"When you're screwing up and nobody says anything to you anymore, that means they've given up on you."
Sherlock shot an annoyed look at Donovan as he walked past her on his way to the crime scene. John apologized and made small talk to Donovan to make up for the lack of it from Sherlock. He hadn't yet figured out why John made the effort to smooth over the rough edges that Sherlock left. He had always done it. Even now that they had been flatmates for three years and in a relationship for three months. He had seemed to be doing it more the past week. Correcting Sherlock when he insulted individuals. Trying to get Sherlock to think of the other people's feelings before calling them idiots. Trying to prevent him from vocalizing bad deductions about random people. It wasn't like being nice mattered to the work. Lestrade was the only one that really mattered and that was just because he provided Sherlock was cases; active and cold. And getting criminals off the streets; that was obviously important.
He walked slowly through the entry hall and glanced through the stack of mail dropped on the entry table. He took the long way around the apartment and looked at the overall environment before moving towards the living room where the body was. Sherlock rolled his eyes as John greeted Lestrade and they started talking about a recent football game. John tried so hard to keep up a good relationship with New Scotland Yard. He was always giving Sherlock pointed looks whenever the consulting detective snapped at Mycroft and Lestrade or other moronic individuals. Always trying to impress the social norms that dictated how everyone lived their lives. Impress the same social norms that inhibited real logic and intelligence.
He snorted quietly and continued to look over the dead body. The dead man was hanging from a hemp rope from a low beam. No abrasions on his wrists to indicate he was bound and held in place. Chair knocked over behind him from where he knocked it over during his struggles. No signs of struggle in the apartment indicating a struggle. Something was missing. Something was just wrong. His eyes saw it but his brain couldn't understand it. His magnificent brain could read the signals that his eyes was sending to you. It rarely happened but sadly it did. He silently groaned upon recognizing the tread of the individual coming up behind John and Lestrade. He had hoped Anderson was still on vacation. Apparently hope was not on his side. He heard John say something to Anderson about his father but immediately deleted it as sentimental.
"Obvious suicide. He was just diagnosed with cancer. He even left a note. Not worth your most valuable time," Anderson sneered and snapped off his gloves.
"Your incompetence is outstanding, Anderson, but today it's just beyond words. This was a well thought out murder. I almost missed it but the odor from that new medicated cream you're using distracted me for a moment," Sherlock said and moved away from the body to look at the chair.
Anderson flared red in fury and he moved towards Sherlock before Lestrade stepped in his way.
"Sherlock," John warned and Sherlock just waved a dismissive hand at the former army doctor.
"Signs that it wasn't a suicide. A fully stocked fridge and pantry. Appointments made for next week. People planning on committing suicide do not make doctor arrangements. The ones planning on fighting to live are the ones that make doctor appointments. Not ones planning suicide. Lack of scuff marks on the shoes, which is not in itself odd but the heel edge of the sole is recently worn down indicating that he was dragged over here. Shoes also have faint scent of shoes polish. Again, someone who was planning on suicide doesn't polish his shoes. And the biggest sign is."
Sherlock picked up the chair from the floor and pushed it under the hanging body. There was a good three inches between the tips of the dead man's toes and the seat of the chair. The three other men stared at the chair and body in silence before John spoke.
"How was he able to slip the noose around his neck if he had to jump to reach it?"
"And you, Anderson, was about to cut down the body and destroy the most vital piece of evidence proving this was a murder. Thank god your timeliness is just as bad as your investigative work. Your father isn't dead, he's hiding from your incompetence. He's lucky to not be burdened by it," Sherlock snarled in anger.
It was silent in the room but it wasn't the usual silence that occurred after a sharp retort from Sherlock. Anderson actually looked...blank. Lestrade looked horrified. Sherlock held his breath, waiting for John's words of reprimand. He realized what he just said was a bit not good. Sadly, a lot of times, he realized that fact just after the words escape from his mouth. Correct that, the words didn't escape, he knew exactly what he was saying. Sherlock Holmes didn't say things that he didn't intend to say. But usually, he doesn't realize how damaging those words were until they were thrown out in the open and then he couldn't pull them back. John was there to censor; or at least, try to censor him. He deferred to John on all of the social and emotional niceties.
