to own your fears like soldiers; Sherlock; R
I wrote some Sherlock fic! This is literally the first fanfic I've completed in...maybe three years? Just under, I think. Craziness.
to own your fears like soldiers
[ sherlock/john, R ]
Directly following The Great Game. They make it out alive, but neither of them is all right.
They run from the poolside in a blind, pulsating burst, half braced for a rain of sniper fire, and feel themselves thrown from their footing as the air explodes behind them, inches from the doorway.
John dives, relaxing instinctively into the force of the blast and taking Sherlock to the ground with him as shards of concrete and scorched tile fly around them and the heat, oh, the heat.
They’re on the ground for perhaps a full minute, until the debris has settled and Sherlock is dragging him to his feet, eyes glazed and saying come on. There’s a blinding pain through his left ear (perforated, only to be expected) and he staggers, off balance.
Are you all right, he hears through one ear, and Sherlock’s looking at him with desperation and he hears himself say again yeah, I’m fine, fine as a hand grips his wrist and they start to run again, adrenaline all that’s keeping them upright.
Sherlock has a gash on his temple, a glancing blow probably, still needs attention, and John reaches out clumsily but they’ve reached the main road, which main road, God only knows. Pentonville. Islington, he remembers now, this is good, and there’s a cab with its light on approaching.
“UCH, please-“ he starts as they collapse on worn upholstery, voice hoarse and barely audible, and before he can clear his throat Sherlock speaks over him, reciting their address. He tries to protest, half babbling, but Sherlock shakes his head silently and John has no energy to argue. The world’s gray and fuzzy around the edges, a faint ringing in his ears, and he focuses everything he has on staying conscious.
Everything slows down, subtly. The din quiets. He feels himself slipping.
“John?”
Damn.
His darkened vision clears, and he blinks round at Sherlock who’s crouched beside him, looking expectantly towards his door. “We’re back.”
“Right,” he murmurs, disoriented, fumbling for the door handle. Shouldn’t have blacked out that quickly, probably concussed, God they really should be in hospital.
Clambering onto the pavement, his legs give way instantly and he feels one strong arm hook under his shoulder.
“Told you those tequila shots were a bad idea,” Sherlock says loudly with a false slur, covering as they both struggle for footing. The driver seems vastly unconcerned, favouring them with a smirk before revving his engine and speeding away into the night.
“Nice cover,” John manages, disentangling himself from Sherlock’s arm as he takes a ginger step towards their door.
“Probably wholly unnecessary, since he’d already failed to notice my gaping head wound, your bleeding ear and the multitude of bruises we’re both sporting.”
“I’ve had worse nights out.”
“Naturally.”
They’re talking just to stay focused, to stay with it long enough to get inside, and Sherlock’s got the key out which is good because he’s struck down by another wave of dizziness and it’s all he can do to be upright.
“Explain to me again why we’re not in A&E?” he asks quietly, leaning heavily against the railing.
“Mycroft.”
“What? What’s he-?”
Sherlock doesn’t respond, eyes narrowed in concentration as the task of putting key in lock seems to momentarily conquer him.
“You might have a concussion,” John frowned, his other line of questioning temporarily forgotten.
“Oh, almost certainly.”
They’re inside suddenly, staggering up the stairs which seem far steeper than usual - has that oddly-shaped stain to the left of the banister always been there, he wonders irrelevantly, lack of cognitive focus, this is all very bad.
“Don’t,” Sherlock snaps as he reaches for the light switch, once they’re in and the door’s closed behind them. John fixes him with an accusing glare, which would have a lot more impact if the lights were on.
“Don’t suppose I need to tell you what photophobia’s symptomatic of?”
“A variety of ocular and neurological conditions which would take far too long to list,” Sherlock replies lazily, folding himself into the nearest chair and pulling his coat tighter around him in a dramatic swoop. “Calm down,” he murmurs, off John’s hiss of frustration, “there’s nothing they’d do for concussion in A&E anyway. Besides, I’m quite enjoying it as a state of mind. It’s…uncluttered.”
