《Events after The Great Game》vernon

14、第 14 章 "No!

　　"No! No, no, no..."

　　John jerked awake as the moans grew louder and he rolled over immediately, throwing himself across Sherlock, who lay face down on the bed, head turned away, but his entire body rigid with distress. This was a bad one.

　　John had long since given up trying to move him on these occasions, as it only caused him to assume a more defensive position, but he leaned forward to speak directly into Sherlock's ear.

　　"You're dreaming," he said firmly. "It's not real. I'm here, I've got you." He squeezed his arms tightly around Sherlock's body, pushing his hands underneath the shaking figure below him. "I'm here... wake up now,you're safe. I've got you; wake up."

　　"John!" His name was gasped out, but Sherlock hadn't woken, he was still locked into whatever scenario was playing out in his brain. "John! No, not John. No..."

　　"Sherlock!" John spoke a little louder. "Sherlock, I'm here. Wake up now."

　　There was a sharply indrawn breath, then John was abruptly dislodged as Sherlock threw himself over, his hands immediately reaching out, grabbing hold of John pyjamas and pulling him forward until they were pressed together from chest to knee, before burying his face in John's neck and inhaling deeply, arms snaking around John's body to clutch him tightly.

　　John tried to pull his head back, hoping to gain some understanding via the lamp he had deliberately left on, but Sherlock wouldn't release him, wouldn't let him draw away at all, instead rolling him onto his back and moving to cover him completely.

　　"John," he murmured, and his body was actually trembling. John brought both arms around Sherlock's back, and started stroking up and down soothingly.

　　"It's alright, love" he said quietly, kissing the side of Sherlock's head. "You're fine, it's OK,you're safe."

　　Sherlock made a sound of disagreement against his neck, but didn't move away. His breathing was calming; he was regaining his control quickly, as he always did. After a couple more minutes he spoke.

　　"It's not my safety I'm concerned with," he said. "I am not the subject of my nightmares." He lifted his head at last. "I need to get up. Come with me"

　　"Of course." John glanced at the clock as they climbed out of bed. It must have been late by the time they finally dropped off to sleep, but Sherlock had managed at least five or six hours, which was unusual for him in the last week or so.

　　He started pacing up and down the living room, as John moved to brew tea. There was muttering from behind him, but John couldn't make out any words over the noise of the kettle. He glanced round; Sherlock looked agitated, but also angry and frustrated, which wasn't his normal reaction – something must be different this time. John moved to the doorway, the hand holding Sherlock's mug following his motions as the man marched back and forth impatiently, before eventually giving up and just putting it back on the kitchen table.

　　"There must be something in the file," Sherlock declared. "Something I've missed but registered subconsciously. We need to go through it again."

　　John groaned and Sherlock wheeled round, striding towards him. John put his tea down hastily, just as Sherlock reached him and gripped his shoulders.

　　"He's going to try to take you from me, John," he said. "I can't let that happen. That is not going to happen."

　　His fingers were digging in and John winced, taking a step forward to break the hold, bringing his own hands up to rest at Sherlock's waist. "I don't understand," he said. "Is this to do with your nightmare"

　　"Yes," Sherlock replied. "No." He shook his head. "Yes." He groaned and spun away again. "My dream. The dream where I'm blind, it went further tonight." He paused, then moved back, just as John picked up his tea. He put it down again as Sherlock grabbed him.

　　"Did I tell you that I felt alone In the dream, there are people, lots of people, but I'm alone. It's the most pervading sensation."

　　John shook his head, knowing that Sherlock would recognise the motion through the hand on the side of his neck. "No," he said. "You told me you were working on a case. That something was missing, but you didn't know what."

　　Sherlock pulled him closer, long arms wrapping round him tightly. "You are the case," he said, into John's hair. "You are what I need to find. That's why I feel so alone in the dream, because you're missing."

　　His voice was low and the tremble was back, his tall frame shuddering slightly in John's arms.

　　John was dubious. "Look, Sherlock," he started. "It's not unusual to dream about losing someone you care about. It doesn't mean it's going to happen." He stroked one hand up to Sherlock's neck, sliding the other down his back. "I'm fine. I'm here. Do you really think I'm going to leave you now, just when things are getting interesting" He let his hand slip lower as he spoke, until it was resting right at the base of Sherlock's spine, just at the swell of his... backside, John reminded himself to watch his terminology.

　　Sherlock huffed, but the trembling eased. "I'm not suggesting I have precognition, John," he said, his tone verging on scornful. "My dreams are usually entirely logical and easily relatable to ongoing events, and I only started having these... these nightmares, after we got that file. There must be something in there which has triggered them – it's all tied in with Moriarty. Somewhere in my brain there is a connection, subconscious alarm bells are ringing; there is something in that file which suggests he is going to try to take you again."

