Fic: Let This River Flow; John/Sherlock, Dean/Castiel; NC-17 - Part 4/5
Title: Let This River Flow (4/5)
Crossover: Sherlock
Type: Slash, Gen
Rating: NC-17
Characters/Pairings: John/Sherlock, Dean/Castiel, Sam, Kevin, Charlie, Harry, Mycroft, OCs.
Warnings: Violence, sex, language.
Author's Note #1: Post-Reichenbach, and set post-S8 of Supernatural.
Author's Note #2: Title comes from ‘Let This River Flow’ by Soilwork.
Author's Note #3: Written for sncross_bigbang. Link to the gloriously wonderful artwork by the talented finnickodair can be found here. Thank you again, m’dear. ♥
Summary: In the year 2014, after an unknown disease decimates most of humankind, John and Sherlock are left doing their best to just stay alive, scraping out an existence in the quarantined city of London - until they stumble into the lives of two brothers and a fallen angel, who talk of the Devil as though he’s a real being, and who have a name - Croatoan - for the virus that’s torn the planet apart. From then on, John and Sherlock find themselves caught up in the epicenter of the battle, and it’s going to take everything they have to make it through with their humanity intact.
- - -
By the time they make it back to the prison, the sun’s gone down, and John’s tired down to his bones.
Harry and Cas both fall asleep while they’re waiting for their blood results in the quarantine area, Cas leaning up against the wall precariously, head tilted back against the concrete, and Harry’s head coming to rest on John’s shoulder; and Charlie dozes for a while before muttering a curse and starting to pace, yawning the entire time. John, for his part, sits close to Sherlock and makes himself keep his eyes open - doesn’t like being this close to the outside world without his gun - and Sherlock nearly fidgets himself to pieces during the wait, hissing out curses or muttering to himself. Of all of them, though, Dean’s the most restless - talks to the people behind the fence, or joins Charlie in her pacing, or sits and stares at nothing for a while before he’s back on his feet again - and John watches him for a bit, still trying to get a read on him. Still wondering when and how any of these people have even ended up in this city, and at this shelter, in the first place.
Eventually, though, they’re let in, and they all go straight to their beds. Cas and Dean and Charlie go to their own quarters, presumably, and Harry and Sherlock and John stumble back to the cell Harry had had before, John and her both of them curling up on the bottom bunk as Sherlock dumps their stuff on the cell floor and them climbs on to the top bunk, none of them even bothering to strip off their boots or their dirty clothes. John barely has the energy to pull the thin blanket up over them before his eyes are sliding shut, the world fading away for a while.
- - -
When John wakes up again, Harry’s sitting against the wall, arms around her knees and her eyes closed. She’s found clean clothes, at least, and she’s no longer covered in dirt and blood, her hair clean and damp and her skin clear - and John watches her for a moment before he deliberately shifts on the bed and she opens her eyes to stare at him. For a moment, Harry simply watches him - and then she looks away, eyes dropping down and her hands coming to rest in her lap.
“The other two I was with - they rushed in. I wasn’t sure it wasn’t all bollocks, so I made camp in a flat nearby. Wanted to keep an eye on the place for a while. Watched them get torn apart.”
“Harry -”
“You shouldn’t have come back for me.”
Her voice is low, and it’s said like she actually believes it, and John bites down against the wave of regret - because how could they have ever reached the point where she would actually think that? - as he pushes himself up on his elbows, hating the guilt he can see written across her face.
“You think I’d have left you here?”
“I’ve made your life hell. For years, that’s all I’ve -”
“Yeah, well, there’s stupid squabbling and there’s letting you get eaten by monsters, and forgive me if the latter one just wasn’t on.”
It’s a bit harsher than he had intended, his voice low and sharp in the otherwise silent cell, but it must get the point across, at least a little bit, because Harry stares at him for a moment before she nods and climbs to her feet, holding out a hand to help him do the same, pulling him upright out of the small bunk.
“Yeah, well. I owe you, big brother.”
“Yes, well. Direct me to wherever you found a shower, and we’ll call it even.”
That gets a genuine smile out of her, amazingly, and then she takes his hand, and tugs him into the hallway, holding on tight as they squeeze back into the swarm of people outside their cell.
- - -
It’s a massive prison, once he gets the chance to explore it, and one quick wander around has John boggling at the resourcefulness of it all.
In addition to the front room - where people appear to have set up their cots wherever they can find space - there’s a hallway that leads straight through to the main office at the back of the prison, where the people in charge of the prison have reportedly set up their headquarters; and there are six separate cell blocks that branch off from that hallway, along with a washroom and an infirmary. People have set up their sleeping spaces all throughout the cell blocks, too; and while he’s not quite sure what the folks in charge have done to get the electricity working - something to do with being near the river, he’s sure, and he’d be willing to bet that a prison of this size would have one hell of a back-up generator - there are actual working lights and toilets and showers; and he does his best to push away any lingering concerns about contamination, because it’s obvious that nobody in the shelter is turning, so the people in charge must have figured out a way to purify the water. There’s also an entire area of the prison that’s been turned into some kind of kitchen space, and there must be regular trips into the city to get hold of resources, because there’s always food to cook and clean water to drink; and while John’s not sure how long a project on this scale can hold out - the shelter seems to be home to at least two hundred people, from the rough count he’s done - for now he’s going to just be grateful for it. Gets the tour from Harry, and then strips out of his old clothes, shoves them into a garbage bin in the washroom - Harry had found him a towel, and he’d rather wander around in just that for days than put on his old clothes again - and then slides into one of the shower stalls, turns on the hot water, steps beneath it - and then damn near cries with how good it feels. Leans against the wall until the gratitude stops threatening to take his knees out from underneath him, and then he scrubs and soaps until he’s damn near rubbed himself raw. Stays underneath all that fucking beautiful hot water, lets it seep into his skin, for as long as he thinks he can get away with - and then finds himself blinking with confusion when he slides out of the shower, wraps himself in a towel, and finds himself staring a new pile of clothes, sitting on a bench beside his stall. There are jeans with only a few holes in them, and a new white cardigan - one that looks like it will fit him perfectly - along with some dark blue boxers that are even still in their packaging, and - he looks up to find Sherlock leaning against the bathroom door, which has been closed behind him.
“I took the liberty of finding you some new clothes.”
