A/N - Thanks, as always, to ScopesMonkey for more reasons that one on this story.

Warnings - Consensual relations between two me, please feel free to move on if you don't like that.

Bedside Manner

John opened the door to a wall of steam, happy at least that Sherlock had done as he'd asked and got into the shower. He left the bin bag in the hall as he went in to grab the detective's discarded clothing. He examined the shirt first, holding his breath against the burnt, acidic smell.

Hole on the right sleeve, hole on the left side about half way down. The one on the sleeve was still smoking, so John balled the shirt up and put it in the bag. The now-discolored trousers had so recently been the dark grey ones that he loved to see Sherlock wear. He sighed; they'd have to be binned, too. John crumpled them up and tossed them in, adding the boxers and socks a moment later for good measure.

John pulled off his latex gloves, folding them in on themselves with long practiced surgeon's precision. He tossed them in as well, securing the bin bag and setting it against the wall. He'd make Sherlock take it out later, when he wasn't so angry and Sherlock wasn't so embarrassed.

John was going to leave and let the detective shower in peace, but as he reached for the knob, he noticed a small spot of blood on the hall carpet. He frowned, eyeing it for a moment before spotting another spot on the small bath mat, and then one on the tile near the shower.

The distance between them was obvious, Sherlock-sized strides. The detective's foot was bleeding. John shook his head and moved back towards the blue curtain.

"Sherlock," he said even though he knew the detective was aware of his presence. The sheer fact that Sherlock hadn't spoken since John had come in showed just how upset he was. The sulk was in full force.

John pushed the curtain back, and Sherlock snapped his head around to glare at him. John didn't acknowledge the look, instead letting his eyes roam over the lanky body. Sherlock had his palms against the wall, letting the water hit at his neck and trail down his back. His muscles were taught as John's eyes moved over Sherlock's bum and down his legs. He wasn't surprised to see all of the detective's weight on his right leg with only the toes of his left foot resting on the porcelain surface, a small trail of blood moving towards the drain.

"Did you step on glass?" John asked, meeting still glaring grey eyes. John knew that Sherlock wasn't going to answer, but he gave him a moment anyway.

The answer didn't come but Sherlock was unable to hide a wince as he shifted.

"Jesus Christ, "John sighed, letting the curtain close. "It's not like I blew up the spare bedroom!" he added, pulling his shirt out of his trousers and working on the buttons. He pushed it off his shoulders throwing it on the floor as he kicked his shoes off, and followed them both with his jeans.

He grabbed the antibiotic soap off the sink and pulled tweezers from the drawer before throwing the curtain back again. Sherlock didn't move as John stepped in behind him and sank to his knees. He sat the tweezers and soap edge and wrapped his fingers around Sherlock's ankle. He pulled, but the detective resisted.

"Let me see," he said not softening to the tone of his voice. "Please," he added after a second. John closed his fingers tighter and pulled again; Sherlock didn't resist this time.

The small puncture was on his heel, the sliver of glass visible. John pushed the curtain open a fraction so he could see more clearly, before pressing on the skin surrounding the wound with his thumb, increasing the blood flow and pushing the bit of glass further out.

"You could have said something," John muttered, grabbing the tweezers and holding the foot up so water could clear off some of the blood. He dropped the glass by the drain and watched it swirl away with the diluted blood.

"You were yelling," Sherlock said quietly, looking over his shoulder and down his back at John. John met his eyes again and nodded; he had been upset and certainly his voice had been raised. But "yelling", he thought, was a bit of an exaggeration. After all, the cascading noise of glass and metal that had followed the explosion had been terrifying. He wasn't going to apologize, no matter how pitiful Sherlock looked.

"Hold your foot up," John said, reaching for the anti-bacterial soap and lathering up his hands. He cradled Sherlock's foot and ran his soapy thumbs over the wound. Sherlock hissed, but didn't snatch his foot away.

"We're going to have to bandage this," he said pressing his finger over the wound. He looked up Sherlock's back to see the detective had turned towards the wall again, his head hanging between his arms.

John smiled despite himself, and let his thumbs move from Sherlock's heel to his arch. There was a noticeable grunt from above him and John moved on, pressing into the ball before taking a moment to pull on each of the toes individually.

He'd been surprised to discover – accidentally – just how much Sherlock liked to have his feet massaged. They'd been in bed, very early in their relationship. John had ended up upside down on the bed and in his post-coital haze had latched onto the closest part of Sherlock he could reach. Less than five minutes later, he'd watched, amazed, as the detective hummed in blissful relaxation. It was one of the few weapons in John's arsenal to control Sherlock, and one that always worked.

