Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Summary:

“Really John, your taste in men is worse than your taste in women. How is that even possible?"

 Chapter 1

 Found scribbled on a napkin on the desk of Sherlock Holmes:

 Reasons why John’s boyfriend is the worst human alive:

1.      He is a former politician
2.      He is obscenely wealthy
3.      He is handsome (tall, tan, sort of like Abraham Lincoln if Lincoln were an evil swimsuit model)
4.      He is an interfering cock (he threw out an experiment on the feeding behavior of maggots)
5.      John loves him 

 It was official, Sherlock hated John’s new boyfriend.

 The first warning of the unfortunate turn his life was about to take was the sound of two treads on the stairs. The door to the flat opened. He didn’t bother to look up from the petri dish he was swabbing. “Sorry, but I’m not taking new clients at the moment. Please go away.”

 John’s voice held a slightly nervous note, “He’s not here for a case.”

 Sherlock’s body tensed. His head swiveled toward the visitor like a birddog seeking its quarry. “What’s he here for, then?” he asked. John never had friends back to the flat.

 “He’s my date. I told you about this last night. We just got back from dinner.”

 “Oh, I didn’t notice you’d gone.” Sherlock tried to sound nonchalant.

 John opened the door and admitted a man. The first thing he noticed was his height. He was taller even than Sherlock. His face was tan with hard lines and a chiseled jaw. His body was lean and sinewy. He was ruggedly handsome in a way that immediately marked him as American.

 John introduced him as Neil Gibson. Sherlock ignored the offered hand and went back to his petri dishes. Neil lurked awkwardly in the door frame of the kitchen while John pottered about with the electric kettle.

 “Hi, Sherlock, John’s told me so much about you.” The man’s stupid American accent with its stupid Western drawl grated on Sherlock’s nerves. He ignored him. Neil continued, “John warned me that you might deduce me. Tell me all my secrets from the crease of my trousers or something.”

 “Can’t be bothered.” Sherlock replied tersely.

 “Oh, sorry. I shouldn’t have interrupted you while you were in the middle of an experiment.”

 “You’re far too dull to be worthy of my time. The only thing more useless than a politician is a disgraced former politician. Now shut up and go away, you’re ruining my concentration.”

 John huffed out an irritated breath at his rudeness. Sherlock could feel his disapproving glare burning through the back of his skull. From the sound of the footsteps, Neil had retreated to the sitting room.

 “Really John, your taste in men is worse than your taste in women. How is that even possible?”

 “Bugger off, Sherlock.”

 “Just so you know; that wound on his finger was self-inflicted.”

 John glared at him.

 “That was how you met, wasn’t it? He showed up in your office with a smashed finger.”

 John abandoned his tea-making efforts and stormed out of the kitchen.

 He shouted after him. “Is that what turns you on? Masochists who maim themselves to get attention?”

 “Bugger off!” John roared back then said more quietly to Neil, “Would it be too much of an imposition if I stayed at yours tonight?”

 “No, not at all. Is there a problem with…”

 “He’s just in a mood. He gets this way sometimes. I’ll grab my overnight bag and then we can leave.”

 Two sets of footsteps left the flat and the door slammed shut.

 Sherlock finished with his petri dishes and placed them on a shelf in the airing cupboard, dislodging a stack of John’s spare sheets and towels in the process. He pressed his face against the top-most towel and inhaled deeply for a few seconds. He sighed. His nose wasn’t sensitive enough to detect so much as a trace of John’s scent in the newly washed fabric. He stacked them in a tidy pile and placed them on the floor outside the cupboard. With the day’s most important task now complete, he could collapse into a sodden heap of melodramatic angst.

 He curled up in a ball on the sofa and meditated on the day’s discovery: John was bisexual. He would have been doing a silent dance of celebration had he not discovered this fact after his idiot flatmate was already dating an impossibly rich and gorgeous American. That Neil had money had been clear from the £30,000 watch and bespoke suit. His profession was equally obvious. The accent was not the one he was born with, but one trained into him by a voice coach. It had a studied twang that grated on Sherlock’s nerves.

 He mentally kicked himself for not deducing John’s sexuality. He hated how emotion blinded his ability to observe. On any other man, he would have seen the signs as easily as reading a book. With John, however, he had dismissed any evidence of bisexual tendencies as wishful thinking. Instead, he relied on his past dating behavior to draw conclusions. After all, less than 2% of males self-identified as bisexual. The probability that John was one of them was vanishingly small. Of course, there had to have been some sort of behavior, something from his past that he had missed and now it was too late.

 He curled into a tighter ball and moaned into his hands. Sherlock had fallen in love with John soon after their first meeting. By the end of their second month as flatmates, he’d realized that for him, it was John or no one. He soon found that his feelings were not returned. With an almost physical pain twisting his chest, he accepted that they would only ever be friends. John’s heterosexuality was a salve to his ego. He didn’t fancy him, but that was alright because he was only attracted to women.

 Now, only five minutes ago, living proof of his bisexuality had walked through the door and ambushed him. Sherlock could tell that Neil was too wily fall prey to the petty tricks that sent John’s girlfriends packing. He hugged his knees to his chest. It was bad enough to live with John’s daily unspoken rejection when the objects of his desire were female. Now, it would be unbearable.

Chapter Text

Sherlock sat at the kitchen table updating a map of the species of fungi found in Southern England when Neil entered the flat, DVD in hand. Sherlock waited until John handed him a glass of wine before remarking as a way of greeting, “You know that of all professions, lawyers have the third highest rate of infidelity .”

Neil gave Sherlock a condescending smile. “Well, it’s a good thing that I no longer practice law then isn’t it.”

When it came to delivering insults, Neil took a subtle approach. Everything he said was innocuous and the tone he used was pleasant, but with just a smile and tilt of his head, he made Sherlock feel as though he were a toddler throwing a tantrum. The man knew exactly which buttons to push and Sherlock was helpless to avoid his traps even when he saw them coming. At least today, he’d gotten in the first insult. Neil might have been an evil, soul-sucking leech, but he was an intelligent soul-sucking leech and though he would never admit it, Sherlock suspected that under different circumstances he would have found him fascinating.

He continued working for another half-hour, just to show Neil that he hadn’t been driven off, but conceded victory after he saw the way John leaned against him after he oh-so-casually wrapped his arm around his shoulders. Feeling slightly nauseated, Sherlock took the map and retreated to his room.

These days, he could not take a step in his own flat without tripping over Neil. The only thing that was worse than constantly having him underfoot was when John went out with him. On those nights, Sherlock stood in the kitchen, performing experiments while trying not to imagine him and John shagging on every piece of furniture in his posh townhouse.

He returned his attention to the map. He drew a line to delineate the territory of the auriscalpium vulgare. It came out as a quivering mess. He flexed his fingers. He tried and failed to remember the last time he’d eaten. Perhaps food would ease his tremula, but he would have to cross the sitting room to get to the kitchen, which meant he would have to see John with him. He decided he’d rather die of starvation.

He would have to wait until after he’d eaten to complete his map. In the meantime, he could at least tidy the room a bit. That was a task that did not require fine motor skills. Now that he was spending more time in here, his bedroom had gathered some clutter.

He rose from his chair. Immediately, he was assaulted by a disorienting mixture of queasiness and dizziness. He broke into a cold sweat. Purple blotches filled his peripheral vision. A wave of intense nausea almost doubled him over.

He hunted desperately for a bowl or a cup, anything to keep him from making a mess. The blotches expanded. He only had time to think, ‘Oh dear God, I’m dying,’ before his vision went black.

An annoying thud-thud-thud woke him. “Sherlock, are you alright in there? I thought I heard a thump.”

He tried to answer, but his vocal cords refused to cooperate. He heard Neil’s voice through the door. “I’m sure he’s fine. He’s probably just ignoring you. You know how he is.”

There was a long pause.

“No, I think something’s wrong. He should have yelled out an insult by now.”

The door burst open and John rushed to his side. His fingers bit into his wrist, feeling for a pulse. Sherlock tried to argue, “I’m not dead, don’t worry,” but it came out of his mouth as gibberish.

John’s face was white as he looked up at Neil, who lurked in the doorway, “Go get my black bag. It should be by the door.” He returned his gaze to his friend, “What have you done to yourself, you idiot?” he asked as he unbuttoned Sherlock’s shirt.

Sherlock was starting to feel better enough that he did not want stupid Neil to see his bony chest. This time when he opened his mouth the words that came out made sense, even if they still were a bit garbled, “Mmmfine.”

“What?” John asked sharply. He finished unbuttoning Sherlock’s shirt and stared down at his exposed ribs with a shocked expression.

“Mmm fine.” he tried to enunciate. “Jus fell.”

John’s eyes remained fixed on his chest. Sherlock longed desperately to twitch his shirt back into place to hide the wasteland of bone and sinew that his body had become. John gave him a stern look, “We are going to talk about this later.”

At that moment, Neil arrived with the black bag. John dug through it and pulled out a stethoscope. Sherlock clumsily tried to bat it away. John dodged his efforts. The icy kiss of metal on his chest caused him to break out into gooseflesh.

“Heart rate and respiration are normal. Let’s check for concussion.”

A tiny beam of light stabbed him in the eye. “Pupils are normal.”

John stared into Sherlock’s face. “What day is it?”

“January 23rd.”

“What is your name?”

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“Okay good. It’s probably not a concussion, though I’m not ruling that out yet.”

Now that he had control of his voice, he decided put an end to this humiliating interview. “I’m fine. I just made a slight miscalculation. Now leave and fulfill your need for sordid entertainment elsewhere.”

John’s brow furrowed in concern, “Did you poison yourself?” He slid the stethoscope down to Sherlock’s abdomen. He closed his eyes in an effort to delete the memory of John’s hand sliding over his bare flesh. God, he was pathetic.

He opened his eyes and replied, “No, I passed out from low blood sugar. Sometimes it takes my body awhile to sort itself out after I faint. I went too long without eating. Get me a glass of orange juice and I’ll be fine.”

John frowned down at him, “How long has it been since you last ate?”

Sherlock tried to sit up. He still felt a bit dizzy and nauseated, but was pleased with his success. “I don’t know. Days, I suppose.”

John’s voice was exasperated, “You’ve done this before?”

He shrugged in reply and started to stand up. John pressed his palm against his chest and pushed him down until his spine met the carpet. The gesture felt strangely intimate, almost erotic. John pulled his jumper off, wadded it up, and placed it under his head. “Stay there for at least ten minutes. Otherwise, you’ll probably just faint again. I’ll see about getting you some juice.” He got up and left the room.

Neil stared down at Sherlock, his lip curled with disdain. “You literally forgot to eat for days on end?” he asked, his tone incredulous.

Sherlock did not deign to respond.

“How did you manage to stay alive until John took you under his wing? I can’t imagine anybody else putting up with you the way he does.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to issue a retort, but John’s head popped into the room. Instead, he gave Neil his most false, psychopathic smile and turned to his friend.

John knelt at his side. With a complete lack of self-consciousness, he brushed Sherlock’s curls from his brow. “Try a small sip of this and see how it feels on your stomach.”

He obeyed. He knew better than to bait John when he had that serious I-am-a-medical-professional-and-Hippocratic-Oath-be-damned-I-will-punch-you-in-the-face-if-you-don’t-do-what-I-say look. The sip went down smoothly. He took another.

John stood and turned his attention to Neil, “Do you mind if I cancel tonight? I need to get more food into this one.” He gently prodded Sherlock with his toe.

Neil forced a smile, but his reddening face betrayed his fury. “It’s alright. I’m sure Sherlock’s been feeling a bit neglected of late. It will be good for the two of you to spend some time together. I have work that I need to finish anyway.”

John walked him out the door. Sherlock felt a stab of anguish as the sound of them kissing filtered into the room.

Eventually, his friend returned. He puttered about, clearing a spot on the bed before easing him to his feet. Sherlock feigned a slight stumble. John’s arms snapped around him in an iron clasp. He could feel the full length of his body pressed against him, the hardness of his chest, his slightly softer abdomen. The smell of fabric softener and men’s deodorant assailed his nostrils.

He inhaled deeply and leaned into the contact. His heart beat faster. For an instant he felt giddy again. He craved moments like these, when for a fraction of a second he could lose himself in John. They shared a closeness that went deeper than most friendships. He suspected that was because they both had a desperate need for intimacy. When they’d met, John had been recently torn from his military family by injury, while Sherlock had spent his entire life alone, never realizing what he was missing by avoiding companionship.

Perhaps he wasn’t in love with John. Perhaps his loneliness, his longing for any sort of connection, physical or emotional was the reason his heart raced every time they touched, the reason he made sure to be up when John came downstairs in the morning, making his way to the loo with the fuzzy determination of a newborn calf taking its first steps. His eyes barely opened and his feet dragged the floor. His mouth was pressed in a thin line that discouraged conversation as he rubbed at the patchy grey stubble that covered his jaw. Sherlock wondered for a second what it would be like to feel the sandpapery roughness of John’s unshaven cheek against his lips.

He yanked his thoughts back to the present and suppressed the urge to reach for John’s hand as he pulled away after easing him into bed. He had to do a better job of suppressing his emotions. The last thing he needed was John discovering the truth. Sherlock could bear his indifference. He couldn’t bear his pity.

He spent the rest of the day in a state of bliss. Everything was like it had been before Neil had ruined things. John stayed home, offering him food and tea with extra sugar. He dug through Sherlock’s stacks of books and read to him when a headache made it impossible for him to stare at his laptop screen any longer.

He fell asleep that night feeling happier than he had in ages. Then he heard John opening the door to the flat and a snatch of Neil’s voice. “Finally done with babysitting duty? God, it took you long enough.”

“Shut up, he doesn’t need a babysitter.”

“No, just a servant to do his bidding.”

John’s voice was resigned, “As I can see you are determined to be an arsehole, you can find somewhere else to sleep tonight.” The door slammed shut.

Sherlock released a breath that he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. John had stood up for him this time, but how long would it be before he gave in to Neil? With the skill of a master manipulator, Neil was driving a wedge between them. It was only a matter of time before they were driven apart. Sherlock rolled over, turning his back to the door in an effort to block out the words he’d just heard.

Fucking Neil.

Chapter Text

Sherlock studied his face in the mirror as he shaved. He looked like he was dying. Hollows had formed under his eyes and cheekbones as the fat reserves leached from his face. He wasn’t eating enough. Lately he avoided looking at himself when he was unclothed. His wrist bones and ribs had gained a grotesque prominence. His body had always been lean, but now he couldn’t touch any part of himself without feeling hard knobs of bone.

He knew he was too thin, that he was harming his health, but he couldn’t find the will to care. He often forgot to eat. He was accustomed to ignoring his body’s signals, but now even when he tried to eat, food tasted like ash on his tongue.

Hunger was not the only thing that marred his face. Dark rings had formed under his eyes and his skin was pale with exhaustion. He couldn’t sleep. His work was the only thing that distracted him from the cancerous tentacles Neil had wrapped around his life.

Stupid Neil with his supercilious glances and subtle barbs. As expected, he’d proven impervious to Sherlock’s insults. Worse, he treated John like a charity project. He bought him expensive suits and even took him to a famous salon to have his hair cut and eyebrows waxed. He dragged him to the gym several times a week and had him on a special diet that involved a lot of egg whites and spinach.

Neil’s nagging drove Sherlock mad with annoyance. Part of what made John special was his confidence, the way he was utterly comfortable in his own skin. His dowdy jumpers, hairy eyebrows, and less-than-perfectly-chiseled body were all a part of that. Neil was systematically dismantling all of the things about John that made him unique.

For his part, John submitted to Neil’s requests with the same amused tolerance he usually directed at Sherlock, which somehow made the situation even more infuriating.

Sherlock wiped his face with a damp towel and turned away from the mirror. Feeling like a martyr on the way to the execution block, he had accepted that Neil would win John. He was clever, charismatic and manipulative. It was only a matter of time before he separated John from him.

Weeks ago, he had been out on a case, interviewing a young mother. He was alone because of course John was off with Neil again.

Her child was in bed with a nasty cold. He’d interviewed her while she coaxed spoonfuls of broth down the brat’s phlemy little gullet. Her face looked harried and grey with fatigue. Her responses to his questions were unhelpful. If John were there he could have drawn more information out of her. As it was, he hovered awkwardly as she swabbed her child’s nose and mouth with a tea towel.

“Would you like some tea?” she asked in a surly tone.

“Yes, please.” He replied. Perhaps he would be able to get more information out of her once she had a chance to sit down.

He followed her to the kitchen. She switched on the electric kettle and took two teacups off of the drying rack. She dried them with the same tea towel that had just been used to mop up her son’s mucus. He didn’t say anything, not out of consideration for the feelings of a tired mother, but out of curiosity of what would happen if he did get sick.

He would have to stay in bed for a few days. John would take care of him, making sure he ate and stayed off his feet. He would feed him soup and tea and brush his hair from his forehead. It wouldn’t change the fact that their relationship now had an expiration date, but it would give him a few more happy memories, a few more opportunities to lose himself in the sight and scent of his flatmate before they parted.

He drank all of his tea when she handed it to him, slightly rotating the cup between sips in order to ensure that his lips touched every inch of the rim.

Ever since that day, he’d been trying to infect himself with a disease. He was shooting for something minor that would only knock him out for a few days. A cold would be ideal, but he would settle for strep throat if he had to. Once he finished with the case, he began spending every day on the tube. He sat next to the sickest person he could find, ideally within sneezing range and allowed himself to be showered with infectious mucus. As an additional precautionary step, he took careful note of where the sick people placed their hands. He swabbed those spots with a moist q-tip, then immediately stuck it in his nose. Germs were much more likely to be transmitted through the nasal cavity than through any other easily accessible orifice.