He slowly turned and looked at John. The nice, affable doctor was staring at Sherlock with something in his eyes. Something Sherlock had never seen before. He cast about in his vocabulary of emotional and sentimental words and finally settled on one. Disappointment was the main one. Sadness was another. But disappointment was big. Defeat was also there. Defeat and disappointment were prominent. Also resignation. Why resignation? Sherlock ran through his memory of the past ten minutes and searched for why John would look resigned. All this ran through Sherlock's mind in less than a heartbeat as he stared at John. The consulting detective was still waiting for the reprimand and mentally cringed from how bad it was going to be.
The next thirty-seven seconds would be forever burned into Sherlock's memory bank despite his numerous attempts to delete it. John silently sighed but Sherlock saw the slight shift in his shoulders that the action caused. Without speaking a word, his gaze slid away from Sherlock's and he walked out of the room. Everyone stared after John and Sherlock felt a cold knot of fear nestle in his chest when John didn't glance back to see if Sherlock was following. John had never not corrected Sherlock's bad manners. Sherlock was frozen in his place as he watched John walk away. It took a few moments before the action registered in Sherlock's mind and panic suddenly clouded his mind. He knew instinctively, without knowing exactly why or what, that something dramatic had shifted in their relationship.
"Anderson, I apologize for my words. They were cruel and I am sorry," Sherlock said without looking at Anderson and quickly went after John.
The long legged consulting detective ran after his flat mate. He ignored Donovan when he stepped out of the apartment building and frantically looked around for the short Doctor. There were no blond haired men on the streets that matched his friend's description.
"Hey Freak, finally managed to scare off Dr. Watson? He looked broken when he left here. Said something about being tired of trying. Amazed he lasted this long," she commented and looked up in shock when Sherlock crowded her against the door.
"Which way did he go?"
Donovan stepped back in surprise at the expression on Sherlock's face. She motioned down the road to the right and blinked to see Sherlock running down the street. Sherlock darted between pedestrians and frantically looked for John. He couldn't have walked this far.
Unless he was purposely avoiding Sherlock.
That realization struck Sherlock hard as he staggered to a halt three blocks away from the apartment building. There was no John. Sherlock sagged weakly against the light post in defeat. A door opened behind him and he heard the distinct sounds of glassware from a pub. A thought suddenly struck him. John liked his pints. Maybe he stepped in to get a drink. Anything was possible. Sherlock entered the pub and started looking around in hope that he would see John. It took him only a minute before he realized he wasn't in here. He might have passed a few other pubs he could have stepped in. He had to acknowledge that he wouldn't find the Doctor. Leaning against the bar, he sighed and dropped his gaze to the bar top. The nearby conversation between a patron the barkeep intruded on his inner musings.
"What's bothering you, Michael? You've been in here for the past three nights. What's going on?"
The patron sighed and slowly turned his pint in a circle. "Carol left me."
The barkeep muttered apologies but didn't act like it was a surprise. "Did she say why?"
"She was tired of listening to me complain about my job. It's a difficult job; of course I'm going to complain about it."
"What about getting a new one? Wasn't she urging you to change jobs? You mentioned a month ago that she gave you some job postings she found. What ever happened from that?" the barkeep asked as he braced himself against the back of the bar.
"Yeah, she was suggestions some other jobs and even suggested I go back to university."
The two were silent and Sherlock was about to leave but something told him to wait it out. It wasn't like he had anywhere to go.
"When did she stop making those suggestions?"
The barkeep asked softly and raised an eyebrow.
"A week or two ago. Why?"
The barkeep pushed away from his position and leaned on his elbows to look closely at Michael. "Then Carol gave up on you a week or two ago. I've found that when you're screwing up and nobody says anything to you anymore, that means they've given up on you. She gave up on you a week or two ago."
Michael stared into his beer in silence. Sherlock sagged heavily against the edge of the bar and slowly lowered himself onto the stool. John had given up on him. John was going to leave him. That was the only logical assumption if what happened to Michael was any example. John was tired of trying to fix Sherlock. Tired of fixing his screwups. John made Sherlock better. Sherlock didn't want to verbally admit it but John had changed him. Made him work harder and just be better. He knew he wasn't the easiest to live with or deal with. He was argumentative, degrading, stubborn and just overall difficult in every possible category. Sherlock couldn't think of any situation or scenario that he was easy. Why did John stay with him? Why would he? Sherlock was the least likeable flatmate London has ever seen.
