Hey, here's another. I've had this one for a while and finally finished it. I'm nearly done with the next chapter of "Returning to You." Anyways, I hope you enjoy this one. Thanks.
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock and make no profit from this.
"John, I assure you, I'm perfectly fine." Sherlock insisted for the third time in the last half hour. John had been ranting about his poor health habits since they had gotten in the cab. So he hadn't eaten an actual meal since Tuesday. It's only...Friday, already? He'd been drinking enough water to survive. And he hadn't had more than an hour's rest in the past three days. Sleep was unnecessary and food only served to slow him down on a case. The recent one was one of the most fascinating. Sherlock had been called in when the first body was found. That in itself was uncommon and set off thousands of signals in his head.
The victim had been hung from the rafters by his ankles, abdomen sliced open, leaving his intestines to fall free. What made it even better was when John had commented that the entire procedure had occurred while the victim was alive according to the rope burns around his ankles in a style which would only come from the friction of struggling! He could feel the excitement building again. Now, there were three dead bodies in total and he was only millimeters from solving the case.
"No, you're not. Your body levels are off and, after our run today, you took longer than normal to recover. You need a large amount of water to hydrate, food to replenish the depleted resource you've been working on, and sleep to level your mind. You've had some pretty close calls." The blond prattled on, going into full doctor mode. The detective huffed, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring out to the street. He heard John sigh and sink further into the seat of the cab. The doctor might be right, but like hell he was going to admit it. They had been so close, the murderer inches from their grasp when his adrenaline began to fail him. Standing on the edge of a building in the dark, while light headed, certainly wasn't one of the best situations he'd been in. Fortunately for him, John had showed up at the right moment to pull him back onto the balcony. His partner had a knack of appearing out of the blue to save his arse, time and time again.
"I'm not trying to be a nag. I only care about you, love. You're running yourself ragged and I can't bare to sit back and watch anymore. Just a few hours, Sherlock, please, for me." Glancing to his right, he caught John's infamous begging expression, lips pulled into a pout and blue eyes gleaming with wetness. His heart melted. The taller man shifted closer to his lover, so that he could stretch his arm across his shoulders and to pull him to his chest. Settling his chin on the sandy hair, he took in a deep breath.
"For you, I'll do anything. I'll recuperate for the night, but, at any point if I think of how to trap this guy, know that I'll be leaving to close the case." He felt the rumble of laughter in John's chest before the glorious melody hit the air.
"I can agree with that." The doctor said, making himself comfortable against the younger man's shoulder.
The moment they were in the flat, John ushered Sherlock up the stairs and into the shower, denying the dark haired man the delight of joining him. The doctor journeyed down the stairs again to fix up something proper and filling for the other man to eat. Opening the fridge, he shut it immediately after seeing a disembodied foot being devoured by maggots in a plastic container on the shelf. He shuddered once before reaching back in for the left over pasta sauce. He made a quick spaghetti dish, poured it into a bowl, and pushed it into his boyfriend's hands the moment his feet hit the last stair.
"Eat this and go to bed." He ordered as he pointed to the leather couch. With a heavy sigh, Sherlock dropped himself to the couch. It wasn't long before John was sitting in his arm chair, sipping his hot tea and typing away on his computer.
"Telling the world how wonderful I am again?" The detective retorted. John chuckled into his cup.
"I'm telling them how I think I should get you a babysitter." Sherlock stuck his tongue out at that.
"Oh, and don't expect a text from Lestrade until tomorrow. He agrees that you need a rest." An indignant noise made its way passed his lips.
"But John! I need to be updated if anything happens." John shoved his free hand into his jean pocket to pull his mobile free.
"That is what I'm for." He remarked, presenting the phone to him. A smirk tore free from the other man.
"Oh, my dear John, I'm sure you have such better uses than simply answering a phone." He placed the empty bowl on the small table next to the arm of the couch and stood. John closed his laptop, setting it on the small table before him as well as his cup.
