Work Text:
Autumn Leaves
By Queen Em
One more miracle, that's all John had asked for, even prayed for, he'd got down on his knees and begged to a higher power he wasn't even sure existed. John had screamed, he’d pleaded, he’d sobbed, knowing it was all in vain because Sherlock Holmes was dead. His best friend was dead, the man who had saved him from the tragically endless monotony the snipers bullet had forced upon him, who'd taken him away from his lonely life of self-imposed uselessness that would undoubtedly end with the invalided doctor fingering the trigger of his pistol for a final time. Sherlock had saved him, that mad, violin playing maniac who leapt around the flat like a deranged dervish, put eyeballs in the freezer and used John's toothbrush in alarming experiments had saved him. John wasn’t sure if he'd ever truly been in love before but he knew he loved Sherlock, more than anyone else in the world save his own Mother. Perhaps not the conventional violins and red roses kind of love, although in this day and age John mused what conventional love even meant, however what John did know was whatever he and Sherlock had, was definitely some sort of love. That crazy, glorious man was always in John’s mind, ridiculous curls, razor cheekbones and all, when Sherlock hurt, John hurt, when Sherlock laughed, John laughed. When Sherlock died so did a little part of John. The good doctor would quite happily die for that man because he knew deep down Sherlock would do exactly the same for him, without even blinking. Hat-man and Robin, Holmes and Watson, best friends, soulmates, whatever they were, whatever they had been, it was over and it killed John every single day. He would never see the swish of that stupidly expensive coat Sherlock wore even in baking sunshine, never hear the beautiful trills of the violin that always soothed him after a nightmare the beautiful madman always knew he’d suffered, John would never share a Thai green curry whilst Sherlock rambled about the case before collapsing on John's shoulder or in his lap when he was especially tired despite the protests he was fine. Sometimes John was convinced he'd heard the rumbling baritone when the leaves rustled, he swore he'd seen the mop of inky curls in a crowd, was positive he'd smelt that musky cologne mixed with tobacco despite the detective’s insistence he'd given up smoking. But of course he hadn't because Sherlock Holmes was dead and now John's world was forever a darker place.
The falling leaves
Drift by my window.
The falling leaves of red and gold.
Every bone in Sherlock’s thin body ached, seriously ached to the point that he wasn't sure how much longer he could physically stay on his feet. There was no dramatic or gruesome injury to speak of, the detective was quite simply destroyed, so utterly exhausted that even just standing was becoming increasingly difficult. It had been nearly 6 months since his apparent death and he was starting to wonder if actually smashing his skull open on the floor of St. Barts might well have been kinder. Sleeping wasn't always a luxury he could afford and sleeping in an actual bed with an actual duvet in a room with carpet, heating and God forbid a door was a luxury he hadn't seen in a while. Sherlock didn't think he was an overly materialistic person, he'd lived in a crack den high off his face for almost a year, ones standards did dip a little after that, but today Sherlock had never wanted a comfy bed and hot bath more, how he longed to slip into his silk dressing gown and sheepskin slippers and curl up on the beaten leather of Baker Streets settee. Sherlock missed the cozy little flat dreadfully but he only yearned for one thing and it broke his heart just thinking about it; John Watson, his loyal companion, good doctor and best and only true friend. Of course Sherlock wanted his comfy bed but he needed John, pined to hear his voice, longed to melt into his sturdy frame on the settee after a long case and wanted more than anything to stay up all night, laughing and talking about everything and nothing. Stretching, Sherlock let out a pained moan as his bones cracked, muscles ached and tears involuntary pricked at the pain. Scowling slightly Sherlock wondered what to do with himself with only a thin mattress and a microwave for company, for once in his life he really didn’t know the answer. John would know the answer, John would fix things, fix Sherlock, John always knew what to do. Over their three years of companionship Sherlock hadn't realised how much he relied on him, how much John Watson and his wooly jumpers, trashy TV shows and military precision had changed him for the better. Being near another human being for more than a few hours once alarmed Sherlock but now being away from John was a living hell. John Watson, a doctor, a war veteran, a hero, so comparatively ordinary to the untrained eye with his small stature and normal job but to those that knew him, he was saviour, a fearless warrior who would gladly put his life on the line for those lucky enough to get close to him. Braver than any man Sherlock knew, wiser, more dignified and a better man than he would ever hope to be. John knew him, John fixed him, John would always put Sherlock above his own needs without even realising it. So many times Sherlock had awoken with his head in John’s lap, soft fingers running through his hair when he'd crashed out after another adrenaline fuelled case. John never flinched when he’d practically carried Sherlock to a hot bath and put him to bed with his arms wrapped tightly around the shivering detective after he nearly caught hypothermia after falling in the Thames again. Oh what Sherlock would give for a hot bath, he would quite happily sell all his worthwhile possessions and whatever of his tattered soul still remained for sharing a Chinese takeaway on the sofa with John Watson, chatting merry nonsense until the early morning eventually falling asleep on the beaten sofa. But John wasn't here, Sherlock was alone without his beloved, caring, wonderful companion at his side. With a sad sigh, the shivering detective put his scraps of food in the microwave and dressed the cut on his cheek, swearing as his shaking hands fumbled with the last bit of gauze he had left.