"So, what do I do? How do I solve this?"
Michael looked broken. He realized he had screwed up and possibly lost the best thing in his life. Now his only concern was fixing this. Sherlock listened closely for the barkeep's suggestions.
"Michael, the best thing that I can say is show that you are willing to change. A bad partner tries to change you. A good partner wants to change for you. And just pray that it's not too late."
Sherlock mentally distances himself from the conversation as he starts to slowly walk back home. How can he change for John? His mind started listing everything that John found annoying about him. Experiments in the kitchen and fridge. Rude comments to girl friends. Rude comments to Mycroft. Rude comments to friends. Rude comments to everyone, Sherlock mused sourly. Shooting at the wall. Using John's laptop without permission. Late night violin playing. Leaving John out of the loop on some topics. Performing experiments on John with and without his knowledge.
The list was endless by the time he reached the door of 221B Baker Street. He put his key into the lock and felt the tumblers shift before he paused with his gaze on the his gloved hand holding the key. With a weary sigh, he leaned forward and let his head bump against the door. Would John be at home? Questionable. It could go both ways. John could have come home to a familiar environment for a cup of tea to sooth his temper. Or he could have avoided everything that reminded him of Sherlock and his failure. Sherlock knew he could lean back to look at the windows of the flat and probably easily deduce if John was at home or not but suddenly he just lacked the energy. His mind went whirling through memories of his time before John entered his life. The time alone with nothing but his violin, experiments and the work to keep him busy. How every night he could hear the siren call of his old friend tempting him back down that road. The road that led to ultimate self destruction. That siren call was closer now than it had been for years. Ever since John had moved in and Sherlock realized he had a best friend, John had kept the siren song at bay. He filled it with laughter at murder scenes, offers for tea and gentle lectures to eat and sleep. Sherlock had never realized how sane John kept him.
Feeling the cold start to seep through his jacket, Sherlock turned the key and pushed open the door. It was quiet when he closed the door behind him. Mrs. Hudson must be off somewhere. He walked up the stairs slowly and hesitated before opening the door to their flat. It took him a half second to realize that John was not there and had not been since they left that morning. He was definitely avoiding Sherlock now. Sherlock pulled out his phone and opened the text app.
John, I'm sorry. Please come home.-SH
Sherlock set his mobile down on the coffee table and started to pull his jacket, scarf and gloves off. He hung the pieces of clothing by the door. Also taking off his suit coat, he tossed it over to his chair and rolled his shoulders. He stubbornly refused to look at the phone but listened closely for the text alert chime. He wandered into the kitchen and sat on the stool to look at the experiment he had set up. He started to work on it but eventually stopped. Sighing, he looked around the kitchen and spotted the small stack of dirty dishes in the sink. They had ordered Chinese the night before to celebrate after the close of an exciting case. They had laughed and joked about the suspect's attempts to flee when Sherlock, John and Lestrade had shown up at his door. With a weak smirk at the memory, Sherlock stood and started washing the dishes. He could start trying to fix one thing on his list. Start cleaning up after himself in the kitchen. Once he finished with the dishes, he started to break down the experiment he had running and put away the equipment once cleaning it. Once finishing that, he wandered out to the living room and looked at his mobile. He had heard no alert chime. He confirmed what he already knew; no reply text from John. He started to send another text.
I apologized to Anderson for what I said. Will you please come home?-SH
He set the phone down again and went to the desk. Mindlessly, he started to sift through the papers and organize them by cases. Filing everything away, he picked up a rag from the kitchen and started wiping everything down. He eventually came across his almost full box of nicotine patches. Staring at the box for a few moments, he slowly opened the lid and ran his thumb over the top of the patches. His jaw muscles flexed a moment before he walked to the trash bin and threw them in with more force than what was really necessary but it made him feel slightly better. After finishing the living room he moved onto to their shared bedroom. Tossing the few pieces of clothing that he found into the hamper, he cleaned and tried not to think of sleeping alone in his bed again. He continued cleaning the flat and had finished before he finally acknowledged that John was not going to reply to him. He knew he could easily have called Mycroft and have him track John's mobile but he knew that wouldn't be good. Picking up his mobile again, he typed a new message.