"Do I? I think I need to be reminded of these uses." Sherlock sauntered over to the chair. Wedging his knees into the chair on both sides of John's thighs, he settled himself so that he was straddling the blonde's lap. He brought his hand up to cup the sun tanned jaw, tilting John's head up.
"Yes, and you're quite marvelous at doing them." John smiled into the kiss. It was pleasant, nothing rushed or frantic, just a pressure of his love's lips on his. That was until Sherlock nibbled his bottom lip causing him to gasp. He took this as the perfect time to dive his tongue into the veteran's mouth. It soon became a battle of dominance. Tongues and teeth clashed, the want driving them more than a tad bit desperate. John suddenly pulled back, gasping slightly to control his breathing again.
"No, we're not doing this. Stop trying to distract me. I have to go down to the Yard to discuss the victimology with the forensic team in order to set a trap, and you need sleep." Sherlock groaned, dropping his head to his lover's shoulder.
"You're leaving? I thought you were going to join me in this recuperation? You haven't exactly been on the top of your game either." Saying that, he moved his hand down to John's ribs and prodded them. The blond winced, but retaliated with a pinch to Sherlock's arse. Tackling a suspect twice your height and weight wasn't easy, but being rammed in the ribs with the butt of a pistol was plain unfair.
"I won't be gone long, two hours at the most. You'll most likely still be up and sulking, so I'll join you then. Now, up and off." He instructed, patting the thighs holding him down. With a huff, Sherlock stretched his long legs and stood back on the floor, hand pulling John up by his wrist.
"Fine, but if you're not back by midnight the latest, I'm jumping the gun." John grinned, leaning in a pressing a soft kiss to the detective's collarbone.
"I'll be back soon." He pressed another kiss to Sherlock's lips before grabbing up his jacket and keys, and leaving the flat.
Two hours, forty-eight minutes, eighteen seconds. Nineteen. Twenty.
John had said he'd be back soon two hours, forty-eight minutes, and twenty-two seconds ago.
He hadn't received a single text telling him he was running late, that the ignorant Yarders were holding his love up or Lestrade was persisting on something about the case. No, not a single word from John. Sherlock let his phone drop to the blankets on the bed. Sleeping without John was simply impossible; the other man should know this by now.
Sherlock rolled restlessly around on the sheets, trying to find some way to be comfortable without needing John's body heat near him. He was at Scotland Yard, what was there to worry about? He was in a building surrounded by men with guns and at least sixteen percent had decent aim. Nothing near as flawless as his John's, but decent enough to put a man down. At the mention of his John, Sherlock's stomach flipped. Where was he? Grunting, he pushed his body from the bed and moved into the sitting room to pace.
"I'll be back soon."
It seemed like those words had slipped out days, no, weeks ago. How hard was it to explain to a couple bobbies at the Yard what to look for—never mind. He often forgets how dull the world is sometimes. With a heavy sigh, he flung his body onto the sofa, pulling his blue dressing robe tight around his body. He took in a deep breath and felt heaven at his finger tips. Tea, laundry detergent, and the masculine scent of John fills his nose. A smile crossed his features as he remembered the night before last.
They had come home after Mycroft had once again summoned them. By summoned, he meant kidnapped John and used him as bait to lure Sherlock out. Sherlock stormed through the flat, knocking things over while trying to reach his violin. Plucking it up, he pulled the bow over the strings and slung out a fast paced tune. John watched from the door, shucking off his coat and neatly hanging it up in the closet. He pulled off his shoes, placing them in the closet as well before closing it. He moved around the room in long strides, fixing what his boyfriend altered. It's not long before the shorter man is standing before Sherlock, hand stretched out and taking the instrument from its place tucked under his chin. Sherlock made no move to take it back, simply settling on watching John rest it in the seat of his arm chair. One hand, calloused but gentle, locked around his thin wrist and towed him to the couch. John sat first, throwing his legs onto the cushions and pulling Sherlock's body down between them.
