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Science and Faith	By : ambersue Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC) Views: 3734 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock (BBC). The show and all characters belong to BBC, Moffat, Gatiss, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I don't profit from a thing.

Chapter List
- 8
- 9
- 10
You’ve fallen in love in the worst way
And if you don’t go now then you’ll stay
Cause I’ll never let you leave, never let you breathe
Cause if you’re looking for heaven, baby it sure as hell ain’t me¹
_______________________________________________________________________
Sherlock bends over the body, examining a patch of skin with his magnifying lens. Up close, he can see where each burn pattern originated—black mark at the centre of the burn, damage to skin radiating outward. Electrical burns. The detective’s hyper-realistic imagination kicks into overdrive, summoning up a vision of Victor, wires criss-crossing his skin, back arched in agony, teeth clenched around his scream as the electricity hums through his body. On impulse, Sherlock checks his mouth and confirms a suspicion: the man’s tongue is bitten nearly in half.

Something twists in his gut, a sensory memory of that tongue against his own, of the now charred limbs tangled around—No. The detective shoves the memory roughly back into its appropriate room and closes the door firmly behind it. Victor is gone. Was gone long before his death, and certainly didn’t spare a second thought for Sherlock. Moran is clever, to have tracked the man down, but Victor would have been useless if he was looking for information about Sherlock. Then again, if all he wanted was to keep the detective off-balance, open up old wounds so the new ones would hurt that much more…

Stop, he commands himself. Unproductive. Think about something else—burn marks…no, not Victor. Nothing about him. What then? John? That line of thinking is not much better, clouded as it is with John’s moodiness and the uncomfortable increase in heart rate that seems to be accompanying the doctor’s presence. Still, there’s a warm knot of something in his chest as he glances across at his friend. Sentiment? Can’t be indigestion; he hasn’t eaten anything today.

Sherlock should be feeling guilty. He’s almost positive that’s the correct response. Or is it pity? He knows satisfaction is emphatically not the appropriate emotion to feel when one’s best friend is presumably heartbroken—or at the very least in some sort of emotional shock.

But he is feeling rather satisfied…and a bit annoyed, because if John was nearly useless before his conversation with Mary, he is an absolute hazard afterward. Sherlock actually finds himself wishing he were capable of empathy, if only to alleviate his frustration as John drops his forceps into the victim’s chest cavity for the third time. He bites the inside of his cheek and reaches in with gloved fingers, retrieving the doctor’s tool and handing it back to him with a raised eyebrow, which John fails to see.

“Do you need a moment?” the detective asks, trying—largely unsuccessfully—to sound concerned rather than irritated.

John blinks owlishly, as if he’s just realising Sherlock is in the room. Once his gaze focuses on the detective, however…Sherlock takes a half step back before he can stop himself. John’s eyes go from deep, vacant blue to cold steel, and for just a moment, Sherlock sees the John Watson who once shot a man to save his life, the man he knows is there but so often forgets, the strong, the courageous, the dangerous man who hides beneath the quiet sarcasm and cuddly jumpers. The detective swallows, part of his mind noting with fascination how his pulse quickens further under the doctor’s stare.

“I’ll be fine,” John says, his voice nearly as cold as his eyes.

Sherlock makes his voice equally flat. He knows he oughtn’t, but he really can’t seem to help himself. Finding ways to annoy John seems fair play for the havoc the man is playing, intentional or not, on his ability to focus. “Yes, well, if you wouldn’t mind terribly keeping your medical instruments outside dear Mr. Trevor. Wouldn’t want to emotionally traumatise the consulting detective, now would we? Now pay attention.”

John continues to stare at him, a hint of incredulity in his flaring nostrils, his lips pressing together so tightly they nearly disappear. The doctor folds his arms across his chest.

“Number four rib, right side,” he says. Sherlock’s brows draw down in confusion, and he glances at the body, trying to sneak a glance at the rib in question. “Nick on the anterior surface of the rib—or what’s left of it. Can’t say for sure, with the sloppy bone cutting that’s been done, but it looks like collateral damage from a bullet.”

“Shot, then?” Sherlock asks, head tilting sideways. “Are you sure?”

John still doesn’t move. “I just said I wasn’t.” A pause, and is Sherlock imagining a glimmer of satisfaction in his eyes as the detective frowns at him? The doctor continues, “However, I do have some experience with bullet wounds. I’ve seen marks like that before—close range, small calibre—handgun, I’d guess.”

Damn him. Sherlock flounders for a moment, caught between two powerful and contradictory sensations. Half of him is completely put out that John would have the audacity, the sheer nerve to encroach on the detective’s carefully marked territory of detached, condescending deductions. The hard drive of his brain is spitting out kill codes, whispering poisonous nothings into his ear, things he could utter to put the man back in his place: Excellent, John; if you’d paid half as much attention to poor Mary, perhaps you wouldn’t be in this situation.

Unfortunately—or perhaps fortunately, come to it—the other half of him is duly impressed. No, that’s not it. He’s ecstatic, gleeful, entirely beside himself at the revelation that John has seen something he did not. Spotted a clue, analysed it, fitted it neatly into its place in the puzzle—all while appearing to be a thousand miles away. God, John, his mind crows, a manic counterpart to the vicious insults still vying for room on his tongue, never boring. Never boring, and never done surprising me.

Sherlock’s throat clenches, and in spite of the cacophony of thoughts in his head, all that he can manage to say is, “Oh.”

John is still watching him, a flicker of interest in his eyes warning the detective that he is being too transparent. He bends down, searching the chest cavity for the rib John pointed out, not giving the doctor the opportunity to study him.

“Right, are we done then?” John asks.

“I think…” Sherlock finds the spot he is looking for and takes a moment to commit the detail to memory: small fragment of bone missing, about a millimetre in width, hairline fracture at the base. Shot came from above while the victim was on his back. No exit wound—the bullet was removed when the heart was taken. He straightens, feeling somewhat more like himself. “Yes, I suppose we are.”

