless word, and then John's lips were on his, forcing his mouth open. Their tongues slid together, hot and hard, and both men groaned, eyes tightly shut as their hands scrabbled for purchase in each others' hair. It was an entirely messy exchange, fueled by want and pent-up desire, crude and sloppy and impolite.

It was, John thought, really, completely perfect.

For a moment they hovered like that, coasting at blissful equilibrium, and then John's hand found its way to Sherlock's cock.

"Tell me what you like," he said, closing his fingers around the detective's girth and roughly working him up and down. "Tell me what you need."

Sherlock could manage only a strangled gasp, burying the side of his face into the folds of his quilt. "I don't know," he said at last, forcing the words out between shallow breaths huffed in time with the tiny circles John was now rubbing over the head of his cock with the pad of his thumb. "I've never done this before."

John laid an encouraging kiss to the corner of Sherlock's mouth. "I know, Sherlock," he said. "It's all right. You're doing so well. Just show me how you—"

But Sherlock stopped him with a suddenly urgent look. "John," he said, sharply closing his hand around the doctor's arm to bring that to a halt as well, "you don't understand. I have never done this before."

John blinked, astonished. "Never?!"

It was not, the doctor would reflect later, the best thing to say. Sherlock's face shuttered up, and John could feel his cock wilt slightly in his hand, even before the detective leveraged himself to his elbows and scooted out from under the doctor's hold. "My apologies," he said, red in the face and now not from physical exertion alone. "It wasn't my intent to disappoint you."

"Christ, Sherlock," said John, "I'm sorry, really, I didn't mean it like that. I…er… It's just…" It's just that it didn't seem humanly possible, is just what it was. Licking his lips, the doctor stared down at Sherlock's cock jutting out between them, angry and red even through the condom but now in the lull beginning to seriously flag, and then up to the detective's heaving, sweating chest, and his throat, still imprinted with John's own bite marks, and to his lips, darkened and swollen and slick with—

"Jesus," muttered John, sitting back and covering his face with his hands. "Jesus."

He could hear Sherlock shifting about on the bed, and looked up to find the detective hugging his knees to his chest. "You don't want to now," he mumbled to his feet.

John frowned, shook his head. "No, I—"

"You're feeling sorry for me."

"No, it's not that—"

"You don't trust me. You're worried I can't handle it—"

"Dammit, Sherlock," burst John, "shut up. Shut up. It's not any of that." Too harsh! he thought immediately, and backed off at once, swallowing around a deep inhale to calm down. Very consciously, he placed his palms flat against the quilt at his sides, and turned with open countenance to Sherlock. "I trust you," he told him. "I promise, I do. I want you. But I want to do this properly, all right? I want this to be the best it can be for us both. Understand?"

From behind his knees, Sherlock gave him a long stare, then nodded.

"All right, then," said John. He held out his hands. "Now, come here?" Slowly, Sherlock unfolded his limbs and crawled back to John's arms. John pressed an open-mouthed kiss to his stomach.

"I'm sorry I reacted like that," he mumbled into the vicinity of Sherlock's bellybutton. "But I've an idea to make it up to you. Turn around." Sherlock made a little squeak of alarm.

"John?"

"Stay sitting up," John explained quickly, "just turn your body about and face the other way. There you go…"

As soon as Sherlock was in place John drew close behind him, positioning his bent legs to either side of the detective's body and resting his forehead at his nape. Gently, he began to massage Sherlock's back, starting with his shoulders and slowly working down his spine. The detective sighed and melted back against him, and John smiled; now, each time he pressed his thumbs into a new group of muscles he mouthed a wet kiss against Sherlock's neck.

"Feel good?" he asked, pulling away enough to gulp down a lungful of air.

"Mmm," answered Sherlock, rolling his head forward. But he was getting starting to get fidgety again, restless beneath John's hands, and when the doctor peered over his shoulder he saw—to his own cock's delight—that the detective was nearly completely hard once more.

"Touch yourself," John whispered in his ear.

"I…"

"Like I did to you before," John said. "Here…" Carefully, he took one of Sherlock's hands in his and brought up over the detective's shoulder, giving it a hearty lick—he could taste the salt of perspiration in the man's palm—before guiding it to the detective's lap. Mesmerized, he watched as Sherlock's fingers came to life, touching delicately along the bulging vein running down the underside of his cock, before at last taking himself in hand.

"John—!" Sherlock's whole body arched up at his own touch, and John gripped him across the chest from behind, grounding him in place.

"That's it," he whispered, as Sherlock's hand began to make small, stuttering jerks up and down. "Just…yeah, exactly, just like that. Lightly, now. Go slowly. Take your time…"

Sherlock nodded frantically, following John's cues. He quickly worked up a rhythm, exhaling a steady stream of breathy moans as the doctor inundated him with kisses and praise. "Lower," John told him then. "To…um…down to your…" He was breathing so erratically he couldn't get the words out.

"My testicles?" Sherlock finished for him, as evenly as his own sex-roughened voice could manage, and John moaned against the sweat-damp column of Sherlock's neck and nodded and nodded and nodded.

"Yes, there, oh god, Sherlock, do it, please…"

And Sherlock did—his fingers slid down to the base of his cock and wrapped around his sac and pulled—and John simply couldn't hold back any longer; with a heady grunt he catapulted his chest against Sherlock's back and rammed his cock up against the detective's lower spine.