After two weeks of trying, he still wasn’t sick. His immune system had to be compromised. He didn’t eat or sleep. He stuck q-tips covered with unspeakable substances up his nose at least ten times a day, but miraculously, his body had managed to fight off everything he’d thrown at it.

He wondered briefly if perhaps he was a cyborg or a genetic experiment and Mycroft had neglected to mention it. No, Mycroft was too detail-oriented to forget about something that important. He would just have to accept that he was impervious to disease, just as he had to accept that John was in love with another man.

Chapter Text

Five weeks after his first attempt to infect himself, Sherlock was awoken by a headache. He assumed it caused by low blood sugar since it had been two days since he’d last eaten.

He dragged himself to the kitchen and poured a glass of juice. His stomach felt a bit odd, so he drank another glass rather than attempt solid food. John was out, which was surprising considering the early hour.

He spent the rest of the day buried in experiments. His head didn’t feel any better, but he was too busy to bother about it.

John returned late that evening. His footfall on the stairs was slow. Sherlock read despondency in the way his slack hand slid over the stair rail. John opened the door slowly, wincing at the sight of his flatmate.

Sherlock looked down at himself. He didn’t see any obvious stains. His trousers and shirt were properly buttoned up. He hadn’t created any catastrophic messes in the last twelve hours. John was annoyed with him, but he couldn’t guess the reason.

“Trouble in paradise?” he ventured.

John glared.

“What?”

“You better not have had anything to do with this.” John retorted, flinging a newspaper onto the table, nearly upsetting an Erlenmeyer flask filled with hydrochloric acid.

Sherlock rescued the flask, hissing in pain as drops of acid burned the back of his hand. Grabbing the newspaper, he dashed into the kitchen and shoved his hand under the tap. Once the burning sensation was down to reasonable levels, he looked at the newspaper. The page had a photo of Neil with his head bowed. The headline read Disgraced Former US Senator Arrested for Murder of Lover’s Wife.

He frowned, “But you’re not married, John.”

Some of the anger left John’s face, “Just read it and tell me what you think.”

Sherlock obeyed.

“Victim found dead on Thor Bridge…shot through the head…text from Neil Gibson arranging a meeting on the bridge with the victim…the weapon, a rare 18th century dueling pistol was found in the accused’s closet…an eye witness saw him near the scene of crime close to the time of the murder…”

He handed the paper back to John and leaned against the kitchen counter. “Your boyfriend is most certainly a philandering scoundrel; however, he’s not a murderer.”

“How can you say that? Look at all the evidence.”

“Exactly! Neil is cunning and underhanded. He wouldn’t send her a text and then kill her, and he certainly wouldn’t hide the murder weapon in his closet. Plus why would he do it with an antique dueling pistol? They are easily identifiable and they only hold one bullet. He may be a thief, but he’s not stupid.”

“Is that what you think of my boyfriend?”

“The man stole money from nuns. I have the empathy of a crocodile and even I wouldn’t sink that low.”

“He didn’t steal it. What he did was technically legal. Besides, he confessed and paid them back, which he didn’t have to do. In any case, all of that was ten years ago.”

“Sorry, John, but I don’t share your faith in people’s ability to change their essential natures. Besides, aren’t you bothered by the fact that according to this article, he was in love with another man the entire time you two were dating?”

John fixed his gaze onto one of the floor tiles. “He told me when we met.”

Sherlock stared at him, aghast, “And that didn’t bother you?”

“Neil’s situation was hopeless. Gary’s wife was diagnosed with cancer. He wouldn’t leave her or cheat on her, so—“

“-And you were willing to be second best?” he didn’t bother to hide his disgust.

John balled his hands into fists. “Perhaps Neil wasn’t the only one who was settling. You have no idea how it feels to-“ He cut himself off abruptly.

Silence filled the room. A witty retort died on Sherlock’s tongue. As easily as reading words on a page, he could see pain in John’s furrowed brow and clenched teeth. Within a second, his expression smoothed into its usual imperturbable mask. So, this was an old pain then, one that he was used to hiding. Perhaps an unrequited longing for a fallen comrade, regret for words never spoken until it was too late. That sounded like something that would happen to John.

A foreign emotion, he suspected it was guilt, goaded him into making an offer he immediately regretted, “Don’t worry, I’ll take the case. We won’t let Neil go to prison for this.”

John sagged with relief, “Thank you.”

Sherlock switched off the tap and dabbed his hand with a towel. It felt like sandpaper against his burn, but his mind was too busy turning over the intricacies of the case to register pain. “Get Neil on the phone. I need to speak to him first. Also, contact his solicitor.”

An hour later, John handed him his mobile.

“Neil.”

“I don’t want to talk to you.”

“I know you didn’t kill her.”

“You do? Well, why don’t you keep that little gem to yourself?”

Sherlock thought for a moment. He almost dropped the phone in shock when he realized what was really going on, “You think Gary did it and set you up.”

“Shut up.” Neil’s voice was raw with panic.

“Why would you take the fall for him? Is he blackmailng you?” Sherlock could not imagine Neil, the ultimate self-absorbed arsehole lifting a finger to help another human being, much less taking a murder rap.

Pain lanced through Neil’s voice. “It’s one of those things you will never understand. Gary is a good man, the best man I know. I have no idea whether he set me up or not and honestly, I don’t care.”

“You are an idiot.” Sherlock felt as though the world had shifted ninety degrees to the left. He couldn’t understand why Neil was willing to sacrifice the rest of his life for a love that was one-sided. It made no sense given what Sherlock already knew about his character.

Neil continued. “I know this is probably a foreign concept for you, but there are people on the planet who make sacrifices for those they care about.”

“Yes, I know, but what if Gary betrayed you?”

“It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t make me love him any less. I would spend a hundred years in prison if it would spare him an hour of misery.”

“What about John? Where does he fit in with your grand scheme for martyrdom?”

“He’ll be upset, but he’ll move on. I’m hardly the most important person in his life. Besides, what do you care? You treat him like he’s nothing more than your glorified servant.”

Sherlock hung up on him. Any defensive retort he issued would reveal too much about his feelings and he couldn’t bear the thought of being exposed to such a man.

John stared at him as if he’d grown a second head.

“What?” he growled.

“You let him get the last word in.”

“So.”

“You never let anyone have the last word.”

“There’s a first time for everything.” He hurriedly changed the subject. This was not a line of inquiry he wanted John pursuing. “Anyway, it looks like we won’t be getting much help from that quarter. Could you get me the phone number for Gary Dunbar?”

Within minutes John had Gary on the phone. Sherlock gave him a long, suspicious look, but didn’t comment.

The conversation was long and tedious; however, he did manage to glean some useful information from it. Gary was a retired teacher who met Neil years ago when he taught his now-adult nephew. He was trapped in an unhealthy marriage with his wife, Marcia- who would later become the murder victim. When she received her first cancer diagnosis a decade ago, he promised that he would stay with her no matter what happened.

When Neil confessed his feelings for him, he turned him down, opting to remain with his sick wife. However, he used his influence over Neil to encourage him to become a better person. He compelled him to disclose his involvement in a shady, if legal financial scheme. The incident ended Neil’s political career and earned him the ire of the American public.

Meanwhile, Gary and Marcia moved to London in order to be close to the only physicians who specialized in treating her rare form of cancer. Moving across the Atlantic proved to be too expensive for a retired teacher, so he begged the only wealthy man he knew for help.

Naturally, Neil offered to put them up in his country house in Surrey. Gary felt conflicted about the entire situation. Neil and his wife despised each other and could barely stand to be in the same room. Still, he couldn’t imagine Neil actually killing her.

The whole conversation made Sherlock want to gag. In his own way, Gary was just as cunning as Neil. He just suffered from a larger degree of self-delusion. He dismissed Gary’s maunderings about how he stayed in touch with Neil in hopes of making him a better man as ridiculous. It didn’t matter how many donations Neil made to charity or financial schemes he uncovered, Gary’s behavior constituted an emotional affair. No wonder his wife hated Neil so much. Sherlock could hardly blame her. In spite of Gary’s self-delusion, over the course of his rambling, Sherlock was able to deduce that he was not capable of murdering his wife.

He suspected that the bizarre love triangle was the cause of Marcia’s death, but he needed more information before he could put the pieces together.

He called Neil’s solicitor.

“Whatever you do, don’t let your client confess. Gary didn’t do it, so he’s not covering for anyone if he takes the blame.”

“Do I know you?”

“I’m Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. I’ve offered to take on Neil Gibson’s case. He’s innocent, by the way, as is Gary. I’ll let you know more as soon as I find out.”

“Sherlock Holmes? The guy from the blog? Is this a joke?”

“I assure you it is not a joke. I spoke to Neil earlier today. Now call your client and tell him what I told you.”

He hung up the phone and turned to John. “Fancy a trip to Surrey?”

John grinned. “I never thought you’d ask.”

By the time they hit the road, it was past midnight. Sherlock was having a difficult time keeping down what little he’d eaten that day. He felt weak and feverish. His throat felt sore. He leaned his head against the passenger window and shut his eyes.

He felt a hand briefly touch his shoulder.

“Are you alright? You seem a little subdued.”

“I’m fine, just low blood sugar. The faster we get this thing solved, the better.”

John shot him a worried look. “You quit eating again, haven’t you?”

He suppressed an aggrieved sigh, “Let’s just solve the case and then you can worry about my eating habits.”

John set his jaw, but returned his attention to the road.

Chapter Text

The detective in charge of the crime scene was only slightly irate about being dragged out of bed at two in the morning so that a pair of tourists could ogle the crime scene of an open-and-shut case.

Sherlock interrogated him about the details from the newspaper. The man must have been warned ahead of time by John or Lestrade because he only snapped at him twice. He surveyed the crime scene.

It was an old disused bridge, constructed when the primary mode of transportation had been horse and buggy. It traversed a brackish, slow moving stream. Although the waterway was shallow, a thick layer of silt suspended in the water obscured the bottom.

In spite of its state of neglect, the bridge was structurally sound. Only a few cobblestones had worked loose and the granite railing showed no signs of-

Aha! There was a chip in the railing. He almost crowed with excitement. Here was the vital clue.

“Inspector, hand me your gun. John, go fetch that length of baling twine that we passed up the road and find me a rock that is about this big.” he framed the dimensions with his hands.

The inspector stared at him, “But I don’t have a gun.”

“Yes you do. You keep a handgun in your trunk, which I’m sure your supervisor will be delighted to hear about since I doubt you are supposed to be armed.”

The inspector glared at him and opened his mouth to issue a retort, but John took him by the elbow and guided him to his car, talking rapidly in an undertone.

Once the gun, twine, and rock were procured, Sherlock turned his back to the two men before tying the three objects together. This was his favorite part, the big moment when he revealed everything.

The headlights from the inspector’s vehicle lit the crime scene like a stage. Sherlock popped up his coat collar and spun with a flourish, allowing his coattails to billow behind him.

John rolled his eyes.

“Attend, and I will explain to you how it is impossible that Neil Gibson killed Marcia Dunbar.” He allowed for a dramatic pause before continuing, “The dueling pistol you found in Neil’s closet was one half of a pair of dueling pistols, was it not, inspector?”

He nodded.

“And you never found the second pistol, only the one in the closet, correct?”

Another nod.

“Good.”

He brandished the rock and the pistol in his hands, “Then allow me to show you how Marcia Dunbar tried to frame Neil Gibson for murder. It has already been well-established that she and Neil hated each other. She knew he was in love with her husband and it made her mad with jealousy. She had a doctor’s appointment a week before the murder. My guess is that the doctor told her that the cancer was back and she was dying. She knew she didn’t have much time left and she decided that if she couldn’t keep her husband, then she would make sure that Neil couldn’t have him either.”

He paused, took a deep breath, then continued, “The morning of her suicide, she took his phone and sent herself that text message. She stole both of the dueling pistols, planting one in his closet and keeping the other. Neil regularly took walks near the bridge, so she merely had to be in the right place at the right time.”

John and the inspector’s mouths hung slack in the most gratifying manner. Eventually John spoke, “But what about the murder weapon? She couldn’t have gotten rid of it after she was dead. Did she have an accomplice?”

Sherlock smiled at the pair of men. “Allow me to demonstrate.”

He tossed the stone over the edge of the bridge so that it dangled above the water, suspended by the twine. He checked the chamber of the pistol, ensuring it was empty then dropped it. It skidded across the cobblestones, propelled by the weight of the rock, ricocheting off of one of the railings before plunging into the water.

He turned to the men with a triumphant grin. “There is your murder weapon. Have divers scour this river and you should find the other dueling pistol.” He knelt beside the railing, “See, it even made a chip similar to that one.” He pointed to where the body had been discovered.

Both men’s jaws dropped with horror. John was the first to speak, “Sherlock, you just dropped an illegal firearm into a crime scene. If it’s found, the inspector will be in a lot of trouble.”

He shrugged. “The water can’t be more than two or three feet deep and the gun would have sunk straight to the bottom. It will be the work of a minute to fish it out again.”

“Glad to hear it because that is exactly what you are going to do.” John’s mouth smiled, but his eyes said, ‘I’ve killed before and I can do it again.’

Sherlock didn’t dare argue with that look. He peered over the edge of the bridge. It was only a couple of feet above the water. If John and the inspector held onto his legs, he could dangle over the edge and avoid getting the rest of himself wet. He began on the buttons of his shirt.

“What are you doing?” John asked sharply.

“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m retrieving that stupid gun and I’d rather not have to ride all the way to London in a wet shirt.” he whipped it off and draped it over the bridge railing. He looked over at John. His eyes glittered faintly in the harsh glare cast by the headlights, lingering for a second too long on his bare chest.

“Come here, I need you to anchor me.”

John and the inspector held his legs while he lowered himself over the edge of the bridge. He suppressed a curse as his arms plunged into the water. It was cold and stank of animal excrement. Unfortunately, the water was deep enough that he had to submerge his head and chest before he touched the bottom. After a few moments of blind groping, his fingers caught on the baling twine. He grabbed it with both hands and began kicking his legs in a signal to John and the inspector to pull him out of the water.

Soon, he sat propped against the stone railing of the bridge. The gun lay in a dripping puddle nearby. John approached, tossing him a blanket from the inspector’s car.

“God, Sherlock, you reek.”

The inspector looked a bit rueful, “Sorry, I should have warned you. There’s a dairy upstream from here which means that any time we get a decent rain-“

Sherlock finished for him, “All of the manure is washed into this delightful little backwater.”

The inspector shrugged.

Sherlock finished drying himself and donned his shirt.

“Ready, John?”

He nodded.

“Good, let’s go.”

He left John behind to handle the pleasantries while the inspector juggled the manure-soaked blanket and gun.

A heavy silence descended as soon as John returned to the car. Sherlock could tell that he was mentally preparing to deliver a lecture, but beyond defacing public property, contaminating a crime scene, and disrespecting the property of others, he couldn’t imagine what he’d done wrong. In any case it didn’t matter now. He’d dunked himself in feces-infested water to retrieve the inspector’s stupid firearm, which in terms of atonement had to count for quite a lot.

Eventually, John spoke, “Are you using again?”

Sherlock was floored. Of all the questions he expected John to ask, this was the last one. He barely suppressed an outraged What?

“Um, no.” he replied caustically, “Whatever gave you that idea?”

John retorted angrily, “Gee, I don’t know. Perhaps the fact that you have suddenly become very secretive and spend all your time hiding in your room. Or maybe it’s because you look like a fucking skeleton. Or maybe it’s because you passed out just a few weeks ago. But of course what do I know? I’m only your friend who cares about you.”

He gave a gusty sigh. “John, I swear, I’m clean. I’ve just been very involved in my work.”

“Work that requires you to hide in your room and never eat?”

“When Neil is around, yes. I can’t get anything done when he’s about. He upsets my equilibrium.”

John didn’t reply.

Chapter Text

When Sherlock woke the next morning, his first thought was that no one deserved a hangover this terrible. His head throbbed, his muscles ached, his throat felt hot and swollen from thirst. His stomach roiled with nausea. Memory of the previous night returned. There had been a late-night case and a cow-manure dunking, but no drinking of alcohol.

He staggered to the bathroom to brush his teeth. He jumped when he saw himself in the mirror. The sides of his neck were swollen and his skin had gone beyond pale and was now a greenish gray. He looked like a grotesque human-frog hybrid. What was wrong with him?

He needed John. He would tell him what was going on. He stumbled out the door and hobbled up the stairs. He felt weak. Halfway up, he had to rest. By the time he was in front of John’s door, he was exhausted. He leaned against the frame and gave a feeble knock before pushing his way inside.

John sat in bed, still clad in his pajamas with a laptop perched on his knees.

Sherlock gave him the most abject look he could muster, then declared, “I’m dying,” before sinking down into a heap on the floor.

John sprang out of bed and crouched beside him, pressing his fingers to Sherlock’s neck to check his pulse and bending his ear to his mouth to check his respiration. After a minute, he sat up straight.

“Your heart rate and breathing appear to be normal. You should have at least a few minutes to live. Now, be honest, what did you take?”

He yanked up the sleeves of his dressing gown and inspected his forearms for track marks.

“Nothing. I fell asleep a few hours ago then woke up feeling like this.”

John frowned down at him. Cool fingers prodded the sides of his neck. “Well, you do have swollen glands.” He rested the back of his hand on his forehead, “And you’re a bit warm. Wait here.”

He returned with his black satchel. He made Sherlock sit on the edge of the bed and stuck a thermometer under his tongue. Next he slid the stethoscope under his shirt, commanding him to take deep breaths.

He pulled the thermometer out of his mouth then studied it. “Well, the good news is that you don’t have pneumonia. The bad news is that you have a fever. What are your symptoms?”

“I’m tired, my body hurts, my head is killing me, and my throat feels like I swallowed razors.”

“Hmm. Lie down on your back. Have you felt any pain or stiffness in your neck?”