They laid in silence, Sherlock's head peacefully on John's chest, listening to the steady heart beat, and John carding his fingers through dark curls. It was calming and comforting, sensual and loving. They laid there for hours, dozing off and waking with soft kisses in between. There was nothing demanding, no moaning or crying out, just them and shared body heat. Simply being able to do that with another person spoke volumes about Sherlock Holmes' claimed sociopath lifestyle.
"I'll be back soon."
He heard an electronic chirping from his mobile which pulled him from his thoughts. Long legs carried him back to their bedroom, flopping diagonally across the bed to grab his phone. It had to be John. It was nearing one in the morning.
It wasn't. Lestrade's name appeared in the neat white text with a small closed envelope. Pressing a button, he opened the text.
St. Bart's. Now. -GL
The urgency of the message didn't set right with him. Sherlock sent a questioning correspondence. Not even a minute later, the detective inspector messaged him back. It was rare that the man did, he was usually in his office filing paper work, working scenes, or driving to them. Never holding his phone long enough to respond so quickly.
It's about John. -GL
Sherlock's heart dropped to his stomach. He didn't even bother to change. The detective slipped on a pair of socks to battle the chilly night and flung himself on the street, hailing a cab.
The halls are long, blindingly white, and the sterile smell burns his nose. His eyes travel over every person he sees. There was a nurse he sees daily, one usually dressed in cartoon printed scrubs. A blonde, young with a cheating boyfriend buying her expensive gifts to keep her tied to him by the looks of her new diamond studded earrings. She was the one who usually pointed out John's direction for him. She slipped out of a room to his right, her green eyes meeting his for the briefest of seconds before she averted her gaze. Nervousness engulfed her, followed by a slight fear. Now, he knows he's an intimidating figure, over six feet with a stoic expression most of the time. But fear...that was new from her.
The second was an elder nurse he knew by the name of Rosalyn. She was a sweet woman, always giving him a pat on the shoulder when she would see him stalking the empty halls like a zombie from endless hours in the lab. Her wrinkled face softened when their eyes met. She didn't quite look away, but looked off into the distance behind him. Sympathy. A growl grew deep at the back of his throat. He shifted his pace, moving faster than before.
It wasn't long before he reached the emergency center waiting room, Lestrade stood against the counter, his weight supported by his elbows behind him. He stared intensely at the mobile in his hand, waiting for another text. From who, Sherlock guessed was himself. The detective's gray eyes caught a shock of red from further up his arm.
The Detective Inspector's blue button up shirt's sleeve was rolled up neatly and buttoned to stay in place at his elbow. Long strips of white bandage and gauze dressed his right forearm, blood already peaking out from under the thick layers. Sherlock scowled at the man. Clearing his throat, the DI's head snapped up to meet his gaze.
"Sherlock, it's not as bad as you think." He started, bringing up both of his hands in a defensive manner.
"No, it is as bad as I think. He's in there, isn't he?" The dark hair man questioned, jerking a thumb towards the double doors. Lestrade nodded his grayed head with a sigh.
"But it's not that bad, Sherlock. Just a bit of a scratch really, they're stitching him up as we speak." Sherlock gave an indignant huff of air in reply.
"He shouldn't even be here! He was supposed to be at the forensics department talking about victimology. What the hell happened?" He ranted. Lestrade gulped visibly.
"He never made it to the forensics department. Instead, I messaged him and asked him to join me. Molly had sent me a text to inform me that the dirt on the bottom of the last victim's shoe was a potting soil, and all of the bodies had it on them somewhere. We realized it was unique to a region because of the small petals squashed in the creases and lines of the victim's clothing, you even identified the flower for us. It all led back to the park. So we scouted, waiting for something and searching for clues." Lestrade paid no mind to Sherlock's sneer and carried on.
"That's when it got blurry. I was walking and then something grabbed my arm, pulling me from the walk way. It was some type of barbed cuff. It hooked into my arm and pulled. I called out for John and bam, he was there tussling with the suspect on the walkway. I didn't even see where gun came from." Sherlock bristled at the involvement of a gun. It meant John had been shot. His wonderful, fantastic John had been shot...again.
