Chapter Text
It did occur to him. That his brother was right. The nagging feeling arose as Sherlock surfaced into wakefulness. The room was dark; he was drenched in sweat. Not feverish. Anxious. Anxiety, an old friend, another arch-enemy perhaps, one which only visited him in the afterglow of a relapse. And this was a relapse, was it not? He shifted uncomfortably under the bedclothes, peeled the shirt off, and raked his fingers through his damp hair. His mouth felt unbearably sticky; the residue of the cigarette was bitter but fresh on his tongue, driving him mad. Mycroft was right; he was an addict. Of course he realized this, realized it three days prior in fact when his doctor first pressed that perfect mouth between his scapulae. The spot on his upper spine tingled; retrograde nostalgia. He gingerly swung his legs round and stood up. He felt drunk; heavy and stiff. His body was screaming for attention; he was terribly hungry and thirsty, and definitely in need of a bath. Blinking the gauze of sleep from his eyes he dragged his feet out of the room and lumbered, zombie-like, into the kitchen.
The lights were on. They hurt his eyes. As he clicked on the kettle and stuffed a scone into his mouth it took less than a second to realize that John wasn’t home. It was the position of the chairs, not to mention the ominous quiet in the flat. On the nights that Sherlock did sleep, he was roused by the gentle hiss of the kettle, the murmur of the telly (Channel 4, always), and John’s little noises of amusement regarding whatever he was blogging about or watching. These things were the essence of his doctor; the smell of tea, sometimes coffee, and always toast. The uneven gait. The occasional stray blond hair which would find its way onto the bathroom mirror or the collar of John’s shirt. They were little parabolas spun from gold, strewn all over the flat. He always spotted them.
None of these niceties were present now. The lighting in the kitchen was too harsh and fluorescent compared to the dull mist swirling outside. The kettle bubbled and hissed, and it even sounded sinister; mechanical. Reminded him of life before John. Life before sex. What was before his doctor; before the warmth of those lips and hands? Withdrawal, mostly. Lots of shaking; agitation. Cold sweat. Nauseating awareness of the flesh. And before that, needles; lots of needles. Sometimes crystalline powder. Teeth bloodied as he rubbed the stuff into his gums. The tickle at the back of his throat. Relentless anxiety; the good kind of anxiety – adrenaline, the euphoric swell of the brain as the mind’s eye expanded exponentially.
The cigarette smell was amplified in the sitting room. It clung to the sofa, the drapes, his tongue. He poured a cup of tea, gulped it down even though it was too hot. Mouth on fire. Body still heavy. Brain sluggish; half-asleep, couldn’t really figure where John had gone – narrowed it down to either Tesco or Sainsbury’s – they still needed biscuits – could usually figure out where John was with 99% accuracy. Not now. Not today. Still thirsty. Drank a glass of water. Still sweaty and sticky all over. Peeled off nicotine patches. Went for a shower. Crushing frustration quickly turned to anger. Mycroft had been right. How can you deny your nature?
He thought of John. Of course he thought of John. The shower was overhot as usual, small room filling with puffs of wet vapor, triggering the memory of the first time he’d been touched only three nights ago. Three nights ago. It seemed like an eternity. Another strange side effect of this new drug. Sherlock was usually meticulous when it came to dates and times – and yet now he couldn’t even remember what day it was. He knew it couldn’t be Saturday because Lestrade and company hadn’t intercepted the dead cat. He also knew it couldn’t be Friday because John went to work on Fridays and John wasn’t at work because his leather oxfords were propped up behind the front door. So it was Thursday. Thursday. He said the word a few times, gagged on it; it spilled from his mouth like bile. The nuances of language had always eluded him; sometimes words put a weird taste in his mouth. A bad taste in his mouth. Not John. He said the doctor’s name a few times, liked the way it forced his jaw open with his lips slightly puckered. It didn’t put a weird taste in his mouth. He liked the way John tasted; soapy, sweet, salty. Wanted to taste him again. At the core of your being you are, and always will be, an addict.
