Chapter Text
Some days I feel somewhere else or somewhere in between
Some days I don’t feel a thing at all
Now, I’m pulling back the screen to let the future in
The light comes flooding in
—Nothing But Thieves
The evening breeze is chilly, but it's a fair price to pay for a table at the edge of a balcony overlooking the sea from high on the cliff side.
John slips his black corduroy jacket back on as they’re settling in their seats.
"Cold? We could request a table inside," Sherlock tells him and cranes his neck, preparing to signal a server.
John waves him off. "No, no, it's fine. Worth the view. Sorry I made us blow off your reservation at that Michelin star place. It just felt like a waste of money when I can't really enjoy the food to its fullest."
Though it's been nearly two months since the surgery, John is still suffering from altered taste: many foodstuffs retain an odd, metallic tang. They had even forgone champagne tonight — their last-night-of-a-holiday-trip tradition. Sherlock had made a reservation at a well-known restaurant in a nearby town, but had agreed with John, who had begged off going based on his taste bud issue.
"It's fine," Sherlock assures him. "According to comments I found online, many adult tonsillectomy patients swear that zinc supplements and time will do the trick. I want to discuss the zinc theory with Collings when we get back; the potential mechanism both eludes and fascinates me."
There are several theories regarding why taste can be altered for such a long time, though Sherlock's database searches had yielded very little quality research done on the topic. He is inclined to believe that it's either scar tissue temporarily pressing on taste nerves, or an occult zinc deficiency developing postoperatively. "Zinc supplements should be harmless, at least."
"I like it here," John says, gazing over the moonlit sea. "I was more in the mood for cheap and cheerful than a jacket-and-tie affair, anyway, if I'm honest. Maybe we plan trips too meticulously; it was nice just to act a bit spontaneous this time."
Sherlock hums, considering this. Of course, he’d planned everything meticulously — this trip had been his idea, after all. But he had made sure to allow for plenty of rest and adjustments to John's fitness level in his holiday plan. At first, his husband had got winded walking even a short distance uphill, but a week of sightseeing, city walking and beach strolling has done wonders for John's recovery. He's been back to work for weeks, but had spent most evenings before their trip napping and watching TV, needing longer to recharge than he used to. Edgar has still pitched in with running errands, but once they return home, his additional assistance will no longer be necessary and Sherlock's PA can return to working his regular contracted hours.
"Frustrating that all it takes is one simple surgery to wipe out my exercise tolerance completely."
"You've regained much of it."
"Yeah," John agrees reluctantly, "but I'm not getting any younger. We should exercise more, have a better think on what we eat when we get home. Standing in the OR, staying up all night when on call, sitting in the office lots and then crashing on the couch in the evening is burning the candle from both ends."
"What candle?"
"I mean that it's not helping us stay healthy and fit."
"Oh." Sherlock halves a breadstick, offers one end to John, and then begins chewing on his half thoughtfully. Does John feel… old, somehow? Will he start nagging at Sherlock more, now, about their habits at home?
John laughs. "You look like I've just told you I want to start running ultramarathons. Don't worry; I don't mean we should do anything drastic. Maybe… start with reconsidering all the takeaway?"
"I'm sure Edgar could point us to some sensible and convenient meal services and such."
"You know I like cooking."
"And you know I like knowing what I'm eating. And you keep telling me you don't want to waste what little free time we have in the evenings standing in the kitchen."
"If I cook it, you will know what's in it," John promises, taking a big bite of his breadstick. Soon, his lip curls up in secretive amusement.
"What?" Sherlock asks, sipping his water.
"I was just… remembering something from Afghanistan. You, at the mess hall, trying to find something you could recognise and assume is palatable by your standards."
"I got food poisoning from that place; who wouldn't be suspicious after suffering through that?"
John's expression sobers up. "Right, yeah, sorry. Forgot about that for a minute."
"That means you were amused by what you consider my high-maintenance pickiness, instead."
John reaches out for his hand and gives it a squeeze. "No. What I remember about that was how you were about everything on that trip. You were as far from your comfort zone as you could be, but you did your best and didn't complain, and I know it must have been really hard."