I see your lips
``The summer kisses.
The sunburnt hands I used to hold.
With a long, wheezing gasp Sherlock awoke with an unpleasant start, practically flinging himself out of the bed, a disorientated, sweating wreck. Sherlock Holmes was a man of steel with the brains of a philosopher and the brutality of a hungry lion who didn't flinch at the bloodiest of battle, yet here he was shaking like a leaf because of a bad dream. It wasn't the first time he’d had a bad dream in his thirty odd years on this miserable planet but this one was pretty high on the list of shit ones. When he was a child he used to dream of pirates, usually they were fun he would be the captain of the ship commanding what mysterious islands they would travel to. Occasionally he wouldn't be the captain and would be thrown overboard to a watery grave, Mummy always said he had got over excited but she would still tuck him back in bed with a soft smile making sure his teddy was in reach. Mummy always made the bad dreams better, except for the ones with Red Beard in. Ironically he dreamt his beloved dog was actually still alive and would cry so hard, shaking with heaving, gasping sobs when he realised his fluffy companion was never going to be in his arms again even Mummy couldn't calm him back to sleep. With a weary sigh Sherlock got out of bed with shaking legs, he was a grown man but right now he would do anything for his mother to ruffle his hair, bring him some milk and hug him. Of course that was ridiculous because his mother was getting old and was probably on a cruise and grown men don't hug their mothers after a bad dream. Although he supposed grown men did need comfort sometimes, he had hugged John many times when he had a bad dream, he was a wounded army veteran of course he slept badly and Sherlock didn't mind looking after him, John was a hero after all, he was his best friend and he wanted to help. Sherlock quite liked it really, he’d never been good at comforting people, never really knew what to say but with John, hugging him after a nightmare, making some sickly sweet tea and playing Beethoven on the violin at 3 in the morning seemed to soothe John’s troubled mind.
Of course John helped him too, Sherlock wasn't prone to nightmares when they lived together but John helped him in other ways, so many other ways that Sherlock lost count, he hadn't even noticed them until he was now alone in Baker Street. When he was on the run in Croatia from an armed gang he didn't really have time to miss John greeting him in the morning with a steaming cup of tea, patting his hair affectionately, his gorgeous eyes still lighting up even after all this time when Sherlock made an impressive deduction. When Sherlock was being beaten to a bloody pulp in that Serbian hell hole his mind couldn't wander to whether or not John would crack open a bottle of Merlot with their dinner which usually resulted in a night of good-natured hilarity and an only slightly regrettable hangover the next day. But now Sherlock wasn't running for his life trying to take down one of the worlds largest criminal networks, he was at Baker Street, he was home. Yet it wasn't home, there were none of those milky chai latte things in the cupboard, no out of tune humming coming from the shower and no one to listen to his ramblings, to soothe his racing mind until he crashed in a soft lap with gentle fingers running through his curls only to awake with a blanket to his chin and a steaming cup of tea by his feet. He missed John, he missed John more than he thought possible, sometimes he wondered if John missed him. Of course John didn't miss him, what a ridiculous notion. John lived with Mary, John was married to Mary, he didn't want to go with him on their silly adventures any more, he was married, he had a normal job, he and Mary would probably pop out a few kids and live a normal life in the suburbs. Of course John didn't want Sherlock anymore, he probably never spared him a thought, why would he. Not that Sherlock blamed him, he'd made John watch his best friend fall to his death and have his entire life unravel at the seams, overwhelmed with grief he'd even got that bloody cane out again. Sherlock had broken John all over again and he didn’t deserve that, the doctor was too kind, too beautiful, too good for that, too good for Sherlock. No wonder John didn't want to be anywhere near him. Sherlock laughed mercilessly and lit a cigarette in shaking hands knowing full well John Watson wasn't giving him a second thought.
“Are you coming to bed, John?”
“Yes Mary, just finishing this chapter.”
John sighed and closed the book he wasn't really reading and put it on the perfectly organised shelf in the perfectly organised flat he shared with his wife. John was happy, of course he as happy, he had a steady job, a wonderful wife and a nice flat close to work and at a decent price. John was normal, John was happy. He had to be happy because for the last 2 year his best friend, the reason he hadn't put a bullet in his head when he was discharged from the only thing in his life he'd ever been good at, the beautiful mad man with sharp cheekbones and an even sharper tongue had been gone. He'd died at John's feet and he had grieved and cried and even wished it had been him splayed at the bottom of the hospital instead of the closest thing to a soulmate he’d ever had. Sherlock was back but unfortunately that didn't change 2 years of grief and 2 years of trying to have an ounce of happiness back in his life. “John?” “Coming darling,” John was happy, of course he was happy, maybe life was a little calmer, a little less exciting, a little bit less Sherlock, but he was happy. John was happy...John had to be.
Since you want away,
The days grow long.
