Archive of Our Own ^beta

It was moments like this when John forgot that Sherlock ever made him angry. He could taste the sweat and the rusty flavour of blood in his mouth, smell the hot, acrid scent of gun smoke, and feel the blood swelling and rushing through his system.

If he were a normal man he would be terrified.

But John Watson was not a normal man. No, he wasn’t singularly brilliant like Sherlock, but not many people felt the thrill of adrenaline as danger came knocking, or held their hands as steady when it was needed.

You’re not haunted by the war, Doctor Watson. You miss it.

And damn Mycroft for being right.

Sherlock looked over from his cover behind a pile of crates and grinned. He had a long scratch on his face, and his hair was a mess. John didn’t think he’d seen anything more beautiful.

It had taken a while, to get used to that thought, but it kept returning to his head unbidden, until finally, John rolled the taste of it around in his mouth and decided there was no use in denying it. People couldn’t help the thoughts that came to them sometimes, and John had come to accept that the first thing that he thought when he saw Sherlock so incandescently brilliant was “beautiful.” No one could fault him for that. Water was wet. The sky was blue. Sherlock was beautiful.

He was magnificent right now, and it was almost distracting.

John heard the rat-tat-tat of semi-automatic fire on brick, and when the burst ended, John took his chance and stepped around the corner, not even stopping to aim.

The gunner went down, and all was silent.

John peered through the fog, trying to figure out if there was anyone else out there. The fog had rolled in during the night, and now, during the early hours of the morning, it obscured everything from sight. It had been a lucky shot.

Before John could decide what to do next, Sherlock had vaulted over the boxes and taken off down the alleyway.

“Sherlock -”

The fire from their enemy resumed, and it was only the cover of the mist that was preventing them from hitting Sherlock. But there was nothing to say that a stray shot wouldn’t find its mark through sheer luck.

John fired back once or twice to try and keep their heads down.

Ricochet shots.

The thought leapt to his mind from memory long since past. Impossible acrobatics, a stolen jade pin worth 9 million quid, a date gone horrible awry. Sherlock arriving just in time and advising General Shan not to shoot because the shot might ricochet and hit her.

John still couldn’t see Sherlock, and the alleyway was quiet again. John didn’t call out. For one, Sherlock was definitely not going to bother to answer him. For another, he might give away Sherlock’s position to their enemy - or his own, for that matter.

John was just considering rushing in, and damn the consequences anyway, when flashing lights appeared at the other end of the alley, backlighting the silhouettes of their quarry.

Finally, Lestrade on the scene. It seemed like it had taken hours instead of the few minutes it had been since the firefight started.

“Drop your weapons!”

Donovan’s voice, clear through the mist, although he couldn’t clearly see her face. The gang that had just been shooting at them did as they were told, raising their hands.

At first, John relaxed.

And then, he realized that he couldn’t see Sherlock. And Sherlock hadn’t come back for him.

Ricochet shots.

“Sherlock!” he yelled, flipping the safety on his own firearm and stowing it in the back of his jeans, where his bomber jacket hid the tell-tale bulge.

There was no response, and John started running toward the other end of the alley. He almost tripped over Sherlock, and he dropped down to one knee. Sherlock was on the ground, although he was sitting upright.

His hands were pressed to his thigh, where blood was welling up around his hands. He wasn’t making a sound, too focused on keeping the pressure on the wound.

“Sherlock!” John said.

Sherlock finally looked up.

“What’s hit?” John asked steadily, not moving Sherlock’s hands in case it was an artery.

“Took a chunk out of my thigh,” Sherlock bit out. “Hurts.”

“We’ll get an ambulance - “

“No. No ambulance. Just do it at home.”

“It might need stitches - “

“John, you’re a doctor. You can do stitches.”

“Not when our bathroom is in its current state.”

“Oh… I left the pig entrails in the bathtub, didn’t I.”

“Yes, you did.”

“Probable contamination by bio-hazardous material -”

“Sherlock. Hospital. Now.”

OOooOO

Surprisingly, Sherlock went after that. An ambulance arrived shortly to take Sherlock to the hospital, even though he tried to persuade John that they should just take a cab.