He shook his head.

“Noticed a rash?”

He shook his head again.

“Good, so probably not meningitis, then.”

John prodded at his abdomen for a few seconds, “Your spleen is enlarged. I think you have mononucleosis. It’s not likely to cause any long-term health problems, but you are in for a miserable few weeks if you have it. I’ll need to draw blood to make sure.”

Sherlock meekly offered his arm and closed his eyes as John tightened the tourniquet and pressed a needle into the inside of his elbow. A few seconds later, he felt the cold bite of rubbing alcohol. He opened his eyes to watch John stick a plaster on his arm. John eased an arm around his back and fluffed his pillow.

“Stay here and try to get some sleep. I’ll be back soon.” He pottered about the room before handing him a glass full of water and two pills.

Sherlock took the pills and settled back again. He curled on his side and buried his face in John’s pillow. It smelled faintly of sweat and shampoo. Relaxation washed over him. He closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep.

*

He woke to the sound of John clomping up the stairs. He felt disoriented for a moment before he realized that he wasn’t in his room.

John entered, bearing a paper grocery sack. He began speaking as he entered the room. “The tests came back positive. It’s definitely mono. How do you feel?”

Sherlock tried and failed to find the energy to formulate a reply.

John smiled and continued talking, “That bad, huh? Well, you’ll probably be feeling even worse tomorrow. How about I go down and fix you a bowl of soup and some tea? I’ll be right back up.”

He fished a bottle of pills and a bottle of water out of the sack before trotting downstairs. Sherlock fuzzily thought that he should say something clever, but his throat hurt too much. Instead, he shivered under John’s blankets and stared longingly at the bottle of pills. He needed more paracetemol, but his arms felt too weak to reach for it. He dozed off again.

When he woke, it was to the sensation of the bed dipping as John sat on the edge. He closed his eyes as fingers brushed his forehead in a vain attempt to smooth away his errant curls. “Poor man, you look utterly miserable.”

Sherlock didn’t respond. He lay frozen, fearing that any movement would startle that warm hand away. A vivid mental image of him grasping John’s wrist and guiding his hand lower flashed through his mind. Fortunately, his aching muscles and general lethargy prevented him from acting on the urge.

“Sit up.” John ordered.

Sherlock obeyed, leaning forward as John rearranged the pillows behind his back. John draped a towel over his lap then set an old cafeteria tray laden with a cup of tea and a bowl of chicken soup across his knees. Sherlock gazed at the food with distaste. Notwithstanding the idea of trying to persuade his painfully swollen throat to close around anything solid, his appetite, never strong, had completely fled.

Only John’s stern gaze forced him to drink all of the tea and half of the soup. Only after downing another pair of pills did he allow his eyes to drift shut once again.

The next time he woke, he saw that John was sitting in the corner reading a newspaper and nursing a cup of tea. He jumped a little when he noticed Sherlock’s gaze on him. “You’ll be happy to know that they dropped the charges against Neil.”

“Good.” Sherlock croaked without enthusiasm.

“They found the gun in the stream and matching powder burns on Marcia’s hands.”

Sherlock stared at the wall opposite from John. “How nice for him. Why isn’t he here? If he’s been released, I’m surprised he’s not trailing around after you like a lost puppy.”

John cleared his throat and looked down, “Neil and I broke up.”

“Why?”

“Now that he and Gary are free to be together…”

Sherlock tried and failed to formulate a sympathetic response. Even in his current state of virally induced apathy, he couldn’t keep himself from silently cheering inside his head. Of course, he took care to ensure that his expression remained as glum as possible.

John gave Sherlock a crooked smile, “It’s okay. You saved him from a murder charge. You are allowed to gloat just a little.”

“Why did you even date him in the first place? You knew he was in love with someone else.”

“He was rather dreadful, wasn’t he? I said yes to him because he was the first person I met that I knew you wouldn’t be able to drive away. It’s all very well for you, Sherlock. You don’t mind being alone, but I can’t bear it. It eats at me. If I can’t have—“he broke off and cleared his throat, “In any case, it didn’t serve. Being with Neil just made me feel more isolated, not less.”

Embarrassment burned Sherlock’s cheeks and clenched his belly. He directed his eyes to the ceiling and said, “I promise I won’t drive away the next one. If this is something you need, then I won’t stand in your way anymore.”

John shook his head sadly, “There’s not going to be a next one for a while. I’m taking a break. And it’s not because you are impossible. I just need to sort through some things before I try to date again.” He gave Sherlock a wan smile, “Congratulations, you have me all to yourself.”

For a moment, Sherlock wondered if it was possible to spontaneously combust from shame. John could say that it wasn’t his fault, but if it weren’t for his meddling in John’s love life, he never would have considered dating a cad like Neil. Now John was alone and miserable as he was. Sherlock wanted to curl into a ball of self-loathing, but John was watching, so he just stared at the ceiling, try to will the blood away from his cheeks. He felt as though he were the human version of cancer. His unhappiness had metastasized and infected the relationships of everyone around him.

When he realized that there was not going to be a response, John went back to reading his paper. Sherlock ran his tongue around the slick film of bacteria that coated the inside of his mouth and decided that he wasn’t too tired to brush his teeth after all and tottered off to the bathroom.

*

It wasn’t until after his third nap of the day that Sherlock’s relief at John’s single state wore off. John said that he wasn’t interested in dating again for a long time, but his resolve was only going to last until someone new pursued him. Now that Sherlock knew that John’s sexual preference was no longer an obstacle to intimacy between them, he had to take advantage of the opportunity at hand.

Chapter Text

Sherlock decided that he would approach the problem of seducing John as one would approach a military campaign. In order increase the chances of a successful attack, he first needed to engage in softening tactics. In war, this meant cutting off supplies and undermining enemy morale. With John, he would settle for cozening himself into his good graces before attempting to initiate—there his ingenuity ran out. He had no problem imagining all the delightful things he would initiate with John once they were together, but he could not imagine the moment of revelation. Should he go for broke and tell John he loved him or should he first ask him on a date? He opted to focus on the task at hand and worry about the rest when it happened.

*

The next morning, after John left for work, Sherlock fought his way free from his blankets and made it to the sofa before collapsing into an exhausted heap. It was afternoon by the time he finally found the energy to pry his backside off the cushions and drag his body into the kitchen.

He opened the refrigerator door and peered inside. The shelves not devoted to his experiments held only a tub of takeout soup, some milk and eggs, a whiffy Styrofoam box, and a bottle of beer.

He shifted his attention to the contents of the cabinets. There he found cans of creamed corn, beets, green beans, and a jar of mint jelly. He stared at the ingredients in consternation for a time before inspiration hit. He would make John an omelet. People always put all sorts of crazy ingredients in omelets. His would be a special gourmet version. John was going to be super-impressed.

He got out a frying pan and soon had a mess of scrambled eggs simmering away at the bottom. He opened all three cans, poured away the excess liquid and added them to the pan. The beets immediately mixed with the eggs and turned the entire concoction a virulent fuchsia. Meanwhile, the white liquid from the creamed corn had an unfortunate effect on the texture of the eggs, making them strangely gooey. The green beans were the only ingredient that did not create immediate negative consequences.

Sherlock cooked the concoction for a long time in order to encourage the eggs to harden, but in spite of his efforts, by the time he pulled them from the pan, half of the eggs were burned, half had become a gelid goop, and the beets had stained everything they touched. Even the green beans had taken on a pinkish tinge.

He dumped the eggs onto two plates and garnished the meal with a dollop of mint jelly. He rather thought that the neon green of the mint jelly went well with the magenta eggs. He placed the plates on the table and lit the candle he’d cadged from the loo.

All of this effort had exhausted him once again. He dragged himself to the sofa where he feebly shook two paracetemol from the pill bottle and lost himself to sleep once again.

*

He woke to the sound of the door clicking shut and John’s voice shouting, “Sherlock, what is that awful smell?”

He raised his head and sniffed the air through his one functioning nostril. A cloying floral scent knocked his head back to the pillow. Rallying, he dragged himself to a sitting position and looked around. John stood frozen in front of the table, staring at the pair of plates with an expression of horror and confusion.

“Sherlock?” he asked, his voice deceptively mild, “What is one of your experiments doing on our good china?”

He stared muzzily at the table before remembering, “Oh, that’s our supper. I decided to cook for you while you were out.”

John nodded suspiciously. “What is it? And why is it pink?”

“It’s an omelet. The color comes from the beets.”

“The beets. Of course.” John repeated slowly.

Sherlock got up and walked to the kitchen table. He pulled out a chair for John, who continued to stare at the contents of his plate. He sat down with the air of a man going to his execution.

Sherlock watched intently as John picked up his fork. It hovered over the eggs for a long minute, “They’re not drugged, are they?” he asked abruptly.

“Of course not.” Sherlock replied, indignation sharpening his tone. He picked up a mound of eggs on his fork and stuffed it into his mouth.

The taste was…unique. It was difficult to divine any flavor beneath the stench of the candle, but that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. The beets made the eggs taste sweet and weirdly metallic, but the texture was what made the concoction truly remarkable. The eggs were leathery and overcooked, yet when he bit down, pockets of cold greasy slime exploded onto his tongue. The green beans and corn added a certain element of fibrousness to the squishy texture. He took another bite then set down his fork. The virus had killed his appetite.

He looked at John who was determinedly tucking into his own portion. “Do you like it?”

John hesitated for a long moment, “It has a very unusual flavor.” He said around a mouthful of food before taking another bite.

Sherlock watched as John cleaned his plate, scraping up the last traces of mint jelly with the tines of his fork. John set down his fork and leaned back. His lips curved up in a relaxed smile, but his brow furrowed in confusion. “Thank you, that was lovely. Do I dare ask your motivation for cooking for me?”

Sherlock shrugged, “It seemed like the right thing to do.”

John nodded. He got up and picked up his plate before slipping behind Sherlock’s back to bus his plate as well. Sherlock moved to hand it up. For the barest moment, John’s hand wrapped around his own, a ghost of rough calloused warmth, then the plate was plucked from his fingers.

Sherlock hid the electric shock that jolted through him from that slight contact and kept his face impassive until John disappeared into the kitchen.

*

Over the next two days, he made a few abortive attempts to clean the flat. He never got far before he started feeling weak and needed to take another nap.

Upon observing that the kitchen table had been halfway cleared off, John grabbed Sherlock’s wrist and shoved his sleeve up to the elbow. He feigned that he was checking his pulse, but Sherlock knew that he was really looking for track marks.

“I’m fine.” He growled as he yanked his hand out of John’s grasp. John rested the back of his hand against Sherlock’s forehead. “You don’t seem to have any fever to speak of. Answer me honestly, Sherlock, are you using in order to try to make yourself feel better?”

“No!” he felt besieged. Every effort he made to improve their relationship was being met with suspicion. He got to his feet, furiously yanking his dressing gown tighter around himself. “Why is it that every time I try to do you a good turn, you treat me like a criminal? Why can’t you just leave it alone?”

John planted his feet and crossed his arms across his chest, “Because I know you, Sherlock. I know that you never do anyone a kindness without an ulterior motive. You have been so secretive lately. Your physical appearance has changed. You are up to something. If it’s not drug use, then what is it?”

Sherlock had no answer for that. He couldn’t say, “I am desperately in love with you and I’m terrified that someone will take you away from me.”

Instead he retorted, “I’m not the only one who’s been keeping secrets.” And swept from the room with a swirl of his dressing gown.

Later, he collapsed into bed, trembling with emotion. He felt drained, but he didn’t know how much of that was from their row and how much was from his illness.

*

John reappeared the next morning with tea and an apology. He sat at the edge of Sherlock’s bed, reaching out and fingering the curls at his temples.

“I’m sorry for snapping at you yesterday. Thank you for clearing off the table. It looks much nicer.”

“You’re welcome.” Sherlock replied, managing to sound smug in spite of his sore throat and stuffy nose.

He took a desultory sip of the tea. His stomach was too unsettled to enjoy it.

“Will you tell me what is going with you?” John asked. Lines of worry creased the corners of his eyes. “Are you ill with something that you’re not telling me about?”

“No.” Sherlock growled and yanked the covers over his head in order to evade John’s gaze.

“Are you trying to punish me for not telling you that I’m bisexual?”

“No.” his voice was muffled by the sheets.

“Is this all just some sort of psychological experiment designed to torture me?”

“No. I’m sorry, John, I’m not in the mood to talk right now. I’m tired and my head hurts.” He hated the petulant note in his voice.

He heard a long sigh and the sound of a door clicking shut as John left the room.

Chapter Text

Sherlock avoided John now, or at least as much as he could, considering that he was practically bedridden. He spent most of his time in his room staring at the wall or sleeping. Even the wonders of the Internet couldn’t hold the attention of his virus-muddled brain for long before he became exhausted again. He decided to give up his wooing efforts until he was feeling better.

For his part, John gently bullied him into eating at least one meal a day, ignoring Sherlock’s grumbled demands for privacy.

Spending time with John was agony. Fiery need burned through Sherlock’s limbs every time John touched his hair or his brow. He hated his desperation, his hunger for contact. He closed his eyes and suppressed a shiver as John rested a hand on his.

“Sherlock-“ John started, his voice tight, but was interrupted by a knock a on the door to the flat.

Sherlock knew from the confident tread and smart rap that it was Neil. God, he hated that man. Why couldn’t he just go off and shag his new lover and leave him and John in peace? John got up to answer it, gently closing Sherlock’s door as he left the room. He heard John and Neil talking, but couldn’t make out the words. He got up and put his ear to the door to listen to their conversation, but the sound was too indistinct to make out anything. Eventually, just as Sherlock was beginning to feel shaky again, the door to the flat opened and shut.

Assuming that their unwelcome guest had left, he headed to the kitchen to take some more paracetemol before going back to sleep. Neil was still in the sitting room. He sat on the sofa as if he owned it, spreading his long limbs over two cushions, his languorous poster reeking of wealthy entitled male. Sherlock suppressed a growl and cursed his illness for dulling his senses. Retreating would be an act of cowardice. Gathering what rags of dignity he could muster, he headed for the kitchen.

“Sherlock, a word.” Neil demanded. He was used to people following his orders.

Sherlock turned on his heel and gave him a glare that would have cowed a lesser man. “What do you want? Are you here to torture John some more?”

“No, I thought that was your job.” Neil retorted.

“Me? You’re the one who left him for someone else.”

Neil glared, “You think I’m the one who made him unhappy? You make his life a living hell every day.”

“What? I do not.”

Neil rolled his eyes, “Oh please, you monopolize almost all his time so that he can’t have any healthy relationships. Instead, the only person who is allowed to have any real presence in his life is you, and you’re nothing but a selfish, miserable arsehole.”

Sherlock straightened, “At least I’m loyal to him. I don’t lead him on then go prancing off with someone else.”

Neil rose to his feet with a vicious smile. He knew he’d scored a hit.

“Yes, you are so loyal that you’ve driven away all of his friends and partners. I, at least was honest with him about what he was getting into. You, on the other hand, aren’t his friend, you’re a predator. You found a man who was willing to put up with you because he was desperate to connect with anyone, even someone as unlikeable as you, but you won’t let him have a normal life because you can’t be happy unless you have your own personal fan club at your beck and call.”

An onslaught of emotion choked Sherlock’s throat. His face heated. He shouted, his voice raw with pent-up anger, “Shut up! Just shut up! You are nothing but a stupid, stupid thief.”

Neil responded with a smug smile that made Sherlock want to weep with rage. As if they had a will of their own, his hands jerked Neil close by the lapels of his blazer. He grabbed his tie and began choking him with it. Neil struggled. His hands weakly scrabbled at Sherlock’s wrists. Sherlock smiled. It was wonderful to finally see the man squirm.

“Sherlock!” the iron in John’s voice forced him to drop his victim. Neil frantically loosened his tie and began choking and spluttering. John ran to his side and gently prodded at his throat to ensure no permanent damage had been done.

“You’ll be fine. I don’t think you will have so much as a bruise.” John’s voice was tight and angry, “Now get out.”

“What?” Neil asked, shocked.

John widened his stance and glared. He was no longer the affable doctor who liked soft jumpers and hot tea. He was Captain Watson, soldier and surgeon.

Neil scuttled to the door like a cockroach, “Why are you kicking me out? He choked me!” he whined.

“Sherlock would never commit an act of physical violence without good reason. You must have done something to provoke him. You aren’t welcome here anymore. You can see yourself out the door.”

Neil paused in the doorframe and fixed his eyes on Sherlock, “You are a sick, manipulative fuck. I can’t wait until you get your comeuppance.”

John slammed the door shut, narrowly missing Neil’s face. He turned on Sherlock. “You are going to sit down on that sofa and tell me what just happened.”

Sherlock’s entire body shook with the effort of holding in his emotions. He needed to scream and rage and destroy something, but he couldn’t because John was watching. He needed to escape. He needed to blot out Neil’s words. With a Herculean effort, he swallowed a sob. When he spoke, his voice was surprisingly steady. “Neil was just being an arse. I shouldn’t-I shouldn’t have-sorry, John. I need to go out-um, a case-.”

He yanked his coat on over his pajamas and whipped his scarf around his neck. John planted himself in front of the door. “You are too ill to go anywhere. You are not leaving this apartment until you tell me what happened.”

Sherlock squared off against him, “Bugger off, John. It’s not my fault that you have such a fondness for arseholes.”

John shifted his weight. There was now menace in his posture. Before Sherlock found out whether it would come to blows, Mrs. Hudson burst through the door with a cry, “Now, boys, what is all this racket?” The swinging door knocked John off balance and Sherlock took the opportunity to slip between him and the doorframe.