Are you safe?-SH
This time he held the phone and waited. He knew John. He knew that the doctor would see the concern and resignation. All Sherlock wanted was to know that John was safe and would hold back everything else he wanted to say. The mobile chimed.
Some of his tension slid away and he sighed. He walked over to his violin case and opened it to look at the Stradivarius. His long, delicate fingers trailed over the polished wood before picking up the instrument and bow and walking over to the large windows. Closing his eyes against the pedestrians walking below the window, he started playing. He randomly played pieces of different compositions until it flowed into a composition of his own making. It was heartbreaking and painful; anguished and remorseful. He played until a painful cramp in his forearm ceased all movement. Holding the violin in his good hand, he flexed his fist against the cramp and felt the muscle start to loosen. It was dark outside the windows and he roughly guessed that he had been playing for five hours. He continued to flex his hand as he stepped closer to the window and looked down at the sidewalk. It was raining and had been for a while it seemed. He tilted his head slightly and listened. John was still not home.
Putting away his violin, he wandered into the kitchen and started to make himself a cup of tea. Tea would help; tea solves everything. At least John thinks that tea solves everything. Well every British citizen thinks that. Every problem in the world could be solved with a good cup of tea. It was automatic that he pulled down two mugs. He cradled John's RAMC mug in his hand before gently placing it on the counter. He prepped the mugs while the kettle boiled.
John would probably be gone by the end of the week. He lived minimally; a throwback from his military times. There wasn't much to pack. Finding a new flat would take the longest. It also depended on how quickly John wanted to get away from him. He should have expected this. He was shocked when John admitted that he was interested in a relationship with Sherlock. Sherlock was cautious when the relationship had been new but he quickly realized what he had actually been missing. The pleasure of sex and intimacy. Knowing that someone cared. The comfort of touching and being touched. He wasn't sure how he would be able to go back to life without John. The siren song was climbing in intensity and was about to reach its crescendo.
Releasing a shuddering breath, Sherlock picked up the kettle and started to pour water into the mugs.
Sherlock yelped in shock and spun to look at John. The yelp was quickly followed by a sharp cry as his free hand knocked over the mugs and boiling water splashed over his left hand from the still pouring kettle. The kettle dropped from his hands and crashed onto the floor splattering water over the floor. He cradled the injured limb to his abdomen as he stumbled back against the counter. His teeth were clenched against the searing pain and he squeezed his eyes shut in concentration.
'Must not scream, must not scream, must not scream,' his mind recited as he took shallow breaths against the pain.
Words started to filter through the haze of pain.
Sherlock let himself be bodily shifted as John turned on the cold faucet and thrust the detective's arm under the cold water. Sherlock braced his other hand against the edge and stepped back to roll his back. His head dropped between his shoulders as his arm and shoulder muscles twitched against the pain.
"How are you doing, Sherlock? Talk to me," John said loudly.
The pain shattered any thoughts of calm and logic. The only things left that his mind could wrap around was the pain and John. Pain and John leaving. New and different pain but pain nonetheless. John leaving. He couldn't breath against the pain. Pain in his arm and chest. Couldn't breath.
"John, I'm so sorry. Please don't leave me. Please don't give up on me. I'll be better, I promise. Please don't leave. Don't give up on me. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," Sherlock gasped as he looked up at his lover.
John's face retreated down a dark tunnel and Sherlock's words echoed in his own mind as his legs crumpled underneath him. Darkness would take away the pain. Darkness always took away the pain.