“Right. Fine.”
He sways, grips onto a shelf for support, swallowing. Keeps forgetting the eardrum, no wonder his balance is fucked. He still can’t hear much from that side but that’s expected, at least it’s not hurting now, really, just throbbing, dull and constant.
“Sit down,” comes Sherlock’s voice, rich and weary. It’s not a bad idea. He sits.
The world gradually rights itself. The living room’s freezing, John realises, both the windows still blown out and shoddily boarded up with cardboard. Need to do something about that. It can probably wait.
“So, again - what did Mycroft have to do with this?”
“He had to have known,” Sherlock murmurs, more to himself than in response. “Sooner than I did, even, when the message…”
He trails off and John squints into the darkness, trying to make eye contact.
“Sherlock.”
“Hm?”
“What are you on about?”
“Oh. Isn’t it obvious? Those weren’t Moriarty’s snipers. Hence our not being gunned down the minute I took aim at that bomb, and the bomb rather conveniently not being detonated until after we were clear of the building.”
Sherlock’s words drive him back, for a moment, to the minutes (hours?) when it had been strapped against his chest, wires heavy and coiled, set to blow him apart in a heartbeat. He swallows.
“D’you think he’s dead?”
“Unlikely.”
He’s distracted, thumbing frenetically at his phone.
“Explosion reported at a building in north London,” he murmurs, still scrolling. “Story developing. Serious structural damage. No mention of casualties.”
“Two in a week’s pushing it. Got to cut back on your explosions,” John says, suppressing a sudden urge to laugh.
“I’m sure Mycroft will be only too eager to fill us in. He’ll have every hospital in London poised to alert him the minute we’re admitted. Hideous prospect. Much better this way.”
“Just to clarify, then,” John starts, but breaks helplessly into a giggle, “we do actually owe him our lives. Mycroft.”
It’s not even funny, but this is bubbling up from somewhere completely irrational and he covers his face, bent double.
“Inappropriate emotional display,” he hears Sherlock say, and his voice is quaking too, “I should have known better than to doubt your medical opinion. Concussion, most definitely.”
“Could just be shock,” John manages, forcing himself to draw breath. “Wouldn’t be unreasonable, given-”
“Ah yes, shock. I’m familiar. Would you like a blanket?”
They both shudder with laughter and John’s reminded of that first mad, brilliant dash through Soho, the clarity of the moment when he’d turned to Sherlock and they’d giggled in shared elation, adrenaline pounding, and his life had made sense to him for the first time in years.
His head thumps against the back of the sofa, muscle tone gone from his neck and he can just close his eyes for a couple of minutes. It won’t matter.
The sun was relentless, blistering. The air too close to breathe.
The man was young, or that’s what John remembers of him though actually, he can’t have been that young because he kept repeating in fractured English that he had four children at home in Kabul, and the eldest was thirteen and the youngest was three months and please not to let him die.
The device wasn’t strapped to him so much as it was fused, locked down by dense, impossible iron slabs.
The EOD team was struggling, one trying to pry the plates apart with a crowbar, and the sickening metal-on-metal scrape rings in his ears.
They give up. Retreat. He’s half-steered by one sergeant who’s screaming at everyone to move back but John’s semi-frozen, eyes fixed on the condemned man. His panicked pleas have faded into inaudible muttering, his eyes closed and maybe he’s praying.
The blast is endless, light and noise and heat. When he comes to moments later there are pieces of the man embedded into John’s flesh, like shrapnel.
“John. John,” and there are cool hands on his face.
He can’t breathe. His diaphragm is paralysed along with the rest of him, cold sweat breaking and he really can’t breathe. He can feel the weight of it on his chest, straps cutting into his shoulder blades, Semtex nestled against his solar plexus. God get it off.
“Open your eyes. Now. Now, John.”
