Work Text:
The sweet heat of breath in my mouth, I'm alive.
Sherlock stood in front of him in their living room, like a desperate man begging for redemption, hanging on by every second of silence that ticked by. John let go of all the air he’d subconsciously been holding in since last night when Sherlock had so rudely turned his whole world upside down (just like he always had), and found that he simply didn’t want to be angry with him any longer. John just didn’t have it in him to be angry. He just wanted Sherlock back. He just wanted to curl up with him and forget about the world for a few weeks. He wanted to return to where they had been two years ago.
“It’s just…” he started, somehow unable to look directly at him, so he looked at their clasped hands instead. Well, Sherlock’s trembling hands clutched around his own. He cleared his throat but John still felt the tears burning up the back of his throat.
“It was such a long time, Sherlo–” His voice betrayed him, fading out before he could finish and he shook his head once, frustrated at himself. Why was he so terrible at this? But Sherlock nodded quickly, his own eyes wet and grimacing – not that John looked up to see them. “With– with nothing–”
“I know, John, I know.” Sherlock was by no means a begging man, but he would have sunk to his knees in heartbeat if he had to. If John requested as much from him. “Trust me when I say I did it to protect you…” He bent to try and catch John’s eyes, but the man was full of pride and stubbornness. Very well.
Sherlock dropped to his knees and dipped his head to kiss the back of John’s fingers, rubbing his thumbs along the rough skin before slowly turning it over in his own hands – his long fingers splaying John’s own to study his palm.
John watched him, frozen until Sherlock brought his lips to his skin and a tremble shot its way up his spine at the intimate touch. Sherlock’s curls tickled the delicate skin on his wrist, before they were replaced with his lips, and John closed his tear-filled eyes and let them spill down his face, unable to stay mad at the man he loved with his whole being. Sherlock’s lips belonged on his skin, exploring, kissing, tasting.
When he opened them again, John found Sherlock looking up at him imploringly,
“Please, John, if you can find it in your heart to forgive me… I know I don’t deserve it, but John… I am so, so deeply sorry…”
John held the side of Sherlock’s face, letting his fingers tangle into his hair, but instead of hitting him, John did the one thing he had desperately wanted to do in front of a hundred people last night before his stubborn emotions got the better of him. He pulled him to his feet and kissed him so fiercely that Sherlock stumbled and their teeth clinked together, but neither of them seemed to mind. All that mattered was that Sherlock was back; he was alive; and he was here with him at long last.
Sherlock’s skin was cooler than John had expected, with a clamminess that made him want to pause, but the practical, medical part of his brain was willingly being surpassed by the side that had craved the taste of Sherlock’s mouth for so long, potential illness be damned – they would both be sick if it meant he could feel his body against his again.
They were both panting for breath when they broke away, Sherlock barely pausing long enough to let his coat fall in a heap on the ground before closing the gap between them again. He held John’s face like he was breakable, but he was feverish – both to the touch and in his actions. He was desperate and hungry as he tilted his head to pepper John with tiny little kisses along the jaw, cheek and eyelids, kissing fallen tears away.
“So, that’s a yes, then?” Sherlock teased, and John grumbled, but a smile pulled at his lips,
“Don’t push it, Sherlock.”
“Oh, I intend to do just that.” His voice was sultry and desperate and almost a little… pained as he pushed him closer to the wall and slammed the door closed with his foot so that Mrs Hudson couldn’t spy on them from the stairs.
“Sherl–” John tried to sound serious, but was cut off with a firm kiss, and John slid his hands around his neck to draw him in again like a man parched, but those musician’s hands were fucking freezing when they slipped under John’s shirt and he flinched.
“Christ,” he gasped, fingers snagging in Sherlock’s hair, but the bastard only grinned against John’s neck, the tip of his nose like a piece of ice trailing up his jugular.
The bloody cheek.
“Sherlock,” he huffed between breaths, pulling his face back in order to rediscover that ridiculous jawline.
“Hmm?” He innocuously replied just as John reached the bump of his Adams apple and felt it hum beneath his lips. His mind going blank, John hungrily tasted his skin, taking in the pale, delicate skin that was almost translucent in the cold light. His hand came up to hold Sherlock’s neck as teeth nipped and sucked at it. It was worth the cold fingers for Sherlock’s gasping groan that made John’s knees buckle and clutch him tighter while Sherlock threw a hand up against the wallpaper and zealously pressed John against it so that their hearts lined up to pound against one another. John didn’t miss how much faster Sherlock’s was beating, nor did he miss the tremble to his cold touch as his fingers drew lines down John’s face even as he leant into them.
