A/N – If you like this send your gratitude to ScopesMonkey. She is the only reason this story is seeing the light of day. It was destined to live a lonely life stuck on my flash drive before she came along. In addition, she was beta on this and made it tons better, so she has my gratitude as well.
Warnings – There are dirty bits to follow. More graphic than some, less than others. Enjoy or avoid as you see fit.
Disclaimer – If I owned them I would not be heading to the laundry room to fold my own clothes. That is for damn sure.
Sherlock glanced down at his mobile questioningly.
A picture of John, announcing the text message was from him, was followed by the words, Where are you?
He was in the office of a museum curator; Lestrade was on the other side of the desk from him. They were searching through the recent acquisition files trying to trace the history of a forged Jackson Pollock.
John had another follow up appointment with his doctor today. These visits were usually followed by a quick text verifying that everything was still looking good or that he was healing nicely. There had never been a request for Sherlock's location before. Sherlock immediately assumed that something had gone wrong.
The Tate Modern. What is wrong?-SH
He waited for a reply, counting down the appropriate response time in his head. He waved Lestrade off when the DI asked a question and settled into the curator's chair. The time had expired and he was starting to dial, when the response finally came through.
I need to talk to you about something. If I come over there will you have a few minutes?
Sherlock huffed at the lack of response to his question and responded quickly.
Of course. What is wrong? – SH
He watched his phone for several long moments.
"Sherlock, is there…"
"Quiet," Sherlock snapped at Lestrade just as the phone rang. He answered it quickly.
"What is…" he started.
"Nothing exactly," John interrupted, "I just need to talk to you about something the doctor said."
"John?" Sherlock questioned, trying to interpret the doctor's voice. It sounded tense, maybe anxious. It didn't quite sound scared, but he knew John could suppress fear very well.
"Sherlock. I'll be there in about 20 minutes. It will just take a few minutes." Definitely anxious, nervous.
Sherlock nodded even though John couldn't see him. "I will have one of Lestrade's people to bring you up." He paused, looking at Lestrade who stepped outside to instruct one of his men to do just as Sherlock said. "Are you ok?" The detective added.
John sighed on the other end of the line; Sherlock didn't know what that meant. There were too many possibilities. "I'll explain it to you when I get there. Don't worry." He rang off.
Sherlock sat in silence for several seconds. Lestrade came back in and said, "Donovan is going to bring him up when he gets here." Sherlock nodded at this, not taking his eyes of the phone for several more seconds.
He finally took a deep breath and picked up the file he'd been working on. He didn't really see it, though. He was too busy running through all of the things that could have been wrong with John: infection, reinjury, disease, something came up in the blood taken on the last appointment, organ failure, intestinal issues, problems with the concussion or head wound, his lungs.
Sherlock berated himself quietly; he hadn't been as vigilant about keeping the experiments put away and sterile. John had been doing so much better that Sherlock had allowed himself to lapse back into old habits. That might have caused problems for John.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. He took out his phone with the intention of calling Mrs. Hudson and having her bring the cleaning people back in. John would probably go to work, unless the news was devastating. Sherlock's chest tightened. What if the news was devastating?
It couldn't be, John told him not to worry. Granted it was more of an in passing, "Don't worry" instead of the preferred emphatic, "There is nothing to worry about Sherlock." However, John wouldn't have said it if there was something to worry about.
If the news was devastating there would be very little point in worrying.
No point in worrying about something that you can't fix.
Sherlock bit his lower lip and stared at the folder, again. He glanced up quickly and noticed Lestrade looking at him oddly. Sherlock glared at him and almost let a snarl cross his features. Instead he turned back to the file and actually read some of it.
What felt like seconds later he heard John talking to Donovan. His voice was clipped and heavy. He was still anxious about something. Was he anxious over talking to Sherlock, about telling Sherlock something? Bad news?
Sherlock dropped the folder on the desk and started to make his way around and towards the door. Lestrade looked up at him, about to offer the room to leave, but Sherlock just kept walking.
He met John in the doorway.
Donovan looked between them for a moment before walking away.
Sherlock studied John. His face had the slight flush of exertion, not unfamiliar as he was still working to get all of his strength back. It seemed unusual though as he would surely have taken a cab and used the lifts. His pace down the hallway hadn't been particularly fast.
He was definitely anxious about something. He appeared sweaty even though it was cool outside. He'd been ringing his hands, probably since he'd arrived at the museum, if not before. His eyes were darting back and forth between Sherlock's. His breathing was short and too fast. He began grabbing at his sleeves as he stood there.
"Is there a place where we can…" John started and Sherlock grabbed his arm. He walked him across to a series of vacant offices on the other side of the administration floor. Sherlock picked one at random, absently flipping the light switch before pushing John inside. He followed immediately behind, closing the door and throwing the lock.
He turned to face John, noticing the empty desk in the middle of the room, the couch on one wall, the empty book case on the other. He was quickly preparing himself for whatever his husband-to-be was about to say when the small compact body slammed into him making him stumble backwards. He would have fallen if John hadn't had both arms wrapped around him, pulling him forward and securing him. A second later he felt John's lips against his.
He was shocked, but instinct is powerful and his instinctive reactions to John are some of the strongest. He was kissing back immediately. John's tongue demanded entrance and Sherlock granted it. It was a messy kiss, demanding, hard.
