Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sherlock’s clearly missed something in John’s behavior, because he isn’t due for a haircut for another 10 days. John is like clockwork that way, as soon as the hair tucked behind his ears, he would go in for a trim. It has not been so short in the time Sherlock had known him.

This was Solider John. John in the pictures Sherlock kept stored in the London A-Z book on the shelf by his desk.

That John, the John in the pictures, was not quite his John. He was dressed in fatigue pants and a tan t-shirt, tight across well developed pecs and abs. Dog tags hung at his neck, dull silver circles on a long chain. He was smiling in the most radiant way, and it lit up the dusky sunset scene like mid-day. This was the John before bullet wounds and the life of London, a man in his element in the deserts of war.

His John seems smaller, softer, less threatening. He is the good doctor, wrapped in wooly knit jumpers. His John is less happy, less at peace. But when it counts the most, when nothing else will do, Soldier John shines out from his presence like an aura. No woman can resist him, no man can disobey him, the world is at his feet.

Soldier John is everything Sherlock’s body wants. His John is everything his mind needs.
He fights the urge to stretch his hand out to the back of John’s neck, to brush away the few stray hairs leftover from the shave. To stroke across the soft bristle of short hairs and taste the soft spot behind his ears. To…

Sherlock drops the box of papers a little harder than he means to, and it wakes him from his fantasy.

John is staring intently at him, thoughts practically scrolling across his face. “Sherlock? Are you back?”

“Back?”

John smirks, and Sherlock’s heart flutters.“From wherever you were just then.”

“Oh, yes. The case. Putting things together.”

“I see. Lestrade called, they want us to come on the sting.” John started in on tea. He turned on the kettle and set out two mugs, two plates, two spoons, one bag of English breakfast, one bag of earl grey, and wheat bread from the bread box. Each move was practiced and precise, a domestic need elevated to an art, a calming ritual for a man who longs for his normal in small doses.

‘Focus Sherlock’, he tells himself. “How do they expect to catch a man who is killing soldiers, they can hardly catch cold.”

John smiles his soft little smile, his amused-but-not-encouraging-you-Sherlock smile, and replies,

“That’s why we are coming’”

“Oh. Oh, I see. The haircut.”

“The haircut. Got to be ready by 8, Sherlock. Want some tea and toast?”

“No John, on a case!”

“I see.“ Sherlock rolls his eyes as John continues on, making two cup of tea, and four slices of toast. John’s slices were thick with the raspberry jam Mrs Hudson had made them, and Sherlock’s were spread thin with butter and topped with a lime marmalade. “Showering in a bit, is the mess out of the tub?”

“That 'mess' was an experiment.”

“In testing my patience. Is it clean, Sherlock?”

“Yes, John, Cleaned up.” Sherlock begins pacing the floor, waiting for John to leave to he could eat and drink in peace. It’s one of the many unspoken facts of life in 221b. Sherlock eats and John pretends that it never happens.

“Good. Eight o’clock, Sherlock, and we’re out the door, dressed or not.” John chides as he heads to the shower. As soon as the water starts, Sherlock chugs down the too hot tea and makes another cup.

******

Sherlock hold his breath when John walked down the stairs at quarter to seven. His fantasy John made real, a little older but that only enhanced the appeal. John’s shoulders were squared and his chest pushed out, and the power flowing from him hit like a tsunami. There were still strong muscles tucked away under the softened figure he was developing, and Sherlock longed to feel the contrast with his fingers.

“Sherlock, starring. Did I miss something?”

“No, just checking. Looks, um, correct. Got your tags?”
In reply, John pulls them from his pocket and slips them around his neck. The sound at the back of Sherlock's throat is deep, and barely audible, but his face is still as statue. He rushes to stand and put on his belstaff, if only to hide bulge forming in his trousers.

“Shoes, Sherlock.” John says, quite bemused with his apparent distraction.

‘It’s going to be a very long night’ Sherlock thinks, and tries to think of anything besides John. He always fails.