“Can’t we just go home?” Sherlock griped. “The wound is stitched up, I’m feeling fine, and John can take care of me!”

“They want to monitor you for shock,” John said.

“Shock?” Sherlock said, looking annoyed. “If I have to stay here longer, it’s only because you made me come here in the first place. Therefore, you can get us some tea from the terrible cafeteria I saw earlier.

John sighed and left Sherlock to sulk. The tea was going to be terrible, as it usually was whenever someone else made the tea. He was on his way down when he ran into Lestrade. He was about to offer to get some tea for Lestrade as well when he was abruptly pulled aside.

“The ballistics from the scene are back,” Lestrade said, and for some reason, his face was grim.

“I shot one of the gangsters,” John admitted, rubbing a hand over the nape of his neck. “I suppose that one’s rather obvious.”

“Yes, but that’s not what I’m talking to you about,” Lestrade said, looking both ways before leaning in. “I’m talking about the bullet that hit Sherlock.”

John’s mouth thinned, and he felt his hands clench, knuckles cracking. “Would I love to get my hands on the thug that shot him.”

Lestrade’s eyes looked unhappy, and he seemed to wrestle with what to say in reply, before he leaned in even further.

“John. It was you.”

Ricochet shots.

For a moment, John felt like he himself had been shot, the shock was so great. His ears buzzed, and Lestrade was saying something, but he couldn’t hear what it was. All he could hear was his heart galloping and kicking against his ribcage. His mouth tasted like rust, and all he could do was take in deep breaths and try not to throw up.

“Are you sure?” John finally gasped.

“God, John, breathe,” Lestrade said as John leaned over, hands on his knees. “You look like you’re in more shock than Sherlock is. I didn’t know your face could go that white.”

A glance in the reflective surface of a nearby gurney revealed his sick-looking face, grey and clammy.

“Are you sure?” John repeated, voice rough.

“It’s pretty clear,” Lestrade said, looking very sorry he’d even brought this up. “I just wanted to tell you cause I knew that you were going to ask. And I didn’t want to have to tell you in front of the rest of the team.”

“Oh god,” John said, teeth gritted. “Do they all know?”

Lestrade’s mouth went flat. “Anderson does, certainly. I’ve had to get certain interference to make sure no one said anything about your gun.”

Fuck. Mycroft knew about this as well.

Mycroft wasn’t really one to forgive people who had hurt Sherlock. Was this his last conversation before being grabbed by Mycroft’s minions and being shot in a back alleyway?

“Look, John, we know you would never have hit Sherlock on purpose,” Lestrade said, sighing. “It was foggy, you couldn’t see Sherlock, and it was a ricochet that hit him. You’re in the clear.”

“I shouldn’t have been shooting at all,” John said, still feeling sick to his stomach.

“Perhaps not, but then again, if you hadn’t, maybe one of the gang members would have chanced a shot that would have hit him. You don’t know, John,” Lestrade said.

In the end, Lestrade went and got the tea while John struggled to get his body back under control.

It was him. He had hurt Sherlock.

Eventually, he went into a nearby bathroom to splash water on his face and clean the fear-sweat away. It smelled different, more sour. It tasted sour, like bile in the back of his throat. If he took a shower to get it off, John still didn’t think he would feel clean.

Sherlock noticed that he’d washed his face right away, shrewd glance taking it all in as soon as he appeared in the doorway. But he didn’t say anything, instead demanding to know where the promised tea was.

“If I can’t leave this blasted place -”

“I’ll sign your release forms,” John said, still feeling a lump of horror rolling around in his stomach.

“You will?” Sherlock asked, looking at him sharply.

He still didn’t say anything, even though John knew that if this were a normal Sherlock-in-hospital situation, he wouldn’t have done it. He wasn’t impartial enough to practice medicine on his flatmate. But this - this knotted up, dreadful feeling compelled him to do whatever was needed to make Sherlock suffer less.

He signed the papers, that sour flavour on his tongue.