And - christ. Sherlock’s old outfit is gone - even the coat and the scarf are missing, though John doesn’t doubt that the coat is still around somewhere, because no apocalypse could ever pull Sherlock away from that thing - and he’s wearing ripped-up old blue jeans with a dark purple sweater, his skin clear of blood and dirt and his curls hanging limp and damp around his face - and it’s the cleanest, most put-together John’s seen him in months, and the sight hits him like a punch. There’s something more than just a shower and a new outfit here, too - there’s a calmer expression to his face, somehow; he just looks a bit more settled, looks less like he’s ready to start climbing up the walls; and when Sherlock moves in close and tugs John against him - wraps his arms around him tight, and holds him there as John buries his face into his shoulder - John can’t even care that he’s standing in a cool bathroom with nothing but a towel around his waist. Can’t care about anything more than the man he’s wrapped up around. Holds on tight to Sherlock and gradually starts to process the fact that, by some wonderful miracle, they’ve managed to find Harry - they don’t have to stay in London anymore - they can finally leave.
“We - christ, Sherlock. We did it.”
“Indeed.”
“We found her. Jesus christ, we found her, and now -”
“We can establish a viable plan to circumvent that fence -”
“- and get the hell out of this city. Get back to Mycroft’s compound -”
“I can keep working on the blood samples. Find a cure. And you -”
“I’ll guard the walls. Be the doctor. Whatever they need. And you’ll have things to distract you -”
“And we’ll have our own little room, just the two of us, with all the running water we need.”
Sherlock smiles into his hair as he says it, and John can’t help but smile back, holds on a little tighter - and then a hand slides down his spine, fingers pressing soft across his damp skin, and John feels heat swoop through him, the likes of which he hasn’t felt in far too long. Sucks in a sharp breath, feels his heart skip up to a faster beat, slamming inside his chest - and then Sherlock’s fingers flatten, his entire hand sliding warm along John’s lower back, and John squeezes his eyes shut against the wave of need, because, christ, it’s been far too long, but -
“Sherlock. Public washroom.”
“I hadn’t noticed.”
“Sherlock -”
“I don’t care.”
“Yes, well - I do, so -”
“Do you, now?”
“Yes.”
“So if I do this -”
“Sherlock.”
His voice comes out a hell of a lot breathier than he’d like, though, because Sherlock’s fingers are massaging circles against his hipbone - of all the places to get him riled up, goddammit - and Sherlock’s mouth has slid down to press warm and damp against his neck, sliding across the skin below his ear, and John is - shivering, and not from the chill of the room. Knees gone weak underneath him, already, but, christ, they’re in the bloody bathroom of an old prison, and this is - not going to work. Just manages to bite down a groan as he pulls away, gets his hands on Sherlock’s arms and puts some space in between them, raises his eyes to meet Sherlock’s - and, yes, he’d expected Sherlock to be smirking, to look cocky and satisfied and pleased with himself, but there’s still a naked affection to the expression that feels like being punched, and John has to swallow before he speaks, his chest suddenly aching and his stomach all tangled up in knots.
“Christ, Sherlock, just - tonight, alright? We can - tonight. We can come back here. Okay?”
Sherlock just watches him for a moment longer, before he presses a gentle hand against John’s cheek and leans in close to brush their lips together, a barely there, painfully gentle touch that John feels straight through him - and then he pulls back, smiles slightly at John, and turns and leaves the room, taking half the air with him, and leaving John standing there, still shivering in a way that has nothing to do with the cold. For a moment, all he can do is stare at the empty doorway, and then he closes his eyes, takes a steadying breath, and picks up his new clothing, suddenly and desperately reminded of why, exactly, they need to get out of this city, and find somewhere safe to ride out whatever’s left of the world. All other reasons aside, John wants to spend as many years as they possibly can having Sherlock look at him like that, and the only way that’s going to happen is if they find a way past that fence, and out of London, once and for all.
- - -
After that, John takes to wandering the shelter a bit more - Harry’s napping, and John would quite like to find Dean and Cas and Charlie again, and thank them for their help - and it only takes him about an hour to find Charlie, at least.
The main entrance room is teeming with people, all either sleeping or making food or talking to each other or playing with the dogs John can see running around, and Charlie’s back at her post at the prison doors, standing guard with a rifle in her hands, a knife on one hip, and a smaller gun on the other. The smile she gives him seems completely sincere, too, and he surprises himself when he can’t help but smile back.
“Hey, John. Good to see you. You and Sherlock all rested up?”
“Getting there.”
“Yeah, well - let me know if you ever get bored and fancy a go at this guard duty thing. You’re one of the best shots I’ve ever seen.”
She’s still smiling at him, bright and genuine despite their rocky start, and John can’t quite stop the flush of pleasure. He’s not a vain man by any stretch, but Charlie’s rather fantastic with a gun, herself, and he won’t pretend that the compliment means nothing. Simply smiles a bit more.
“Well, I appreciate that. And I - just - I wanted to thank you. For everything. For -”
“Oh, god - it was the least I could do. Considering I’m the reason Harry was out there at all -”
“No, it’s - you didn’t send her out there. I shouldn’t have - it wasn’t your fault.”
“Yeah, well - either way, I’m glad she’s back.”
She gives him yet another of those small slightly wincing smiles she seems to favour, and John just smiles back for a moment - would shake her hand, if not for the rifle she’s busy holding - before he glances around the main room, eyes scanning across the countless people wandering around - and has a sudden thought, something that’s been perplexing him since he first arrived.
“Hey, I wanted to ask - the quarantine. Where did you find all the needles and -”
“The infirmary. It was surprisingly well stocked, when we got here. A working microscope, even, and enough needles to last for a while, at least.”
She seems to say it as evenly as she can, but John hears the unspoken words there - understands, suddenly, that there’s no way this shelter can be an infinite project. If the only way to test for the virus is a blood sample, then, soon enough, the needles will run out, and nobody new will be able to get into the prison - and anyone who leaves won’t be able to get back in. It’s not a pleasant thought, at all, and John pushes down the nausea and forces a bit of a smile, not liking the way Charlie’s looking so sad.
“Well, lucky for us, then. Oh, and, also - Dean and Cas. Any chance you might know where -”
“Main office, probably. Back past the infirmary. They tend to lurk there.”
“But - isn’t that -”
“Christ - didn’t we tell you? Dean runs this joint, along with Sam - his brother. You met him yet?”
She says it like it’s nothing, casual and easy, but all John can do is shake his head, suddenly speechless. He’s always admired a leader who’s willing to put themselves on the frontlines, and the idea that Dean had chosen to come on that mission to find Harry, when he certainly hadn’t needed to - well. It just ramps John’s respect for him up another notch, and he’s so busy trying to process the idea that he almost misses the shrug Charlie gives him.
“Well, you will soon, I’m sure. Kevin, too - friend of ours. In fact, they’re probably all in the main office - let me know if you can’t find them, though, alright? And I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thanks, Charlie.”
