Warnings: Spoilers through Reichenbach Fall, Swearing, Graphic sex

Authors notes: This has been edited because in my post RF grieving my spelling and grammar was absolute crap! But this is probably my favorite story I've ever written so I thought it deserved to be cleaned up. Within the week it should be up on Ao3 (same penname) if anyone wants to download. =] Enjoy.

Miracle on Baker Street: Part 4

by Teumessian

It was safe to say John was nervous as he climbed the stairs towards his long-unused bedroom. There were many reasons for his unease. First there was the sheer fact that he was going to be sharing his bed with someone for the first time in what seemed like an eternity—and that person was Sherlock Holmes. On top of this John was terrified to close his eyes. Somewhere inside he still feared that if he closed his eyes and slipped into oblivion, he would wake up to find this had all been a horribly, cruelly beautiful dream. Then he worried about what would happen to him if this was only a dream… John doubted he could take it. Nightmares he could handle, handle poorly, but he could handle them. This though, was different. This would break John Watson irreparably.

John was so distracted he had somehow managed to change into his pajama bottoms and a tee-shirt all on auto pilot, and when he turned to climb into bed, Sherlock had beat him to it. He wasn't wearing a shirt, and even though his body was covered from the chest down by John's comforter, he assumed that Sherlock was probably only wearing his pants as John hadn't seen him grab his own pajamas. This brought another faint dusting of warmth to John's cheeks.

Sherlock, however, seemed completely at ease. He lay on his back with his hands behind his head, seemingly studying the ceiling. He didn't seem like he was getting ready to sleep either. John suddenly wondered if he would just lay there all night to appease John. That elicited two distinct feelings in John. The first was surprise that Sherlock would do that for him and paired with it was surge of pleasure. The second was pure shame. When did he get this pathetic?

John sighed heavily and was about to go to the bed when he remembered he left his phone down on the coffee table. He muttered a curse and made his way towards the living room to grab it. Before he got two steps towards the door a low voice stopped him.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock asked.

For most people there wouldn't have been anything notable in Sherlock's voice; John was not most people. The words were a little rushed and undercut with something more than idle curiosity.

"I left my mobile in the living room," John explained.

"Oh," Sherlock said and didn't take his eyes off him.

Perhaps Sherlock hadn't found a sudden sympathetic streak when he followed John upstairs. Maybe John wasn't the only one who saw demons in the dark.

"Ah, never mind," John said, turning away from the door. "There's nothing anyone would want to say to me tonight that I couldn't hear tomorrow morning."

Sherlock didn't look away from the ceiling this time but he did smile lightly.

John padded back to the bed and pulled down the covers before lowering himself onto the familiar mattress. The one at Harry's had just never felt right.

"Goodnight, Sherlock," John said, the way he'd said it so many times before.

Never quite like this of course. It was the same words; the same tone, but never before had it been directed at the other side of the bed. John switched off the lamp on his bedside table and then they were shrouded in darkness.

Somehow it made John all the more aware of the man beside him, painfully so. He'd told himself this was good enough for tonight and really it was; his body just hadn't been informed of that fact. It had been so long since he'd been so close to anyone let alone someone like… John rolled away from Sherlock and faced the wall. He lay on his side with one arm under his head and pillow. He was so tired but his eyes remained open, as if he could see the steady, near silent breathing of the human being in the bed next to him. Why had he done this to himself again? Oh right, he was terrified Sherlock would disappear. This was better. He could feel the heat from Sherlock's lithe frame warming his mattress. He was here, alive. John calmed himself in the silence but sleep didn't come.

"John, I'm sorry," Sherlock's voice floated softly through the quiet.

It didn't surprise John. He knew Sherlock was as wide awake as he was. John's fingers traced the sheets and he continued to stare into the darkness.

"Sherlock, it's…" he began to say.

"I hurt you."

It wasn't a question, or even an admission, really. It was a fact, undeniable and true. John's stomach twisted and he searched his mind for the right thing to say, but no perfect solution came to him.

"I… understand why now," John said in a hushed voice. "It's… going to be okay."

Neither of them were even going to pretend that everything was alright currently. There were so many wounds, so many scars. Such things took time to heal, but John was confident that in time everything would indeed be okay. He knew they would.

At his words John heard Sherlock inhale slow and deep, and then release it. It shuddered as it left him. Sherlock's breath shook. Then there was silence in the room again, and still John stared. Moments passed and John could feel his heartbeat spread across his skin.