　　John was quiet. He privately thought that Sherlock was attempting to use his logical deductive process to make sense of his newly acknowledged emotions, because he didn't know of any other way to deal with them. "Perhaps you're attaching too much significance to what is, after all, just a dream" he suggested, tentatively.

　　Sherlock released him again and resumed pacing. "But why now" he was muttering to himself. "Not at the park, but now... what has changed" He stopped, a look of enlightenment crossing his face, immediately followed by one of disgust. "I'm never going to hear the end of this," he said.

　　"What do you mean"

　　"Mycroft," replied Sherlock. "Mycroft was right, although he was worried about the wrong person." He paused for a moment then sank down onto the arm of his chair, rubbing his hand over his face. "No, I suppose he was right about that, too. Damn."

　　John wasn't following. "Do you want your tea" he asked.

　　Sherlock shook his head, then raised his arm. "Just you," he said. "Come here."

　　Rolling his eyes a little at the high-handedness, John nevertheless moved forward until he was in range, at which point Sherlock pulled him in.

　　"He wants to take my eyes, John, that's why my subconscious is portraying me as blind in the dream," he said. "I've been able to work again because of you, and Moriarty is going to try to take that away from me." His arm tightened around John's hips. "It's what Mycroft came to warn us about – drawing attention to ourselves.

　　"But Mycroft's concern was not directed towards me," John pointed out. "He thought the danger would be to you."

　　"And so it is, John, at least as far as Mycroft is concerned," Sherlock replied. "To lose you now – what greater way to hurt me"

　　"Because I'm your eyes."

　　Sherlock raised a hand to John's face in his usual 'expression checking' move, but John turned his head away. "John, how can you be so dim" he demanded. "Were you not with me last night"

　　John felt a little better. Somehow, the way Sherlock insulted his intelligence was quite reassuring.

　　Then Sherlock was up and off again. "Why didn't I listen to Mycroft" he asked himself, his tone frustrated.

　　"You never listen to Mycroft," John pointed out. "Well, only so that you can be sure not to accidentally do what he wants."

　　Sherlock's lips twitched briefly, but he shook his head, standing in the middle of the room, looking suddenly the most lost John had ever seen him. "How can I keep you, John" he asked. "I'm helpless."

　　The following week was the second longest of John's life. Sherlock was increasingly distant. He wouldn't come to bed, at all; just napping on the sofa instead. From having spent so many weeks worried about opening his eyes in the morning, now it seemed he was almost afraid to close them again. Sometimes John would sneak out and sit with him, stroking a hand through his hair as he muttered in his sleep, often talking about Moriarty, eyes, John, going on about there only being one shot, but he never wanted to discuss it after waking.

　　He didn't reject John outright. If John kissed him, he would respond, but in a muted way and after a few moments his hands would grip John's upper arms and set him gently back, with an 'I'm working,' or 'I need to concentrate.' After a few attempts, John backed off, constant rejection being something he could do without.

　　Sherlock was absolutely convinced that somewhere in all the evidence, something he had heard was a link which established John as a target. He started looking into the Au Pair case again, thinking that it had a touch of Moriarty's style, and would certainly have brought his attention back to Sherlock, if it was one of his. They went to Scotland Yard to go through the details and Sherlock was cold and focused, and John got a small smile from Sally, sympathetic looks from Lestrade and actually turned and walked the other way when he saw Anderson approaching.

　　Mrs Hudson found him sitting on the stairs during one of Mycroft's visits and brought him into her flat, plying him with tea and homemade biscuits. "You've frightened him, Dear," she said. "He's not used to caring, and he doesn't know how to deal with it. He'll come around." She patted his knee. It was the most affection John had got in days and it took him two more cups of tea to recover.

　　The crisis came one evening, when John had taken advantage of Mycroft's visit to actually go out on his own. Well; he said on his own, he was extremely aware of the security contingent following his every move, but he paid them no attention, heading instead for the pub where he sat for an hour over a single pint, debating his situation.

　　He could see what Sherlock was doing, but didn't know how to stop him. His first taste of actual real happiness, followed immediately by a dream of an all too likely scenario in which he lost it, seemed to have sent him into a flat spin. It was all the more alarming for him, because he had no experience of it – like a child who's never had a pet suddenly losing a parent, they have no coping mechanism, they've never learned how to deal with loss.

　　Eventually, John realised that he would have to go back. Mycroft wouldn't leave Sherlock on his own, but they would probably kill each other if left for much longer. His feet dragged on the way home and he leaned back against the front door after closing it gently behind him, trying to psych himself up to return.