“Should I be … concerned … about how … how cold … you feel…?” John managed between the kisses that he had so dearly missed. His eyes had closed once more and his hands were blindly making slow work of Sherlock’s blasted placket buttons. He really had put an effort into surprizing him last night, then.
“You think too much, Doctor,” Sherlock’s low timbre beneath John’s earlobe made him shiver and his fingers fumbled and slipped. Instead, Sherlock made nimble work of John’s simple shirt and vest, and he huffed in frustration, which Sherlock turned into a little hum of satisfaction as his hands wound around his waist beneath the cloth, spreading his hands flat against his back.
Finally finished with the accursed buttons, John went to slide the shirt off his sharp shoulders, but with startling speed and force, Sherlock snatched his wrists away from his collar, something dark quickly flashing in his eyes. John raised an eyebrow, but before he could pause to frown up at him, Sherlock quickly made his eyes sly, and deftly pinned him to the wall, capturing John’s hands above his head and kissed him off guard and open-mouthed, so that when he ground his hips against him, John groaned breathily into his mouth.
“You prat,” he gasped, and he was grinning, but something in his brain wouldn’t keep quiet.
“Too easy…” Sherlock shrugged, his eyes were alight with a burning hunger. John wriggled one of his hands free and got his revenge by slipping a deft hand down the back of his trousers and Sherlock groaned, snatching hair in one hand and the skin at his wrist in another.
Christ, John had missed this feeling of being so close, so intertwined that it was hard to breathe, hard to see anything awful in the world. Hard to see past those gleaming blue eyes that only shone when Sherlock was neck deep in a case – eyes that only shone when he was doing something he truly loved, and now they were shining down at him.
John wanted to pull Sherlock even closer, wanted to kiss him senseless and tuck him under warm blankets and show him what two years without him resulted in.
Finally freeing his other hand, John circled Sherlock’s narrow waist and pulled his belt so that he was properly tucked between the wall and Sherlock’s body, and slowly tasted the soft skin along his collarbone. His lips came across a blushing bruise and John paused when Sherlock flinched.
“Sorry, love.” John mumbled, the guilt and chagrin from the tumble last night not looking like it was going to fade nearly as fast as the bruise itself. But Sherlock ignored him, making quick work of John’s belt, hurling it over his shoulder before tugging the waistband of his trousers towards his.
“God I’ve missed this…” His voice had a gasping stutter to it, and he fisted the material of John’s shirt in his fingers as he paused for breath. Frowning, John nodded in agreement into his skin, but worry was soon rearing its ugly head.
The doctor pulled at his waist affectionately, meaning to gently probe for answers, and for a heartbeat he thought he felt Sherlock freeze at his touch, as if he knew (of course he bloody knew). Sherlock ignored him by letting his hands roam and buried his head against John’s neck. Literally hiding.
What the hell–?
But then his teeth started nipping and sucking at the soft skin at his neck the way he knew John couldn’t resist and good lord–
John moaned, but when his fingers dug into his lower back, Sherlock flinched against him, arching his back with something that resembled a whimper.
“Sherlock?” Cold flooded through him and John pulled his face back and kissed him gently on the cheek, “What’s wrong…?” He instinctively slid his hands up his slender back to embrace him, but they were met with something new. Something that did not belong. John’s kiss slowed to a stop and so did Sherlock’s hands, as the doctor’s fingers ran over scar tissue like it was brail before it clicked.
John’s eyes snapped open and both men froze. His brain was reeling as it tried to tell him something that John absolutely refused to believe. He watched Sherlock take a shuddering, heaving breath, seemingly frozen to the spot with his hands reaching up to hold himself against the wall – starring right through John as pain tugged his mouth into a grimace. John snapped into action, heart pounding with fear as he recognized the withdrawal symptoms flashing through Sherlock’s body.
“John, wait–”
But he’d already nimbly slipped under Sherlock’s raised arm and now it was his turn to push Sherlock against the wall before pulling his shirt up to reveal his back–
A strangled, animal noise stuttered from John as he stumbled back a step, overcome with nausea as he took in the clusters of scars criss-crossing Sherlock’s shoulder blades and back, some still a soft, fleshy pink while others had healed to be even paler than his skin. A litany of bruises covered the rest of him, already healed to become an alarming yellowish brown, and he looked visibly thinner – gaunter. Sherlock had always been lean, but now the bones in his spine pressed through his skin, his shoulder blades looking sharp enough to cut through behind the deepest and darkest of the scars.