He gets his voice to work, and she gives him another smile before turning back to the main doors, and John makes his feet take him in the other direction, weaving through the swarms of kids and dogs that are running around at knee-level. Does his best to get his thoughts in order - tries to reconcile the idea of Dean being one of the folks in charge of this whole damn shelter - and makes his way down the hallway to the back of the prison to the main office, where he hesitates only a moment before knocking. After a few seconds of nothing, the door swings open to reveal one of the tallest men John’s ever seen, with long hair and shoulders so broad they’re probably twice as wide as John’s. He’s smiling, at least, even though it’s a bit confused looking.
“Hey. Something I can help you with?”
“I - perhaps. Are you - Sam, by chance?”
“I - yeah. And you’re -”
“John Watson. I was just looking for Dean and Cas. Charlie said -”
“Oh, yeah, no problem, Dean said - yeah, come on in. Good to meet you.”
He sticks out a massive hand, at that, smiling a little bit wider, and John shakes it and then follows him inside, to find a room filled with sterile metal furniture and some old framed certificates. It’s definitely the office of a prison - nothing warm and welcoming about it - and the giant map on the wall - the entire city of London, but covered with red and black scribbles and markings, notes and arrows all over it - is about the only thing that makes it interesting.
“Are you -”
“Yeah. Trying to find a way out of this damn city.”
“And not having much goddamn luck of it.”
Dean enters the room from a side door, scowling a bit as he says it, before he sets a rifle down on one of the desks and perches on the edge of it, glaring up at the map as though it will suddenly give him the answers he’s looking for, and John surprises himself with a sudden surge of fondness for him. Manages a small smile, even though he’s pretty sure it ends up looking pained.
“Sherlock and I are doing the same. If we figure anything out -”
“If you two can figure something out, I’ll take back every bad thing I ever said or thought about that boyfriend of yours. From everything we can tell, the army’s got this place on lockdown.”
And there is really nothing John can say that would possibly make the truth of that statement any less horrible. Watches Dean glare at the map for a moment - and then takes a step closer and sticks his hand out, Dean frowning at him as he shakes it, as though John’s done something odd.
“What?”
“I just wanted to thank you. For everything. You didn’t have to -”
“Oh, hell - no worries. Saving people’s kind of what we do. It was no -”
And then, out of nowhere, Sam starts to cough, a loud, horrid sound the likes of which John hasn’t heard from a patient in years, and he spins back around to find Sam clutching at one of the desks, raising a hand for space as Dean jumps to his feet and moves closer, hands up as though to help.
“Dammit, Sammy -”
“I - hell. I’m fine, just -”
“You’re not -”
Sam cuts him off with a new round of coughing, suddenly looking far more fragile than anyone of his size should ever be able to look, and John’s got red flags going up everywhere. Moves in a bit closer - because this, at least, he might be able to help with, even if he can’t provide some miracle route out of the city.
“Perhaps I could -”
“You can’t help him.”
“But -”
“Modern medicine’s worth jack shit to us, right now. Now was there anything else you needed?”
Dean’s barely looking at him - has a hand on Sam’s shoulder, scowling at Sam’s attempt to wave him away - and John wavers for a moment, debates arguing some more, before he decides to give them some space. He can always try to talk to Sam later, when Dean’s no longer around.
“I - Cas. I wanted to -”
“Probably outside. He doesn’t like being cooped up.”
Dean’s still not looking at him - though Sam has stopped coughing, at least - and John takes that as his cue. Nods his thanks and exits through the office door, leaving them alone - because whatever Sam is dealing with, it’s obvious that neither of them is keen for a doctor’s help, and he’s going to have to find some more subtle way of offering his services. It’s something he’s still mulling over by the time he crosses back through the prison - Charlie’s not on duty anymore - and exits the main doors, blinking hard against the sudden sunlight. Even the sun, though, can’t chase away the gloom of being surrounded by concrete and metal - though the unexpected sight of Sherlock, standing beside Cas on the prison steps, certainly helps. It’d be a little ridiculous, almost - Sherlock’s found his long dark coat again, apparently, though at least it’s been scrubbed as clean as it’s probably ever going to get; and Cas has his ragged trench coat, both of them overdressed and standing there in the bright sunshine - if not for the way both articles of clothing just seem to fit them so perfectly. Seem to be part of them, even, in a way that makes John hurt a bit inside. He casts a glance over the prison courtyard - children playing out on the gravel, and sentries standing guard along the high walls - and then moves past Sherlock - puts a brief hand on his elbow, and gets a nod in return - to stand beside Cas, who simply blinks at him when John sticks out his hand. Watches him for a moment and then takes his hand between them, more simply holding on than shaking, an action that ends up being more endearing than anything else.
“Thank you.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Just - for helping us. None of you had to, and I - well, it’s appreciated.”
“I am simply glad to have been of service.”
He isn’t smiling, though - says it as serious and sad as he seems to say everything - and then he takes his hand back, shoots one last unreadable glance in Sherlock’s direction, and turns and walks back inside the shelter. John watches him go, for a moment, something inside his chest aching suddenly - and then turns to Sherlock, who’s frowning in that way he always does when he gets some new piece of data that doesn’t fit, and John raises his eyebrows, suddenly curious.
“Well?”
“Cas said he used to be an angel.”
And that - brings John up short. And not the words themselves, but the fact that Sherlock is - not scoffing. Is frowning, looking almost pained, as though his mind is trying to make sense of something that makes absolutely no sense at all, and John all but grinds his teeth together - because the last thing he needs is something that might drag Sherlock away from reality in any way. Takes a step closer, and ignores the voice in the back of his that’s whispering that, once upon a time, zombies were imaginary creatures, too - because there are zombies and then there angels, and the latter is on a whole new level of crazy that John doesn’t even want to think about.
“Sherlock - now, just - hang on. You, of all people -”
“He said that his full name is ‘Castiel’. That he was sent to rescue Dean from Hell.”
“And you - christ. You can’t tell me that you believe -”
“He speaks more languages than any human should be able to. I stopped him at sixty-seven.”
“But -”
“A year ago zombies were also fictional.”
“Sherlock -”
“I need more data. This is madness, and I cannot draw conclusions without the facts. I need -”
“What you need is to not flip out over this, alright?”
It’s taking a risk - even with everything they’ve been through together, Sherlock’s still not keen on being told what he needs to do, even if it’s more phrased as a suggestion - and when Sherlock stops scowling at the prison to glare at him, John takes a glance around them before mentally saying to hell with it and moving in to wrap Sherlock in a hug. For a moment, Sherlock is still against him - and then he seems to unlock, inch by inch, muscle by muscle, until they’re simply standing there on the prison steps, and John slides a hand down the length of Sherlock’s coat, along his back, loving the shiver that wracks Sherlock’s body, his voice rough against John’s ear.
