Science and Faith

This is why we do it, this is worth the pain

This is why we fall down and get back up again

This is where the heart lies, this is from above

Love is this, this is love.¹

_______________________________________________________________________

“What in heaven’s name is this mess on the stove?”

 

John looks up from his laptop as Mrs. Hudson appears in the kitchen doorway.

 

Sherlock, lying on the sofa with his fingers steepled at his lips, answers without opening his eyes: “An experiment. I’m testing how changes in temperature affect the texture of cartilage.”

 

“Pardon? What is it?”

 

“It’s mostly ears.”

 

Mrs. Hudson gives a disgusted little squeak and throws up her hands. “You’d best mend quickly, John dear. I’m getting too old for this.”

 

“You can leave it,” John replies. “I’ll use the pot to make him dinner later.” Sherlock glares at him and John pretends not to see.

 

“You sure you’re up for that?” the landlady asks. “I’ll not have you overdoing yourself.”

 

The doctor adjusts the cushion behind his back. “I could do with some getting up and about, actually. ‘The Return of Sherlock Holmes’ is turning out to be less a blog entry and more a novella.”

 

“I don’t see why it has to be anything at all,” says Sherlock from the sofa.

 

“We’ve been through this. If you ever want to work anything except Lestrade’s cold case files, you have to let people know you’re back in business.”

 

“Oh, yes. Dear Mr. Holmes, please find my poor kitty. Mr. Holmes, I’ve forgotten my computer password. Riveting.”

 

“Okay, granted, the computer password bloke was a moron. But not every case needs to be cloak and dagger. I’m sure a nice murder will turn up sooner or later.”

 

“You’re only saying that to shut me up.”

 

John smiles and stretches. “Not one of your more impressive deductions.”

 

***

 

Dinner is not an impressive affair: beans on toast for John (made in a clean saucepan, despite his threats) and plain toast with tea for Sherlock—the detective downs the tea in one go and leaves the toast untouched. Frugal though it is, John is happy to be making it himself; the first few weeks home saw Mrs. Hudson waiting on them hand and foot until both men felt like screaming.

 

After dinner, John is sore, and his right hand is starting to act up. The tremors are vastly improved, but after a full day of typing, his hands are tired. He leaves Sherlock on the sofa, lost in thought, and heads down the corridor to grab a shower.

 

He stands under the water, breathing in the warm, damp air and resting his head against the tiled wall. In the weeks since he’s been home, it’s been life as usual—or as close to usual as things ever are around Sherlock. On occasion, John will catch the detective staring at him, and a few times his touch lingers longer than usual when he asks John to hand him something.

 

And there was the one night watching telly, when Sherlock, apropos of nothing, leaned over and kissed him before stretching out on the sofa with his head in John’s lap. The odd mixture of embarrassment and excitement that shot through John melted into a haze of contentment, and he ran his hand through Sherlock’s hair until he fell asleep.

 

He awoke in the small hours of the morning to find the detective gone to bed, and somewhat reluctantly climbed the stairs to his own room. They had tried sharing a bed when he first arrived back at the flat, but Sherlock, when he actually slept, wound himself so tightly around the doctor that John’s injured lungs struggled for breath, and after two or three nights of this they agreed such things would have to wait until he was better healed.

 

Since then, it’s been only touches and glances, and John finds himself both frightened and frustrated. He’s used to fighting off the odd spike of inappropriate interest when he looks too long at the graceful neck, the elegant hands, the full lips—if he’s honest with himself, he was fighting those thoughts even before Sherlock left. But now he knows what those lips are capable of—Christ, he wants. And he’s terrified of wanting, of craving things he never gave a thought to before, and even more terrified that he might not be terribly good at those things. God knows he can’t rely on liquid courage every time they—

 

“The parrot, John!”

 

The shower curtain is ripped open, and Sherlock stands before him, looking triumphant.

 

“Jesus, what—!”

 

“Mr. Milliner’s parrot.”

 

“No, I mean what the hell are you doing in here?” John grabs for the shower curtain, wrapping it around himself as best he can.

 

Sherlock’s brow knits in confusion. “I’m telling you the solution to the case. I’ve figured it out.”

 

“Don’t play stupid with me, Sherlock. Why do you need to tell me now? In the bloody shower?”