He feels himself shaken, firmly, and he’s not in the desert. He’s not in the pool and there is no bomb but he can feel it. He can be blown to pieces in a second.
A warm weight settles across his lap and Sherlock’s so close suddenly, obscuring everything else from view.
“You’re all right.”
He breathes at last, but it’s strangled and his exhale’s a sob. He presses a fist hard into his chest, trying to push back this blind terror.
“You’re all right,” Sherlock repeats quietly, fingertips pressing into John’s skull, straddled across him. “You are not in Afghanistan. You won’t be again.”
“I can stop John Watson too, stop his heart,” he hears someone garble, the words foreign and distant.
Sherlock looks stricken. His hands still.
John forces air into his lungs. Head bowed and struggling for control, sense memory is working against him. He folds forward, his forehead meeting thick fabric and Sherlock clings on readily, winding long arms around John’s neck and pulling him in closer until they’re cheek to cheek.
“God,” he murmurs, exhaling shakily against Sherlock. His eyes are all prickling heat and he lets tears leak out against their skin, too tired to hold himself together for another second.
“Sorry,” and he’s not sure whether he’s apologizing for this or for what he’d said, and why had he said it, those of all words? Moriarty had forced them on him before, whispering breathless through an earpiece these words and these exactly Johnny boy or he dies now.
Sherlock doesn’t answer but holds onto him hard, one hand cradling the back of John’s bowed head, pressing him against his neck. He breathes in and out against Sherlock’s pulse point (his heart’s racing, a surprise, this), and for a long time, they are still.
“John,” Sherlock says suddenly, breaking the silence, and he starts. He pulls away slightly but Sherlock holds on, gripping his face between firm hands and there’s something suddenly wild in his face.
“What?” he asks, fear stirring dimly in the pit of his stomach again because something is very, very wrong.
“You nearly died.”
“Yes.”
“Today,” Sherlock says, as if this needed clarification. “I thought you would. I looked at him and thought, he’ll do it. He will do it and I can’t stop him. There’s no riddle to solve, there’s nothing he wants out of this, except perhaps the intriguing possibility of making me more like him, and the logical next step towards that end was to kill you and I truly. Truly thought.”
Sherlock’s voice is low and unerringly steady but he’s speaking very fast, faster than is normal for him even at the zenith of a deduction.
“You nearly died,” he says again in a harsh whisper, spine stiffening, hands tightening on John’s shoulders. His eyes are very bright, and he’s shaking.
“Yes,” John repeats, and all at once he’s calm. Sherlock’s mounting distress has had the opposite effect on him and his head is clear and they are okay. They’re in shock and probably concussed, and tonight he came seconds from being blasted into molecules and of course it’s done a number on him. PTSD triggers don’t get much more textbook than that.
And Sherlock, oh, Sherlock, of course he’s falling apart. He can glean a life story from a wristwatch and an exacting chemical analysis from a passing glance, but he knows almost nothing of himself. He understands people better than they do, watches and observes and comprehends, but he has no idea at all how to need someone.
He reaches up and covers Sherlock’s hands with his own, gently easing his grip.
“It’s okay,” he says, and Sherlock stares at him as if he’s speaking a different language then shakes his head, distracted, whispers something John can’t hear.
“What?”
“If he’d killed you…”
He hears it that time. Sherlock’s still straddled across him, legs folded on either side of John’s, and he can feel every inch of him shaking.
“He didn’t,” John says firmly, and runs his hands up Sherlock’s arms to his shoulders, slipping inside his coat to rub slow circles against his sides, desperate to still him.
Their faces are close, Sherlock’s eyes still bright with something that looks so much like panic, and all John wants to do is bring him down, bring him back.
“It’s okay,” he says again, urgently, and when there’s still no response he clasps his fingers into Sherlock’s hair and pulls him the last inch and a half closer and kisses him. It barely even strikes him that this is an unexpected thing to do and if Sherlock is fazed he hides it well, fingertips pressing heavy into John’s shoulders as he leans all his weight down and kisses him back, hard.
