Title: A Small Sacrifice Pt. 4

Pairing: Sherlock and John

Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)

Rated: T

Notes: I was going to make this chapter M+ and add a tender love making scene, but decided against it. I don't like when stories start off T and under and suddenly are M+ rated without warning, didn't want to do that to you guys. This is the final chapter, so thank you all for being patient. Reviews are greatly appreciated! Love you~

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Sleepless nights pass, not many, but enough for observations to be made and conclusions to be had. He sits in the kitchen with the glass doors closed and listens, night after night. There is noise, whispers, movement, frustrated grunts, tired sighs, more whispers, and no sleep. For either of them.

John opens his door one morning to make his way to the loo when his foot knocks something over and there's a rattle. He looks down at a bottle of pills, picks it up, and reads the label.

"Melatonin." He offers a smile to the bottle, follows with setting his jaw and closing his eyes. Sherlock knows he hasn't been sleeping, probably doesn't know why, though. They've both come so accustom to sleeping together, holding each other in blissful warmth, soft worn pyjamas or sensitive nude flesh tangled in one another. He missed it, he did, but… Well, to be completely honest, he doesn't even know anymore. He never truly believed that Sherlock hated him or that he didn't deserve Sherlock, hell, if anyone deserved that mad man it was John and he'd have the whole world know it before anyone tried to put their hands on his bloke. John knows he doesn't want to be around Sherlock anymore, he doesn't know why, and he's tired of making up excuses. Being around Sherlock now, it just seemed so… depressing. Sherlock was beautiful and perfect, mind and body, John had a beautiful and perfect mind, he likes to believe, but his body was never really up to par. Now both his body and mind were damaged goods and sitting next to Sherlock he just felt so incredibly small and it hurt.

John stuffed the bottle of sleeping pills in his pocket and limped down the stairs to the bathroom.

:

Lestrade had sent Sherlock home early again. 'What's the point of having the world's most brilliant mind if it isn't focused and in the game?' he said. He almost received a loud and rebellious 'No! I refuse!' like the kind he used to (and still sometimes will) give Mycroft when the elder brother got a tad too bossy. It was still mid-day and going home was decidedly more uncomfortable in the decision department than he'd like it to be. Since John had gone back to his old room, Sherlock has been doing his best to keep himself in line, he's wanted to just snatch John by the shoulders and shake him senseless and kiss him beyond repair, but he knew that that would not be well received.

Sherlock sighed and opened the door to the sitting room. Unexpectedly, John was not in his chair reading, nor was he on the couch watching the telly, nor was he on his laptop doing whatever he does on his laptop. Sherlock shucked off his jacket and scarf, tossing them both on the nearest piece of furniture, and took a good look around. Nothing was out of place from when he left early in the morning. A wave of disappointment washed over him for no particular reason.

His legs began to move and soon he found himself in his bedroom where he had hoped to find a warm body waiting for him in bed. It was empty. Still. Still empty. Still cold. Still completely and entirely depressing. It shouldn't be, it's just a bed, it should technically be none of those things, but sadly, it is. How can one human do this to him? How can one human make him feel so worn and hurt just by not being as active in his life as was previously? It's never happened before, not in any sense of it, so it truly is just mind boggling.

And suddenly, Sherlock is very aware of how tired and lonely he is. Tired and lonely and tired of being lonely, he was sick of it, he wanted to feel John again, he wanted to hear John again, he wanted to tell John how much John's changed him and accepted him and loved him and tolerated him and didn't punch him even when he really deserved it, he wanted to tell John how happy he makes him, he wanted to tell John how sad he makes him, he wanted John to know all the things he makes him feel and how normally he'd hate it terribly, but it's okay because it's John making him feel these things and…

Sherlock takes in a shuddered breath and closes his eyes when he feels the tear pour over his lid and filter through his lashes. It's still such a foreign sensation.

All he was going to do when he got home was play around with how mercury affects plant growth when mixed into dirt and fertilizer, it was his first experiment since the accident, but no. No, he had to be so damn human and so bloody emotional all of a sudden and, oh, look, now he's running up the stairs to John's room. Lovely.

He didn't know what he was going to do when he entered the room, no speech was prepared, nothing had been planned, Sherlock just needed to be near John, that's all he knew.

The knob turned slowly, the door opening about a foot wide, Sherlock couldn't hear anything past the hammering of his pulse in his ears. John's room was nearly pitch black, the windows had been covered with something thicker, he couldn't make out what yet, though. He could see the blue glow of the alarm clock emit from behind John's silhouetted head, John was facing him, but thankfully asleep. Sherlock could also make out the pill bottle on the nightstand next to the clock, with it, he let out a deep breath and relaxed his shoulders and back. John could finally catch up on sleep now, Sherlock was thankful that John took the pills. No matter how upset he was that any of this was happening, he was still worried sick that John hadn't been sleeping. John wasn't like Sherlock, he needed his sleep to function properly and he knew it.

Entering the room, Sherlock toed his shoes off next to the door as he closed it behind him. His belt slid off slowly and was carefully placed with the shoes. He pulls his shirt out from his pants as he steps up to John's bedside and John really is a handsome man. Blue light hits all the little curves and wrinkles of the side of his head, his ear and hair textured with the blue, his face shadowed, but not unseeable. Sherlock lowers himself gently, making sure not to disturb John's slumber, his eyes never left the peaceful face. The bed is low enough that while he sits on his bum, he could fold his arms up on the edge and rest his head comfortably without having to adjust for his height.