 

The detective’s eyes widen, his tone the same he might use with a particularly dense child. “Because now is when I figured it out and the shower is where you are. You needn’t be so prudish, John, it’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”

 

John takes a moment to catch his breath. Yes, Sherlock does make a certain kind of sense. Not regular-person sense, of course, but Sherlock-sense, at least. “It’s still a bit alarming,” he finally says. “You could at least knock.”

 

“Knocking implies that I want to know if I can come in, which implies there’s a possibility you don’t want me to come in. Do you not want me to come in?”

 

John just stares at him, incredulous. “I want…oh, sod it, fine. What’ve you found then?”

 

“Mr. Milliner’s alibi—the landlord said he heard him in the downstairs flat that evening. But it wasn’t Mr. Milliner, it was his parrot, which means Milliner hasn’t got an alibi.”

 

“But hang on, he hasn’t got a parrot either.”

 

“Well of course he had to get rid of it, it would have spoiled the whole thing. It’ll be buried in the garden, just under the plum tree in the west corner.”

 

“What, still? The case is eight years old now.”

 

Sherlock makes a dismissive noise. “Doesn’t matter, I suppose. Point is, I’ve solved it.”

 

“Yes, well, well done, you.”

 

The detective just stands there, hands on his hips, still flush with victory. John clears his throat.

 

“Anything else you need?”

 

“How are you feeling, John?” It takes John a moment to realise this is an entirely inappropriate response to his question. He blinks at the change of direction, letting irritation mask his discomfort.

 

“Christ, Sherlock, can’t this wait until—”

 

“Of course it can,” says the detective. And then, as if he’s just said the opposite, he repeats, “How are you feeling?”

 

A number of responses spring to mind. Vulnerable, exhausted, frustrated—in so many more ways than one. “A bit annoyed, actually,” he says. Sarcasm is safer, always safer.

 

“No, I mean your chest.” Long fingers dart out, brushing across damp skin, and John nearly flinches away out of sheer reflex. Sherlock’s thumb underscores the neat little scar just to the left of his sternum—neat by comparison, anyway, to the mess the higher calibre bullet made of his shoulder.

 

“Breathing all right?” the detective asks. “Not too much pain?”

 

“Breathing…fine.” Which sounds like a lie because it is, but that’s nothing to do with his injury and everything to do with Sherlock’s hands on his bare skin. Damn the man and his passing acquaintance with boundaries.

 

“Really?” One posh eyebrow arches sceptically. “Because you look a bit flushed.”

 

“A bit—? Jesus, Sherlock.”

 

“You needn’t be angry. I just want to be sure you’re well.”

 

“And you have to know now, do you?”

 

“I thought it would be courteous to ask before...”

 

John looks up at him, leaving it to Sherlock to read the question on his face. The detective doesn’t disappoint. His hand slides up John’s chest, the shower spray soaking the sleeve of his shirt as his fingers curl into the damp strands of hair at the base of the doctor’s neck. John’s hand is trembling in earnest now, starting to lose its grip on the curtain.

 

“You’re shaking, John.” Now he can hear the teasing note in Sherlock’s voice. “Sure you’re not overdoing it?”

 

“What exactly has gotten into you?” John fights the urge to cough; the breathiness in his tone is not exactly dashing. The detective’s face is close—too close, and not nearly close enough. John shivers in spite of the warm water.

 

“I solved the case,” Sherlock sighs, in that way he saves for when John is being especially ordinary. “Aren’t you going to congratulate me?”

 

“I said already. It was very well done.”

 

Sherlock leans in a bit more, stray droplets clinging to his lashes, to the curls framing his face. “It was, wasn’t it? Very clever of me,” he murmurs.

 

“Yes,” John agrees, trying not to look at Sherlock’s lips. “Brilliant.”  Sherlock hums appreciatively and presses a kiss against John’s brow.

 

The doctor chuckles a bit, still shaky, but amused.  “Oh, that’s the way it is, then?”

 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

 

“Hmm. So if I said you were fantastic…?” The detective’s fingers tighten in John’s hair as his lips brush across the doctor’s cheek. “Marvellous?” Sherlock kisses his jaw. “Amazing.” The last one is nearly a whisper, and to be honest, John’s a bit surprised he has the breath left for even that. Then Sherlock’s lips are on his, and Christ, breathing is awfully overrated anyway.