　　With a sigh, he pushed himself upright and approached the stairs, already hearing voices from above – Sherlock's was quite clear, his deep baritone carrying the furthest; Mycroft's more even tones interspersed when he could get a word in.

　　"You have to," Sherlock was insisting. "A new identity, a new country, even. Don't pretend you can't do it."

　　John couldn't make out Mycroft's response, but it clearly wasn't to his brother's liking.

　　"When have I ever asked you for anything"

　　John's steps slowed. He didn't want to eavesdrop, but he didn't want to interrupt either.

　　"I would owe you, alright" The thought clearly did not appeal, but Sherlock kept going. "I would be in your debt."

　　It sounded as if a relocation might be on the cards. Well, that was OK; John didn't really mind where they were, although Sherlock would no doubt get bored within a week and be ready to return. Might do him good, actually, to get away from everything for a while, help him regain his perspective. John continued up the stairs, hearing Sherlock's words more clearly now, even though he had lowered his voice.

　　"Just don't..." his voice broke off. "Just don't tell me where he is," he said. "It's better that I don't know."

　　John froze. What the hell He took the last two steps together and threw open the door, two heads turning towards him, both faces blanking as he watched them.

　　"I'm not leaving unless you can convince me that you don't want me here. Which you can't. So forget it," he said, marching past them both and heading into the kitchen; where he picked up the kettle and took it over to the sink.

　　He didn't want to turn round. Didn't want to see the pity he had already glimpsed in Mycroft's eyes, and didn't want that all-encompassing gaze sweeping over his face. Bad enough that they could both hear the kettle banging against the side of the sink as he tried to stop his hand from shaking. Sod it. He dumped the kettle and rested his fists on the worktop, keeping his back to the room.

　　"I will speak to you later, Sherlock," Mycroft murmured, as he took his leave. "Good evening, John." John jerked his head in response, but didn't say anything, didn't turn around.

　　There was silence, but he knew that Sherlock was standing in the doorway.

　　"I can't lose you, John." His voice was final, decided.

　　"And forcing me away doesn't come to the same thing"

　　"At least you'd be safe."

　　John scoffed. "Have you forgotten 'Could be dangerous'" he demanded, turning at last and advancing on Sherlock, who immediately went to sit in his chair, face wiped clean of expression, almost looking bored.

　　John hated that look. "I don't want to be safe," he said. "Safety doesn't do it for me, never has."

　　Sherlock said nothing, just sat there as if the conversation was beneath his interest, but John could see the rapid pulse beating in his throat.

　　"So,you'd condemn me to a life of dull and isolated security, would you That's what I'm worth, all I'm good for"

　　"I've made you a target, John," Sherlock snapped. "You'll be better off..."

　　"Without you" John interrupted. "That's not what you said last week. What happened to 'I'd do anything to keep you'" His voice was scornful. "How little your words are worth."

　　His tone seemed to spur Sherlock into speech. "That was before I..." he broke off, subsiding into silence once more.

　　"Before you –what" demanded John. "Before you accepted your feelings or before you realised how vulnerable they made you"

　　Sherlock clenched his jaw, then exhaled and visibly forced himself to relax. "If I were myself," he said, grittily, "if I were any use at all, then things would be different, we could face this together, but I'm not and we can't."

　　He shook his head. "I put you in danger. I made you observe for me, I may as well have painted a bullseye on your forehead. Mycroft will arrange a new identity for you and you will take it, until it is safe for you to return."

　　"I bloody well will not!"

　　Sherlock's hands clenched on the arms of his chair for a moment, but his face was set. "As you wish, of course," he said, his voice cold. "I will be moving, either way."

　　"And what will you do, in this grand scheme of yours Go and stay with Mycroft You'll go mad. And you'll drive him mad, too."

　　"It doesn't matter," Sherlock said. "He can shut me away with Mummy, until I'm useful again, it makes no difference." He raised his head. "You will be safe."

　　"Fucking hell!" John yelled, in frustration. He wanted to stamp his foot on the floor; he wanted to punch the wall, he wanted to grab Sherlock and shake some sense into him. Some common sense, the one type he seemed to be lacking.

　　"Have you completely lost your marbles Do you hear yourself" he demanded. "Everything we've worked at over these past weeks, everything we've achieved,you're just going to write it off Send me away and go and sulk in a corner until your sight returns"

　　Sherlock said nothing, his face hard and set. John wanted to slap him. He changed tack, abruptly. "OK, fine, we'll go somewhere together," he said. "If it's too dangerous in London, we can go somewhere else. We can go anywhere you like. The Continent, America, bloody Bognor, I don't care. Somewhere together... Stop shaking your head!"