“You are attempting to distract me.”
“Is it working?”
Sherlock doesn’t say a word. Simply holds him tighter, presses his face gently into John’s neck - doesn’t seem to give a damn about anyone who might be watching , his skin hot against John’s - and John suddenly and desperately wants to crawl in under that coat and never come out again. Wants to make a home for himself underneath Sherlock’s skin, and live there forever. It’s a thought that makes him tighten his grip somewhat desperately - makes him press as close as he possibly can - and, god, it needs to be nighttime already, so they can go take advantage of those showers while the rest of the shelter is sleeping. It’s been far, far too long since he’s had the chance to use his mouth and hands and body to show Sherlock just how much he means to him.
“John.”
“Mmm.”
“Before we leave, I need to know what these people know.”
“What do you -”
“Cas told me that Dean and Sam have extensive knowledge of the supernatural.”
His voice is more or less steady, but John still feels a bit of a chill sneak through him. Gives it a second to process, and then pulls back to look Sherlock in the fact, not liking what he sees there.
“You mean these monsters. The ones we’re fighting.”
“Those, and more, apparently.”
“Sherlock -”
“Come with me. Dean likes you better than me. If anyone can convince him to talk -”
“We’re going to go listen to ghost stories, then?”
“The world has been overrun by zombies. I will take any information I can find.”
And Sherlock looks completely serious. Looks like he’s actually considering whatever Cas told him, and it’s enough to make John grind his teeth together, because if even Sherlock - of all people - is willing to entertain the notion of things that go bump in the night, then John should probably start paying attention to the voice inside him that’s saying that Cas might have a point.
“Fine. What do you suggest?”
“Cas said that Dean and Sam have a collection of lore that I may be interested in.”
“He’s really taken a shine to you, hasn’t he?”
“Perhaps it is my utter disregard for societal norms.”
Sherlock’s lips twitch as he says it, and John just barely resists the impulse to kiss him. Squeezes his hand instead, and then steps back, though all he wants is to keep pressing himself against Sherlock.
“Fine. Though Sam seemed rather sick when I met him. Perhaps we’d best -”
“It can wait until tomorrow. For now, I wish to see more of this prison.”
“Want company?”
“Of course. I’d be lost without my -”
Sherlock’s smiling as he says it, and John can’t even let him finish - can’t even believe Sherlock has chosen to remember that. Feels his stomach go all fluttery, his chest going too tight, and rocks up on his toes to press their mouths together, his hands sliding up to cradle Sherlock’s face - and Sherlock lets him kiss him, right then and there, on the steps of the prison, in full sight of everyone. By the time John pulls away again, Sherlock’s smiling even wider, perfect and beautiful and wonderful, his cheeks flushed and his eyes so fond John can barely meet them.
“Why, Doctor Watson. People will talk.”
His voice is breathless, though, the words less than steady, and John swallows around a sudden wave of love, and takes Sherlock’s hand again, holding tight to his fingers between their bodies.
“Come on, you. We’ve got a prison to explore.”
And Sherlock doesn’t say a word. Simply smiles at him some more, tighten his fingers, and lets John tug him back into the prison.
- - -
Later on, after spending the day getting to know the shelter, the lights finally go out for the night.
They wait until most of the prison is asleep, and then John goes to the washrooms and slides under one of the showers, stomach pulling pleasantly tight at the fact that there’s nobody else around. He gets the water going and soaps himself up for a bit until he hears the bathroom door open, and then he closes his eyes and hopes with all his being that it’s Sherlock, and not some random person - gets his answer when there’s a rush of cool air, and then Sherlock is pressed warm and wet against him, miles of soft skin, and John nearly falls over with the sudden shock of want. Bites his lip and lets his head fall back on Sherlock’s shoulder as Sherlock’s arms snake around him, and his mouth comes down to slide around John’s neck, making his eyes fall closed. Neither of them says anything - there’s nothing but the sound of the water, and Sherlock’s breathing against his ear - and then Sherlock’s hand slides down across his chest, rests on John’s stomach, and John hitches in a shaky breath, his knees going a bit weaker underneath him, and - god, he’s missed this. Thought they’d be tearing each other apart by now - but the slow drag of Sherlock’s hands is just as good, just as intoxicating, fingers sliding across his nipples and chest and back down to his stomach as Sherlock scrapes his teeth and lips along his neck, and John only realizes he’s panting when Sherlock smiles against his neck. Takes an even longer time to realize that this feels like seduction, Sherlock keeping the movements light and gentle, even as his cock slides against John’s ass, and the thought’s as much of an aphrodisiac as Sherlock’s hands on his body - but they’re in a public washroom, christ, and the longer they’re here, the greater the chances of someone random wandering in and making this a lot more complicated.
“Relax.”
“Sherlock -”
“You tensed up. There’s nobody here but me.”
“If someone -”
“If someone joins us, then we’ll just have to be very quiet.”
Sherlock’s voice is low and soft against his ear, and John should really be arguing, but coherent thought is difficult when Sherlock’s fingers are drawing circles against his stomach. He flashes back, suddenly, to the first time they did this - when Sherlock had been wide-eyed and nervous and so fucking desperate to not show it, and John’s heart had broken at being the first person who Sherlock had ever let get that close - and then closes his eyes again as Sherlock bites down gently against his damp shoulder, and - christ. He breathes through the slow burn inside him, lets Sherlock explore him, fingers light and gentle and teasing, until Sherlock’s hand slides down to wrap around his cock, and John squeezes his eyes shut a little tighter, damn near whining through his teeth as Sherlock keeps the motion slow and careful and not nearly enough. Keeps it up until John’s trembling top to bottom, head still helplessly tipped back on Sherlock’s shoulder, his skin drawing tight all over - until it’s taking everything he has to stay where he is - but somehow he does, grits his teeth and holds tight to Sherlock’s arm as Sherlock slowly brings him higher, until Sherlock’s hand speeds up, his other hand sliding up to rub circles against John’s nipple, and John can’t stop the tiny whimper, helpless heat spreading out through him as he bucks up into Sherlock’s fist, everything soaking wet and hot as he squirms against Sherlock.
“Sherlock -”
“I love having you like this.”