"Sherlock, the bullet only grazed his side. It cut through nothing but tissue. He's getting a few stitches and that's all. He did subdue the murderer before the medics arrived. Oh, and he might want that when he comes out though. He pulled it off while we were waiting for the ambulance to hold against the wound. John told me to make sure you got it, something about it was his favorite and you'd be able to find one just like it for him." Lestrade had pointed over to the plastic chair in the corner of the room. On the seat was a crumpled pile of gray and white striped soft cotton. The dark haired detective made his way over, gently plucking it out of the chair and opening it. Along the left side was a tear about six or seven inches long, but blood stained it everywhere. Sherlock held the fabric tightly in his fists before turning back to the DI.
"How much longer until he comes out?" Lestrade shrugged.
"Not sure. I haven't seen a doctor since we arrived." Sherlock walked to the large double door and sat himself on the tiled floor, legs crossed and John's jumper folded neatly, waiting. Hours passed. Sherlock was now sprawled out on his stomach on the floor, the jumper being used as a pillow. Blood and all, he wasn't letting it go until he saw John. Another hour passed before the surgery doors opened. The consulting detective was on his feet quicker than Lestrade could turn to face the doctor. The man was young, maybe only a few years younger than himself. His black hair was cut short, brown eyes creased slightly by the edges from long nights reading medical journals.
"Where is he?" Sherlock asked, impatient as usual. The doctor grinned.
"You must be Sherlock Holmes. John has spoken—well, more like warned me—about you." He nearly growled at the pathetic excuse of a doctor referring to his lover by name.
"And that's just fine and dandy, now where is he?" He demanded again.
"Sherlock, play nice." A voice spoke from behind the doctor. Said man was brushed aside, Sherlock pushing his way to the blond veteran. John looked at the man with a soft smile, the one he saved only for Sherlock. It was enough to let the dark hair man know that he was alright for now. His crystalline eyes swept over the shorter male. His entire abdomen was covered by a bandage, the white material stretching around his stomach several times overs before hooking over his shoulder to prevent slippage. Over it, silver tags glimmered under the bright lights. After all, John was still a soldier at heart.
"You should get him home. He refused the pain pills for later and Novocaine only lasts for so long." The doctor suggested from behind them. John sighed and nodded.
"Shall we, Sherlock?" The blond man asked. Sherlock gave a minute smile, nodding his approval and offering the jumper in his hands. John laughed, opening the fabric and grimaced at the tear.
"It's a shame. It was always my favorite." John pulled the ruined jumper over his head to fend off the cold he expected outside. Sherlock tugged on John's hand, pulling him down the long halls and out onto the street. He said nothing as he raised his free hand to hail a cab.
The ride back to Baker street was quiet, Sherlock staring out of his window and John was falling asleep against the seat. When the cabbie pulled up to the corner, the dark haired detective shook his boyfriend awake and shoved him out of the door. Sherlock watched John shuck off his ruined jumper, balling it up to be thrown out. His bright eyes trailed the jean legs as they carried the tired body up the stairs. John pushed open the door to their flat and turned to see Sherlock frozen at the front door.
"Sherlock, are you alright down there?" The consulting detective snapped his head up to meet blue eyes. The concern filling them was overwhelming. With a sigh, he shook his head negatively.
"I'm quite alright, John." The veteran seemed to accept this for now.
"Let's get some sleep. I believe we're both in desperate need of rest." The blond gestured for Sherlock to follow him. Taking the bait, the dark haired man climbed the stairs. He shrugged off his dressing robe and threw it over his arm chair, allowing it to drape over the furniture. He stood in the middle of the living room in his sleeping pants and ragged shirt. John sauntered into the kitchen, peering from the door way to watch Sherlock. When the man finally moved toward his bedroom, John went back to preparing tea.
Setting the kettle of water on the stove wasn't a problem. It was reaching for the mugs in the cabinet. He stretched, fingers just touching the handle before a piercing pain seared across his side. Recoiling, he muffled his yelp of pain. The last thing he needed was for Sherlock to shoot back his own complaints from earlier. Sucking in a deep breath, he reached for the mug again. His fingers coiled around the handle and pulled. The pain accompanying didn't allow him to catch it. The ceramic cup fell to the floor, splintering and spraying the floor with small bits. Sherlock was in the door way in seconds.