　　"We're too dangerous together, John," Sherlock said, in a gentler tone. "I've seen to that. If we're apart, I'm no threat, and you're less of a target."

　　"Don't make this about me, Sherlock, because we both know it isn't." John felt the beginnings of despair at Sherlock's implacability and he fought against it. "It's not my safetyyou're really worried about, it's your own."

　　Sherlock waved his arm in dismissal. "You're being ridiculous."

　　"Am I Have you even thought about what I want About how I will feel being sent off, away from my home, away from everything I care about Does that matter to you at all"

　　There was no response; Sherlock's attitude suggested that any more ranting would just be tuned out.

　　"Safety isn't everything, Sherlock, what about The Game That was all you used to care about."

　　"Well, now it isn't!" He seemed angry with himself for getting drawn back into argument, but he carried on. "Now it isn't, John. You know that." He raised a hand to his face, then straightened his shoulders and dropped it again. "I can't play the game without you, and I will get you killed." His voice wasn't entirely steady, but it was clear that his resolve was unwavering. "This is for the best," he said, with an air of finality.

　　John stared at him. Through his mind flashed images of the last few weeks, the two of them together; Sherlock smiling, cupping his face, touching him. Sherlock naked, gasping, holding his hand. Saying he was sure, kissing properly, at last, wrapped together on the sofa, Sherlock saying he loved him... but not enough, as it turned out. Not nearly enough. He swallowed, blinking away the hot tears which threatened his composure, trying to hold on, the soldier in him still trying to fight what seemed an unwinnable war.

　　"OK," he said, at last. "If you've decided you don't want to risk your heart, then fine. Keep it. Much good may it do you, hiding alone in the darkness. I never took you for a coward, Sherlock."

　　Sherlock's face darkened at the insult and he rose to his feet. "I am afraid for you, not for myself."

　　"Bollocks!" shouted John, his control failing. "That is such complete bollocks, and you know it. Physical danger is not going to stop a man like you, any more than it would a man like me. It's emotional pain that you're afraid of. You're shutting me out, pushing me away to protect yourself. Yourself, Sherlock, not me. NOT. ME."

　　He turned away, breathing deeply, hoping that Sherlock would take his agitation for anger. Once he felt able to speak again, he continued, still keeping his back turned. If he was going to have his heart broken today, then he wasn't going to watch while it happened.

　　"So, go ahead," he invited. "Do it, if you must. Protect yourself. But don't for one minute pretend that you're doing it for my benefit, when any idiot can see that you're lying."

　　It was quiet for a long time.

　　John was so focused on keeping himself under control, that he didn't hear Sherlock moving up behind him, didn't see the hands approaching his shoulders until they were already turning him, didn't duck his head fast enough to prevent Sherlock cupping his face and feeling the tears on his cheeks.

　　He looked appalled. "John," he whispered. "John, I..." He stroked his finger down the side of John's neck, tracking the anguish as it flowed. "How do you... how do you dare"

　　"It's risk versus reward, Sherlock. It always is." John wanted nothing more than to throw himself into Sherlock's arms, but that didn't seem like an option at the moment.

　　"I was so happy, a week ago, when you said you were sure, when you kissed me, said you loved me, it was the best night of my life." John had to stop, closing his eyes. He couldn't say these words while looking at the man he loved so much.

　　"And then, ever since, it seemed like you had changed your mind, that you regretted it, and you've hurt me, as you can clearly tell." He paused, taking a deep breath and opening his eyes again. If this was his last chance, he had to take it. "But Sherlock, I wouldn't give up that night for anything. Even if you push me away, even if I never have another, it was worth it."

　　Sherlock's hands were moving over his face, 'watching' John in the only way he could, his thumbs repeatedly wiping away the tears that were still falling. "I've never had anything I was so afraid to lose before," he said, his voice low and hesitant. "There has never been anything... anyone, that I wouldn't want to live without."

　　He leaned down until their foreheads were touching. "I'm sorry," he said.

　　John closed his eyes again. "Sorry that you're going to break my heart, or sorry that you've been an idiot" he asked, giving up on his voice and letting it emerge choked and broken.

　　"The latter," said Sherlock.

　　The latter... John almost didn't dare believe that he'd heard correctly. "Do you mean it" he whispered.

　　"I promise you," Sherlock replied. "I swear to you, John, that I will never do anything like this again. I will listen to you. If you want us to stay together, then we will stay together, whatever the risk. I promise you..." His voice cracked. "I promise you... Forgive me."