Sherlock didn’t say very much as John rolled him down to the front entrance in a wheelchair and helped him into a cab. Lestrade helped, casting them both a worried look as he shut the cab door on them.

When they got home, John helped Sherlock hobble up the stairs. Mrs. Hudson came out of 221A to fuss.

“Oh, Sherlock,” she said fretfully from the landing. “I’ll make you some tea and biscuit. But just this once, dear, I’m not your housekeeper.”

Sherlock lay down on the sofa with a groan and didn’t move. John ordered some Thai takeaway, making sure to order two of Sherlock’s favourite dishes, even though he himself didn’t much like yellow curry.

Sherlock didn’t say anything, although he must have noticed how half-heartedly John picked at his food once it arrived. John’s reluctance to eat wasn’t entirely because of his dislike of yellow curry. Rather, it was because he could still feel his stomach clench when he thought of how he had hurt Sherlock.

It didn’t make sense in his head.

It couldn’t have been him that hurt Sherlock. He was a doctor - he didn’t hurt people, he helped them.

He cleared away the takeaway and cleaned the dishes, even though just that afternoon he’d been pestering Sherlock to do his share of the housework. And then he went to work cleaning the bathroom as well, because he couldn’t very well take a shower in the morning with the entrails in there, but he couldn’t ask Sherlock to clean it. He was injured.

Sherlock hobbled by on his way to his room as John was disinfecting every surface in the bathroom.

“That was an experiment, John,” Sherlock protested.

John did not say that the damn pig entrails had been in the bathtub the better part of a day without proper refrigeration and had begun to rot. He did not say that Sherlock needed to keep an eye on his bloody experiments. He didn’t threaten to hide Sherlock’s violin like he had the last time Sherlock had contaminated their bathroom with dead, rotting body parts.

“What were you trying to find out?” John asked wearily.

The answer was long, complicated, and involved maggots.

“You don’t need an entire pig carcass to figure that out,” John said reasonably. “Smaller scale, kitchen sink, I can shave, shower, and shit without needing to hold my breath.”

“But the kitchen -”

“Is also closer to all your other experiments.”

“Fine,” Sherlock said, not even thanking John for cleaning up the mess for him.

John nearly snapped, but took a deep, settling breath and let it slide.

OOooOO

“I need more tea, John.”

“Pass me the laptop, John.”

“Can you run to the store to get more milk? I used the last of it for an experiment.”

“Can you go pick up those livers from the morgue?”

John swallowed his automatic retort, which would have been to tell Sherlock to go and get his own bloody livers, and went to get his coat. Sherlock was still noticeably limping, and John couldn’t stand the sight of it. He’d done that. Sherlock was hurt because of him.

He still hadn’t told Sherlock that it had been his bullet that had done it. Sherlock hadn’t even asked, not finding the omission of that particular tidbit of information suspicious. John supposed he just didn’t give much thought to his own body.

He should just tell Sherlock and get it over with. Once Sherlock was back at crime scenes, someone was sure to mention it. Or, in the case of Anderson, sneer over it.

But John just couldn’t do it. He couldn’t even imagine what Sherlock’s reaction would be to being told his best friend had put a bullet in him.

The guilt was eating him alive in agonizing increments.

“You don’t want me to put the livers in our fridge.”

John stopped, halfway into his coat, and looked up at Sherlock. Sherlock was sitting in his chair, knees pulled up to his chest, and giving John a penetrating look. John didn’t know what to say to that, because it was certainly true, he didn’t find human liver in his fridge at all appealing. However, Sherlock wanted the livers. So he was going to go get them and then try and not think about the livers. Maybe do a crossword or something.

“You don’t want me to put the livers in our fridge, but you’re going to get them anyway. Now what can I deduce from that?”

“Nothing terribly important,” John said, shrugging the jacket on and taking off down the stairs before Sherlock could question him further.

Sherlock didn’t say anything when he got back. The livers went in the fridge, and John watched Doctor Who, while Sherlock scribbled out lab results.

“John,” Sherlock said. “Will you take a look at my leg?”

John froze.

“Do you think it’s infected?” John managed to ask shakily.

“No, I just want you to look at it.”