"John." He said. The blond turned his head to the doorway. With a sheepish smile, he stood up straight.
"Slipped through my hands is all." Sherlock narrowed his eyes.
"You could have at least taken the pain medication you were offered." John waved him off, muttering about not being in pain. He turned on his heels, making to move past Sherlock. As he swept by, the consulting detective gripped his wrist. Twisting them, Sherlock pinned John so that his left arm was high above his head, stretching the injury. Sherlock had his right arm pinned by his head. He leaned down, his breath tickling the short hairs on John neck. His nose nuzzled the tan skin, the warm scent of soap and musk engulfing his senses. His leg moved nudge John's apart, knee pressing into the blond's newly awakened member.
"You should have really taken that pill. It's only going to be worse later." John groaned in his throat.
"And why is that?" He bit out. John rocked his hips as a test. Sherlock, grinning, lifted John with his arm, hiking him higher up on his leg. The muffled whine of pain tugged at his heart, but he shoved it off. This was how John wanted to play, and he was always game for anything relating to John.
"You know my methods. Deduce." John smirked, rocking his hips once again.
"Well, you either have my browning in your pocket or you're very happy to see me. However, with you, both is possible. " The dark haired man chuckled darkly.
"Both are always a possibility, but not this time. No, this time it's just me, John. This time you're getting punished.." John bit the inside of his cheek.
"Punished, am I? What ever for?" Sherlock bent down, latching his teeth to John's neck. The blond arched his back as a soft moan slipped from his mouth. Sherlock's hands released John's to support his back as the detective pulled away from the wall, John legs instinctively locking around the other's slim waist.
They were soon in their bedroom, John being dropped to the mattress and Sherlock looming over him. John felt his arms tugged up to the headboard, a cool, slick fabric wrapping his wrists and binding him tightly to the wooden posts. His eyes searched for Sherlock's, the only light spilling in from the open blinds, flooding the room in moonlight.
"For doing something idiotic. You made me promise never to leave you behind in the field. That promise was meant to go both ways, John. And now, you're hurt." John tugged against the silk ties.
"And I'm sorry. When I left, I hadn't expected to be called out. And even when I was, neither of us expected the guy to be lurking." Sherlock shook his head and bent down to suck at John's neck, leaving angry red marks to bruise. He moved down, suckling the only exposed side of John's collarbone.
"God, Sherlock, do something else." Sherlock smirked against tanned skin. He shifted himself to lie between John's leg, lining up their groins. With a roll to his hips, John arched his back slightly, groaning at the friction. Sherlock let his hands trail over the bandage, nudging at the where he knew the injury was.
"It's fine, Sherlock. I've had worse." John said, sensing the dark haired man's worry. With that Sherlock, pressed his lips to the blond's, demanding entrance. John parted his lips, waiting for Sherlock's tongue. However, the detective pulled back, a large grin on his face instead. Sherlock pulled at John's belt, undoing the metal latch and slipping the leather out. He then unbuttoned John's jeans and pulled them, along with his pants, off, standing with the motion. John's entire body was flushed with excitement, a perfect dusting of pink spreading under his skin. He opted to remove only his own sleeping bottoms and pants, letting them fly across the room as well. Settling back down between John's legs, his long finger danced along the edges of the blond's pelvis.
"I wonder how many times I can bring you to near climax, pulling away at the last second. You'd sob for relief, beg to fuck me or be fucked by me. Would you like that? Would you like to beg for me? Or do you want me to climb up and ride you, meeting your thrusts with my own. You'd have the perfect view of my arse sucking up your cock, trying to devour it whole. Oh yes, you'd love that." John bucked, trying to bet some type of friction.
"I don't even care. God, Sherlock do something!" He pleaded, rocking his hips for attention. Sherlock smiled, placing hand on either side of the blond's hips and holding them down. In a single fluid motion, Sherlock took John's length in his mouth, swirling his tongue around the head and dragging his bottom teeth along the vein.
