Work Text:
***
"John!"
"Busy!" He threw a punch, dropping the thug that menaced him, and looked up to see why Sherlock had called his name. More goons had joined the party, probably wondering what had happened to their associates. A guy who looked like a gargantuan ape in a bowler hat grinned down on him. John ducked and kicked, but with no effect. One second he was dangling by his shirt collar and the next he was flying. "Oh. Damn." The wall loomed and there wasn't much he could do except curl inward and breathe with the impact.
Sirens. Flashing lights. "Always late to the party," John thought giddily and then hauled himself to his feet as Lestrade and company barrelled onto the scene.
"You're injured." Sherlock sounded discomfited. He had come out of the long evening completely unscathed.
"I'm fine." John rolled his shoulder and did his best to ignore the cry of protest from his abused muscles. "I'm sore. But that stands to reason when someone twice your size pitches you against a brick wall. I'll have a shower, take an aspirin, it'll pass." He glanced over at Sherlock. "And when it does, you can show me that throw you used. The one where you – " He sketched in the air.
"That was Baritsu."
John frowned at him. 'Never heard of it."
"I'm not surprised. I'm probably its last devotee," Sherlock said with a shrug. "It's a multidisciplinary martial art that enjoyed brief periods of popularity in the 19th and early parts of the 20th century before nearly dying out almost completely. I was fortunate enough to be taken on as a pupil by its last master before he retired."
"Why am I not surprised?" John said. He tried not to roll his eyes but sometimes Sherlock's seemingly endless stores of esoterica got the better of him. "If there's no dark rite of initiation or anything, I'd still like to learn that throw." Pain shot through his arm as he started on his shirt buttons and it was a struggle not to let it show. "Tomorrow. You gonna turn in any time soon?"
"Why do you ask?" Sherlock's reply was hesitant.
John realised he'd phrased the query ambiguously. They were still working out the nuances of their new relationship and his question could have been an invitation.
Silence hung between them as he considered flat out asking Sherlock to join him. Company might be nice, but he wasn't up for much more. When he weighed a few minutes of quiet conversation against having room to spread out as he tossed and turned in what was likely to be a fruitless effort to get comfortable, he decided to evade.
John shrugged, an action he immediately regretted, and said, "No reason. But if you're going to play your violin, stick to something civilised like Bach or Brahms. This late, I'm not sure the neighbours will be up to anything more experimental. Goodnight, Sherlock." He retreated to the bathroom to deal with his injuries.
In the shower, hot water rained down. John flinched as it pummelled his neck and shoulder. Despite his indifferent reply to Sherlock's concern, he hurt. He rotated his arm gingerly and sucked air through his teeth as he probed at his biceps and shoulder girdle. There were no evident major muscle tears, but they were definitely strains. No doubt a glance in the mirror would show ugly bruises blooming. There was a gel pack in the fridge, and pain pills in his medical kit upstairs in his room. It was going to take something a good deal stronger than aspirin to make it through the night. He shut off the water and the curtain pulled back before he could reach for it.
"Take these." Sherlock dropped a pair of tablets into his hand.
John didn't bother to ask how Sherlock had unlocked the drugs box as he knocked the pills back before they could dissolve and washed them down with water out of the bath's tap. He was just grateful he had, and he was equally grateful for Sherlock's assistance stepping out of the tub. "Thanks."
"Allow me," Sherlock replied, and then he unfolded the towel that hung over his shoulder and used it to blot away the water that clung to John's body with gentle strokes and infinite care. "Come stay with me tonight."
Sherlock was so often callous towards the feelings of others that John found himself a little awestruck by the overt display of tenderness. He nodded and followed, thankful he didn't have to take the stairs.
"What's this?" John asked. Whilst he had been in the shower, Sherlock had been busy. The bedclothes had been folded back neatly, and towels had been arranged over the bottom sheet. A single pillar candle illuminated the room.
"A treat," Sherlock replied. He sounded self conscious. "Lie down."
It was an odd thing, their relationship, John thought as he settled with his face between a pair of pillows. They were flatmates, best friends, and lovers of a sort. They loved without the trappings of being in love. There were no endearments, no outward signs, no snuggling on the sofa or casual kisses. Only the sharing of their bodies when being alone became too much. In its way it was liberating. Unlike his previous relationships, John never second guessed himself. Whatever he did was right because Sherlock had no expectations of what was proper, he just acted as it suited him and so John did the same.
"Almond oil," Sherlock said. A splash of liquid warmth hit John's skin, following the path of his spine. "I bought it for an experiment, but I think this will be a better use." The mattress shifted as Sherlock settled and traced the splash marks with his fingertips, spreading oil with a light touch. He placed both palms against John's shoulders and began to knead the muscles along his neck, his clever fingers working magic when he encountered knots and tight spots.
"You have a nasty bruise forming over your right biceps and the top of your shoulder."
"So I noticed," John replied. The pain medication was starting to kick in and he felt considerably more mellow. It occurred to him absently that he'd not really looked at the tablets Sherlock had handed him, just swallowed without thinking. Now he wondered what they'd been as he smothered a giggle. Sherlock's gentle caress tickled as it drifted to the underside of his arm. "You gonna kiss it and make it better?"
Sherlock's contemplative touching came to a halt. "I didn't think you'd be up for that sort of distraction."
John chuffed against the pillows and shifted against the towels, doing nothing to relieve the growing tension in his groin. "Me neither. But what you're doing is coming awfully close to foreplay."
"Even this?" Sherlock dug into a particularly tight knot.