This new drug. John. What was it about John? He pondered this as he stood naked in front of the sink, violently brushing his teeth, scrubbing the tar out of his mouth. The mouth. John’s mouth. Not only the mouth. The resolve; the genuine tenderness. Where did it arise from? It was loathsome to admit, but he sometimes found John hard to read. He already knew why this was – it was because John’s gestures were rooted in pain. Steeped in it actually. They had never talked about the war; not really. Nor about the injury. The scar was beautiful in its disfigurement; much larger than Sherlock had anticipated. How peculiar to remember that the scar was the ghost of John’s brush with death, to remember that John had experienced death firsthand; knew death intimately like an old friend. Sherlock liked to believe that he also shared this relationship with death, after all, he prodded and poked the dead all the time, often got covered in viscera and blood; came home bathed in the stench of it. Well yes, but that wasn’t anything like John's experience. John had lived it, waded knee-deep in it. Sherlock prodded the dead on a cold slab in the mortuary which was quiet and pristine; sterile. This was not how John had encountered death. Death had gripped him round the gullet and rattled him so much that he’d even confessed to praying. Please, God, let me live. Sherlock didn’t think he could ever be reduced to prayer. He fancied himself immoveable, like John, except John was not immoveable. The draft of death had moved him.
And yesterday, as John extended the bag to Mycroft, as he led Sherlock to bed – these actions were but vestiges of the battlefield. John had taken the fall for him. The proverbial bullet. Mycroft could have them followed. Probably had the flat bugged. This didn’t frighten Sherlock but it did nothing to quell the impending panic which would surely grip him if John didn’t come home soon. He rinsed his mouth, splashed some water on his face, wandered around the flat naked for seven minutes. Things were still hurting. His brain still wasn’t working. A strange electricity was tickling his sinuses. He knew where the cigarettes were. The low tar Silk Cuts. If he smoked one, and he really did want to smoke one, it would only aggravate his craving further. Danger night. He hunted for them. Vaguely remembered that he was naked and threw on some clothes – nice clothes, not pyjamas – should he put on a nicotine patch? The fever was gripping him now. The chest was caving in. He checked on the yeast samples – there was an interesting reaction but he actually didn’t care. Danger night? Danger night! He flung himself down onto the sofa, gripped fistfuls of his hair. John or a smoke. John or a smoke. Brain full of static and noise, hands shaking – withdrawal. Mycroft was right.
“Stop this,” he said. “Stop this right now.”
Swallowed hard. Checked the time. Half four. Half four? Then why on earth was it so dark? Noise on the stairs. Kitten heels. Mrs. Hudson.
“Sherlock,” she called. Her voice was a welcome distraction. A moment later the door swung open. “What’s that smell? Have you been bloody smoking in here?”
Sherlock remained sprawled on the couch and lazily turned to look at her. She was wearing a new jacket, a deep purple pea coat dappled with flecks of rain. It looked nice.
“No.”
“Oh, Sherlock.” Her voice dropped into the dreaded lower register of concern. “Are you –”
“No, Mrs. Hudson,” he snapped and quickly added “please don’t go sniffing about, I can assure you there is nothing of interest to be found.”
He observed that she was blatantly staring at the crumpled brown bag which was still sitting on the coffee table.
“If you insist,” he shrugged, picking up the bag and extending it in her direction.
“Oh, my. Prophylactics! ”
Sherlock yawned, predicting her speedy exit. “It’s for an experiment.”
“Of course it is, dearie.” She dropped the bag on the coffee table and shuffled back over to the door, flashing a crinkled smile. “How did you like the scones?”
“They were lovely.”
“Well all right then. Best be off…and do stop smoking inside, will you?”
“Mhmm.”
He listened idly as her soft steps echoed down the stairs, resolving to tether himself to the sofa until John returned. Waited an hour; perfectly catatonic. Only got up once to put on a nicotine patch. It didn’t really help, though. The flat darkened considerably, the air still and cool, smelling of static and rain. Twenty minutes later he heard the familiar, beautiful sound of John’s steps pattering up the stairs.
“Where were you?” he asked the moment before the door swung open. Once again his doctor was covered in rain, a trio of plastic bags clasped in his hand. Two from Tesco and one takeaway. He’d clearly been caught in the bad weather and just come out of the tube. Sherlock watched as he kicked off his shoes and windbreaker.
“Miserable out there. Sleep well?”
“Not particularly.”
“I’m sorry to hear.”
“Are you?”
