Work Text:
Softly Full of Rain
John bolted awake, sitting straight up in bed. He could feel the cold sweat clinging to the cotton of his vest, the panic in his screaming lungs, his pulse pounding through his temples. Visions of bloodied remains, of IED residue, of cracked helmets caked in sand; that was normal. New was the vision of Sherlock, gasping out wet-sounding breath as he drowned in his own blood, his lungs collapsing from the inside, filling with fluid as his ribs were visibly pointing the wrong way around.
John was up and out of bed before he knew his body had moved. He stumbled blindly down the stairs, the images of Sherlock coughing wetly and asking for John the only thing he needed to know. It had been only fifty three nights since Sherlock had returned, and John still wasn’t used to the feeling of being back in Baker Street.
John felt desperate, his racing heartbeat still feeling labored, and every breath sounded like a sob. He banged through the sitting room door, expecting to see Sherlock sprawled out on the sofa, but the room was empty and cold. John felt panic spiral dangerously from the pit of his stomach outward. His hands clenched into his own bare thighs, the sweat-damp fabric of his pants feeling cold and exposed in the still air.
Turning quickly and not allowing himself time to think, John raced towards Sherlock’s bedroom, the sodium light from the kitchen window barely illuminating the closed door. John pushed at the wood, desperate to see with his own eyes, to know. It swung open noiselessly and so easily John swayed in the door frame, balanced between panic and relief when he saw Sherlock curled on his side in his own bed for once. He barely stirred in his sleep, but John was already on the bed, shuffling up beside him and covering his body with as many limbs as he could.
In the back of his mind, John knew this wasn’t normal for flatmates, or even friends. A man in his early forties did not just climb into another man’s bed without being involved in the kind of relationship people always inferred about them. However, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he needed Sherlock closer. He just needed to hold him, to reassure himself that he was here, alive and whole, breathing and uninjured. He buried his face in the back of Sherlock’s neck and tried to calm himself, breathing in the scent of Sherlock’s skin, the crisp and obviously barely used linen, and the warm, comforting smell of sleep.
: :
Sherlock woke with a sharp inhalation; the feeling of constriction alerting him before his body even registered the man shaking against his back. The sound was muffled, but absolutely present, and Sherlock was momentarily confused. His mind raced to catch up, but his body was reacting on its own, his right arm already moving to wrap around John’s, long fingers stroking along John’s knuckles where he had clenched his fist into the front of Sherlock’s tee shirt. John whimpered and shuffled impossibly closer, muscles tense and rigid, clutching at Sherlock like a life line.
Sherlock deliberately slowed his breathing, evening it out and concentrating on his pulse. He was instinctively emitting calm, trying to quiet John’s distress by minimizing his own body’s reactions. John just clutched him tighter, arm pushing painfully against Sherlock’s ribs, and pressing his sweaty forehead into the top of Sherlock’s spine. Sherlock was almost startled to find he didn’t mind the pressure, but the distress and pain radiating off John was making him feel ill and unsettled.
“John,” he croaked, his voice cracked with sleep and disuse. John shivered, and Sherlock felt his own body respond, synapses firing as his mind caught up to full alertness. Sherlock shifted, wrapping his larger hand around John’s and gently beginning to pry his fingers open. “John, what is it? What’s happened?”
John took a shaky breath and shook his head, the front of his body plastered up against Sherlock’s back so hard Sherlock could feel his trembling muscles against the back of his thighs. Sherlock’s alarm ratcheted up a notch and he tried to glance over his shoulder, but his movement was restricted by John’s tightly wrapped arms around his torso. Instead he took a deep breath, feeling John’s chest move with him and worked on John’s tightly clamped fingers, gently rubbing along them with his own until he felt them marginally relax.
He could feel John’s muffled sobs dampening the back of his shirt. He could feel the trembling getting stronger and the noises more desperate, and his own feeling of helplessness was making Sherlock’s chest ache.
