Archive of Our Own ^beta

The wind tousles Sherlock’s hair, each strand catching the afternoon sunlight. He stands, gripping the railing of the ship, his knuckles tightening over cold metal as he stares out across the water. The calm sea splits against the bow, parted waves lapping gently against its hull like cold, curious fingertips probing for the slightest imperfection. Sherlock watches. He watches as the ship cuts neatly through the water, feeling ever so deceptively powerful against the vast expanse of rippling blue. But as he looks into these inky depths, Sherlock knows it is a carefully crafted lie. So foolish was man to believe he could best the ocean. A fallacy in the face of such an indomitable mistress—especially one so capable of granting and revoking existence with diminutive ease.

Sherlock watches the water for some time like this, his hands beginning to ache from the grip he's had on the railing, but he hardly notices. And cares even less. 

'Awaken! And let the world behold!'

His own voice rings through his head, intertwined with the voice of that thing which bent his mind and kept him so close to breaking. That which took him, which consumed him. For a moment, whole in his conviction of this horrible truth. That which cannot be explained or understood, things beyond his comprehension. Images of places he's not sure he's seen flash through his mind. Places he cannot explain, that defy all reason. Has he seen them? No. Not possible. They weren't possible. He can't even quite recall what it is they were, but he knows the impossible from the possible, and whatever he saw there simply could not have been real. Sherlock swallows. His hands tighten around the bar. He does not allow them to shake. No. There is nothing that can't be explained with logic and reason. Dreams, simply put. Nothing more.

Sherlock Holmes does not lose his mind. 

He hears footsteps approaching from behind.

"Holmes. Thought you'd be up here."

The voice stirs him from his futile staring contest with the unseen depths. His skin prickles as the voice washes over him and he blinks away. The ocean left to its ebb and flow– inexorably unaware of its victory. He doesn't move. Why bother? There's only one person it could ever be. The only person he ever wants it to be these days.

It's been two years since that first day at the hospital. Since he met him. Since he took him on as his flatmate. It feels like they've known each other for both an eternity and no time at all. How fickle of the human mind to alter its perception of time like that. To warp how one thinks of the constant presence of someone when they become so… 

He suspects it had more to do with Jon than he hopes.

"Watson. Weren’t you at tea." The response is short, his mouth closing around the syllables as though feeling them out for the first time, voice crackling slightly from disuse.

"Oh, um. Well, yes, I was. It was lovely actually, the man next door and his young daughter whom we ran into yesterday, they're going to New York to see his mother. Nothing of note, but a very sweet family story really, his wife...is.."

John trails off.

"Are you alright, Sherlock."

He says the question, doesn't ask it. As if it's rhetorical, as though he knows the answer already. And maybe he does. After living together this long, sometimes he fears the man's ability to see right through his defenses. Sherlock answers anyways, as he always does. 

"Yes, I'm fine. Simply enjoying the view."

"When I woke this morning you were nowhere to be found." 

"I left." 

"Yes I gathered. Why so early?"

"Why did you leave tea early?" He deflects the question easily, effortlessly. 

"...sorry?" 

"I do believe that you were scheduled to have tea with Mr. Enfield from two o'clock to four-thirty this afternoon. However, it is only five minutes short of three. That is a substantially early departure, is it not? I simply wasn’t expecting your arrival so soon and am curious as to what motivated you.” He speaks without glancing away from the distant horizon.

"You..." Watson chuckles, that hearty laugh he gives whenever he thinks something is just a little too ridiculous. He has several laughs. Sherlock is learning them all. "You are something else."

He breathes out. 

"Alright. I left because the little girl was looking restless, and God forbid Sherlock I wanted to check up on you.” He says, his voice soft. 

Sherlock scoffs, his chest squeezing. Irritating . Nothing sentimental, the sentimental gets you nowhere. Fantasies of being embraced, of being kissed softly on the temple, they scurry through his mind without permission.

Irritating.

"Check up on me?" he says.

"Yes. Sherlock, you look awful. Mr. Enfield asked where you were and I had no idea what to say, because I haven't seen you since last night. I just wanted to check on you and make sure this wasn't anything too serious, and that you were indeed alright." 

Sherlock scoffs.

"John, like I've said before. I am fine."

"Truly?"

"Yes. I am simply busy, this case needs my attention. If you know me by now, you would understand this." He's being stubborn. He knows it. But he can't help but to dig his heels in. A twisting, hot feeling in his chest squirms under the weight of his words. 

He isn't attempting to be convincing. He has no need. What he needs from Watson is for him to drop the subject, so he can mull this over on his own.

He turns to face him, to finally look him in the eyes. To let him know just how perfectly, utterly fine he is. As soon as he does, the squirming in his chest intensifies tenfold. Watson is wearing a waistcoat and overcoat as usual, looking quite put together. His hair moves around his face in the breeze, and his cheeks are slightly pink from the cold Atlantic air. He's an attractive man, of course he is. Anyone would have thoughts that might stray into the untoward. Though he has the added probing knowledge of exactly what those thoughts look like, in stark reality.

John's eyes bore into him as he observes, scrutinizing. Sherlock doesn't look away, he allows these eyes to roam his features. To try and dissect him with a clumsy hand. Doctor he may be, but he is no surgeon when it comes to matters of the mind. No matter how many cases they take together, he still falls short. 

Sherlock takes a step away from the railing. Away from the depths, from the memories threatening to boil over. Towards John. 

John has his eyes trained on Sherlock’s now, no longer roaming, no longer examining. Just meeting his gaze. Sherlock can feel his breath pass his lips as they are held in this stasis, each silently daring the other to break it. It's become tense, stifling. He's not sure when it became a staring contest. The last time John looked at him like this, well. They were not in public, where prying eyes could take note—and Sherlock wasn't preoccupied with paranoia from half-formed ideas and dreams that feel like memories. Logical as it may be. 

They were also far less sober.

His lips are dry from the sea air, cracked and red. He swipes his tongue over his bottom lip absently, wetting it. John follows the movement for a split second, his eyes leaving Sherlock's for all but a moment. They lock eyes once more.

A beat. 

"Alright then." Says John. His voice is quiet, soft. Breaking the silent barrier like a brick to a mirror.

"Quite." Says Sherlock. He walks forward, then past him. Their shoulders brush. John doesn't follow.

That evening is spent in silence. Sherlock sits at the desk, and he thinks. He thinks, and he writes, and he thinks some more. John comes in late, getting ready for bed and climbing into it without so much as a glance. Sherlock does not think about it. He doesn't. And he certainly doesn't feel guilty. 

When John wakes in the morning, Sherlock is in the middle of buttoning his vest in front of the mirror that sits over the dresser. His bed is made, seemingly untouched. John raises his eyebrows as soon as he sees Sherlock, and stretches with a small groan. Sherlock rolls his eyes ever so slightly. 

He's surprised I'm still here.

.... I'm surprised I'm still here.