Chapter Text

Sherlock never grows tired of the familiar warmth of John. He’s an anchor, a bit of normal in a crazy life. This is most true when he is Doctor John, the caring healer. His small size hides strength, enough to haul a limping Sherlock up the stairs. He probably could have walked just fine, but he’s playing up the knee a bit for his good doctor. John helps him all the way to his room, and deposits him softly on the bedside.

“Strip down, Sherlock, I need to take a look at that knee.”

Sherlock pauses briefly, in shock. He pulls away from John and scoffs, “Take a look at your face first, John. Weren’t you taught how to duck instead of block with your nose?”

John isn’t ruffled in the slightest. “No deflecting, go on. Trousers off.”

“You are dripping blood, John.”

“Fine, ok,” John agrees.” But I’ll be back, and you will be in pants. I’ll bring a few pills as well, bring down the knee swelling.”

‘Not that swelling I’m worried about’ Sherlock muses, only undressing when he hears the water running. ‘You can handle this, Sherlock. Just transport.’ He wraps himself in a dressing gown and leans back against the headboard. He arranges the silk so his legs are visible to mid thigh, and the fold hide the fact that John’s Soldier voice is affecting him. He’s not prepared, however, for the sight of John when he returns.

“I’m soaking the shirt. Blood everywhere. Good thing you figured a way to get it out so well, or I’d have nothing to wear.” John steps through the door from the ensuite in his fatigue pants and dog tags, chest bare and glistening with drops of water from his washing. His trousers sit low on his solid hips, and the trail of dusty blond hair down his belly disappears beneath them. “Right, let’s see the knee, then.”

The doctor sits carefully on the bed at Sherlock’s feet and turns all his attention to Sherlock’s left leg. He strokes up from mid calf, probing fingers into tender bits to assess the damage. Sherlock holds his breath, afraid to draw any attention to himself beyond the exam. He careful memorizes each movement, the feel of his warm, calloused fingers on his skin. When John works above the knee, checking the bruising there, Sherlock lets out a strangled whimper.

“Hurts there?” John asks gently. He proceeds more carefully, tender pressure to discover if it is true damage, or a blooming bruise. “Looks like you’ll be fine, just black and blue. Take the pills, we’ll ice it, and- Sherlock, are you listening?”

“Of course, Doctor. Pills. Ice. Rest. Boring.”

“Well, next time you be the pretty bait, and I’ll fall down the stairs onto the killer.” John pats him softly on his uninjured knee, holding for a second before he heads to the kitchen.

Sherlock takes a few deep, calming breaths and tries to get his reactions under control. Thank God John can be quite unobservant.

**********

On day 1, Sherlock plays a good little patient, only grumbling and protesting food, and cursing at the tv twice. He even sleeps, fitfully and on the couch for a few hours with his leg propped up on pillows.

Day 2, he has solved every case in the inbox of both websites, and sent off dozens of emails explain to the prospective clients where to find their lost items, or what divorce lawyer to call. All his good deeds used up for the day, he tries three times to sneak from the flat for a walk. He knows John’s gun is hidden somewhere in Mrs Hudson’s flat to spare the wall any damage. John won’t let him sent a network member for body parts, so he spends the evening watching dvd’s with John, keeping a running commentary on the poor acting and writing choices.

Day 3, he begins to plan cases when he can coax out Soldier John. Nothing in the inbox, but he is hopeful. Mycroft is no help, arriving unexpectedly and remembering not to carry his passcard with him this time. Not even playing violin is calming Sherlock, and he falls into a deep, black sulk.

**********

John ensures Sherlock is in his room, without an exit except his own window, and goes to the kitchen to prepare lunch. His mobile rings, and it’s Lestrade. “Hi Greg. His Highness is laid up.”

“Knee was that bad? Good thing he’s got a live in doctor.”

“Yes, well, he’s being...himself.”

“Lord help us! I’ve a box of cold case files I was saving for a rainy day.”

“Hurricane Sherlock has hit land.”

“Understood. I’ll run them by when I’m off. Can you last three more hours?”

“Should. More than four and you’ll be over for a murder inquiry, though.”