John gasped and then drew a deep breath, letting it out slowly as the muscle fibres were prised back into their proper configuration. "Maybe not that," he admitted. "But pain really isn't my thing."
"I'll bear that in mind," Sherlock said as he soothed the knot with a drop of something cool. The air grew minty as more of the cool gel was rubbed into the damaged quarter of John's upper back.
"That's nice. Sort of numbing."
"A compound of my own devising. An improvement on the stuff from the chemist, wouldn't you say?"
"Hmm." John felt relaxed, happy, and considerably more comfortable than he was when they first returned home. He would have agreed to nearly anything.
Sherlock shifted again. He got off the bed and left the room. A minute or so later he returned and John watched as he wiped his hands dry and then set the towel aside. "Turn over," Sherlock instructed. John took a breath and rolled carefully onto his back. He looked up as Sherlock settled close at his side and poured more oil onto his hands. "Can't leave you half finished," Sherlock said with the hint of a smile colouring his voice. "Close your eyes."
John nodded and complied. Sherlock stroked lightly along his neck, tracing a path from under his ears to his collarbone and then down his arms and up over his chest again. His touch became both soothing and arousing as he abandoned standard therapeutic massage techniques for something else of his own devising.
More oil dribbled over John's torso. The anticipation of what Sherlock was going to do next was nearly as intoxicating as the sensations he was evoking with his hands. He raked his palms over John's pectorals and deliberately flicked his nipples with the pads of his thumbs, teasing just enough to set John squirming before moving lower.
The oil was spread over his thighs and down his legs. John uttered Sherlock's name like a prayer as he climbed astride and then lowered his body until they were chest to chest. "Let me," Sherlock said as he clenched his thighs around John's shaft and began to move.
John moaned, and to his own ears it sounded wanton and greedy. His skin was completely enervated from Sherlock's massage and now he wanted, he needed, heat and friction. He tangled one hand through Sherlock's curls and pulled him into a kiss, bucking his hips upwards as Sherlock thrust down and rubbed his prick against John's belly. "That's good." He reached up and stroked Sherlock's cheekbone. "Really, really, good."
Sherlock set an unhurried pace, almost maddeningly so, as he arched his hips so that John nearly slipped free and then dipped sharply forward. His eyelids fluttered closed. In the flickering candlelight his eyelashes contrasted starkly against his pale cheeks as he succumbed to the sensations he was creating. His jaw softened, and his tongue darted forward to lick his lips. John reached up and kissed him and then he buried his face against Sherlock's neck and breathed the scent of his skin.
Sweat slicked their bodies as they ground against one another. John licked Sherlock's chest and he tasted salt and a trace of the oil Sherlock had used during his massage. The hair there was sparse compared to the mat that covered John's pecs, but Sherlock liked it when he played with it, so John tangled his fingers and tugged gently, earning a pleasured gasp for his efforts. "More," Sherlock said through gritted teeth. "Touch me more."
John smiled, Sherlock, for all his ascetic habits, was at heart a sensualist. He loved to be touched all over and as much as possible. In a way, it was a benefit to them both. It was easy to let go of his own residual hang ups under the demands of Sherlock's greed.
He ran his hands over Sherlock's arms and back, alternating between stroking and sketching random patterns. Their tempo increased, and John clutched at Sherlock's buttocks as he rutted against the slick heat of his thighs. Under his palms the muscles clenched and flexed. He shut his eyes, holding Sherlock to him, and surrendered, obliterating the lingering sent of menthol with sex as he came. Sherlock groaned against John's cheek before moulding their bodies even closer and letting go.
For a long moment they did nothing but lay in each others arms, panting. Their first kiss was breathless. The second was better, slow and sweet and effortless. "Thank you," Sherlock murmured as they parted.
John felt himself smile as he carded his fingers through Sherlock's hair, offering a gentle massage of his own. "You're welcome." It was odd, the politeness, but everything about this part of their relationship was a bit strange. It was as if there were two versions of John and Sherlock, the one who operated in the real world and the pair who shared space in a bubble just outside of it. He wondered if the two versions would someday merge.
"How's your shoulder?" Sherlock asked as he reached out for the cloth and began to wipe them clean.
John was feeling rather boneless, the combination of muscle relaxant, massage, and and endorphins having done its work. He shifted his arm. It still hurt, but it was as if the pain were a step removed. "It's okay. It takes more than a brick wall to keep me down. Sherlock – " He paused, considering what was on the tip of his tongue.
There had been genuine upset in Sherlock's expression when he realised that John hadn't come through the fight completely unscathed. What if that had happened earlier? The arrival of the police hadn't caused the gang of kidnapping counterfeiters to meekly fold up. If he hadn't been able to shake off being bounced off that wall or he'd been shot would Sherlock still have been able to coolly sneak in and free their hostage whilst Lestrade and his team provided a diversion? It was too complicated to think about in his current state.
"Yes?" Sherlock blew out the candle and pulled the bedclothes over them, taking John's proclamation of fitness as permission to spoon close.
John rolled onto his uninjured side and into Sherlock's embrace. "Never mind. It'll keep."
"I would have killed them with my bare hands," Sherlock whispered against his ear as he ran his fingertips over John's bullet scar. "And not had a single moment of remorse."
John closed his eyes. He didn't want to know how Sherlock knew his thoughts. It was enough that he did know. It was as close to an admission of just how deep Sherlock's feelings ran as he ever expected to hear and the intensity with which it was offered brought a lump to his throat and chilled him to the bone.
'Thank you' didn't seem quite the right reply. In those drowsing, post-sex moments nothing did, but he said it anyway, as he pressed just a little bit closer into Sherlock's embrace.