Ans soon I'll hear old winter songs.
“No, please, you have to let me come in with him!”
“Dr Watson, please calm down, Mr Holmes is in good hands.”
“No, he fell, I saw him, he fell, he might be dead I must see him, no please!” John knew he was screaming, knew he was probably going to get himself put in the psych ward but he didn't care. Sherlock Holmes had fallen off a balcony, well he'd been pushed but John was in no mood for technicalities. It happened in a split second and all John could do was watch as poor Sherlock landed in a crumpled heap, it was only one storey high, it wasn't a rooftop, he clearly hadn't smashed his skull but John couldn't make sense of that. All he could see was Sherlock Holmes falling off a high building, a short gasp falling from his lips as he shouted for John when he realised he had lost the struggle with both the perp and gravity and he was only going one way, which wasn't up. John had screamed, by the time he got to Sherlock, administering basic first aid with shaking hands, Lestrade was pulling him away. All John could do as the paramedics tended to him was clutch Sherlock’s hand, begging him to wake up as he drifted in and out of consciousness, his piercing eyes fluttering open before drifting back to the darkness, the only word he had uttered was a slurred whisper.
“John."
“Dr Watson, please it's ok.”
“It's not ok, no, let me see him please!” The world was spinning, the air was becoming thick, John needed to gulp it in but his throat was closing, he couldn't think, he couldn’t stand, he couldn't even breathe. The only thing he could do was whisper a name before the world went black and darkness consumed him.
“Dr Watson?” John blinked and looked around, disorientated and groggy with a sharp pain in his head, pulsing down his eye and making his whole head bang. “Sherlock? Where's Sherlock!” He grunted in pain but was adamant he was getting out of bed.
“Hey, John mate stay still,” a pair of hands gently pushed him back to the bed and as much as John wanted to create a scene he didn't have the energy, simply slumping back to the bed. “Take it easy John,” Lestrade said gently, patting him on the arm in the least condescending way he could muster, “it's ok, Sherlock’s ok.
"He jumped, he fell 10 storeys he can't be ok.”
“No John,” Lestrade said gently, “he fell off a balcony, the perp pushed him after the bloody moron ran off in his own. He's in surgery, he broke a rib that punctured his lung, mild conclusion, broken wrist a few scrapes and the like, but he will be fine.”
“He’s fine.” John took a steadying breath as he said the words aloud, needing to convince himself, reiterate that joyously, sobering fact. “Yes.”
“Can I see him?”
“He's going to be out if it for a while but the doctor said he's doing fine, you're not going where until you've rested.”
“I'm fine!”
“John you passed out and smacked your head so hard you cracked your forehead open. Sherlock will be fine mate but you need to rest ok?”
“Ok, I'm sorry Greg, I don't know what happened it seemed so real. It was like I was right back there at St Barts. I knew he wasn't dead I could hear him talking for God sake. I don't know what happened.”
“It's ok John, he scared us all, none of us want to see Sherlock Holmes fall off a building again. I'll go check on him but please rest mate, it's all right, everyone's all right.” John tried to smile but couldn't quite manage it, he was so tired but every time his eyes closed he saw Sherlock’s bleeding, lifeless body on the pavement and he had to fight not to pass out all over again. Pull it together Watson, he scolded himself, sometimes he marvelled the fact he was a fully trained, very competent doctor, although when Sherlock Holmes was concerned, John often marvelled how he even breathed.
But I miss you most of all, my darling,
When autumn leaves start to fall.
“He doesn't have anyone else, Mary, he needs me.”
“I know darling, of course go look after him, if you need anything will you call?”
“Of course, thank you for being so understanding.” “I love you John, take care of him, and yourself too.”
“I will, I love you too, Mary.”
“Hey,” John said gently as he made his way into the lounge of Baker Street, smiling a little at the familiar warmth, “Mrs Hudson let me in, I wasn't sure if you were resting.”
“Resting is dull,” Sherlock replied but he shot John a wry smile making a half hearted attempt to get up from the sofa.
"No don't get up, dull as it is you need to rest.”
“I'm fine, John don't fuss, it's irksome.”
“Shush you, I'm a doctor and the only person crazy enough to come and look after you despite your torrent of verbal abuse, so shut up and let me make you tea before I change my mind.” “Yes, Captain,” Sherlock murmured but found himself relieved not to move, his dressings uncomfortable, limbs heavy and body aching.
“Let me change your dressing the wound needs to be cleaned.”
“It's not a pretty sight,” Sherlock murmured.
“I've seen many a surgical scar, Sherlock.”
“That's not what I meant.”
“Oh,” there was a thick silence that hung uncomfortably, John didn't know what to say as he eventually connected the dots when Sherlock looked away awkwardly, pulling his ridiculously expensive dressing gown tighter around his thin frame. The man who had no qualms about running starkers from the bath as he'd just cracked his latest experiment and apparently putting on clothes was a waste of time when there were rotting maggots and buffalo tongues to attend to, could no longer bring himself to reveal his scarred body to his most trusted companion.