"Sleep well, Watson?" Sherlock calls out, watching John from the mirror as the moustached man slowly regains consciousness, watching him yawn, watching him tousle his hair, drag his hands over his face. He looks almost painterly in the morning sun that trails through the cabin window, catching on his eyelashes and tracing his jaw, golden light resting delicately against his skin, against the column of his throat, and down to his chest. His pectorals are broad, and Sherlock lets his eyes wander without trepidation, remembering that chest above him, arms running up and down his sides. If he were a poet, he'd doubtless have a muse in the doctor. With the amount of times Sherlock has waxed poetic about the man in his mind over these past 2 years, he may as well have written his own chapbook.

But he is not a poet. And indulging in these thoughts is a lesson in flowery futility. Just as it always has been.

John catches his eyes in the mirror, and gives him a little smile, dragging him out of his thoughts and into the moment. A sign he's let go of yesterday's events and tension. Sherlock gives him a small nod. Recognition. 

"Mmm, I slept as well as I could. Boats don't do wonders for my rest, but at least I did sleep." John says, yawning. 

Sherlock can hear the words he leaves unspoken. Unlike you .

He finishes buttoning his vest, and smooths it out. His eyelids tug at him, urging him to try to sleep once more, to fade into that inky oblivion and finally rest. But he forces them up. 

"Are you going to the dining room?" John asks as he rises from his bed to begin getting dressed.

"Briefly." 

"Let me join you." 

A beat.

"...Alright." Sherlock concedes. He's too tired to argue, to tell Watson he won't be more than ten minutes, that he would prefer not to make an ordeal out of it. But as much as he doesn't have the energy to make a morning of breaking fast, he has even less energy to get in a row with the doctor about it. Or worse and more realistically, see his disappointed eyes and sullen acceptance.

Watson quickly dresses, while Sherlock pointedly looks away, and without another word the two head off to the dining hall in the first light hours of the morning. 

When they arrive the first trickles of the morning crowd have already begun spilling in. 

They take their seat at the empty table on the left side of the room, and are quickly served their breakfast by the staff. Watson begins to eat. Sherlock picks at his food absentmindedly. 

"Sherlock."

It's said cautiously, with all the trepidation of someone approaching a feral kitten. That is, wary, but not wary enough for his liking. More for the sake of the animal than fear for their safety. 

"John." He replies. He fills it with enough warning that he hopes John will drop it. 

He doesn't. Of course he doesn't. How foolish of him to think that smile would mean he would leave well enough alone. 

"Don't tell me you've stopped eating as well as sleeping. Soon you'll tell me you've joined the ranks of the undead. You are aware you still need these things to survive? You may think you're above it all, but you're as human as the rest of us." He says with a smile, offering a joke. Squeeze, goes his heart. As it usually does. Inconvenient. 

I am anything but above it all. I've never been so painfully aware of my humanity in all my life. 

"I appreciate the reminder, despite it lacking tact." He says curtly.

"I don't mean to impose."

"Certainly not." 

They fall into a tense silence. Fork clink. Bite. Chew. Swallow. Sherlock watches his mouth. His throat. 

"Would you come to dinner with me tonight? You've skipped it twice already and now you're barely eating breakfast." John says.

"Watson—" 

"Holmes." 

John interrupts him. Daring him to counter. Sherlock lets a long quiet breath leave him.

"It's not required. I just hope you will eat something. Consider it a favour if you have to?" John says, quietly. Sherlock doesn't want to look at him. He doesn't want to see those eyes, dripping with care and laced with honey. They do strange enough things to him when not filled with….

Regardless, it's annoyance, he reasons. Perhaps guilt. He shoves the part that says guilt down as far as he can. Nothing more vulnerable.

Sherlock stays silent, and doesn't look over. He just cuts off a piece of bland, slightly over cooked sausage and chews. Finally, after several long moments:

"A favour?"

John purses his lips. 

"If not simply for yourself, yes. Will you keep me company for the evening?" 

"You get lonely then?"

"If that's what you need to hear."

When he gets up from the table, food hardly touched and body begging for rest, John lets him go. But as he's walking away, John calls after him.

"See you at 6pm."

He raises a hand to the man behind him. 

----

At 6pm sharp, John is waiting at the table he'd asked Sherlock to join him at that morning. The man had disappeared after their conversation, and John had decided to let sleeping dogs lie. Clearly, he needed his space. John tried never to get in the way of the detective, deciding from the beginning to only serve as his friend and confidant. 

And then…that night in the study happened. 

He's still not sure what it means for him. His apparent sodomistic interests have become abundantly clear, and yet women have always naturally held his fancy. The fact that he finds himself desperately attracted to both Sherlock and every woman he's courted in much the same way is highly confusing to him, and after that night he will admit to having slightly avoided Sherlock under the guise of medical work just to calm himself down. Under no objection from the man in question mind you, which scratched at his heart in a very peculiar way. But he had to try and understand just what was happening to him. 

And discover he did. He's attracted to Holmes, that much is certain. No matter how unorthodox that notion may be. He's attracted to women too, he knows that. 

He tries not to think about it. What he does not know is where they stand.

He thinks of the black haired detective, his exhausted eyes, his odd demeanor. Bordering on cruelty now, as it does when something weighs on him. 

It's rare that he thinks of much else when it comes to his free time. Sherlock has plagued him for so long now, like the sweetest parasite burrowed into the most intimate parts of his mind. He would never confess to anyone where he wished the nature of their relationship would develop. Full of lips and skin and heat . His dreams too, now seem to be full of the detective. They leave him...wanting. John looks at Sherlock, tall and beautiful and brilliant and irritating and he wants . He wants to wipe that infuriating demeanor off of him. He wants to see him succeed. 

It's been almost five months since the…incident. He thinks about it now as he does so often, about how he sounded under his touch, under expert hands that discovered exactly where he held stress and how to release it. Where on his neck he sunk his teeth in to hear his voice break. He thinks about how much composure he broke, how much cocky, cruel brilliance he stripped away. How long it took until he was reduced to a begging, whining mess beneath—

"’Evening, doctor." 

Watson nearly jumps out of his skin at the voice of the very man he'd been so enraptured in moments prior. He attempts to school his expression, but if there's one thing he knows it's that nothing gets past Sherlock Holmes. If Sherlock notices though, he doesn't mention it. Small mercy. He's wearing a purple vest tonight, as he takes his seat across from Watson at the table. 

"’Evening Holmes. You made it."

"You practically begged me to come Watson, how could I deny you that." Sherlock says.

John smiles at him. Sherlock looks away.

"I almost thought you'd thrown yourself overboard like a distraught damsel tormented by hysteria." John jokes.

Sherlock huffs a laugh. Small, but there. 

John feels a sense of accomplishment. 

"Not quite." says Sherlock with a bemused tone. His lips are still chapped. John imagines the rough feeling under his own. You have to stop licking them Sherlock.

"Where did you go all afternoon? I scarcely saw you." He says quickly.

Sherlock looks around the room with a small sigh. 

"The stern. I met briefly with some other sightseers. Interesting folks." 

"Oh?"

"Mm. Sea is choppy today."

He's absent again, eyes focused on nothing as he drums his fingers on the table. John has the urge to do something, get him out of this...whatever this is. He's shown up to dinner, at the very least. He doesn't seem to be cutting himself off anymore for the time being. 

Their food is delivered then, and they begin eating. As he looks around the room, John spots a man in a tan coat with a mop of greasy brown hair and unshaven face. An idea enters his mind. 