John didn’t know what to say to that, but he couldn’t say ‘no’ for no reason. He was a doctor, after all, surely it was a perfectly reasonable request to have a look at Sherlock’s leg.

He was fully prepared to do that, until Sherlock simply shucked his pyjama bottoms and then sprawled out on the couch in his pants, casual and not at all self-conscious. Nervously, John sat next to him, and Sherlock shifted one leg so that it was draped across John’s lap.

Sherlock’s legs were so long, elegant, and undeniably gorgeous. John had never been this up close and personal to Sherlock’s bare legs. They were all lean muscle and grace, making John briefly wonder if Sherlock had ever considered being a dancer. They were masculine legs, for all that they were long and shapely. John’s fingers were running over his ankle, pads catching on the dark hair on Sherlock’s leg.

He couldn’t help but imagine what these legs would be like wrapped around his waist. He wanted to run his hands over them, up the outside of his thigh and over his bony knee, and down his calf. God, he could probably get them up over his shoulders if he tried.

It took him far too long to realize that he had been presented with the wrong leg.

“Sherlock?” he asked, because Sherlock was absent-minded, but not this absent-minded. “Wrong leg, mate.”

He winced and chuckled weakly, silently berating himself for saying ‘mate’ in a tone that desperate.

“Oh, this has nothing to do with the injury,” Sherlock said, gaze intent. “But if you insist.”

Sherlock put the other leg up on his lap, and John nearly froze. The dressing had been removed a few days before, and the gunshot wound was well on its way to healing. They could probably take the stitches out in the next few days. It was nearly healed, which made John purse his lip. Someone with this amount of healing shouldn’t still be limping.

“You’ve been faking your limp.”

“And you’ve been so delightfully accommodating.”

Of course. Of course Sherlock had noticed that he had been so… ‘accommodating’ as Sherlock put it, and used it to his advantage. John had been running around everywhere doing silly little errands for Sherlock, and Sherlock was fine.

“Sherlock, you can’t just take advantage of -”

“Of what?” Sherlock asked, eyes narrowed shrewdly. “You think I hadn’t noticed your behaviour of late? You’ve never let me put livers in the fridge without protest, or cleaned the bathroom, or gone and done errands without first trying to make me do it myself.”

“You’re injured.”

“I had that sprained wrist once,” Sherlock said. “You still told me to ‘make your own tea, you sodding git’ even though it was hard to stir with my brace on one arm.”

“You were making those ridiculous eyes at me,” John said.

“Yes, and you ignored them. This time, you did exactly as I said. So what should I deduce from this? Guilt.”

Guilt.

John swallowed hard.

“As much as I’ve been enjoying not being nagged about silly things like keeping body parts in the fridge, I feel compelled to inform you that you have nothing to feel guilty over. Your crisis of conscience is completely unnecessary.”

The longer Sherlock talked, the more John’s stomach roiled, until it all came spewing out, the ugly truth, and John’s temper.

“It was me!” he shouted, fists clenching. “I shot you. The bullet was mine.”

“John -”

But John couldn’t take it anymore. He’d spent all week trying to make up for the fact that he’d been the one to shoot his best friend, but he just couldn’t. Cleaning up pig guts in no way compensated for the fact that John could have quite easily hit something more vital. The guilt and the frustration were at their peak levels, and he couldn’t stay here and look at Sherlock’s calm expression, as if he didn’t care at all that someone he’d supposedly trusted had hurt him.

He stopped only long enough to grab his coat, keys, and mobile before rushing out of the flat, face hot with shame and misery.

He walked without knowing where to go, ending up in a random park. He sat down on a bench and tried not to think about anything. What could he do now? He’d admitted his crime, and now he had no idea how Sherlock would react, because he hadn’t been able to face him at the moment he’d confessed.

He heaved in a deep, shaking breath and clutched at his mobile, dreading the sound of the ping his phone made when it received a text, but anticipating it nonetheless. Maybe now that Sherlock knew, he could be properly angry at John, and John wouldn’t feel so damned guilty anymore.

His phone pinged. He nearly dropped it in spite of himself.