Both men cried out at once.

"Do you feel that, Sherlock?" John hissed, fiercely thrusting up again so the detective would feel every solid detail of him. "Fucking hell, that's what you do to me, you bloody brilliant man…"

"John," Sherlock gasped, frantically jerking himself now and sounding almost delirious with want, "John, please, let me see you, I want to see you."

He was clambering around in John's arms before John could even manage a response, but all John could do was nod yes, yes, yes; of course yes, how could it not be yes, when Sherlock sounded like that, and looked like that, savage and ravished and alight with intensity. Here was the man John knew, the one who ran down criminals in the shadows of London's streets for nothing more than the thrill of the chase; here was the man with the staggering intellect, blistering and scintillating in turns, the man who had found John broken and listless and saved him, scooped him up from the brink of tedium and disaster; here was the man John had loved even before he knew he loved him.

Sherlock's lips at were at John's throat. The detective was practically seated in John's lap now, sucking ravenously at a point on the doctor's neck, and John held him close, groaning in delight. "God, that's unbelievable," he gushed, overwhelmed by the sensation of Sherlock's hands flying everywhere, running over every inch of John's body they could reach, through scruff of his hair, across his nipples. "You're unbelievable, Sherlock. You're fantastic."

The detective's cock was prodding him straight in the stomach. "Now, John," he gasped. "Now, please, I need you to, I need it; please, John, PLEASE!"

"Fuck," John hissed, and bowed out his back, just enough to take Sherlock's cock in his hand and guide it to his own, wrapping his fingers around both their lengths and beginning to work them up and down, together.

The noises Sherlock was making were sinful. They were obscene. He was like a live wire in John's lap, thrusting frenziedly into the doctor's palm, and despite the condoms John was overcome with the absurd notion that he could quite literally feel every contour of him as their cocks slid together. And then Sherlock began to whine and tense, digging his nails into John's back, and John knew he was right on the edge.

"That's it, Sherlock," he huffed, desperate to see him come, "that's it, yeah, oh, god, you're perfect, Sherlock, you're doing so well…"

"John…"

"I'm here," John whispered fervently, gripping him harder. "I've got you, Sherlock. You're all right. Just let go. Please, love. Just let go…"

Sherlock made a small, keening noise against John's throat, just one, and then the doctor felt the detective's balls draw up tight against his body. The rest happened in a blur, locked into John's memory as flashes of time: Sherlock's cock jerking in his hand; a rough, ragged moan; a passionate, full-body shudder. Instinctively, John shifted position, using his leg as leverage to begin a mad rut against Sherlock's stomach, and soon enough he was coming too, spinning apart like a tightly wound watch spring flying apart all at once, and the elements of the universe careened into new positions, and hundreds of billions of miles away the long arm of a glittering spiral galaxy swung out and collided full-force with the fringes of John's consciousness, and the doctor's world burst into an array of sound and light and then went utterly dim.

When John blinked back to full awareness, he found Sherlock slumped boneless against the surface of his chest, breathing hard and shivering. John was shivering, too; indeed, he could feel the prickle of gooseflesh on his arms and legs, and even tangled together their bodies had in the afterglow turned sticky and cold.

"Sherlock," John whispered. The detective grunted, then shook his head, pressing it harder into John's neck. John cradled him a moment longer, but the more the endorphins began to siphon off the more uncomfortable their position became, and when at last he said, "Come on, Sherlock, let me get us cleaned up," Sherlock relinquished his hold on the doctor, and sat back.

He looked wrecked, even in the low light of the room; his hair had turned frizzy in the humidity of their lovemaking, sticking out at all angles where it wasn't plastered to his face with sweat, and the color was still high in his cheeks, his lips puffy and red. John smoothed down the worst of his curls, then silently slid from the bed and headed for the loo, where he disposed of his condom, splashed a good deal of water on his face, and ran a flannel under the tap for Sherlock.

When he returned to the bedroom, the detective was hunched over on the sheets; through the tangle of his bent limbs John could see he was staring with a fixed expression at the condom still sheathing his cock, tentatively prodding the bottom of it with the point of his finger. He looked a bit lost, like he had absolutely no idea what to make of it.

John climbed back onto the bed. "Let me," he said, and Sherlock dropped his legs open and allowed John to peel the rubber off. "Better?" he asked with a faint smile, and Sherlock nodded mutely, swaying side to side as John proceeded to gently wipe the moisture from his face and neck and chest and lastly his genitals, before balling the condom and towel together and tossing them to the floor. "There," he said, once he was done.

"Why are you so good to me, John?" asked Sherlock.

John couldn't find the words to speak. Instead, he cupped Sherlock's face in his hand and pressed a kiss to his mouth, chaste and sweet and full of everything he didn't quite yet know how to say."That's why," he said, pulling away, and Sherlock looked a little stunned and a little exhilarated and seemed somehow to understand. Then John turned down the bedclothes, and Sherlock climbed inside, and John followed him, silently wrapping his shorter body into the detective's longer one until they found a position that was warm and comfortable for them both. Sherlock sighed and nuzzled into John's chest; John reached over to turn out the light. He fell asleep with his nose buried in the detective's hair.