Then there was a rustle of sheets and suddenly long, warm arms slid around John and pulled him backwards. John gasped shallowly as a face buried itself in the space where his neck and shoulder met. Curls brushed his cheek.

John was crushed into Sherlock's chest, his arms like steel bars securing him there. His hands were fists in John's shirt, one against his ribs and the other firmly over his wounded shoulder. John felt Sherlock's legs all along the back of his own, the man effectively enveloping him into his, almost naked, body. John had never been held like this before.

Then Sherlock pressed his nose into the side of John's neck and inhaled sharply. John's insides were set ablaze and he couldn't stop himself from leaning back into Sherlock even further and grabbing Sherlock's arm in a vice grip, holding him in place. John felt Sherlock's fairly even breathing on his neck. It sped up. Finally he spoke once more.

"John, I am… truly, truly sorry. I'm sorry…" he whispered to John's skin, and hidden by the dark, real, agonizing pain finally broke through his carefully controlled tone.

Tears pricked in John's eyes as his heart seemed to choke.

John rolled. He turned in Sherlock's arms to face the suffering. He reached up to thread his hand into Sherlock's hair and pulled his forehead down to press against his own, almost too hard. The other arm wound around Sherlock's waist.

"Shh…" John murmured, threading his fingers through the silken strands. "Shh, it's not your fault… it's not your fault."

John's voice was so rough and he felt Sherlock quivering in his arms. He could feel wetness in his own eyes and knew he was losing it.

"And… and Sherlock… I'm—I'm sorry, too… I'm so, so sorry," John knew his voice was rising and falling and breaking but he had to say this. "I'm so sorry for what you had to do… I'm so sorry, Sherlock…"

His voice broke over Sherlock's name and then, thank the gods, lips silenced him. Their first kiss had been emotional and raw, but innocent. This kiss was totally different. It was like a circuit had been completed and each reconnection between him seemed to send a charge through John's veins where it convened and grew in the pit of his stomach. This kiss didn't hold just the weight of a love discovered, but also the pain, the scars, and the weight of their dirty, messy, imperfect lives.

John's arm tightened around Sherlock's neck, pulling them even closer. Sherlock's hands were on his face, wiping and brushing away the tears that had slipped out of his eyes. Then he cupped John's jaw and tilted his head back. A nimble tongue darted over his bottom lip and his mouth parted automatically. He'd really never been able to deny Sherlock anything. Then Sherlock's tongue slipped into his mouth and John forgot how to breath for a few seconds.

John wondered where Sherlock learned how to kiss like this, whether it was past experience, theoretical study, or just natural talent, John had no idea. It could have been any one or combination of them, but the longer that clever, clever tongue was in his mouth the less and less John cared about how the hell Sherlock knew how to do it. John was content to let Sherlock have his way for a while but the charge was building.

Finally John broke for air with a gasp and immediately pushed on Sherlock's shoulder. John followed him as he rolled so he found himself straddling the man's narrow hips. John didn't hesitate to swoop down on Sherlock's exposed neck. He kissed, nipped, bit and sucked, head light and swirling. Then John had a brilliant, stunning revelation. Sherlock chest was completely bare.

His hands were added to the mix of sensations that he used to assault Sherlock's body. He trailed his fingers over Sherlock's smooth chest and stomach. He felt them ripple under his touch and never before had John felt so powerful, to elicit this response from Sherlock. And John couldn't help but believe in Sherlock's life and presence when he could feel his pulse drumming against his tongue.

Suddenly it seemed that Sherlock decided he wanted a turn and John's lips broke away from the hollow under Sherlock's ear with a pop as hands gripped his hips and he was pushed sideways and then he was on his back.

John arched and took a sharp intake of breath when he felt Sherlock's short fingernails scrap against his abdomen as he hooked his fingers under the hem of John tee-shirt. It was easy for Sherlock to rip the shirt up and over John's head before tossing it somewhere across the room. John obviously wasn't fighting it. Sherlock's hands then ran from his shoulders to his biceps, where they rested as Sherlock leaned down and begin pressing open mouthed kisses to his chest. John's breathing thinned out and sped up and his neck craned backwards. It was nearly too much.

Sherlock's mouth finally paused for a moment, his innate curiosity tangible, and then closed over his left nipple. That tongue danced and then there was a very light pinch of teeth.

"Ah!" John gasped and bucked.

All of a sudden the pressure above him shifted and John's hips were pressed into the mattress as Sherlock sat up.

"I want to see you," he rasped, and John's hips shifted in response again.

