WOW. Just...WOW. THANK YOU FOR ALL THE PHANTASMIC SUPPORT for all those you reviewed (just fyi

elfmaiden4legs, mustangwoman, Lanshannarra, northerlywind, Handful of Silence, Shizuku Tsukishima749 are splenfierious people), story alerted, AND/OR favorited. That's incredible! You all make me so happy! :D

Even specialer props to northerlywind who doesn't really read slash, but read this anyway. And then pointed out that John has a psychosomatic limp in this RIGHT leg, not his left. Thank you.

Anyway, please enjoy part 2 with (slightly random) poetic intro!

Part 2: Sherlock

Beyond the comfort of your arms

is a dark road to travel

but come with me

and I'll not be


He awoke to movement.

Something besides him was twitching and bumping into his prone form softly. John opened his eyes immediately, fearing what might be happening. At first all he saw was the black shapes and darkness of the ceiling, the window's outside streetlamp barely eeking out any misty amber light. It must be around 2am or so, judging by the dark. When you race across London at all hours of the night, you get good at recognizing what time it is by the level of black.

He turned his head to his side to see the big something twitching next to him was Sherlock. They had originally fallen asleep tangled together, all legs and sheets and boxer shorts and arms, but somehow Sherlock seemed to have kicked free. Lying on his side with his hands tucked underneath his chin, Sherlock had created a centimeter of space between them now, a space he kept crossing with flicks of his fingers, tics of his elbow, spasms of his ankle, and shivers of his head making his sweaty curls slide on the side of John's face.

John felt his eyebrows raise. Since he so rarely stopped enough for a proper sleep, Sherlock was usually like the living dead in true slumber: so still that you almost needed a hand on his heart to assure yourself he was alive. What was going on? John propped himself on his elbow and stroked the damp, dark curls away from Sherlock's pale brow. The other man shivered. A fever...?


The doctor froze and felt the warmth of blood drain from his head and outstretched hand. He had heard that 'John' years ago. It was at the Pool where the mirror of chlorinated water had danced and obscured, shadowed and illuminated in sickly aquamarine Sherlock's white face and round, smokey eyes wide with shock at John's presence wrapped in the winter coat. It had wonder, betrayal, worry, desperation, and most of all confusion contained in those four little letters. It was the most complex way John had heard anyone ever say a single name, let alone his own.

Finally, John's sleep-slowed brain knew.

Nightmare. Sherlock was having a nightmare.

The ex-army medic was swift in action. He scooted his whole body back into Sherlock's space (where it belonged), nuzzling his head in between Sherlock's cooler arms and wrapping his own free upper limb around the taller man's back. He started rubbing soothing swirls into Sherlock's back as he hooked his leg into Sherlock's own. He then whispered into the detective's neck, "Sherlock, I'm here. We're safe. Safe."

John was not expecting Sherlock's reaction.

An electric jolt went through the other man's body. The detective tore out of John's protecting arms and sprang away from his confining legs. In an instant, Sherlock was out of the bed, standing akimbo and staring in wide-eyed wonder. He blinked rapidly in the dark, and his chest heaved into heavy, conscious breath. The coppery light of outside lit his white frame into relief, little wet sprites of misty luminescence dancing on the outline of his exposed neck, shoulders, chest, arms, hands, lower thighs.

John's first thought was that it was unfair how beautiful Sherlock got to be all the time.

Sherlock's eyes must have finally adjusted to the gloom of the room because their laser-focus now rested on John. John saw the skin around them tighten for a fraction of a second as a sign of realization and decision. The deep baritone voice only seemed to confirm John's thought: "I'm sorry to wake you."

John propped himself on his elbow again and tried to hide the tiny twinge of hurt that his attempt to comfort Sherlock had been useless. Sherlock did it so many times for John: it would have been nice to return the favor. "It's all fine." They stayed like that for a minute. As the silence and stillness stretched onto minute two, John asked, "Are you coming back to bed anytime soon?"

Sherlock just nodded and slipped back under the covers, still watching John. John made himself more comfortable and watched him back. "So, was Moriarty blowing me up in your dream?" Sherlock started in surprise, but nodded his head. John sighed. He returned to his former position of entanglement with the detective, the said detective opening his arms to allow the doctor in. "We can't keep thinking like this, you know: worrying that the other is going to be killed. Sleep is good."

"Sleep is boring."

John chuckled. "Yeah, compared to you it is." He leaned back a bit and kissed Sherlock on the nose.

Sherlock chuckled this time and said, "I know something we could do instead of sleeping."

"Sherlock, you've slept a grand total of six hours in the past two days. You need to sleep."


John pretended to swat him, but Sherlock caught his hand before it could connect and then stole a kiss. They tussled about for a bit, blankets being kicked off and tangled with their play. They rolled around each other, but it ended with John sitting on top of Sherlock, comfortably straddling the other man's waist and pinning his wrists to either end of the bed (well, as far as John could reach anyway). "Now that I have you where I want you," John said, as if continuing a conversation from earlier. "Go to sleep."

Sherlock really laughed this time. "With you like that? I think not, Dr. Watson."

John looked down at the man underneath. He took in the quirked smile, the devilish glint in the eyes that smoldered gold in this light, the wild mop of mahogany fallen haphazardly across his brow and the pillows, the stark whiteness of the long neck and delicate strength of the collarbones, the outlined ribs and barely there roundness of his two nipples. He leaned forward, trying to match upper body to upper body, his feet barely sliding to settle around Sherlock's calves.

He felt the taut stomach muscles of his companion underneath his own and relished how the skin seemed to glow against his tan tone. John slid his hands down Sherlock's arms achingly slow, taking time to smooth out each muscle, each lingering scar. He rubbed with his thumbs each inside of Sherlock's elbows, causing the man's whole body to shiver. John gave a kiss more like a blowing of air to Sherlock's mid-sternum, trailing slowly up to the man's throat just as his hands slid to Sherlock's shoulders, up his neck, and behind his head to bury themselves in now dry curls. He tilted Sherlock's head to kiss the jaw and stroked his thumbs against Sherlock's cheekbones. Sherlock sighed in contentment before turning his head into an earned soft kiss: a kiss promising many days, weeks, years like this, just like this, always together in a slow, rough beat.

The kiss ended, and John placed his hands beside Sherlock's head, putting his own head in the niche underneath Sherlock's. He breathed out.

Sherlock sucked in a breath and put his arms down to caress John's back, whirling circles and shapes of his own imagining. John could feel the smooth coolness of Sherlock's hands, which was only interrupted by the hardness of the metal band around his left ring finger.

"I'm here and I love you," John whispered.

Sherlock nodded, his own emotion not to be contained in words.

Right, so that's as close to porn as I'm ever going to get. :)

Thanks for reading! Please please review! Stories get better when there's a review/rewriting. I'm especially interested in your thoughts for this ending.