 

Sherlock kisses him slowly, deliberately, the detective’s hand steadying him even as his lips work to take him apart. It is everything John has been missing, because God, it’s been weeks and weeks, and invalid or not, he’s not a machine, and suddenly soft and slow is not enough anymore, and John’s hands drop the shower curtain completely in favour of clutching at the detective’s arms.

 

He opens his mouth, deepening the kiss greedily, and Sherlock follows, leaning into him until the water is streaming over both of them, running in rivulets down their faces and into their joined mouths. John’s fingers clench around skin and bone and sopping fabric, and Jesus God, why is the man still dressed?

 

“Right.” The doctor pulls back, flushed and panting. “Either you’re coming in or I’m getting out.”

 

Sherlock, the great regal git, manages to look mostly composed despite being half soaked. He reaches down, grasping John’s shaking right hand in his own. “Out, I should think. If that gets any worse…you’re just now well enough for me to do this. I’m not risking you falling and injuring yourself all over again.”

 

“Just now well enough? Planning this for some time, were you?”

 

The detective’s look is half condescending patience and half raw desire, and the heat of it slithers over John’s skin and pools deep in his belly. He swallows hard, because yes, Sherlock has been planning this, and that means Sherlock has been imagining…has been thinking about…Christ.

 

The detective’s soaked shirt clings to him, and he is all angles and hard planes where John is used to handling curves, and it throws him a little, still, how his mouth goes dry when the shirt pulls, revealing a sudden expanse of pale collarbone.

 

“God,” he whispers, his voice hoarse, his left hand fumbling blindly behind him to turn off the taps.

 

“My bedroom,” Sherlock says, and hands him a towel.

 

***

 

Sherlock’s heart is racing. He has to tear himself away from John, slow himself down, or this isn’t going to last long at all. He makes his way down the corridor, shedding his wet shirt as he goes, his fingers shaking a little as he works his trousers off. These he drops just inside his bedroom door, pausing to lean against the frame, taking deep breaths.

 

Truth be told, he’s a little disappointed at having to leave the shower—John is, after all, very naked and very wet, and the thought of them being very naked and very wet together is doing really terrible things to his cognitive processes, likely due to the sudden loss of blood flow in his frontal cortex.

 

Pleasant as the thought is, he doesn’t like the loss of control, the sheer power John has over him, and God, when did that happen? This is the cost, he decides. When one becomes all brain, one is doomed to find one’s heart, quite by accident, in someone else’s pocket. Which is horribly inconvenient, and makes him feel helpless besides, and he shoves that mess aside because John is behind him, turning him, taking him in his arms, and there’s quite an impressive amount of nudity demanding his immediate attention.

 

John is half hard already, and at the sight of it, the blood in Sherlock’s body races to redistribute itself so quickly that he has to hold on to the doctor to stay standing. He knows that in terms of facial symmetry, the golden ratio, all these mathematical ways in which humanity perceives beauty, he knows that by these standards, he is at least moderately attractive—so why is it so endlessly, mindlessly flattering to find that John is attracted? But enough, that’s thought again, and he needs less thinking and more—yes, hands, God, as John grips his buttocks to pull him closer, and Sherlock realises he’s still wearing his pants and socks.

 

Long toes make quick work of the socks, although it takes a bit of manoeuvring that makes John laugh— “What on earth are you doing?” “Oh, shut up.”—then he reaches for his pants and find John’s hands there already.

 

The doctor’s lips quirk upward in a half smile as he hooks his fingers into the waistband and tugs. Sherlock’s legs tangle in the garment and he reels a bit, grasping at John, who only grins larger and gives him a gentle shove, toppling him to the bed.

 

Sherlock lets himself fall, and John follows him down, his arms trapping the detective, his knees on either side of the his thighs. Sherlock curls one hand around to stroke John’s arm, letting the fingers of his other hand map the constellation of scars on the smaller man’s chest. His shoulder—the wound that broke him, and the wound that brought him to Sherlock. The detective’s fingers linger longer over his ribs, and John’s breath catches as he explores the scar—not pain, but a memory of pain, and damned if he doesn’t know what that’s like. John’s scars are etched into his skin, everything on display. Sherlock’s scars are better hidden, but his breath catches the same way when the doctor’s eyes find his and hold them.

 

“Alright?” John asks.