"Fucking hell!" John gasped out. Sherlock hollowed his cheeks and bobbed faster, dragging out each suck with a twist of his tongue around the weeping head. He could hear John moaning with strings of unintelligible words tumbling from his lips. He took to fondling John's balls in one hand, moving to hold John's hips down with the length of his forearm. The moment he felt a certain tightness stretch across John's body, he pulled himself off with a pop. John emitted a frustrated grunt.
"Sherlock, please." John begged, bucking his hips wildly. Sherlock chuckled.
"Look at you, John. Absolutely taken by lust. Oh, the picture you make spread for me, hard for me, cock dripping just for me." Sherlock said, lifting himself to straddle John's hips, the blond's hardened member just grazing the crease of his arse. Slipping three fingers into his mouth, he noted John's intense stare. John knew what he was about to do. Kneeling, Sherlock pulled his hand behind him and pressed a wet finger to his hole. Slipping it in, he wriggled it around shortly before adding a second. He moaned loudly when his fingers smoothed over the tight bundle of nerves.
"Me? Look at you, fingering yourself, fucking yourself. God, the moonlight highlighting every curve of your body. So gorgeous, Sherlock. So. Fucking. Beautiful." By now, Sherlock had pushed in his third finger, riding the digits and spreading his fingers to be sure he was stretched enough. Sherlock removed his fingers, spitting into his palm and stroking it over John's cock to add more slickness.
With a vicious smirk, Sherlock positioned himself over John and pressed the head to his hole. John lifted his hips, wanted to be buried and now. Slowly, he sank down, impaling himself. A groan fell from his lips, eyes falling closed once he was fully seated. John rocked his hips, testing the waters. Sherlock splayed his hands on the blond's chest, lifting himself almost all the way up before slamming back down. John nearly screamed. So tight. So hot. So good. He pulled his hips back as Sherlock began a steady rhythm. John watched longingly as his cock disappeared and reappeared with every movement, being welcomed warmly by Sherlock's body. Sherlock's body was pulled tight, arms stretched out and bracing himself against his chest, cock dripping with pre-cum as he bobbed his body. The only thing he regretted was not being able tot touch, not being able to shuck off Sherlock shirt and tweak the pert, pink nipples. Not being able wrap his fingers around the hard, flushed length and help bring Sherlock to a stuttering completion.
" So close, love." John muttered, thrusting harder into the tight heat. Sherlock twisted himself to angle the head of John's cock to pound against his prostate.
"So am I. Just a bit—," Sherlock arched his back deeply as his climax hit him. The extreme clench of Sherlock's arse was enough to pull John over the edge also, emptying himself deep within the brunette. Sherlock whined, continuing to rock though his orgasm, splattering John's top layer of bandage with streaks of creamy white. The detective pulled himself up, releasing the binds on John's wrists and collapsing next to him. John turned on his side, reached out for his lover.
"I love you, Sherlock." John whispered, pressing his lips against Sherlock neck. The brunette hummed in response, putting his chin atop John's blond head. He didn't say it, but he didn't have to. John knew.
"I'm sorry. I really am. I didn't know, didn't expect it." Sherlock hummed again. John took it as a way to avoid his worry.
"I'm sorry that I worried you." John said, snuggling against Sherlock's body to get comfortable.
"I wasn't worried." Sherlock replied, staring blankly at the wall across the room. John pulled back, looking directly at Sherlock.
"Sherlock, you don't need to—," The other stopped him with a kiss.
"I wasn't worried, John. I was scared, absolutely terrified while you were gone. I didn't know why it was taking so long." A small smile spread over John's face, taking his warm spot under his lover's chin once more.
"I'm sorry, love. You're right by the way." He could practically feel Sherlock's smug grin.
"I know, but remind me about what this time." John nipped the collarbone before him sharply in warning.
"I really want those pills right now."
Well, I hope you enjoyed it. Thanks for reading. Any comments are greatly appreciated.