He dashed out of the flat and into a maze of streets and alleyways. He took a route that avoided Mycroft’s cameras. He didn’t stop until he reached one of his hiding spots, a concrete tunnel that had been a street two centuries ago. New buildings and streets had been built on top of it. Now the tunnel was home to vagabonds.

It stank of old sweat and garbage. Bodies covered in blankets huddled in alcoves. Some were asleep. Some stared into space with vacant eyes.

Sherlock felt like a wounded animal going to ground as he scurried past, his eyes darting back and forth until he found an unoccupied nook. He leaned his back against the wall and slid down. His breath whistled in and out as he struggled to breathe through his sore, swollen throat. His stomach twisted and heaved from the exertion, but he kept himself from vomiting. He could tell from the chills that shook his body and the weakness that pervaded his limbs that his fever had returned. Once he caught his breath, he curled onto his side on the chilly concrete and allowed sleep to take him.

He didn’t sleep well. The walls of the tunnel amplified the soft rustlings and moans of sleeping bodies. The concrete floor dug into his bones and cold seeped into his every pore. He clung to the sensations. Physical misery gave him a reprieve from the emotional anguish he felt every time he allowed his thoughts to wander.

Neil was right. Sherlock was ruining John’s life. Through his selfishness, he had driven away the people who cared about him. He was so wrapped up in his own ego that he’d never thought about how his actions affected John. If his self-loathing could have taken a physical form, it would have swallowed him up in a black cloud. He stared at the grey stone wall in front of him and contemplated all of the dates he’d interrupted because he had a break in a case, the nights out with old army buddies John had missed because he was chasing Sherlock down an alley with a murderer in hot pursuit.

He was a stone around John’s neck, dragging him down into the chaotic mess that was his life. He inwardly cringed as he contemplated how he’d deliberately tried to contract a disease in order to keep John from spending time with Neil. He thought of John’s worried face and gentle hands. John didn’t deserve to be saddled with a wretched fool like him.

Chapter Text

Late the next day, physical discomfort finally overwhelmed Sherlock’s emotional anguish. He bestirred himself enough to go looking for one of his caches in the city. He had no money on him, so it was a mile walk. His legs were shaky and his head floated above his body like a balloon on a string. He had to rest what felt like a hundred times before he found the stash, a duffel bag with clothes and cash that he kept at a bus station locker.

When he hung the strap over his shoulder, he felt as though it weighed a hundred pounds. He was on the verge of collapse. He needed to find a safe place to rest. Fortunately, there was a cheap pension less than a block away. He barely made it to the door.

The man at the desk charged him twice what the room should have cost, but Sherlock just counted out the bills with trembling fingers. Finally, the man handed him a key.

His hands shook so badly that he dropped the key twice before he got the door open. He staggered inside and fell onto the bed. Blackness consumed him.

*

He heard a voice, but couldn’t understand the words. Porcelain clicked against his teeth. He parted his lips and sugary warmth flooded his mouth. He swallowed and opened his eyes. John looked down at him, some unidentifiable emotion that Sherlock did not understand twisted the corners of his lips and tightened his brow.

The words were becoming clearer, “How are you feeling?”

Sherlock realized that he was now under the sheets and that he wore only his boxer briefs. John must have undressed him. He would have seen him almost naked. He would have seen his staring hipbones, his knobby vertebrae, his protruding collarbones. He curled in on himself in shame. Even now, he was unintentionally hurting his friend.

“I’m fine. How did you find me?” He rasped.

“Mycroft. Do you think you could take a shower if I helped you? You’ll probably feel better once you’re not smelling like old garbage.”

Sherlock didn’t respond.

Huffing out a sigh of annoyance, John dragged him to his feet. Sherlock took the blanket with him, wrapping it around his shoulders to protect his modesty. Flashing lights danced in his vision and his knees wobbled. John wrapped an arm around his waist and supported him by the elbow. Sherlock leaned shamelessly against him, too broken to conceal his hunger for touch any longer. Together, they stumbled down the hall to the shower.

After they shut the door behind them, John tugged the blanket from his shoulders. Sherlock stood frozen. He knew he should argue or resist, but he was too tired to move, too tired to think. John pulled down his boxers and guided his feet as he stepped over the waistband. Sherlock shivered as he felt John’s warm breath against his thigh. He was too sick, hungry, and fatigued to worry about getting an erection. For the moment, it was enough to close his eyes and imagine John’s hands sliding up his legs, his lips pressing a kiss into the hollow next to his hipbone.

He opened his eyes. John tugged at his elbow, guiding him into the shower. Once inside, he propped himself against the wall. He tried to keep his eyes open, but they kept closing. John turned on the water and handed him a bar of soap. It slid out of numb fingers.

He heard John mutter, “Dear God, Sherlock, what have you done to yourself?”

John guided him under the showerhead, wetting his skin and hair before propping him up against the wall again.

“Sorry, I don’t have a flannel. I’m going to have to use my hands.”

He used his hands to lather soap on every part of him. He was thorough and impersonal, touching the most sensitive parts of his body with gentle efficiency. Sherlock closed his eyes and didn’t react. At length, John turned him around and washed his other side. Sherlock leaned against the wall, his palms pressed against the tiles, wishing that this encounter was happening in another context entirely.

Hands guided him under the tap again, and then finally, wrapped him in a rough towel and led him back to the room. John eased him into bed and dribbled more sugary tea down his throat before tucking him in. After that, sleep claimed him.

*

The first thing he noticed when he woke was strong arms wrapped around his waist. The second was warm breath tickling the hairs at the back of his neck. Judging from the amount of skin-to-skin contact, John was wearing only his boxer shorts.

He gave a deep sigh and relaxed against the warm body. He tried to stay awake, to soak in this moment, but as if they had a will of their own, his eyes drifted shut once again.

Rustling from behind woke him a second time. Without thinking, he rolled over to give John a muzzy smile. John’s face was inscrutable. He reached out and toyed with one of Sherlock’s curls. His voice was unbearably kind, “Will you please tell me what’s wrong?”

Sherlock buried his face in his pillow. “No.” his reply was muffled by the pillow case.

“Please tell me what’s happening to you. Please let me help you.”

The sound of John begging broke something inside him. The sobs he’d held in for so long escaped from his throat. “John, I can’t. I can’t tell you.”

He yanked the blankets over his head and hid his face as the tears burned a path down his cheeks. The mattress dipped as John shifted. Cool hands pried the bed sheet from his clenched fists. John took hold of his shoulders, turned his body to face him and took him in his arms.

“Sherlock, whatever it is, we’ll get through it. If it’s drugs, I’ll help you find a rehab program. If it’s something more complex, I’ll find the right person for you to talk to. Just give me some sort of clue.”

Sherlock wrapped his arms tight around him and buried his face into the crook of his neck. “It’s you, John. The problem is you.”

John’s entire body went rigid.

“You can’t mean that.”

“I’m ruining your life. I drive away the people you love because I can’t-” His voice broke. He continued, “I can’t bear to see you with anyone else. I’m selfish and cruel and jealous.”

John shook his head. Confusion filled his face. “Sherlock, none of that is true, and you shouldn’t be calling yourself such ugly names. Besides, what do I have that you could possibly be jealous of?”

“You have Neil. You have people who love you, and I-I’m not-I’m not loveable like you.”

“You’re in love with Neil?” John’s voice was incredulous.

Sherlock let out of a huff of exasperation, “No, you idiot, I’m in love with you.”

John’s face froze and silence filled the room.

A century passed. Sherlock’s heart stopped. He couldn’t breathe. Terror froze him against the sheets as he waited for John’s response.

With the slow inevitability of a flower turning to face the sun, John bent his head, leaning closer until his mouth was an inch from Sherlock’s. Then soft as a snowflake landing on a rose petal, he kissed him. It was a chaste kiss, little more than a dry brush against his lips, but Sherlock’s body was electrified. He quivered with equal parts relief and hunger. He wrapped a shaking hand around the nape of John’s neck, pulling him closer, wanting more, desperately seeking the warmth of John’s mouth against his own.

John kissed him again, this time tugging Sherlock’s bottom lip between his own. The full length of John’s almost naked body pressed against him. Everywhere they touched, Sherlock felt as though he were on fire. John’s taste was in his mouth. His scent filled his nostrils. Every sense in his body was consumed with an all-encompassing need for more.

John deepened the kiss, lightly touching his tongue against Sherlock’s teeth, requesting entry. Awareness that something was not quite right slowly filtered into his consciousness. There was something important, something he’d forgotten. Reason returned to Sherlock’s mind in a rush.

He pulled away, “John, stop. I’m still contagious.”

“I don’t care.” John replied, his voice rough with emotion. He tried to kiss Sherlock again, but he turned his face away.

“I’m serious. I don’t want you to get sick.”

John sighed, shifted a few inches back and said, “There’s something I must tell you.”

There was a tight solemnity in his voice made the hair on the back of Sherlock’s neck stand up.

“What is it?” he asked reluctantly.

“You’re going to hate me once I tell you.”

Sherlock reached out and took John’s hand, “There is nothing you could tell me that would make me hate you.”

John sat up and pulled Sherlock up with him, “This will.”

He took a deep breath as though he were screwing up his courage and said, his voice breaking, “I’m the reason you’re sick, Sherlock. I deliberately infected you with mono seven weeks ago.”

Shock struck Sherlock like a physical blow. His heart stuttered and the air whooshed out of his lungs. He felt lightheaded as his blood rushed to his limbs. John’s touch, which had only moments ago felt as vital to him as breathing now felt as slimily repugnant as the scales from a rotted fish. He felt contaminated in every place John had touched him. He yanked his hand out of his grasp and turned away, desperately trying to get his emotions under control before he did anything foolish.

Chapter Text

There was a long pause before John continued.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock. I was just so worried about you. I could see that you’ve been wasting away over these past months, that there was something very wrong with you and it wasn’t physical. I was afraid that you would eventually do something--,” He broke off and took a ragged breath, “I can’t even bring myself to say what I was afraid you would do.

”If anything happened to you and I could have stopped it, I don’t know if I could live with myself. I begged you to tell me what was going on, but you stonewalled me. I searched your room and found nothing. I even followed you a few times, hoping to catch you buying drugs or doing something that would explain why you’d changed so much. I felt like I was going mad. I felt like a damned stalker, except I could tell you were disintegrating. And I was helpless to stop it. I was at my wit’s end and I was so scared for you."

“Why didn’t you ask Mycroft or Lestrade for help?” Sherlock asked.

“And tell them what, exactly? That you’re moody and not eating or sleeping, that I’d followed you around and searched your room for drugs and found nothing? They would probably have assumed that you were just toying with me or that I was the one having a breakdown.”

The words continued to spill out of John’s mouth in a torrent of confession and self-recrimination.

“I first got the idea the day you fainted. I never imagined I’d go through with it. But when you were sick, it was the first time I’d been able to reach you in ages. I could tell that you were happier for a time. You were eating. You seemed less brittle.

“Then the next morning you were physically better, but you were all icy and withdrawn again. I couldn’t bear it. Every day, I watched you shrink into yourself a little more. So one morning, I laced your fork with saliva from a patient of mine who had mono. I knew it was wrong and stupid. I hated myself as soon as I did it. I thought that if I could keep you close, if I could take care of you, if I could just get you to open up to me, I could figure out what was wrong. In my own stupid way, I was trying to help you. ”

He looked at Sherlock, “But now it’s all turned into a mess and I’ve made everything a thousand times worse and I can’t imagine where we even go from here.”

John did not cry. Even now, there were no tears in his eyes, but Sherlock could tell from his stiff posture and tight jaw that his heart was splintering into a thousand pieces. Yet again, he got a glimpse of the adamantine honor that formed John’s backbone.

Judging from the baldness of his words, John did not seek forgiveness. He did not imagine it to be possible. He had committed an unforgiveable act and it was now time to pay the price for what he had done. Nevertheless, Sherlock’s heart granted John complete absolution.

Intellectually, he understood that infecting one’s partner with a disease was morally wrong on every level. It was a violation not only of his body, but of his ability to control the direction of his life.

He also understood the perverse logic that had driven John to this point. The irony that he had tried to infect himself for almost the same reason did not escape him, but this was different. If he wanted to damage himself, that was his choice. For someone to take his strength, the power of his mind away for a short time in order to manipulate him was reprehensible.

Mycroft had been trying to dictate his life for years and his subtle attempts at influence had been met with implacable resentment. But John’s transgression was much more severe. It broke his Hippocratic Oath. It violated their friendship. It caused physical harm to Sherlock’s body, and yet, he forgave him.

It was horrifying and dangerous, the ease with which he forgave John. It revealed the strength of his feelings in a way that he was not equipped to handle. For the first time he realized that there was something unhealthy about this attachment. He could not listen to his heart on this matter. It had already been compromised, so instead, he quieted the howling in his mind and tried to approach the situation with cold reason.

All of his life, Sherlock had believed that intentions did not matter, actions did. And all of the actions John had recently undertaken had caused him both physical and emotional harm. John had brought a toxic person into their lives. He’d been treating him with suspicion for weeks, and now he’d deliberately infected him with a disease. He remembered John’s gentle hands as he’d set about diagnosing him, even taking a blood sample. He felt foolish and ashamed for not seeing through the masquerade. The lie hurt the worst of all.

Then Sherlock investigated his own behavior. He hurt John with his secretiveness and avoidance. He couldn’t even cope with his own jealousy in a healthy way. He punished himself for his negative emotions by denying his body what it needed, which led to him indirectly punishing John. He remembered the despair in John’s voice as he asked whether Sherlock were psychologically torturing him.

It didn’t matter if they were friends. It didn’t even matter if they were in love. All they did was hurt each other. All either of them wanted was to make the other happy, but all of it ended in a spiral of anguish and self-loathing.

When he finally spoke, his voice was ice, “John, I need you to leave, please. I’ll return to the flat tomorrow morning. We’ll talk then.”

*

When Sherlock opened the door to the flat the next morning, John was in his chair, nursing a mostly empty bottle of Scotch. An abandoned glass sat on a side table. Judging from his bloodshot eyes and the way he slumped, he’d been drinking for hours.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows and said in the cold voice he employed when eviscerating idiots. “Really, John? I was hoping you would be sober for this conversation.” He moved to walk to his room. Breaking John’s heart would be bad enough, breaking it when alcohol had dissolved the barrier of stoicism John had erected against the world would be unbearable.

“Stop. Please. Can we talk for a minute?”

Sherlock wanted nothing more than to hide in his room and lick his wounds, but instead, he dragged himself to his chair.

“What do you want?”

John buried his face in his hands. “I’m so sorry.”

Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin and leaned forward, but said nothing.

John waved a hand at him. “Your weight loss, the problems you have been having have been because of me, haven’t they?”

“Yes.”

“Because you’re in love with me.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t understand. I didn’t think you could--,“ he waved his arm again “feel--whatever.”

“Well I can.”

John took a deep swig from the bottle, “I can’t blame you for hating me. I’m responsible for almost killing you. Twice now.”

Sherlock shook his head, “I don’t hate you, and I think you give yourself too much credit. Mono is hardly a deadly disease and my current condition is entirely my own fault. I knew I shouldn’t neglect my own body. I just didn’t care enough to do anything about it.”

Sherlock swallowed. The next words were difficult, “I want you to move out. I’ll give you as much time as you need to find a new place to live, but I’d like you out of here as soon as possible.”

“What? Why?”

Sherlock rose to leave. “What we have isn’t healthy anymore. It’s not fair that you should bear so much responsibility for my mental health. I took risks with my physical well-being because you showed interest in someone else. And you saw what I was doing to myself and decided that the most rational approach would be to make me sicker.

“We’re not good for each other. It’s only a matter of time before you find another partner, and when you do, I’ll be shattered and jealous. I’ll take it out on him or her. You’ll be justifiably angry with me for driving another person off, and I’ll resent you for trying to satisfy your emotional needs with anyone other than me. It will just be an endless cycle of misery until finally one of us does something that is truly unforgiveable--”

John broke in, “Please give me a chance to make up for what I’ve done. I beg you.”

Sherlock bared his teeth in frustration. “God, John, you’re missing the point. You haven’t done anything wrong—well, nothing that I didn’t drive you to do. This isn’t about assigning blame. I’m trying to do right by both of us.”

John set the bottle scotch down on the table a little too hard and the glass shattered. The room filled with the smell of alcohol. “God, Sherlock, just stop being a fucking martyr for one second.” John retorted. His voice rose and he got to his feet, “You love me and I love you. And yes, I’ve done something unspeakably horrid that I’ll regret every day of my life, but don’t chase me away out of some misguided sense of self-sacrifice.

“If you can’t forgive me and you want me out of your life forever, I understand, truly I do. If you need time, I understand that too. But don’t tell me that you are doing this for me. You can’t know what’s best for me. Only I know that. If you want me gone, that is fine, but don’t delude yourself that you are asking me to leave out of some foolish notion of honor.”

Sherlock suppressed the silent thrill of joy that pervaded his heart at John’s confession of love. He mentally reminded himself feelings don’t matter, only actions, and steeled himself to do what was necessary.

He replied, “I should respect that you know what is best for you, should I? John, you infected me with a disease. Right now, you don’t know what’s best for anybody. I want you gone. I need to pick up the pieces of my life and so do you. We can only do that if we’re apart.”

John’s body went limp against the chair. “I understand. I’ll be gone as soon as I can manage.”

“I’m sorry, John.”

“I’m sorry too, Sherlock.”

Sherlock yanked open the door to his room. He shut it behind him and sat down, his back against the door. In the distance he heard John’s despondent tread walking away. Walking away forever.

He put his head down between his knees and cried as though his heart were breaking.

Chapter Text

John moved out at the end of the week. Sherlock’s ordeal had given his health a small setback, but it wasn’t anything life-threatening. The night that John left, Lestrade had a suspiciously convenient row with his wife that resulted in him spending a week on Sherlock’s sofa. Between that and the way he prodded him to do things like eat and bathe, he suspected Mycroft had somehow been involved, but he was too tired and heartsick to do much beyond issue a few scathing comments.