"Sherlock?" 

"Hmm?"

Watson leans over the table slightly, careful to avoid his food.

"Do you see that man over there? The one in the tan jacket?"

Sherlock’s gaze sharpens, and immediately he scans the room for the man Watson is referring to. 

"What of him?" he says, quietly.

"I think...he's a vagabond. See his coat? It's stained, with what looks like grease. His clothes are just slightly too big. His hair is in a similar state as his coat, and from the way the people around him are reacting it looks like he hasn't taken many liberties to clean himself. With how quickly he's eating I'd say he hasn't had access to many proper meals. I'd wager this man is a stowaway assuming someone else's identity. He most likely found their ticket and boarded in their stead."  

---

Sherlock’s eyes snap back to Watson. The man is looking at him with a playful demeanor and a roguish grin. The way his eyes sparkle under the lights makes Sherlock feel like the only person in the room. It feels far more stifling than it ever has. He looks away. His eyes dullen. 

"Hm. Wrong."

"What?"

"You're wrong." 

"What do you mean?"

"I mean what I said."

"Oh for God's sake, don't you love to elaborate? What happened to your desire to prove me a fool?" 

John is getting fed up. He can see it in his eyes. Well two can play at that game can't they.

"Why should I? For what purpose? I can tell you right now he is of no interest to you or I. '' Replies Sherlock, coolly. He's pushing. He doesn't even know why he's pushing. He just wants to feel the resistance, to push his buttons, to hurt him, something . His head hurts, he can barely think straight through the exhaustion.

"That wasn't the point."

"Oh? So you admit there was an agenda here? Pray, indulge me with the underlying rationale behind this interaction. What was the point in this?" He inquires. 

"Jesus Christ, Holmes I just wanted to try and—"

"And what? Stage an intervention? Watson, I'm tired. I'm too tired for this, I'm too tired for arguments and I'm too tired for you . So please, do me a favour. Give it a rest. I can handle myself fine without you nagging me like a mother hen. I have important work to do, and constantly being interrupted by your frivolous desires is nothing but a hindrance. I am not a child, nor your charity case." He hisses across the table. 

He stabs at all the care he sees, lashing out to deflect it. John has to learn eventually. He has to know by now it will only hurt him to be so soft. He may believe arguments rattle his nerves, but he must grow up.

John's face has grown more stern as Sherlock finishes his diatribe. He says nothing as Sherlock finishes a bite of his meal and stands up.

"And that man? He's an engineer. Obviously." 

And with that last blow, he pushes in his chair, and leaves the dining room, leaving John alone with a half finished plate. 

John uncurls his hand, crescent-shaped marks dug into his palm. 

When Sherlock returns to the balcony outside the dining room, he all but slams into the railing, gripping the bar like his life depends on it. He puts his head on his forearms and breathes. He's so tired. He's so, so tired. His head swims. Images of a hundred jumbled things flash through his mind whenever he closes his eyes. Sherlock grits his teeth and squeezes them shut.

He can't avoid it forever. He has to sleep. 

----

When John Watson enters their cabin that night, anger soothed slightly from a good night of chatting with some of the other passengers who offered him whiskey and stories of anything you can imagine, Sherlock is asleep in his bed, fully clothed. He rolls his eyes. At least he's asleep. He moves to unbutton his vest to make his rest more comfortable, then abruptly stops himself. No, I mustn't overstep . As much as his back aches just looking at Sherlock’s insane, twisted position, he leaves him be. He wouldn’t appreciate my interference in the slightest . He made that exceedingly clear at dinner. 

He's being petty. They've had sillier fights that have ended in worse ways. But he gets to be a little upset. He's earned that much. In an act of silent and unnoticed retaliation, he does not touch the vest. Serves him right.

He curses himself for caring in the first place, and promptly passes out as well. 

----

Sometime later, John is awoken again. He can't see the clock, the room is pitch dark, so he infers it is still in the wee hours of the morning. He assumes a particularly harsh wave must have stirred him, and is about to go back to sleep when he hears something. 

Shaky breathing. He opens his eyes once more. He listens. 

Sherlock's breathing gets more intense, rapid. Then muttering. He's murmuring words. Phrases, things John can't make out.

A loud gasp. He hears sheets moving, he's sitting up. And then...

A whimper. Quiet, muffled. Almost a sob. Watson feels his heart clench in his chest against all the other emotions swirling in his head. The shaky breaths continue, too fast. And then all at once he's left his bed, and the door to their room is pushed open as he leaves.

It shuts behind him, and the room is silent once more. Watson lies there for several minutes. It's deafening. The clock ticks from its place on the desk. 

tick

tick

tick

tick

Fucking God damn it, Holmes.  

He gets up, lights a lamp on the dresser to find his shoes, and trudges out after him.

----

Sherlock can feel the bile in his throat as he walks to god knows where. His head is pounding.

Mgn'ghft ot shogg ah mgn'ghft hup shogg. The light of the abyss is the light from the abyss. 

"Shut up. Get out of my head." He rasps. He isn't sure what he's talking to.

He veers left, grabbing the railing quickly and heaving over the side. Nothing comes up. He stands there, taking hard, shaky breaths. That dream...

The thing that wasn't and couldn't be probes at his mind. He can't even remember it.

He heaves again. More nothing. 

He rests his head on his forearms as he calms down. He stays like that for several minutes. Just breathing. Eventually, he lifts his head, gazing out at the darkened sea. The quiet boat rocks around him. He just stands there, drinking in the blackness around him. He shuts his eyes. The waves crash against themselves, in and in and in. 

"You alright?"

Sherlock whips around, to find the figure of John Watson standing next to him by the railing. His sleeves are rolled up to his forearms, showing off toned arms littered with small scars. Sherlock can't look away. 

"What are you doing here?"

John scoffs. In the dim light of the moon, he seems almost otherworldly, the wind blowing his hair as he speaks. 

"Well you don't want my help, you don't want my care. You're clearly not alright. And I have to travel with you. So now...I don't know. "

He seems serious. His eyes are glittering as he turns to stare at Sherlock. The gaze makes him squirm. It's hard to hold. So he doesn't. 

"Right. An interrogation then."

"Oh for God's sake Sherlock." Watson steps closer. He's larger than Sherlock, stockier. In the dim lighting, his eyes look dangerous. And yet, hold a tenderness so visceral it seems to slice right through him. So much worry in those eyes. The squirming feeling returns with a vengeance, writhing under his skin like an insect. He hates that look. 

Funny thing, love. You'll blame it on every feeling under the sun before you call it what it is.

Sherlock knows he loves John Watson. Since the moment they met, he's known it, as easy as breathing. 

He's tried to stop. Useless, truly. 

And despite his honestly rather obvious crisis after their night in the study, a night that was quite frankly one of the biggest mistakes of his career and yet one he can't be bothered to regret, he knows John won't reciprocate. Not with his paradigm of how the world should be, how he should be. Which suits Sherlock just fine.

To admit to the word of… love so ardently is vulnerable to a point he simply cannot risk. It's blazing and new and so dangerous.

It's easier to ignore it. Safer. To shove it down and cover it with annoyance, irritation, guilt, lust, admiration or respect. Anything else, anything to dull the ache. Anything to protect himself from losing. 