Come home, John. SH

A few seconds later, I knew it was you as soon as it happened, John. I don’t blame you for it. Come home now. SH

John stared at the message until the screen went dark, and then he put it away. He was in a park somewhere not far from Baker Street. It wasn’t cold out, so there was no really compelling reason to leave quite yet. John didn’t know what to do, because he couldn’t make himself go back just now. His gut was still squeezed into knots with guilt, and not wanting to look at Sherlock’s face, now that he knew how terrible John was.

John sat there and thought of that night, with the fog, and taking a chance shot in the dark. The wrong decision. He tried to calculate which of his shots had hit Sherlock, which one had ricocheted off the wall and found its mark. But he wasn’t Sherlock, and it remained a mystery.

It didn’t really matter which one had hit him. He had, and no amount of speculation would undo it. If he’d stopped firing sooner, maybe Sherlock wouldn’t have gotten hit. Or maybe it was his very first shot, and it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter at all, because John had taken all those shots. No what ifs would change the here and now.

John wondered if it were feasible to just stay here on this bench forever.

“John.”

Of course Sherlock had found him.

John pursed his lips and didn’t answer.

Sherlock huffed a little, then sat down next to him.

“John, you can’t stay here forever,” Sherlock said. “And I think you’re being very self-indulgent with this guilt-trip. It would be much better for both of us if you would just get over it. I have.”

John stared at him furiously. “How can you be over it? I shot you.”

“Yes, and I don’t have a problem with that. Your carrying on has gotten in the way of something I find much more important than guilt.”

“I can’t just get over something like that, Sherlock,” John said, shaking his head and taking in a deep breath. “I harmed you, accident though it was.”

“It was partially my fault anyway,” Sherlock said reasonably. “I went into the alley, even though you told me not to.”

“I shouldn’t have shot while you were in the line of fire.”

“I told you it was fine.”

“And I told you it wasn’t.”

“Enjoy your wallowing then,” Sherlock snapped. “I will be at the flat sulking and not eating anything until you get back.”

He whirled off the bench with a dramatic flap of his coat and disappeared as quickly as he’d arrived. John sighed. Damn him, anyway. Sherlock knew that not eating was a weak spot of John’s.

What he couldn’t understand was how Sherlock could be fine with being shot by someone he trusted. John wouldn’t be fine. John would be in pieces.

But Sherlock wasn’t John. John needed to trust people, because of all the times he had been betrayed by those he cared about.

Sherlock had forgiven Mary. John hadn’t.

Sherlock had mostly forgotten about Mary by this point, after she had disappeared shortly after Moriarty’s “reappearance.” It had become clear the Moriarty’s return was a hoax, and she had yet to reappear. Mycroft probably had something to do with that, and John had silently and angrily fumed, until the rage had faded into hurt. She’d never contacted them again, wherever she was, and Sherlock had gone on with his life without another backward glance.

John hadn’t.

The point was, John either trusted people, or he didn’t, and if they hurt him, his forgiveness was hard earned, and his trust regained slowly and begrudgingly.

Sherlock was different.

John went home and made dinner while Sherlock watched some crap telly. He gave Sherlock a plate and they both watched silently. John struggled with what to say, because there had to be something that could resolve all this.

John swallowed hard before saying, “Do you really need me in your life so much that you don’t care if I hurt you?”

John would have been terribly hurt to be asked this question, and it hurt him even more to hear Sherlock say, “Yes.”

“Sherlock,” he said helplessly, because his insides ached at this admission.

“No, let me explain, John,” Sherlock said.

John couldn’t think of an explanation that would make this okay, but he nodded, just in case Sherlock came up with something brilliant and unexpected. Sherlock started unbuttoning his shirt, and although John wanted to protest, he held his tongue. Dark purple slid away off slim, pale shoulders.

There was a mark, thick and ropey, curved over one shoulder. A scar. John reached up hesitatingly, and when Sherlock didn’t move, he touched a finger to it. He was a doctor, had seen all manner of scars. This one made his stomach drop in horror.

He followed the line of thick, raised tissue with his finger, turning Sherlock so that he could find the end.