“Understood. See you then.”

John hangs up and pinches the bridge of his nose. ‘Should buy us an evening more’ he thinks, and finishes preparing afternoon tea for his less-than-patient.

**********

Sherlock appears dead, to the untrained eyes, until he hears the doorbell ring. In Sherlock’s own mind, though, he is hard at work. He notices John has been glancing at the front door every 3 minutes for the last half hour, not-so-patiently awaiting something. He hopes this something will be entertaining. John goes down the stairs and comes back up with Inspector Lestrade, and Sherlock’s heart drops.

“Brought you a present, Sherlock.” Greg says, and sets a large box on the coffee table in front of his face. “Cold cases. Maybe you could give them a look over?”

Sherlock doesn’t open his eyes. “If I find the time, Geoff, I’m quite busy at the moment.”

“Of course you are. I’ll just take these back to the office then…”

“No!” Sherlock exclaims, and half lunges for the box. “I mean, I’ve found some time.”

“Ta, Sherlock.” Greg replies with a knowing grin. “No big hurry. Do what the doctor says, then. Be a good boy.”

John laughs deeply, and claps Greg on the back. “Visiting hours are over. I’ll walk you out.”

Sherlock rolls himself to the side, returning to his sulk when John walks Greg back to the door. ‘This is pity work, but it’s better than no work.’ he thinks, but it doesn’t make him any more eager to start.
John walks back in, and switches right back to doctor mode. “Prop that knee back up, it’s still swollen and purple.”

Sherlock rolls to his back lethargically, and moans, “What does it matter? It will heal just the same.”

“Which one of us is the doctor, eh? Come on, you’ll heal faster and better.” John piles the pillows back up, and holds them steady for Sherlock.

“Must pace, John. Get the brain moving.” Sherlock moves to stand, but John is faster. John’s iron grip is on his arms, keeping him pinned to the couch. Sherlock freezes, staring down at John’s warm hands on his bare arms.

“You will get sent to hospital right now if you are not going to co-operate. I will call bloody Mycroft to drag you himself if needs be. Do you understand me, Sherlock?”

Sherlock nods slightly, his eyes sliding shut, and gulps. This is real. John is holding him, like he does in Sherlock’s mind. John feels right, holding him and digging in his hands a bit, making Sherlock hold still for once. John taking him over, making him relax and stop thinking.

He needs to move, hide his obvious arousal, but he can’t think. His whole brain is filled with the texture of callouses on John’s shooting hand, the calm in his usually trembling left, the serious tone of his Soldier voice, the warm, earthy smell of him. He files away this moment in his head, locked in his John room.

John lets go suddenly, and clears his throat. “Glad you, um, understand. I’m just off, I mean out. To get dinner. Wh-what would you like?”

“Whatever,” Sherlock opens his eyes and stares deeply into John’s. “Anything.”

John grabs his coat and runs down the steps. A little part of Sherlock breaks. Useless sentiment, after all.

Chapter Text

As soon as the downstairs door shut, Sherlock lets out the breath he’s been holding. He knows John will bring home Thai, the one he picks when he wants to be out longer. 40 minutes, maybe more. Plenty of time.

Sherlock limps down the hall to his room, leaving the pillow pile on the couch, and locks himself in. Stripping carefully, he grabs the bottle of bath oil and settles in the middle of the bed. He’s still at least half hard, and closes his eyes tightly.

He’s in his favorite room of his mind, a ritzy hotel room he saw once at a crime scene. There’s no dead body this time, bleeding on the expensive cream colored duvay. John is beside the bed in his full uniform, wearing a serious scowl.

“Late again, Sherlock. You know what that means.” Sherlock kneels at his feet and looks up with a sly smile.

“Time to play?”

Sherlock works the foreskin over the head of his cock, twisting his hand slightly on his way down. No time for a slow, lingering wank today. He pours a little oil on to his hand and roughly grips the length, stroking hard and fast.

“Play? No, I don’t think you’ve earned that. On the bed, stripped bare.”