“May I turn around?” he asked softly. He waited an indeterminable amount of time before John finally nodded, sniffling loudly and still shuddering, but his hold softened and he pulled back a fraction. Sherlock shuffled forward and rolled over, rotating his shoulder to slide his right arm under John’s neck and allowing his left to wrap around the small of John’s back. John returned the embrace immediately, squeezing Sherlock so hard he let out a small involuntary huff of breath.
“Sorry. I’m sorry,” John whimpered, voice muffled against the side of Sherlock’s neck and he began to pull away.
Sherlock tightened his own arms, sliding his left knee between John’s and hooking his ankle around John’s calf, pulling him incredibly closer so their bodies were pressed entirely together from forehead to toes. “Shhh, John. Don’t be ridiculous. What could you possibly have to apologize for?”
He ran his fingers through the soft hair on the back of John’s head, guiding his face back down into the crook of his neck and concentrating on breathing normally. John tensed for a fraction of a second before he seemed to melt, all the tension fading from him as he simply let go and allowed himself to be held.
Sherlock hummed in satisfaction, running his palm along the length of John’s spine in a subconsciously soothing motion, the fingers of his right hand flexing and rubbing small circles into the base of John’s skull. He could feel the man calming in small increments, and resisted the urge to brush his lips across the top of his head.
: :
“Thank you,” John murmured many minutes later, his voice cracked and ruined. He allowed his body to relax, taking comfort in the heat and gentle pressure of Sherlock’s embrace. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been held so closely to another person, and the overwhelming feeling of rightness did more to soothe his jagged nerves than the impossibly long fingers sweeping through his hair.
John knew he should feel embarrassed, pressed so closely against his friend in a distinctly non-platonic fashion, but he was so far beyond embarrassment it was nearly laughable. The relief was overwhelming; the steady in and out rhythm of Sherlock’s breath calming his own into vague normalcy, the solid press of his body tightly slotted against John’s proving that he was here, alive and whole, and John couldn’t even bring himself to care about the moisture on his cheeks as he rubbed his face into Sherlock’s pale throat.
“Shhh, John. It’s alright,” Sherlock muttered, his low baritone rolling through John’s body in soothing waves as his hand slid up and down John’s back, rubbing unconscious circles against his spine in an effort to calm him more.
“I’m sorry, Sherlock,” John whispered again, feeling his breath catch on the name, memories of blood and death ripping along the edge of his conscious mind and leaving a void of fear and pain in their wake. John closed his eyes tight, squeezing his arms again around Sherlock’s narrow torso and pulling a shuddering breath from the man’s lungs.
“John, for god’s sake stop apologizing,” Sherlock whispered into the top of his head, and the familiarity of the impatient tone was more comfort than John would ever admit. Still, he felt he should explain.
“I just… I need. Needed—"
“You can have whatever you want, John,” Sherlock interrupted, his voice velvet deep and soothing. John could feel the warm tones wrapping around his ribs and settling along his spine, sinking into his skin and imprinting this man into his body forever. John felt his breath hitch as another sob forced its way out, unbidden and unwanted, but too painful to suppress.
“Oh John,” Sherlock sighed and carefully rolled them both, pulling John with him as he settled onto his back. John allowed his limbs to be rearranged for him, Sherlock’s gentle fingers tugging at his arms and placing him comfortably across Sherlock’s chest. John tried to match the steady swell of Sherlock’s breath, feeling his body quiet into something resembling normality. He felt the subtle shift of muscle under his cheek as Sherlock reached down and tugged the duvet up, covering both of them in the warm, heavy cotton and down.
John felt impossibly safe here: cocooned in the shelter of Sherlock’s bed and cradled so gently against his chest. He tried to ignore the persistent thoughts spinning in his brain that this was far from normal, but his body tensed anyway, and he felt Sherlock’s hands immediately resume their soothing strokes; his left tangled in the back of John’s hair and his right moving in concentric circles over John’s bare skin where his vest at rucked up in the back. John shivered at the pleasant feeling of skin-to-skin contact and tucked his chin in against Sherlock’s sternum, pressing his ear to Sherlock’s chest and letting the steady thump of Sherlock’s heart reverberate through his skull.