It didn’t end. Or at least, not where he expected it to. It continued on, horribly long, down over his shoulder blade and across his spine. It wasn’t the only one. There were so many, and John could read a story, a terrible, painful story in the lines of those scars. He placed a hand over the scars, obscuring their plot lines. He couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, could only keep his hand over Sherlock’s back and become more and more distressed that Sherlock hadn’t shared all that had gone on while he’d been gone.

“I’m glad, John,” Sherlock said, into the silence. “I wanted a mark that was yours. I didn’t think I would ever have one because of your unwillingness to hurt me. But I’d rather have this scar than the ones you can see, because I know you care about me, John.”

John took in a deep, quavering breath. “There are other ways to leave marks, Sherlock. Ways that don’t involve hurting you and marking you irreparably.”

“What if I wanted the mark you left to be irreparable?”

“Bit not good, Sherlock,” John said gently.

“Show me then,” Sherlock challenged, turning verdigris eyes on him. “These marks you think don’t have to hurt.”

John kissed him.

Sherlock gasped, and John put his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders. He felt Sherlock’s hands come up to grasp desperately at his elbows to hang on.

When John drew back, Sherlock said, “I hadn’t thought you’d noticed.”

“Of course I noticed,” John said, and kissed him again. “You had your legs all over me.”

“You like my legs,” Sherlock concluded, once his mouth was no longer occupied.

“Yes,” John said, and ran his hand up one firm thigh.

Sherlock moaned, and then drew back, eyes dilating, face flushed, and looking surprised by the noise he’d involuntarily produced. John’s thumb rubbed over his thigh in a circular pattern, and Sherlock watched for a second, eyes intent.

While his eyes were cast downward, John leaned forward and kissed his brow. Sherlock closed his eyes, and John pressed his mouth the the elegant curve of one cheekbone, the tip of his nose, the edge of his jaw next to his ear, the corner of his mouth.

Sherlock made a small, hopeful sound, and John kissed his mouth again, carefully coaxing it to open against his, to let him press forward, inside. Sherlock let him, eyes still closed, making soft sounds that made John’s chest ache.

“Those aren’t marks,” Sherlock said, voice breathless.

“Can you still feel them?” John asked softly, nudging their noses together, letting their foreheads rest against one another.

“Yes,” Sherlock breathed, the word more an exhale than a proper vocalization.

John mouthed at the edge of Sherlock’s jaw, letting just a hint of wetness and teeth show through. Sherlock’s head tilted back against the back of the sofa, exposing the long length of his throat. John found a spot where he could feel Sherlock’s pulse, picking up speed as John tongued at that spot.

Once he had it good and wet, he pressed his mouth to that spot, testing how his lips fit there until he finally nipped an edge of luminous skin and sucked on it gently.

Sherlock keened suddenly, spine twisting, and hands suddenly grabbing onto whatever they could. John sucked again, and Sherlock shuddered, one hand coming up to twine through John’s hair.

John finished, then lapped at the mark soothingly.

“Not painful, was it?” he asked as he nuzzled Sherlock’s throat.

“No… not as such,” Sherlock gasped, chest still heaving.

“Want another?”

“God, yes.”

John pressed little wet marks into the smooth line of Sherlock’s neck, leaving another mark just at the junction of neck and shoulder. Sherlock clung to John’s jumper, making soft noises as John marked him. Another one was kissed into the wing of one collarbone.

“John,” Sherlock whispered pleadingly.

John found Sherlock’s peaked nipples and rubbed the left one gently. Sherlock gasped, neck arching back, so John’s mouth followed. Sherlock actually whimpered as John rolled the firm little nub with his tongue, pressing and sucking until Sherlock abruptly gave, and John followed him down onto the sofa.

Sherlock looked surprised to be there, as if his sudden descent hadn’t been planned.

“We can stop,” John said, resisting the urge to touch when Sherlock hadn’t decided yet.

“Keep going,” Sherlock said, eyes shy.

John mapped out the concave arc of Sherlock’s stomach, nipped a new mark into the skin next to Sherlock’s jutting hipbone. Sherlock writhed in his arms from that sensation alone, still shivering when John licked the mark afterward.