John felt the mattress dip beside him as Sherlock leaned over towards his bedside table. Then with a fairly unpleasant click and flash, light flared into the room. It was a dim light but in contrast with the utter darkness in the shuttered room it was blinding. If he had been any more coherent John would have protested.

When his eyes finally adjusted, John looked up and sucked in a mouth full of air. Sherlock was sitting above him, hands on John's ribs so he leaned lightly forward. His hair hung disheveled over his forehead and his cheeks were flushed and pink, as were his lips, nearly bruised. His chest rose and fell fast enough to let John know he was less calm then his stillness made him appear. His graceful, curved neck was marked and John was embarrassed for more than a moment, causing even more blood to rush to his face. The little red marks on Sherlock's skin were sure to betray him in purple by morning. What was he? A teenager?

He'd been distracted by his lack of self control for a moment but now he saw Sherlock's eyes. They were so dark and bright, and they were currently examining every exposed inch of John's body. He'd never felt to vulnerable and exposed, like an adolescent, naked in front of another's eyes for the first time. Jesus! He was not a blushing schoolgirl! No matter how those eyes seemed to drink him in, as if Sherlock would only be satisfied once every inch of John's skin was observed, recorded and filed away somewhere in that massive head of his. John couldn't even move.

Sherlock so very slowly trailed his fingers from John's collar bone, down his chest and swirled around his navel. John bowed his back and his fingers twisted the sheets while his other hand gripped Sherlock's leg. Distracted and intrigued, Sherlock continued to trace obscure patters and shapes on his skin. It was slowly killing him. Finally, when Sherlock drug his nails from shoulder to abdomen, John shuddered and broke.

"Sherlock," he begged.

The man snapped out of whatever fixation he'd been inhabiting and finally met John's eyes. He didn't know what Sherlock saw there but whatever it was made his eyes go two shades darker and his tongue to wet his lips of his own accord.

They moved at the same time. Sherlock swooped down upon him as John rose up to meet. They met in the middle and it was a flurry of lips and teeth and hands and skin and skin and skin. John sighed in blessed contentment when Sherlock finally dropped down and their bare chests finally pressed together, the heat nearly excruciating, and when Sherlock surprised John by sticking his tongue directly into John's ear, his hands scrabbled for something to grab onto on Sherlock's utterly smooth back and he couldn't help but roll his hips upwards, pressing both of their now painfully hard erections together.

John thought his brain was short-circuiting. Sherlock groaned and it was one of the most beautiful things John had ever heard.

"Oh, hell…" John sighed as Sherlock nibbled and sucked at his earlobe and his hands played up and down John's ribs.

"Mmmn," Sherlock murmured in some form of agreement John thought.

It was all warm touches, clumsy groping and want for closeness. It was practiced but new and flustered as possible—all raw need. Their hips were rubbing together at a consistent pace now and John didn't know how much longer he'd be able to fake any sort of control at all. He was so gone.

John ran his hand down over Sherlock's lower back and then lower. Sherlock almost seemed to growl in response and his hands slid quickly down John's sides before he hooked his thumbs under the waistband of John's pajamas. Before John could react, they were pulled off and then Sherlock took him in hand. John's left hand pulled sharply on the hair at the nape of Sherlock's neck. Sherlock then squeezed him.

"Ungh! Sherlock!" John couldn't help but gasp.

Sherlock hesitated for a moment at John's cry. Then he repeated the motion and pumped John again.

"Aa—ah!"

Sherlock liked that. John was almost totally lost to the world when Sherlock began to stroke him with a steady hand. It was a nibble on John's lips that brought him back from the blind world of bliss. With a shuddering breath John reciprocated, which Sherlock should have seen coming but did not. There was a hot huff of breath released against John's lips as he yanked Sherlock's pants down and off, and then wrapped his hand around Sherlock's cock.

The man stilled suddenly, holding himself suspended above John. It was surprising and fascinating enough that John's head was cleared enough to take in the occurrence properly. Slowly, testing, John pumped Sherlock once from tip to base. His breath caught as a shuddery breath tickled his face and Sherlock's hips rolled in sync with his motion. John did it once more and again Sherlock shuddered and rolled. John was reverent. He wondered how long it had been since someone had touched Sherlock in this way.

For a moment he completely forgot about his own arousal and raptly focused on the wondrous creature at his mercy. He increased the pace of his strokes and began to add a twist whenever he reached his head. Sherlock's forehead rested against John's and his breath was huffing out unevenly. John could feel the way his hand clenched the sheet above John's head where he leaned on his elbow for support. Then Sherlock started moaning and John could barely breathe again, afraid to break the perfection.