He's protecting them both. 

Sherlock knows what happens when you love someone. Love is loss. 

But now…there is nothing else it can be, laid bare in his mind. Tomorrow he will excuse it away, describe it as anything else. Distance himself from the truth once more. But now, that's all there is. All there ever was. 

That and the voices of the somethings below the surface of the world bellowing in tones too low to hear, felt in your bones with every step. 

He hates nights like this.

"Would it kill you to stop fighting me for one God damn second?? Just one?" says Watson with a bite, that comes out more like a plea.

Sherlock stares at him, and says nothing. 

"Look. If you don't want to talk to me about it, that’s fine. I trust you to make your own decisions. You're a grown man, and a brilliant one. I never intended to make you feel as though I didn't believe you to be capable. If you wish to destroy yourself, that's your business." John purses his lips. Sherlock feels his face get hot, but whether with anger or embarrassment he can't be certain in his current state.

"I'm not destroying myself. You don't understand." He says, voice low and warning. He needs John to drop it. The anger is fading, but he can't seem to just let it go. And he really does look so good in just his undershirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows with those braces clinging to his shoulders…

"Really? Because from where I'm standing it looks a little like you're losing your bloody mind. You're right Sherlock, I don't understand. Let me understand. We both saw things in that hospital that were frankly beyond description, so talk to me." He pleads, in earnest this time.

Sherlock takes a step towards him. All he can hear is the blood in his ears, and those three words. Losing your mind. He's losing his mind. Those arms, those eyes. He's losing…his resolve. 

"Shut up. I am not losing my mind, Watson" 

"I'm not sure how you expect me to respond when you look at me that way."

He's not even listening. His voice is a bright fuzz in his ears.

"Shut. Up."

He reaches out a hand, and without a second thought, he pushes John into the railing. John's eyes go wide. Sherlock isn't even sure what he intended by doing this, he feels mad. 

They stare into each other's eyes for a moment. A bead of sweat trails down his forehead in the cool air. He can see a switch flip in John's mind as his eyes grow focused. Ravenous. Understanding. 

Maybe he just needed to provoke him. 

And then Sherlock is moving backwards. His pin was light, hardly even a hold. But John, he grabs him and without warning Sherlock has his back against the wall of the ship opposite the railing. John has pinned him by the arms and chest, and Sherlock gasps with the force of the impact. 

He squirms hard under the hold, staring him down with vitriol as John holds him there, gaze unwavering. He writhes. Testing him. John presses him harder into the wood. No matter what he does, John's grip is firm as iron. His training in the army as a doctor may not have been extensive, but he has an incredible leg up on Sherlock. His stomach flips.

"Are you finished?"

"Fuck you."

Both of them are panting now, staring at each other, their faces inches apart. He couldn't think before, anger and grief and exhaustion pulsing through his veins. But in these last few minutes his mind has been fuzzy in a very different way, as he's pinned into the wall.

Sherlock can feel his dry, cracked lips as he huffs with exertion. His tongue darts out absently.

…second biggest mistake of my career.

He's not sure who leans in first. But then, without thinking, John is kissing him and the world stops in its tracks.

They quickly break apart. Panic thrums through him, and he can tell John is much the same. The air hums with electricity. A violin's strings are drawn over a slow, swooping melody. Another joins the lone player, crooning in time with the first, louder. Then a percussionist. Then the winds, the reeds, the brass, all in a matter of seconds to hold onto a single note—

He roams his eyes over his features, taking him apart. His blown pupils, his heaving chest, his parted lips. He feels a shiver go all the way down his spine, lightning hot in awe. This man he's been so uncaring and cruel to, is looking at him like he's the last drink of water in the Sahara desert. 

—Crescendo. 

The next kiss is desperate, heady and rough, all tongue and teeth and gasping breath. It feels as though something had been released, snapped in the moment and now plush lips capture his own in a frantic push and pull. Sherlock’s head is spinning as strong arms pin him hard into the wall. He squirms, desperate to get his hands on John, on his hair, his neck. He needs to touch. To feel. He needs him. John gives a low grunt into his mouth and Sherlock feels himself melt into the touch, gliding over the inside of his mouth, tasting the faintest hints of whiskey on his tongue.

One of John's hands leaves its place on his arm, running over his chest, massaging into his side. As if he can't control himself, can't keep his hands anywhere too long. As though he'll miss something. 

The affection in it is nauseating, and so addictive.

Sherlock presses into him, free hand quickly roaming up into his hair, grabbing and pulling at the soft strands. Eventually they part for air, gasping hard. John is staring at him like he's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen, the most precious gem, like he'd give up every shilling he had in exchange for a single second longer to drink him in. He wants to tell him he's about as subtle as a peacock, but he's not ready to hear it and Sherlock's body suddenly feels way too hot. His pants have become far too tight for his liking.

Bang!

They both look up quickly, the sound of a door shutting putting them on high alert. 

Sherlock looks around desperately, but John has a better vantage point. Before he can do anything Watson is grabbing his arm and pulling him into the slightly open doorway of the room to their left. He shuts the door behind him, pushing Sherlock up against it. 

They wait. 

No footsteps. John looks back down at him, pressed up against the wall of this...

He takes note of the walls as his vision adjusts to the dark. Mops, brooms and buckets. It's a broom closet. Sherlock begins to laugh quietly, feeling his brain struggle to keep up with everything that is happening. John gives him a quizzical look, before a smile breaks out on his face too. 

"Shhh!" he says between giddy, adrenaline filled silent giggles. Sherlock looks up at him again, from what little he can see in the darkness. It’s ridiculous. He feels high. He feels hysterical. He feels panic begin to claw at his mind, at his senses, that dream threatening to destroy him once more. He grabs his face and kisses him again. The giggles cease. He wraps his arms around his neck, trying to shut out the thoughts behind his eyelids. 

This time, the kiss is slow, none of the urgency, the anger. It's just Sherlock and John. Hiding in a broom closet after an argument. Kissing . Sherlock laughs into the kiss again. John grins against his lips. 

They speak in between kisses.

"This is ridiculous—“

"I know.”

"I feel like a schoolboy.”

"I know.”

"I—“

" I know , Sherlock.”

He quiets down a bit after that. They settle into an easy rhythm. Sherlock grabs at everything his body cannot press into, his skin burning with the need to be right there. His nerves are alight with the man in front of him. All he tries to think of is one thing. No dreams. No memories. No case. No creatures, lurking beyond the bounds of reality. Just him. Fuck, he can't believe it took him this long to taste him again. He's better than cocaine to occupy his buzzing mind, and twice as sweet.

John, John, John. 

It repeats in his head like a mantra. 

"I've got you.” Says John quietly.

Ah. Perhaps he wasn't just thinking the words. 

Sherlock digs his nails into Watson, dragging them down his back and up into his hair. Desperate for contact. To ground himself, he's sure he's floating away. He feels himself slipping from all those horrible things he couldn't make heads or tails of. 

John groans into his mouth, low and breathy as he rakes his nails over his scalp. His fingers feverishly find their way to his ascot, untying it quickly and unbuttoning several buttons on the top of his shirt.

Oh , absolutely . 