Utterly numb, John reached a tentative, still disbelieving hand out to gently touch the scarred and bruised skin, tracing the awful lines with delicate and trembling fingers, before Sherlock quivered at the touch. He was instantly reminded of the little brawl they’d had the previous night as his date had fled and the rest of the diners gasped and pointed – reminded of the pained grimace that crumpled Sherlock’s face as he slammed him to the ground, and John felt sick. Now, the scars blurred from view as John blinked away new tears and sucked in a shuddering breath before a hand clapped over his mouth to try and smother a moaning sob.
He looked back up at Sherlock and found him with his head bowed and palms flush against the wallpaper, and his heart broke.
The drugs were wearing off fast; the pain swelling and crashing over him like a wave that Sherlock was powerless to stop. His mind, which rarely betrayed him, plunged him back into that cellar and he gasped against it. He didn’t even realise he was standing in a similar placating gesture as he had all those weeks ago until he heard John calling his name. He sounded so far away…
Pain slashed at him again and again, scorching trails of fire, and he gritted his teeth and his arms shook above him and the room swayed as he swallowed a moan, his screams echoing in his head and the pain kept crashing and crashing and crashing––
John… John I cant do this without you… he felt tears well up through his panic and pain – could feel the burning, wracking sob that was crawling up the back of his throat threatening to break free.
You’ve had the heart burnt out of you, Sherlock…
Shut up…! Sherlock flinched violently away from that voice. The voice that started all of this – the voice that had ruined his life with John… who had ruined John’s life right along with his, too.
John…
Sherlock remembered chanting John’s name to himself during the worst weeks of his life, remembered that down there in the darkest cellar in all of Serbia, John was the one thing that got him through. His beacon of light; his guide through the seven levels of hell. Even after Mycroft had finally got him out, even after Sherlock had filled himself with enough drugs to shutter every memory back into that cold, dark hole of a room, John’s face still managed to float above the hallucinogens to guide him back home…
“Sherlock…” John’s voice was shredded with emotion, “Sherlock, love–” he whispered, ducking back under Sherlock’s raised and trembling arms to squeeze between him and the wall to cup his cheek. Sherlock’s eyes finally refocused back on his and he dropped his arms, before blinking and slowly sinking to the floor, seeming to come back to himself at last.
“You’re okay. You’re safe.” John nodded as he knelt before him, but he couldn’t stop the tears from running. He waited for Sherlock to nod back at him, which just set off whole body quakes, before he took the collar of his shirt and whispered, “I’m going to check you out, alright?”
Sherlock did not answer, but he gave in when John carefully drew his shirt away completely. He wouldn’t meet his eyes because he knew what John would find.
Sure enough, his left arm revealed dozens of needle marks – recent ones too; at least within the last 24 hours, and John’s stomach sunk.
“Oh, love…” John’s voice trailed off, never expecting to have Sherlock back from the dead and still feel heartbroken. But knowing what he did about hell, John figured you couldn’t come back from it without some sort of payment.
What John wasn’t expecting to find, were the scars and deep blushing plum marks around Sherlock’s wrists. He cursed the simple deductions that had rubbed off over the handful of years to become hybrid entities with his medical knowledge – he hated knowing that these were weight-bearing injuries caused from being tethered with chains for days, maybe even weeks, on end – hated knowing that his left wrist hadn’t been strong enough and had healed at an ever so slightly wrong angle. He hated imagining Sherlock's screams.
John could feel the sickness and horror bubbling inside of him as he numbly rose to his feet. Looking down at Sherlock crumpled on the floor – already so distant and rapidly sinking below the surface of reality like a boat – John suddenly couldn’t breathe.
He looked so small and vulnerable for possibly the first time ever. It struck John the hardest because no matter what he was faced with, he always took it on face first, with a steely determination that he had usually only seen on the battlefield. Even the first time they were together, the closest Sherlock got was being slightly miffed. Much to John’s exasperation, Sherlock once again took it all in his stride and redefined the term ‘a fast learner’.
But now – now he looked positively childlike and his heart shattered. He was filled with sorrow and the rawest version of empathy as he paced over to his armchair, fighting the urge to scream into the pillows while the room spun.
The two years without him had been… the two… two years–– the realisation suddenly settled in like clockwork snapping into place and John bodily flinched, suddenly needing to throw up and steading himself against the high back of the chair, before the soldier settled back into his bones.
“I’ll kill them.” He growled.