John gasped and barely caught Sherlock as he collapsed into a long limbed lump. Adrenaline aided John as he bent and slid arms under Sherlock and stood with a grunt. Hurrying to their room, John carefully laid Sherlock down on the bed and moved the injured limb away from his body. He quickly checked to be sure that Sherlock just passed out and there wasn't anything more nefarious at work. John hurried around the flat and collected his more extensive kit and a few other things before jogging back to their bedroom. Sherlock was still unconscious as John sat next to Sherlock's hip and lifted the arm to look closer at the burns. Resting the appendage on his lap, John gently rotated the arm and breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the extent of the damage; it was not as bad as he expected. He pushed up Sherlock's shirt sleeve and looked for any more burns. The injuries were mainly on his hand and forearm. Gently holding the arm, John used his free hand and grabbed the large jar he snatched from the kitchen. Clenching it between his knees, he opened the jar of honey and set aside the lid.
Honey had been used for years as an antibiotic to treat wounds. Bacteria couldn't grown in it and the chemical properties of the honey promoted healing. John shook out a towel and spread it over his lap. He laid out the items he would need before slipping on a latex glove. Dipping his free hand into the jar, he scooped out a handful of honey and gently smeared it over the burns. Sherlock sighed softly at the cooling sensation and turned his head towards John. John continued his ministrations until all the burns were covered in honey. He picked up a roll of gauze and started to wrap Sherlock's forearm and palm. Once that was done, he lowered the arm to his lap and wiped his sticky hands clean. Picking up a bandage, he quickly wrapped the bandage over the gauze and was almost done when the arm in his grip twitched.
Looking up to Sherlock's face, he watched as lids slowly rose to reveal confused grey-blue eyes. His gaze slowly moved around his room before landing on John. John watched as Sherlock's mind reconstructed everything that led to this point.
"John," he murmured and swallowed.
"I'm almost done with your arm. I'll give you some water and paracetamol after and you should rest."
He finished wrapping the bandage and lifted Sherlock's arm to put it back on the bed. He collected his supplies and stood to put everything away. Stepping into the kitchen, he filled a glass with water and set it down while collecting a few tablets of paracetamol. He paused and sagged against the counter. Looking around the kitchen, he sighed and set aside the tablets before kneeling and picking up the broken shards of ceramic mugs to throw away. The water had long since cooled and he wadded up paper towels to mop up the spill. There were no sounds coming from the bedroom while John worked. Once the kitchen was clean again, he collected the glass and paracetamol before walking back to the bedroom. Sherlock still was stretched out on the bed but now his good arm was bent up and the heel of his hand was pressed against his forehead.
"Here, take these," John said and held out the tablets and glass of water.
"How bad are the burns?"
"Mild second degree. It'll heal within three weeks and leave no scarring. You were lucky," John replied and gently bumped his knee against the bed to get Sherlock to look at him.
"How bad are we? Are you going to leave me?"
Sherlock lowered his arm and looked up at John. John didn't say anything. With a sigh, Sherlock sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Accepting the tablets and water, he swallowed them quickly and handed the empty glass back to John. John went to turn and walk out of the bedroom but Sherlock grabbed the hem of his jumper and jerked him back to stand between Sherlock's knees. John stumbled against Sherlock's body and wrapped his free hand around the back of Sherlock's neck and deep into his hair. At the tightened grip, Sherlock sucked in a breath at the sudden rush of endorphins that pooled in his groin.
"John?" he asked, his voice a few tones lower than normal.
He saw John's eyes dilate and his lips part for a breath. He looked down at Sherlock's upturned face and must have seen the same flush of arousal.
Without looking at it, Sherlock took the empty glass from John's grip and set it on the bedside table. His arm ached but it was quickly falling away to the heady lust that was licking through him.
"Don't give up on me, John. I'll be anything you want. I'll do anything you want. I'll change for you," Sherlock murmured and slid his arms around John's waist.
He gently nuzzled at John's abdomen as his hands slipped under the jumper and pulled up the undershirt to touch his bare skin. Their lovemaking had only been slow and gentle up to this point; trying to figure out what each of them enjoyed. They enjoyed the slow and thorough but Sherlock was starting to crave something more. A connection on a more primal plain.
"I don't want you to change, Sherlock. I just want you to become more aware of how your words can hurt people. You said yourself when we first met that there's always something you get wrong in your deductions. That one thing you get wrong is usually the difference between pissed off and suicidal," John said as he gently ran his fingers through Sherlock's thick hair.