He’s not sure what he expected - he’s never really thought much about kissing Sherlock before, except in that vague back-of-his-mind way he’s been thinking about it every second since they met. All he’s mentally capable of taking away from this, as they breathe together and Sherlock’s mouth swells warm against his, is that he doesn’t want to stop.
And for a long time, he doesn’t.
Finally, a gust of wind rushes through the half-boarded window, throwing papers to the ground, sending a chill through them both and they break apart only to draw closer together. Sherlock bends his head into the crook of John’s neck, and he rests his chin against black curls and exhales, deeply.
“Why did you do that?”
Sherlock’s voice is a low hum vibrating against his collarbone.
“It’s…what people do,” he replies slowly, not sure he’s answering the same question that Sherlock’s asking. He has no real answer, except that kissing him in that moment had made more sense than just about anything else he can ever recall doing.
“People, yes. It’s not what you do.”
“It’s not...what d’you mean?”
“You’re generally averse to physical contact. You can hide it where it’s required, but not well. Not uncommon amongst war vets, well recognized in fact as a reaction to particular types of psychological trauma, though in your case it could date back further than your military service. Tolerating it is one thing, but initiating it…”
Sherlock stops then, almost as though he’s restraining himself, perhaps in a rare moment of sensitivity realizing that this isn’t the time to start digging back into the darker recesses of John’s childhood, theorizing about what factors might have negatively affected his psychological development. He’s right, though, and as soon as he’s said it John has no desire to contradict him.
“And yet,” he manages eventually, and in lieu of the words to explain himself he tilts Sherlock’s chin gently upwards and kisses him again. More tentative on both sides now, more loaded and he can feel Sherlock thinking, even as he lets out a low moan and his hips thrust ever so slightly against John his mind is racing, racing.
John rests his thumbs against Sherlock’s temples, cradling his head, and wishes he could will peace into him, force rest upon his tireless mind. His own is blissfully fogged.
The air settles cold and raw around them, but he feels warmer than he has in days.
to own your fears like soldiers
[ sherlock/john, R ]
Directly following The Great Game. They make it out alive, but neither of them is all right.
They run from the poolside in a blind, pulsating burst, half braced for a rain of sniper fire, and feel themselves thrown from their footing as the air explodes behind them, inches from the doorway.
John dives, relaxing instinctively into the force of the blast and taking Sherlock to the ground with him as shards of concrete and scorched tile fly around them and the heat, oh, the heat.
They’re on the ground for perhaps a full minute, until the debris has settled and Sherlock is dragging him to his feet, eyes glazed and saying come on. There’s a blinding pain through his left ear (perforated, only to be expected) and he staggers, off balance.
Are you all right, he hears through one ear, and Sherlock’s looking at him with desperation and he hears himself say again yeah, I’m fine, fine as a hand grips his wrist and they start to run again, adrenaline all that’s keeping them upright.
Sherlock has a gash on his temple, a glancing blow probably, still needs attention, and John reaches out clumsily but they’ve reached the main road, which main road, God only knows. Pentonville. Islington, he remembers now, this is good, and there’s a cab with its light on approaching.
“UCH, please-“ he starts as they collapse on worn upholstery, voice hoarse and barely audible, and before he can clear his throat Sherlock speaks over him, reciting their address. He tries to protest, half babbling, but Sherlock shakes his head silently and John has no energy to argue. The world’s gray and fuzzy around the edges, a faint ringing in his ears, and he focuses everything he has on staying conscious.
Everything slows down, subtly. The din quiets. He feels himself slipping.
“John?”
Damn.
His darkened vision clears, and he blinks round at Sherlock who’s crouched beside him, looking expectantly towards his door. “We’re back.”
“Right,” he murmurs, disoriented, fumbling for the door handle. Shouldn’t have blacked out that quickly, probably concussed, God they really should be in hospital.