It was only when Sherlock began to lose pace with John's steady pumping and he began to twitch his hips uncontrollably every few seconds did he break away.

"I… John…" Sherlock gasped and the stillness snapped.

A new storm of activity whirled between them. There was an undeterminable amount of time when John wasn't sure which direction was up or which was down or whether he was on top of Sherlock or it was the other way around. John had never been engaged in something so raw. It was a little clumsy. Sherlock was all angles and lines and John was so lost in need he couldn't see straight, but somehow it was perfect. Each pound of his heart against his ribs, each pound of Sherlock's beating back against his chest, as if they were trying to bust through to join together. And each time those hearts pounded it was like a hammer against the last of John's doubts, the last of his defenses. They were crumbling with every second and this was real.

Their hips rolled in time and the friction was mind numbing. Sherlock's breath was coming faster against his shoulder and John knew he was close. Suddenly he sympathized with Sherlock. He had to see, to feel, to taste. He rose up on one elbow and cupped the back of Sherlock's neck and mashed their lips together. Then he reached down and gripped him again. He ran his thumb over the tip where he was already leaking pearly drops and John began to stroke him quickly. He felt Sherlock's hand close around his own erection but John made sure he kept pace.

Sherlock was bucking into his hand now and sounds John never imagined could come from the consulting detective where being moaned into his mouth. Sherlock's fingers were digging into John's shoulder but he didn't give a damn.

"Mmnng… John…! John, I'm… I'm going to…"

John drank in Sherlock's words and they were like oil poured on the fire in his gut.

"Yes…" John murmured into his lips. "Yes…"

Sherlock's hands fisted in the sheets. His back ached up in abandon.

"Ah! Ah! John!"

He shouted. Sherlock Holmes shouted John's name as he came into his hand, hot mess leaving undeniable evidence proving that he was indeed human. John was unable to tear his eyes away from the beauty of it. Sherlock's eyes were open but stared unseeing at the ceiling and his lips were wet and parted. John vowed to never forget how Sherlock looked in this moment. He didn't stop until Sherlock had ridden his orgasm as far as he could take it and then collapsed, panting onto the bed.

John rolled to the side, still watching as Sherlock's chest heaved. He almost forgot that he was still harder than he had ever been his entire life. Sherlock, however, apparently did not. His head lolled sideways and his eyes locked onto John's, they were filled with a strange mix and awe and wonder. Had John done that? If he had… well, he wanted to do it over and over again and never stop.

Sherlock turned onto his side and his hand rose up to trace the line of John's jaw, so slow. It sent a violent shudder through his body and a sharp shock to a very specific part of his anatomy and his hips jerked. While his mind may have been satisfied, his body obviously still had a goal. Sherlock didn't keep him waiting. Without taking his eyes off John's face, Sherlock's hand trailed down John's neck, then his chest, over his abdomen and then those wondrously long fingers curled firmly around his length. He stroked him once, twice, picking up a rhythm. John was hot but Sherlock's skin was hotter. It was burning him.

John was scrabbling for purchase on the loose sheets. He was close, oh-so close. His eyes had been screwed tightly shut but he forced them open to meet Sherlock's eyes and that's what undid him completely. Sherlock's eyes were the deepest blue John had ever seen them, calm and secure, deep and sated, awed and inspired. Too much. John's eyes slammed shut and he threw his head back.

"SHERLOCK!" he shouted.

He came hard over Sherlock's hand and his own stomach. The waves shook him from the tip of his head to the tips of his toes, pleasure burning through his veins so powerfully he wondered if it wouldn't destroy him. Sherlock's hand stayed around him as the aftershocks shook him. Finally, John shivered and every muscle in his body relaxed.

The source of heat beside him disappeared and John tried to rebel against his body to see where it went but he was just so tired. When was the last time he slept? The light in the room vanished and the body soon returned, though. He felt someone wipe his stomach and hand clean and it made him want to giggle, if he could have move at all. Then two long arms and a leg slipped around him and John found just enough energy to slide his hand up to caress the head that was using the space between his neck and shoulder as a pillow. His other arm was slung around a trim waist and John sighed contentedly.

"John?" a voice barely whispered.

"Mmn?" John replied eloquently.

"…Thank you…"

There was much said in the two word but for once the genius decided to let his heart speak instead of his mouth. John tipped his head down so he could nuzzle his face into the soft hair on Sherlock's head.