Sherlock draws a deep breath. He's uncertain about why they're discussing this; possibly John had just meant his remarks as light conversation, but Sherlock's thoughts have now turned grim and he wants to banish that gloom before it ruins their evening. "The environment was not the hard part. You were," he admits. "You were so withdrawn. Nothing I did seemed to help. Instead, everything I did just made you push me away. In fact, any time there's a problem with your health, it doesn't seem like I'm your first choice for support because you probably assume that I cannot deliver such a thing."
"Of course, you can," John counters, his face twisting in concern. "I'm just… I don't want to inconvenience you even more than being sick or injured derails your life by default. You told me it's always hard on you."
"It derails my life because you're an integral part of it, and when this, we, us doesn't work, it distracts me from everything else. I need to fix it, and if I can't…"
"Sherlock," John says softly, "you're my Sherlock even when I have no patience for anyone else and especially not myself. There's no threat to your position, especially not when I'm under the weather. There's nobody else whose company I'd welcome more than yours at those times."
"I tend to assume there's always a threat to my position. I have to work hard to keep afloat with things you find quite natural to navigate."
"I know you think that," John says with a soft smile, "but it's a lot of pressure that's not even based on anything. I'm not keeping a scorecard of your performance with my bags packed if you don't do everything perfectly."
It sounds so ridiculous when put like that — Sherlock's fear that John will one day come to his senses and find someone who'd be a better partner. It's hard to get past that and trust that it's his John wants, not just anyone who ticks more imaginary boxes than he does.
John grimaces after having a taste of the fresh tomato salad that had somehow appeared beside each of them. "I don't know why, but tomatoes are still the worst."
"I have been told, over and over again, that relationships would be something I shouldn't even try because I'd just be banging my head against the wall. How could that not make me feel as though I'm having to prove people wrong?"
"This marriage has two people in it. Just two. It's nobody else's business how it works, and you sure as hell don't need to prove anything to me. I know how hard it is to drop old thoughts, though. I guess that's what we pay these therapists for."
Sherlock appreciates that John doesn't try to dismiss his claims and worries. Instead, after the conversations they've had lately, John just expresses supportive acknowledgment of what Sherlock tells him he finds difficult before applying patient logic to counter his arguments. Before, John always made light of things and that just made Sherlock feel even more a failure.
Their entrees arrive. Sherlock's sea bass fillets on a bed of fennel are cooked just right, and light enough that it'll leave him some margin for dessert. John appears to be enjoying his seafood pappardelle as well.
The more serious conversation seems to have stalled, and Sherlock suspects John would probably like to discuss something more light-hearted while they eat. But… he can't quite shake the memories that are stirring of the first days after John's tonsillectomy. He feels tremendously guilty and undeserving of John's praise, but John doesn't have all the information, does he? His opinion of how Sherlock had coped during that weekend is based on limited data.
He swallows. "It was… difficult, when you suddenly needed surgery. It wasn't enough that our plans were changed by your illness; I had not anticipated at all there might be a need for operative treatment."
"That makes two of us. I wasn't keen on the news, but at least it all happened quickly, and I didn't have time to stress about it."
"I did," Sherlock insists. "And it changed all our plans, and I didn't have time to do the research to verify Collings' plan and in fact, I…”
Suddenly, though he knows it will probably destroy what remains of their holiday, he's terribly tempted to tell John about Wiggins and his illicit purchase. What benefit would there be in full disclosure?
Then again, what benefit has there ever been in secrets?
“I needed––" He puts his fork down, twists his fingers into the linen napkin on his knees.
He wants John to know. He needs John to understand, because he's begun to believe that John wants to understand him, truly does. "It appears that some of my needs have… changed after we began our relationship. If I cannot have my John fix to cope with a crisis, I can be tempted to turn to my vices. When you were in hospital, I had to smoke so that I wouldn't do other things. One doesn't need some grand adverse event to start using again, John, all it takes is a momentary lapse in judgement. And how easily that can happen is frightening."
John puts his cutlery down on his plate, too. "What are you telling me? That you bought some cigs when I was in hospital? I know, remember? You may be a genius, but getting the smell out of a woollen coat is something that's beyond even your powers."