Clambering onto the pavement, his legs give way instantly and he feels one strong arm hook under his shoulder.
“Told you those tequila shots were a bad idea,” Sherlock says loudly with a false slur, covering as they both struggle for footing. The driver seems vastly unconcerned, favouring them with a smirk before revving his engine and speeding away into the night.
“Nice cover,” John manages, disentangling himself from Sherlock’s arm as he takes a ginger step towards their door.
“Probably wholly unnecessary, since he’d already failed to notice my gaping head wound, your bleeding ear and the multitude of bruises we’re both sporting.”
“I’ve had worse nights out.”
“Naturally.”
They’re talking just to stay focused, to stay with it long enough to get inside, and Sherlock’s got the key out which is good because he’s struck down by another wave of dizziness and it’s all he can do to be upright.
“Explain to me again why we’re not in A&E?” he asks quietly, leaning heavily against the railing.
“Mycroft.”
“What? What’s he-?”
Sherlock doesn’t respond, eyes narrowed in concentration as the task of putting key in lock seems to momentarily conquer him.
“You might have a concussion,” John frowned, his other line of questioning temporarily forgotten.
“Oh, almost certainly.”
They’re inside suddenly, staggering up the stairs which seem far steeper than usual - has that oddly-shaped stain to the left of the banister always been there, he wonders irrelevantly, lack of cognitive focus, this is all very bad.
“Don’t,” Sherlock snaps as he reaches for the light switch, once they’re in and the door’s closed behind them. John fixes him with an accusing glare, which would have a lot more impact if the lights were on.
“Don’t suppose I need to tell you what photophobia’s symptomatic of?”
“A variety of ocular and neurological conditions which would take far too long to list,” Sherlock replies lazily, folding himself into the nearest chair and pulling his coat tighter around him in a dramatic swoop. “Calm down,” he murmurs, off John’s hiss of frustration, “there’s nothing they’d do for concussion in A&E anyway. Besides, I’m quite enjoying it as a state of mind. It’s…uncluttered.”
“Right. Fine.”
He sways, grips onto a shelf for support, swallowing. Keeps forgetting the eardrum, no wonder his balance is fucked. He still can’t hear much from that side but that’s expected, at least it’s not hurting now, really, just throbbing, dull and constant.
“Sit down,” comes Sherlock’s voice, rich and weary. It’s not a bad idea. He sits.
The world gradually rights itself. The living room’s freezing, John realises, both the windows still blown out and shoddily boarded up with cardboard. Need to do something about that. It can probably wait.
“So, again - what did Mycroft have to do with this?”
“He had to have known,” Sherlock murmurs, more to himself than in response. “Sooner than I did, even, when the message…”
He trails off and John squints into the darkness, trying to make eye contact.
“Sherlock.”
“Hm?”
“What are you on about?”
“Oh. Isn’t it obvious? Those weren’t Moriarty’s snipers. Hence our not being gunned down the minute I took aim at that bomb, and the bomb rather conveniently not being detonated until after we were clear of the building.”
Sherlock’s words drive him back, for a moment, to the minutes (hours?) when it had been strapped against his chest, wires heavy and coiled, set to blow him apart in a heartbeat. He swallows.
“D’you think he’s dead?”
“Unlikely.”
He’s distracted, thumbing frenetically at his phone.
“Explosion reported at a building in north London,” he murmurs, still scrolling. “Story developing. Serious structural damage. No mention of casualties.”
“Two in a week’s pushing it. Got to cut back on your explosions,” John says, suppressing a sudden urge to laugh.
“I’m sure Mycroft will be only too eager to fill us in. He’ll have every hospital in London poised to alert him the minute we’re admitted. Hideous prospect. Much better this way.”
“Just to clarify, then,” John starts, but breaks helplessly into a giggle, “we do actually owe him our lives. Mycroft.”
It’s not even funny, but this is bubbling up from somewhere completely irrational and he covers his face, bent double.