And Sherlock - John hasn’t even touched him yet, and Sherlock already sounds wrecked. Voice rough against John’s ear, barely audible over the roar of the shower, and John presses back - shudders at the feeling of Sherlock’s cock sliding against his ass, at the way Sherlock groans and thrusts against him - and then finds himself held still by Sherlock’s fingers on his hip, his other hand never stopping its slow movement around John’s cock, warm and slippery and not enough.
“Just - let me.”
It sounds bitten out, Sherlock’s teeth scraping across his skin, and John helplessly tilts his head to the side, giving Sherlock even more access to his neck, lips and teeth and tongue licking and biting at him, shattering bits of sensation underneath the warm water on his skin - but, somehow, John does as Sherlock says, and makes himself stay where he is as Sherlock slowly takes him apart. Makes his legs hold him as Sherlock’s mouth and fingers never stop their exploration, his other hand never leaving John’s cock, keeping him at a slow, maddening burn, until he finally speeds up, grip tightening, slightly, and John can feel it spreading out inside him, a low, throbbing heat that threatens to burn up - and then Sherlock drags a finger down the crease of his ass, presses against the entrance to his body, and John’s suddenly right on the edge, shaking, barely able to breathe. Makes a noise that sounds almost pained, and hangs there, helplessly, for a long moment, Sherlock’s hand sliding along his cock and his finger massaging circles against his asshole - and then he crests, tips over, as Sherlock`s teeth sink down into the side of his neck again, and everything goes hot and white behind his eyes as Sherlock strokes him through it, his hand never slowing until John finally whines and clutches tight to his wrist, stilling Sherlock’s hand as he pants for air under the hot spray and just lets Sherlock hold him up, his knees gone from underneath him and his heart slamming so fast it hurts. For a moment, he just hangs there, clutching at Sherlock’s arms - and then Sherlock exhales low and shaky against his neck, and John nearly chokes on the wave of affection, somehow makes his legs turn him around, finds Sherlock’s mouth in the dark, and kisses him under the hot spray. Clings to him and just kisses him, still too boneless to do much else, until Sherlock’s breathing hard against him, his hands tight against John’s back, and John gets a hand down in between them and wraps it around Sherlock’s cock, loving the way Sherlock groans into his mouth and bucks towards him. Clutches tight to him in the darkness.
“John -”
“Is this - what do you -”
“Perfect, hell - perfect, this is -”
And then Sherlock’s mouth finds his again, cutting himself off, and John has barely begun to take Sherlock apart - gets his mouth down on his soaked chest, and bites his way across it; closes his lips around a nipple, licks and sucks, and loves the way it makes Sherlock buck against him; tightens his grip around Sherlock’s cock and speeds up, wants to get him close and then back off again; wants to take his time and make Sherlock shake himself apart, the same way Sherlock had done with him - when Sherlock goes still against him and spills all over his hand, warm and wet and his arms tightening around John and his voice breaking on a low moan into John’s hair, and John is suddenly shaking nearly as badly as Sherlock. Strokes him through it and then pulls Sherlock close, holding on tighter to him under the hot water as their breathing starts to level out, their hearts still slamming together in between them, and Sherlock’s fingers so tight against his back they’re sure to leave bruises; and then Sherlock murmurs his name, low and shaky and barely audible over the hot water, and John’s chest suddenly hurts. He swallows hard, tightens his grip around Sherlock, and just holds on to him, nothing but the two of them alone in the darkness, and the shower pounding down on them, washing them both clean again.
- - -
Chapter Five
Crossover: Sherlock
Type: Slash, Gen
Rating: NC-17
Characters/Pairings: John/Sherlock, Dean/Castiel, Sam, Kevin, Charlie, Harry, Mycroft, OCs.
Warnings: Violence, sex, language.
Author's Note #1: Post-Reichenbach, and set post-S8 of Supernatural.
Author's Note #2: Title comes from ‘Let This River Flow’ by Soilwork.
Author's Note #3: Written for sncross_bigbang. Link to the gloriously wonderful artwork by the talented finnickodair can be found here. Thank you again, m’dear. ♥
Summary: In the year 2014, after an unknown disease decimates most of humankind, John and Sherlock are left doing their best to just stay alive, scraping out an existence in the quarantined city of London - until they stumble into the lives of two brothers and a fallen angel, who talk of the Devil as though he’s a real being, and who have a name - Croatoan - for the virus that’s torn the planet apart. From then on, John and Sherlock find themselves caught up in the epicenter of the battle, and it’s going to take everything they have to make it through with their humanity intact.
- - -
By the time they make it back to the prison, the sun’s gone down, and John’s tired down to his bones.
Harry and Cas both fall asleep while they’re waiting for their blood results in the quarantine area, Cas leaning up against the wall precariously, head tilted back against the concrete, and Harry’s head coming to rest on John’s shoulder; and Charlie dozes for a while before muttering a curse and starting to pace, yawning the entire time. John, for his part, sits close to Sherlock and makes himself keep his eyes open - doesn’t like being this close to the outside world without his gun - and Sherlock nearly fidgets himself to pieces during the wait, hissing out curses or muttering to himself. Of all of them, though, Dean’s the most restless - talks to the people behind the fence, or joins Charlie in her pacing, or sits and stares at nothing for a while before he’s back on his feet again - and John watches him for a bit, still trying to get a read on him. Still wondering when and how any of these people have even ended up in this city, and at this shelter, in the first place.
Eventually, though, they’re let in, and they all go straight to their beds. Cas and Dean and Charlie go to their own quarters, presumably, and Harry and Sherlock and John stumble back to the cell Harry had had before, John and her both of them curling up on the bottom bunk as Sherlock dumps their stuff on the cell floor and them climbs on to the top bunk, none of them even bothering to strip off their boots or their dirty clothes. John barely has the energy to pull the thin blanket up over them before his eyes are sliding shut, the world fading away for a while.
- - -
When John wakes up again, Harry’s sitting against the wall, arms around her knees and her eyes closed. She’s found clean clothes, at least, and she’s no longer covered in dirt and blood, her hair clean and damp and her skin clear - and John watches her for a moment before he deliberately shifts on the bed and she opens her eyes to stare at him. For a moment, Harry simply watches him - and then she looks away, eyes dropping down and her hands coming to rest in her lap.
“The other two I was with - they rushed in. I wasn’t sure it wasn’t all bollocks, so I made camp in a flat nearby. Wanted to keep an eye on the place for a while. Watched them get torn apart.”
“Harry -”
“You shouldn’t have come back for me.”
Her voice is low, and it’s said like she actually believes it, and John bites down against the wave of regret - because how could they have ever reached the point where she would actually think that? - as he pushes himself up on his elbows, hating the guilt he can see written across her face.
“You think I’d have left you here?”