Sherlock breathed in John's sent and cast about for a way he would be sure to remember this. Something that would cement this conversation in his mind. He looked up and pressed his chin into John's abdomen to look up at the other man.
"Make me remember, John. Help me to remember this."
John chuffed softly and weakly smiled. "How am I supposed to do that, Sherlock? You're the one in control of your mind. Use your bloody mind palace."
"If I just store it in the palace, it'll take too long to find it next time. Take me. Make me yours. Burn this moment into my mind," he said and dropped his head to nip at John's abdomen through his jumper.
John gasped at the sensation and tightened his grip on Sherlock's hair. That steady pull drug a groan from Sherlock's lips. His eyes rolled into the back of his head as his eyelids fluttered close. His skin buzzed at the slight pain. John flexed his grip against his scalp and he slowly opened his eyes to show John his blown pupils. John stared down at the consulting detective and saw the flush running up Sherlock's neck.
"So you want me to brand this moment into your memory?"
The commanding tone sent a thrill through Sherlock and his palms twitched against John's skin. It took only a moment to realize what John was asking for and Sherlock bit at his bottom lip before answering.
John stepped back suddenly and out of Sherlock's grip. His posture ramrod straight, John stared down at the aroused detective and let his gaze slowly rove over the offered body.
"Stand and strip."
Sherlock stood and quickly started to pull his shirt off over his head before a strong hand gripped him around his neck and pulled him against John's body.
"Strip slowly. I want to admire what's mine."
Sherlock felt suddenly light headed at the possessive note in John's voice. He never would have imagined that John's voice could make him this hard or horny. John stepped back away from him and nodded for Sherlock to continue. Sherlock stared at John as he slowly unbuttoned his shirt and let it slide from his shoulders to the ground. John made an appreciative sound as Sherlock slowly slid the belt from the loops and dropped it to the floor. He released the button of his trousers and slowly lowered the zipper. John's gaze sharpened as Sherlock pushed off his trousers and stood there in his pants.
"Take it all off," John ordered and a flush stained Sherlock's cheeks briefly before he pushed off his pants and twitched as the cool air hit his hot erection.
John slowly approached and started to walk around Sherlock. All of Sherlock's nerves were tingling in anticipation as he followed the doctor's progress. He gasped softly as John's warm hand gripped his hip and his thumb rubbed against his lower back. The next sensation came from his shoulder blade when John sunk his teeth into the meat and stroked his tongue across the abused flesh.
"Oh god," Sherlock choked and arched his back to press his shoulder blade against John for more sensation.
John chuckled against the flesh before releasing. "God has no part of this. By the time I'm done with you, you'll be praying to me to release you."
Sherlock's mind was fuzzy. His jaw worked loosely as he tried to form some sort of word. John had all his attention; his physical and mental attention. His body was trembling now and he couldn't envision what John would do next. How would he play this out? This was new territory for Sherlock and he was reveling in it.
"How far are you willing to go for me?" John asked softly as he ran his other hand up Sherlock's side and around to his chest.
He rubbed his thumb around Sherlock's nipple before pinching it. The dirty sound from Sherlock's mouth surprised him as he sagged against John and thrust his chest forward. He swallowed thickly as his brain struggled to form a coherent sentence.
"As far...as far as you're willing...to take me...sir," he muttered and moaned as John's fingers continued to abuse his nipple.
John growled and suddenly moved away from Sherlock but was back quickly. Sherlock's arms were pulled back and something was bound around his elbows to keep his arms behind his back. Sherlock briefly wondered why not his wrists but then he remembered the burns. His doctor's considerations brought a smile to his face but it was gone a moment later when he was turned and pushed against the wall. It was hard enough to knock his breath from him and he gasped as John's mouth latched onto the forgotten nipple. His hand was still playing with the other nipple but now his mouth was paying attention to the other. Sherlock's head thumped against the wall as his choked cry was cut off as John's free hand wrapped around Sherlock's cock. Sherlock never really considered himself to be vocal but John was uncovering unknown truths about the younger Holmes. He was getting very vocal as John continued to lick, pinch, fondle and basically pull Sherlock Holmes apart at the seams. He was panting in arousal and knew a mind numbing orgasm was just around the corner. Just as he neared the edge, John suddenly stepped back and let Sherlock slump weakly against the wall. Sobbing for the denied orgasm, he panted as he watched John undress. Sherlock eagerly eyed the thick cock that jutted from between John's legs and moaned in anticipation.