 

Sherlock drops both hands, letting John find them, pin them to the mattress, long, elegant fingers knotted through shorter, utilitarian ones. “Kiss me,” he says, and he still reads uncertainty in John’s face, but there’s determination, too, and loyalty, and something else that makes Sherlock wonder what his own face must look like right now.

 

“Yeah,” the doctor murmurs, and leans down to him. Hesitant lips find his, cling to them, until they are not hesitant anymore and John nips at his lower lip, kissing it softly to take away the sting, letting his tongue slide against Sherlock’s—not a battle but a dance. Kissing John is like finding his way around his room in the dark; it’s easy, it’s instinct—it already feels like home.

 

“God,” he says, and has to swallow, because that’s a whole different fear, but one that’s much warmer, one that doesn’t hold him back but pushes him forward. Not fear, his brain tries to say. Fear is a paralytic. But that other thing…

 

“Better?” John asks, and he’s smiling, but his eyes are still worried.

 

“I just…” Sherlock’s hands find his head, thumbs stroking at his jaw line, and he wonders if John can see it, this little home he’s carved out right in the centre of Sherlock’s being. “You. You’re amazing.”

 

The doctor blushes. “I haven’t actually done anything yet.”

 

“No, I mean…God, John.”

 

Now the man laughs, leaning down to kiss him again. “I know what you mean.” His lips are drifting, grazing across Sherlock’s neck, and that is rather nice. “I really…”—lower now, brushing over a nipple, and hell, that’s a bit better than nice—“…really do.”

 

John is still moving, and Sherlock shifts upward on the bed unconsciously, giving him room to climb up. John kisses a line down his stomach, and he’s so lost in it, in just feeling safe with someone for once, that he jumps a little as John’s lips press into the dip just above his hip, his erection bumping against the doctor’s throat.

 

“John—!”

 

“Shhhh.” Another kiss, lower, and God, he must feel the way his pulse is pounding.

 

“You don’t have to,” Sherlock gasps. “John, I don’t expect…”

 

“If sex was about expecting, Sherlock, it’d be no fun at all. And since I can’t say I have any idea what I’m doing…well, I expect we’ll both be surprised.”

 

He is smiling, but his left arm is shaking a bit now, too—might be tremors, but combined with the wavering grin and flush at his neck—no, he’s nervous, and somehow knowing that John even half as terrified as he is puts the detective a bit at ease.

 

“If you’re thinking you’ll fall short, it’s not possible.”

 

John’s right hand moving over his thigh, John’s breath against his cock, and God, what a sight that is, John Watson between his legs. The doctor raises an eyebrow, questioning.

 

“I just…” It’s Sherlock’s turn to blush. “I’ve no basis for comparison. Insufficient data means I’d be unable to make an accurate judgement of your prowess.”

 

The nervousness fades from John’s face, replaced with more familiar anger. “Sorry,” he says. “You mean you’ve never had…?”

 

The detective looks away from him. “Victor didn’t like to,” he says quietly.

 

“Jesus. You know, far be it for me to speak ill of the dead, but Victor was a bit of a bastard.”

 

Sherlock can’t help it. He laughs a bit at that. And then right in the middle of his laugh, he moans instead, because hell, that is John’s tongue on his cock, and it’s warm and soft and God, no wonder everyone seems to enjoy this so much, it must be a fair sensory representation of—Oh, good Christ.

 

John’s fingers wrap around the base of his shaft, and thought abandons him.

 

***

 

John traces his tongue experimentally over the head of Sherlock’s cock, grinning through his nerves as the detective gasps above him. Admittedly, it’s nowhere he ever thought he’d be, his head between another man’s legs, but then, since when has anything with Sherlock been what he’d thought? And now he’s here—he thought it might feel demeaning, submissive, but instead he feels suddenly powerful, the way the detective is shivering beneath him.

 

Sherlock’s scent is all around him here, not just the smoke and the expensive shampoo, but something heavy, dark, undeniably male and yet overwhelmingly attractive, and John stops questioning, because alright, fine, this is part of him, and as long as that means Sherlock is part of him, that’s all fine.

 

His right hand steadies a bit, and he licks again, tasting a bitter trace of pre-come that, God, shouldn’t be so fantastic, but the thought of Sherlock wanting him, hard and leaking for him—the spike of arousal at the idea goes straight through him, and John has to give himself a couple of firm strokes to keep himself grounded.