“It's fine,” Sherlock said suddenly, ploughing through the moment of uncomfortable silence like a bull in a china shop, he yanked at his t-shirt but hissed as his feigned enthusiasm jarred his wound. Without a word Sherlock lay back down with a grimace, exposing his bare flesh to John, looking away as the Doctor's gentle hands tended to his latest injury.
“Easy love, easy,” John soothed, the tone of endearment slipping out unintentionally but neither commented. John set to work not saying a word, feigning concentration when in reality he could redress a surgical scar with his eyes closed. Sherlock as ever was right, his torso was certainly unsightly, full of scars and old wounds in various stages of healing, quite what had caused them all John didn't know, he never wanted to. Despite pointedly ignoring them, John could still make out cigarette burns, whip marks and several ugly slashes that would permanently scar the porcelain flesh. Pain, dear God Sherlock must have endured so much pain whilst he was away and John was glad he had finished as his hands were starting to shake, his stomach turning a little. Hurriedly disposing of the old dressings John pulled himself together in the bathroom, faking a smile when he got back to the lounge and found Sherlock pottering in the kitchen, his movements were slow and his body a little hunched but at least he was standing. Instinctively John gently touched Sherlock's arm and took over making the tea that the detective was half heatedly trying to brew. They drifted into a familiar silence, words rarely needed to be spoken between them but there was a heaviness in the air, a hint of unsaid urgency hung.
“It's so good to see you up, I thought we lost you,” Johns voice was quiet and his speech was hurried as he let out the breath he was unknowingly holding; he reached for Sherlock’s hand and squeezed it tightly trying to keep the shake out of his voice.
“It's ok John, I’m fine, I promise.” Sherlock smiled his catlike smile but there was something genuine behind his eyes, something innocent, something loving, a glint John rarely saw but knew that when he did, it was just for him. “You can hug me you know, I know you're quite partial to a bit of physical affection in times of emotional upheaval.”
John chuckled, “I don't want to hurt you, you've just had major surgery.”
“I'm fine, maybe it's the painkillers, but I would very much like you to embrace me.” Carefully, John wrapped his arms around Sherlock, so gently he may as well be made of glass. “I was so scared, Sherlock,” John whispered pulling him just a little bit tighter, “it was like being back at the hospital where you were lifeless on the pavement, your brains on the floor, bleeding, dead at my feet.” Before John could stop himself there were tears running down his face, his body quivering as he held his dearest friend tightly, finally allowing his grief that he'd hidden and battled with for so long, to surface.
“I'm sorry John, I'm so sorry I hurt you, I didn't know what else to do. I'm sorry John,” Sherlock’s voice was a cracked whisper as he ran his hand through John’s hair, his heart shattering as the doctor at last crumbled in his arms because of Sherlock's own, cruel actions. “It's ok John, I'm so sorry, it's ok, I'm here," Sherlock had never comforted a crying man in his life but the instincts Sherlock didn't know existed kicked in as he whispered hollow word of comfort to soothe John, trying to ease the terrible pain he had put him through. Before he even fathomed his actions Sherlock planted a soft kiss on John’s head who had stopped crying but remained wrapped in the tall mans arms, sniffing a little. Sherlock planted another kiss on John’s forehead, allowing his lips to linger for just a moment on the soft skin. John manoeuvred his hands to Sherlock’s waist and looked up, his eyes still wet, the cut on his head was healing but Sherlock wanted to kiss the thin red line away until the was simply no more pain. They remained in the intimate embrace, John sniffling softly as Sherlock held him close, he kissed John's cheek but as his lips descended John shifted in Sherlock’s arms and the soft lips landed on the corner of John's mouth.
“I'm sorry I didn't mean to do that.” Sherlock murmured, his face flushing.
“I know.” John’s voice was practically a whisper, they remained entwined, staring at each other slightly breathless.
“John I…” Sherlock trailed off, unable to extract himself from the intimate embrace.
“Sherlock, we should…” Before either could form a complete sentence, two pairs of lips came together, the kiss was a little tentative although neither were keen to pull away eventually releasing with a breathy moan. For a moment their eyes locked, the grip on each other tightened and their eyes twinkled before lips once again crashed together this time in a needy, passion kiss that had both of them groaning in bliss as eager hands explored bodies.
“John,” Sherlock practically moaned the name, a needy growl in his voice as he gripped the doctor like his life depended on it, “John I can't do this. If we do this I can't go back, I can't not need you, I can't ever let you go, you can't ever let me go.”
“Never, I will never let you go Sherlock, ever.”
“Kiss me, please John, please,” Sherlock Holmes didn't beg, even when he was chained to a wall in Syria nearing death as his captors beat him until he couldn't remember his own name he never begged, but having John Watson sink his teeth into his sensitive neck, soothing the nip with a soft kiss, could reduce him to a shaking, begging mess of arousal in seconds. The kiss continued, slightly tentative but so passionately neither were sure how much they could take. Sherlock moaned in bliss and pushed himself closer to John who cheekily lowered his hands to cup the luscious backside causing the taller man to gasp and push himself closer into the doctor. Suddenly Sherlock yelped when he accidentally pushed into John too hard, his wound protesting viciously.