No answer. No matter; question had been rhetorical.
Sherlock rolled off the couch and lazily walked across the room. He sniffed the air intently: peanut, cilantro, hint of chili powder.
“Noodles.”
John propped the takeaway bag on the dining table. “Thought you’d be hungry.”
He was hungry. He was actually starving. Watching John bustle about the kitchen now, and being in such domestic proximity to the man after the whirlwind of events prior, was more than a little unnerving. Another moment later there was a bowl of noodles in his hand, heavy and warm. Sweet smell. John had even remembered to give him chopsticks (he preferred chopsticks because they required dexterity and coordination, a bit more higher processing).
“Are you sure you’re all right, Sherlock?”
The voice was firm; not demanding, but definitely concerned. Sherlock abruptly stopped shoving the noodles into his face; had to stop and wonder if they tasted good; he was eating too quickly and not really tasting anything. Not really chewing either. He was instantly defensive, and stared at John with his cheeks full.
“Why wouldn’t I be all right? I’m eating; obviously I’m all right.”
He perched on the corner of the dining table. John folded his arms.
“You’ve been though a lot; no harm in talking about it. Although I can venture a guess.”
Suddenly he didn’t want to eat any more. Felt anxious. Fluttery. Liked that John was reading him but didn’t like that he liked it. “Go on then.”
“You’re still worried that I won’t have sex with you.”
Wanted to lie. Couldn’t lie. “Yes.”
“There’s something else, isn’t there.”
Sherlock looked into the bowl, stirred the contents idly. How to say it? Heat was pooling in his chest; the ceramic felt like a strange bulbous appendage; had to cup his hand beneath it; fingers were too sweaty and slippery.
“It just worries me.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s true, John. It’s all true.” Hand was shaking now; always the left hand – had to put the bowl down. “Do you see?”
He closed his eyes, it didn’t help. Felt the weird tickle in his sinuses. John was there; right there, didn’t want to crack in front of John but it was happening and his face felt hot and he knew the lacrimal glands were likely swelling. Lacrimal. Lachrymose. What an ugly word; almost choked on it without saying it. He started to back away, remembered the table was right behind him, covered his eyes. John was there; right there, pushed against him, and he could feel an immense heat radiating from the flannel.
“Sherlock.” John coaxed the hands away. “Hey. It’s all right; I said I would take care of you. Look at me.”
“Look at me, John. Look at this!” He was shaking even more now, even starting to sweat. “He was right.”
“What, Mycroft? Oh, you don’t seriously –”
“Can’t you see? I’m an addict.”
There it was. Said. Done. He smiled (it was more of a grimace) and pushed the heels of his palms into his eye sockets lest they start oozing; what a mess this all was. Danger night. Danger night. The hiss before the pop. Now that he’d said it he wished he could take it back, pluck the words from the air, swallow them down again, exhale them like smoke, forget everything. He felt the dull ache crawling into his chest, caving it in. Treacherous body. Loathsome body. John steadied him.
“Sherlock. Listen to me. I know you. And I knew what I was getting myself into.”
Sherlock lowered his arms; glared at John, made no attempt to hide the eyes this time. “Oh, did you?”
“I’ve known for ages that you fancy me. I know it drives you mad. You weren’t exactly discreet about it…”
“So you threw me a bone and watched me dance.” Sherlock studied the small stretch of floorspace between them. John’s hand was on his face, brushing the water away.
“No. I didn’t say that. That’s not what it was. That’s not what it is now.”
“What is it now?”
“I don’t know. It’s all a bit weird, isn’t it? But I like it, and I like not knowing.”
“Well I don’t.”
“Sherlock.”
“Why do you keep doing it?”
“Because I want to. Because you need it. And, well, maybe I like you a bit more than I should.”
Sherlock felt his cheeks tingle at this, and he scoffed. “Oh, don’t do that. Don’t do that thing. With the caring.”
John leaned in and mumbled against Sherlock’s throat. “You know I do. I’m protective of you. I can’t help it; I’m a doctor.”
“And you find me attractive.” Not a question or a statement.
“You’ve no idea how gorgeous you are. Especially when you come.”
Sherlock felt his entire body starting to stiffen; the heat was filling him up, flooding him, he leaned back, pressed his palms flat behind him on the table. Something fell off, fell to bits; didn’t matter.