“Yes, Sir.” Sherlock eagerly complies. He gets down on all fours, his naked arse in the air, preparing for what he knows is coming.

Thwack. He whimpers at the sting of a leather belt across his cheeks.

“‘Yes, Sir’ won’t get you out of it, Sherlock. Start counting.”

“One.” Thwack, harder and lower down. “Two, Sir.” Thwack. Tears start to prickle in his eyes. “Three, Sir.” Thwack, harder still and stinging hot. “Four, Captain, Sir.” Thwack. Nearly all John’s strength and he jumps forward, tears flowing free. “Five, Captain.” Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. “Six. Seven. Eight. Sir.” Sherlock sobs, and lays flat to the bed. “I’ll be good, sir. I promise.”

John rolls him over and straddles his chest, pinning his arms to his side.

**********

“Thai,” John says to no one in particular. He turns left and sets an easy pace, in no hurry to make it back home.

Sherlock is always odd, zigging when normal people would zag. Today though, with John’s arms holding him down to the couch, he stilled. Sherlock never backs down from a fight, only regroups and comes back  in a more devastating and efficient way. John will pay for bringing up Mycroft, and for his use of force.

“Strangest thing,” John mutters. “If I didn’t know better…” Sherlock looked so different. His pupils blown wide, little rings of blue green around pure black centers. Pink rising on his sharp cheekbones and his plush lips parting in a gasp. ‘Anything’, he had said. Sherlock had looked aroused.

John goes through the events of the last week, trying to pinpoint when Sherlock took a turn.

Just before he reaches the restaurant, he spots an ad for the new war movie. A young soldier stands alone and at attention, in his digital camo fatigues. “Shit,” John swears aloud, putting it together. “The hair cut. The uniform. The bloody case!”

**********

Sherlock’s sucking hard on two fingers, working his tongue around them and trying to quiet his moans. He thrusts into his hand and relishing the pain in his knee with every movement.

John unbuttons his trousers and slides them down his hips, along with his pants. He grips the upholstered headboard with one hand and leans so his hips loom above Sherlock’s face. “I bet that pretty mouth is good for more than just smart arse comments.” John rubs his stiff cock against Sherlock’s lips, smearing them in bitter pre-come. “Shall we try?”

“Yes, Captain” Sherlock licks the head, leaning up to suck it into his mouth. He strains his neck to take in as much of the thick length as he can, hollowing his cheeks when he pulls back. John’s free hand fists in his curls, holding him in place. Sherlock tries to breathe as John fucks his mouth, thrusting into his throat and making him gag. He works his tongue, trying to make John come quickly.

“Not yet, Sherlock.” John smirks as he pulls away from the reach of Sherlock’s tongue. “Not that easy today, love. You have been very naughty.” John gets off of his chest and rolls him to his stomach, whacking the reddened flesh with an open hand.

**********

Sherlock aroused by another person doesn’t mesh in John’s head. He’s not even sure the man wanks, for God’s sake. A serial killer, a locked room mystery, a new and dangerous foe, those excite Sherlock.

Sherlock the Sociopath. Married-to-his-work Sherlock. Mr. Sex-doesn’t-alarm-me-How-would-you-know? His flatmate who never dates, never comments on how attractive someone is, tears people down when they show interest in him. That Sherlock is familiar, if not always predictable.

Sherlock on the couch was like something from a dirty dream. Under John’s body, gripped tight in his hands, short of breath, looking so beautiful and so fuckable. Even now his mind is spinning with desire, wishing he had known it was safe to act. He still doesn’t know, to be honest. How could he be sure?

John’s driven to distraction, ordering the wrong food and forgetting half on the counter. He goes back, giving a sheepish nod to the server and starts home.

**********

Captain John chuckles when Sherlock whimpers, thrusting his arse back for contact. “So eager. Do you want me to fuck you, Sherlock?”

“Y-yes, Sir,” He chokes out as John’s fingers slide between his cheeks and stroke his opening.

“Right here?” He asks, and forces two fingers in. Sherlock can’t speak, just gasps and begins to shake all over.