John held Sherlock's face between two hands and didn't let him move. He pressed himself hard against Sherlock and refused to relinquish control. Sherlock groaned and it got lost in the doctor. They managed to press even closer together. They started to move until Sherlock backed into the empty desk. He sat on it which put him closer to John's height. The doctor used this to his advantage and moved himself between Sherlock's legs.
Sherlock reached around John and pressed their bodies together, just as something in his brain tried to remind him that there was a reason that they were in this room.
Something John was going to tell him.
Sherlock settled his hands on John's shoulders and pushed him back slightly. He tried to make his brain think, to make it catch up, to make it figure it out. The only thing that came to him was the urge to kiss John more. He wanted to kiss John more, but there was a problem. He couldn't remember what it was, but there had been a problem.
John had gone to the doctor. There was news from the doctor. Sherlock stood up between John and the desk and looked down at the doctor.
"What…?" Sherlock gasped into the small space separating the two of them. John's face was flushed and his breath was quick.
Their eyes locked and Sherlock noted the playful smile cross John's face. John leaned forward and placed a kiss on Sherlock's chin before sinking to his knees.
Sherlock looked at him awestruck for a moment, brain taking a moment to catch up. Suddenly, John's hand came up holding a piece of paper. Sherlock continued to stare down at John who placed a kiss onto Sherlock's stomach through his shirt.
"Read it." John said waving the piece of paper. Sherlock took it absently. They couldn't do this. This was the Tate Modern. John was still recovering. "Read it." John said again as he started to undo Sherlock's belt.
It was written on a piece of prescription paper for Dr. Edward Matthews.
John Watson has been fully cleared to resume all activities that he was involved in before the surgery.
It was signed by the same doctor.
Sherlock read it over and over, only looking away and back towards John when the cool air from the room hit his skin as John unbuttoned and unzipped his trousers.
"John?" Sherlock asked finally figuring it out. "We can have sex?"
John smiled up at him. "We can have sex." He reached his hand into the front of Sherlock's boxers. The paper dropped as Sherlock's head fell backwards.
The feeling of dry skin on dry skin sent shivers up the detective's spine. He focused his mind on each tug, feeling the blood rush away from his brain and towards his groin.
He groaned out John's name and settled his weight back against the desk and gripped the edge with both hands.
"Shh," John said, continuing to tug on Sherlock's penis. "How long has it been?"
"18 weeks, 3 days, 7 hours, 22 minutes." Sherlock answered without hesitation running a hand through John's hair. "We shouldn't do this he…"
The rest of the sentence was lost in a whimper as John took Sherlock's erection in his mouth. The doctor suckled the sensitive head, lapping at it with his tongue before taking the whole length. Sherlock shoved a knuckle into his mouth and bit down, suppressing a groan.
The doctor pulled back, wrapped his fist around the shaft and started pumping. He looked up at Sherlock and their eyes locked. "I can't imagine this will take long." John said and Sherlock could only nod, feeling the familiar tightening forming fast.
"Shit, John," he managed to get out, adjusting his weight on the desk so that he could push his hips forward into John's hand.
"I've been thinking about this for days." John said. "I didn't want to say anything in case I didn't get the all clear, but god have I been thinking about this." He leaned forward and swirled his tongue around the head. Sherlock jumped. "I've been dreaming about tasting you."
Sherlock moaned pushing forward harder.
"You better bite down on your finger again; you don't want half of Scotland Yard to hear you."
Vaguely, Sherlock thought he didn't care who heard, but brought his fist up and bit into it, just as he started a continuous keen.
"Come on Sherlock, don't hold back on me. It's been 18 weeks." He took the shaft into his mouth again and hollowed his cheeks, just as he cupped Sherlock's balls and pushed them forward.
He earned a muffled groan of his name. Sherlock's toes started to curl.
He backed off and then repeated the action. He noticed the slight change in the muffled noise and managed to put a hand on Sherlock's hip just as the detective thrust forward involuntarily. The fluid flooded into John's mouth and he swallowed it down as quickly as Sherlock could give it to him. The wails that were getting lost in Sherlock's fist were bouncing through the doctor's body. He worked Sherlock through it expertly until all of muscles relaxed and all of the detective's weight settled back on the desk.
John released him and stared up the long torso. Sherlock's face was flushed and his head was tilted back. His breathing was erratic, but stabilizing with every gulping breath. John pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket that he'd brought for just this purpose. He gently wiped Sherlock off and tucked him back into his boxers and reclosed his trousers. He looked up to see the detective watching him curiously.
"When you arrived here you looked flushed as if you'd exerted yourself." It was a simple statement and John just listened. "You had a wank before you came here."
John smiled and placed a kiss into the wool pants just at Sherlock's hipbone. "I wanted to surprise you," the doctor said, standing and placing his lips against the detectives. "I knew you'd be reluctant to leave the case, but didn't want to wait."
Sherlock nodded; he'd have gladly left the case, but the surprise was nice. He was sure they'd managed not to be heard. And now he had the perfect incentive to get this case solved today. Spending all of tonight and tomorrow in bed sounded divine.
Then something else occurred to him, he remembered a conversation he'd had with John. When Sherlock had brought up picking a wedding date several weeks ago John had insisted on one condition: waiting until they could have a proper wedding night. They could do that now. John was ok. They could get married.
A smile crossed John's face and Sherlock knew that the doctor had already realized this. Sherlock wrapped his arms around the doctor and pulled him close, placing a kiss onto the side of the doctor's head.
"Anytime you are ready." John said and Sherlock understood, wondering if tomorrow would be too soon.