“Good.” John turns smartly on his heel and marches for the door without looking back. Sherlock frowns after him, busying himself with removing his gloves and setting aside his tools—not tidying up, God no, he’ll let Molly take care of that, but refusing to rush after the doctor. It’s the detective’s place to sweep dramatically out of rooms, John Watson trailing behind like the tail of a particularly rare comet—not the other way round.

What has gotten into the man? He’s split up with girlfriends before, and he’s never been quite this cross about it, so why the devil is he so…off? Surely not because of what Mary said about Sherlock. That part had actually been quite lovely—though for someone so enamoured of sentiment, John hardly seems very taken with that one.

Perhaps he needs to eat, the detective thinks. That always seems to sort him. Making a mental note to ask Lestrade to pick up a take-away for them, Sherlock gathers his things and follows John out the door.

***

They have only been at Baker Street for a few moments before there’s a knock at the door. John is upstairs going through the boxes Lestrade’s men dropped off earlier.

“Sherlock, door,” he calls down the stairs. There is no movement from the sitting room. He sticks his head out his bedroom door as the knock sounds again. “Sherlock!”

Silence is the only response. There’s a third knock, more insistent, and John swears and stomps down the stairs. When he rounds the corner, he finds Sherlock sprawled across the sofa, already in his pyjamas and dressing gown. One arm is slung over his eyes, and he’s not moving.

John sighs. No response. “Hell, Sherlock, you can’t even...? No, sod it, never mind.”

He opens the door.

Donovan is standing there, fist poised to knock again. She jumps a bit, looking momentarily startled before her face settles into its more customary sneer. She is holding a bag in each hand.

“John,” she says by way of hello.

“Yeah,” he says, “what do you need?” He isn’t trying to be rude, but he’s hardly in the mood for her.

“Heard the freak is back.”

And it begins, thinks the doctor, rolling his eyes. “And I can’t imagine you’re all that eager to tangle with him,” he replies, “so I repeat my question: what are you doing here?” Is it his imagination, or does he hear a snigger from the sofa? When he glances at Sherlock, the man still hasn’t moved. Donovan tries to peer around the door, and John moves so that his body blocks her view.

She raises an eyebrow at him and shrugs, raising one of the bags. “The detective inspector asked me to bring you this.”

John takes the bag, and a whiff of Chinese food hits his nostrils. His stomach rumbles audibly. When was the last time he ate? For that matter, when was the last time Sherlock ate? He’ll have to see if he can force him to—

“Tell him the Yard isn’t a delivery service,” Donovan says, interrupting his thoughts. “He can’t just ring us up and place an order whenever he feels like it.”

John hears the detective’s muffled voice from the sofa: “Apparently I can.”

The doctor coughs into his hand to mask a grin. “I’ll pass the word,” he tells Donovan.

She eyes him suspiciously, not moving. “Something else I can help you with?” he asks.

“It’s funny.”

“What’s that?”

“The freak told Lestrade we had to hurry up and feed you so you’d quit moping about, but you seem well enough to me.” She pauses, watching the grin fade from his face with what can only be called satisfaction. John spares a glance at the sofa and catches Sherlock peering out from under his arm at him. When he makes eye contact, the detective looks away and rolls over.

“In any case,” Donovan continues, “Lestrade also sent this. For you.” He takes the other bag from her, peeking inside to find a bottle of Glenfiddich. “He seemed to think you might need it.”

“Ta,” says John, only half sarcastically.

“Well, I’m off.” Donovan puts her hands in her pockets and turns away, glancing back over her shoulder before she heads down the stairs. “Remember, if you kill him, be sure he tells you how to make it look like an accident first.”

The door closes in her face, and if it shuts with just a touch more force than necessary…well, John has never pretended to be a saint.

***

An hour later, Chinese food cartons are scattered about the kitchen table like fallen soldiers on a battlefield. The bottle of Glenfiddich sits amid the wreckage, the light from the fireplace reflecting in its depths and casting amber shadows across the room.

John started with a modest two fingers of scotch after twenty minutes of trying to force Sherlock off the sofa and into the kitchen, which was tantamount to trying to push a particularly floppy boulder up a particularly steep mountainside.

After he finished his second glass, he dialled Mary. When it rang through without an answer, he poured himself a second and lit a fire—his alcohol-steeped brain already suggesting that switching on the sitting room lights would be nothing short of blinding. Now the doctor gathers the sad remains of the take-away, piles them on a plate, and, third glass in hand, makes his way to the sofa where Sherlock is still sprawled.

“Budge over,” he says, batting at the detective’s feet. Sherlock grunts but doesn’t move. “Fine.” John carefully balances the plate on Sherlock’s stomach and turns away. “I’ll just be upstairs.” He turns away, but before he makes it out of the room there is a dull thump from behind him.

He turns back to see Sherlock curled into a ball on one side of the sofa, his lanky body still taking up most of the space but leaving about half a cushion for John to squeeze onto. The plate of food has tumbled unceremoniously to the floor. The doctor sighs.

“You’re cleaning that up, you know,” he tells the detective as he lowers himself onto the sofa—slowly, because the scotch is just beginning to toy with his motor skills.

“You’re drunk,” says Sherlock, his muffled voice coming from somewhere in the blue folds of his dressing gown. It’s difficult to tell what part of his body is what, he’s folded himself into such a heap.

John snorts. “Only a bit. I think I have a right to be.”

The detective’s head appears underneath one of his arms, his eyes in the firelight the same melted gold colour as the whisky. “You’re much quieter when you’re drunk,” he remarks. “Not so angry.”

“Yes, well, that’s rather the point.”

“To not be angry?”