Sherlock slicks his damp fingers with oil and teases his opening briefly, before plunging both in. It burns and stretches him farther that he’s used to. He moans and writhes, opening himself harshly. Finding his prostate, he angles to hit it with every stroke.

“I asked you a question.” John curls his fingers and assaults his prostate, thumb rubbing it from the outside. Tears are rolling freely down Sherlock’s face and he’s not sure what he is trying to say, but it sounds nothing like language. He’s close, so close, and suddenly empty, sobbing.

Three fingers in now, and pumping his cock at a furious pace. He’s almost there, and it’s getting harder to keep quiet. He tastes blood in his mouth from the bottom lip he’s clamped between his teeth.

John lines up behind him, slick bare cock entering fast and deep. Sherlock screams in pain and ecstasy, coming in violent bursts. He collapses to the bed under the force.

John reaches down, wrapping a hand around Sherlock’s throat and tightening. He thrusts a few more times, and comes deep inside Sherlock’s overstimulated body. It feels like fire and he goes limp when John pulls out.

Sherlock knows he cries out, but doesn’t recall what he says. Everything goes black.

**********

John opens the front door, bags in hand, and takes the 17 steps up to the flat. He pauses on step nine when he hears Sherlock shout, “Oh, Captain.”

“Well, that answers that question,” he says to himself with a smirk. He opens the kitchen door cautiously, in case Sherlock isn’t in his room.

The couch is empty, pillows still piled up for Sherlock’s leg. Getting silverware from the kitchen drawer, he sets out the food on the coffee table and gets comfy on the end of the couch. He tries to clear his thoughts, hoping Sherlock won’t know he’s been overheard. John hears the shower start up, and digs into his noodles. Ten minutes later, Sherlock limps back out to the couch in a fresh dressing gown and pyjamas.

“You seem to be moving better, but you should still prop the knee when you sit.” Sherlock scoffs, but John shoots him a look that says he will tolerate no argument. Sherlock concedes, letting John balance the pillows for him.

“Best eat up too, Sherlock. You look peaky.” John tries to keep his voice level, and contain his smirk. “Maybe a bit overexerted from the shower.”

Chapter Text

Sherlock turns the knob on his microscope, bringing the spores into focus. He’s adding things up, estimating the toxicity, when he’s interrupted by a slow clicking pattern. John’s parked in his chair, attempting yet another blog post, or perhaps another go at the dating websites. John pauses, sighs, and shifts in place.

“John, would it kill you to learn to type properly?”

“Might do, Sherlock. I’ll croak right here in my chair, because you tried to make me type proper.”

“Well, don’t. It would be a boring way to die.”

John sets his laptop on the side table and gets up to make more tea. “Aren’t we just sunshine today? Post case slump already? It’s been three hours, not three days.”

Sherlock glares at him, wishing him pain and suffering while simultaneously drinking in the radiant smile on his face. John could take the piss all he liked, as far as Sherlock was concerned, if he smiled like that. Schooling his thoughts, Sherlock continued his less-than-subtle prodding.
“What’s this case, then? The Mystery of a Soldier in Love? The Case of the Missing Idiot?”

“A Matter of Missing Harts.”

“Oh honestly; of all the sentimental rubbish.” Sherlock gives up on his experiment and turns in his chair. John’s back is still to him, waiting on the kettle to boil.

“Missing soldier with the last name Hart. Case involving a hidden love. What would you call it?”

“I wouldn’t call it anything, because I wouldn’t write it up. No mystery was solved, nothing intriguing about a closeted bisexual soldier and his ill advised affair with a male model.”
John turns suddenly, pinning Sherlock with a weighted look. “Love, Sherlock. Not an affair, and only slightly ill-advised.”

The look on John’s face is difficult to read. He gets this look at the oddest times, and it makes Sherlock wonder what he could be thinking about. It’s at least 3 expression meshing into one; regret in the furrow of his brows, delight waring with caution in his eyes, and a soft puckering of lips as if the thoughts pleased him. Sherlock wished once again to be the mind reader that John often accused him of being.

