Okay so I had intended this to be out much sooner but I got caught up in other things and completely lost my mojo, so it took until now for me to get this written up the way I want it. I think it's pretty hot, though. Also I didn't read it over so if there are any grammatical errors I apologize in advance.
Warning: JW/SH Slash
Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock Holmes, unfortunately.
When Sherlock awakens again, he finds himself not in a dark, dank basement, but in his own bedroom. The curtains are shut, blocking out most of the afternoon light, but even in the dimness he sees his best friend and flatmate, John Watson, sitting in an armchair that had been pulled up beside the bed. He is reading, so has not yet noticed that his patient was awake, but it is obvious he is not enjoying his book, as his fingers are trembling and his face is set in an uncharacteristic scowl.
Sherlock can't say why, but he is scared. He is clearly safe in his own room, and with a trusted and skilled war veteran at his side, but he is not safe from his mind. He is haunted by thoughts of that sick, cruel little doctor, who is no doubt locked away by now.
"Holmes," a voice says suddenly. Sherlock tears himself from his thoughts and looks up to see that John is standing over him now, a look of relief evident on his face. "How are you feeling? Does anything hurt?"
The detective tries to reply, but his voice comes out as a mere rasp. His friend retrieves a glass of water from the bedside table, and motions for Holmes to sit up and take a drink. He complies, and once he has downed the glass he hands it back, not trusting his own strength at the moment to be able to reach over the side of the bed without dropping it.
"I'm quite alright, Watson," Sherlock finally replies, reclining in bed once more and bringing the covers back up about his shoulders—he has suddenly realized that his clothes have been removed, probably because they were in the way of allowing John to examine him for injuries.
"Really?" Watson asks lowly, obviously not believing him.
He reaches down suddenly and touches a finger to Sherlock's neck. The dark-haired man swats the hand away, knowing it is tracing the marks at his throat, left there by the insane doctor. He brings the covers up further.
"I know what happened in that basement, Holmes," Watson says, his voice barely above a whisper. "And I just want you to know that I'm here for you."
Feeling his eyes prick with tears, Sherlock clenches his jaw and then rolls onto his side, turning his back on the good doctor. "I'm fine now, Watson," he says detachedly. "You can leave."
"You know I'm not going to do that."
Sherlock feels the other side of the bed dip beneath the other man's weight as he takes a seat, and then sits back against the headboard. Watson crosses his legs and then continues reading, ignoring the glare Sherlock throws over his shoulder.
They stay this way for several minutes, John casually reading his book, merely content to listen to the sounds of his friend breathing, while Sherlock is tucked away beneath the covers, his eyes beginning to droop again. The drugs had obviously done a number on his system, but after he awakes in a few hours he probably won't be able to sleep again for days.
As the dark-haired man starts to fall asleep, John kicks off his shoes, and before Sherlock can protest, John has tucked his book away and slipped beneath the covers, curling around his fetal-positioned companion in a warm embrace.
"You're so damn stubborn," Watson murmurs tiredly into the crook of Sherlock's neck.
The detective tries to ignore the hot lips against his skin, plastering warm kisses down his neck. John clearly thinks the other is asleep, because such advances on a man, and an ill one at that, are most unbecoming.
Sherlock feels an arm snake over his waist to grab him and roll him over, so John's fully clothed body can press more satisfyingly against his naked one. With shaking fingers, Sherlock struggles to unbotton the waistcoast, earning a strangled gasp from Watson, who had not suspected him to still be awake.
Hands grip Sherlock's wrists and tug them away. Blue eyes meet dark ones, hesitant meeting desperate and ready.
"I don't think we should do this," John says breathily. "Not now."
"Please," Sherlock whispers. "Make me forget."
John pauses, averting his eyes, and the shorter man takes advantage of the moment, crushing his lips against John's in a deep, delicious kiss. The doctor moans into his mouth, and starts stripping his clothes off as Sherlock sucks at his neck fervently.
His clothes are finally gone, pitched over the side of the bed, and John rolls them over so he is postioned over the brunette. He looks down into those large, brown eyes, and is lost for a moment in their utter sincerity. He doesn't want to end it, the brief stretch in time before they consummate their love that has laid dormant for years, before they admit feelings that were never meant to be admitted.
But then Sherlock's hand reaches down and slips around his member, and that warmth in his eyes is erased and replaced by desire. He guides John to his entrance, and his eyes are begging. John enters him slowly, softly, eliciting quiet gasps and moans from the man beneath him. The pleasure largely overrides the pain, and after being fully inside, John pulls out and drives back in quickly, earning a loud, throaty shout from his partner.
Before long John is moving in and out, gripping at Sherlock's sides until his fingers are digging in and no doubt leaving ten perfect little bruises. Sherlock's vocalizations grow more frequent and much louder until he's practically screaming, and John doesn't know whether or not to smother him so Mrs. Hudson doesn't hear, or make him scream even more.
"I can't-" John manages breathlessly, his pace erratic and not at all matching Sherlock's anymore, but neither of them cared.
"It doesn't-" Sherlock is interrupted by a loud moan that tears unexpectedly from his throat. "Just come already, John!"
John sees white-hot stars swim across his vision, and at the same time notices Sherlock's eyes roll back in his head in a manner that is for once not alarming. After a long, mind-blowing moment, John falls on top of Sherlock, their sweaty bodies sliding against each other in a hot mess. He pulls himself out of the detective, drawing out one last sweet moan from his lover, and then rolls off onto his back so they are lying side by side, both trying to catch their breath.
"That was-" John dabs at his forehead with a kerchief he had retrieved from the pocket of his waistcoat.
"-monumental, historic, unforgettable," Sherlock finished for him.
"Yes," John added. "Quite all that."
There was a breadth of silence, and then Sherlock moved smoothly over, lifting up John's arm and putting it around his shoulders.
"Thank you," he mumbled sleepily, resting his head on the other's chest.
"Your welcome," John replied just as exhaustedly, pressing a kiss against Holmes' forehead before drifting off to sleep.