　　John let go. His knees gave out and he would have fallen had Sherlock not supported him, wrapping long arms around him and holding him close, walking backwards until they could fall to the sofa, Sherlock somewhere between sitting and lying, with John draped across him, hardly aware of their location as the stress of the evening; indeed, of the week, made it's way out of his system and soaked into Sherlock's shirt.

　　When it seemed that the worst was over, and he started to tune back in to his surroundings, he found himself with a mouthful of shirt button and barely room to breath. He pushed himself upright and reached round for the tissues, wiping his face and blowing his nose, loudly.

　　Sherlock made a face. "Is it strange that I still want to kiss you, after that"

　　John chuckled, although it was a subdued affair. "I still want to kiss you when you're wrist deep in body parts, so I'm going to go with 'No'," he replied, leaning to the side and resting his head on Sherlock's shoulder, since they were at right angles, John's legs across Sherlock's lap as he sat upright.

　　John's breath was still slightly uneven, but he was calming, feeling better now after the cathartic effect of tears; something he'd been known to unofficially prescribe from time to time. 'A cup of tea, two biscuits, and a good cry. Not necessarily in that order. Come back and see me in the morning.'

　　Sherlock's right arm was wrapped around him, hand stroking up and down, and John felt a kiss on the top of his head. Then Sherlock's left hand moved to cup his jaw, tipping his head back and the kisses moved to his temple, then down the side of his face. John kept his eyes closed, just revelling in the attention, the feeling of Sherlock's lips against his skin, after fearing that he would never experience it again.

　　Sherlock was kissing gently all over his face, but avoiding his mouth, as if unsure whether he still had the right. Gentle wasn't Sherlock's usual style, at all, and John blinked his eyes open and pulled his head back a little so that he could focus.

　　Sherlock looked nervous, uncertain, perhaps doubtful as to where they stood now, in the light of their fight, and probably disconcerted by all the feelings wafting around the place.

　　John sighed; it was clear that emotional intelligence was in no way related to the more intellectual kind. "You don't ever do anything like this again," he said firmly. "No unilateral decisions which affect both of us so seriously. Agreed"

　　"Agreed."

　　"OK, then," he said, and waited. Nothing happened. Sherlock looked confused.

　　John gave a dramatic sigh. "Honestly, do I have to do everything" He wrapped a hand around the back of Sherlock's neck and pulled him down and for a moment Sherlock smiled against his lips and then they were kissing, and it was glorious.

　　Hands in hair, give and take, Sherlock pushing and John teasing, sucking on a lip then pulling back, angling his head, then moving in again with a nip of teeth, until Sherlock growled and pushed him backwards, falling on top of him and kissing him hungrily. That's more bloody like it, thought John, absolutely loving Sherlock's weight pressing him down, feeling Sherlock's growing erection against his thigh and pushing up against it; rolling his hips and stretching his body out to get as much contact between them as he possibly could. It quickly wasn't anything like enough.

　　"Can we..." Sherlock asked, between kisses, he seemed unwilling to part their lips long enough to get a full sentence out.

　　"God,yes," muttered John, pushing one hand into the back of Sherlock's trousers and pulling up his shirt with the other.

　　"Your room," said Sherlock, heaving himself up off the sofa and pulling John up also, wrapping around him immediately and pushing him back towards the doorway. His direction was a little off, which reassured John as to how affected he was.

　　"Why mine" John asked, between kisses, correcting their route. They had never slept in his bed, always staying in Sherlock's room, which was closer.

　　"Top drawer," Sherlock explained succinctly, biting his way down John's neck.

　　Top drawer John wondered, vaguely, tipping his head to the side automatically to improve Sherlock's access. Top drawer... Oh! "Oh!" he said, torn between 'Are you sure you're ready to take this step' and 'When did you go through my room' In the end, as the mouth on his neck reached his collarbone, he simply turned, grabbed Sherlock's hand, and tugged him urgently towards the stairs.

　　It took them some time to get to John's bedroom, and neither of their shirts survived the journey.

　　Then they got sidetracked in the doorway. John had managed to get his hand into Sherlock's trousers by this point and Sherlock was complaining about layers, as it was apparently unnecessary for John to wear another top under his shirt on a warm evening. John ignored him, pushing him back against the doorframe and biting his neck, keeping Sherlock's head tilted back with a hand in his hair. They virtually fell into the room.

　　"Hold on," John tried to consider practicalities.

　　"If I hold on any tighter, I'll cut off your circulation," replied Sherlock. He could be so frighteningly literal at times, John wasn't even sure if he was joking.

　　"Just let me get what you'll need," he said, pulling his hands free. "You know, from the top drawer," he added, pointedly.