**********

John wasn’t sure why Sherlock took the case, and only scoffed when John asked.

He felt as if he had been holding his breath the entire time. Two days of work, as if Sherlock had been dragging it out. Interviewing fellow soldiers of Hart, John needing to pull rank once or twice, and finally a train trip to find him safe and whole in Paris with his dark haired and strikingly beautiful lover. A fashion model, tall, thin and every bit John’s type if he could be said to have a type of man. Fate is truly trying to screw with him, he’s certain of it.

Sherlock, as usual, was the most interesting thing about the case. John could feel the detective’s intense gaze on only him when the questioning of a private required use of his Captain Watson inflection and body language. Reminiscing about times with his company in Kandahar drew Sherlock’s full, but disguised, attention and staved off boredom based bad behavior on the train to Paris. John is still awaiting more proof, scared to be wrong and ruin everything. So far, though, it seems the Captain that Sherlock imagines is Captain John H. Watson.

**********

Finally Sherlock thinks when John clears him to run the streets of London again. Solving cases from the flat or limping about did little for his mood, and less for his plan to see John’s soldiering side as often as possible.

John’s watching the door carefully again, but he didn’t say a thing about visitors. Sherlock goes into overdrive deducing, and figures out just before the doorbell rings that it must be an old friend of John’s.

“I’ll get that then. Budge off the couch, Sherlock, or he’ll sit in your chair.” Sherlock huffed out his displeasure, but moves to his chair, grateful he was dressed. He may not care for modesty, preferring a sheet, but John would raise hell. Two sets of steady, even steps come up, and John opens the door, leading in a man in full uniform. Sherlock stops short of his jaw falling to the floor, and gets up to leave the room.

**********

“Don’t mind Sherlock.” John says, directing Ian to the couch. “Would you like a drink, or are you headed in?”

“Just off, in fact. A letter addressed to you found it’s way to your old company. Thought I’d hand deliver it and say hello.” Ian removes his coat, laying it over the sofa arm, and takes up a spot in the middle. John brings in two glasses of scotch on the rocks. Ian takes his with a warm smile and sips it slowly.

John sits next to Ian, thighs an inch from brushing, and tries not to blush. He forces back memories of Ian in the week before they were deployed, spending 5 nights of that week passed out in the same bed in a tiny London hotel room, waking only to drink more and curse the war that was sending them away. He recalls trying to find women to share the time with them, but not trying very hard. He doesn’t recall if all their time in bed was spent sleeping.

Ian picked up the letter, holding it to his forehead as if reading it with psychic powers. “Kate (last name) Husband left her again. She didn’t realize how good she had it with you. Will you forgive her and come back?”

“Oh God, not Kate again.” John placed a hand out for the letter, and the sickly smell of perfume wafted off of it.

“Yes, Kate again. Didn’t tell her you got sent home?”

“I’d honestly hoped I’d ever have to speak to her again.”

Ian chuckles, and it’s warm and friendly to John’s ears. “You sure know how to pick them, don’t you?”

John lowers his voice, suddenly conscious that Sherlock is probably listening in at this very moment. “She’s not getting the satisfaction of a letter back, I’ll tell you that. Talk about something else, will you?”

Ian crosses his legs, foot nearly touching John’s leg, an leans back into the cushions. “Not the most social fellow, your boyfriend. Ran out when I came in.”

John hisses, half under his breath, “Flatmate, Ian. We’re not a couple.”

Ian pitched his voice lower to match, leaning in to whispering near John’s ear. “Hmm, seems just your type though. I’ve read all about you and your ‘flatmate’, John. None of us who knew the real you are fooled.” John’s heart rate jumps, and he isn’t sure if it’s the reminder of his past or the way Ian’s breath ghosts across the sensitive skin below his ear.

“I’m not gay, Ian.” John says forcefully, half to convince himself not to turn his head and kiss his friend into silence.

Ian laughs suggestively, and lays a firm hand on John’s thigh. His lips stay a few inches from John’s ear, and his voice goes husky when he speaks again. “Good lord, John still at this? Haven’t you heard of bi-sexuals? Or do they not have those in London?”