"You're not getting that yet. I need to hear you beg for it first," John said and Sherlock gaze snapped up to look at the doctor.
John gripped Sherlock's bicep and pulled him towards the bed and forced him to kneel on the bed. Sherlock gasped as John pushed his head down to the pillow and found himself bound, kneeling on a bed with his arse elevated and presented for John to use as he saw fit. His shoulders were pressed to the pillow and his face was turned to the side to let him breath. An animalistic groan echoed through Sherlock as his brain finally went offline and the only thought running through it was a mantra of 'Yes sir, please sir, take me sir, claim me sir, yes, yes.'
Sherlock's eyes rolled into the back of his head as he felt John's tongue rim around his entrance. A shudder raced down his spine and his hands clenched uselessly at his lower back as John's tongue breached the ring of muscle. He started fucking Sherlock's entrance with his tongue and Sherlock's vocal cords started working again.
"Please, John! Please, sir, please!"
Sweat was curling his bangs and slowly trickling down his temple. Colors were exploding behind his eyelids. John's hand gripped the base of Sherlock's cock to stave off his orgasm which caused Sherlock to growl in annoyance. John's hand tightened in retaliation as his tongue finished its assault and started kissing along the back of Sherlock's thighs.
"Someone still needs to be taught a lesson in patience," John muttered and reached for the lube with the hand not gripping Sherlock's cock.
Sherlock suddenly felt a cold finger slip into his hole and he groaned at the intrusion. There was enough lube that there was no discomfort, just a pleasing pressure. John added another finger and Sherlock leaned back while biting on his bottom lip. He started to gently rock as he fucked himself on John's fingers. John's fingers withdrew for a moment before three fingers were suddenly shoved into his hole. The throaty groan exploded from Sherlock's lips as new colors exploded in his mind.
"I want to hear you. I want to hear the filthy sounds you make when you're begging me to fuck you," John whispered by his ear which prompted a panting moan from the younger man.
His orgasm was building just at the precipice as John gripped the base of his penis and his fingers massaged him from the inside. The constant assault on his prostate was maddening and causing the orgasm to coil in on itself repeatedly. He was practically sobbing for his release; begging for John to fuck him.
"Please, sir, please fuck me. Please, John, I want to feel you come inside me. Please, sir, please!" Sherlock keened and heard his voice break.
The fingers left him and he moaned at the loss. The tight grip around his penis left also and he took a breath before John thrust into him. He was shoved against the mattress by the force and a new cry was wrenched from his lips. John started a punishing pace and constantly brushed against Sherlock's prostate. Sherlock was keening now in mindless pleasure as John leaned forward and wrapped his slicked hand around Sherlock's cock. His thrusts were pushing Sherlock's cock through John's grip and it only took a few thrusts before Sherlock screamed and his orgasm flooded his senses. He vaguely felt John thrust a few more times before stilling against Sherlock's arse.
Sherlock must have blacked out for a short while because the next thing he knew his arms were loose, he had been cleaned up and was now laying against John's side with his head resting on John's bad shoulder. The duvet had been pulled up to their waist and Sherlock's injured arm was draped over John's abdomen. Gentle fingers were carding through his hair while John mindlessly hummed a random tune. Sherlock sighed and shifted closer to nuzzle against John's chest.
"How are you?" John asked quietly and gently touched Sherlock's hand with his loose hand.
"Better. I'm sorry for what happened at the crime scene this morning."
John paused his movement through Sherlock's hair and sighed before resuming the action. Sherlock remained where he was; he didn't want to see the disappointment in John's face. John kissed the top of Sherlock's head and left his face there to breath in the detective's scent. He recalled the words and terrified expression on Sherlock's face when they stood in the kitchen. The normally unflappable, stoic detective was terrified that he might lose John. John had seen the darkness in Sherlock's eyes that he had worked so hard to banish.