Sherlock stares at the fishbones on his plate. "Not… just cigarettes. But I didn't do it, John, I bought some, but I didn'tuse, just… exposed myself to the idea." He forces himself to meet John's gaze.
John's brows hitch up. "That bloke on the street. The one who really didn't look like any drug rep I've ever seen. Sherlock, you didn't…?"
"I just told you, I didn't use. But I got so angry at you for suspecting I did because I felt guilty."
"You felt guilty for… not using?" John is now confused. "But you said you bought some? Some of what?"
No turning back now. Genie's out of the bottle and wants his pound of flesh. "Cocaine and crystal."
John closes his eyes for a moment, exhales. "You need to give me a moment."
A moment for what? It's not a lot of information to digest. Why does John need to take a moment? Is he trying to calm himself down so that he won't make a scene?
Panic is gripping Sherlock too hard for him to regret what he's just told his husband. Is John going to walk out? He's startled when John speaks again and nearly knocks the fork off the edge of his plate.
"What did you do with the stuff, then? It's not still in the flat, is it?" John takes a large swig of his red wine, looking like he can't quite decide yet how cross he should be.
Sherlock wonders if the flush on his cheeks is caused by the wine, or his rising fury. "I got rid of it, all of it. It was just… I did it because I assumed that I could resist the temptation. And I did," he insists.
John may not match his intelligence, but Sherlock suspects there is no explanation he could give to buying class A drugs that John would consider acceptable. There is no logic that Sherlock could offer that John couldn't counter very easily.
And that's exactly what John does next. "That's a hell of a way to prove a point you think you already knew," he says, eyes fixed on Sherlock who wants to slip under the table to escape the scrutiny.
"I didn't take any of your oxys, either," he offers.
"I know," John says. He sounds… not angry, Sherlock thinks. Exasperated? Confused? Frustrated?
John picks up his fork again, shaking his head. "How long has it been since you used, really?"
"It was long before we met."
"I know we've never talked about that stuff, and maybe I should have paid more attention to it. I've pushed it out of my mind because it's not been a part of our lives and I decided I should be able to trust you. We've been through–– you'vebeen through hard patches before, worse than we had lately, right?"
"Affirmative."
"And you didn't use during those periods, correct?"
"I didn't, no."
"How tempted were you?"
"For some reason, less than this time. Well, it's anyone's guess how tempted I'd have really been after Afghanistan, but there was the halo so the logistics would have been challenging. Perhaps it's reassuring that the practical challenges were enough of a deterrent then." Anything compromising his balance even more would have created a twofold threat to his career: active substance abuse and tetraplegia after a fall that would have dislodged his vertebra fracture would have made sure he'd never pick up a scalpel again. There was also that fact that he'd been so focused on John's recovery. Disappointing John even more than he thought he was already would have been unacceptable. In comparison, this time his need to use had been borne out of that sense of failure, and perhaps that's why it was different. Maybe that's why he'd been more tempted.
John is wondering about the timing, too: "Do you know why?" he asks.
"Pichler thinks some emotional things I had not dealt with before were coming to roost, triggered by your medical emergency."
"She knows about the drugs?" The last word is a whisper, complete with a glance around them.
"We've discussed it at length, yes."
"And she's not worried?"
"Of course, she was worried. But she is satisfied with my progress and my self-control. As am I," Sherlock adds.
"I don't need to tell you what the potential consequences to your career would have been, do I?"
"Hardly," Sherlock scoffs. "I had a trial run of those after Andreason died." Mycroft had helped him when he'd relapsed. He'd known he'd have to choose between the coke and his surgical career, and just like with Victor, he'd chosen the future.
It feels odd to be able to discuss all this with John, now. Odd not to feel embarrassed or afraid that something he said would crumble the foundations of their relationship. That who he is means that foundation could never be solid. He knows better now. Trusts it. Trusts John and himself. "What I thought of even more than medicine were the consequences to us. The way you'd look at me if I failed like that."
"Maybe failure isn't the right word."
Sherlock frowns just as the server comes to pick up their plates. "Ti è piaciuto il cibo, signore?"
"Eccellente. Posso vedere la carta dei dolci?" He doesn't quite feel the pull of dessert anymore, but asking for the pudding menu should be a good way to get the staff to leave them alone for a while.