John picks up the hand and drops it into Ian’s lap almost regretfully. It’s been too long since someone wanted him like this, someone willing to make a move. John is certain he could take Ian up to his room right now if he dared. He’s certain Sherlock’s presence in that flat is most of what’s stopping him. He takes a deep breath to clear his mind, and pulls away from the temptation of Ian’s lips at his ear.

“I don’t think ‘will go down on you if he’s drunk’ is the same as bi-sexual, Ian.”

“I think ‘stares at your arse, but won’t make a move till he’s drunk’ does though.” Ian challenges.
“Ian, now is not the time for this conversation…” John sighs.

“You haven’t told him, have you?” Ian says at full voice. His face is set in a worried expression, but his voice is far louder than needed for the two of them inches apart. You bastard. John thinks. Have you any idea what you are doing?

John rubs his temples, feeling the headache starting. “Ian, just don’t-.”

“Think about why you haven’t John.”

“Ian! You know damn well he’s probably listening in.” John whispers accusingly. “I just...that’s enough.” John stands and Ian takes the hint. They both move towards the downstairs door. At the bottom of the steps, Ian extends his hand to shake John’s.

“Thanks for the drink. I’ll be back in London in two weeks if you like to get another, my treat.” John can see the offer in his eyes, drinks and whatever that leads them too.

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.” John says, regret in his tone. As much as he’d love another wild night, that’s not who he is anymore.

“Tell him, John. The worst he can say is no.”

“You don’t know Sher-”

Ian cuts him off with a reassuring hand on his arm. “Tell him. It’s eating you alive, mate.”

“There are worse ways to go.”

**********

Sherlock hears the downstairs door shut before he turns away from his door to flop across the bed. Fingers steepled on his chin, he files and sorts the bits he could hear, and ponders what the half understood whispers could be. He knew John’s military days were a sore spot, a career ended in it’s prime. After nicking John’s file from Mycroft and reading it cover to cover, he still had questions. He’s not sure if it’s respect for his friend, or the fantasy of his big strong hero that keeps him from digging further. He would normally have searched for weaknesses to exploit. Just another way that everything is different when it comes to John, like it or not.

At half eight, he feels his stomach rumble. The smell of risotto is wafting in from the kitchen, creamy and comforting. John’s cooking almost always tempts him to eat, even if it’s just stolen bits from the leftovers once John’s has gone to bed. Risotto is his best dish, though, and he hopes the courgette and mushroom he saw in the fridge have found their way into the pan as well.

Sherlock makes his way to the couch, stepping onto and over the coffee table. There is fresh data, after Ian left, and it’s flooding into his brain. His eyes land on the open envelope on the coffee table, letter stuffed back in roughly. Next to it, a Saint Adrian medal on a chain.

“Bringing you some, and you are eating-” John turns the corner and sees Sherlock lifting the envelope to smell the letter. “Put that down.”

“Clinique Happy. Young, don’t you think. Or she thinks she still is. Catholic, sent you a medal for protection. No one close, or she would know you’d been invalided out for a while now. Old girlfriend, recently separated from her husband, looking to try again. With you.”

“Yet another thing that is not your damn business, Sherlock Holmes.” John snatched the envelope from his hands and set Sherlock’s plate down to roughly. Sherlock tipped his head to the side in thought. John looked almost relieved at the deductions. There was more, bigger, worse.

“Ian wasn’t the husband; not mad enough. Knew of her, though. Probably your full sexual history, knowing how you are when you drink.” There, a twitch of John’s calm mask. ‘Gotcha’, Sherlock thinks. “Knew she was married while you were involved. Covered for you. Here to warn you off.”

John slumped into his chair, a mixture of relieved and defeated. “Kate and I were on and off quite a bit. Before and after husband #1. And #2. Maybe during, I was never sure. Now she’s left #2 ‘for good’ and wants to see me.”

“John Watson, the home wrecker. Your system of morals gets greyer and more complicated the deeper I dig.”