The worst of his sickness tailed off and he was left with a lingering malaise. His appetite returned. He couldn’t be bothered to cook or go to the shops, but he was saved by the bulk-sized case of high-calorie energy bars he discovered under the cabinet as he rummaged for food. Again, he suspected Mycroft’s handiwork, but he couldn’t complain. His clothes were beginning to fit again. He no longer looked as though he were on death’s doorstep.

He missed John desperately, but he survived. He felt as though the world were grey. Loneliness gnawed at his heart like a rat on a bone, but he found that being alive and miserable was better than being dead and feeling nothing.

With John gone, he struggled to hold onto the few shreds of empathy he’d managed to cultivate during their acquaintance. He could feel them shriveling from disuse. It seemed that people complained about him more now that John was gone, but he couldn’t be bothered to care.

Six weeks after what Molly termed, “the breakup” he found himself walking down the street on his way to a party at her flat. He’d said no the first time she’d asked, but then she’d let slip that John was going to be there. He wasn’t interested in trying to reinitiate…whatever they were doing. He just wanted to make sure that his friend was alright.

He ignored the fact that under normal circumstances, nothing could have induced him to show up. Parties made his skin crawl. Large crowds of people tended to over-stimulate his mind, which was feeling fragile enough these days. Coping with the assault on his senses while simultaneously trying to act like a normal human would be a Sisyphean task.

He’d already accepted it as inevitable that at some point in the evening he would insult one of Molly’s friends, who would either start crying or try to punch him, ending the evening in the most unpleasant way possible for everyone involved.

He carried a bottle of wine, supplied by Lestrade. Apparently people were supposed to bring gifts to the hosts of parties. He stopped outside the door to her flat and buzzed himself up.

Lestrade was already there talking to Molly, and judging by the frantic darting of his eyes, desperately trying not to look down her top. For her part, Molly was laughing, completely unaware of his straying gaze. Both of their heads turned when the door shut behind Sherlock. They exchanged a look, and went to greet him. Molly was all smiles and effusive thanks for the bottle of wine. It was her favorite varietal and she couldn’t wait to try it out.

“You should thank Lestrade.” he replied, “After all, he bought it.”

She turned her smile on Lestrade, who might as well have melted with pleasure. Sherlock cast about, his eyes searching. Molly placed a warm hand on his arm, “Oh, sorry, I forgot to tell you, John called a couple days ago. He can’t make it tonight.”

“Why not?”

“He’s sick with that same thing you had, poor dear.”

“Mono?”

“Yeah, that’s it.”

“Oh, well, I’m off.”

“Oh, Sherlock, don’t go.”

“You know I don’t like parties. Now pour more whiskey into Lestrade so he can finally get up the nerve to ask you out. I’ve had enough of watching you two dance around each other. It’s become distracting.”

Lestrade’s face went tomato red.

Completely unfazed, Molly retorted, “Well you’re one to talk. Tell John I said hi.”

Sherlock returned home first. There were a few things he had to do before he saw John.

*

It was midmorning by the time Sherlock descended upon John. He juggled a number of bags in his arms as he wrestled his way through the door of the wretched little bedsit. There had never been a question as to whether or not Sherlock would see him. Until six weeks ago, John had been his best friend and dearest love. What’s more, Sherlock knew exactly how miserable it felt to be sick, and nobody deserved to go through it alone. Although he had to admit, there was a sort of cosmic justice to John catching the very disease he’d infected him with.

John looked dreadful. He was curled partway on his side in a desperate bid to ease the aches that wracked his body. Used tissues littered the floor and beside table. Clothes overflowed from the hamper and the kitchen sink was full of dirty dishes. The whole place smelled of dirty linen and moldy food. Sherlock’s nose wrinkled. What a dreadful place to be ill.

John looked at him, eyes glittering with fever. He didn’t even bother to feign surprise. “Who gave you my key?”

“Landlord.” Sherlock set down his load and began going through his sacks.

He pulled out his prize. A clean set of pajamas. He’d foreseen that John wouldn’t have the energy to do laundry and that by now, all of his clothes would be filthy. It had taken him an hour of shopping to find the perfect pair. The shirt was made of a natural blend of fibers and was soft and tissue-thin, the kind of fabric that wicked away moisture and dried quickly. The bottoms were made of sturdier material, but felt no less silky against the skin.

Sherlock approached the bed. John tightened his hold on the covers in apprehension. He handed him the pajamas. “Take a shower. Put these on.”

John opened his mouth to argue, but his hands already caressed the fabric.

“Don’t argue. You don’t have the energy for it. Besides, you reek. I can smell you from here.”

John meekly accepted the pajamas and went to the bathroom.

While John was busy in the shower, Sherlock stripped the sheets from the bed and put on a fresh set. He was busily washing dishes when John emerged from the bathroom, looking clean, if exhausted.

“No cleaning.” John said.

“Yes cleaning. Now, back to bed with you. I’ll have some tea ready soon.”

A look of trepidation crossed John’s face, but he obediently got back into bed. Soon Sherlock could hear a belabored snore as John struggled to breathe through his constricted nasal passages.

He unpacked the rest of the items from the sacks.

A pot of homemade chicken soup without beets, was the first thing he pulled out. He followed the soup with a thermos of ginger tea with lemon and honey. That would need reheating.

The medicated chest rub and paracetemol came next. The last thing out of the bag was a humidifier. He placed it on the kitchen cabinet, filled the reservoir, and turned it on. Next, he sorted the laundry and took the first load to the machines in the basement.

By the time John awoke, the soup was simmering away on stove. The tea sat steaming in a cup on the nightstand. The dishes were washed and put away, and the clutter that had begun to accumulate on every flat surface had been stowed away out of sight.

John sat up and blinked bleary eyes. “Sherlock, what is that wonderful smell?”

“I made you soup. Now give me just a minute and I’ll be ready for you.”

He set up a bed tray across John’s lap and placed the cup of tea and a napkin on it. John stared at the tea with trepidation. “I’m sorry, Sherlock, I know you mean well, but I’m just not up for this right now.”

Sherlock gave him a stern look, “Drink.” He commanded.

John took the cup and gave it a tentative sniff. His face relaxed at the peppery scent of the ginger. He took a sip and sighed.

“This is heavenly.” He said in surprise.

Sherlock shrugged, embarrassed. “It’s purely medicinal. The taste is just a happy coincidence. The ginger will help with the nausea and congestion. Honey has antimicrobial properties, and the lemon has vitamin C, which will boost your immune system.”

He decided to avoid any further critique of his cooking skills by retrieving the soup. He set it in front of John who poked at it suspiciously with a spoon. “This was made with the exact recipe that was used in a study that found that chicken soup relieves some of the symptoms of people who are suffering from colds.”

John took a tiny sip from his spoon. He frowned in confusion and said, “This actually tastes good.” then attacked the bowl with his spoon. About two thirds of the way through, his enthusiasm waned. Sherlock remembered his own barely existent appetite from when he was sick.

“Finished?” he asked. He didn’t want to force John to eat more than he felt like.

John nodded, his jaw tight. As Sherlock reached to take away the bowl, John’s hands snaked out and clenched around Sherlock’s free hand.

“Thank you.” he whispered hoarsely, “You are a better friend than I deserve.”

Sherlock smiled, trying to conceal the way his heart raced at John’s touch. “None of that. Rest, now.”

John let go of his hand and turned his face away. Sherlock retreated to the kitchen to give him some privacy.

*

John slept off and on throughout the day. Sherlock did laundry and dishes, cleaned the bathroom, and fiddled with his laptop.

The two of them had an uncomfortable moment at around mid-afternoon when John’s nose became so thoroughly clogged that he could no longer sleep, but instead dozed and woke in fits and starts. Finally, Sherlock couldn’t stand it anymore. “Raise your arms up over your head.”

John raised his arms and Sherlock pulled off his pajama top. John froze.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to do anything inappropriate.” He uncapped the medicated chest rub and rubbed some onto John’s chest. John closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Within minutes he was asleep again. His face was so soft and trusting. Sherlock had forgotten that he could look like this. Tenderness stirred again deep inside him. Without thinking he reached out and laid his palm on John’s cheek. John turned into the caress with a happy little grunt.

Sherlock got up and fled to the kitchen before the onslaught of emotion overwhelmed him. He braced himself against the kitchen counter and tried to calm himself with deep breaths. He loved John just as much as ever. Six measly weeks of being apart had done nothing to change that. Yet, something had changed. For the first time since he could remember, there was no hidden strain tightening John’s voice, no secret sadness that emerged for fractions of a second before being quickly buried again.

For all that they were shy with each other, they were managing to navigate the minefield of wounded feelings that was their relationship. Sherlock could feel a sense of healing where there had once been only a festering resentment. His feelings for John were like a lanced boil. They had been bottled up, growing ever more painful until they finally exploded in a messy eruption of wrath and need and sorrow. Yes, things were more difficult, but the terror of eminent doom was gone. The worst had happened. He had told John he loved him. John had betrayed him. They had parted ways, possibly forever, and yet Sherlock was still alive, still functioning. Yes, he was desperately unhappy, but he still had his cases. He still had Lestrade and Molly and even Mycroft. He was surprisingly, okay.

Chapter Text

Sherlock walked as quickly as he was able to under the burden of his sacks. Today, he had prepared chicken and dumplings—John needed the calories--and more ginger tea.

He’d felt like a monster leaving John the night before. He could tell that he was still achy and wracked with chills, but he’d feared that staying would mean crossing a line of intimacy that he wasn’t ready for yet.

When he opened the door, the smell of vomit hit him with an almost physical force. John lay curled and shivering on the floor, clad in only his boxers. The sheets were piled high on the bed. Sherlock immediately surmised what must have happened. He set down the sacks in the kitchen.

Thin, yellowish vomit soaked the bottom sheet and pillow. After a quick inspection, Sherlock realized that the top sheet and duvet had been soaked as well. He had to give John credit for his appalling aim. It must have taken true effort to soak all of his bedclothes. Judging from the smell of the pajamas that had been wadded up and kicked under the bed, John had gotten it on himself as well. He shook his head and bundled the mess into a hamper.

Once he returned from his trip to the laundry and put on a fresh set of sheets, he turned his attention to John. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever seen a person so wretchedly ill. He knelt beside him and pressed his index and middle finger to his neck to check his pulse. John glanced at him with feverish eyes then curled further in on himself.

His pulse was normal. Sherlock found John’s doctor’s bag near the door where he always kept it. He cadged the stethoscope and thermometer. He checked John’s breathing, sighing in relief to find that his lungs were clear. The thermometer registered a fever, but it was not yet dangerously high.

“You aren’t bad enough to go the hospital yet.” Sherlock said as he carefully replaced John’s belongings, “but you do need a shower.”

Without ceremony, he eased his arm under John’s shoulder and levered him to his feet. His legs skidded on the floor with all of the grace of a newborn colt. John’s shorter stature and thicker build made supporting him cursed awkward for Sherlock, but he managed to get him to the bathroom.

Ignoring John’s protests, he peeled off his boxers. It took all of his self-control not to take a prurient interest in what lay beneath, but he mostly managed to keep his eyes to himself. He turned on the water and guided John into the shower. He fumbled for a shampoo bottle. Sherlock took it away before he could drop it.

“Stay put.” He ordered, then squeezed some shampoo into his palm and began working it into John’s damp locks. John sighed and relaxed under his hands. It was all Sherlock could do not to wrap his arms around him right then and never let go.

He allowed him to wash his own face and body. As he watched him sway weakly under the showerhead, Sherlock was struck by the perverse symmetry that had suddenly thrust him into the caretaker role. There was a seduction in having John weak and pliable in his hands. If he wanted, he could propose that John move back home, and John guilty and grateful for Sherlock’s care would say yes, would abase himself at the altar of his past betrayal. Sherlock would no longer have to listen to John grousing about the state of the flat or the presence of eyeballs in the pickle jar.

No, those were not the terms he wanted. If John returned to the flat, it would be with his eyes open to Sherlock’s own frailties and past misdeeds. If John returned, it needed to be with each of them healthy both physically and emotionally, with no more games or attempts at manipulation.

John reached for the taps. Sherlock switched them off for him and wrapped him in a towel. He numbly held the ends at his waist as Sherlock used another towel to squeeze moisture out of his hair then knelt to pat his legs dry.

John’s look of bewildered longing slayed him. He desperately wanted to nuzzle closer, press his face into the pale coarse hair that covered John’s thighs, but instead he kept his hands businesslike. He rose and guided him back to bed where he set about feeding him tea and chicken and dumplings. Eventually, John drifted back to sleep, snoring lightly as his breath whistled past his swollen throat.

At some point during the mid-afternoon, fever hit John hard. It wasn’t bad enough to merit a trip to the doctor, but that didn’t keep John from shivering beneath his bedclothes. Sherlock added a blanket and tucked a hot water bottle close to his side in an effort to sweat it out.

An hour later, the fever had not abated. Sherlock was sitting nearby, pretending to work on his laptop, when he heard John gasp and sniffle. He knelt at his side, box of tissues in hand. John saw him a second too late and turned away, but there was no mistaking what Sherlock had seen. John was crying.

He knew exactly how John was feeling at that moment because he’d felt the exact same way only weeks ago. The chills brought on by the fever only exacerbated his aches. His throat had been so swollen that it hurt to breathe. He remembered everything hurting and everything being difficult and desperately wanting to sleep, but being unable to because his body screamed and breathing was a struggle.

There was only one thing for it. Sherlock bent over and untied first one shoe then the other. Next, he removed his socks. He folded them and placed them in his shoes before taking off his blazer and neatly folding it over the chair. Finally, he took a deep breath, steeling himself against the onslaught of emotions that he knew he was about to stir up, and slipped beneath the covers next to John. John had his back to him so it was perfectly natural to ease his arms around him.

John continued to shake, but the sniffling eased. Ever so slowly, his trembling gentled until he was motionless and breathing deeply in Sherlock’s arms. It was hot under the blankets, but Sherlock did not try to move away. Instead, he surreptitiously sniffed John’s hair, reveling in the complex mixture of masculine scents. This feeling, this warmth, was peace and home and every good thing Sherlock could imagine, and he wanted it to never end.

*

Symmetry. Radial symmetry. Sea stars and squid and flowers and pinecones. Symmetry was the elegant design of nature. He and John had symmetry. Poison and healing and love and jealousy and longing and silence and beauty and agony.

Something shifted under his arm. Sherlock jerked awake. It was John, taking a deep breath before releasing it in a loud phlegmy snore. The body next to him was damp with sweat and cool to the touch. John’s fever had broken. Orange light streaming through the window marked the oncoming sunset.

He eased himself out from under the blankets and got out of bed. He put his shoes back on and set about reheating the ginger tea. John would be thirsty when he woke.

John’s eyes opened just as the last light of day faded from the sky. Sherlock gave him tea and a generous helping of chicken dumplings. John accepted both with more enthusiasm than he’d displayed the previous day.

His eyes were still alert as Sherlock cleared the dishes. He felt them follow him as he bustled about the flat. Sometime between the day before and moment John had awoken, Sherlock had resolved to tell him the truth, tell him how damaged he truly was.

He sat on the edge of the bed and took John’s hand in his. John’s face flushed and he looked up at Sherlock in confused anticipation. He hated himself for what he was about to say. He had no idea whether it would ease John’s guilt or make it worse.

He took a deep breath in an effort to slow his racing heart, “John, do you remember our conversation at the flat the day after you told me about the mono?”

The blood drained from John’s face. He nodded.

“You asked me if the reason for my change in behavior and weight loss were caused by my feelings for you.” he paused, “I told you they were, and that was the truth.” He took a shaking breath. He hated admitting his flaws, and this was a very big one. “I did another thing to harm myself that I did not tell you about. Almost two months before I fell ill, I tried to infect myself with a disease. I thought that if I were sick, I would have some time alone with you before you went off with Neil forever. So you see, it is entirely possible that you did not give me mono.”

John frowned in confusion, “You tried to hurt yourself because of me? Is this supposed to make me feel better?”

Sherlock scrubbed his hands against his knees in agitation. “Yes. No. I don’t know. At least you know that it’s probably not your fault that I got sick.”

“How did you go about infecting yourself?”

“The first time, I drank from a teacup contaminated by a small child with a severe cold, though he could have had mono. He was young enough that his symptoms wouldn’t have been very severe. After that I rode the tube and let sick people sneeze on me. I also rubbed moistened q-tips against contaminated areas and put them in my nose.”

John wrinkled his own nose, “Sherlock, that is disgusting. Remind me never to kiss you again.”

Sherlock felt an inner thrill at the phrase “kiss you again,” but he hoped that his face was reasonably composed.

John continued, “Mono is usually spread via saliva to saliva contact. You probably got it from either the contaminated teacup or my contaminated fork. There’s really no way of knowing.”

Sherlock shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. The important thing for you to know is that neither of us is perfect. You’re not the only person in this relationship who does foolish, hurtful things.”

John turned his face away for a second.

Sherlock continued, “In a way, it was good that you told me the truth. I never understood the destructive way I was treating my body until you told me that you purposefully gave me mono. I was horrified, but then I realized that I had done the exact same thing to myself. What you did to me was wrong, but what I did to myself was wrong too. I needed to be away from you, to teach myself to treat my body with respect again without having you as a crutch to remind me to take care of myself. Also, since we started spending time together, I’ve fixated on you as the sole source of my happiness. I needed to remind myself that I can derive satisfaction from other things, from knowing myself and being okay with who I am, and from the work I do. It’s not that you can’t make me happy, it’s just that for a while I forgot that there were other things that made me happy too.”

John’s voice was hoarse, “How are you doing now? Are you happier?”