He looked embarrassed when John noticed the tent in his trousers, knees coming up to hide himself from view.

“It’s okay, Sherlock,” John said gently. “To react to pleasure that way.”

Sherlock’s flush deepened, and John said, “I’ll stop.”

Sherlock grabbed John’s wrists and whispered, “Don’t.”

He still looked like he hadn’t expected this, and John supposed that if he’d thought he needed John to hurt him to feel loved by him, then he wouldn’t expect this. He’d tried to seduce John earlier, with the leg thing. Had he just expected John to take him? Had he thought sex was meant to hurt as well?

He took Sherlock apart slowly, bits of pleasure taking him by surprise each time. John kissed him, taking joy in the slow roll of their tongues and Sherlock’s hands in his hair. He parted Sherlock’s legs gently, and Sherlock had looked at him, face open and vulnerable.

John had to make sure he didn’t hurt Sherlock, because Sherlock wouldn’t.

Sherlock watched as John made short work of Sherlock’s belt and tugged the zip down. As the pressure on his erection eased, a little hiss worked its way past his lips. John carefully got the band of Sherlock’s pants over his cock and pulled off every bit of clothing from the waist down.

“You’re still dressed,” Sherlock whispered accusingly.

“I am,” John said, amused. “Would you prefer me not to be?”

“What a silly question,” Sherlock said, and tugged at the hem of his jumper.

John got the point and shucked it quickly, making his hair feel charged with static. Sherlock looked enraptured as he leaned up to press his hands over John’s torso. One hand found John’s bullet scar and caressed it. John, who tried not to touch it, let Sherlock. Sherlock knew what scars were like.

Sherlock’s hands ran down John’s body, but quickly went to John’s jeans, trying to get the button undone. John chuckled and helped, needing to stand up to shimmy them off. Sherlock watched from the couch. His knees had drawn up again, and John knelt back on the couch, hands cupping Sherlock’s bare kneecaps.

“Okay?” he asked.

Sherlock nodded.

John ran his palms up the silky underside of Sherlock’s legs and up to the junction of his knees, making Sherlock shiver. He pressed his hands apart, bringing Sherlock’s legs with them. Sherlock squirmed and blushed, and John kissed the inside of one endearingly knobbled knee.

He kissed up the inside of his thigh until he was at the very soft, sensitive skin next to his groin. Carefully picking a location, John nibbled and sucked another mark into Sherlock’s skin. Sherlock’s breath came in gasps, and he made another one closer to the apex of his legs.

“J-j-jo-ohn,” Sherlock quavered.

John finally gave in and pressed his nose to Sherlock’s groin. It smelled hot and musky, thick with arousal. Sherlock whimpered as John breathed in deeply.

“Oh, you smell delicious,” John murmured against the base of Sherlock’s cock.

Sherlock twitched against his lips, and he kissed the underside of Sherlock’s cock. It twitched again, and John grinned as his mouth traced the big vein on the underside. Sherlock gasped and shivered, legs trying to come up again. John urged them up over his shoulders, like he’d fantasized about earlier and felt them wrap around his back.

Sherlock made a little ‘ah’ noise as John licked and explored Sherlock’s cock. He twirled his tongue around the glans and finally tried to slide his mouth down over the length of Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock was pulsing and heavy on his tongue, the flavour thick and musky. John savoured it, sucking to try and get more of the taste of Sherlock in his mouth.

John pulled off with a wet pop.

“Sherlock, I need you to do something for me. Shuffle down.”

Sherlock went, and John propped him up so that his arse was lifted up by the end of the sofa. His legs were pressed up around his ears by the position, and everything was delightfully exposed. Sherlock seemed to think so as well, flushing and hiding his face.

“Oh, now love, I promise you’ll like this,” John said soothingly, getting on his knees.

He started by mouthing at Sherlock’s bollocks, and Sherlock gasped from somewhere above him. He rolled them about in his mouth and very delicately sucked. Sherlock whined, and when John looked, he still had his hands over his eyes.

