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Sherlock is muttering darkly to himself by the time the door to their flat slides open. The battle protocol still active in John’s brain automatically scans the flat for any signs of disturbance or invasion. It looks just like it had when they'd left it, a mere six hours ago. Six hours which John had hoped to use for sleeping.
There is a heavy thump from the direction of the kitchen. "It's not the food processor's fault that the criminal elements seem to have gone to ground," John calls out reproachfully.
His armchair is a blessed relief; he's been on his feet the whole day, and for once his shoulder is aching honestly, rather than fobbing the pain off onto his psychosomatic limp. Theoretically, he knows that the replacement bones, tissue, and skin should not feel any different from the rest of him. But he can tell where his original body ends and the new additions begin, down to the line of cells.
"Fuck breathing!"
John rolls his eyes, listens for Sherlock's tantrum tread, and tosses a package at the doorway to the kitchen just as Sherlock steps through it. "Got more nicotine patches while we were out."
He gets a mild glare. Sherlock rips into the package and slips a patch on his forearm. Stomps over to the settee. He collapses into it, his long body somehow fitting with only a slight bending of the knees, despite all evidence that the piece of secondhand furniture is far too short.
"My, but your brain is buzzing busily today," mumbles Sherlock.
John takes it as Sherlock-speak for tell me what you're thinking. "I always expect you to fall off that settee. Or bang your head, at least. It doesn't look long enough for you to lie down unless you're in the fetal position."
"Really, the things you fill your head with." But the bite in Sherlock's tone is blunted, sans the scorn he seems to have for everyone else. Though that could be the nicotine starting to work. "Any conclusions?"
"Psychology. Either I perceive our furniture as being smaller than they are, or I think of you as being bigger. I'm trying not to contemplate what either option says about me." John pauses reflectively. "Or, you have installed a retracting mechanism in the settee that responds only to your bio-signature."
He's surprised by the smile Sherlock gives him. "Not bad, not bad at all." Sherlock bounces back up to his feet. "Let's go get dinner. The Chinese cart is trying out a new type of dumpling today, I could smell it down the street."
John gets up reluctantly, glad to not have taken off his coat. He notes that Sherlock doesn't actually answer the question about the settee.
On the other hand, he knows the decomposition rate of the human body in zero gravity. He can draw, albeit without a shred of artistry, the effects of a micro-asteroid exposure on unprotected skin. John is perfectly fine with some things remaining a mystery.
Rough shaking wakes him up from sleep. John sucks in a deep breath and finds himself already sitting upright, body tense and battle-ready. Priority checks: no injury to body, no restriction of movement, environs consistent with last scan before sleep and also with features marked HOME.
But there is someone in his bedroom. Light is spilling in through the open doorway, enough for John to recognize the somewhat disheveled head of curls. He takes a deep breath and picks up the faint mix of soap-latex-wool.
"Sherlock?" he asks, concerned. A glance to his bedside table reveals the time to be 3:40AM. No one gets woken up at this hour for good news.
"Damn body," says Sherlock, sounding thoroughly vexed. His voice is steady but for a faint hitch at the end. "I need it again, John."
John rubs his hands over his face. He should have expected this, really; Sherlock's last two cases have been duds. The two before, barely challenging.
"Are you sure, Sherlock?"
"Yes, John," the man replies without hesitation, and adds, as if just remembering to, "Please."
"Very well."
John coughs, slides his legs down to the floor. Sherlock steps closer. The man's hands are visibly shaking, and his breathing sounds distinctly uneven. John had made sure, the first few times, that Sherlock could see his eyes. The last time had shown that this is no longer necessary, now. But some form of connection is important.
He reaches out and easily takes Sherlock's hands in his. They are cold, and practically vibrating in his grip. "Sherlock. Listen to me. Listen to my voice." He stands up. "I need you to focus on me. Only me. I want that remarkable, beautiful mind of yours to think of me and me alone." John tightens his hold. "Nothing outside this flat, outside this room, outside of us, matters. Do you understand?"
"Yes, John." Sherlock's breathing is steadying, the twitching calming down.
It's feels almost physical, after all their practice: the shift of Sherlock's attention, focusing and narrowing and centering on John. He waits, gives Sherlock his grip and his voice in the dark of his bedroom, adding the occasional murmur of "focus on me, on me, only me".
Finally, slowly, all that nervous tension bleeds out of Sherlock's body. He's not relaxed, exactly, just back to his not-on-a-case baseline. Sherlock has theorized that John can probably put Sherlock into a kind of catatonic state now; John would rather shoot the both of them point-blank than do something like that.