“That’s it, John. Let it go,” Sherlock rumbled, the vibrations of his words travelling up through his chest and into John, even has his fingers continued their gentle petting. “Listen to my voice. Feel my breathing. Relax.”
John felt his own fingers uncurl and he flattened his palms to Sherlock’s sides, feeling the warmth of his skin through the thin layer of cotton. He let his legs relax, right knee falling naturally between Sherlock’s thighs and left lengthening to stretch perfectly against the mattress. He was probably crushing the man, but Sherlock didn’t seem to mind, still holding him close against his chest and whispering soothing words into his hair.
: :
Sherlock felt all the tension seep out of John in waves. He finally relaxed entirely, letting his body slot itself naturally against Sherlock’s taller frame and Sherlock was startled to realize he was completely comfortable like this. John’s weight across his torso was oddly comforting, and even the pressure where his pelvis was pressing Sherlock’s back into the mattress seemed to feel right in ways it probably shouldn’t.
Sherlock had never felt this instinctive need to comfort and protect with anyone else before, but he recognized now the possessive nature of his sentiment. John Watson was his, and nothing would ever, ever threaten that again.
John’s breath was coming in slow, deep pulls now, his hands curling around Sherlock’s hip bones and seeming to tether him somehow. Sherlock found it strangely calming: the feeling of John’s calloused and warm fingers wrapping tightly around his skin where his pajama trousers had slipped down in his sleep. John’s thumbs were tracing small circles against his bare skin and Sherlock felt a shiver of pure pleasure travel down the length of his spine to pool unexpectedly in his lower abdomen. Usually the mere thought of someone touching him this intimately left him battling with less than vague feelings of disgust and dread. John was different, though, and he always had been.
After many minutes, John sighed against him: a gust of air that stirred the fabric of his shirt and made Sherlock inexplicably wish he’d slept naked. “I should probably go back to bed,” John whispered softly, and Sherlock felt a pang of regret at the words.
“Don’t be absurd, John,” he said instead, minutely tightening his hold around John’s shoulders and keeping him firmly in place. “You’ll sleep better here anyway.”
John huffed a pathetic excuse for a laugh against his chest and Sherlock felt his own heart clench at the sound. John shuffled a little in a half-hearted attempt to break away, but Sherlock tugged him back into place, laying a firm arm across his shoulder blades and running his thumb along the nape of his neck. He felt John shiver at the movement and smiled quietly into the darkness.
“Stay, John. Please.” Sherlock took the chance and brushed his lips softly along John’s forehead. He felt John’s shoulders tense briefly, and clutched him tighter. “I want you to stay.”
John’s head lifted up sharply, and Sherlock allowed the movement, his hand sliding from the back of John’s skull to rest on the side of his neck instead. They stared at each other in silence for what felt like a lifetime, John’s face achingly open and vulnerable in the dim light, and his throat working around a heavy swallow. Sherlock read all the hesitancy and hope etched into his features, and the bottom of his stomach seemed to drop, anticipation and want warring for purchase somewhere beneath his ribs.
Keeping his movements deliberately slow, Sherlock lifted his neck from the pillow and closed the gap between them, his mouth parting to puff a small breath across John’s lips as he stilled and waited, hovering centimeters away. John made a tortured sound and leaned forward.
: :
John felt his heart clench at the first gentle brush of Sherlock’s lips against his. The aching need that had taken up residency in his chest seemed to finally ease, leaving him feeling lighter and freer than ever before. He slid his hand up Sherlock’s side, fingers catching against his shirt and stuttering over prominent ribs and sharp collarbones before wrapping around the back of his neck and pulling him closer.