"I'm not going to leave you, Sherlock. I love you too much. You have a brilliant mind and are just an overall amazing man. But sometimes you say things with absolutely no regard to how they might affect another person. Some of the things you've said to me have hurt me. If you had said those things to me before we actually knew each other, it might have been enough to push me over the edge and finally eat my gun." John sighed and kissed Sherlock's head again. "I just wish you would think before speaking what's on that brilliant mind of yours."
Sherlock tightened his grip on John when his mind flawlessly created the scene that ended with a dead John H. Watson. He couldn't imagine how his life would have turned out to be without John there to guide him. It probably would have ended quickly. The Pretty in Pink case and the pills was the most obvious.
"I'll try, John. That's all I can promise right now but I"ll try. For you," Sherlock replied and lifted his head and shifted to gently kiss John.
It was a day or two later when Lestrade called them out to consult on a blackmail case. Sherlock hid it well but he was nervous. This was the first time he had been out of the flat after having the session with John. The entire day had been effectively seared into his memory and occupied the main front room of his Palace. He was forcing himself to hesitate before opening his mouth to speak. He was taking the time to actually observe the person's face and expression and question how his words may affect them. It was more tedious than he expected but if it made John happy then he would try.
They entered the lobby of the NSY and rode the lift up to Lestrade's floor. The surrounding desks were busy with officers working over cases. Few spared any glances towards Sherlock and John as they crossed the room and knocked on Lestrade's door. The door swung open to reveal Lestrade and Donovan.
"Oh, look, it's Freak and his pet. Thought the pet got tired to following you around," Donovan snapped and Sherlock opened his mouth to fire back but hesitated.
He observed again and picked up on the emotional clues that he usually cast aside. Donovan was about to storm past them when Sherlock grabbed her elbow and pulled her side tightly to his chest. He felt her jump in surprise and start to twist her arm loose when he lowered his head to her ear.
"He doesn't deserve you," he whispered and felt her freeze at his soft words.
"Anderson doesn't deserve you. You are attractive, strong, funny and have a warm side that you don't let anyone at work see. You're more intelligent than him but you hide it so he isn't offended. He should be offended that he can't match you. You are above him but lower yourself to be with him when you shouldn't have to lower yourself for anyone. You deserve to be with someone that will be proud of you and everything you are. Not someone that only uses you for sex when his wife isn't there. You deserve better."
Sherlock released his grip and straightened to look down at Donovan. She continued to stare straight ahead and breathed shallowly before nodding minutely and continuing through the door. Sherlock turned to Lestrade and John and raised an eyebrow.
"Now, this blackmail case?"
Sherlock looked through the case file and suggested a few avenues of inquiry to Lestrade. Lestrade took notes and called in a Sergeant to follow up. When the door opened, the sounds of a muffled argument reached the three men's ears and Lestrade raised an eyebrow at the young man.
"What's going on out there?"
The young man flushed and glanced back over his shoulder before looking back to the Detective Inspector.
"Sergeant Donovan is yelling at Anderson, sir. Something about he doesn't appreciate her before they went into a empty conference room."
Sherlock's lips twitched as he looked over the few cold cases Lestrade had volunteered. He could feel John's stare boring into him but he steadily ignored him.
"I'll look these over Lestrade and get back to you," Sherlock said and stood from his chair.
John and he walked to the lift and saw Donovan emerge from the conference room. Anderson trailed after her and scurried to his desk as Donovan practically strutted to hers. She locked gazes with Sherlock and subtly dipped her head head in greeting.
"Have a good day, Sherlock."
The lift doors opened and Sherlock caught John's arm to drag him into the lift since the doctor seemed to be frozen in place by shock. The doors slid shut and Sherlock stared at his reflection as John turned and stared at him. Sherlock surprisingly had a warm, fuzzy feeling in his chest from helping Donovan. She did deserve better but just hadn't been able to acknowledge it herself.
"What did you say to Donovan?"
Sherlock recalled the conversation at the pub while searching for John. 'When you're screwing up and nobody says anything to you anymore, that means they've given up on you.'
"I called her out on her screwups."
'When you're screwing up and nobody says anything to you anymore, that means they've given up on you' is from the book 'The Last Lecture' by Randy Pausch. I intend this as a one shot but I could be persuaded if a lot of people enjoy it.