"Certo, signore."
John's expression is hard to decipher. Impatient, perhaps, for the server to leave? "Pichler doesn't think you need… I don't know, to go to AA meetings or something, then?"
"My abstinence has never been dependent on sitting in a circle with a bunch of average idiots wailing about our terrible childhoods. And my sobriety is intact, John."
"You're… alright now, aren't you? You're working through that stuff that made you want to use? I didn't know if you wanted to talk about that at home, so I haven't asked about it a lot. You didn't end up starting any meds, so I thought things must've been getting better."
"Yes, I am working on those things with her, and I assure you she has treated the incident with the gravitas it deserves. I'll admit that the worrying part was how suddenly the temptation arose and how I did not anticipate such things could bring it on."
"Am I right that the problem wasn't just my surgery, though?" John asks carefully. "You seemed to be… I don't know… a bit down even before. I thought the weekend away would cheer you up, but that went tits up."
Sherlock bites his lip and receives his menu card from the passing waiter. John waves off the offer and orders an espresso.
"No need to dredge up any of those things, now. I promise you it is nothing current. Just… old things," Sherlock says and sighs.
He wonders if he should give John a roundabout explanation — to mention their relationship problems after Afghanistan and decides against it. John has owned up to and apologised, sincerely, for what happened after Afghanistan. John had gone to therapy to confront his PTSD and his more destructive coping mechanisms. There is no need to drag him through the mud again. He's demonstrated he wants to do right by Sherlock, and Sherlock wants to repay him in kind by not punishing him further. No, what he's processing with Pichler regarding those days is connected to his thinking and hisdestructive coping mechanisms and lack of confidence, and John shouldn't be expected to fix those as penance.
"I didn't expect it to be so difficult to settle into a quieter routine now that the new research unit is up and running. Transitions are hard for me from something that motivates me to routine everyday life. Pichler thinks the stresses of having to deal with interpersonal things at work in the past year exhausted me, but that exhaustion had no outlet until things calmed down."
This seems to satisfy John. "Makes sense, I guess. You'll tell me if there's something I need to know? Keep me in the loop?"
"I promise," Sherlock says, fingering his wedding band and resting his hand, fingers splayed, on the table to emphasise the point. "I have made promises I intend to keep."
"About the drugs… the end result has to count, eh?" John suggests, "There's no thought police when it comes to these things, love. If you didn't use even though you were tempted, then I'm happy and proud of you."
"I'm disappointed that so little would lead to such a temptation."
"Has it happened often?"
"No."
"Then it's just a fluke. A random event. Like you said, your sobriety is intact even though you've gone through a lot in the past few years."
"It's still a reminder of how flimsy things really are. I can assure you I am still more spooked, in some ways, by what happened than you are right now. I wasn't when it happened, because I managed to rationalise it to myself. Talking to Pichler has made me look at it more objectively."
"Aren't you being a bit too hard on yourself?" John asks.
"Aren't you being a bit too lenient?" Sherlock counters. He downs the last of his glass of wine, an unimpressive, mineral-heavy local white from Inzolia grapes.
"You don't need my forgiveness for something that didn't happen. But maybe you need your own. You set such astonishing standards for yourself, and that includes stuff about our relationship."
"I only want to do for you what you do for me. That's not too high a bar, is it?"
"Neither of us is very nice company when we're sick. Not a good time for the other one to need them. I get cranky and don't feel like being intimate on any level when I'm sick, but it's not your fault."
"It's just very difficult to endure."
John wipes his mouth with his napkin and regards him fondly. "I know." He breathes out, leans back in his chair. "It would be unrealistic, I think, to expect that being sober means never being tempted. I know we don't talk about it, but I do know what you used back in the day and you just told me what you bought, and that's a hell of a thing to resist, to keep away from. I still don't think of you that way, as a… I don't know, user, never have."
"Which makes you less prejudiced than most. Or wilfully ignorant."
"We've all done some stupid shit in our twenties, me included. Doesn't have to be drugs to be worth a bit of regret. Just… please don't fear that my opinion of you would change if you come to me for help. It won't. Or, I'll just be more impressed that you know how to manage your addiction. If you ever feel that need again, I want you to feel like you can come to me. I may not have personal experience of what it's like, but I can promise you won't be alone trying to deal with it. Plus, we have Pichler and your family, too."