Sherlock feels himself grow harder in a matter of seconds as he hears that noise from his throat. As he grinds forward into John on base instinct alone, the man lets out another punched out non-sound. Heat flashes across his skin like a live wire. 

John, for his part, also seems determined to draw out as many sounds as possible from Sherlock. He moves on from his mouth to his jaw, pressing kisses up to his ear, then down the column of his throat, licking and sucking at his pulse point, surely bruising the skin. Sherlock throws his head back against the door, as the man makes a mess of his throat. 

"John—“ He pants, squirming once again against him. 

John hums against his neck. 

" Hah , John.”

He tries to grind his hips forward into him again, but John grabs him and pushes him back into the door. Sherlock whines quietly with the denial, impatient with hardly any build up. He can't help it, it really has been so long. And, well. It's John.

John grins into his skin. Bastard. 

He snakes his tongue down his neck, biting down into the junction between his throat and his shoulder. Sherlock gasps at the sharp jump of nerves, feeling himself lose a bit more composure with each passing moment that John decides to toy with him like this. He licks at the bite in apology, lapping at the soft indentations of his teeth left in the skin, before sucking at it once more. The spots he works feel positively alive beneath his ministrations.

He can feel John’s erection digging into his thigh faintly. He tries to use his hands to touch him, rubbing him through the fabric of his pants. He hears him take a sharp breath and feels good about himself for all of two seconds before his wrists are pinned above his head. 

"You just can't keep your hands to yourself, can you. Has anyone ever told you no?" he breathes, with an unmistakable sternness clinging to his words. 

Sherlock grins impishly, by virtue of his lust-addled brain. 

"John, darling , I just want to make you feel good. I want to hear you when you're at the brink, my dear. Don't you want me to pleasure you?" He whispers breathily, a faux innocence in his tone making his words come out entirely indecent. John groans, kissing up his neck and laughing as his body responds to the filth the other man is spewing. But he keeps Sherlock’s hands pinned.

"Oh, no you don't. Oldest trick in the book, been there done that. You're going to have to try harder.” John gives him a mischievous look. “Now, we're doing this on my terms. Do you understand? You touch me without my permission, I don't do anything at all.”

Sherlock scoffs, lopsided grin taunting him.

"You don't believe me?" Says John, raising an eyebrow.

"I— Surely you aren't serious?"

"Why don't you try it and find out.”

He’s got his wrists pinned with one large hand, which already has Sherlock weak in the knees, but now as he speaks his other hand squeezes his side, his chest, rakes its nails over his inner thigh. The latter has him bucking up into nothing with another low whine.

Sherlock feels himself twitch at the lack of attention where he needs it most. He almost forgets to respond. 

"You're a Goddamn tease." He chokes out.

"Game recognizes game. And you're a little brat. Do you understand?"

That shuts him up. He nods. 

"Use your words." 

John is unbuttoning his vest now. It's so, so hard to concentrate. Heat courses through him as John fumbles with a button hastily, his true demeanour shining through his facade. 

"Yes. I understand. But can we please do this in our room? I— as exciting as the idea of getting caught is, I don't quite want to spend a decade in prison for buggery of all things. That, or meet a watery grave lest we encounter the wrong sort." 

Watson huffs, reluctantly pulling away from his neck. 

"Yes, I suppose you're right. Alright." 

Before he can move to the door, Sherlock pulls him down into another kiss, long and slow and full of everything he's wished to say, all of the apologies he’s yet to give.

I love you. 

Please, don't say it back.

Watson kisses back with just as much emotion. Sherlock feels his chest ache.

After a moment, Sherlock pulls away. John's eyes open slowly as he watches, kiss drunk and grinning. 

"Come on.” Urges Sherlock with a laugh. 

Watson blinks and orients himself.

"Right. Yes. Let's go."

He grabs his hand, pulling him slowly out of the door as he pulls it open and looks around. Once he sees the coast is clear, he pulls Sherlock out of the room. They make their way back to their cabin as quickly as they can. Sherlock can't keep his eyes off of John's frame, his arms off his shoulders, his fingers out of the hair on the base of his neck. John almost trips over him as they're walking but pays no mind as he stays focused on his goal. His cock is hard and rubs uncomfortably between his legs as they walk, and he finds himself clumsily trying to speed up despite himself. 

As soon as they reach the door to their cabin and open it, Sherlock is pinned against it once more, where he is kissed within an inch of his life. Desperate, heavy, gasping breaths and noises muffled into each other's mouths. 

John goes back to unbuttoning his vest, then his shirt. It's quite difficult; he doesn't want to break away, but he finally peels it off. With his now bare chest exposed, John takes ample opportunity to kiss and lick down his neck to his collarbone, down his chest, massaging his hands lightly into bare skin, nails dragging against him deliciously. Sherlock is panting and squirming against the door, arms by his sides twitching with self restraint. John mouths down his ribs, over his hip bones, down his stomach. He seems keen to take his time, to learn him, to study him. Medical almost, delicate and precise hands that seemed to understand his body roaming him. Hands so fitting for a doctor. It’s a reverent, persistent curiosity that has him shaking with desperation.

"You're being so obedient. Well done, I knew you could do it." Watson murmurs into his skin. Sherlock groans as Watson grabs handfuls of his arse and squeezes.

"John..." he whines out. 

Watson works with precision at his trousers, pulling them down slowly, so slowly, drinking him in. He pulls them off as Sherlock steps out of them a bit awkwardly, hopping slightly on one foot as he does, before John is crumpling them without a thought and tossing them across the room.

" Fuck, look at you… You're so hard for me. Bloody gorgeous." 

He shivers at the praise.

Cussing never sounds as wonderfully ravishing as it does when it’s done by the doctor once he gets going, Sherlock thinks. Watson continues, unbidden.

"You're desperate aren't you. Such a little whore, you'd do whatever I tell you if it meant getting my mouth on you, wouldn’t you?" He kisses his inner thigh. Sherlock moans softly. His hips jerk forward into the touch, like he's but an instrument played so sweetly and strung so tight. 

He would, John knows it. 

Watson clicks his tongue. He drags his nails over his inner thigh once more, leaving scorching trails in his wake. Sherlock clamps his hands over his mouth, a desperate attempt to muffle the sound that escapes him.

"So soft, delicate. You bruise so beautifully.” He's lost in it, murmuring delicious words Sherlock can barely keep straight. It's too much. It's not enough by any stretch of the imagination. He wishes John would just touch him already, God damn it . Those fingers skirt his desperate thoughts like delicate spiders navigating a web, one far too complex for his cloudy mind to understand. 

But he knows what Watson wants from him. Bugger. 

"John, I..." he pants out. 

"Sherlock.” He says, tracing his thigh with a finger, dancing over his skin, pressing fiery digits into his soft flesh, rough and dragging. He says his name with such adoration and reverence that it knocks the wind out of him. He almost forgets what he wanted to say, woozy with arousal and trembling beneath his frankly all too gentle touches. His cock throbs painfully, reminding him of the task at hand. 

"You— I..." The words are difficult to force out, he's so distracted. His sentence trails off, feeling hands on his hips, lips on his thighs, so close, so so close...

And then, Watson bites down.

"Please! Ah, fuck John please!" 