　　"What you'll need," replied Sherlock, not letting go at all. "I want you to do me."

　　John was startled into temporary immobility. When he had allowed himself to imagine it, which had been increasingly often up until a week ago, he had always assumed that Sherlock would be a very definite top. He said as much.

　　Sherlock shrugged. "You're probably right," he agreed. "But, at the moment,you're the only one of us who knows what he's doing. Also," he added, "I feel the need to make reparation to you and this seems a suitable method."

　　John hesitated; he didn't want Sherlock to submit to something that wasn't what he really wanted.

　　Sherlock huffed and pulled him forward, tugging his T-shirt over his head swiftly. "For God's sake, stop being so damned noble," he said. "I love you, but you can be absolutely infuriating."

　　John's heart swelled at the admission, but he had to laugh at the words. "I know how that feels," he said, and pushed Sherlock down onto the bed.

　　Sherlock lay back as John stripped him with military efficiency. Truth be told, he did feel a little dazed. He'd been through more emotional upheaval in the last few weeks than in the preceding decade and it seemed clear that he was making a complete hash of it. From now on, he determined, he would leave decisions on that side of things to John, it was definitely more his area. This would also leave Sherlock free to focus on more intellectual matters. It was win-win, he decided.

　　"What are you smirking about" asked John, as he dropped the last of Sherlock's clothing to the floor and started on his own.

　　Sherlock quirked a brow at him, aware that the effect might be diluted by his complete nudity and state of arousal, but no longer caring about such things in front of John. "Can't I just be happy to be here with you" he suggested. "Does there have to be a reason"

　　"With you Always," said John. "Although it's nice to see you smiling." He must be naked by now, Sherlock thought, propping himself up on the bed. The room had gone quiet. He turned his head from side to side. "John" Both his elbows were suddenly knocked away, making him fall back and then John was there, hovering over him, not quite touching.

　　Sherlock waited; he would follow John's lead. Hands moved to cup his face. He wished he could see, even just for a moment, to see how John was looking at him now, then he could picture it whenever he wanted. He thought he would probably want to picture it a lot. He blinked, and John kissed him.

　　Sherlock raised his arms and tried to tug John down on top of him, but he didn't budge, clearly not wanting to be rushed. He was significantly stronger than he appeared. Sherlock amended his approach and pushed one hand into John's hair, quickly sliding the other into the gap between their bodies.

　　"You sneaky bugger," John gasped as Sherlock's hand closed around him.

　　"Problem"

　　From there things progressed into something of a wrestling match, as they worked off any unresolved frustrations and generally wound each other up as much as possible. Sherlock was stronger, but somehow that didn't seem to help against John, with his army training behind him. Likewise, Sherlock was more devious, but John was much more experienced. Sherlock had always thought of sex as something distasteful and somewhat unsanitary; he had never realised it could be fun.

　　Eventually, there came a point where they were pressed against one another, kissing softly and getting their breaths back. "You ready" asked John and Sherlock nodded. "Roll onto your front," instructed John, moving away, and Sherlock heard the slide of the infamous drawer as he obeyed.

　　He supposed he should feel nervous, considering what was about to happen, but he really didn't. It would probably hurt, at least at first, but that wasn't a problem, he could cope with a fair amount of pain, and he no doubt deserved it anyway for what he had almost done earlier. He suddenly flashed back to John's choked voice asking if he was 'sorry that you're going to break my heart' and his chest felt tight.

　　"John," he said, and John was there. "I'm sorry," Sherlock told him, as warm, forgiving, fingers stroked through his hair. "I am sorry." He brought his hand up to take John's and pressed their palms together.

　　"I know you are, Sherlock," murmured John, kissing his temple. "I know you are. I love you."

　　"I love you, too."

　　John's voice had a slight tremor when he spoke again, but he didn't sound upset "You still OK with this" he asked

　　"Go for it," Sherlock replied and John snorted at his use of the expression. "What" he demanded. "I can be current."

　　John was still chuckling as he moved onto the bed and Sherlock opened his mouth to protest further, but then John started pressing kisses down his spine and he shut up, stretching his arms up over his head and humming in pleasure. He could feel John's smile against his skin, but that was alright. He was glad he could make John smile.

　　John was making good progress, kissing and licking a trail as he moved down the bed, his hands careful not to tickle as they stroked down Sherlock's sides, until they reached his hips and pulled them up. Sherlock rose onto his knees obediently, supporting his upper body on his elbows and feeling a little undignified for a moment, but quickly forgetting about it because John Was. Not. Stopping.

　　He just kept going, with his kissing, and his licking, and his tongue and that was way past Sherlock's spine now and that was really, extremely, very much... unexpected.