“I’ve made your life hell. For years, that’s all I’ve -”
“Yeah, well, there’s stupid squabbling and there’s letting you get eaten by monsters, and forgive me if the latter one just wasn’t on.”
It’s a bit harsher than he had intended, his voice low and sharp in the otherwise silent cell, but it must get the point across, at least a little bit, because Harry stares at him for a moment before she nods and climbs to her feet, holding out a hand to help him do the same, pulling him upright out of the small bunk.
“Yeah, well. I owe you, big brother.”
“Yes, well. Direct me to wherever you found a shower, and we’ll call it even.”
That gets a genuine smile out of her, amazingly, and then she takes his hand, and tugs him into the hallway, holding on tight as they squeeze back into the swarm of people outside their cell.
- - -
It’s a massive prison, once he gets the chance to explore it, and one quick wander around has John boggling at the resourcefulness of it all.
In addition to the front room - where people appear to have set up their cots wherever they can find space - there’s a hallway that leads straight through to the main office at the back of the prison, where the people in charge of the prison have reportedly set up their headquarters; and there are six separate cell blocks that branch off from that hallway, along with a washroom and an infirmary. People have set up their sleeping spaces all throughout the cell blocks, too; and while he’s not quite sure what the folks in charge have done to get the electricity working - something to do with being near the river, he’s sure, and he’d be willing to bet that a prison of this size would have one hell of a back-up generator - there are actual working lights and toilets and showers; and he does his best to push away any lingering concerns about contamination, because it’s obvious that nobody in the shelter is turning, so the people in charge must have figured out a way to purify the water. There’s also an entire area of the prison that’s been turned into some kind of kitchen space, and there must be regular trips into the city to get hold of resources, because there’s always food to cook and clean water to drink; and while John’s not sure how long a project on this scale can hold out - the shelter seems to be home to at least two hundred people, from the rough count he’s done - for now he’s going to just be grateful for it. Gets the tour from Harry, and then strips out of his old clothes, shoves them into a garbage bin in the washroom - Harry had found him a towel, and he’d rather wander around in just that for days than put on his old clothes again - and then slides into one of the shower stalls, turns on the hot water, steps beneath it - and then damn near cries with how good it feels. Leans against the wall until the gratitude stops threatening to take his knees out from underneath him, and then he scrubs and soaps until he’s damn near rubbed himself raw. Stays underneath all that fucking beautiful hot water, lets it seep into his skin, for as long as he thinks he can get away with - and then finds himself blinking with confusion when he slides out of the shower, wraps himself in a towel, and finds himself staring a new pile of clothes, sitting on a bench beside his stall. There are jeans with only a few holes in them, and a new white cardigan - one that looks like it will fit him perfectly - along with some dark blue boxers that are even still in their packaging, and - he looks up to find Sherlock leaning against the bathroom door, which has been closed behind him.
“I took the liberty of finding you some new clothes.”
And - christ. Sherlock’s old outfit is gone - even the coat and the scarf are missing, though John doesn’t doubt that the coat is still around somewhere, because no apocalypse could ever pull Sherlock away from that thing - and he’s wearing ripped-up old blue jeans with a dark purple sweater, his skin clear of blood and dirt and his curls hanging limp and damp around his face - and it’s the cleanest, most put-together John’s seen him in months, and the sight hits him like a punch. There’s something more than just a shower and a new outfit here, too - there’s a calmer expression to his face, somehow; he just looks a bit more settled, looks less like he’s ready to start climbing up the walls; and when Sherlock moves in close and tugs John against him - wraps his arms around him tight, and holds him there as John buries his face into his shoulder - John can’t even care that he’s standing in a cool bathroom with nothing but a towel around his waist. Can’t care about anything more than the man he’s wrapped up around. Holds on tight to Sherlock and gradually starts to process the fact that, by some wonderful miracle, they’ve managed to find Harry - they don’t have to stay in London anymore - they can finally leave.
“We - christ, Sherlock. We did it.”
“Indeed.”
“We found her. Jesus christ, we found her, and now -”
“We can establish a viable plan to circumvent that fence -”
“- and get the hell out of this city. Get back to Mycroft’s compound -”
“I can keep working on the blood samples. Find a cure. And you -”
“I’ll guard the walls. Be the doctor. Whatever they need. And you’ll have things to distract you -”
“And we’ll have our own little room, just the two of us, with all the running water we need.”
Sherlock smiles into his hair as he says it, and John can’t help but smile back, holds on a little tighter - and then a hand slides down his spine, fingers pressing soft across his damp skin, and John feels heat swoop through him, the likes of which he hasn’t felt in far too long. Sucks in a sharp breath, feels his heart skip up to a faster beat, slamming inside his chest - and then Sherlock’s fingers flatten, his entire hand sliding warm along John’s lower back, and John squeezes his eyes shut against the wave of need, because, christ, it’s been far too long, but -
“Sherlock. Public washroom.”
“I hadn’t noticed.”
“Sherlock -”
“I don’t care.”
“Yes, well - I do, so -”
“Do you, now?”
“Yes.”
“So if I do this -”
“Sherlock.”
His voice comes out a hell of a lot breathier than he’d like, though, because Sherlock’s fingers are massaging circles against his hipbone - of all the places to get him riled up, goddammit - and Sherlock’s mouth has slid down to press warm and damp against his neck, sliding across the skin below his ear, and John is - shivering, and not from the chill of the room. Knees gone weak underneath him, already, but, christ, they’re in the bloody bathroom of an old prison, and this is - not going to work. Just manages to bite down a groan as he pulls away, gets his hands on Sherlock’s arms and puts some space in between them, raises his eyes to meet Sherlock’s - and, yes, he’d expected Sherlock to be smirking, to look cocky and satisfied and pleased with himself, but there’s still a naked affection to the expression that feels like being punched, and John has to swallow before he speaks, his chest suddenly aching and his stomach all tangled up in knots.
“Christ, Sherlock, just - tonight, alright? We can - tonight. We can come back here. Okay?”
Sherlock just watches him for a moment longer, before he presses a gentle hand against John’s cheek and leans in close to brush their lips together, a barely there, painfully gentle touch that John feels straight through him - and then he pulls back, smiles slightly at John, and turns and leaves the room, taking half the air with him, and leaving John standing there, still shivering in a way that has nothing to do with the cold. For a moment, all he can do is stare at the empty doorway, and then he closes his eyes, takes a steadying breath, and picks up his new clothing, suddenly and desperately reminded of why, exactly, they need to get out of this city, and find somewhere safe to ride out whatever’s left of the world. All other reasons aside, John wants to spend as many years as they possibly can having Sherlock look at him like that, and the only way that’s going to happen is if they find a way past that fence, and out of London, once and for all.