"Please? Well now, isn't that new? Manners are so unlike you, Sherlock.”

Oh. Oh, this is a punishment. Sherlock groans. 

"Haah, right. Alright, I understand."

"Understand? Understand what, do tell.” 

Sherlock swallows, his mouth dry, his head cloudy— waves of arousal wash over him and pool in his gut, jumbling his thoughts and making words impossible. 

"You— hah, damn. You're— You're doing this to get back at me.”

"Get back at you? That's ridiculous, Sherlock. I hold no grudge. Whatever for?"

Oh so that's the game. Fuck. 

"I'm sorry, is that what you want to hear? John, I'm sorry. Please, I—“

"Sorry for what?" He hums. He rises to his feet, kissing at Sherlock's chest. He twists a nipple in his hands, eliciting a soft moan.

"For being so cruel, for shoving you away, God John fucking everything, I don't know." He gasps, humiliation and excitement coursing through him, completely under the mercy of this beautiful, broad man taking him apart like he's everything. 

"Mmm. You're forgiven." He says. Getting his apology so easily, the admission of guilt he was so reticent to give. He doesn't think John was ever even cross. Hands press into him, every part of him. Lips, teeth, tongue, nails. He loses track of what's happening where. 

He’s so desperate, he can feel his brain fighting itself. It's been way too long. Why on earth did he wait so long? Why the hell is he waiting so long?

"Fuck, fuck John. Please— I'm sorry. Please."

"Darling, if you don't tell me what you want I can't give it to you.” He says, playfulness barely audible. His lips are on his collar bone. 

"Fucking bastard. Asshole.”

"My god, what happened to ‘sorry’? Such a filthy mouth. Sherlock, use your words. You have so many of them. What do you want." 

Sherlock takes in a shaky, steadying breath. Watson is not giving him enough credit for how hard it is to think. Also, fuck him for making him think. 

"Touch me, John.”

Watson chuckles. Fingers dig into him, squeezing, caressing. 

"I am touching you.”

"Bastard. Not like that .”

Watson hums. His mouth latches onto a nipple and he pulls away with a wet pop. 

"Like what then, darling.” He says, low and teasing. Fucking God damn it. 

"You god damn… God. Touch my cock, John. Please, just—“

John interrupts. 

"There, was that so hard? Good job. On the bed.” Watson steps away, and Holmes takes an eager step forward, legs shaking. 

Finally, finally.

He stands in front of his bed, turning to face him. Watson pushes him back, so he's lying sprawled on the mattress. From here, he's absolutely a picture and Watson drinks him in eagerly. His hair is sticking up in every direction, his face is pink and his eyes are glassy with the pupils blown wide. His lips are kiss-swollen and his neck, chest and thighs are covered in marks and scratches. Naked, trembling beneath him. His cock is dripping onto his stomach, flushed an angry red. He looks utterly obscene. John feels himself grow almost impossibly harder, and groans at the sight. He crawls onto the bed after him, hardly able to keep himself together as he shucks his shirt off, kicking off his hastily done-up shoes. 

Then his hands are on Sherlock again. He's kissing him, caressing him. Sherlock whines. He waits, waits for that relief, that hand around his aching cock, finally he's going to touch him, finally—

Watson squeezes his sides. He makes no move downward. Sherlock lets out a shuddering breath. Surely he's not going to…

"Are you...are you going to..."

"What? oh, hm. No." 

"What? But you—"

"I said you did well. I never said I agreed."

" Oh for fuck’s sake! " 

"Shhhh…" John soothes. "This is on my terms, remember? you don't get to call the shots here. It's not your game Sherlock. It's mine.”

Sherlock chokes out a moan, desperate and despairing. Watson worships him, and all he can do is listen as his words become more depraved, more sinful. Descriptions of his body, how he feels under his hands, how he looks sprawled out beneath him. It's like he's admiring a piece of artwork in the Louvre, taking a note of every detail, every crevice, every twitch. The words blur together as he lies there, trembling like a leaf.  

His cock is so painfully inflamed, tears have begun to fall down his cheeks. His hands aren't tied down, but he doesn't want to risk breaking their agreement. Though, at this point, he's not sure if John will ever follow through. It feels like it's been hours. Sweat trails it's way down his body, his mind so blurry and unfocused. It's torture of the sweetest kind, but it's getting to be almost unbearable.

"Please..." he begs again, barely a whisper.

John ignores him. 

"You look downright obscene. You're making a mess on your stomach, so far gone without me touching you even once. Look at yourself, Sherlock. If anyone saw you like this, woman or man, I struggle to believe they wouldn't lose themselves trying to resist touching that beautiful cock. It's like a full course meal, for only me to enjoy. I can't even begin to describe how delicious you look underneath me." 

Sherlock feels a hot rush of new arousal sear through him at each filthy description. He can hardly think. 

"You're twitching at my words, so eager. Can you feel it?"

Sherlock’s only response is a breathy moan. His hips stutter upward, desperate for something, any friction at all as he bites into his lip, squirming beneath him. 

"Shit..." Watson curses at sight. Sherlock focuses his eyes, to see John looking absolutely animalistic. His chest heaves, his pupils are blown. Sherlock can see his cock straining against his pants, his own pre-ejaculate leaking through the fabric. Shit.  

"What do you want, Sherlock." 

"Will you…?"

"What. Do you want."

Sherlock can't take another let down, another false hope. He gives everything he has into his words, his voice breaking.

"Hah, ah — John. Please. I'll do anything, I can't take more of this. I need you. Touch my cock. Please. Please I can't— I can't—" the words leave his lips so quickly, he barely registers them. John groans, and crashes his lips back into Sherlock’s. He parts again. 

"Fuck, how could anyone resist you after hearing that. You've been so good. I'm so sorry for being so cruel, my dear."

And then he's wrapping his hand around his poor neglected cock, striking up a steady motion.

Sherlock fucking whimpers . His eyes roll back into his head as the doctor touches him, stroking him slowly from base to tip. He circles the head with his thumb, and Sherlock fucks up into his hand with a moan so close to a sob. It's rough, only sweat and the leaking of his cock to ease the friction, but it's delicious. He's not going to last long, he's meeting John's fist with his hips as he speeds up, barely containing the whimpers and whines spilling out of him. And John isn't helping his stamina, talking him through it, murmuring into his ear.

"You're beautiful, so good for me. Look at you, debauched and wanting, all for me, just for me. That's it, you're so perfect. Perfect, lovely, you're something else. Come on darling, like that. I want to see your face when you climax, want to see you when all you can think of is pleasure. Is that what you want? Good, so good. So perfect. You're like a dream. Better than a dream. This is all I could think about for months, I try to sleep and I can only dream of you. I wish I could fuck you right now, God, you would feel incredible around my cock…" The wash of praise and filthy words disguised as sweet nothings goes straight to his groin, and he gasps. 

He feels himself getting closer by the second. Pleasure washes over him in waves, pulsing in his abdomen and down his legs. John twists and strokes and squeezes. He's learning his body, his weaknesses; finding out exactly what to do to pull the most sinful noises from him. Hell, he can't think — he wants John to fuck him, wants him to hold him by the hair and fuck his throat, wants to feel every inch of him. 

He's not sure when he started his chanting of John's name up again. 