“Inappropriate emotional display,” he hears Sherlock say, and his voice is quaking too, “I should have known better than to doubt your medical opinion. Concussion, most definitely.”
“Could just be shock,” John manages, forcing himself to draw breath. “Wouldn’t be unreasonable, given-”
“Ah yes, shock. I’m familiar. Would you like a blanket?”
They both shudder with laughter and John’s reminded of that first mad, brilliant dash through Soho, the clarity of the moment when he’d turned to Sherlock and they’d giggled in shared elation, adrenaline pounding, and his life had made sense to him for the first time in years.
His head thumps against the back of the sofa, muscle tone gone from his neck and he can just close his eyes for a couple of minutes. It won’t matter.
The sun was relentless, blistering. The air too close to breathe.
The man was young, or that’s what John remembers of him though actually, he can’t have been that young because he kept repeating in fractured English that he had four children at home in Kabul, and the eldest was thirteen and the youngest was three months and please not to let him die.
The device wasn’t strapped to him so much as it was fused, locked down by dense, impossible iron slabs.
The EOD team was struggling, one trying to pry the plates apart with a crowbar, and the sickening metal-on-metal scrape rings in his ears.
They give up. Retreat. He’s half-steered by one sergeant who’s screaming at everyone to move back but John’s semi-frozen, eyes fixed on the condemned man. His panicked pleas have faded into inaudible muttering, his eyes closed and maybe he’s praying.
The blast is endless, light and noise and heat. When he comes to moments later there are pieces of the man embedded into John’s flesh, like shrapnel.
“John. John,” and there are cool hands on his face.
He can’t breathe. His diaphragm is paralysed along with the rest of him, cold sweat breaking and he really can’t breathe. He can feel the weight of it on his chest, straps cutting into his shoulder blades, Semtex nestled against his solar plexus. God get it off.
“Open your eyes. Now. Now, John.”
He feels himself shaken, firmly, and he’s not in the desert. He’s not in the pool and there is no bomb but he can feel it. He can be blown to pieces in a second.
A warm weight settles across his lap and Sherlock’s so close suddenly, obscuring everything else from view.
“You’re all right.”
He breathes at last, but it’s strangled and his exhale’s a sob. He presses a fist hard into his chest, trying to push back this blind terror.
“You’re all right,” Sherlock repeats quietly, fingertips pressing into John’s skull, straddled across him. “You are not in Afghanistan. You won’t be again.”
“I can stop John Watson too, stop his heart,” he hears someone garble, the words foreign and distant.
Sherlock looks stricken. His hands still.
John forces air into his lungs. Head bowed and struggling for control, sense memory is working against him. He folds forward, his forehead meeting thick fabric and Sherlock clings on readily, winding long arms around John’s neck and pulling him in closer until they’re cheek to cheek.
“God,” he murmurs, exhaling shakily against Sherlock. His eyes are all prickling heat and he lets tears leak out against their skin, too tired to hold himself together for another second.
“Sorry,” and he’s not sure whether he’s apologizing for this or for what he’d said, and why had he said it, those of all words? Moriarty had forced them on him before, whispering breathless through an earpiece these words and these exactly Johnny boy or he dies now.
Sherlock doesn’t answer but holds onto him hard, one hand cradling the back of John’s bowed head, pressing him against his neck. He breathes in and out against Sherlock’s pulse point (his heart’s racing, a surprise, this), and for a long time, they are still.
“John,” Sherlock says suddenly, breaking the silence, and he starts. He pulls away slightly but Sherlock holds on, gripping his face between firm hands and there’s something suddenly wild in his face.
“What?” he asks, fear stirring dimly in the pit of his stomach again because something is very, very wrong.
“You nearly died.”
“Yes.”
“Today,” Sherlock says, as if this needed clarification. “I thought you would. I looked at him and thought, he’ll do it. He will do it and I can’t stop him. There’s no riddle to solve, there’s nothing he wants out of this, except perhaps the intriguing possibility of making me more like him, and the logical next step towards that end was to kill you and I truly. Truly thought.”