- - -
After that, John takes to wandering the shelter a bit more - Harry’s napping, and John would quite like to find Dean and Cas and Charlie again, and thank them for their help - and it only takes him about an hour to find Charlie, at least.
The main entrance room is teeming with people, all either sleeping or making food or talking to each other or playing with the dogs John can see running around, and Charlie’s back at her post at the prison doors, standing guard with a rifle in her hands, a knife on one hip, and a smaller gun on the other. The smile she gives him seems completely sincere, too, and he surprises himself when he can’t help but smile back.
“Hey, John. Good to see you. You and Sherlock all rested up?”
“Getting there.”
“Yeah, well - let me know if you ever get bored and fancy a go at this guard duty thing. You’re one of the best shots I’ve ever seen.”
She’s still smiling at him, bright and genuine despite their rocky start, and John can’t quite stop the flush of pleasure. He’s not a vain man by any stretch, but Charlie’s rather fantastic with a gun, herself, and he won’t pretend that the compliment means nothing. Simply smiles a bit more.
“Well, I appreciate that. And I - just - I wanted to thank you. For everything. For -”
“Oh, god - it was the least I could do. Considering I’m the reason Harry was out there at all -”
“No, it’s - you didn’t send her out there. I shouldn’t have - it wasn’t your fault.”
“Yeah, well - either way, I’m glad she’s back.”
She gives him yet another of those small slightly wincing smiles she seems to favour, and John just smiles back for a moment - would shake her hand, if not for the rifle she’s busy holding - before he glances around the main room, eyes scanning across the countless people wandering around - and has a sudden thought, something that’s been perplexing him since he first arrived.
“Hey, I wanted to ask - the quarantine. Where did you find all the needles and -”
“The infirmary. It was surprisingly well stocked, when we got here. A working microscope, even, and enough needles to last for a while, at least.”
She seems to say it as evenly as she can, but John hears the unspoken words there - understands, suddenly, that there’s no way this shelter can be an infinite project. If the only way to test for the virus is a blood sample, then, soon enough, the needles will run out, and nobody new will be able to get into the prison - and anyone who leaves won’t be able to get back in. It’s not a pleasant thought, at all, and John pushes down the nausea and forces a bit of a smile, not liking the way Charlie’s looking so sad.
“Well, lucky for us, then. Oh, and, also - Dean and Cas. Any chance you might know where -”
“Main office, probably. Back past the infirmary. They tend to lurk there.”
“But - isn’t that -”
“Christ - didn’t we tell you? Dean runs this joint, along with Sam - his brother. You met him yet?”
She says it like it’s nothing, casual and easy, but all John can do is shake his head, suddenly speechless. He’s always admired a leader who’s willing to put themselves on the frontlines, and the idea that Dean had chosen to come on that mission to find Harry, when he certainly hadn’t needed to - well. It just ramps John’s respect for him up another notch, and he’s so busy trying to process the idea that he almost misses the shrug Charlie gives him.
“Well, you will soon, I’m sure. Kevin, too - friend of ours. In fact, they’re probably all in the main office - let me know if you can’t find them, though, alright? And I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thanks, Charlie.”
He gets his voice to work, and she gives him another smile before turning back to the main doors, and John makes his feet take him in the other direction, weaving through the swarms of kids and dogs that are running around at knee-level. Does his best to get his thoughts in order - tries to reconcile the idea of Dean being one of the folks in charge of this whole damn shelter - and makes his way down the hallway to the back of the prison to the main office, where he hesitates only a moment before knocking. After a few seconds of nothing, the door swings open to reveal one of the tallest men John’s ever seen, with long hair and shoulders so broad they’re probably twice as wide as John’s. He’s smiling, at least, even though it’s a bit confused looking.
“Hey. Something I can help you with?”
“I - perhaps. Are you - Sam, by chance?”
“I - yeah. And you’re -”
“John Watson. I was just looking for Dean and Cas. Charlie said -”
“Oh, yeah, no problem, Dean said - yeah, come on in. Good to meet you.”
He sticks out a massive hand, at that, smiling a little bit wider, and John shakes it and then follows him inside, to find a room filled with sterile metal furniture and some old framed certificates. It’s definitely the office of a prison - nothing warm and welcoming about it - and the giant map on the wall - the entire city of London, but covered with red and black scribbles and markings, notes and arrows all over it - is about the only thing that makes it interesting.
“Are you -”
“Yeah. Trying to find a way out of this damn city.”
“And not having much goddamn luck of it.”
Dean enters the room from a side door, scowling a bit as he says it, before he sets a rifle down on one of the desks and perches on the edge of it, glaring up at the map as though it will suddenly give him the answers he’s looking for, and John surprises himself with a sudden surge of fondness for him. Manages a small smile, even though he’s pretty sure it ends up looking pained.
“Sherlock and I are doing the same. If we figure anything out -”
“If you two can figure something out, I’ll take back every bad thing I ever said or thought about that boyfriend of yours. From everything we can tell, the army’s got this place on lockdown.”
And there is really nothing John can say that would possibly make the truth of that statement any less horrible. Watches Dean glare at the map for a moment - and then takes a step closer and sticks his hand out, Dean frowning at him as he shakes it, as though John’s done something odd.
“What?”
“I just wanted to thank you. For everything. You didn’t have to -”
“Oh, hell - no worries. Saving people’s kind of what we do. It was no -”
And then, out of nowhere, Sam starts to cough, a loud, horrid sound the likes of which John hasn’t heard from a patient in years, and he spins back around to find Sam clutching at one of the desks, raising a hand for space as Dean jumps to his feet and moves closer, hands up as though to help.
“Dammit, Sammy -”
“I - hell. I’m fine, just -”
“You’re not -”
Sam cuts him off with a new round of coughing, suddenly looking far more fragile than anyone of his size should ever be able to look, and John’s got red flags going up everywhere. Moves in a bit closer - because this, at least, he might be able to help with, even if he can’t provide some miracle route out of the city.
“Perhaps I could -”
“You can’t help him.”
“But -”
“Modern medicine’s worth jack shit to us, right now. Now was there anything else you needed?”
Dean’s barely looking at him - has a hand on Sam’s shoulder, scowling at Sam’s attempt to wave him away - and John wavers for a moment, debates arguing some more, before he decides to give them some space. He can always try to talk to Sam later, when Dean’s no longer around.
“I - Cas. I wanted to -”
“Probably outside. He doesn’t like being cooped up.”