 

He lets his tongue explore, his hand working the detective’s shaft in an achingly slow rhythm, trying to listen to Sherlock’s verbal cues, trying to learn him, and he’ll never be as good at this as Sherlock himself, but when he presses his nose into the soft skin where Sherlock’s leg joins his torso, his tongue flicking over one testicle before gently pulling it into his mouth, he’s rewarded with demanding fingers suddenly in his hair, and Sherlock’s strangled cry above him:

 

“Christ, John! Just do it!”

 

So he does. He lays his tongue flat against the underside of the detective’s cock and lets his head sink down as far as he can manage, working slowly to avoid gagging himself.

Sherlock’s fingers tighten in his hair, but the detective lets him set the pace for now, and John lets his tongue move, testing, thinking of what he likes and trying to emulate that.

 

He presses his tongue against the head of Sherlock’s cock, hollowing his cheeks a bit, and—“God, please,” begs Sherlock. John laughs a little, just a huff of breath through his nose, and with some effort manages to match the rhythm of his hand and mouth, keeping his grip loose and letting his tongue do the work. The detective sucks in a breath between his teeth, his hips rising up off the mattress to meet each stroke.

 

“J—John…” His name on Sherlock’s lips, broken and desperate, and Christ, it’s never sounded better. He lets his hand fall, his fingers tracing over narrow hips, clutching at muscle and flesh. Sherlock’s hand on his head is more insistent, his thrusts more erratic.

 

“John, God, I might—”

 

The doctor is focused on his work, hearing Sherlock but not really listening, his head sinking deeper, taking more of the detective’s cock on each stroke until—

 

“Stop!” Sherlock’s fingers grip his hair painfully, holding him still, and John pulls off with an obscene, wet little sound that ought to be embarrassing, but instead is rather satisfying. He looks up at Sherlock, his eyes watering.

 

“Hell, John,” the detective pants. “You’ll have me finished if you’re not careful.”

 

John presses a lazy kiss to the inside of Sherlock’s thigh. “Thought that was rather the point.”

 

“Not yet. Come here.” The detective’s hands guide John back up to his face, kissing him, moaning into his mouth when John’s tongue meets his.

 

“God,” Sherlock sighs. “You taste—”

 

“Sorry, is it—?”

 

“No, Christ. It’s fantastic.”

 

“Said the pathological narcissist.” John kisses him again, laughing.

 

Sherlock growls at him in response, pulling him closer, long, dextrous fingers stroking across the doctor’s thighs, digging into the flesh hard enough to bruise. John barely feels it, his cock pulsing desperately, twitching toward the contact, tired of being ignored—but the detective just leans into him, his mouth finding John’s neck and latching on.

 

“God, Sherlock.” The name comes out in a long sigh, ruffling through dark curls, and John doesn’t know what he wants, he just wants, so badly it hurts. “Please.”

 

Sherlock is still pushing forward, until John has to sit back on his heels, which seems to suit the detective just fine; he immediately wraps his legs around John’s waist, his long, thin frame pressed against him, shoulder to hip, his arms snaking around John’s neck, and God, the sudden friction against his cock has the doctor absolutely writhing, rutting helplessly against Sherlock’s thighs, his arse, his anything.

 

“John,” the detective says into his neck, his breath a damp heat against his shoulder, “I want—”

 

By way of finishing his sentence, he grinds down into John’s lap. The doctor’s vision blurs, and he leans his head against the taller man’s chest, suddenly dizzy. “Really?” John asks, and the word is small and hitched, like he is thirteen again and in awe that Lucy Morgan is letting him touch her breasts behind the garden shed. He coughs, remembers that he is just this side of forty, and made of sterner stuff than this, and he can keep it together, has to keep it together, because this is Sherlock Holmes, this is his best friend, this is…fucking Jesus, he may as well admit it, the love of his life.

 

The realisation—except it’s not a realisation is it? It’s that thing just at the edge of sight, glittering against a backdrop of almost-touches and enigmatic glances and John’s really absurd willingness to put bullets into people who so much as think about hurting Sherlock. He’s not discovering that he loves Sherlock Holmes. He’s just finding the vocabulary for it.  

 

It settles him, stills him, makes him feel more himself than he’s felt in ages. “I mean,” he says, firmer now, “you’re sure?”

 

Sherlock just presses his lips together and rotates his hips, aligning himself over John’s cock before grinding down again. The doctor’s whole body shudders, because Christ, yes, he wants it too, more than maybe he wants to breathe.