“To not think,” John says. “God, you’d think you’d never been drunk before.” Sherlock is silent. The doctor looks at him, incredulous. “You haven’t, have you?”

The detective shrugs, not meeting his gaze. “I prefer stimulants.”

“Oh, right. Brain constantly running a million kilometres an hour, can’t imagine why you wouldn’t want to speed it up a bit.”

There is a long silence—a comfortable, companionable quiet rather than the more recent awkward pauses that have been plaguing them. John takes his phone out of his pocket, checking it for messages. Nothing. Naturally. He sips his scotch, then presses the glass against his forehead, closing his eyes to savour the cool pressure against his warm skin.

“Does it help?” Sherlock asks. He shifts on the sofa, rearranging his limbs into something more like human posture, his back against the arm of the sofa, his knees drawn up against his chest.

“What’s that?”

The detective nods toward the glass. “Three glasses in, and you’re still checking your phone.”

“Yeah.” John sighs, leaning back and letting his phone fall into his lap. “Habits, I guess. Or wishful thinking.”

“You want to speak to her?”

“I want…” The doctor hesitates, Mary’s tear-streaked face swimming into focus behind his closed eyes. Christ. A few days ago, he wanted nothing more than to disappear into Mary’s world. Did he know, even then—had he realised how much of himself he’d kept from her, how much he’d locked away?

You were already committed to someone else. His memory blurs, Mary’s face sharpening, stretching, becoming Sherlock’s. The expression shifts from Mary’s quivering frown to the stiff, inscrutable mask the detective is so good at donning. But in his eyes…for a moment, when John pointed out the mark from the bullet, something moved in those eyes. In his mind, it moves again, the detective’s pupils dilating, colour draining from his irises like sunlight from the sky, green fading to blue fading to grey. John shivers and opens his eyes.

“I guess I don’t know what I want,” he finally manages.

Sherlock is quiet, watching him, and John tenses, hoping the detective can’t read his thoughts on his face. Whatever he sees, whatever he knows, he doesn’t say anything, but instead turns his scrutiny to the photographs still pinned to the wall above them. John watches the detective’s eyes roam over the images, notes the way his lips tighten when he thinks John can’t see.

“Tell me about him,” the doctor says.

Sherlock’s head remains tilted toward the wall, but his gaze slides toward John. “What?”

“Victor.”

“You said you weren’t going to ask.”

“That was before you told Lestrade I was moping about.”

“Ah.” Sherlock lets his feet fall to the floor, turning his back to the wall. “It’s not a very interesting story.”

John huffs a laugh. “And mine and Mary’s relationship is? Didn’t stop you from eavesdropping on our conversation.” When Sherlock looks startled, the doctor laughs again, pointing out, “Most hospital corridors don’t smell of cigarette smoke. Not unless particularly nosy gits have been hanging about them.”

Again, that flicker in the detective’s eyes—his hand twitching in his lap, an abortive motion that John can’t read. Angry that I guessed right? Impressed? Sometimes, John thinks, he’d kill to have Sherlock’s ability to deduce people’s intentions.

When the detective speaks, his voice is hardly above a whisper. His eyes are fixed on the fire, his hands clenched in his lap, presumably as a safeguard against further involuntary movement.

“I met Victor my second year at university,” he says. “He was younger by a year, and he was…intelligent.”

“Intelligent?” asks John. “High praise, from you.”

“More than intelligent. Brilliant.” There is genuine admiration in his voice, and John feels a tug of something unpleasant in his chest. Jealous? his mind whispers wickedly, and he drowns the thought in a gulp of scotch.

“So. Just your sort then.”

Sherlock’s head cocks to one side. “I’ve got a sort?”

“I don’t know. You seemed to like the Adler woman quite a bit.”

“Hmm.” The detective seems to consider this. “She was clever. Bit nicer than Victor, though, even with all the drugging and whipping.”

“Larger breasts, as well, I’d imagine.”

“There is that,” Sherlock chuckles.

John studies him. “Does it matter to you at all, then? Man or woman, I mean?”

“Interesting matters to me.”

Which is oddly logical, actually. How could such a great mind find anything more attractive than itself, reflected back in others? John feels that tug again, that sense that he is desperately…lacking. He shifts uncomfortably and looks away to hide a grimace. Why should he care whether or not this man finds him interesting?

Take my hand, John. And John obeys, his pulse faster than their racing feet, his heart high and light with terror, and something sweeter, something he can’t quite name—

The memory is sharp and sudden, and even with the alcohol thinning his blood, John’s heart trips over itself. No. No no no no no. Whatever Mary thinks, it isn’t like that. And even if…but no, it’s not, and that’s what matters. No good thinking in hypotheticals.

John coughs, aware that Sherlock is watching him. “Victor wasn’t very nice, then?” he asks.

The detective continues to stare at him, and John’s lungs seize in his chest—Sherlock’s scrutiny is a laser sweeping over him, and where it focuses in on him, it burns a hole straight through him. It’s alarming and uncomfortable and a sight more intoxicating than the scotch.

Then Sherlock’s gaze falls and John can breathe again. The detective turns his hands over, inspecting them as he speaks. “Victor was…well, like me, I suppose, although I didn’t really see it then. He was careless with his words. Even more careless with his actions. He cared about himself and little else.”

“And you still liked him?”

“It was slow. On my part, at least. I think…I think Victor saw it as a challenge. I don’t…it’s difficult for me. To care that way.” His gaze slinks toward John here, but the doctor carefully does not look at him, instead watching from the corner of his eye until the detective looks back at his hands.

“He studied me. Flattered me. Argued with me. He was…well, he wasn’t boring.” Sherlock falls silent again, a small, sad smile on his lips. When the silence stretches on, John wonders if he realises he’s stopped talking.

“Not boring,” the doctor repeats, and Sherlock jumps a bit, coming back from his thoughts. “It must be a bit more than that.”