"That's assuming you'll even care about my problems if something happens to be going on with you." The venomous words appear out of nowhere, and his hand covers his mouth in horror before they've even registered. Sherlock instantly, bitterly regrets them. He hadn't even meant them. Why the hell would he say such a thing? It's not reflective of their relationship, now. It's old soot, trickling down the chimney, residual anger he's worked hard to exorcise with Pichler so that it wouldn't taint their marriage now.
John is staring at him, now. But he doesn't look angry. Instead, he looks utterly confounded. "What… where's this coming from?"
The anxiety Sherlock had thought was mostly banished by all the therapy sessions washes over him, nearly pushing his dinner back up his oesophagus. He hadn't meant for this to happen; hadn't meant to say those things he'd thought when John was holed up in the bedroom after the tonsillectomy and when John had pushed him away after Afghanistan.
"Why wouldn't I care? Sherlock? When have I ever not cared?"
"I don't know how to function without you. And I know how to function even less when you're right there but when we're not… communicating very well. When I don't know what to do to make things better for you. I feel more alone, then, than I did before we met because you're right there, but not really present, and you behave as though I'm the last thing you want to even look at."
Doctor Pichler keeps bringing these things up from the past, but Sherlock's mood has been so improved lately that he's been reluctant to dig deeper into such things during their latest sessions. It's just a sad thought that he might never be able to let fully go of the fear that the rift he'd experienced with John twice, now, may well happen again between them whenever one half of this marriage is ill or injured. The thought stresses him to the extreme. Before John, he thought he could cope with the solitude of being without a partner. Now that he knows what it's like to love someone and to have those feelings returned, he cannot go back to feeling that cutting loneliness he's experienced when he's had to fear losing all that.
John drags his chair closer to the table and slides his palm up Sherlock's forearm, gripping it just below his elbow. The restaurant is quiet; the sun has set, and their corner behind a row of potted plants offers some seclusion.
"Sherlock, listen. It sounds as though those are times when I should be making things easier for you, not the other way around. Maybe you could remind me of this conversation when you feel like that, hm? Just say 'John, Ravello', and I'll know that I need to get over myself so I can remind you that I care about you more than anything. It'll be our Vatican cameos, hm?"
It hadn't occurred to Sherlock there could be a way to communicate such things without him having to know how to voice his feelings precisely. He'll never be much good at that, not even with Doctor Pichler's assistance. As usual, John seems to be doing a lion's share of the work, and that grates on Sherlock, but he tries to keep in mind that John wants to carry the load. Let him help is what Joanna Pichler would say. Let him be your husband.
"I'll always care, hm? You hear me?" John says, giving his arm a firm squeeze. "Even when I've been an arse because I've been so snowed under trying to sort out my own head, I never stopped caring about you. Never have. And I never will. I don't get mad or frustrated at people because I don't care about them; it happens because I do. We've had some ups and downs, but we got through all that because we both love and care so much. I don't want you to think you have to behave yourself or put up some front. If you don't know how to help, chances are I know fuck all better. We'll have to work it out together. Trying to fix a relationship problem alone doesn't work."
Sherlock thinks back to several instances when they've argued and how, afterwards, just being close in bed without even talking had felt like it had repaired many things because John reaching for him physically, even with residual anger still crackling between them, had made him feel less alone and powerless.
John isn't done. "Don't pull away from me when you're having a difficult time, because it just makes it worse when I can't be there for you. It's the worst when you think nobody understands and that you're on your own. I made the mistake of thinking that about you in and after Afghanistan and I was so wrong that it nearly wrecked us. You don't have to keep convincing me that you're worthy of our marriage. You don't have to justify my choice in partner to other people. It's my choice, and it's my job to defend us. Yours, too, but not because you think I need excuses to be with you. Anyone who wonders why we're together can fuck right off. I don't care about anybody's opinion of you except my own and yours, and clearly, yours is much worse than mine. I want to change that. I need to change that, and it sounds like Pichler's in my corner with that?"