“I want it, John…and I hate that I want it.”
“I know.” John kissed him softly on the lips. It was warm and nice, but all wrong. He was beyond frustration now. Shaking. Desperate. “You don’t understand.”
A strange smugness seemed to darken John’s features.
“Don’t underestimate me.”
The doctor tipped Sherlock’s chin down and pulled their faces close together, breathing hotly against his parted lips before sealing them together. Sherlock nearly fell off the table, but John had him anchored, and he instinctively opened his legs and let John nestle comfortably between them. His hand stopped shaking immediately.
“John,” he breathed. He needed it. Now. John was a step ahead of him, grinding into him and slowly trailing his tongue along the tendon of the neck, kissing the slope of the trapezius, pushing his tongue into the hollow of the throat. Sherlock moaned John’s name again; it was all he could say, all he could think. Please, he said. God, he was so hard. So ready.
John’s hand was already through the zip of Sherlock’s trousers. “What do you need?”
Sherlock squirmed against the hand, hot and smooth, dripping all over it. He tried to cover his eyes but John swatted his hands away. “What do you need, Sherlock?”
Brain was on fire. Information overload, great rush of heat; he trembled and shook his head. His mouth felt slack, tongue too thick, how on earth was he supposed to express the noise between his ears?
“John,” he panted. So close already. “I can’t. I’m going to—”
“Mmm, not like this you’re not. Stand up for a second.” Sherlock slid off the table, landing on the balls of his feet, clinging to John’s shoulders. The next thing he knew, his trousers and pants were down around his ankles and John was on his knees.
“Oh,” Sherlock said. “Oh, god.”
“Take these off,” John mumbled, giving Sherlock’s prick a languid lick on the head with the tip of his tongue. Sherlock kicked off his trousers and pants and leaned against the table as John settled between his thighs and easily swallowed him from root to tip. Sherlock clapped a hand over his mouth and bit down on his fingers; moaning loudly in spite of himself; and actually a bit embarrassed at how high his voice sounded. But the tight, wet heat around his cock was absolutely insane, and John was insane, suctioning his lips just so around the head, poking his tongue into the slit, surfacing only to kiss and lick. Sherlock looked down and couldn’t believe he was looking at his own body; John was so incredibly graceful from this angle, cerulean eyes watching him all the while, cheeks reddened from the effort of sucking – it was almost picturesque – and it was too much; of course he was going to lose it, and he started to push back a little, but John read him. He could always trust John to read him. Sherlock panted and fell against the table as the doctor pulled away.
“Don’t stop – I’m so close, I can’t — oh, god.”
“Do you want to fuck my mouth?”
Sherlock vigorously shook his head no. John laughed and leaned further back, hovering his mouth mere centimeters above the tip of Sherlock’s erection. He then licked his lips again and stuck out his tongue; let a string of saliva swing torturously slowly before it landed on the very tip.
“Oh, god,” Sherlock said again.
“Come and get it.” The mouth opened. The tongue teased. Sherlock inched his hips up, just enough so that the tip of his cock dipped between John’s lips.
“I can’t,” he sighed. “I really can’t.”
John gave an adamant lick. “Let me taste it.”
Sherlock somehow managed to ease off the table and get to his feet. Now that he was standing he was much too tall to aim for John’s mouth, and so he yanked a fistful of those ashen blonde locks, positioning the mouth accordingly. John anchored his hands under Sherlock’s arse, and Sherlock again pushed his cock into that wet heat. John closed his lips. Suction. Sherlock kept one hand anchored in John’s hair while the other hand occupied his mouth. He gnawed on a finger as he thrust up into those waiting lips.
“That’s it,” John said quickly before Sherlock pushed in again. He felt his eyes roll back in his skull, felt his face split into a satisfied grin, because it was here, the apex of the mystical experience, swelling in the lower recesses of his abdomen, and he was gritting his teeth and leaning back against the table, kicking and sighing and John was gracefully sucking down every shot he issued forth, before sitting back again and milking the residual globs straight into his mouth. Sherlock fell to his knees, to the ground, curled his body up tight. John laughed and stroked his hair.
“You really don’t know how beautiful you are, do you?”