“Never heard you complain when my complicated moral system saved your bloody life.”
Sherlock’s reply dies on his lips at the look John is giving him. He’s deadly serious, and it’s both scary and arousing. Sherlock stares into his dinner plate, mushrooms and courgettes. His portion of chicken is pre-cut into bite sizes and his rice is spread flat so it cools quickly. John, always taking care of him. They eat in silence, and go about the evening as if they hadn’t argued, but the tension is thick. Sherlock can feel it on his skin, smothering him.

John bins the medal and chucks the letter in the fireplace before heading upstairs to bed. He doesn’t make eye contact with Sherlock after he does this. Sherlock curls on the couch and mentally flogs himself for hurting John. John, who isn’t fragile at all, but at the same time so breakable. The pain in John’s eyes cut into him like a knife. Sherlock knew he had put it there.

After John leaves, Sherlock thinks about the soldier who had delivered the letter. Ian something, Sherlock can’t recall a last name. He was whole and well, a reminder of everything John had lost. That life Sherlock had no part of, where John didn’t need him for the adrenaline highs to help stave of his own form of boredom. The letter too, why had he burned it? John must have great feelings for this woman, if he had been willing to continue to see her after she wed. And Sherlock knows well enough that it’s been months since his last third date. A sure way to get laid must sound like a dream. Sherlock tries to find the sense in it, but he is obviously missing some crucial piece.

**********

He should be relieved. John was finding he hadn’t needed to arrange anything, just observe Sherlock more closely. Sherlock is a master actor, a skilled mimic, his face carefully trained to show only what he wanted. Safe behind doors of 221b, however, he became an open book. John was as certain as he could be that Sherlock fantasied about him. He didn’t know the exact details, but the overall tone was clear. Now what?

Now, John wanted to pin his flatmate to the floor and explore Sherlock’s entire naked body with only his tongue.

Now, he wanted those pretty lips around his cock.

Now, he wanted to work him over until he forgot his own name and begged for release, bent over...

So right, but so wrong.

John shifted again, but his own erection kept him from laying on his stomach like he prefered. Was Ian right? Was he bisexual? It was only ever a few men, not every man he saw. Two terrible disasters that never spoke to him again, and Ian who took it all in stride and practically encouraged him onto his knees one night at the bar. Now Sherlock, who John assumed was celibate as a monk until a few weeks ago. He seemed to be watching for John to make a move. At least John hoped that’s what it all meant. There were a million ways this could go wrong, but John was done dancing around the topic with weighted looks and ambiguous words. The surety calmed him, but the risk made his heart pound

John thought back to the bdsm information they had learned for a case 4 months back, praying Sherlock hadn't decide to delete it himself. Stopping to negotiate terms would never happen, but if he stepped it up slowly, and made sure of a safe word, this might work. “Who am I kidding,” John groaned. “I’m completely screwed either way.”

Chapter Text

This is all there is ever going to be of the story, and I am orphaning it after I post this.

Don't beg or demand writers to post more, or finish a piece, You never know what's going on in their lives, people. I have done it in the past, and here's my fucking karma. An unfinished piece, and I had to shut off comments just to function. Every time I tried to write chapter 5, I couldn't make it work, I gave it time. I gave it multiple betas/brain storming sessions and more hours of my life then I would have ever guessed, and it 's not coming out. This is only an orphaned fic and not just deleted due to a promise to my friend. I have nuked every comment, the good and the bad, because I just felt sick having it out there with the demands, proof of my failure.

If you know me or my tumblr, please don't ask me about this fic. Please pretend it doesn't exist. And I don't really care if some of you think this is unfair, or whatever you might think. Go find other porn, better porn, and try to realize that it's a story to you, but it's my life, a weight on my mind that has been eating at me since I posted chapter two. I've learned a lot from it, like to have a story done before I start posting chapters. I've also been physically sick over this so many nights, when it should be a hobby I do for fun. I'm going back to stories I enjoy, things that I can get out. There are still too many stories in me for me to stop writing, but I don't know what will get posted.

If you've read this far, thank you.

With a heavy heart, but a grateful sigh,
The author