Sherlock made a noise in the back of his throat and John felt his own body tingle in response. It sounded like relief and heartbreak, like longing and hope, like home and comfort, and John couldn’t believe he hadn’t identified these feelings before. He wasn’t sure when he’d fallen in love with this man, but it was abundantly clear and so obvious he couldn’t believe he’d missed it in all these years and months of waiting. How had he lived without the feeling of Sherlock in his arms? How could he have missed the telltale signs of infatuation and contentment? It seemed suddenly absurd and John pressed forward more, opening his mouth wider and dragging is tongue along the inside of Sherlock’s bottom lip.
Sherlock groaned and matched the movement, sliding his tongue against John’s with such tender sensuality John felt his toes curl against the mattress. He saw the opportunity clearly before him: he could take this a step farther, he could push a little more and the balance between exploration and comfort, and heat and desire would break. John pulled back and rested his forehead against Sherlock’s, panting a little to clear his head. He could make this about sex, but it felt wrong tonight.
Sherlock’s long fingers were tangled at the back of his hair again, and the simple movement of his thumb caressing the edge of his jaw was enough to have John’s blood humming with arousal. This could happen. But not tonight.
“Hmm,” Sherlock purred, leaning up to brush his lips against the corner of John’s mouth. “Anything you want. I’m a patient man.”
John snorted despite himself, and he felt Sherlock’s wry smile against his cheek before he amended: “In this, John. I’m patient in this. Take as much time as you need. I’ve waited five years for you; I can abide a little while longer.”
John closed his eyes as Sherlock kissed his forehead, and allowed himself to be pulled down against a wiry chest; Sherlock’s arms enfolding him again as he rested his chin on the top of John’s head. The remnants of memory were still tugging at the edges of his vision; the pain and panic of the nightmare still settled uncomfortably at the base of his spine, but John allowed himself to be comforted, slotted here amongst the high thread count and expensive pillows that smelt of Sherlock.
He could feel the slow tendrils of sleep beginning to claw at his consciousness and he sighed into Sherlock’s neck, feeling the warm weight of Sherlock’s arms around his back, the slow rise and fall of his breath beneath his chest, and the steady pulse against his lips. He didn’t worry about what this meant for his heterosexuality. He couldn’t bother with the semantics tonight. All he knew was that he was comfortable and content, drifting slowly into sleep within the arms of the man could finally admit he loved.
: :
Sherlock smiled quietly into the darkness, holding John against him as he drifted back into slumber. He wasn’t positive of the precise details of the nightmare that had woken John, but he could deduce the basics enough to know the subject. It seemed John had finally come to his own conclusions on his feelings regarding Sherlock, and that was surely something to celebrate. Sherlock knew of his own dangerous attachment to John, but he was uncharacteristically unsure if his feelings were returned in quite such a manner. Nearly two months of dancing around each other had Sherlock on edge and fidgety and he hadn’t liked the feeling at all.
John stirred in his sleep, his body unconsciously settling itself into the wells and valleys of Sherlock’s musculature. Through the open window, Sherlock could hear the patter of the ever present London rain against the concrete, and the air appeared to shift, sudden possibility and endless optimism seeming to unfurl before him in the night.
John shifted again, rubbing his face into Sherlock’s neck and sighing contentedly. Sherlock rested his lips against the sandy grey hair beneath his chin and took a deep breath, inhaling the perfect scent of John Watson: warm wool and antiseptic and earl grey and testosterone. He felt John’s lips brush gently across his collarbone in his sleep, and Sherlock felt his body’s reaction as warmth flooded through his veins. This was happening. This was real.
“Finally,” he whispered, and closed his eyes.
Felt the wind’s direction bringing change
Clouds so softly full of rain,
The summer fell and the winter sprang
Now it’s all a feeling I can’t get back again.
Throw your arms around my neck,
I won’t be soon to forget.
~Untitled (Love Song), Counting Crows