He pressed his thumb to the smooth expanse of Sherlock’s perineum, before licking and sucking at it. He didn’t quite leave a mark there, as it was such a sensitive spot. Sherlock didn’t seem to get where he was headed until John parted his cheeks and breathed hot, damp air over his exposed hole.

“John!” he cried out, sounding shocked.

“Sherlock,” John said calmly. “Okay?”

He looked around the edge of the couch to find Sherlock’s wild gaze. His face was flushed, and his eyes were starting to become bright with pleasure. John didn’t move, waiting for Sherlock to tell him yes, he wanted this.

Sherlock shuddered again, and his eyes slid shut.

“Please,” he capitulated, voice rough with desire.

John kissed his pink, furled opening, and it quivered at the touch. The skin there was so soft and sensitive, and John was gentle as he lapped his way in. Sherlock whined, and John felt his heels dig into his shoulders as he tried to hold himself still. John’s tongue carefully probed until Sherlock’s tight rim loosened.

“John, please,” Sherlock said. “Please, I want you -”

“You want me where?” John whispered.

“Inside me,” Sherlock replied, looking wrecked and beautiful.

“Alright,” John said. “Just let me…”

Sherlock moaned as John’s lubed index finger traced his slick rim and then pushed at it gently until it gave. John slowly worked the finger deeper until it was seated up to the knuckle. Sherlock clenched down around him, and John moved his finger coaxingly until he relaxed, soft inner walls still fluttering around his finger.

His cries took on a pleading note as John added another finger, curving them until they nudged up against a delicate little bud inside him. Sherlock wailed, fists closing around the fabric of the couch. John rubbed against his prostate teasingly, and added another finger.

“So full,” Sherlock gasped. “More.”

John slid his fingers out so that he could roll a condom over his aching cock. Somehow, he hadn’t lost it while watching Sherlock come undone by his hands, but he couldn’t possibly last much longer. Luckily, it seemed like Sherlock was almost there as well.

His slick erection pressed against Sherlock’s loosened rim, the head rubbing and pressing. Sherlock rolled his hips up, and John pushed forward gently. John gasped as Sherlock’s hole stretched around his head, and then swallowed him up. He slid inside in one smooth push, Sherlock enveloping him in tight heat.

“Sherlock,” he gasped, because nothing had ever felt this good, as cliche as it sounded.

Sherlock’s legs wrapped around him, pulling him in even deeper. Sherlock’s hand found his, entwining their fingers tight. John nudged their foreheads together, Sherlock’s curls hanging damply in his eyes.

“Move,” Sherlock demanded roughly.

John moved.

Sherlock huffed gently and then said, “You can do it a bit harder than that, I won’t break.”

“We’re not here to test your breaking point,” John whispered back. “It’s okay. I won’t let you go. I’ve got you.”

He rolled his hips up and inward, and Sherlock gasped. Sherlock’s free hand came up to hold on to John’s shoulder. John felt him leave stinging scratch marks as John pushed into him again, pressing that spot inside him.

“John…” Sherlock said, voice uncertain as he drew closer to the edge.

“I’ve got you,” John repeated against his ear. “You’re okay, just let go.”

Sherlock shuddered around and under him and came, coating his belly in release. He pulsed again and moaned as John worked him through it. John gave two, slow rolls of his hips, all while Sherlock spasmed around him and came with a cut off cry. John’s legs trembled, and his softening cock slid out as his feet slid down on the floor.

The couch wasn’t the most ideal post-shag spot, but John crawled up the couch and collapsed, half on top of Sherlock. He could feel Sherlock’s chest heaving against his own and smiled, reaching up to run his fingers through Sherlock’s sweat-soaked locks.

“You’re right, John,” Sherlock said hoarsely. “That was much better than being shot.”

“Sex with me better than being shot?” John murmured against damp skin. “You do know how to compliment a man, love.”

His hand went down to lightly skim over Sherlock’s scarred thigh.

The truth of it was, they were both a bit not good in many ways.

It was a good thing those ways seemed to match up just right.

Who would have thought that the thing to bring them both together this way would be a bullet, and a ricochet?