“Sorry,” Sherlock muttered reluctantly increasing the space between them, releasing his grip as the pain overtook him for a moment.
“It’s ok, love, I've got you, take it easy,” gently John moved his hands down to the flat stomach, releasing the pressure from Sherlocks injury, supporting his weight as the detective composed himself as the pain subsided.
"Sorry," Sherlock muttered once more. "
It's fine love, it's all fine," John said softy, gently pulling the detective in for a passionate kiss which Sherlock reciprocated with a playful tug on John's lip who let out a needy moan.
“Let's go to the bedroom,” Sherlock purred and took Johns’ hand before the doctor could even fathom a response and led him into the bedroom. Stumbling slightly as eager hands and lips refused to separate, John's jumper had got lost on the journey as had Sherlock’s beloved dressing gown, although John was fairly sure it wasn't in a crumpled heap unlike his M and S finest! Approaching the bed, typically over zealous Sherlock pulled John down onto the mattress, the linen unmade as usual, but he hissed when they landed.
“Be careful my love, you're still healing.”
“I'm fine.”
“Ripping your stitches will be a bit of a mood killer,” John said playfully, tenderly brushing a stray curl back, “lie down for me, I've got you, take it easy.”
Despite his natural desire to protest, and continue ripping the clothes off the sexy doctor, Sherlock had to agree that splitting open his chest open whilst he engaging in the long overdue desire to have John in his bed was probably not the best plan. To Sherlock’s annoyance, his movement was rather restricted, his entire left side was throbbing and the broken wrist rendered his arm useless until the blasted cast was off.
“It's ok,” John murmured, carefully manoeuvring to press against the skinny detective who threw his arms around the broad back, cringing as his heavy cast knocked into John's neck who like the gentleman he was, ignored it, masking the grunt of surprise with a moan.
“Oh John, please,” Sherlock moaned, realising he sounded incredibly desperate but failing to care. Despite the gracelessness, Sherlock's movement hindering injury and John's game of sexual twister in order not to hurt Sherlock of have his own busted shoulder give out, they managed to entwine limbs as they rutted like two horny teenagers. Clothes were soon shed, moans became louder as their passion intensified as the lovers became one.
“Morning beautiful,” a soft rumble met the detective's ears, rousing him from the light doze in the most delightful way.
“Morning,” his voice was thick with sleep and he couldn't help but smile as a tender kiss was planted on his cheek.
“How are you feeling?”
“Better than I was last night thanks to you,” Sherlock purred, stretching his long body, wincing as the inevitable pain of his wound hit.
“Take it easy, why don't we stay in bed for a bit longer, I can make us some coffee, we can doze and cuddle,” he said the last word with a mischievous chuckle.
“Don't you have to get back?”
“Into bed with you, yes I do.”
“Droll as ever Doctor, you know what I mean.”
“The only place I have to be is right here.” Sherlock smiled his cat like smile and simply nestled into John's embrace, resting on his bare chest as soft fingers gently stroked his unruly curls until he fell back into a peaceful sleep.
Since you went away,
The days grow long.
And soon I'll hear old winter song.
John only felt a little bit guilty when he sent the text to Mary that the case had run late so he was going to crash at Baker Street. Mary was a smart lady, a very smart lady and if Sherlock had been a woman there was no way in hell John would be getting away with the affair. As much as John convinced himself it wasn't, an affair is exactly what was happening, John was having an affair with Sherlock Holmes, it was ridiculous, it was wrong, it was unfair but John couldn't stop, he didn't want to stop. Whilst he'd be lying if he said there wasn't a bit of guilt when he went back to Mary, when he was with Sherlock nothing else seemed to matter, everything else was conveniently forgotten. So many times he convinced himself it was the last time, that he would in fact crash on the sofa, enjoy an innocent takeaway with his longtime best friend after solving their latest case. Yet each and every time they ended up naked and spent, yearning for one another, needing to be close, desperate for the touch, for the intimacy of being together. Mary was great, smart, funny, beautiful and the guilt always hit when she earnestly encouraged their little get togethers, insisting he accompany Sherlock on a case, smiling with a gentle roll of the eyes at his stories, happy that her partners’ best friend that he grieved so long for was back. Undoubtedly Mary would feel differently if she knew John was shagging that said best friend more often her, significantly more often. Mary had a soft spot for the crazy defective so was more than happy, eager in fact, for John to help him after his latest injury, as frustrating as the long recovery had been for all parties at least it was an excuse for John to come over more, with the added benefit of Mary's blessing. She even packed John an overnight bag when Sherlock's surgical incision became mildly infected, very mildly infected and the doctor had a less than orthodox way to help the mad detective feel better. John never thought he would be an adulterer, always holding himself to a higher moral standard, he served for Queen and Country after all, but it was all too easy really. Mary had taken a job at a hospital, much better money, more interesting work and closer to the flat, her shifts meant she was often working through the night and since John had taken on some locum work they could go days without crossing paths. Days where John would arrange his work strategically so he and the detective could have hours of uninterrupted bliss and nights of endless passion without Mary suspecting a thing. This couldn't go on forever, something had to give, John couldn't keep lying to his wife, he couldn't keep deceiving people and living a double life... but as a pair of very full, very male, very Sherlock lips descended onto his, at that moment, John couldn't bring himself to care.