John pushed his fingers through the long toes and stretched them back and forth, causing the familiar moan to echo in the small space. He traced his short nails over the arch one last time before holding the foot out to rinse off and letting it drop.

Sherlock shifted and John wasn't surprised that his other foot was lifted.

"You blew up the flat," John said, as he reached for the soap and filled his palm again. He glanced down and noted that Sherlock was standing awkwardly on the injured foot. He was going to have to keep an eye on it, because Sherlock certainly wouldn't bring it up again.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock mumbled, and John looked up to see the detective rubbing his face on his arm, brushing his dark curls off his forehead.

"Yeah, I doubt that," John said, smiling as he went to work. The moan was longer this time, more drawn out, and John noticed the muscles along Sherlock's back shifting as he balanced himself again.

John ran his hands up Sherlock's calves, moving around to cup his kneecaps, deliberately avoiding the back of Sherlock's knees. He ran his thumbs across the bottoms of Sherlock's thighs before sitting back and tapping on Sherlock's hip.

"Move up a bit so I can stand," he said. Sherlock huffed and took a small step backwards. John glared at the back of Sherlock's head and knew that the detective felt it, even if he didn't turn around. He was still for a long minute before sighing, and reaching around to Sherlock's knees again.

"I'm too good for you," John said, smiling as he brought his hands down Sherlock's shins. "You blow up my home, use caustic chemicals to ruin our blankets and towels, and injured the man that I love." He traced his thumb over the tender skin surrounding the Achilles tendon on Sherlock's injured foot. There was no longer a trail of blood swirling around in the water. "Even if it was a minor injury."

Sherlock made a guttural acknowledgement of the words and John sat forward, placing a kiss on the back of one of Sherlock's thighs. The detective leaned back into the touch and John smiled against his skin.

"Remember this next time you decide to work with flammable materials," he murmured, sitting back on his heels and moving both hands to Sherlock's right leg.

He started low, brushing his thumbs tenderly over the sensitive skin around Sherlock's ankle, increasing the force as he moved up the leg, digging his thumbs sharply into the muscles of Sherlock's calf. It was difficult balance relaxing Sherlock's muscles and trying not to bruise him. For reasons that didn't make sense to John, Sherlock wouldn't tell him if it was too much or not enough. The man who was so demanding in every other aspect of his life was alarmingly quiet and stubborn when it came to his own comfort. John had been forced to conduct many teasing and pleasurable experiments to learn what Sherlock liked.

Which was how he'd discovered that Sherlock was particularly sensitive on the back of his knees. John deliberately avoided them again as he moved his hands around to the front of Sherlock's thighs.

There was a whimper above him when the anticipated touch didn't come. John smiled again, sitting up as he planted another kiss onto the back of Sherlock's thigh. When the detective relaxed into the kiss, John let his hands drift back down and brushed his thumbs over soft, sensitive skin.

"Oh," Sherlock exclaimed as his knees buckled. John pulled back and managed to close his fingers around the detective's hips.

"Easy," John said, while Sherlock stabilized himself. He received another grunted acknowledgement before he kissed the thigh again. John let his lips trail up, darting his tongue through the coarse hairs before gently sinking his teeth into the skin where thigh met buttock. Sherlock groaned, and John started sucking, the capillaries breaking under the surface. It was John's favorite place to mark Sherlock, a place only he saw and a place Sherlock would feel every time he sat down.

The skin made a popping sound as John released it, and he sat back, eyeing the red mark that was already forming. John smiled, brushing his finger over the new bruise before reaching over to grab the soap.

"Flannel," he requested and he watched as Sherlock's pressed all of his weight on one arm before flailing blindly behind him to pluck one of the soft cloths off the bar.

"You could hand it to me," John said, grabbing the cloth from where it had been dropped carelessly on his shoulder and leaning forward to gently nip at the muscle in Sherlock's left ass cheek. The detective gasped, bucking forward. John sat back, admiring the slight indentation of his teeth.

Sherlock mumbled something, perhaps another apology, and he spread his legs farther apart, pressing them into the edges of the tub. John poured some soap on the flannel and started rubbing the detective's lower back.

John ran the cloth up Sherlock's spine as far as he could reach before moving back down, dragging his fingers along the side of the bones causing the detective to arch into the touch. John stopped just above Sherlock's tailbone and pressed into the muscles there. Sherlock moaned, and John put a faint pressure on the top of his crease then dropped the flannel between the cheeks and started moving back and forth.