　　Sherlock found his fingers were digging in to the bed and he couldn't seem to get his breath. John's tongue was circling and flickering and now actually pushing into him and Sherlock almost pulled away, but then he had to stop himself doing the opposite, but it didn't really make any difference because John's hands were gripping his hips and John's mouth was following any movements that he made.

　　Logically, he thought, it wasn't so strange. After all, John's tongue had been in his mouth, and in his ears, and in his belly button, and this was just... it was just... it was just thrusting into him now and one of John's hands had moved between his legs and when had that happened

　　Then the hand on his hip was gone, and so was the other one, but Sherlock didn't move away; he stayed right where he was, thank you very much, because this was where John wanted him to be and clearly John had his own area of genius. He was distantly aware of a wrapper tearing, and the flick of a bottle top, then John's hands were back, but slick as they smoothed over him, and John's tongue moved away and a slippery finger immediately took its place.

　　Before long, there were two fingers and Sherlock squirmed a little, although it didn't hurt, exactly, it just felt very strange, but the other hand was stroking him and that was an extremely pleasant distraction from any level of oddness and John's mouth was kissing and biting again, no doubt leaving red suction marks all over his hips and backside and Sherlock found he didn't mind that either.

　　Then John's fingers twisted and every muscle in Sherlock's abdomen clenched and he had absolutely no control over the peculiar noise which emerged unbidden from his mouth. He turned his face into the pillow, hoping John hadn't been put off, but there didn't seem to be any danger of that, as the fingers continued to rub inside him, more firmly now, and exactly in the right place.

　　Sherlock groaned, low in his throat, feeling that things couldn't possibly last much longer, and the fingers slowed and pulled back slightly. With a final kiss to the base of his spine, John knelt up behind him.

　　"I need you to spread your knees apart and lean forward a little more," he requested, continuing before Sherlock could ask for an explanation. "It will help to stretch you, which should minimise any pain you might feel," he said. "And also..."

　　Sherlock had figured it out. "You can't reach otherwise," he observed.

　　John huffed. "Yes, alright, I'm shorter than you. Ha bloody ha. You won't be laughing in a minute," he said, and Sherlock shivered, but it still wasn't nerves.

　　He followed John's instructions, feeling oddly empty as the fingers were removed, then John was gripping his hips again with both hands and adjusting his position and he could feel something else pushing at him, a firm and steady pressure and part of him thought there was just no way that was going to fit in there, but then it did.

　　John held his hips firmly, grounding him and Sherlock gritted his teeth because yes, that did hurt, and John was not entirely proportionate to what he recalled of national averages - there was still some way to go.

　　But John was waiting, giving him time to adjust, and Sherlock took a few deep breaths and consciously tried to relax, because this was John and he didn't want John to feel unwelcome.

　　And then John eased forward a little more and slipped one hand around to grip and stroke him and in what seemed like a very short time John was fully inside and there was a loud moan from behind him and he could hear John catch his breath, and both hands were back on his hips and he could feel them trembling. "Are you alright" he asked.

　　There was a huffed exhale. "That's supposed to be my line," John said, and his voice was shaking, too. "I'm fine, just give me a minute," he said. "I'm trying not to come straight away like a bloody teenager." He was panting. "Too many fantasies all at once," he added.

　　"It's fine, John. I'm not going anywhere."

　　John laughed, which produced some very interesting sensations, but he stopped abruptly. "Sherlock, could you please not talk, for a minute" he asked. "Your voice is… not helping."

　　Interesting. Several new lines of enquiry opened up as Sherlock considered this. Quietly. Then he got bored of waiting and pushed back.

　　"Fuck!" The hands on his hips tightened, then John said, "Right, then," and he started moving and the pain was mostly gone by now so Sherlock was better able to concentrate on the sensation of having John actually inside his body like this which, now he'd got used to it, surprisingly felt quite good, especially when John adjusted his angle and started brushing against his prostate again.

　　This would be alright, he decided, a little vaguely, if it was something John wanted to do regularly. Sherlock wouldn't object. His mind drifted a little, and he wondered what it would be like the other way round, and that was when everything stepped up a gear, or several, because the thought of doing this to John, of holding his hips and pushing into his body, of possessing him, had Sherlock tipping his head back and groaning again.

　　Then John leaned forward and wrapped one arm around Sherlock's body to anchor himself, and the other stretched up across his chest, and found his nipple and twisted it and Sherlock's body jerked, which John seemed to enjoy because he immediately reached across to the other nipple and pulled that one too, scraping his nail across it and Sherlock put his head down and pushed his hips back and bit his lip to stop himself from moaning and suddenly wished John had more hands.