Sherlock’s voice is low and unerringly steady but he’s speaking very fast, faster than is normal for him even at the zenith of a deduction.
“You nearly died,” he says again in a harsh whisper, spine stiffening, hands tightening on John’s shoulders. His eyes are very bright, and he’s shaking.
“Yes,” John repeats, and all at once he’s calm. Sherlock’s mounting distress has had the opposite effect on him and his head is clear and they are okay. They’re in shock and probably concussed, and tonight he came seconds from being blasted into molecules and of course it’s done a number on him. PTSD triggers don’t get much more textbook than that.
And Sherlock, oh, Sherlock, of course he’s falling apart. He can glean a life story from a wristwatch and an exacting chemical analysis from a passing glance, but he knows almost nothing of himself. He understands people better than they do, watches and observes and comprehends, but he has no idea at all how to need someone.
He reaches up and covers Sherlock’s hands with his own, gently easing his grip.
“It’s okay,” he says, and Sherlock stares at him as if he’s speaking a different language then shakes his head, distracted, whispers something John can’t hear.
“What?”
“If he’d killed you…”
He hears it that time. Sherlock’s still straddled across him, legs folded on either side of John’s, and he can feel every inch of him shaking.
“He didn’t,” John says firmly, and runs his hands up Sherlock’s arms to his shoulders, slipping inside his coat to rub slow circles against his sides, desperate to still him.
Their faces are close, Sherlock’s eyes still bright with something that looks so much like panic, and all John wants to do is bring him down, bring him back.
“It’s okay,” he says again, urgently, and when there’s still no response he clasps his fingers into Sherlock’s hair and pulls him the last inch and a half closer and kisses him. It barely even strikes him that this is an unexpected thing to do and if Sherlock is fazed he hides it well, fingertips pressing heavy into John’s shoulders as he leans all his weight down and kisses him back, hard.
He’s not sure what he expected - he’s never really thought much about kissing Sherlock before, except in that vague back-of-his-mind way he’s been thinking about it every second since they met. All he’s mentally capable of taking away from this, as they breathe together and Sherlock’s mouth swells warm against his, is that he doesn’t want to stop.
And for a long time, he doesn’t.
Finally, a gust of wind rushes through the half-boarded window, throwing papers to the ground, sending a chill through them both and they break apart only to draw closer together. Sherlock bends his head into the crook of John’s neck, and he rests his chin against black curls and exhales, deeply.
“Why did you do that?”
Sherlock’s voice is a low hum vibrating against his collarbone.
“It’s…what people do,” he replies slowly, not sure he’s answering the same question that Sherlock’s asking. He has no real answer, except that kissing him in that moment had made more sense than just about anything else he can ever recall doing.
“People, yes. It’s not what you do.”
“It’s not...what d’you mean?”
“You’re generally averse to physical contact. You can hide it where it’s required, but not well. Not uncommon amongst war vets, well recognized in fact as a reaction to particular types of psychological trauma, though in your case it could date back further than your military service. Tolerating it is one thing, but initiating it…”
Sherlock stops then, almost as though he’s restraining himself, perhaps in a rare moment of sensitivity realizing that this isn’t the time to start digging back into the darker recesses of John’s childhood, theorizing about what factors might have negatively affected his psychological development. He’s right, though, and as soon as he’s said it John has no desire to contradict him.
“And yet,” he manages eventually, and in lieu of the words to explain himself he tilts Sherlock’s chin gently upwards and kisses him again. More tentative on both sides now, more loaded and he can feel Sherlock thinking, even as he lets out a low moan and his hips thrust ever so slightly against John his mind is racing, racing.
John rests his thumbs against Sherlock’s temples, cradling his head, and wishes he could will peace into him, force rest upon his tireless mind. His own is blissfully fogged.
The air settles cold and raw around them, but he feels warmer than he has in days.