Sherlock releases John's hands. "You're tired."
"Indeed, I am," John agrees. "So get in the bed, please, and lets have a few hours of uninterrupted sleep."
Sherlock slips off his robe and hangs it, considerately, on an unused hook inside John's wardrobe. He crawls in first, and peels back the blanket for John. John slips in with a sigh, glad that the sheets are still somewhat warm. He curls himself around Sherlock, pressing his nose into the other man's soft pajamas, and goes back to sleep.
There are fried eggs and toast on the table when John wakes up. It used to unnerve him that Sherlock could get out of bed without waking him, but he suspects his battle protocols had categorized Sherlock as ALLY before John even started thinking of him as a friend.
"Did you sleep at all?" John asks, upon spotting Sherlock at the computer. John's computer.
"A few hours," is Sherlock's distracted answer. John butters a slice of toast and then dips a corner into the egg yolk - still runny, just the way he likes it. He notices that there's a cup of tea steeping on the counter. Before he can get up and get it, Sherlock is suddenly in the kitchen, taking the teabag out and adding the exact amount of milk and sugar that John prefers.
The tea is delivered to the table, along with that morning's paper. "Thank you," says John, opening the latter.
Once he's finished his breakfast, Sherlock reminds him, "You have a shift at that surgery today, starting at noon."
"Oh right, I do," says John. "Remind me again closer to the time, please. And here, I'm done with the paper, you may molest it to your heart's content."
He goes to the bathroom and discovers that his tube of toothpaste, which he'd been about to snip the end off in order to get at the last bit that no squeezing could dislodge, has been replaced with a brand new one. He moves a plastic mug, containing a flesh-pink tendril floating in a thick solution, to one side of the sink where it won't get spattered by his brushing.
The table is cleared of dishes when John comes back out. He shuffles over to his armchair and turns on the telly. There's nothing good on, naturally.
"Is your shoulder still bothering you?" asks Sherlock.
"Not anymore," replies John. He adds, "A massage would be lovely, though."
Sherlock's fingers are deft and strong, and know exactly where to push down on John's shoulders and neck. John has a tendency to be stoic in both pain and pleasure, but he moans appreciatively now, throwing in a few, "right there, there, Sherlock, oh my God," for the trickier areas.
He's a senseless lump by the end, sprawled blissfully over his armchair. Sherlock is beaming at him, pleased and possibly a little smug. "Thanks," groans John, "I think I'll stay right here for a few weeks. Or at least until my bones come back."
Half an hour later, though, Sherlock chivvies him to his feet and back up to his room. John changes out of his pajamas with far more ease than he'd gotten into them last night. Sherlock is waiting with his coat and gloves by the door.
The shift goes remarkably smoothly, so John is in an astonishingly good mood when an unexpectedly familiar "Wilkes, Christopher" walks into the examination room.
"You're not actually expecting me to investigate your sinuses, are you?" John asks warily.
Mycroft gives him a bland look and sits down on the chair across John's desk. They stare at each other for several minutes.
"My brother seems to be in a singularly... focused mood of late, Doctor Watson," Mycroft begins. "It is almost as if he's on a case."
"And?" John says, patient.
"Well, I know for a fact that he is not on a case. A casual observation of certain details - the types of food he purchased this morning, for example - suggests that there is a common theme to his activities. Mainly," Mycroft points his umbrella at John, "you."
"I do live with him," John says, "and more than half the stuff I buy is for him, or ends up being used by him. Is it so unusual for him to occasionally return the favor?"
"Hmm," says Mycroft, his tone perfectly communicating that it is.
They enjoy another bout of silence.
Mycroft clears his throat. "Before he fully settled into his present self-appointed occupation, Sherlock had a number of... bad habits, if you will. The legality of which were somewhat dubious. I'm afraid these habits left... scars, on him. From time to time, he still lapses. Or used to, until you came along."
"I'm glad I've been a good influence," John responds mildly.
"You are getting good," Mycroft says with an approving smile. "It seems he hasn't... lapsed... in nearly a year. The last occasion ending, I believe, with a curious collection of implements, related to his habit, thrown out in your trash."
"You want to know how I did it."
"His hiding places are certainly quite ingenious, but it's the repercussions, or lack thereof-"
"I didn't touch them," says John quietly. Mycroft shuts up and blinks, which is Mycroft-face for total surprise. "I didn't even clap eyes on them."