Deducing was how Sherlock made his living and he took great pride in working out what would please John, at first it wasn't especially challenging, adrenaline was usually surging through their veins, their passion was hard and fast, John usually enjoyed being in control but occasionally, especially after a difficult case, John wanted to be taken, to be held and devoured by the lunatic. All Sherlock wanted to do was please John, make John happy, give him no reason to stop so he tried to read the doctor at all times to ensure he was happy. John didn't have much to loose, he had a wife (Sherlock still felt ill at the term) at home, a good job, an active social life, Sherlock was simply an added bonus, a little bit of sexual espionage, an easy release, and Sherlock wasn't kidding himself otherwise. The detective wasn't under any illusion that John was going to get down on one knee and declare his undying love for him after saying, ‘sorry Mary, I've been banging my male best friend for the last 6 months so looks like we will have to call it quits, sorry love.' John wanted stability, a wife, probably some children, attending PTA meetings and watching a bunch of kids dressed as lobsters in the nativity play. John was ready to commit himself, Sherlock wasn't, Sherlock doubted he ever would be. He craved the adrenaline that the Work gave him, needed the danger, the rush, he was an addict after all, sure he didn't use at the moment but he would be a fool to claim he'd never fall off the wagon again, he'd certainly done it before. John wanted things that Sherlock could never give him and certainly had no desire to give him, after all he was most definitely not father material. Mycroft could probably adopt him some kids pretty easily if he so chose, he could plonk the crying, smelly little thing on John's lap and give him the domesticity he craved. But that would be cruel, irresponsible and in Sherlock's mind, downright tedious. Sherlock was a ridiculous man but he wouldn't put an innocent child through the bedlam that was his life and quite frankly couldn't stand the thought himself! One couldn't really say to a toddler, ‘would you mind just looking after yourself as Daddy is going to run through London after a knife wielding Russian Mobster, which will likely end in a dramatic first fight and a gory injury, then Daddy is going to sleep for 12 hours, have a cigarette then fuck other Daddy senseless.’ Sherlock was too selfish, too volatile and quite frankly too uninterested. He was a train wreck really, a junkie through and through desperately seeking his hit, he made his best friend, the greatest thing that ever happened to him, watch his tragic and bloody death. John was too good, far too good for him and the idea of John leaving his nice, normal wife was a tragically laughable thought... So Sherlock made every single second with the good doctor count. Sherlock knew this would end, it would probably crash and burn and kill them both a little bit, damage their already irreparable souls. Yet when John moaned in his ear, 'my beauty, my love,' as his lips soothed a tender nip to his sensitive neck, at that glorious moment in time, Sherlock couldn't bring himself to care.
But I miss you most of all my darling,
When autumn leaves start to fall.
"Are you going to leave?"
“No of course not.”
“John, I can't hack fooling around I feel like death warmed up.”
“You look like it too! I'm not going anywhere of course I'm not, unless you want me to.”
“No John I want you to stay, I never want you to go,” the lanky detective let out an all mighty cough and curled in on himself with a woeful, dramatic moan. Johns heart melted a little as he took in Sherlock's sorry state, fussing around with the bed clothes and pillows. Sherlock's face was white, a light sheen covering the pale skin as inky curls stuck to his face and splayed out at all angles like a demented halo. As much as Sherlock would deny it, he was quite simply run down, having a lingering cold coupled with no sleep or proper food since a particularly ridiculous case involving a tiger smuggler and a two mile foot chase thorough Camden Lock in the pouring rain.
“Damm my stupid transport needing such dull activities as food and sleep!” The outburst would have had far more conviction if Sherlock hadn't thrust his head in the pillows, flopping down dramatically with an undignified sniff and a pout on those full lips that John could never resist.
“Put this on,” John said gently, in his hands was his oatmeal knitted jumper he bought in the M and S sale 6 years ago that had always been a few sizes too large but wonderfully comfortable. John had clothes at Baker Street, why wouldn't he for the nights when he's on one of his adventures having a laugh with his best friend, well that was the line they told Mary and anyone else who asked. Of course it would look ridiculous on the tall man with his endless legs, tiny waist and deceptively broad chest but he took it with a grumble, muttering that the colour clashed with John's hair anyway.
“I've got you my darling, I've got you.” John shucked off his clothes and pulled on a pair of pyjamas before sliding next to Sherlock who instantly threw himself into the warm embrace burying his clammy face in John’s shoulder, John's good shoulder of course, which was fine because John preferred to sleep on the left anyhow. The bed upstairs was just for show, John hadn't slept there since he moved out the only visit it had was when Lestrade was too drunk to stagger home and he had to sleep the hangover off before he picked up his kids, if the Inspector had clocked that John and Sherlock weren't just being good mates by sharing a bed and letting him have the spare room, he didn't say anything.