The detective raises an eyebrow in question, and John splutters, “Come on. You said yourself that Moran was clever. I don’t think he’d go to all this trouble—find someone, torture him, murder him, just because you once thought he was not boring.”

John briefly replays the sentence, flinching as he hears the harshness of his own words, but Sherlock just inclines his head slightly, acceding the point. When he continues, he speaks slowly, as though he’s considering each word before saying it. “We were…involved…for two years. At first it was…it was good. At least, it was everything I imagined it was supposed to be. Mycroft said—” He stops short, glancing at John, who lifts his eyebrows in encouragement. “He said it was too dramatic, too volatile. Victor had a temper, and I…well, you know.”

John laughs softly. “Come off it,” he says, when Sherlock looks hurt. “It’s just…dramatic and volatile. Christ. Mycroft has met you, hasn’t he?” The detective’s brow furrows, and the doctor sighs. “Alright, I’m sorry. I am. It’s just…I needed to laugh. And I guess…it’s nice to know I’m not the only one who makes a mess of things.”

Sherlock studies him again, seeming to gauge his sincerity, and then abruptly his body relaxes, and he laughs as well. “You really ought to do something about that,” he says.

“Me?” John asks, incredulous. “And what would you suggest?”

The detective smiles. “I had to get myself a blogger to keep me out of trouble.”

John suddenly feels a bit warm, but it’s the alcohol and the fire, surely, not a blush that’s set his ears afire. “Right,” he says, opting for sarcasm. Safer. “And now your blogger can’t manage to hold down a girlfriend. No woman in the world wants to compete with Sherlock Holmes.” He raises his glass toward the detective in a mock toast.

Sherlock snorts, unashamed. “Of course not. You have met me. Who could compete?”

“God.” In spite of himself, John laughs. “You are…”

“Brilliant. Fantastic.”

“Annoying.”

For a moment, they are both lost to quiet giggles. When John can catch his breath, he says, “Alright then. You said it was good at first. So what happened?”

“Why are so determined to know about him?”

“Why are you so determined not to tell?”

The detective sighs. “Just because you like to wallow in your misery doesn’t mean the rest of us feel compelled to do so.”

“Oh, yes, and you’ve been lying on the sofa thinking about rainbows and butterflies for the last hour?”

Sherlock glares at him. “It didn’t end well.”

“No relationship ends well. Not if at least one of you actually cared.”

“One of us did.” The detective leans forward, long fingers steepled against his lips. “That last night…Victor was good at reading people. Not as good as me...but then, I had a blind spot, when it came to him. He knew how to get what he wanted from people. And he knew how to hurt them.”

He falls silent again, staring at the fire. John’s chest tightens, watching the subtle play of emotions across the detective’s face. He remembers how he feared the Adler woman would use him, would hurt him—and here he was, already broken. John glances up at the wall, at the photos of the charred body. He’s been feeling pity for this victim, for the pain he must have endured, but now a cold rage settles in his belly. John thinks about the patch of burned skin that showed signs of healing, thinks about this man being tortured, and instead of feeling sick, he feels satisfied. I hope it hurt, he thinks viciously, turning back to his friend.

When he moves, he moves without hesitating, without thinking. His hand finds Sherlock’s arm and rests there, reassuring. “What did he say?” the doctor asks.

Sherlock jumps a little at John’s touch, looking down at the hand on his arm. When his eyes meet John’s, though, they are still far away.

“The worst thing he could think of,” the detective whispers. “He told me the truth.”

“The truth?”

“That everyone will leave.”

“Sorry?”

Sherlock’s eyes focus on his face, a sad watercolour blue. “The way I am. I’ve tried to be different, but it’s not…It was too much for Victor, and he was just the same, or nearly. He wasn’t wrong. I’m just…too much.”

John’s grip on his arm tightens. “Sherlock. Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous?” The detective’s gaze sharpens. “It’s not ridiculous. It’s fact. Repeated experimentation, duplicated results—hypothesis proven.”

“How can you say that to me? I’m—Christ, Sherlock, I’m here. I didn’t leave.”

Sherlock’s whole face seems to sigh, one elegant eyebrow arching, his wide lips relaxing into a soft frown. “You did, though,” he says.

John is shaking his head before the words are even out of his mouth. “That isn’t fair. That is not…You left, Sherlock. Not me.”

“I tried to warn you,” the detective says, seemingly ignoring him. “I told you not to make me something I wasn’t. I thought if you knew, if I was honest, if I was just me and you stayed anyway…you were supposed to be a constant, John.” He says the word with reverence, says it the way a primitive man might speak the name of a god, like it is powerful and rare and almost too great to believe in.

“Sherlock…”

The detective overrides him, lost in his spiralling train of thought. “But you were a variable. The whole time, and I didn’t see it. The parameters changed, but a constant stays constant, that’s the whole point. But you didn’t—you changed when the conditions changed, and that’s—”

“Sherlock, stop it!” John’s fingers hurt where they are clenched around the detective’s forearm. He forces them open, gripping the man’s head with both hands instead. “Stop it now.”

Sherlock squirms. “John, I—”

“No, shut up.” He tightens his grip on the detective’s head to hold him still. “Losing you was like…like losing a limb. Do you see that? You don’t get your leg blown off and think, ‘Ah well, what’s one leg more or less.’ It changes everything. I had to…I had to learn everything over again. And even if you’ve lost a leg, eventually you have to learn to get around again, because your choices are to adapt or die. So you adapt. I adapted.”

“And that’s—”

“I’m not done. Just because I adapted doesn’t mean I didn’t care. It’s not the same thing as leaving. I didn’t choose to leave. You chose that. But do you think…God, Sherlock, do you think for even a second that a soldier who was offered his leg back wouldn’t take it? No matter how he’d bloody well learned to get on without it?” John’s breath is catching in his throat, and he realises he is close to tears. The terrible tightness in his chest is back, squeezing at his ribs, his lungs, his heart.