Sherlock cupped his cheek, “No, I’m not, but I know now that I can take care of myself without you. I have relearned how to find contentment from within rather than relying on others to create it for me. It doesn’t mean I love you any less, but let’s not talk about this now. I don’t think we should be having any discussions of this sort until you’re feeling better.”

John nodded, but Sherlock did not fail to notice the tiny smile that quirked up the corner of John’s mouth when he’d said, “I love you.”

*

Five days later, the worst of the symptoms had passed. John was still lethargic, but his aches and fever had gone. He spent more than a couple hours a day awake now.

One morning, as Sherlock brought him a bowl of homemade tomato soup, John said, “I can’t take it anymore.”

“What?”

“You, waiting on me hand and foot when I’m the one who got you sick. All of this is my fault in the first place.”

Sherlock sighed, “We already discussed that. You didn’t do anything to me that I hadn’t already done to myself. Spare me your guilt. We both know that you won’t do it again and that’s all that matters.”

John looked up at him with a serious expression, “If I ask you a question will you answer me honestly and not tell me what you think I’ll want to hear.”

“Yes.” Sherlock replied solemnly.

“Will you let me take you out on a date? When I am better, of course.”

“Yes.” He responded, flushing faintly pink with excitement.

John nodded, a huge smile spreading across his face. “Good. I can’t wait. Now, please, go home and solve some cases. I am grateful for what you’ve done, but now that I’m feeling better, I’m starting to worry that you’ll go through my underwear drawer when I’m not looking.”

Sherlock wrinkled his brow. “Why would you worry about me looking through your underwear drawer? I didn’t see anything remotely untoward other than that thong with the pink—oh.”

John glowered, “It was a gift and no, I do not want to talk about it.”

Chapter Text

It was 6:58 pm on Friday night. Sherlock ran the lint roller over his blazer one last time. Only a week before, John had called to let him know that he was once again healthy. Once they’d gotten the tedious trivialities out of the way, John got to the point.

His voice had been a bit shaky with nerves, “Sherlock, do you remember when I asked if you would be willing to go on a date with me?”

“Yes. What makes you think I’d need reminding?”

Sherlock could hear John grinding his teeth from the other end of the line.

“You shouldn’t do that, you know, it’s bad for your teeth.” He said.

“Are you available next Saturday night at 7:00 pm?”

“No, I’ve got bridge with Mrs. Hudson and the Turners on Saturday. Why do you ask?”

John soldiered on, “What about Friday, then?”

“I should be available on Friday, barring any emergencies, of course.”

“Would you like to go to dinner with me on Friday at 7:00?”

“Yes. You are asking me out on a date, then?”

“Yes, I am asking you out on a date. How does 7:00 sound?”

“Yes.”

Sherlock suddenly realized that his response was nonsensical. “I mean, 7:00 sounds good. I will see you at 7:00 pm on Friday evening.”

“Great! I’ll see you then.”

“Yes.” Sherlock replied. Argh, what was wrong with him. He needed to delete that word from his vocabulary.

He immediately put the phone down and called Molly. She didn’t pick up.

He rang Lestrade next.

“Sorry, it’s an emergency. Could you hand the phone to Molly?”

An angry voice came over the line, “Unless you’re bleeding to death or you’re standing over a recently murdered corpse, you can fu—“

Lestrade’s voice cut off and Molly’s voice cut in, “Sherlock, love, what is it?” in the background he could hear a tussle for the phone.

“John just asked me out on a date.”

“Oh, he did, did he? What did you tell him?”

“I told him yes.”

He heard a muffled squeal from the other end of the line and what sounded like masculine laughter.

“Shut up, Lestrade.” He growled into the receiver, though he had no idea whether he could hear him.

Molly’s voice was crisp again, “Sorry about that, you were saying?”

“What do I do? I’ve never been on a date before.”

“Just be yourself.” She hesitated a moment, “Oh, and be sure to wear your purple shirt.”

“What? That’s it? Why must I wear purple?”

“Because whenever you wear that shirt, John looks at you like he wants to devour you.”

“Oh. That’s a good thing, I take it?”

Lestrade’s matter-of-fact voice came on the line, “Yes, it is. Don’t worry so much. This is John we’re talking about. If you haven’t put him off you by now, there’s probably nothing you can do to mess this up.”

Molly giggled again and the line went dead.

*

Now, he had to admit he was regretting the whole thing. He’d never been on a date. What did people even do, other than eat, of course? This was ridiculous. He didn’t have any business dating. He could barely get through a dinner party without pissing someone off.

At precisely 6:59 pm, John knocked at the door. He gave himself one more look in the mirror before he went to open it.

“You’re early.” He declared as he opened the door.

John’s face wore the look of trepidation of a man who was about to scale Everest in his underwear.

Sherlock couldn’t help but smile. It was a relief to know that he wasn’t the only one who was nervous. Then he noticed the flowers clutched in John’s hand. “What are those for?” he asked.

John’s face tensed even more, “They are for you.” he handed them over.

Sherlock took them, trying to hide his confusion. As the occasion seemed to call for it, he said, “Thank you.”

A sweet, vaguely familiar smell wafted up to his nose, “What are these? Mutant roses?”

John shrugged, “I have no idea. The petals reminded me of the insides of your wrists, pale and creamy and soft as velvet.”

Sherlock did not know how to respond to that. He had not been sure what to expect, but he’d never imagined that he would be courted, nor be the object of such an intent focus. He had to admit that John’s blatant attempts at romance were quite a turn-on.

“What am I supposed to do with them?”

“Put them in a vase with water.”

Sherlock did not have a vase, but he did have a graduated cylinder that was not in use at the moment. He gave it a good rinse to make sure that there wasn’t any residue that would kill the flowers, filled it partway, and put them inside. He settled the bouquet on the mantle where they could fill the entire flat with their scent.

John followed him down the stairs and guided him into a waiting taxi. He gave the driver the address of a nice-ish French restaurant then smiled timidly at him. He smiled back.

John’s smile widened a bit. He leaned over to whisper in Sherlock’s ear, “Did I tell you that you look lovely tonight?”

“Yes.” He kicked himself for making such an inane response. The smell of John’s cologne mixed with the lingering odor of the flowers had short-circuited his brain to the point that he was reduced to a one-word vocabulary.

He rubbed his hand fretfully over the rough cloth of the seat between him and John. John stilled his movements by resting a hand over his.

Sherlock’s heart sped as panicky thoughts raced through his mind. What was the appropriate response to this? Should he keep his hand where it was? Should he turn his palm over and let John hold his hand? This was silly. He was a grown man who had lived with this other grown man for over a year. He should be past these insecurities by now. He screwed up his courage and turned over his palm. John laced his fingers through Sherlock’s and leaned against his shoulder. Sherlock relaxed against him in relief.

John held his hand all the way to the restaurant, briefly letting go as they alit from the taxi, but taking possession of it as soon as Sherlock was again at his side. They sat in silence for a long time after they were seated. John still held his hand, his thumb tracing over the ridges of his metacarpals. The friction of his rough finger sent jolts of awareness coursing through Sherlock’s system.

He felt nervous and exposed. His emotions were running too high. He couldn’t filter the data his senses were pouring into his brain. There were too many people in the room. His mind took in a myriad of observations too fast to sort through. He felt as though a spot light was beaming down on him. He began to sweat.

John noticed his hunted look and released his hand. Sherlock reached for him, but stopped himself just short. He tried to find words to explain the assault on his senses. “I’m sorry, John, I can’t—“

John took his hand again and said, “This place isn’t right for us. I shouldn’t have brought you here. How about we go home, order in some Thai and watch crap telly?”

That sounded like heaven. Sherlock nodded in relief. They walked home. It was almost two miles, but the physical exertion helped him to reassert control over his mind. It also gave him an excuse to keep hold of John’s hand and bump shoulders with him from time to time.

At some point John called in their order. They met the delivery man at the door. Sherlock let John take care of the payment. He went upstairs to clear the table and get some tea going. John gave him a fond smile as he set down the sacks.

“Remind you of old times, eh?”

Sherlock returned the smile, “As a matter of fact it does.”

They sat across from each other and ate in companionable silence. Sherlock could not stop himself from taking surreptitious glances at John. Every time he looked, he found new things to treasure about him. He wanted to lick the inch of wrist that stuck out from his shirtsleeve. He longed to press his lips against that furrowed brow and taste that droplet of sweat with the tip of his tongue. Yes, this was better. Here, he could focus on the only stimulus that mattered: John.

Once supper was over, they settled on the sofa in front of the telly. John flicked it on and quickly settled on a procedural police drama. Sherlock sat down awkwardly with his knees pressed together and his hands in his lap. He had no idea how to arrange himself. John gave him a slightly apprehensive look and oh-so-casually, eased his arm around the back of the sofa. As if by accident, it found its way around Sherlock’s shoulders and gently guided him closer until he was leaning against him.

Sherlock’s body was taut as a bowstring. A bewildering combination of nerves and arousal coursed through him. John’s fingers traced what were supposed to be soothing circles on his upper arm, but the warm pressure just wound Sherlock tighter. He was so focused on the maddening sensation that when John gently placed a soothing hand on his knee, he exploded off the sofa.

John recoiled, his face crumpled with shock and hurt. Sherlock stripped off his blazer and began pacing. He was too hot. He began plucking at the buttons of his shirt, “I’m sorry, John, I can’t do this. I have no frame of reference. I don’t even know if I’m doing it right.” He gave John an assessing look and his voice softened, “I can’t be doing it right or you wouldn’t be looking at me that way.”

He ripped his shirt off and tossed it after the blazer. Cool air kissed the parts of his upper chest and arms that weren’t covered by his vest. His mind raced. He couldn’t turn it off. He paced, faster and faster.

John’s voice, deep and soothing broke the chain of growing anxiety, “Sherlock, tell me what’s got you worried.”

Here was another thing he did not want to confess. He felt like a fool. A silly, naïve fool. “I’ve never done this. I’ve never been a date. I’ve never cuddled on a couch with someone and watched the telly. That day, when I was ill at the pension, that was the first time I’d been kissed. I don’t even know where to begin.”

John patted a spot on the couch beside him, “You begin by sitting down right here.”

Sherlock sat. Something about John’s voice and having concrete directions to follow soothed the raving thing inside him.

“Lean until your head is resting on my shoulder.”

Sherlock obeyed.

“Good, that’s lovely. Is alright if I put my arm around you or is that too much?”

“It’s alright.”

John put his arm around him. They sat for a time, allowing the sounds from the telly to wash over them. Sherlock relaxed enough to spoil the ending of the episode and deduce which actors were sleeping with each other.

The show ended and John asked, “Would you like to lie down?”

Sherlock nodded. He curled on his side, using John’s thighs for a pillow. John’s fingers toyed lightly with his hair. Like magic, the last of the tension melted from his body. Without realizing it, he gave a little groan of satisfaction. He felt John’s smile in the caress of his fingers and slight hardening of his thighs.

They remained like that for another episode. Sherlock felt himself growing sleepy. He was only going to rest his eyes for a moment…

He woke hours later to the sound of a too-cheerful infomercial actress hawking kitchen appliances. He sat up and rubbed blearily at his eyes before looking over at John. His former flatmate snored softly with his head tilted against the back of the couch. His mouth was open and his jaw was slack. From a purely objective standpoint, the sight should have been repulsive, but instead, Sherlock felt consumed by tenderness. He wanted to wrap him in his arms and never let go.

As if Sherlock’s gaze had physical power, John jerked awake mid-snore. He directed a muzzy glance around the flat before swiping the back of his hand over the corners of his mouth. Sherlock wanted to kiss that mouth.

John looked at him. His eyes slid over Sherlock, lingering a long moment on his lips. Then his brain woke up fully. He gave him an apologetic smile, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to fall asleep. What time is it?”

“One o’clock.”

John nodded, rubbing absently at the back of his neck. Sherlock wanted to touch him there, feel where the soft hairs at the back of his neck met smooth skin. He kept his hands at his sides.

John slowly got to his feet. He walked over to the door and collected his jacket. Sherlock followed him, feeling awkward and underdressed in his vest. John turned and looked at him for a long moment.

“Thank you for letting me take you out tonight.”

The only word Sherlock could verbalize was, “Yes.”

John reached out and took him in his arms. Sherlock closed his eyes and held himself utterly still, lips parted in anticipation. He felt John’s warm embrace and the whisper of breath on the back of his neck then before he could even get his arms up, John released him.

“Goodnight.” John said, his voice rough and intimate before turning away and closing the door behind him.

Sherlock just stood there like a fool, disappointment burning a hole through his stomach. That was it?

He picked up his phone and dialed Molly.

She answered on the fourth ring.

“Mphm.” She grumbled sleepily.

“Isn’t the first date supposed to end with a kiss?”

“Sherlock?”

“Yes, it’s me, now could you please tell me, isn’t the first date supposed to end with a kiss?”

“It depends. Usually, I guess; if you like the person and want to go out again.”

Lestrade’s voice interrupted, “Sherlock, it’s one in the morning. You can have Molly help you analyze your love life tomorrow, at an hour when decent people aren’t trying to get some fucking sleep.”

The line went dead.

Terror froze his heart. John didn’t like him. It was the restaurant. It had to be the restaurant. If only he hadn’t panicked. Or perhaps it was all those inane yeses. John loved his intelligence and he’d barely managed to say anything clever all night. Maybe he was rubbish at cuddling. John wouldn’t want to be with an idiot who couldn’t even manage to share a couch. He remembered their first kiss. Had he done it wrong?

The rational part of his brain warned him that he was on the verge of falling victim to the same self-destructive urges that had almost driven him and John apart forever. He could either sit here stewing in a mire of self-flagellation or he could just ask him.

He called John.

“Hello.” He could barely hear his voice through the traffic noises.

“Why didn’t you kiss me?”

“What?”

“Why didn’t you kiss me? Is it because of the restaurant, because if so, I just wanted you to know that I will do better not to ruin your plans next time. It’s just that I’m new to all this and I’m still learning—“

“Sherlock.” John’s stern voice cut him off, “I didn’t kiss you because I thought you didn’t want it.”

He sagged with relief. “What? Why did you think that?”

“You told me when we first met that physical intimacy didn’t interest you. I was just trying to respect your wishes.”

“Oh. But then why did you kiss me the first time?”

John sighed. “I was caught off guard, and I fear I acted without thinking, but I assure you I won’t violate your physical boundaries again.”

“Oh, um, it’s not a problem.”

“What?” He could hear the confusion in John’s voice.

“I’m afraid you been laboring under a false assumption. You are correct that physical intimacy in general holds no interest for me. Physical intimacy with you, on the other hand is a concept that I find rather intriguing. You might say fascinating, even.”

The apartment buzzer rang.

“Sherlock, open the door right now.”

“Alright, calm down, John, really.”

He tripped down the stairs, phone still in hand.

Sherlock opened the door and opened his mouth to greet him. Before he could react, John grasped him by his upper arms and pulled him outside. A cool drizzle chilled his skin. Drops of water clung to John’s hair, catching the beams from a sodium light and sparkling like an orange halo around his face.

John pressed him against the icy wall. Gooseflesh rose on Sherlock’s arms. He pressed his palms to either side of Sherlock’s head, “I must apologize for earlier.”

“Yes.” He replied. His one-word vocabulary had reasserted itself.

John frowned a bit, but pressed on, “I didn’t end our date as I should have. I hope you can find it in yourself to forgive me.”

With that, he stood on tiptoe and rose until his mouth met Sherlock’s. This time, there was nothing tentative about his kiss. His lips were warm and demanding. John sucked his bottom lip into his mouth, lightly touching it with his teeth. Sherlock followed his lead. His heart raced. Arousal and nerves made him giddy. He was hyperaware of every centimeter of his body that pressed against John. His mouth, belly, and thighs burned with the contact. He felt a hand around his waist pull him closer to that sweet warmth. Another hand tangled in the curls at the nape of his neck. Now he felt the pressure of John’s half-hard cock pressed against his thigh. Instinctively, he shifted his leg so he could grind against him, desperately wishing that they were not separated by layers of fabric. He moaned as John grew harder against him. Hunger for John’s body burned away what few shreds of reason remained to him. He became an animal, a creature of insatiable need for this beautiful, perfect, compact body. Sherlock melted against him as John deepened the kiss, opening his mouth for his tongue like a virgin parting her thighs for her first lover. John plunged his tongue into his mouth, tasting him, taking what he wanted. Sherlock went limp with desire. John’s strong arms were the only thing that kept him from sliding to the pavement.

A wolf-whistle from a passerby brought reality crashing back around them. John pulled his mouth away and rested his forehead against his shoulder. For a few moments, Sherlock felt the loss of that mouth like a drowning man felt the loss of breath. Eventually, John straightened and took his hand from around his waist.

Sherlock slumped against the wall, poleaxed and unable to stop grinning like a fool. His only comfort was that John’s face held an expression of elated bewilderment that made him want to kiss him all over again.

“How do you feel?” John asked.

“Yes.”

One side of John’s mouth quirked up in a grin. He gave him a quick peck on the cheek that set Sherlock’s heart to galloping again, “I feel the same way. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”

With that, he turned and walked down the street. Sherlock noticed that John now had the slightest bounce in his step. Well, that was new.

He went back inside and bounded up the stairs to his flat. Every cell in his body exploded with energy. Sleep could wait.

Chapter Text

The next morning Sherlock woke to a knock at the door.

A delivery man holding a bouquet of pale pink roses stood at his threshold. Feeling a bit bewildered, he signed for them and sent the delivery man on his way. He checked for the card as he carried the flowers to the kitchen.