Sherlock suddenly finds himself quite tongue-tied. John is looking at him expectantly, thumb sweeping firmly on the skin covering his flexor carpi radialis muscle. John knows not to touch him too gently.
"How about we get you some ice cream, then get back to the hotel and just talk some more?" John suggests.
"And see what happens?" Sherlock suggests tentatively.
"Yeah, sure," John promises. "Just see what happens is actually the best bit of advice for being married to you, really: just keep an open mind and see what surprises wait around the corner."
Sherlock is not entirely certain he even wants sex or that John will be in a mindset to have it after some more potentially emotionally laden conversation. What Sherlock wants more right now than to be aroused is the feeling after sex, all blissed out and lying mostly on top of his husband. Falling asleep to the sound of John's lungs taking in air, of his heart beating, his arms around Sherlock. That is when he feels more present and loved than ever. John is his heart, his life, his one and only thought in those moments, and it is a feat no one else has achieved: to anchor Sherlock so into the present that his mind quiets down to appreciate what it has right there, right then.
_________________
The following weeks back home are a flurry of John trying to catch up with all the paperwork he's missed during their holiday. Sherlock and his fellow neurosurgeons get snowed under with work since there is a massive surgical conference being organised in town. Many of their King's colleagues are in the organising committee and thus out of patient work duty. His days stretch even longer than usual, and the frantic pace continues well after the conference.
On a Friday three months after John's surgery, Sherlock realises he can't ask John to wait another God-knows-how-many-hours until he gets out of a long-winded posterior fossa operation. Edgar promises to procure transport home when he needs it. Burdening the young man causes little guilt since he gets paid for it. Sherlock's need for his services has diminished somewhat now that the new research unit is running fully, allowing Edgar to take on another client. It's another surgeon from King's, one higher up in administration, who had been looking for help to manage a busy life for some time before he'd heard of Sherlock's solution.
He knows to expect that John might have ordered in dinner or rustled something up from what remains of their prior week's Ocado order. He's too tired and stressed to feel active hunger but knows that once he starts forking things in, his body will remember what it needs. He can misplace his appetite easily and completely when anxious or depressed, but tonight he's simply exhausted from his normal work, albeit too much of it, nothing worse.
When he opens the door to their flat, he's surprised to find the lighting dimmed down and a candle on the table. John is just taking a casserole out of the oven when Sherlock walks in. It smells divine and a sneaky peek while he divests of his coat and scarf reveals a perfectly browned, saucy top that looks a lot like Angelo's lasagne. It's not Sherlock's favourite, but barring things with ingredients the texture of which he can't abide, he'll eat nearly anything cooked by the staff there. As decided in Italy, they have tried to pay more attention to what they eat, but on weekends treats and indulges feel very deserved.
There's a glass of red wine on the table for John, a full glass of water for Sherlock since he rarely drinks alcohol at home, but an empty wine glass just in case he changes his mind. Red wine tends to give him a flush and a headache — he's sensitive to the histamine-triggering substances in it. He will probably pass for tonight, but he’s touched by the gesture of the choice.
John greets him with a bone-crushing hug, even offers the chair to him. Sherlock protests that he's not quite wrecked enough to need such service, but John silences his protest with a determined shake of his head and a peck on the cheek. They discuss their respective work weeks over the meal, and even Sherlock can tell John is making an effort to focus on him. It means he shouldn't bring his tablet or his phone to the dinner table; if he does that when John wants his attention, John will get annoyed. It's just one of the rules Sherlock has deduced and memorised through the years.
"Maybe we could go to Sandhurst in the summer?" John says à propos of nothing. "The museum is open to the public then, and we can have a walk around the barracks even if we can't get in everywhere. I'm sure there's plenty of other things in the area to see."
"Why go there in particular? It's not going to be the same as the reunion."
John shrugs. "I guess I wanted you to see the place. Though I won't get to parade you around as my arm candy––"
Sherlock gives him a sardonic glance.
"––I'd still love to visit with you."
"Why? Why me? I have no ties to that place or your service career."
John licks bechamel sauce off his lips. "There's something you said which I keep thinking of. Well, several things. You didn't seem convinced that I really wanted to take you there, that you assumed I had other reasons for feeling like I should."