Sherlock is still under his hands, the blue in his eyes darker than it was before. The detective is tense, frozen, studying John like he’s an equation and the fate of the universe depends on his solving it. Well, John amends, maybe not the fate of the universe. The fate of his next experiment, perhaps.

Because Sherlock is all the things he says he is: brilliant and selfish and arrogant and off-handedly cruel. But he is more than that; he is well-intentioned and vulnerable and—God help him—breath-taking, and how can he not see that? How can someone so insightful see so little truth about himself? And how can he believe, for even one instant, that someone as insignificant as John Watson could stand a chance in the face of all that?

“I’m here,” he manages to whisper. “God, you walk back into my life, you tear down everything I’ve managed to build, and I let you, Sherlock. I let you do it, because…because none of it means anything if you’re not…because you…”

Maybe John should be surprised by what comes next, by the subtle shift in the detective’s body language. But with his eyes fixed on Sherlock’s, his hands holding the detective’s head hard enough to hurt, he can only sit, frozen, as Sherlock leans forward. And John could blame the whisky or the firelight or the emotional exhaustion of the last week. But in the moment, he doesn’t blame anything, because all he wants to do is make Sherlock see what he sees—and if words aren’t enough to convince him, well, John Watson has always been better at action, anyway. He is pulling him closer without realising it, and by the time he does, he’s given up fighting.

He has time to remember, to wonder if his mouth will taste like red wine or black coffee—and then Sherlock closes the distance, and his thoughts trip over themselves in an undignified scramble. The detective’s lips part, slow and uncertain, and his hand moves against John’s arm. For a moment, the doctor flounders, his conscious mind surfacing long enough to blare a warning—this is a mistake, you don’t want this, you’ll spoil everything. Then Sherlock’s fingers clench, tightening on his arm, and the doctor’s internal monologue flat-lines loudly in his ears as his body responds, blood rushing away from his brain—much good it was doing him there, anyway—and toward other extremities, making it painfully clear that some part of him, at least, emphatically does want this.

When Sherlock’s hand finds the back of his head, the tightness in John’s chest shatters and everything in him—his denial, his fear, God his whole heart—just breaks. He kisses him the way a drowning man scrambles for air, the way a hungry man reaches for food—desperately and joyfully and like there will never be enough of him.

And Sherlock…God, those lips against his are pliant and willing, the tongue in his mouth eager. Sherlock kisses the same way he stares: like he is trying to memorise every detail. And John wants nothing except to let him, to open himself like a book, to let this man read every word, dog-earing pages, breaking his spine until he falls open to his favourite page.

The detective pulls back suddenly, pressing his forehead against John’s, his breathing quick and shallow. John opens his eyes reluctantly, afraid of what he will see, afraid that looking will break the spell and everything will be ruined.

“John…?” They are still so close that John feels his name on Sherlock’s lips as much as he hears it. It’s a question and it isn’t, and John can see that the detective’s eyes are clouded with the same confusion—a vibrant, lustful green warring with a wary grey, the wide-blown pupils a dark no-man’s land in between.

The doctor doesn’t know how to answer, so he kisses him instead, pressing his lips once above each aristocratic eyebrow, once against one high cheekbone, once where his jaw joins his throat. Sherlock’s eyelids flutter closed, and he snaps them open again.

“John,” he says, more insistent. “You’re drunk.”

“A bit.” John’s lips are following the line of his throat, tracing it down to his collarbone. God, his neck.

“And you’re not…ahhh.” Sherlock sighs when John latches on to soft skin in the hollow of his throat. His fingers tighten in John’s hair, his voice strained. “You like women.”

Well that’s true, but it hardly seems relevant at the moment. He knows Sherlock is offering him an out, but the fact is, now he’s started, he can’t stop himself—doesn’t want to stop himself, because when was the last time John Watson took something that he wanted just because he wanted it? And he has wanted it, God. He didn’t realise how much until that first taste—more tobacco smoke than coffee, but every bit as dark and dangerous as John imagined.

“Apparently not just at present,” says the doctor, moving back up to toy with Sherlock’s ear, appreciating the way the detective shudders beneath his hands.

“I just—oooh—you don’t have to—”

John pulls back enough to meet his gaze. “Sherlock.” He doesn’t want to ask, but damn him if he even knows anymore who is taking advantage of whom, and he’s not so drunk that he cares to go forcing himself on his best friend. “What do you want?”

“I don’t…” Sherlock is looking anywhere but at John, and the doctor can see him spiralling again, his brain switching into overdrive as he tries to play out every possible scenario in his head.

“No,” says John, bringing his focus back to his face. “Right now. What am I to you?”

“Mine,” Sherlock says immediately, like it’s obvious, like John has asked him his name or the colour of chlorine gas or the atomic number of nitrogen. The detective’s eyes find John’s again, full of new certainty.

“Mine,” he repeats, firmer. “My John.”

And what do I say to that, except— “Yes,” the doctor murmurs, his hand around the detective’s neck like he’s holding on for dear life. “Yes, alright then.”

Sherlock pulls him close again, finding John’s mouth in the half-light, his tongue tracing the seam of his lips until they open, hungry. The detective’s hands are all around him, one arm reaching out to catch himself against the arm of the sofa as he pushes forward, driving John back. His other hand is still in the doctor’s hair, fingers tugging, tangling, and John barely manages to stifle a moan. He lets the taller man ease him back, lips still locked together, until he is propped against the sofa arm, Sherlock draped over him like the world’s boniest blanket.