　　After that, things became increasingly hazy. John must have spent a while teasing his nipples because they were still hard and throbbing long after John knelt up again and one hand was back on his hip, but then the other reached around and John's grip was firm and relentless and knowledgeable and Sherlock could feel everything in his body tensing and his focus narrowing and he'd spent enough time in bed with John to know what that meant.

　　John clearly recognised the signs too, because his pace increased and he started doing that thing that he did with his hand, which Sherlock wasn't even sure how to describe, but recorded anyway and then Sherlock thought, next time, John… next time… I will be doing this to you, and that concept carried him right over the edge and it was… Goodnight Vienna.

　　He was dimly aware of John thrusting into him a few more times, both hands on his hips now, before the fingers tensed and John cried out, pulsing inside him, holding him in position when Sherlock would have slumped down onto the bed, and he was probably going to have bruises tomorrow, but that was alright, he didn't mind that at all.

　　Then John, was pulling out of him, carefully, and tipping him to lie on his side instead of straight down, which...yes, that was a much better idea and he could hear John cleaning up the mess on the bed and then wiping his stomach and his chest... his chest Really Sherlock felt oddly proud for a moment, although he supposed John should take the credit, technically.

　　He felt a soft cloth wiping between his legs, and supposed he ought to go and take a shower, but he really didn't feel like getting up right now... maybe later, he thought, with an internal snigger.

　　"You're smirking again," John observed, quietly, as he tugged the duvet down with some difficulty, since Sherlock was lying on it. "Should I ask"

　　"Probably best not," Sherlock replied. "Although, I think you were right about me."

　　"Figures," said John, climbing into the bed and turning his back on Sherlock, before pulling the duvet up over them both. Sherlock snuggled closer and wrapped an arm around him, contemplating their position speculatively.

　　"It will be easier the other way around, though," admitted John. "I should be at just the perfect height for you."

　　Sherlock smiled against the back of his neck. "Practically perfect in every way," he said and John let out a startled laugh, turning his head to look over his shoulder.

　　"I don't think this was what Miss Poppins had in mind," he said. "How the hell did that not get deleted"

　　"I'll tell you tomorrow," Sherlock said, kissing him, before nudging him back round. He was surprised the phrase had slipped out at all; his usual filters were clearly non-functional at present. Probably best that they went to sleep as quickly as possible, before anything else was said. He hoped his dreams wouldn't be too bad tonight.

　　One shot. There had been only one shot. Sherlock almost woke, his mind stretching out to snag the elusive thought which kept haunting him, but it was gone and he slipped back under, finding himself blind again, searching for John, endlessly searching, except this time... he found him.

　　He couldn't tell where they were, but he knew that John was here, somewhere close by. A high pitched giggle emerged from the blackness and Sherlock turned his head towards the sound. "Where is he"

　　There were footsteps, but not approaching, they were circling him. The voice which spoke was soft, Irish, a gentle Dublin accent. "I've got what you're after," it said. "I thought you might come."

　　Moriarty. But where was John

　　"Do you even know what you're looking for, I wonder Or do you just wish you could see me"

　　"Both," replied Sherlock, turning as the footsteps moved around him. "You think I'm a danger again, so you've taken my eyes."

　　"Boring!" laughed Moriarty. "You can get an observer anywhere." He walked on a few paces. "Oh, no, I've taken something much more… vital."

　　His steps were getting faster. "Don't you remember, Sherlock Did my words really make such a fleeting impression"

　　Sherlock's ears were starting to ring and he shook his head to clear it, straining to track Moriarty's position, as the smell of petrol filled the air.

　　"Sherlock, run!" John's voice at last, but cut off abruptly. Sherlock moved towards the sound.

　　"I warned you," the voice was sing-song and seemed to be coming from everywhere at once. "I warned you what would happen if you didn't back off, if you didn't stop prying."

　　Silence, then the voice was low and malevolent and right at his ear. "Now you'll never be whole again."

　　There was the flick of a lighter, and Sherlock started to run, but the noises faded, the lights came on, and he was back at the pool, watching helplessly once more as the sniper fired and John started to fall, waiting for the next shot… which didn't come, which had never come in all the time that he'd been having this dream.

　　He looked down at the gaping wound in his chest, finally understanding, and his true memories came flooding back as he woke up.

　　The lost half hour, seeing John walk out of the cubicle, the confusion, the absolute horror of the bomb vest, Moriarty's exact words, which John had not reported or repeated and the overwhelming realisation that, despite everything he had believed all these years, Sherlock Holmes did have a heart and that it was currently standing in front of him and wrapped in explosives.

　　Everything was clear. He opened his eyes and looked at John.