Sherlock hums noncommittally. He's tired and not in the mood for emotional conversation. Mostly, he would just like to face plant into bed, perhaps replay that oligodendroglioma removal from yesterday in his head because the complex operation had gone so well and he wants to file the details away for future reference in his memory.
"The reason I never took out that uniform, didn't attend other reunions or even think much about the place after Afghanistan is that I… I guess I was embarrassed. I know that it wasn't my fault that I got shot and there's nothing embarrassing about it, but you know how they look at colleagues at work who have to leave their positions for whatever reason? The sort of pity and I'm-glad-it-wasn't me?"
"Of course. There's stigma associated with being in healthcare and needing healthcare."
"Exactly. So, maybe I wanted to show up at Bastion looking like I had a life, that getting invalided out didn't leave me just sitting around alone."
"How is that in any way connected to me? You've said that my career gives you an inferiority complex, and that's why you wanted that final deployment in the first place."
John looks a bit taken aback — has Sherlock been too honest? His features then soften.
"Sherlock, you are my life now. I’m proud as hell of that. And I wanted you to come with me because I felt nervous going alone. Bringing you along would have given me new things to think about: showing you around the place, seeing it as a couple, revisiting memories that I’ve purposely ignored after Afghanistan. I kept thinking of us in Bastion; how different and how absolute shite it would have been without you. I was a mess, Sherlock, and you kept me up when I was just a bag of bones, not knowing what to do with myself. You've only seen that part of my life when it went to hell — I wanted you to see more of the nice sides of it. I wanted you to have a nice time, too. You were my distraction."
Sherlock can't help the smile creeping up. "I'm sure I would have said the same, watching you in your old element, so to speak."
"Speaking of," John says and springs to his feet, "I've got a surprise."
"I don't like surprises." Sherlock needs to analyse and plan ahead how he should react to gifts. Surprises eliminate all his chances of finding a socially acceptable manner in which to behave.
"Don't worry," John says and disappears into the bedroom. "I think you can cope with this one."
There's rustling and the sound of the wardrobe opening. Sherlock listens carefully, and his ears pick up clinks of metal and the scuffle of John changing his shoes.
Soon, he emerges from the bedroom — in his full RAMC officer's mess gear. His expression is odd: proud, yet expectant. Slightly nervous, yet mischievous.
Sherlock's cheeks go a bit warm, though it cannot possibly have anything to do with the sight of John wearing–– that.
"Thought I'd show it to you before I packed it away."
It's a strange explanation, since it lives in the back of the wardrobe and thus is not very troublesome to pull out. Why is John making excuses about why he's put it on?
John adjusts the belt a bit. "I thought I might even go so far as to serve you dessert in it." He's grinning.
"Dessert? What dessert?" Sherlock glances around the kitchen and sees no dishes or containers on the tables. The rest of the Angelo's order must be still in the fridge. Is it tiramisu? John knows he loves that.
"Not food," John says deadpan, his gaze roving up and down the sight of Sherlock standing stock still by the table.
Oh. Oh. "You mean––"
"Yes," John confirms.
"But what about the uniform?"
"Worth the extra dry-cleaning bill, if there is one."
Sherlock isn't sure at all about that. It feels sacrilegious, somehow, to contemplate such a thing as risking getting–– on–––
"Put the fork down, love, unless you want seconds. No need to stop staring, though. It's kind of flattering."
"I'm not––" Sherlock starts, then finds himself being pulled to his feet and pinned against the table as palms slide up his back. John leans in to kiss him, ending the long, lingering snog with a gentle nip of Sherlock's lower lip between his teeth.
"Bed, private," John whispers, and now Sherlock goes entirely crimson on the cheeks.
He pushes John slightly back with a palm on his chest. "I don't want roleplay," he protests indignantly.
John bursts out laughing. "Maybe not," he says, "it would feel a bit weird, to be honest, but if you ever wanted to try that…"
Sherlock gives him a glare. "Change the subject. Now."
"Less talk, more of what we just did, I hope?"