John has never been so thoroughly kissed in his life. Sherlock is everywhere at once, his lips on John’s mouth, his neck—John’s sharp hiss of breath when the detective pauses to suck at the pulse point there is anything but dignified. But he is moving, always moving, his tongue finding new places, spots no medical journal would list as erogenous zones—but John may have to publish a few papers after this. Sherlock’s lips graze the cusp of his left ear, and a muscle in John’s leg spasms. The detective’s tongue dips below the collar of John’s shirt, and the doctor’s fingers clench around dark curls.

At that motion, Sherlock’s hips jerk forward involuntarily, and John can feel him hard against his thigh, through the thin cotton of the detective’s pyjama bottoms and the thicker fabric of his own jeans. A sound tears itself from the doctor’s throat, something strangled and startled and gasping. The detective pushes back, studying John’s face.

“Not good?” he asks, his eyes bright, frantic.

John makes himself take a deep breath. “Just…different. Sorry.”

“If you don’t want…”

“No, God.” The look on Sherlock’s face, the thought that he might stop, might go away—John does the most immediate thing he can think of to convince him to stay, thrusting up and against him so the detective can feel his own erection. “I want,” he says simply. “I’ve wanted. It’s just…new.”

Sherlock’s irises in the low light shrink abruptly, swallowed into the dark depths of his pupils, and he presses against John again, rolling his hips experimentally. This time the sound is more groan than anything, slipping between clenched teeth as the doctor writhes beneath him. God, how long since someone bloody well seduced him? Sexually, John has always been the aggressor, the instigator, and he’s easily the more experienced of the two. But in this moment he is on autopilot, rolling on instinct again, and instinct says Sherlock leads and he follows, because that is who they are.

So when Sherlock raises the stakes, his hand dropping to John’s lap to cup him, tracing his length through his jeans, the doctor can only moan, unconsciously rutting against his palm, seeking friction. Sherlock’s hands slip beneath his jumper and tug it over his head, his long fingers fumbling with the buttons of the doctor’s shirt, trying and failing to undo them without looking.

After a moment of this, the detective loses his patience. “Damn this,” he mutters, pulling back from their kiss long enough to give one harsh pull, sending the last few buttons skittering across the floor.

“Sherlock! Be caref—”

Sherlock’s lips swallow his chastisement, and oh, hell. It’s only a bloody shirt. He works his own fingers under the detective’s t-shirt, splaying his fingers across the muscles of his back, the hard lines of his ribs—God, has the man eaten anything in the last three years? He’s going to have to start monitoring that again, and he’ll have to do something about the smoking, and of course there’s—

Oh, God John’s thoughts stutter to a halt once more as Sherlock’s fingers, which have been busy at his chest, dip below the waistline of his jeans. He can’t help the way his cock throbs in response, and, pressed against him as he is, Sherlock can’t help but feel it. He shudders and digs his fingers into Sherlock’s skin, eyes shut tight, head falling backward with a dull thump as the detective undoes his zip. His internal monologue has made a triumphant return, but it’s not winning any awards for eloquence, spinning out a stream of curses that would make even his old Army mates blush.

The room is shrinking around him, alcohol and lack of blood making his head feel light, the sheer unreality of the moment closing in on him as he feels his jeans loosened, his pants tugged down around his thighs, and even the warm air in the room feels cool against his burning skin as his cock is freed.

John wonders if it’s too late to go back, if he wants to go back—he needs Sherlock more than he’s ever needed anything, but he’s worried this is too fast, too much that’s new and frightening and vulnerable. If they do this, tomorrow will be different, and he still doesn’t know how. Sherlock is good at pretending—maybe it won’t be that different for him, but for John…Oh hell.

Something warm and wet slides up his cock, and John’s eyes snap open, neck wrenching as he looks down. His tongue. Sherlock is bent over him, dressing gown sliding off one shoulder, his t-shirt hitched up around his abdomen, his hands on either side of John’s hips…and his tongue, caught for the moment between those appalling lips, resting against the glans of his penis. Oh fucking Christing hell. John’s head falls back again, his breath coming in shallow gasps. No going back from that, I suppose.

“Sherlock…” The name comes out a broken whisper. Maybe, John thinks, maybe if he closes his eyes, if he just doesn’t look, he can pretend this is something else, pretend it’s not his best friend in his lap, doing things, really really incredible things to him. Which is a good theory, except he can’t stop looking, can’t take his eyes off of him.

The detective swirls his tongue once around the head of his cock, drawing a sharp hiss from John, and Christ how could John have ever thought he didn’t know much about the practice of sex? Because whether it’s instinct or experience, Sherlock has hardly touched him, and John is ruined. “God, Sherlock, please.”

“Please?” the detective purrs. Yes, he bloody well purrs, sounding so satisfied with himself that John wants to slap him. “Please what?”

But John just shakes his head. He can’t say it aloud, can’t find words for what he wants—not tonight, not yet. His hips thrust up, straining for contact, and he says again, more desperate, “Please.”

And at least sometimes the detective’s magnifying lens of a mind is a blessing, because Sherlock seems to get the point. He licks another long stripe up John’s length, and then, without preamble, takes him into his mouth.

John has seen a thousand incarnations of Sherlock Holmes: Sherlock angry, Sherlock pretending to be sad, Sherlock actually sad, Sherlock delighted, Sherlock naked and wrapped in a sheet, like some particularly statuesque 12-year-old, Sherlock in a panic as he strips explosives from the doctor in a darkened swimming pool—but Sherlock Holmes giving a blowjob is putting all the rest to shame. His dark curls, always unruly, are absolutely everywhere, sticking up and out where John’s hands have carded through them. His skin in the firelight is glowing golden, the tendons in his neck emphasising the graceful curve of his throat. And his eyes—lowered, focused, but every so often he glances up at John through dark lashes, just a flash of translucent green, softer than usual, still calculating, still precise, but clouded with desire.