“S’nice,” Sherlock muttered, clinging a little tighter, “I never want you to let me go.”
“I won’t.” They both knew it was a lie.
The next morning John woke before Sherlock, which was unusual, usually Sherlock had declared sleeping dull after a few hours of it and was working on some crackpot experiment involving disgusting things like decaying heads and caterpillars, but this morning he slept. John could tell he was ill but still marvelled, despite the gaunt face, messy hair and the unhealthy sheen on his face, Sherlock was so beautiful. When he slept he looked like a young man with the world at his feet not the old soul that had seen toon much pain for a lifetime. Gently John pushed Sherlock's wild curls out his face and crept out of bed, mooching to the bathroom then to the kitchen. As John waited for the kettle to boil he couldn't help but feel conflicted and if he was being honest with himself, he also felt rotten. He and Mary had some friends coming over for lunch, he promised Mary he'd be back nice and prompt so he can help do the shopping and prepare whatever fancy dish Mary was going to make. As much as he genuinely enjoyed spending time with Mary, he did marry her after all, his natural instinct as a doctor, and incidentally Sherlock's lover, was to look after the madman on his sick bed. It wasn't exactly a life threatening illness, he'd be back on his feet tomorrow but John felt like a grade A knob leaving Sherlock whilst he was sick. As much as John didn't want to admit it, he wanted to spend the day with Sherlock, not Mary, even if that did mean he would spend the day making soup and listening to the whiny madman rather than having a boozy lunch. Sometimes when he was sitting with Mary on the settee watching mindless telly, he actually missed Sherlock's ridiculous critiques, when he awoke to Mary's beautiful curves in his arms he often wished it was Sherlock's hard edges and bony frame. With Sherlock the sex was amazing, the passion was addictive and their time together was fun but John was craving something more with the detective and it frightened him immensely. With a buzz the kettle jarred John out of his thoughts, he made the tea then would shower, after all he had to meet Mary soon. Sherlock sipped the tea gratefully as he nestled further into the bed clothes feeling utterly sorry for himself.
“I've got to go my love,” John said quietly, faffing around for as long as he could, feeling like a wanker, waking Sherlock not only to leave him but leave him when he was sick. “I've got you some more tea and water. Let me help you take some painkillers before I go,” gingerly he eased Sherlock into his arms and helped him knock back a few pills before placing a cool cloth on the clammy forehead.
“Can't you stay?” Sherlock’s voice was a cracked whisper, he wasn't listening for the answer, he knew it was no, knew John had promised to have lunch with some of their other couple friends but had to do the grocery shop first. The thought of John Watson mooching around Asda picking which crisps and dip to serve to his couple friends with their 9-5 jobs and 2.5 kids was ironically hilarious, yet that was what John Watson was doing with his Saturday morning instead of spending it with Sherlock making sweet lazy love and chatting nonsense for hours on end. “I'm sorry my love, feel better,” planting a tender kiss on those razor cheek bones, John left Baker Street knowing the only thing that would be in his mind whilst he ate lunch with his wife would be 6 feet of snivelling consulting detective curled under the covers wearing John’s hideous jumper that did in fact clash with his hair.
I miss you most of all my darling,
When autumn leaves start to fall.
“I want you, dear god I want you!” John pulled Sherlock into his body, pressing every inch of skin together, kissing the pale flesh hungrily, desperate moans escaping his lips. All Sherlock could do was whimper when John nipped at his sensitive neck, not caring how needy he sounded as John soothed his flesh with the tenderest of kiss.
“I need you,” John’s voice was desperate, the slightest of cracks in the gentle baritone.
“I'm yours.” Sherlock was aware he practically gasping into John’s neck who simply kissed him so passionately the detective wondered if he would drown in lust.
“Mine, my love, my beauty.”
“Yours, all yours.” Sherlock was in bliss, John was always an excellent lover but tonight, this was something else, something new, something frightening, something even more incredible. Considerate and tender, John was generous when they were in bed, making sure his partners’ needs were taken care of, that Sherlock was satisfied and enjoying himself. Whilst Sherlock wasn't a virgin, the whole process of secretly shagging his former flatmate every which way to Sunday was undeniably a little overwhelming and to this day the detective relied on his blogger to initiate anything intimate if mutual desire hadn't dragged them into the sack first. Kind but daring, dominant but compassionate, John knew what Sherlock wanted, not just to get him off but what he craved yet never dared to ask for. John always seemed to know when Sherlock couldn't handle much more than a cheeky fumble, too overwhelmed too exhausted for much else. When Sherlock wanted to release his darkest desires John willingly indulged, eagerly typing him up, teasing the skinny body until all Sherlock could do was beg for that earth shattering orgasm. As much as Sherlock loved John pleasuring him, the good doctor was equally glorious to please, making the most wonderful noises, exposing his perfect jugular as his head was thrown back in pure ecstasy. John was a soldier after all and the delicious mix of colourful profanity, utter filth and unwavering sentiment flowing from the perfect lips never failed to get the detective hot under his recently-shed collar and committed every sound the doctor made to memory, reserving a glorious room in his mind palace to store all the fabulous sounds. Sherlock always enjoyed being with John, they had incredible sex but it was the intimacy, the trust that Sherlock yearned for. Truth be told, Sherlock would be happy with a fully clothed spooning session simply stroking John’s hair until the doctor fell asleep in his arms, drooling on his shoulder. Simply being with John, holding him, loving him was enough for the madman who never wanted the blogger out of his sight. The whole thing was madness, terrifyingly brilliant, beautiful madness that could never end yet Sherlock knew it was about to come crashing down around him…
With a filthy moan Sherlock came, screaming John's name as the good doctor pumped his shaft and thrust into him with a wild abandonment that the detective relished. After riding his orgasm, Sherlock was aware that his companion was in the throws of one himself, his eyes were unfocused, sweat was tantalisingly dripping down his face and his thrusts were frantic and erratic.