The shade of these blooms reminded me of the color of your lips after I kissed you last night. I had a wonderful time and can’t wait to do it again. –John

Sherlock plucked a petal from a rose and pressed it to his lips for a moment, remembering the pliant heat of John’s mouth. He his head and let it drop to the floor. This was silliness and sentiment. His heart shouldn’t race at the sight of a bunch of dead plants, at words scrawled onto cheap card stock, but he couldn’t stop himself from emptying his largest Erlenmeyer flask and filling it with water before depositing the roses inside and tucking the note safely under his skull.

An hour later, his phone rang. It was John.

“Did you get my flowers?”

“Yes, thank you for the gesture.”

“Did you read the note?”

“Yes, it was very gratifying.”

He could hear John grinding his teeth again.

He continued, “Look, John, I’m not one of your girlfriends. You don’t have to woo me with dead plants and mawkish sentiment.”

There was a fraught silence.

“John? I’m sorry. What did I say?”

“Sherlock, I didn’t send you those roses because I’m trying to woo you. I got them because they were beautiful and they reminded me of you. I wrote you that card because that is how I feel.”

“But what am I supposed to do now? Should I buy you a gift in return?”

“You don’t have to do anything in return. This is a relationship, not a series of transactions. I do nice things for you because it makes me feel good and because I like to share things with you.”

Sherlock mulled over this new information. “Alright, I think I understand now.”

John’s voice went a bit tight. “If you don’t like flowers I’ll stop sending them. I know they aren’t very practical.”

Sherlock hesitated before answering, “I love the roses, and the white flowers, and the note. I love that you want to share beautiful things with me.”

“Sherlock?” John’s voice was hoarse.

“Yes.”

“Please stop talking or you’re going to make me do something undignified in front of my receptionist.”

“Alright. Goodbye, John.”

Sherlock hung up the phone and went back to his roses. He caressed each tightly furled bud with a fingertip and smiled.

*

One week later, Sherlock was walking down the street when a flash of blue in a charity shop window caught his eye. It was a dark greyish teal jumper the exact color of John’s eyes. He stopped and stared at it for a long moment. He wondered what John would look like wearing it. No, this was a silly impulse. John wouldn’t want so unromantic a gift as clothing, but in spite of his mental objections, he found himself being drawn inside the store like a magnet.

Once he touched the jumper, there was no resisting the urge to buy it. The fabric was a silk and cashmere blend. It was smooth as water under his fingers and soft as down. He imagined running his hands over it when it was warmed by John’s body. It was well-worn. He could feel the small irregularities in the weave where small holes and the fraying hem had been repaired. There was slight pilling under the arms. The garment had been dry-cleaned a number of times, but never washed. Judging from the style and slight fading of the color, this jumper was very old. That it had lasted this long was a testament to the love that the previous owner had for it.

*

He meant to give it to John that night. But now, looking at it, he worried that John wouldn’t like it. After all, he already had a closet full of jumpers. What would he want with a dowdy, much repaired garment that only cost five quid? Besides, most gifts were wrapped before they were presented to their recipients. It would be better to wait until he found some paper before making any decisions.

In any case, it didn’t matter because it turned out that John was not in the mood for exchanging gifts that night. He walked right through the door and wrapped himself in Sherlock’s arms, tucking his head into the spot between his collarbone and shoulder and taking a few deep breaths. Sherlock allowed him to take what comfort he could, ignoring the instinct to demand what his sister had done this time until John had recovered some of his equanimity. Only Harry could overset him like this.

Eventually, he pulled away.

“What did she do?” Sherlock asked.

“Harry was found passed out drunk on the pavement early this morning, covered in her own piss and vomit. They took her to the hospital to get checked out and the police slapped a public intoxication charge on her.”

Sherlock winced, “Why didn’t you call me?”

“I didn’t want to expose you to a sordid family scene.”

Sherlock lightly ruffled his hair, “If it’s your family, I wouldn’t mind wading into the melodrama.” He made a mental note to call Mycroft later about finding a rehab facility for Harry and getting the charges dropped. He would owe his brother a favor, but it would be worth it for John.

John rose on tiptoe and gave him a toe-curling kiss, “I don’t want to talk about family right now.”

“Oh? What do you want to talk about then?” Sherlock asked.

“I don’t want to talk at all. I want to be horizontal on the sofa with your body between my thighs.”

As if of their own volition, Sherlock’s legs began back toward the sofa in question. He wrapped his fingers in John’s shirt and towed him along. He calculated that it was eight and a half feet to the couch and if he could cross that space without losing contact with John, then so much the better. John made things easy by putting his hands around his waist and guiding him until his legs met the edge of the seat. his fingers were working at the buttons of Sherlock’s shirt before his arse even made contact with the cushion.

Sherlock was still a bit shy with him, still worried about making a misstep. He began on John’s shirt, fumbling because he couldn’t see and because John had his head tilted against the back of the couch and was kissing him and all the strength went out of his hands and the next thing he knew he was limp as a wet rag while John ravished his mouth with increasingly passionate kisses.

Hands cupped the front of his trousers. Sherlock arched into that hard pressure, unable to suppress the moans that burst from his throat. He heard John’s voice, rough with arousal as he kissed his way down his throat, “God, Sherlock, your body is so responsive. I wish you could see yourself like this, so hungry, so desperate for me.”

Sherlock moaned. He forced some energy into his arms so he could pull John closer. He copied John, firmly cupping his hardness with one hand while clutching desperately at his waist with the other.

John froze. His body went rigid.

Sherlock’s vision went white with panic. He violently yanked his hand back to his side. “What is it? Am I doing something wrong?”

John shook his head, “No. Touch me again. More.”

Feeling more confident, Sherlock stroked his hard-on through his jeans.

“Yes.” John gasped, grinding on Sherlock’s hand.

Shelock released him, and in an act of great daring, started on the button and flies of his jeans. John was reduced to babbling, “Yes, please. Touch me. I want to feel your bare hand on my cock.”

He shoved John’s trousers and pants down a few inches, freeing him. He felt shy. John had touched him through his trousers a number of times and he knew what he liked to do to himself, but touching another person, especially John in this most intimate of places was quite another matter.

John, however, sensed Sherlock’s turmoil before it turned into panic. With gentle fingers, he took his hand and guided it to his cock. He held his hand over Sherlock’s, guiding it over his length, showing through the pressure of his fingers, how he liked to be touched.

He stroked him a few times, gingerly at first, then with more assurance as he followed John’s lead. John gasped and moaned and thrust into his hand. Pre-come leaked from the tip of his cock. Sherlock slicked it down his length, but there wasn’t enough to lubricate him properly and he didn’t want to stop things to get lube for fear that John would regain his senses or that he would lose his nerve.

He pulled away, feeling a bit anxious about what he wanted to do next. John’s face was red, his eyes scrunched shut. His hands shook as he ran them over Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock grasped him just above the hips, reveling in the slight softness of the flesh just above his hipbones. He slid down the sofa until he was at eye level with John’s cock and tugged his hips forward until John was straddling his chest, the tip of his cock only an inch from his lips. He looked up into John’s eyes and reached out his tongue and licked the salty slit and said, “I want you to fuck my mouth.” He felt completely nervous at this proposition. He worried that he might gag, that he might accidently do something to hurt him. His knowledge of this act was purely theoretical.

John shuddered. He buried his hands in Sherlock’s hair and gently eased his cock between his eager lips. Sherlock kept his hands on John’s hips, using them to control the depth of his thrusts. Nervous thoughts raced through his mind. Cover the teeth with lips. Suck when he thrusts. Do something with the tongue. Relax the jaw. He wanted to take John deeper, but he worried about activating his gag reflex. In any case, judging from the tight grip of John’s fingers in his curls, he was doing fine.

He was surprised by how much he enjoyed this act. He’d always imagined it to be disgusting and a bit degrading, but rather than being repulsed, he was excited by the musky taste of John’s cock, the way it filled his mouth, the silken texture of its skin against his tongue. Something about the sight of John’s body towering over him as he used his mouth for his pleasure excited him in a way that he never expected.

John’s hands spasmed and his hips took on an erratic rhythm. “Sherlock-“ he warned and wrenched his cock out of Sherlock’s mouth. He came violently, his face frozen into a rictus of ecstasy. Splashes of warm ejaculate spurted onto Sherlock’s lips and chin.

John’s thighs collapsed and he clutched at the headrest of the sofa to keep himself upright. “I’m sorry.” He gasped, “Got caught by surprise.”

Sherlock smiled up at him, reveling in the unfamiliar sight of John completely unravelled, “I don’t mind. I liked it.”

John smiled and in act that should have been revolting, but Sherlock found incredibly arousing, leaned down and kissed him thoroughly. Sherlock tasted John’s seed as it smeared between their mingled lips. It was something that normally would have repelled him, but he was so aroused, so stimulated by John’s hands running from his waist up to his chest and down to cup his throbbing erection that he didn’t care. Tenderly, John kissed him just below his bottom lip, his tongue lapping gently at his skin. Next, he kissed him right on the chin. Oh dear God, he was licking his come off of his face. He had no idea how to react to this. He’d never imagined John, his stalwart, level-headed John would do something so depraved.

He kissed him on the mouth again, whispering, “You brave, beautiful man. Lean back and let me take care of you.”

He gently pushed Sherlock until his back was flat against the back of the sofa and gave him a long, sensuous kiss. His hands became more insistent on his cock. His fingers unfastened his buttons and flies, freeing his cock into the caress of hot, rough fingers. John’s lips kissed a trail down his chest as he sunk to his knees on the ground.

Oh, dear God. Sherlock did not believe in any sort of deity, but the sight of John on his knees made him issue a silent prayer all the same. From this angle, all he could see was a scruffy grey-blonde head pressing kisses against his abdomen. Independently of any direction from his brain, his fingers twined in John’s hair, feebly tugging at the strands, trying to guide his head down to where he needed it most.

John, on the other hand, seemed quite pleased to take his time, pulling down his trousers and pants so he could press kisses against the jut of his hipbone before licking and sucking at the adjacent hollow. Eventually, he worked his way to the crease between his thigh and his pubis. John pushed his legs apart. Sherlock wondered hazily when his trousers had been unhooked from around his feet, but his mind blanked again when John pressed a flurry of kisses down that crease while continuing to pump his cock in long, slow strokes. Eventually that hand stopped moving, but only so John could move his cock out of way in order gain easier access to his balls. He pushed his sac against his cock and pressed a finger lightly to his perineum before kissing him there too. Sherlock’s eyes crossed. This was everything that was filthy and dirty and wrong and he loved it.

John’s hand released his testicles and he licked and sucked him there as well, taking his time about it. Sherlock felt dizzy as blood rushed from his brain. By the time John worked his way to the base of his cock, he was sweating and quivering with need. John took his time, stroking and licking and pressing hot kisses down his length.

Sherlock’s hips twitched, desperately seeking that delicious warmth, needing to feel that greedy mouth wrapped around the most sensitive part of him. John worked his way up his cock, circling the tip with his tongue before taking it into his mouth. Sherlock’s vision went hazy. He was aware that John was doing things with his mouth and tongue and hands, but he couldn’t have said what it was, other than it felt amazing and he wanted more.

His perceptions narrowed to the feeling of John’s mouth on his cock. Electricity raced through his veins. He felt the tightening in his testicles just a fraction of a second before he spent himself into that wet heat. Sparks cascaded across his vision. He felt dizzy. His limbs felt like lead weights. His fingers cramped and he noticed that they were twined in John’s hair. He relaxed his fingers. He couldn’t resist stroking John’s hair as he released him. John looked up at him a bit uncertainly. His lips were red and swollen and looked delicious.

“Come here.” He took John’s hands and guided him up until he was curled around him on the sofa. He kissed him thoroughly, tasting himself but not caring. He didn’t trust himself to speak in that moment, so he used the gentleness of his hands gliding through his hair to tell John how magnificent he was.

John smiled lazily up at him, “Sherlock Holmes with nothing to say. I think hell just froze over.”

Sherlock buried his face in his hair to hide his smile.

John went on, “You are a wonder to me. I hope you know that.”

Sherlock didn’t know how to respond. He’d never in his life imagined that he would have a friend who accepted him as John had. The idea that someone could know him as John did and still be able to love him was beyond his comprehension. The warmth of John’s body in his arms gave him the courage to ask a question he’d not dared ask before.

“Will you stay the night?”

“What?”

“Would you stay the night? Please.” He hated the way the last word came out all high and cracked.

John cuddled closer, “It would be my pleasure. Now, I think it’s safe to say that both of us could use a shower.”

John didn’t suggest they take a shower together, something that left Sherlock feeling relieved because he desperately needed privacy to think over what had just happened. Things were moving so fast. Just one week ago he and John had gone on their first date and now they’d shared an incredibly intimate act. He felt naked. His emotions and body and needs had been exposed to John in a way that they’d never been exposed to anyone else. A few months ago he would have been mired in fear and shame, desperately seeking a way to take it all back, but right now, he felt giddy with elation.

He finished quickly so that John would have plenty of hot water. He dried himself off, wrapped a towel around his waist and slipped out the door. John met him in the hall and pulled his head down for a kiss. While Sherlock’s mouth and hands were busy, he nipped the towel from around Sherlock’s waist. He gave him a tiny mischievous grin, “Would you wear that to bed for me, love?”

Sherlock looked from his unclothed body to John’s face. Realization dawned. Oh, this was supposed to be playful banter. He put on a smile that reflected John’s. “Only if you’re wearing the same thing.”

John gave him another kiss in reply.

Sherlock slid between the sheets of his bed and waited for John to join him. His orgasm had left him feeling lazy. He dozed and thought some more about what they had just done. Somehow they’d gone from snogging and touching to blow jobs. He thought about the natural next step. He liked the idea in theory. His stomach clenched pleasurably at the idea of John on top of him, the slow burning stretch of penetration, but he wasn’t so sure about the reality of it yet. So much of John’s body was a mystery to him. He wanted to know it better, memorize every freckle and scar, taste every inch of him before jumping into anything more serious.

He mentally kicked himself. He’d asked John to spend the night. What if John had expectations? He could hardly blame him. After all, an invitation to spend the night implied that sex would happen at some point. A few months ago, he would have kept silent, perhaps even initiated sex in just to get it over with. However, he was done with that sort of foolishness. He knew that John wouldn’t leave over such a trifling matter. He might have accidently sent the wrong signals due to his sexual inexperience, but that didn’t mean that he owed John anything in terms of intimacy.

John entered the room and snuggled into bed. He propped his head on his hand and just looked at Sherlock.

Sherlock took a deep breath, “I don’t want to have sex.”

John raised his brows slightly, but otherwise didn’t react. “Okay.” He replied in a tone that invited further explanation.

Sherlock realized that the remark might have been a little cryptic. “I mean, I want to have sex with you at some point, obviously, but not yet. I’m still a bit new to all of this.”

John’s brow furrowed in concern, “That’s fine. I can wait for as long as you need. If you never want to have sex, that’s okay too. I don’t want you to feel like you have to do anything you don’t want to.” He hesitated for a long moment. “Are you regretting what we just did?”

Sherlock could almost hear the frantic thoughts racing through John’s mind. He calmed them as quickly as possible, “No, that was wonderful and lovely and I don’t regret a bit of it. In fact, I wouldn’t mind doing it again in the near future, but I’m just not ready to take it any further. Don’t get me wrong, I like the idea, I just need more time to get used to this first.”

John cupped his face in his hands and kissed him on the forehead. “I don’t tell you often enough how fantastic you are. Take whatever time you need. I’ll be here when you’re ready.”

Sherlock couldn’t help himself. He buried his against John’s collarbone and pressed his body close. John wrapped his arms around him and held him tight.

*

He woke in the middle of the night to the feeling of coarse hair tickling his nose. He opened his eyes to see an expanse of naked male chest less than an inch from his nose. He wiggled back a bit to get a better view.

His movements woke John. He peered down at him with bleary eyes.

Sherlock’s mind was swamped by an overwhelming tenderness. As had been happening quite a lot lately, his mouth acted independently of his brain. “Move back in with me.”

John blinked a few times before asking, “What?”

“Move back in. Please?”

John stared at him a long moment, “I’ll need to make some arrangements, but okay. What’s brought this on all of a sudden?”

“I don’t want another day to go by that I don’t wake up in your arms.”

John pulled him close and gave a little grunt of agreement. “Me too. Now go back to sleep so you can wake up in my arms again in a few hours.”

Sherlock gave a sigh of contentment and allowed himself to be curled back into John’s chest before drifting off to sleep.

Chapter Text

Sherlock frowned and adjusted the focus on his microscope. The fabric that he was currently investigating had slid off the stage. He peered into the eyepiece, noting the pattern of the weave and the miniscule irregularities that could not be identified by the naked eye. Interesting, the lace he was looking at appeared to have been handmade.

A panicked voice startled him out of his reverie. He jumped and accidently bumped the microscope, causing the smooth cloth to slither off the stage yet again.

“What in the hell are you doing with that?”

Sherlock gave John a merry smile as he repositioned the fabric. He loved having him back in the flat. He loved even more being able to kiss him whenever he wanted. He decided he would do just that as soon as he finished his investigation. He peered into the eyepiece and began fiddling with the focusing mechanism.

“Just solving a small personal case. Lestrade’s got nothing on this week and your blog’s been slow. I started going a little mad and I figured that rather than shoot the wall again, I would look into a mystery that has been bothering me for months now.”

The scrap of cloth whisked out of sight as John yanked it out from under the microscope, “And what does your mystery have to do with the contents of my underwear drawer? I told you to leave it alone.”

“No you didn’t. You said you worried about me going through your underwear drawer when you weren’t looking, which was a perfectly valid concern as it turns out.”

John wadded up the pink thong that had been taking up residence on the kitchen table and clutched it in his fist. “Do I even want to know what this thing has to do with your case?”

Sherlock grinned, “Since the case concerns you, yes I think it would be of some interest.”