And his tongue—someone ought to be writing the man poems about the thing. He can feel it curling around him as the detective works, sometimes flat against the underside of his cock, sometimes sweeping across the head, always moving, always teasing, responding to every moan and twitch he makes. John has a vague memory of an old science-fiction movie about a robot that learned its enemy’s tactics as it fought; this is the closest thing he can think of to what Sherlock is doing, bloody well learning him as he goes.
Just the thought of that, that Sherlock is applying that high-powered scrutiny to giving John Watson a blowjob, makes him moan again. One hand moves to brace himself against the sofa, and the other finds Sherlock’s hair and holds on tight. “Christ, Sherlock, your mouth.”

He can’t help but thrust, hips pushing forward of their own accord, and the motion surprises Sherlock, making him gag. He pulls off for a moment, glaring at John, and the doctor blushes. “Sorry, I didn’t…”

Sherlock doesn’t answer, but adjusts his position instead, straddling John’s leg. The detective places one of his hands against John’s hip—John realises Sherlock will be able to read him better this way, to know when the thrusts are coming, and God, does the man ever stop thinking? Then the fingers of the other hand wrap around the base of John’s cock, and he forgets to feel anything except worship for this man. Sherlock squeezes experimentally, smiling when John groans. “Ahhh…Oh, God.”

The detective’s hand strokes him once, twice, those fingers rolling his foreskin over the head of his penis, teasing—and then Sherlock lowers his head again, and John isn’t sure what he’s doing until he feels wet warmth against his balls, and shit, that tongue is back, and it fucking well knows what it’s doing.

“Sherlock, Jesus,” John sighs, and the detective huffs a laugh that tickles wickedly against the damp skin of the doctor’s perineum. His cock twitches in response, and Sherlock stops teasing, taking John into his mouth again. He sets a steady rhythm this time, his hand on the doctor’s length making up for what his mouth can’t accommodate. Which isn’t much, incidentally—John’s vision is whiting out at the edges as he feels himself against the back of Sherlock’s throat, and God, his hand slides down to the long neck, his fingers under the detective’s jaw so he can feel it when Sherlock swallows reflexively around him, and if it wasn’t for the alcohol slowing his body’s reactions, John would come right now.

As it is, he’s left half gasping, half sobbing for air, a string of something unintelligible spilling from his lips. “Oh God please Sherlock yes oh please.” He thrusts again, deep, and again Sherlock takes him, holding until his throat convulses and he has to pull off to breathe. John’s hands tug at his hair, guiding him upward, and he claims his lips in a crushing kiss, tasting himself on the detective’s tongue, and Christ, that’s going to be part of Sherlock’s taste now in his memory, isn’t it?

John shifts on the sofa, pulling his leg upward, and his thigh brushes against Sherlock’s groin, drawing a low moan from the detective. Ah, thinks the doctor, grinning inwardly and moving his leg again. All your teasing, let’s see how you like it, then.

Sherlock likes it very much, as it happens, and John has to wonder how long it’s been since anyone has touched him like this, since anyone has dared to try. The doctor works to ignore a welling panic in his chest—his mind still struggling with the thought of another man’s cock against his leg—but then the detective presses against him, his breath coming fast, his eyes finding John’s again, and Christ, his face is open, guileless, and the doctor realises it’s not that no one has dared to try—it’s that Sherlock hasn’t let anyone get close.

The weight of that thought settles on his shoulders, and something must show on his face, because Sherlock’s brow furrows. “What is it? Too much? We don’t have to—”

John silences him with a kiss, gentler this time, soft and slow and achingly sweet. When he pulls back, the detective looks surprised.

“What was that for?” he asks.

“Just…” He trails off, not sure how to finish. “Just needed doing, I suppose.”

Another kiss, and this time when Sherlock presses against him, his cock still hard and hot against John’s thigh, John’s mind doesn’t recoil. The doctor’s hands wander, trailing down Sherlock’s back, pulling his ridiculous dressing gown off his shoulders and casting it aside. John shifts downward so that their hips are aligned, so that when he thrusts upward his cock slides against the detective’s, both of them shuddering at the friction. John tugs at the cotton pyjama bottoms still slung low on the detective’s hips.

“These—”

“—half a minute—”

“Sherlock, you’re not—ow!” The detective is all elbows and knees, and by the time he’s done removing the offending article of clothing, John has several bruises already beginning to show. He’d be more annoyed if he weren’t so distracted by the sudden surplus of skin on skin, and how can a man who seems so perpetually cold radiate so much heat? Sherlock is so alive in his hands, so overwhelmingly solid and real; John can only kiss him—his lips, his neck, his shoulder, his hair.

The detective’s hand slips between them, impossibly long fingers taking him, taking them both, moving in languid strokes, his slim hips rising and falling in time with his hand. The combined sensation of those fingers—unnatural, they are, honestly—and the soft-hard throb of Sherlock’s cock against his own, the slick of pre-come between them, soon has John panting again, and never mind that it’s strange and different and new, it’s fantastic. He can’t control the wordless moan that spills from his lips or the entirely shameless way he ruts into the detective’s grasp, straining for more friction, more touch—

“God, Sherlock,” he gasps, “I need—”

“Yes—”

Sherlock’s fingers retreat, and John groans again at their loss until they’re replaced by his mouth. There’s no playing this time, no prelude; the detective simply takes him, sucking hard and fast. John’s hands fist in his hair, hips rolling forward, needing—God, needing all of him. The detective hand goes to his own cock, and the sight of it—Christ. Two strokes, three, and then Sherlock is coming, his rhythm on John’s cock faltering as he trembles. His semen spills hot over his fingers and onto John’s thigh, the lines of his body relaxing, his breath against John’s cock ragged. A low moan builds in his throat, vibrating to John’s core, and that does it.

“Oh, fuck. I’m going to—” It’s not much of a warning, but it’s all John can manage. Sherlock looks up at him, blinks—and does not pull off, but takes him even deeper, and fucking hell, John just lets go. He comes hard, holding onto Sherlock’s head like it will save him, like it will stop him from falling apart.