 

“Yeah, okay,” he whispers, kissing Sherlock’s chest because he can’t move to kiss him anywhere else just at the moment.

 

But the detective has other ideas, slipping out of John’s arms, fumbling for the bedside table, and what is he—oh. He returns with a bottle of lube, handing it to John.

 

“You’ll have to stretch me,” he says, straightforward. John wishes his hands would stop shaking.

 

“What about...” He pauses. Tries again, because Christ, he’s an adult. “Condoms?”

 

Sherlock’s mouth pulls to one side. “Not strictly necessary.”

 

“Sherlock…”

 

The detective folds his arms across his chest. “I haven’t had anyone since Victor, and Mycroft made sure I was tested for everything from HIV to diabetes after my foray into recreational pharmaceuticals.”

 

John blinks at that, but doesn’t let it derail him. “Right, and me?”

 

“I’ve seen your medical records, remember? You were tested just after you started seeing—” He stops, and John supposes he should be grateful that he’s keeping Mary’s name out of their bedroom.

 

Jesus. Their bedroom. Is it?

 

The whole question of condoms suddenly seems ridiculous, and John knows it isn’t, but at the same time—

 

“I trust you,” he says. I’m too far gone not to do, he doesn’t add.

 

Sherlock uncrosses his arms and crawls back to him, all pale skin and lean muscle, and God, never mind all this, he just wants to touch him. He pops the cap open, working lube over his fingers, letting his right arm slip around Sherlock’s slim waist, guiding him backward onto the mattress. He kisses him again. “Tell me,” John says, his hand between Sherlock’s thighs, stroking the detective back to full hardness, slick and tantalizing, then letting his hand slip back, finding the sensitive ring of muscle and circling slowly.

 

Sherlock’s eyes are bright, seeking John, pupils wide but not wide enough to dull the brilliant green, and the doctor doesn’t look away as he pushes, just enough, sliding the tip of his middle finger inside. The detective tenses, and John waits, shifting to press a kiss against Sherlock’s bent knee. “Tell me,” John repeats, and moves his finger just slightly.

 

“More,” says Sherlock, relaxing around his hand, and it takes half as much pressure this time, John’s finger sliding all the way into him. He pauses again, just for a moment, before pulling back, almost completely out—and then pushing in again.

 

“God,” the detective moans, his hands clenching around the bed sheets.

 

“Monosyllables already.” John laughs through his nose. “I’m flattered.”

 

When Sherlock glares at him, he adds a second finger, and the detective’s head falls back onto the blanket, accompanied by a dramatic groan: “God, Joooooohn!”

 

He is so tight around John’s fingers, and the doctor’s brain is working overtime, already imagining that it’s his cock instead, all that smooth heat, and another spike of arousal bends him nearly double. His rhythm falters as he catches himself on Sherlock’s leg, panting against him, squeezing himself briefly with his free hand and flinching at the contact.

 

“John?”

 

“Yeah, a minute. I just…God, you should see yourself.” He recovers enough to resume his rhythm, his hand moving to Sherlock’s chest, fingers splayed over his heart. “Sherlock, Jesus. You’re—”

 

“John—”

 

“—bloody gorgeous.”

 

“—another, please, God—”

 

And John obeys, because what else would he do? Three fingers now, and Sherlock is fucking himself down against John’s hand, his hips meeting the thrusts, and John makes the mistake of looking, and oh Christ—the moan that escapes him is almost agonised in its need.

 

“Yes, John. Now,” says Sherlock, as if John has used actual words—but then, Sherlock can read…oh, bloody well everything, and John’s whole being is want; the detective can’t help but see it.

 

He lets his fingers slip out of Sherlock, reaching for the lube again, slicking his shaft as best he can with shaking hands. The detective moves—flipping over, John realises, and his arm shoots out to catch him, gripping his shoulder and pushing him back down.

 

“No,” says the doctor. When Sherlock opens his mouth, presumably to protest, John just says, “I need to see you.”

 

The detective just looks at him for what feels like an eternity, but is probably only seconds. Then the taller man slides down to the edge of the bed, forcing John to back up with him, until John is half standing, half leaning against the mattress, Sherlock’s legs twining around his waist.

 

John grips his shaft with one hand, aligning himself with Sherlock’s opening, letting his cock rub against him until the detective’s hips begin to move of their own accord.