He watches John sleep in silence and at some point, before following suit, their fingers entwine.

It's the happiest Sherlock has been in weeks.

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"Love… Love, get up." A warm hand rests in Sherlock's tangled mess. Fingers rub minutely at his scalp and he moans, leaning into the touch. Eyelashes flutter, the light from the lamp stings, Sherlock has no idea how long he's been asleep. Slowly, he tilts his head up, the hand on his head falling to cup his cheek. John looks so sad. Sad and confused. Sad and hurt. Sad and happy. So many emotions all in one expression and Sherlock could see them all so plainly.

John began to scoot away, pulling Sherlock's hand to follow. As Sherlock slid in under the covers, he felt all of his tension slip away completely. For the first time in weeks, he was in a warm bed with the man he loved in his arms. Destiny and fate do not exist, he knows this in his core, but Sherlock can't help but feel that this is the way it should be, that this is how his life is meant to be spent for the rest of its days.

Fingers traced paths over Sherlock's cheek, down his jaw, knuckles grazed over his neck and behind his ears. Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed in through his nose. He had never been so relieved to feel another person's hands on him in his life. Sherlock opened his eyes again, gazing back into John's. John took a deep breath.

"I'm sorry, Sherlog, this was all so damn gonfusing and frustrating, I just didn't know what to do with myself. I never meant to tage it out on you. I was embarrassed and I'm sorry, I really am." Sherlock let out a breathy laugh in surprise and drew his eyebrows together.

"No, John, I thought you were mad at me. It was the only logical conclusion I could come to, you blamed me fo- Wait, what? John… John you jus- What was that?" John couldn't decide if he should hide his face or grin proudly, so he did both.

"Tha- oh. Um. I haven't been sleeping, so I've been trying to figure out ways around the sound. I've replaced the sound with 'g' and for the most part, it worgs. Still sounds a tad funny, though, but it… Yeah… I thing after some time, I might be able to go bag to normal. I don't want to talg in publig yet, though." Sherlock stared at the man averting his gaze in awe.

He replaced the sound with 'g'.

He replaced. The sound. With 'g'.

"You… Are… Brilliant!" Sherlock flopped around on his back and slapped both hands over his face, letting out a loud groan that translated into 'Holy shit balls I am such an idiot'. "How did neither of us come up with this before!? How could we be so stupid!?"

"We? I was the one that game up with it, don't drag me down to your level." Sherlock snapped his head around to give John an incredulous look. John's lifted eyebrows and horribly held back smile made him completely drop all seriousness in that moment and together, they snorted and laughed harder than they've laughed in a very… Very long time. They faced each other, foreheads pressed together as they shook with giggles.

"N-no, right- You absolutely must take the credit for this one, my apolo-"

If there was one thing about John that he honestly couldn't make his mind up on, it was if he liked or disliked how often John shut him up mid-sentence with a kiss. He disliked it because of how often this happened and because most of the time, Sherlock was actually saying something really interesting that he wanted John to know. On the other hand, he wasn't really saying anything at all, just rambling in an awkward situation or listing off random things in uncomfortable silences, in which case he wholeheartedly thanked John for shutting him up. This was an example of the later.

A hand, that fantastic, talented, warm hand, slid around the side of his neck to the back of his neck, leaving a ghost of a warm trail behind it, to tangle it's fingers in his dark curls, pulling him further into the kiss. It was a firm kiss, not sloppy or heady, just a firm reminder of what they are and what they've been missing. Their lips glided against each other slowly, pressing and sucking perfect kisses. John pressed forward, hand moving from Sherlock's neck to his shoulder, turning Sherlock on his back while he propped himself up on his elbow over Sherlock's head. Fingers teased at bouncy curls and a flat palm roamed over a broad rising chest. Sherlock felt a weight in his stomach and a tightness in his diaphragm, his lungs felt muted and his body trembled, screaming for more.

Only John could ever make him feel like this. Only John.

And it was so absolutely perfect.

:

At some point before being fully unclothed, Sherlock had asked John if they could go back to their room, it hadn't felt right doing something so them in a room that wasn't theirs. And of course John had smiled and agreed after calling him a sentimental twat.

The warm tones of the sunrise pour through the window, now. Sherlock watches John sleep, he knows his lover is going to wake up soon, but this was always his favorite part after a night of 'love making', as they call it. The room fills with orange and pink hues and John's nude body is doused in the beautiful radiance. He lets his hand wander down from John's chest to his belly lazily, pulling the covers up just a bit so John doesn't feel too self-conscious when he wakes up. He always does that, wakes up and pulls the covers over him when he sees Sherlock watching him, chuckling nervously like it will hide his blush. John isn't as firm as he used to be, he hasn't gone soft, though, but it's enough to make him feel not his best. Sherlock always thought that was silly, he absolutely adores John's body and flesh, yes it is just transport for the brain, but John's was so much more than that. He never bothered putting into words just how magnificent John's body or mind is to him, that would take away the wonder of it all.

He replaced the sound with 'g'.

Sherlock grinned brightly and rolled his eyes.

He will grant John one definition, though: a very brilliant prat of a man.