When he comes back to himself, he is draped over Sherlock, breathing hard, feeling lighter and stranger and more exhausted than he can ever remember feeling. The detective is wiping them both down with his shirt, crumpling it into a ball and letting it fall to the floor.

“Right,” John says. “And I suppose it’s down to me to do the wash?”

Sherlock cocks an eyebrow at him. “Obviously. But not until tomorrow, I think.”

Tomorrow. Yes, that’s a better idea. He slides down, his head resting on the arm of the sofa. The detective rises, naked and lovely in the firelight, and John is too tired to ask where he’s going as he disappears from sight. The doctor’s eyelids drift shut, then fly open again as a weight settles over him. His fingers twitch, finding fabric, and he glances down to find himself draped in the blanket from Sherlock’s bed.

“Sherlock—” He reaches a hand out in the half-light. The detective is standing over him, half turned as if he’s heading back to his bedroom. “Here,” says the doctor, raising a corner of the blanket.

“I won’t fit.”

“Bollocks,” John says decisively. He scoots as far as he can toward the back cushions, still raising the blanket invitingly. Still, Sherlock hesitates. “Come on then, lanky git. The fire’s dying and it’s bloody cold in here.”

That makes the detective snort, and he gives in, lying down next to him and folding his limbs around John’s body to keep himself in place. John drops the blanket over him, the chemicals from his orgasm blending with the alcohol in his bloodstream and forming a blissful fog that steals over his consciousness. He presses his face into Sherlock’s hair.

“John…” The detective’s voice is hardly a whisper.

“Mmm?”

But Sherlock doesn’t answer, and John falls asleep to the detective’s thumb tracing an arc over his ribs—back and forth, back and forth, like a metronome, like a heartbeat.

***

Sherlock is limp, a parody of sleep, only the halo of blood and the fierce blue of his staring eyes giving away the lie. John’s fingers fumble at his wrist, seeking a pulse point, and he’s warm, his skin is still warm, and maybe—but there are too many hands pulling him away, and his legs don’t want to hold him anymore.

“It’s just a trick.” Sherlock’s voice, and when John looks, the detective is grinning at him from the ground. It’s a skull’s grin—it never touches his eyes. “A magic trick, John. Isn’t it clever?”

The doctor’s stomach lurches, his lungs collapsing in on themselves.

“I didn’t mean it,” says the Sherlock-skull. “No one could be that cruel.”

John’s cheek is against the pavement, the crowd all around him, pinning him, crushing him, sharp knees and elbows digging into his skin and leaving marks. “You could,” he whispers.

The doctor opens his eyes in the dark sitting room, his lungs burning like he has been underwater for hours. His bad leg is aching, the dull, rhythmic pulses of pain providing a harmonic counterpart for the pounding headache behind his eyes. He’s not wearing his watch, but it’s roughly oh-dark-thirty, some ungodly hour of morning, and Jesus, he needs water.

He moves to get up and is halted by a dead weight on his chest. He looks down to find Sherlock’s arm draped across him, the detective’s head heavy on his shoulder. His heart does some sort of gyration behind his ribs, going all twisty for a moment as the details of his evening crystallise in his memory.

Good Christ. I had sex with Sherlock Holmes last night.

Now his stomach joins his heart, making twirly little loops in his belly. He feels dizzy. Not bad, not precisely, just…fuck.

He extracts himself from Sherlock’s grasp as gently as he can. The detective’s hair is a sweaty clump where it was pressed against him, while his feet, sticking out the bottom of the blanket, are freezing. Lucky for John, when the world’s only consulting detective finally decides he can spare a moment for sleep, he does so with the same enthusiasm as he might dissect a particularly fascinating cadaver. He snores once when John stands up, then rolls himself into the blanket, immediately occupying any space the doctor left on the sofa.

John stands beside him for a moment, the chill of the room raising gooseflesh on his arms and legs. Even with his organs playing bloody ring-around-the-rosies, John can’t help but smile. The man is even selfish when asleep. Selfish and horrid and obnoxious and just…kind of great, really.

The doctor’s knees have joined the general discombobulation of the rest of his body, and John leans of the arm of the sofa for a moment, trying to take a deep breath and failing.

Bad, John. Really, truly not good at all. But why? John tries to close his eyes and conjure up his emotions from hours ago, to feel nothing except excited and frightened and fucking well victorious, because sex with Sherlock fucking Holmes was rather a momentous achievement, thank you very much.

So why is he…terrified is the word for it, if he’s honest. He’s scared out of his mind. But why now?

Because he’ll hurt you, says Reasonable John. Because he did it once, and he’ll do it again, because he can’t bloody well help himself.

He apologised, John argues back.

And the next time? The next time he leaves? Could you do it again, another few years without a word?

He wouldn’t.

You can’t lie to anyone, John Watson, let alone yourself.

He couldn’t. He does care, you know. I saw it.

For now, says Reasonable John. What will he do, I wonder, when he remembers you’re just ordinary? Just boring old John Watson, card-carrying idiot. Reasonable John, it turns out, is really quite a prat.

The doctor rubs at his chest, still straining to breathe. Christ, the cold isn’t helping. He needs…God, he needs water, and he needs air, and he needs them now.

John fumbles in the dark for his pants, pulling them on, then finds his jeans and his shirt and puts those on as well. He makes his way into the kitchen, pours himself a glass of water, and drinks it in one swallow. Then it’s back to the sitting room for his jumper. He finds his socks and shoes by the door, near his coat.

By the time he opens the door, his vision is blurring, and he’s not sure if it’s lack of oxygen or excess of emotion. He just knows he needs out. John closes the door behind him, and the night swallows him up.

***
1. The Script. Science & Faith. Sony Music Entertainment UK, 2011.
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Science and Faith