John groaned. “I love you, truly, I do, but do you have to be so dogged about everything? Do you think you could just let this one matter go?”

Sherlock stilled. He cataloged the rising heat in John’s cheeks, the way he hid the thong in his hand. This was something he was ashamed of. He pulled John to sit beside him and took the hand that held the garment. He wasn’t very good at emotions yet, and he suspected this was a sensitive topic for his friend. He decided to approach it like it was a case.

Gently, he pried John’s fingers apart and took the thong from his hands. He laid it on the table between them, smoothing the fabric with his fingers. The undergarment was the delicate pink of the inside of a seashell. The front was constructed of a sheer silk-chiffon and trimmed with cream lace. The waistband was made of more of the cream lace while the string in the back was simply a cord strewn with small pearls.

He took John’s hand in an effort to guide his attention away from the object that was causing him so much consternation, “How about I tell you the deductions I made about this garment and you tell me whether they are correct.” he suggested, trying to sound reasonable.

John gave him an apprehensive look.

“According to you, this undergarment was a gift, presumably given in jest. However, that is patently untrue. This was made using expensive fabric. Silk chiffon is not cheap and an investigation of the lace shows that it was handmade. Additionally, the back piece is comprised of cultured pearls, not plastic. Taking into account the combination of expensive high-quality fabrics as well as the care that was taken to the aesthetic of the design, the cost of this garment should be at least £100. Therefore, it was probably not a gift, then, or at least not one for you. I looked online to try to discover the origin, but found nothing, which means that it was probably sold in a small lingere boutique, likely within the last year or so judging from the style. This garment has never been worn. There are no signs of stretching or wear in the weave, and an investigation of the fibers show that it has never been dry-cleaned. My first guess would have been that you bought it for a girlfriend, except then why would you be ashamed of it? If you bought it for yourself, it would have shown signs of wear. So the mystery remains. Who did you buy this for?”

John’s face went tomato red as he growled, “I bought it for you, you idiot.”

“What?” It wasn’t often that John surprised him, but Sherlock was truly shocked. “Why?”

John shook his head. “I don’t know. It was a stupid impulse. I saw it in a window one day as I was walking to work and I thought it was beautiful. I was suddenly struck by this image of what it would look like on you and I couldn’t get it out of my mind. I walked by that shop every day for a month, thinking about that stupid thong. Then one day I walked past and they were all gone. I felt so sad at not seeing it that I went inside. They still had a few pair in stock. It turned out that they had just changed their window display. I decided to buy it. Even though I would never see you wear it. At least if I had it, I could touch it and imagine.”

Sherlock caressed the thong. “Is it because you wish I were a woman?”

John covered his hand. “No, I don’t care about that. I wouldn’t change a thing about you. It’s just that you are the most beautiful person that I have ever met--and I don’t mean just physical beauty. For me, your form, your habits, your intellect, it’s all so mixed together in my mind that I can’t separate any of it out. You are special and alive and wonderful in a way that no one else ever was and no one ever will be for me. Sometimes I’ll see something, perhaps something silly, like that thong or those flowers and I’ll see a shadow of your beauty inside it. You don’t have to say anything. I know it’s not rational and that it’s a foolish waste of money.”

Sherlock took his hand, “No, it’s not. It’s marvelous. It’s one of the things I love about you. You can find beauty in so many things, even your ridiculous flatmate and a pair of frilly pink pants. Now come here, you lovely man.”

He kissed him thoroughly until John was breathless and they both had forgotten all about the pink thong that lay abandoned on the kitchen table.

*

The next morning, Sherlock realized that although he now knew the origins of the pink thong, he still hadn’t figured what to do with it. This garment was important to John and was not to be treated as trivial. Once John had left the flat for work, he tried it on. Although the pants were lovely when laid on the table, they looked ridiculous on him. His cock could not fit inside the constricting front, which had been designed for female anatomy. The head peeked out of the top like an over-sized worm and tufts of black pubic hair pricked through the lace and clung around the edges like overgrown shrubs in an evil enchanted forest.

He got out a small pair of scissors that one of John’s previous girlfriends had left behind and began trimming. Even after a sizeable clump of wiry black hair had made its way down the shower drain, it still didn’t look right. He rummaged under the sink for a razor.

In the end, he wound up shaving his legs and his pubic hair, along with the softer black hairs that feathered down his stomach. He studied the effect in the mirror. He had to confess that he liked it. His legs appeared to be more sculpted and it was now easier to see the lines of muscle in his thighs and calves. Without his hair as a barrier, he could feel the soft slide of the thong against his bare skin. He was already half aroused by this new sensitivity.

His cock still peeked out of the top, but it looked less ridiculous than it had. The thong was beautiful, but he had to confess that it was also incredibly uncomfortable. The string in the back rubbed against his arse cheeks in the most unnerving manner, but in spite of the discomfort, he found he liked the sight of delicate lace against his skin, the slide of soft fabric on his cock, and the smoothness of fresh-shaved legs under his palms.

He put on a dressing gown and waited for John to get home.

*

When John arrived home that night, Sherlock greeted him at the door with a kiss and a box. “Open it, please.”

John looked a bit bewildered, but did as he was told. Inside, wrapped in tissue, was the blue jumper. He pulled it out and looked it over. “This is very nice, but I have to confess, I don’t quite understand what you want me to do with it.”

“Take off all your clothes and put it on.”

“Right now?”

“Right now.”

“Is there a reason that you want me wearing nothing but a second-hand jumper?”

“Yes. You are going to wear it while you fuck me in the arse tonight. If you feel like it.”

John gazed around the flat, confused. “Of course I feel like it. I just assumed you would want your first time to be—I don’t know, more romantic.”

Sherlock felt a bit let down, “Well of course it will be romantic. I bought you a present and I have another surprise for you.”

“Another surprise? Does it involve eggs?”

“No, this is better than eggs. Now take off all your clothes and put on that jumper.”

“Sorry, but I’m still confused. Could you please explain what is special about this particular jumper? And why it is a required accessory for anal sex?”

Sherlock took a step toward him. He wasn’t very good at talking about his feelings, but he was getting better with practice. “I want you to wear it because it looks like the North Atlantic on a cloudy day and it’s as smooth as silk and as soft as feathers. I want to feel it sliding against my skin while you drive your cock into me again and again.”

John’s eyes went glassy and he began yanking on the buttons of his shirt. Sherlock helped him with his trousers before kneeling to untie his shoes. This was a deliberate move. He knew the sight of him on his knees drove John mad with desire. Sherlock managed both shoes and one sock by the time John had pulled on the jumper and began kicking off his trousers and pants, dislodging him and driving him back to his feet.

“Now what was the other surprise?”

Feeling a bit nervous, but nonetheless with his usual sense of drama, Sherlock whipped off his dressing gown with a flourish.

John gasped and stared at him for a long moment. He finally managed to grit out, “Your legs.”

For a moment, Sherlock feared that he was angry, but then John captured his mouth in a hot, hungry kiss.

John pulled his head down by his hair and kissed him with such fierce possessiveness that there was no doubt of who would be in charge during this encounter. The next thing he knew, that mouth was yanked away and he was spun around. He felt John’s hot dry hands on his skin as he toyed with the lace and pearls of the thong. John ran his fingers under the pearls until he found his sensitive cleft. He lightly stroked the tip of his index finger over his opening before sliding his hands down his arse and the backs of his thighs.

He ground his erection against Sherlock’s backside. His cock pressed lightly against his arsehole. Sherlock could feel the pearls sliding against him with the thrusts of John’s hips.

“You look so lovely and delicate and your legs feel like satin. I am going to kiss my way from your ankles to your thighs and then I’m going to lick your cock. Before tonight is over you are going to beg me to fuck you.”

Sherlock moaned in response. He was already beyond even his one word vocabulary.

John guided him to his room where he sat Sherlock on the edge of the bed before kneeling at his feet. He picked up his foot and kissed the knob of his shin bone. Sherlock shivered with pleasure. He’d had no idea that ankles had so many nerve-endings.

John picked up the other ankle and levered it onto his shoulder, pushing him slightly off balance. He had to put his palms on the mattress to keep himself upright. This slight loss of control sent a thrill of anticipation coursing through him. John’s mouth meanwhile had moved up to the inside of his knee and was sucking lightly at that soft, sensitive flesh. He lifted his leg slightly and nibbled at the tendon just behind the back of his knee. A hot spike of arousal shot up his thigh and straight to his groin. John took his time, licking and sucking his way up the velvety softness of his inner thigh.

The lack of hair gave Sherlock a new awareness of every swipe of John’s tongue and brush of his lips. It was frustrating and glorious and he finally couldn’t take it anymore. He wrapped a hand around the back of John’s neck and tried to guide that wet, hungry mouth to his cock. John, however, wasn’t having any of it. He ignored that urgent hand and focused his efforts on a particularly tender spot on his inner thigh. Sherlock gave himself up to the sensations and flopped onto his back, every ounce of his concentration focused on that sweet mouth.

After an eon, why did he have to fall in love with a man as maddeningly patient as John, he worked his way to the crease between his thigh and groin. John licked him thoroughly where his skin met the lace trim of the thong. He finally put his hand on his cock and began rubbing it through the thin material. Sherlock thrashed in response, his body craving more, craving the sensation of flesh against flesh.

“You were so determined to wear those damned pants.” John said, “You just couldn’t leave it alone. Tonight, I’m going to get my own back. You’re not going to take off those pants until they’re soaked in your come.”

Sherlock writhed, the mental image of white stripes of semen marring that fragile pink cloth driving him to new heights of need.

John abandoned Sherlock’s cock and levered his thighs up until his arsehole was exposed. He pushed aside the string of the undergarment and stroked the now unprotected flesh with his fingertips before pressing his tongue against that sensitive ring. Sherlock spread his legs to give John easier access, which also pulled the thong tighter against his cock. He let out an involuntary groan at the new constriction against his hot throbbing erection.

Meanwhile that naughty tongue circled tortuously around his hole, delivering little licks to his perineum and cleft before dancing around the edge of his puckered opening.

“Please, oh God, please.” he begged.

John began tonguing his arsehole in earnest, teasing it with light fluttery licks then setting his nerves on fire with firmer, more deliberate strokes. Sherlock knew that he was making noises, but at this point, his vocal cords had completely disconnected from his brain. Lube-slicked fingers teased at his arse while John’s tongue wetted the fabric that covered his bollocks. This was not the first time those fingers had breached his entrance, but knowing that they were a precursor to a more intimate penetration made Sherlock’s body quiver with need.

John’s mouth worked its way up his shaft, his saliva damping the fabric. Gooseflesh prickled his skin as the cloth covering his bollocks chilled in the cool air. The contrast between the heat of that mouth and cooling wet fabric further sensitized his already screaming nerves. Finally, John’s mouth made it to its destination. He suckled the exposed head of his cock. After long minutes of indirect contact, the feeling of that hot sweet mouth on the most sensitive part of him drove Sherlock into a frenzy of need. He arched and ground against the sheets. John pinned his hip with one hand while slowly fucking his arsehole with the other. Caught between those burning lips and relentless fingers, Sherlock felt tightness gathering behind his bollocks. He opened his mouth to warn John, but he had already pulled his mouth and fingers away and was sitting up, looking down at him with an expression of satisfaction.

He got up and flipped Sherlock onto his stomach as though he were a doll and arranged his limbs, pushing down on his shoulder blades until his head was pressed against the mattress, and spreading his legs further apart. When John was done with him, Sherlock felt like his fuck doll. His arse was elevated and on display for him to do with as he pleased. He felt like he should have found it degrading, but instead, he found himself turned on by the idea of John using his body for his pleasure.

Meanwhile, John was pressing soothing kisses against his backside. He penetrated him with a slippery finger and plied at his hole with a slow rhythm. John kissed his way up his back, taking his time. Sherlock shivered in delight as a second finger, dripping with lube found its way into his entrance. John didn’t touch his cock, which was probably for the best. Sherlock wasn’t sure how long he could last against the assault on his senses. John’s lips found the center of his back, and for the first time, Sherlock felt the brush of the jumper against his backside. It was just as soft and warm as he imagined. The image of John in his jumper with his fingers in his arse and mouth on his back made him hungry, desperate for more.

John worked his way up his spine, easing a third finger into his opening. His diminutive height forced his mouth to stop at his shoulder blades. Suddenly, Sherlock felt a latex-wrapped erection pressed against his thigh. He took a moment to wonder when John had put on a condom, but that thought was blotted out of his mind when those probing fingers pulled out of his arsehole, leaving him feeling bereft and empty.

John stroked a soothing hand over his flank and then another hand was daubing warm lube around his hole. He heard the slippery sound of wet fingers on latex and then there was something blunt and slick and hot pressed against his entrance. He groaned and relaxed into the pressure. John entered him slowly, his hands rubbing comforting circles against his back and hip. He eased into him, stopping when Sherlock tensed. “It’s alright, love. Just relax and bear down a bit. You’re doing wonderfully.” The sound of that voice and the touch of those gentle fingers loosened his tension.

Once John was fully seated inside him, he touched Sherlock’s cock through his pants. The feel of warm fingers through wet cloth on his cock sent an electric jolt up his spine. John stroked him a few more times, sharpening the edge of his desire. Sherlock was desperate for more friction. He shifted his hips forward and back, lightly fucking himself against John. John held his hips still with one hand and pulled out slightly before very slowly easing back in. He fucked him gently for long minutes, while reverently stroking his fingers up and down Sherlock’s cock, giving him time to accustom himself to this new sensation. Sherlock shifted, spreading his knees further apart, asking for more. John gave it to him, thrusting more forcefully and stroking his cock with greater urgency, his fingertips brushing the exposed head with each stroke.

Sherlock couldn’t take any more. He cried out as he came, collapsing onto his belly, so shattered that he barely noticed when John carefully withdrew his cock from his arsehole. He felt a hand on his shoulder then he was rolled him onto his back. John knelt over him, his cock still erect. He stripped off the condom and threw it aside. His hand worked furiously at his cock as he stared hungrily at Sherlock lying on his back looking sated and well-fucked. The pants were translucent with moisture and stained with come. The head of Sherlock’s now-flaccid cock still peeked up from the top. In less than a minute, John spent himself in his hand, his seed mixing with that of Sherlock’s on the delicate fabric of the pink thong.

Sherlock looked up hazily as John flopped down beside him. Beads of sweat soaked his skin and he had a well-justified smug expression on his face.

Before Sherlock could think of anything to say, John leaned over and kissed him, “Thank you.” he whispered.

“What for?” Sherlock asked.

John pressed chaste lips to the corner of his mouth. “Today, you fulfilled a fantasy that I have had for ages. Oh, God, you were so wonderful and lovely writhing beneath me in that obscene thong, your arse opening under my fingers and tongue.”

“But I didn’t do anything. I didn’t even touch your cock. In the end you had to wank yourself.”

John brushed aside his curls with a soft hand, “I wanted to touch myself. The sight of you on your back after I’d fucked you to orgasm. You were like my own personal pinup.”

“Sorry. I just worry about being able to meet your sexual needs sometimes. Sex is so much different in practical application than it is in theory.”

“Sherlock, in the highly unlikely event that I ever feel unfulfilled, I promise I will tell you. However, tonight was pretty much perfect. Now how about you remove off those pants and take a shower with me? Considering the amount of bodily fluids on them at the moment they have to feel disgusting.”

“Yeah, they do a bit.”

John took his hand and guided him to his feet. Sherlock still felt a bit unsteady. They both laughed when they realized that John still had one sock on.

John pulled off the now sweaty and utterly revolting sweater and took the pants from Sherlock. He ran a sink full of cold water and set them to soak while Sherlock fiddled with the taps on the shower.

Sherlock looked at the sink. “Aren’t you afraid the colors will run?”

John kissed him on base of his neck, the highest spot his lips could reach when Sherlock stood at his full height. “I think your tight little arse would look very nice in a lavender thong. Now get in the shower, I’m getting cold.”

They took turns under the hot water, using the excuse of soaping each other’s bodies to revel in the novelty of being able to touch as much and as often as they wanted. Sherlock was still mulling over what had just happened. There had been an intimacy and a rawness that he hadn’t expected, but also a strange sense comfort. Hormones. His body was probably coursing with them at the moment. Still, that didn’t stop him from pressing a quick kiss into John’s wet hair.

Late that night Sherlock lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. A thought had occurred to him.

“John.” He said quietly.

The form beside him stirred and grunted before asking, “Yes?”

“I know it’s probably too soon to talk about it, especially when I’m still addled with oxytocin, but I want this to be permanent. I mean, I want to be yours and I want you to be mine in a way that is irrevocable.”

Emotion made John’s voice shaky, “Sherlock Holmes, are you asking me to marry you?”

“Sort of, I suppose. What I’m asking for isn’t necessarily marriage, but rather, I want us both to commit to building something that is more than just sex and a shared sense of adventure.”

John rolled over and took Sherlock in his arms, “My love, you already have my heart and so much more. I would be honored to build something beautiful and permanent with you. And when the time is right, I will ask you to marry me and if I’m a very lucky man, you will say yes.”

Sherlock sighed in relief as happiness washed over him. And wrapped in the arms of the man he loved and who loved him, he drifted off to sleep.

*

One year later…

*

Found written on the back of a piece of cheap card stock on the kitchen table:

My dear John,

Here are the reasons that you are the love of my life:

1. You let me tuck my feet under your thighs when they are cold

2. You aren’t afraid to tell me off when I’m being a cock

3. You have kind eyes that will always be beautiful, even when you’re 100 years old

4. You make me more human

5. You love me better than I love myself

6. Every morning I wake up thinking it is impossible to love you even more than I already do, and every day you prove me wrong.

In case you are still wondering, my answer is yes, yes, yes, a thousand times yes, today and every day for the rest of my life.

With all my love,

Sherlock

The End