“Yes John, my John, come for me!” Sherlock tightened his somewhat boneless less legs around John's waist, purposely digging his heels into the firm behind and pulled John into him, his hands either side of his face bringing him close for a passionate kiss. Usually John liked to colourfully vocalise his way through an orgasm but Sherlock needed to be as close to the doctor as physically possible, needed John to know what he was loved, needed to commit every single moan, move and gasp to memory, lock it away deep in his mind palace never to be forgotten. John kissed him back and rode his orgasm out with his whole body tightly pressed to Sherlock’s, crying out his name as he came, planting his seed deep in the detective. Making an effort to be especially gentle, John pulled out and cleaned them up before sinking into the embrace Sherlock presented. There was an unspoken need to be close to each other, a weight handing over them, John pulled Sherlock even closer, that's all he could do.
“Mary's pregnant isn't she,” Sherlock whispered, his voice was so close to cracking he had to muffle it, talking into John's neck.
“Yes.” John didn't ask how Sherlock knew, John knew he knew, the second they set eyes on each other they both knew what was happening. They both knew this was the last time they would be together in this way, John needed to choose and he would choose Mary and the baby. Sherlock didn't blame him, in fact he'd despise John for leaving his pregnant wife to continue an affair with his sociopathic flatmate, it was time to choose.
“I’m sorry,” John whispered, “I'm so sorry, you're still by best friend, I still care so much about you, I love you Sherlock, you know that.”
“I know, it's ok John, it's ok.” To Sherlock’s complete horror he could feel tears pricking but he'd be dammed if he let them fall, instead he blinked them back and held John even tighter.
“Just do one thing for me.”
“Of course my love anything.”
“Hold me, kiss me, love me for tonight, just for tonight, one last time.”
“I won't let you go.”
“And John, when you leave, don't wake me, go when I'm asleep. I can't watch you leave John, I can't do that.”
“Of course my love.” Sherlock nodded and allowed John to kiss him, to stroke his hair, run his hands over his naked flesh as he let himself believe this wasn't the last time, that John would still be there when he awoke and his one true love would love only him back. Birds sang, the traffic started to thunder and the detective's heart was hammering violently, the sunlight was streaming through the slight gap in the curtains and it was only a matter of moments before John would be gone. Sherlock had been awake most of the night, he couldn't sleep knowing this was the last time John would be in his bed, that he would never hold the good doctor again, never feel his lips on his skin. Eventually John stirred and Sherlock closed his eyes, he could feel John's gaze on him and had to hold back a sob as a hand gently ran through his wild curls. He kept his eyes closed, Sherlock couldn't watch John leave, he'd ensured pain, anguish and had been on the brink of death more times than he cared to admit but watching John Watson leave, knowing he wasn't coming back was the one thing Sherlock knew would truly destroy him. Keeping his eyes shut he felt John crouch next to him and softly kiss his cheek and sweep a stray curl off his face.
“I'm sorry. I love you Sherlock Holmes, I always will.”
Hearing her door shut the detective wandered into the kitchen, pulling the robe tighter around himself as the morning chill hit. Sherlock didn't know what to do, he didn't know what to feel, at that moment he felt nothing, he didn't even feel numb, just empty. Eventually he made himself a tea and sat on the settee to drink it, staring into space idly, loathing that his mind was blank, that at this exact moment didn't seem to be able to function. Putting the mug down Sherlock saw a grey, heap of wooly material on the floor, with shaking hands he picked it up. It was John's jumper, taken off and forgotten about a few nights before when they were snuggled up watching some terrible film, no further clothes shed, just being together was enough, it was all Sherlock needed. To his complete surprise and slight horror Sherlock Holmes, the worlds only consulting detective who single handedly brought down one of the worlds most notorious criminal enterprises, burst into tears. Thick, wet tears sadly trickled down his face as his body was wracked with sobs, heaving, gut-wrenching sobs. Sherlock sobbed, he cried and wept for the fact the true love of his life had walked out the door and wasn't coming back.