"Ah." Mycroft's eyes narrow. "Even more intriguing. You are, possibly, an even braver man than I imagined." Another stretch of silence; then Mycroft is on his feet again. "You know, in older days, one of the first ship tribes saw addiction as a kind of demon, which possesses a person and drives them to evil acts. The usual treatment was to starve the demon. This, of course, does not work on Sherlock - do you know why?"
John meets those shrewd eyes steadily. "Because his demon is himself."
"Precisely. Without a proper outlet, what is his genius starts feeding on itself. He was using the drugs to placate it, to shield himself; I, unfortunately, did not fully understand this at the beginning."
"I... didn't really, either," John admits. "I just knew it was never about the drugs."
"And yet, you still found a viable alternative. I wonder - was it the doctor who came up with it, or the soldier?" Mycroft smiles. "Thank you for your time, Doctor Watson.
Sherlock is waiting patiently outside the surgery when John comes out. He hands John a paper bag of croissants and a cup of coffee, still hot.
"Cheers," says John. "Oh excellent, you got two. Here, have a croissant, I'm sure you haven't eaten lunch."
It's a lovely day out, so rather than head directly for home, John suggests they take a longer way that cuts through a small, charming park. The park has a children's playground on one end and a duck pond on the other. The ducks look at them inquisitively when they sit down on an empty bench.
"My brother came to see you," Sherlock says. He takes small bites out of his croissant.
"Yes," John admits. "I think he's figuring it out. What we're doing." He glances at Sherlock. "Would it bother you, if he did?"
Sherlock seems to think about it. "No, if it makes him interfere less."
"He's just concerned, Sherlock."
"I'm sure it irks him that somebody found a solution where he couldn't."
"To be fair," John says equably, "I don't think this method will work as well for most other people. Here, finish my coffee."
"Of course it won't," Sherlock scoffs, taking the styrofoam cup. "Just as the medicinal and then therapeutic regimens he'd tried hadn't worked on me."
John decides it's not worth pointing out that it'd been but a half-formed idea, something he hadn't really expected Sherlock to respond to. Mycroft has a point, he thinks, it feels more like a soldier-thing than a doctor-thing.
"Come on," he says, patting Sherlock on the knee, "it's getting dark, and there's a new Doctor Who on tonight."
He gets a text while Sherlock is fetching their dinner from the Indian cart 'round the corner.
I believe you served in the Raksinyan conflict?
- MH
John replies with: Yes?
There is a saying among them that piqued my interest. - MH
Hide your soul in another skin.
John puts down his paperback and is surprised to discover that Sherlock, tucked into bed next to him, has already fallen asleep. He takes the opportunity to stare, because it doesn't come about often.
Sherlock asleep looks much younger than Sherlock awake. There is a certain looseness about him here that softens the angles and edges of his body; conversely, these edges seem sharper when he is awake and coiled with energy, every move deliberate. He's curled towards John, perhaps subconsciously drawn to his warmth.
Life was a lot less complicated before, thinks John. I don't know how I got on, really.
He turns off the light and lets sleep sweep him into colorful dreams of doctoring demons.
He knows when Sherlock starts to slip. There's no one sign or tell; instead, John relies on a new set of instincts he's cultivated via trial and error.
"Where are your thoughts right now, Sherlock?" John asks, his voice quiet but stern.
Sherlock blinks. "The police sirens," he answers reluctantly. "I heard them pass - I was wondering where they were headed."
"I appreciate your honesty." John folds his arms. "Are you ready to go back?"
"No." Sherlock's hands are clenched into fists. "Not yet."
John nods. He can tell that it's too soon; the one time he'd ended things early, Sherlock had been irritable and full of nerves for days. Leave it too late and John starts to forget; the one and only time this happened, Sherlock complained for a week of his mind feeling foggy, and became even more irritable for it.
It still boggles him, considering their respective pasts and personalities, that there's trust enough between them for something like this to even work. The unseen balance: to trust Sherlock to know when to ask for help, in return for Sherlock trusting him to know when to stop giving it.
He'd told Harry about it, once, because of some vague idea that it could help her. Back before he'd realized that, for Sherlock, it wasn't the lack of willpower that was the problem.
"But what, exactly, do you do?" she'd asked, squinting at him blearily.