"You came back…" John murmured, voice thick as honey. "You came back to me…"

John thought that Sherlock may have said something back but John never heard, and as he slipped into oblivion, one last thought floated through his conscious.

I love you.

When John awoke up he was cold. He thought that's what must have woken him. John was on his side, curled against the lack of warmth. Then he inhaled deeply, familiar smell of 221B Baker Street filling his nose.

Several thoughts hit John like a train at once. First was a question. Why he wasn't at Harry's? Then, like a slideshow sped up a hundred times over, images from last night tumbled over him. And then the realization that he was alone in his bed washed over him sickly.

Oh god… oh, heavens no. No, no!

"Sherlock!" John gasped as he shot up into a sitting position.

The comforter slipped down his body and pooled around his waist. He was… naked.

"Still alive…" a voice floated from the space near the now un-shuttered window.

John's head snapped around and what he saw was a spectacle indeed.

Sherlock Holmes leaned against the window frame like a princess at the top of a tower, gazing out at the world below. He was wrapped in a sheet and nothing else if history proved the present. He was wrapped in John's sheet. Wait, how had he managed to get that without waking John?

John just watched him for a moment and Sherlock looked over to meet his gaze. There were many things that John could—should—have been thinking about. He could have been worried about what the future held for them. He could be worried about how the public would take Sherlock's resurrection when the press found out. He could have been thinking about how Harry was going to scream at him later for ignoring her yesterday. He could have been worried about trying to convince Sherlock to put on a scarf before anyone came to visit them, as John's love bites were clearly visible on his pale neck. John could have been worried about likelihood that Sherlock would refuse to put on anything else today now that he had gotten a hold of John's sheet. He could be excited about that fact, but none of those things crossed John's mind.

The only thing John registered was how absolutely ridiculous—beautiful, but still ridiculous—Sherlock Holmes looked wrapped in a bed sheet, hair disheveled with hickeys that would put a teenager after their school dance to shame, and yet there he was, still trying to look dramatic and mysterious in front of the snow covered buildings of London. It was hilarious.

John began to laugh. Sherlock gave him a questioning look, like he thought John might be crazy and John just laughed harder.

He fell back against the pillows and kept laughing.

"John, what is it?" Sherlock asked impatiently.

Giggles bubbled from the mouth of the army doctor and the bewildered look on Sherlock's face wasn't helping.

"John?"

No answer.

"John, what's so funny?" Sherlock asked obviously frustrated and was just making it worse.

He approached the bed, that sheet flowing behind him like the train on wedding dress, and John lost it all over again. His face hurt from smiling more than he had in months and his body was sore from laughing and other activities in which he'd participated in the last twelve hours.

Sherlock stood over the bed, glaring at John.

"John, what is so funny?" he said, seriously, hating being out of the loop in absolutely anything.

John was finally able to catch his breath and he pushed himself upwards.

"Oh, nothing, Sherlock," he said, smiling. "It's nothing. You're brilliant."

It was funny to watch as Sherlock seemed unable to decide if he was angry at being denied or pleased by the flattery. Flattery won out when John reached up to pull him down by his nape to firmly press their lips together.

When they broke apart Sherlock grinned as well. John quickly slid out of bed and into his pajama bottoms, which had fallen on the floor. He picked up Sherlock's pants as well.

"How about some breakfast?" John asked.

"I'd love some," Sherlock said.

John then gave him the most genuine smile that a man could give another. His heart was flooded and content and Sherlock smiled, too.

John chuckled and then threw Sherlock's pants at him. He caught them without much effort.

"Put your pants on. We're going to have company."

John padded towards the door and laughed, because if Sherlock Holmes wouldn't put on pants for the Queen then John had no idea what made him think he would do so for anyone else. So John wasn't really surprised when Sherlock flapped after him in the sheet like some preposterous white and blue bat, demanding tea.

With a sigh John realized he was never getting those sheets back as he watched the man he loved wrapped in them on the couch with a mug of steaming tea in one hand and his laptop balanced on his knees, typing away with the other hand.

"John, quit watching me from across the room and come sit down," Sherlock said without looking away from his screen.

John just shook his head and complied as always. What was a sheet, though, when Sherlock already stole his whole being, his heart, his soul, everything, a long time ago? And besides, Sherlock had given him something in return that more than compensated.

Sherlock had given John his own life, something that John had thought he lost—something John would protect until heart ceased to beat.