"I know, I have you. Just let go. Come for me. I want to see you." 

He whimpers his name this time, tears falling from his eyelashes, sticking them together. It’s all so much, it feels so good, so so good. His breathing quickens as he chases that high, he can think of nothing else. 

"Ah! hah! its so— fuck John that feels so good don't stop I'm so close please—" He babbles quickly, losing control of his mouth.

And when John kisses him hard, lips crashing into him as he swipes his thumb over the tip of his tender cock, Sherlock feels the heat low in his belly become all encompassing, and sparks light up behind his vision. He comes with a high, reedy gasp, his hips stuttering into John's fist as he spills onto his stomach, unable to even comprehend his rush of profanity.

"Christ John fuck holy shit—" He gasps, cock twitching as John fucks him through his orgasm.

"Fuck…Sherlock, you did so well. So perfect, just for me. Jesus Christ.'' Watson murmurs into his collarbone as Sherlock pants with exertion, nerves still ablaze. Watson takes his hand away from his cock, now spent, and kisses him. 

Sherlock kisses him back, exhausted and buzzing as he comes back to his body. They part slowly. 

"You're incredible" whispers John.

He looks up at him. John is looking at him, face flushed with arousal and want. He's got this look on his face, almost…

No. Sherlock doesn't look deeper than that. He can't bear to think of it. John doesn't even know what he's doing right now. 

He closes his eyes.

They just breathe for a few seconds, Sherlock regaining himself.

He feels the ejaculate drying on his stomach and furrows his brows, reaching blindly beside him for a loose sheet, before he feels that very same sheet press into him, dragging down his stomach. He opens his eyes, to see John gently wiping away the sticky mess from him, gazing at him with this expression between doting and wanting. 

John grins at him as he catches this look. 

Sherlock feels his breath hitch in his chest, and then the squirming is back with a vengeance as his mind is conquered by a single thought. 

Perhaps it will not be me that destroys my sanity. Perhaps it will be him.

He pulls him down into another kiss. There was no other option in that moment.

 This one lasts longer, starting slow. Sherlock can feel John’s cock pressing into his leg, hard and leaking. He remembers with a start that he hasn’t gotten off yet , which simply will not do. 

He snakes his hand downward, brushing his fingers over the hard outline as John is distracted. He gives a short groan into his mouth, hips twitching into the touch. 

"Mmm, John." It's Sherlock’s turn to kiss his jaw, pulling away from his lips to press gentle kisses into his cheek, his neck, his ear. "Lay down for me will you?"

Watson shivers. 

"I—"

"Please? Let me return the favour.." He whispers into his ear. John never stood a chance. Sherlock has the upper hand now, and he intends to use it. 

The doctor quickly obeys, lying down on the bed on his back. Sherlock climbs over him with shaking legs, placing himself onto his hips and nestling himself with his arse pressed against John's cock, torturous. 

He rushes forward to meet him in another searing kiss. He cups his face, drinking him in. It lasts a good thirty seconds, Sherlock licking into his mouth once more to taste all of him, sinking his teeth into his bottom lip, licking and sucking at it lightly, causing John to let out a moan of approval. The hard press of his teeth paired with the plush feeling of those beautiful lips is driving him quite honestly up the wall. When he finally pulls away, Watson takes a shuddering breath from the loss of contact, eyes opening as though under great strain, glassy and unfocused. He's so horribly turned on, Sherlock almost feels bad.

He grins. Almost.

Slowly, he begins ghosting his lips over his jaw again, down his throat. He feels the heartbeat underneath his mouth flutter as he presses soft, drawn out kisses into the delicate skin of his neck, sucking at it, drawing it into his mouth and savoring the taste of sweat on his tongue. John lets out another trembling breath. 

He grips his hands in his hair, on his bicep. He wants to be a tease, wants to deny him so desperately just as John did to him.

But he hears his breath hitch, hears how desperate he sounds, trying to stay composed. He can't do that to him, not today. He's restrained himself so much, given Sherlock everything. He deserves to just let go. 

….After he asks for it. Just once. 

Sherlock begins kissing down his chest, dragging his teeth over a nipple and circling it with his tongue. John grips the sheets with a short gasp, his hips grinding into Sherlock’s arse. How good he's been to keep that in check so far, so hard with Sherlock seated right against him. 

"You have some truly formidable self-restraint, doctor. Let me break that for you. How do you want me?" He asks, teasing and low. John squirms with a groan, shivering again.

"Jesus. Don't make me say it."

"Oh come on now. You had so much to tell me earlier, don't get shy. Your voice is so very beautiful. " He traces his chest with a nail, dragging it softly down his torso. Watson sucks in air through his teeth.

"Fuck, Sherlock. Please suck me off. I need you." He says breathlessly and without any of that previous hesitation. He's so far gone, Sherlock doesn't even have to push him further. It's only been about five minutes, but he feels a flash of new heat rush through him at the words. 

"As you wish" He grins.

He slinks down to Watson's stomach, brushing his fingers through the trail of hair on his abdomen and watching his cock twitch through the fabric, before he goes to quickly and methodically removing any and all clothing in his way. John is propped up on his elbows, watching him, hungry and shaking. 

He pulls off his trousers quickly, letting his hard cock spring free from his confines. The sound John lets out is somewhere between a hiss and a gasp at the air hitting him. 

Sherlock feels himself shuddering with want. He needs to get his mouth on him yesterday. He brushes his thumbs over his hip bones, making himself comfortable on the bed. 

"Fuck, Sherlock. Please." 

Oh, fuck. If he wasn't feeling himself get back into it before, he certainly is now. 

He looks John in the eyes, and licks a long stripe up his cock, before taking the head into his mouth.

"Shit, hah, oh my god." His head lolls back, and Sherlock feels his cock throb on his tongue. He takes notice of all the ways he makes him tremble and jolt. The delectable sounds from above encourage him in the fact that over these five months, it seems he hasn't quite gotten rusty.

He pulls off. He's not sure he has the stamina to keep this up, body exhausted and shaking. But he would surely perish, rather than not to hear those beautiful, delicious noises spill from his partner's throat. He kisses the head of his swollen cock as he contemplates, and John's hips twitch into his mouth. 

An idea forms. 

Oh. Oh, yes I think that will just do. 

"Eyes on me, John." 

Watson raises his head once more, mouth slightly open and cheeks flushed, waiting.

Sherlock spits into his hand, looking Watson in the eye as he lowers his mouth onto him, and strokes everything his lips cannot touch with eager fingers.

----

The warm press of Sherlock’s mouth is almost too good for John to handle. He circles the base with his tongue, drawing out a breathy gasp each time he works his way up the shaft. And each time, he stops just below the head. Agonizingly. 

Every time his hips try to buck up, seeking more of that heat, Sherlock forces them down. He continues working his cock slowly, diligently. 

His mouth is hot, so hot, slick and tight, and he can do little else but gasp and clutch at his hair. It's like a furnace. Whoever said Sherlock Holmes was cold has never been inside his mouth. God, Maybe he's said that. He doesn't remember. The sounds they're making are beyond indecent, and he works his hands through Sherlock's hair. Mewls and whines force themselves out of his throat quite embarrassingly. 