 

“John, oh. Oh, God. Please.”

 

Sherlock’s legs pull him closer, and John steadies himself with one hand on the mattress. He pushes forward slowly, holding his breath as he slides, millimetre by agonising millimetre, into Sherlock, until he feels the tight ring of muscle close over the head of his cock. He stops, breathing hard, and God, this may kill him, but he’s not sure he minds—the pressure, the heat of him…John wants to bury himself inside him, but he makes himself look up.

 

Sherlock is holding his breath, too, a flush staining his chest, spreading up the swan-like neck, darkening the pale cheeks. His eyes are lidded, heavy, but fixed on John, his bottom lip caught between his teeth. His hands grasp at the sheets, flailing helplessly. He nods at John—for once, it seems, beyond words.

 

John doesn’t need to be told twice. He hooks one arm under one of Sherlock’s knees, hitching it higher, and lets go of himself to grip the detective’s hip with the other. Then he rolls his hips, pulling Sherlock onto him even as Sherlock pushes himself down, and oh fucking hell that is just—

 

***

 

—perfect.

 

That’s how it feels to have John inside him. The doctor pulls back, sliding almost completely out before pushing back in, deeper this time. Sherlock bites back a moan, then wonders why he’s even bothering, and on the next stroke, he lets his back arch as he cries out. A handful of strokes like this, as John pushes and Sherlock stretches around him, and then—there. John is fully seated, pausing a moment, and Sherlock can see the pulse fluttering in his neck, God, feel it inside him, even, and he knows John is close already, trying to calm himself, to make it last.

 

The detective snakes his hands up John’s arms, his mouth craning upward, seeking John’s. The doctor meets him halfway, his kiss stuttering around a ragged breath.

 

“Sherlock,” he whispers, and the word is not a name anymore, but a benediction. “You feel amazing. Jesus—you are. Just, God…amazing.”

 

Sherlock kisses him again, on his mouth, his shoulder, as John straightens again. Unable to wait any longer, he starts to move in earnest, finding a rhythm that matches their galloping pulses, and Sherlock is there with him, holding onto him because if he doesn’t, he may just come apart at last.  

 

Sex is an impulse, one unnecessary for survival, and Sherlock has never much understood the way others seek it out, crave it, demand it. He indulged the drive with Victor because for a time he thought he could be like those others, and when he realised he was something else, something set apart, he gave up on the pursuit.

 

But John inside him, John in his arms and against his lips and oh, yes, right there—John is set apart as well. John, who can translate Sherlock for the world, who stands with him even when he’s impossible, who will kill for him, who will—God, never again—die for him—sex with John is not just a physiological want. John in him is just another part of himself; without him, Sherlock is not Sherlock anymore.

 

It’s illogical and messy and full of enough sentiment to choke on, but Sherlock thinks he could never love anything as much as this: the way John sinks into him like he belongs, the way the detective’s body curves around him, toward him, because John is a centre and Sherlock is a satellite, and without his pull, Sherlock is lost.

 

John shifts his position, brushing against Sherlock’s prostate as he does, and the detective bucks against him.

 

“God, John—!”

 

The doctor thrusts again, and Sherlock is nearly off the mattress, holding onto him, and yes, oh Jesus, he is suddenly so close, his cock caught between them and straining for friction, his vision pale at the edges as he hovers on the edge.

 

“Touch me,” he begs.

 

“Yes,” and John does. His grip is loose, his stroke uneven as he keeps thrusting, but it’s enough, and Sherlock wraps his arms around him as they move. It’s seconds only, and then Sherlock goes rigid, back arching, and he is coming with one long cry that ends in John’s name, spilling over John’s hand, the doctor’s grip smearing it between them.

 

“Sherlock, fuck.” John says the word with such intensity that it draws Sherlock from his haze, and he opens his eyes in time to see the doctor’s pupils blow wide, and John releases Sherlock’s cock to hold onto his hips instead, his thrusts shallow now, erratic.

 

“I’m going to—”

 

“Please,” the detective says, fingers digging into John’s buttocks. “God, just please.”

 

Two more thrusts and John is there, pushing up into him, his head falling forward, burying his face in Sherlock’s neck, and Sherlock wants to see, to look in John’s eyes as he comes apart, but he can feel his groan vibrating down his carotid artery, and that’s almost as perfect. John’s orgasm rips through him, cutting off the groan with a sort of strangled, choking cry that is part curse and part Sherlock’s name, discordant and harsh and just beautiful.