“They’re long gone, John.” Sherlock whispered from the floor where he’d used his coat as a bed as he shivered, “Myself and Mycroft took care of that.”
“Mycroft.” He spat, and Sherlock huffed a supportive cough. “Two years, and Mycroft knew?” John exploded, fist slamming down on the small side table next to him, making a saucer jump.
Sherlock was pale and drained as he watched him from the floor, and shaking his head looked like it took all of his energy. John rushed to him, regretting his neglect instantly.
“No, not two years. Not there, anyway.” Sherlock’s voice was ragged and grating. “I– I’m honestly not sure how long it was…”
“It… it doesn’t matter now,” John lied, “What matters is you’re back now. You’re here with me.” Well, at least that was the truth. “I’ll fetch you some water–”
“My– my stash, John…”
“No, Sherlock, you know I’m never giving that filth to you. We’ll get through this together.”
Sherlock moaned and panted, tossing on the floor with his coat, but this at least, John was used to. He’d been here before, helping Sherlock out of his withdrawals, so he tried to just focus on one thing at a time. Just one step. The rest he could worry about later.
Sherlock clutched at John when he returned and sunk next to him on the ground, a hiccupping sob breaking loose from his groans and hyperventilating as John snatched him close to cradle him against his chest – kissing the top of his reckless curls and never wanting to let go.
“I’m sorry… ’m s–sw–sworry,” Sherlock moaned, shivering and jolting sporadically in his fit.
“Hush, love.” John soothed.
“I– ’mnot assstrong azyu are, Jawn.” He slurred, head dropping forward. John deftly lifted his head back up and placed it onto his shoulder.
“Stop it. Just shut up, alright? You are the best and smartest man I have ever had the pleasure of meeting, Sherlock Holmes.” John whispered, gently brushing his temple with his thumb. He couldn’t stop kissing the top of his head.
Sherlock mumbled something in tongues, but John thought he caught a ‘love you’ in there somewhere and he smiled softly against his hair, inhaling in the smell of his shampoo and sweat and cologne.
They were both worn out – utterly emotionally spent. Sherlock was crashing hard from withdrawals, and John was too destroyed to sleep and yet he couldn’t keep his eyes open. He had just enough energy to drag the blanket from the sofa over them both, where they hid from the cruel world that had hurt them and spat them back out and gave them back to one another.
“I love you too, Sherlock.”
…
John looked down at the steaming coffee cup slowly burning his fingers.
“Look, Greg, I don’t know what else to tell you that I didn’t yesterday morning.” John took a sip from his own hot coffee and winced as it burned the roof of his mouth. Sherlock, still in his withdrawal stage, had demanded “some sort of stimulants, John, if I’m to suffer this intolerable plane of existence!”
He had reached the tetchy, petulant stage it seemed – John smiled affectionately down at the coffee, glad to be back to some sort of normalcy at long last.
“I know, I know, I just…” Lestrade came to a stop two doors away from 221b. “John, as a colleague, and as a friend, I just want to make sure he’s okay, y’know?”
John hesitated, not wanting to let his mind wander too far from coffee and over into darker, more nightmarish territory.
“Listen… even as a doctor, you know it’s not my place to tell you, Greg. It’s really not something I even want to repeat or think about, if I’m honest.” John swallowed more hot coffee, this time welcoming the grimace.
There were a few beats of silence as Greg took him in before nodding.
“Right. Was it…?” He gestured vaguely with his spare hand, surely having already read between the lines.
John sighed, slumping with resignation, “Torture? Yeah… yeah it was.” He frowned and shook his head as if to shake away the images that haunted him whenever he closed his eyes.
Lestrade blanched, his coffee long forgotten, “Blimey, I’m… I’m sorry, John. Christ… I can’t believe bloody Mycroft didn’t say anything about it this morning!”
A deep scowl carved into John’s face at the mention of Sherlock’s older brother – he would like a few words with Mycroft himself… maybe a few blows, too. But then he frowned when he registered just exactly what Greg had said.
“Wait what…? Why were you with Mycroft this morning?” John looked at his watch – it wasn’t even half eight.
Greg grew even paler and started shuffling his feet.
“Oh… er, nah, just… er… official government police business, y’know. Hah…”
He was no Sherlock Holmes, but John watched the deep blush creep up from under his collar (the collar of the same shirt he was wearing at yesterday’s coffee meet up) and colour his entire face as he pointedly sipped his coffee, looking away. John raised his eyebrows, chuckling.
“Oh shut up, John…”