"It's hard to understand, I know," he'd said. "It's like - transference. When it all becomes... too much, when he's at the point where he used to take drugs, he focuses on me. On only me. It's like he's on a case, except he's deducing me, constantly; what I want, what I need, what I'm thinking. Apparently, narrowing his field of attention that much is the equivalent of giving his brain a holiday."
Harry had given him a doubtful look, followed by a shrug. "All right, I might have some issues - but the two of you are just damn weird."
There's a different sort of tension in the flat tonight. John can feel his battle-protocols perking up, but it's not danger, exactly. He glances towards the kitchen, where Sherlock is up his elbows in soap suds.
Sherlock seems to notice it as well when he joins John in front of the telly. It seems to John that the sounds of their breathing are too loud in the small space, despite the noise from the telly, and he can't get fully comfortable, no matter how he sits. He tries to follow the programme, but his eyes keep being drawn to his flatmate.
Finally, Sherlock catches him staring. John resists his first impulse, which is to look away, and instead meets Sherlock's gaze steadily.
Sherlock stands. Turns off the telly and remains in front of it, facing John. Then, in a graceful series of movements during which John completely forgets about breathing, Sherlock slips out of his robe and shirt and pajama bottoms, until he's naked and gazing at John expectantly.
"Magnificent," John breathes. His eyes rake over the man's broad shoulders, slim waist, illegally long legs. He feels positively heady from the amount of pale skin on display. "Please, Sherlock, touch yourself."
Sherlock does. Those long, slim fingers wrap around his cock; John watches it go from half-mast to fully hard, gripping the chair to stop himself from reaching it. Sherlock's hips start to roll into each stroke, breaths quickening; the slick slide of skin sounding obscene in their living room. John has to swallow when he sees precome glistening at the slit, coating Sherlock's thumb and spreading over the flushed length.
"John," groans Sherlock, dark eyes aimed at John. "I can see you - so hard in your pants - only you - only you give me this-"
"Fuck," says John, with feeling. He undoes his belt and his fly and pushes down everything, then yanks off his shirt and vest. Sherlock grins triumphantly.
The first few times, Sherlock had hesitated at this point, likely assuming John to have the same expectations as others have had. But John had known, had always understood; just as he knows now, that Sherlock isn't looking at him, not exactly. Sherlock's seeing the flush over John's chest, the raggedness of John's breathing, the stiffness of John's prick - seeing how much Sherlock's body is pleasing John, how Sherlock's unashamed display is getting John off.
"That's it," John pants encouragingly, eyes barely blinking. Sherlock's strokes are getting faster, losing their rhythm. A twist and squeeze at the top draws out a whimper from Sherlock's slack-jawed mouth. "Keep going, Sherlock, you're so good to me. A little harder - yes, that's. The sight you make - do you have any idea - oh God, come here, come closer."
Sherlock stumbles the few steps separating them and kneels at John's feet. His eyes are blown dark, and there's a hint of sweat around his collarbones.
"I'm going to - you beautiful, unbelievable man," gasps John. He's close, so close, and Sherlock is gazing up at him, waiting for it, drinking in the ways that John is losing himself to pleasure.
Sherlock licks his lips, and that sends John over the edge. He groans and swears and strokes himself through it. Streaks of come land on Sherlock's face, shoulders, painting that obscenely graceful neck. He sees Sherlock's face go slack, and says, "I want you to come, Sherlock, I want to watch you - give me, give it to me."
A loud, stuttered shout - Sherlock's body arches backwards at climax, eyes closed in bliss. John watches, feeling more than a little bit in awe. His body informs him that, no, he really can't come again.
"Oh, look at you," murmurs John. He strokes a hand down Sherlock's cheek, messing up the lines of his come and rubbing it into that pale skin. Sherlock lets out a contented sigh.
John walks, a bit unsteadily, to the bathroom, where he wets a washcloth and wipes himself down. He's about to bring a second one out when Sherlock walks in himself and declares he's going to shower. John realizes that they're grinning foolishly at each other.
There it is. "Welcome back," he says.
Sherlock takes his shower. John goes upstairs, collapses into his bed still naked, and falls asleep.
The next morning, John wakes up to a frustrated shout from downstairs. "ATMOSPHERIC NONSENSE."
He grumbles and turns to evade a bothersome sunbeam, but he ends up shaking his head fondly. He's naked, but Sherlock doesn't seem to have tempered with the climate control system yet, so he's still quite comfortable.
Still, he knows better than to wait for something to catch fire. He drags himself up, throws on a robe, and goes downstairs to help Sherlock find the calibrator.