It's so good, but it's just not quite enough. Every time he's about to do something he knows will drive John up the wall, he backs out at the last second, almost edging him, leaving him moaning in frustration as well as pleasure. He can't take this.

"Sherlock, ah, Sherlock. More, it's— I need you to—" Articulating himself is much harder than he assumed it would be. Especially when the detective hums in response, the vibrations causing Watson to gasp out again, back arching into the feeling.

Sherlock pulls off again, giving soft teasing licks as he looks at John through his lashes. The sight makes him shiver as a hot flash of want courses through him. When he lowers his mouth once more, he goes even more slowly, dragging his tongue up in an agonizingly torturous motion. John groans . Without thinking, he grabs into Sherlock's hair as he bucks his hips into that wet, delicious heat, before hearing him gag and seeing his eyes widen as Watson goes deeper than he was expecting. John feels a hot rush of guilt sear through him, stilling himself quickly and pulling out to sit up on his knees and check on him. 

"Oh my God, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to. Are you alright?" he says quickly, before making eye contact with the man and losing his breath. His cock twitches at the sight. 

Sherlock’s eyes have gone glassy once more, cheeks flushing a lovely pink as he squirms against the bed, sitting up with his legs bent to either side of him so his cock grinds into the mattress under John's watchful eye. His cock is at half mast once again. 

John doesn't think he could possibly get any harder. He almost comes right then and there at the sight. Screw not enough, that almost does him in.

Oh . Oh, he wanted that to happen.

"Jesus."

"John." His voice is barely above a whisper.

And then, never breaking eye contact, he lowers himself onto John's hard cock once more, lips and tongue pressing into him. Grabs his hand, guides it into his hair. Looks up at him through his lashes like the bloody vixen he is, like something out of his most depraved fantasies. He doesn't move this time. Waiting, as he slowly rocks against the mattress beneath him.

Oh. My god. Holy fucking shit. 

"You- God, shit. Oh, Jesus " he moans out. "Are you…certain?" he asks cautiously. He doesn't want to hurt him, but Jesus fuck, he's about two seconds away from doing it anyway. 

Sherlock nods. He looks a fucking mess, beautiful and flushed and so sure that Watson almost loses his breath once again. The hand that was guided into those raven locks tightens and pulls ever so slightly, and Sherlock moans around him. 

That's when it was well and truly over for John. 

He hisses, and fucks forward into that hot, beautiful mouth. It feels so good, so fucking perfect, and the visual is going to drive him over the edge faster than anything ever has. 

Sherlock, with his head wrenched back, tears gathering in his pretty eyelashes, eyes foggy and face flushed, John's handiwork littering his skin like a constellation, his hand feverishly working his cock as John fucks his mouth with reckless abandon. He gags a few times, drool sliding from his lips and onto John. The praise falls out without him even thinking about it as he gets close, watching this beautiful man become so fucking filthy and defiled. Screw writing for the public, Holmes will turn him into a bloody smut writer with his gorgeous mouth.

"God, you're beautiful. You're perfect. Shit, you're doing so well, such a pretty painted whore. You take my cock so well, look at you, you can't keep your hands off of yourself. Insatiable. You look so beautiful when you touch yourself, oh my god. Fuck, you're amazing, you feel so good, God your fucking mouth. Shit I'm close. Fuck, hah !"

His hips stutter as he nears completion, losing their bruising rhythm. Sherlock doesn't seem far behind, his movements a blur beneath him as he moans and whimpers around his cock, back arching and eyes rolling back into his head slightly as he struggles to stay focused. Jesus fucking christ. Sherlock looks at him, fat tears rolling rolling down his face, body shuddering, so submissive under his touch. And so utterly him. 

John is blindsided by a feeling that terrifies him beyond belief and lights every nerve on fire sending him over the edge then and there.

He comes hard down his throat with a groan, his vision going white for a split second as his hips come flush with Sherlock’s face. Sherlock gags slightly as he feels it spill into his mouth, but he dutifully swallows around his cock, earning a punched out gasp from John. 

Seconds later he's coming too, for the second time, moaning and panting through his nose as he jerks his hips into his fist. He spills over his hand with a whimper onto John's slowly softening cock. 

John pulls out, panting, and doesn’t think twice before he's kissing him. He tastes himself on his lips, slightly salty and bitter. It's sinful, and it's beautiful and it's perfect because it's him. He pulls away, laying his head in his collar bone, smelling the sweat on him, drinking him in, mumbling sweet praises into his neck.

----

Sherlock aches. He kisses his hair. 

…Love is loss. 

He rubs circles into his hip as they lie together. 

I can't afford to forget that. 

After several minutes of slowly regulating breathing, John speaks up once more. His words are spoken quietly, almost as though he's afraid that any louder Sherlock would disappear once more. 

"Sherlock, listen. I don't know what happened to you this week. I don't know what you saw in that madhouse that rattled you so. I don't know if I can help in any tangible way. Christ, the things I don't know about you could fill a book and then some. I believe it's why you keep me around." 

Watson chuckles. Sherlock doesn't. He continues. 

"What I mean to say is, clearly there is a lot I'm not privy to. And I do not need to be. You deserve my trust and my respect, both of which you've earned time and time again. You don't have to bare your soul to me, but if you are handling something you haven't told me about, surely it would be far less painful if you were not to bear it alone. I believe in you, wholeheartedly. I just hope you also believe in me. I will do what I can if you let me."

Sherlock turns his head to avoid his gaze. 

"On the train to London you instructed me to interfere if you started to slip. And should it get worse, I will heed your instruction."

"Yes. I understand. I'm… sorry, John." Two simple words. Two words he has hardly uttered in all their time together. Watson feels their importance, their impact. He sighs, and nods into his shoulder. He doesn't kiss him. It doesn't seem appropriate anymore. 

They fall asleep together, sex and words unspoken clinging to the air as exhaustion takes Sherlock once more. 

That night, he doesn't dream.

The next morning, as expected, John wakes up naked and alone in a trashed room, still smelling him on the sheets.

He puts his head into his hands and presses his fingers into his eyes until he can see colours. 

Bloody badgering fuck. 

The ache deep in his chest burns sweeter than cordial, in a way he decides to shove as far down into his mind as he can.

The revelation he had in the throws of passion was nothing but a fleeting fancy.

John breathes out, wipes his eyes and gets out of bed to begin tidying.

-

They don't talk about it, of course. The brief hope that they would died the moment Sherlock left Watson alone that morning. But whatever it was that was bothering Sherlock seems to have somewhat subsided, or he's gotten infinitely better at handling it. He still barely sleeps, and spends ages staring at their evidence, but he seems to be more or less back to his old self in so many ways. They mingle with others and chat at dinner and breakfast and into the evenings as their journey to New York comes to a close, making several acquaintances to which they say a cheerful goodbye and safe travels upon disembarking. 

And when they finally arrive in New Orleans, with Sherlock having barely slept a wink the night before, it's like none of it ever occurred. 

Later during their investigation Sherlock watches Watson put on the most ridiculous suit he's ever seen, per his request. The look he gives him is unimpressed, and he tries not to smirk at his raised eyebrow. 

His chest aches once more, and he settles it quickly. 

I will not lose. 

Not again.