Sherlock's fingers pinch a crimson lapel, by which he starts pulling John towards the bedroom. "Excellent plan." He almost says Captain, but in the light of his protests just now, he doesn't want to contradict himself. "I'm not calling you Captain," he announces for good measure once they're in the bedroom and starts unbuttoning his shirt after shrugging off his jacket.
John makes no move of removing any part of his uniform. "Suit yourself," John says with a wink.
John never winks. What's got into him? He's wearing the uniform as though he's a good few inches taller, and he's walking around like he's in charge. It seems preposterous that just a set of clothing would transform him into something else, into something not quite the same but slightly similar to his work persona of Director of Operative Services.
Is this–– this has to be––
Captain Watson, Sherlock thinks. How had he not realised he's never been in bed with the man like this? He knows John is a great many things, but he never quite expected such an exquisite and distinct, yet subtle transformation.
"Any requests?" John asks, going for Sherlock's belt while he's unbuttoning his shirt.
Requests and not orders? Sherlock wonders. He doesn't quite know how to respond to this new, strange, intriguing version of his husband. "I trust your imagination."
John shifts closer so that his knees bracket Sherlock's, and they tumble onto the bed, John sliding his fingers into Sherlock's curls and trailing a line of kisses up his jaw and past his mouth towards his ear. Shifting towards the foot of the bed, John lands back on his feet, leaning over Sherlock to tug his pants and trousers down to his knees. He looks determined in a way that borders on dangerous, and Sherlock's already interested cock decides to match its determination by filling up to its full thickness, insistently demanding attention.
And John gives it just that. Planting his palms on both sides of Sherlock's hips, he lets the shaft sink past his lips into the warm slickness of his mouth, his palate caressing the sensitive tip.
Sherlock gasps, squeezing his eyes shut from the sudden, overwhelming feeling. It takes a moment before he can form words. "What–– what about your–– isn't it too early for–– Oh god."
Should they have asked Collings when it would be safe for John to do this? Sherlock remembers the advice in that halo vest information leaflet prompting patients to ask their orthopaedist about safe sex practices. He'd done that, but Laura Arthur hadn't been all that forthcoming about explicit practical advice. Perhaps they just put that in the leaflet, assuming nobody would actually raise the topic. Yet another social trap sprung for the likes of Sherlock.
"Let me worry about that," John says smugly, having released Sherlock's now tightly throbbing length. "If testing this out on my fingers didn't hurt…"
Sherlock groans and tilts his head back against the pillows, suddenly assaulted by the oddly, obscenely arousing mental image of John waiting for him to come home, thinking about doing this to him. Preparing for it.
John completes the circuit between his imagination and his body by enveloping his glans, pushing the foreskin down with his circled fingers and suckling at the tip with his lips and his tongue. The effect is nearly intolerably intense, and Sherlock only barely keeps his thighs from reflexively jerking together. After the initial assault, John slows the proceedings down, pulling away and wrapping his fingers around the base of Sherlock's cock and delivering slow, meticulous licks up the glans. Once he has Sherlock right where he must have decided he wants him, John envelops the tip with his lips again, grabbing Sherlock's wrist as he reflexively tries to shove John away as the sudden, intense pressure building at the base of his stomach almost short-circuits his frantically firing nerves.
"Not yet," he manages to groan, and John eases the intensity of whatever sucking and sliding–– thing he's doing. When he adds the tip of his thumb into the proceedings, pushing it right in that spot in the perineum where it teases the prostate from the outside, Sherlock almost scrambles up and away. It's John's warm, firm palm on his knee that stops him, and the pressure behind his bollocks eases.
Sherlock manages to catch his breath before he hyperventilates. Wouldn't do to faint on Captain Watson like some dainty maiden, now would it? To prove that he's not entirely at John's mercy, he rakes the air with his fingers until they meet coarse blond hair. He grabs a handful and tugs John's head towards his cock.
John hums in confirmation and gets back to work. When Sherlock comes with a shout, John’s uniform manages to remain stainless thanks to a pillow grabbed at a strategic moment and shoved at his husband's cock. John then drops onto his back on the bed next to him. Too blissed out to change position, Sherlock gives him what he hopes is a dedicated and spirited handjob, and the same pillow gets to ensure that the uniform survives this second assault mostly pristine. There's no telling how it will look after the next round, though.
— The End —