"Oh god," Sherlock said, letting his hands slide up the wall and collapsing onto his forearms, pressing his forehead into fisted hands. The muscles along Sherlock's back were twitching as John moved the flannel, pressing against Sherlock's entrance before pulling back.

John waited until Sherlock pushed back against him, giving into the sensation, before moving the flannel between Sherlock's legs and grasping one of his ball.

"Shit," Sherlock exclaimed, one foot slipping before he caught himself. John pulled gently on the sack; it was heavy and full underneath the damp cloth.

"Like that?" John asked, pulling again before closing the cloth around the detective's shaft. He started to tug gently and Sherlock's hips began to move, the shaft growing with each stroke. John nipped at Sherlock's cheek again, swirling the rag around the emerging head.

Sherlock bucked forward, a hand dropping to close around John's wrist. The doctor chuckled. There was always a certain amount of pleasure encountering Sherlock's physical sensitivities.

After a moment, waiting to see if Sherlock would exhale (he didn't,) John loosened his grip and let the flannel fall to the tub. Sherlock's grip eased, squeezing gently before letting it go. John rubbed his fingers back over Sherlock's balls before resting a hand on either cheek, using his thumbs to pull them apart.

Sherlock hummed above him and a moment later John was hit on the head with the bottle of shower lube.

"Ouch," he said, gently slapping the cheek in front of him. Sherlock grunted, but didn't apologize. "You can put that away," John continued, pulling the cheeks apart again and watching as the water running down Sherlock's back washed way the soap bubbles. He used his left thumb to trace over Sherlock's hole, and watched the muscles pucker as the detective moaned, pressing down in to the touch. "I'm not fucking you, you blew up the flat."

There was a whimper above him and John smiled as he leaned in, darting his tongue out to lap at the top of Sherlock's crease. The lube, still in Sherlock's hand, hit him on the head again, before the detective flung it to the back of the tub. It bounced off the wall and settled next to John's left foot. He ignored it, letting his tongue trail lower, closing his eyes to the sound of Sherlock's quickening breaths.

"Mmmm," John hummed, moving lower and pressing his thumb against Sherlock's opening again. The detective pushed back, and John felt the change in movement as Sherlock started to pull on himself. John felt the muscles give, and Sherlock moaned, his hips moving as John's tongue pressed against the hole.

"Ungh," Sherlock mumbled, swallowing hard before a constant, quiet keen filled the shower. John pressed harder, using the tip of his tongue to dip into the tight circle.

"Oh," Sherlock gasped. "Oh god, oh John. Oh, John."

Sherlock sped up, his hips taking on a rhythmic rocking motion, and John felt the muscles relax and contract around him as he pushed in further. John let his hands move around the detective's waist, squeezing gently.

Sherlock's continuous chant gave way to a sobbing cry as the detective's whole body went stiff. He shook violently for a moment, and John pulled back, securing his grip around Sherlock's waist in the second before the detective's legs gave way. John managed to slow the collapse, wrapping his arms around his partner's limp body.

"Oh god," Sherlock mumbled, as his head sank back onto John's shoulder. The doctor buried his face in the wet locks and planted a kiss.

"All right?" he asked, nuzzling the detective's ear.

"Yes," Sherlock gasped, turning his head and leaning back to let their eyes lock. There was a lazy, satiated smile on the detective's face and John smiled back, feeling the pool of warmth in his chest that Sherlock was often responsible for. He savored it for a moment, the sentimentality and the normalcy that that the genius so often shunned.

Sherlock leaned in, their lips just brushing against each other as the detective shifted, turning and tucking his legs around John. Long fingers closed around him and John relaxed into the touch, deepening the kiss and moaning as Sherlock's grip tightened.

"Come on," Sherlock said, sucking John's bottom lip into his mouth. John groaned, planting one hand behind him and one on the edge of the tub. He started thrusting his hips up, feeling the muscles in his abdomen burn with each movement.

"Come on," Sherlock said again and John nodded, feeling the tightening in his groin as pushed up into Sherlock's fist.

"Oh god!" he cried out as Sherlock cupped his balls and the world went bright white. The first burst was almost painful, but he felt Sherlock ease off, working him through it.

Long arms wrapped around him and pulled him close. John relaxed into the embrace, relief making his muscles loosen, as a light kiss was placed in his hair and meaningless words were murmured in his ear.