“Mmmm,” Sherlock managed to say. He felt around for his pants and lazily pulled them on before falling back onto the ground. His body felt light and vaporous. John was pressed up behind him, arm wrapped round his waist, face buried between the scapulae.
“Been awhile since I’ve done that. Was it any good?” His voice was muffled and throaty. Sherlock squeezed John’s hands in his own.
“Mmhmm,” he mumbled, wiggling contentedly. “So good. You’re so good. You’re perfect. You’ve fixed me.”
“That’s very high praise coming from you. I’ve been told I’m crap at it.”
Sherlock rolled over and kissed John. His lips tasted faintly of salt and caffeine. John grinned, kissed him back. Sherlock clung to him, buried his head in the man’s shirt. Wanted to feel, wanted to smell, wanted to absorb the essence of his doctor. The shirt was soft and worn, and it smelled nice. Tea and scones and toast. John’s hand played in his hair; the touch was soft, perhaps even tender, it sent chills down the back of his neck. He felt safe. Brain wasn’t hurting anymore. Nothing hurt anymore. There was no more confusion, just empty surrender. The gentle resignation to his nature was oddly calming. His phone pinged from somewhere near his feet. He sat up and fished it out of the pocket of his trousers, squinting at the screen.
“What’s it say?”
Ruined. – MH
So the flat was bugged. Sherlock jumped to his feet, glanced around all the usual places (flat had been bugged dozens of times before; knew where to look). Nothing was awry. Studied the phone. It was the phone; there was a tiny gold wire sprouting from the base of it, thin as a hair. Fiber optic recording device. He instantly knew what the text meant. He’d been slow. Hadn’t even noticed; too distracted by thoughts of John. Yes, he’d been slow and he actually didn’t care. He held the thing to his mouth. “Yes, I’m ruined,” he said, ripped out the wire, and threw the phone across the flat as hard as he could. John winced as it shattered against the wall, a mess of glass and circuitry.
John ventured again. “Was it him?”
Sherlock looked down at his hands, his body, the phone, the flat, the skull, the string of shrunken heads draped over the fireplace – he glanced at John, comfortable in his flannel, leaning against the dining table with his arms crossed. He stared at John, saw his answer, saw his comfort – held fast to the tingling sensation all over his body, the lulling of his mind, the quiet mind, the idle mind, he felt light; transparent. Kicked his legs; couldn’t believe he had legs.
“Yes, it was him.”
John put his hands on his hips, furrowed his brow – “Yes, and?”
“I suppose I’ll be needing a new phone.” There was no more reason to think, to analyze – his brother knew, had always known, addict or not, and it didn’t matter anymore. Mind and body spun independently of one another now, uniting only for that one chance moment; the little stab in the everpresent nothingness– and lo, there was his doctor, looking furrowed and pensive, opening the sweet mouth to utter some more little words of concern, but Sherlock did not hear them, his hands found the doctor’s collar, yanked him in for a kiss, crushed their lips together, the hips ground forward; he felt John rise against him, hot and hard, he licked that parted mouth, moaned into it, “Now,” he breathed; he would not wait a second longer, wanted to be filled up, wanted to be wrung dry – he was ready to surrender, ready to resign himself to his nature, to the ruinous body, the treacherous body – “Now?” John asked, blushing in spite of himself, as though abashed, as though unsure. Sherlock pushed against him, trembling against the friction –
“Right now. Right here.”
John winced, pushed back a little – “Well, maybe not here.”
“Come on,” he whined. John snatched the bag from the coffee-table and dragged Sherlock to his own bedroom (likely because it was closer) where he fell onto the bed, on his back, knees bent at perfect 90 degree angles – he had no register of what John was doing; his eyes had fallen shut in sweet anticipation – John was suddenly on top of him – he fumbled with the buttons on the flannel, felt the smooth expanse of John’s back, cupped his hands around the scapulae, rolled his palms in the small layer of fat over them, relished this, relished the solidness of the body, the nowness of everything, everything rising, ripening, unfurling – he watched John undress in awe, and he quickly wriggled out of his clothes, grinding against the sheets, idly prodding John’s bare sternum with the pad of his foot, I’m ready, he said, the mouth said, words pushed back in by John’s tongue, hot and wet and curious, still tasting of salt and musk.