 

John collapses into him, sprawling across his chest, his hips still moving lazily, absently. Sherlock holds him there, pressing the doctor’s head against his jackrabbit heart, stroking his back as he struggles to catch his breath.

 

“Alright?” the detective mumbles after a moment.

 

John shifts on top of him, kissing his chest, his mouth, and hell, that kiss is almost sweeter than the sex, Sherlock trying not to tremble. The doctor means well, he cares for him, but the great feathery non-paralysing feeling in Sherlock’s chest wants more than that, and the detective is afraid to hope for it.

 

“Alright?” John echoes. “Jesus, a bit better than that.”

 

He rolls off of him, flopping onto his back beside him, idly scratching at his chest. Sherlock sits up, pulling his knees up to his chest. John stares at the ceiling, a slightly goofy grin on his face.

 

“Reckon I’ll have to let Angelo call me your date now,” he says, and he’s smiling, but Sherlock’s heart manages an extra four beats in quick succession.

 

“John.” His is voice soft and serious, and the doctor catches it, glancing at him. “You don’t…I know you’re not…you don’t have to tell anyone. I mean, Lestrade knows something, you were hardly subtle with your drug induced hand holding, but we don’t have to...” Sherlock sighs, frustrated to find eloquence quite beyond him at the moment. John is staring at him now, all trace of his smile gone. “I just mean,” Sherlock finishes, “it’s fine if you don’t want others to know.”

 

“Right,” says John, pushing himself up. He’s leaning toward Sherlock, and the detective can’t really help it if his eyelids flutter closed for an instant when John’s hand cups his face. “If it’s all the same to you,” the doctor says, and his voice is light, but his eyes are steel, “I think that’s as much your choice as it is mine.”

 

Sherlock just blinks at him.

 

“But you ought to know,” continues John, “whether other people know or not, I’m not going anywhere.”

 

A lurch, as that winged thing in his chest leaps abruptly. John’s right hand is trembling, his eyes tight with encroaching pain—it’s cost him, this encounter, though he’s trying not to show it—but his eyes are steady, open and honest, and Sherlock dares to believe him.

The detective leans forward, his face hovering inches away from John’s, his gaze flicking from his eyes to his lips and back again, memorising his face in this moment.

 

“Don’t,” he whispers, and John’s fingers thread through his hair. “Don’t go anywhere. Please.” He can’t say it, can’t name that beast lurking behind his heart, but it sneaks out anyway, in his voice, in the gentle kiss he presses against John’s lips.

 

And John doesn’t say it either, but Sherlock feels it in his touch, that double helix again, the strands of their lives bound together around this something that is life itself, that is bigger than both of them.

 

When they pull back, Sherlock finds his hand on John’s chest. His thumb strokes idly over the skin there, cataloguing its texture, all the subtle mechanisms of his brain clicking back into place as his body relinquishes its temporary hold over him.

 

“John,” he says, “I find myself quite in need of a shower.”

 

The doctor laughs, wincing a bit. “Yeah. I never managed to finish mine. Some conniving bastard fancied he had something better for me to do.”

 

“I think you’ll agree he was right.”

 

“Oh, he’s always right. Doesn’t mean he’s not a conniving bastard.”

 

Sherlock snorts dismissively. “You’re exhausted and in pain, so I will assume you’re delirious.”

 

“Assume what you like, but get that shower started. If you wait any longer, you’ll have to carry me in there. I’m knackered.”

 

“I don’t remember inviting you,” Sherlock says.

 

“No,” John agrees. “But I admit, the idea of you wet and naked is almost disturbingly appealing.”

 

“Well, I suppose we can’t have you showering alone, invalid that you are.”

 

“Invalid?” It’s John’s turn to snort as he rolls off the bed. “I still manage to wash a pot now and then. What’s your excuse?”

 

He walks past Sherlock, heading for the bathroom, and the detective smiles at his back. “Geniuses don’t wash pots, John.”

 

John is out the door, calling back, “Apparently they don’t put taps on, either. You coming, then?”

 

The sound of the shower starting up. Sherlock’s smile widens. “Oh, absolutely.”

 

***

1. The Script. Science & Faith. Sony Music Entertainment UK, 2011.