Another string of sounds, mostly vowels, dripped from his mouth as John pushed a slick finger into him, the feeling exquisitely tight and wet – the teeth were bared now, pure frustration – would you bloody get on with it, he hissed, John smiled and slipped another finger in.
“Look at you,” John teased. “What’s the matter with you? You look like you’re in pain.”
He was in pain, the pain of wanting, the pain of needing to be filled up – one of his feet had become curious – it traced the length of John’s torso, nudged under his chin – John grinned and playfully nipped at the big toe – Sherlock snaked it down to the man’s cock, which was fully engorged of course, ripe and flushed and wonderful – gave it a nudge, pushed it up against the belly, issuing forth a clear pearl of pre-ejaculate – as well as a satisfied growl. It took him a minute to realize that John wasn’t teasing him; but stretching him, moving his fingers in a sort of scissoring motion –
“All right?”
He nodded vigorously. It wouldn’t have even mattered if he wasn’t all right. His body wasn’t his anymore and that was fine, it was all fine, John would have it, he would have it all – John kissed his forehead, fingers working – kissed his cock, just a light brushing kiss on the crown but it made him quiver with want, mind wiped, eyes glazed open, mystified because, yes, it was mystical –
John removed his fingers after that – Sherlock arched his back against the mattress, drawing the navel in close to the spine – traced his hands all over his own body – John again playfully asked what he was doing.
He also barely noticed that John was rolling on a condom and slicking it up and lifting his arse up with a hand, teasing the head inside
“Am I hurting you?”
“I’m fine, just do it.”
“Mm, all right, all right. Relax.”
He tried; felt his body involuntarily tense as John pushed in a bit more, bit back the pain – scowled at the layer of wet which was clouding his vision, whimpered against John’s shoulder, bit down on it – hooked his legs round that supple waist, everything was a slick tangle of flesh – he felt his eyes fall shut, John was kissing his eyelids, pushing into him and he was starting to push back and he glanced down and saw that he was hard again and leaking all over his belly because John was hitting him right where he needed it and it was like last time but different because now he was here, in the moment, wrapped up in the nowness, the closeness, the pressure, the pleasure wrapped in pleasure –
It was dizzying; the intimacy, the heat, John breathing heavily, moaning softly – he hadn’t expected his doctor to be so quiet – he opened his legs wider, opened his mouth wider, licked John’s lips, bit John’s lips – it is all right John asked again and he couldn’t answer so he just made a noise, a strange vibration rising from his throat. The words would not come but they didn’t need to; he could trust John to read him; and of course he did, of course he did, because suddenly his cock was cupped in John’s hand and then everything became a litany of surrender all over again and all he could see was white.
John kissed him as he spilled all over his stomach and even a bit on his own chest, hot and gooey; there was much less of it now than half an hour earlier but the feeling was no less momentous and he was trembling all over, curling his toes, smiling and sighing, melting into the sheets in the way that only John could make him melt, but John stopped pushing, wiped the sweat from his brow—
“Come on,” Sherlock panted. “You must be close.”
“I am.” The doctor was grinning, sweaty and flushed. “I just want to drink it all in.”
“Drink what all in?”
“This. You. Everything.”
Sherlock pouted and rolled his hips up, smirking as John’s cock twitched inside him.
“Finish it. Come on. Take what you need. Never mind me.”
Never mind me. Never mind my body; the body. In this moment the body exists for something new: to seek pleasure. To fulfill John’s pleasure. John; his doctor, his protector. Sherlock watched his hands as they settled around John’s neck, tracing circles at the nape, fingers folding into the hair, brushing sweat away from the forehead – he watched those eyes all the while, deep blue; burning and ethereal. John tensed all over, tucking his head into the curve of Sherlock’s neck, taking and taking and taking and moaning, actually saying his name over and over until it became little more than a hiss and a breath, and suddenly they clung to each other. Sherlock bit down on John’s ear simply because it was there and he was there and he could, and he wiggled a bit as John pulsed inside him, dogged and panting, and afterwards they lay in a sweaty heap with lube and semen splashed up obscenely between them, and they remained this way for what seemed like a long time even though it wasn’t, and everything was radiant and strange and confusing, and maybe even a little unsettling, but somehow it was all fine, more than fine. It was perfect.