Dean’s still not looking at him - though Sam has stopped coughing, at least - and John takes that as his cue. Nods his thanks and exits through the office door, leaving them alone - because whatever Sam is dealing with, it’s obvious that neither of them is keen for a doctor’s help, and he’s going to have to find some more subtle way of offering his services. It’s something he’s still mulling over by the time he crosses back through the prison - Charlie’s not on duty anymore - and exits the main doors, blinking hard against the sudden sunlight. Even the sun, though, can’t chase away the gloom of being surrounded by concrete and metal - though the unexpected sight of Sherlock, standing beside Cas on the prison steps, certainly helps. It’d be a little ridiculous, almost - Sherlock’s found his long dark coat again, apparently, though at least it’s been scrubbed as clean as it’s probably ever going to get; and Cas has his ragged trench coat, both of them overdressed and standing there in the bright sunshine - if not for the way both articles of clothing just seem to fit them so perfectly. Seem to be part of them, even, in a way that makes John hurt a bit inside. He casts a glance over the prison courtyard - children playing out on the gravel, and sentries standing guard along the high walls - and then moves past Sherlock - puts a brief hand on his elbow, and gets a nod in return - to stand beside Cas, who simply blinks at him when John sticks out his hand. Watches him for a moment and then takes his hand between them, more simply holding on than shaking, an action that ends up being more endearing than anything else.
“Thank you.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Just - for helping us. None of you had to, and I - well, it’s appreciated.”
“I am simply glad to have been of service.”
He isn’t smiling, though - says it as serious and sad as he seems to say everything - and then he takes his hand back, shoots one last unreadable glance in Sherlock’s direction, and turns and walks back inside the shelter. John watches him go, for a moment, something inside his chest aching suddenly - and then turns to Sherlock, who’s frowning in that way he always does when he gets some new piece of data that doesn’t fit, and John raises his eyebrows, suddenly curious.
“Well?”
“Cas said he used to be an angel.”
And that - brings John up short. And not the words themselves, but the fact that Sherlock is - not scoffing. Is frowning, looking almost pained, as though his mind is trying to make sense of something that makes absolutely no sense at all, and John all but grinds his teeth together - because the last thing he needs is something that might drag Sherlock away from reality in any way. Takes a step closer, and ignores the voice in the back of his that’s whispering that, once upon a time, zombies were imaginary creatures, too - because there are zombies and then there angels, and the latter is on a whole new level of crazy that John doesn’t even want to think about.
“Sherlock - now, just - hang on. You, of all people -”
“He said that his full name is ‘Castiel’. That he was sent to rescue Dean from Hell.”
“And you - christ. You can’t tell me that you believe -”
“He speaks more languages than any human should be able to. I stopped him at sixty-seven.”
“But -”
“A year ago zombies were also fictional.”
“Sherlock -”
“I need more data. This is madness, and I cannot draw conclusions without the facts. I need -”
“What you need is to not flip out over this, alright?”
It’s taking a risk - even with everything they’ve been through together, Sherlock’s still not keen on being told what he needs to do, even if it’s more phrased as a suggestion - and when Sherlock stops scowling at the prison to glare at him, John takes a glance around them before mentally saying to hell with it and moving in to wrap Sherlock in a hug. For a moment, Sherlock is still against him - and then he seems to unlock, inch by inch, muscle by muscle, until they’re simply standing there on the prison steps, and John slides a hand down the length of Sherlock’s coat, along his back, loving the shiver that wracks Sherlock’s body, his voice rough against John’s ear.
“You are attempting to distract me.”
“Is it working?”
Sherlock doesn’t say a word. Simply holds him tighter, presses his face gently into John’s neck - doesn’t seem to give a damn about anyone who might be watching , his skin hot against John’s - and John suddenly and desperately wants to crawl in under that coat and never come out again. Wants to make a home for himself underneath Sherlock’s skin, and live there forever. It’s a thought that makes him tighten his grip somewhat desperately - makes him press as close as he possibly can - and, god, it needs to be nighttime already, so they can go take advantage of those showers while the rest of the shelter is sleeping. It’s been far, far too long since he’s had the chance to use his mouth and hands and body to show Sherlock just how much he means to him.
“John.”
“Mmm.”
“Before we leave, I need to know what these people know.”
“What do you -”
“Cas told me that Dean and Sam have extensive knowledge of the supernatural.”
His voice is more or less steady, but John still feels a bit of a chill sneak through him. Gives it a second to process, and then pulls back to look Sherlock in the fact, not liking what he sees there.
“You mean these monsters. The ones we’re fighting.”
“Those, and more, apparently.”
“Sherlock -”
“Come with me. Dean likes you better than me. If anyone can convince him to talk -”
“We’re going to go listen to ghost stories, then?”
“The world has been overrun by zombies. I will take any information I can find.”
And Sherlock looks completely serious. Looks like he’s actually considering whatever Cas told him, and it’s enough to make John grind his teeth together, because if even Sherlock - of all people - is willing to entertain the notion of things that go bump in the night, then John should probably start paying attention to the voice inside him that’s saying that Cas might have a point.
“Fine. What do you suggest?”
“Cas said that Dean and Sam have a collection of lore that I may be interested in.”
“He’s really taken a shine to you, hasn’t he?”
“Perhaps it is my utter disregard for societal norms.”
Sherlock’s lips twitch as he says it, and John just barely resists the impulse to kiss him. Squeezes his hand instead, and then steps back, though all he wants is to keep pressing himself against Sherlock.
“Fine. Though Sam seemed rather sick when I met him. Perhaps we’d best -”
“It can wait until tomorrow. For now, I wish to see more of this prison.”
“Want company?”
“Of course. I’d be lost without my -”
Sherlock’s smiling as he says it, and John can’t even let him finish - can’t even believe Sherlock has chosen to remember that. Feels his stomach go all fluttery, his chest going too tight, and rocks up on his toes to press their mouths together, his hands sliding up to cradle Sherlock’s face - and Sherlock lets him kiss him, right then and there, on the steps of the prison, in full sight of everyone. By the time John pulls away again, Sherlock’s smiling even wider, perfect and beautiful and wonderful, his cheeks flushed and his eyes so fond John can barely meet them.
“Why, Doctor Watson. People will talk.”
His voice is breathless, though, the words less than steady, and John swallows around a sudden wave of love, and takes Sherlock’s hand again, holding tight to his fingers between their bodies.
“Come on, you. We’ve got a prison to explore.”
And Sherlock doesn’t say a word. Simply smiles at him some more, tighten his fingers, and lets John tug him back into the prison.
- - -
Later on, after spending the day getting to know the shelter, the lights finally go out for the night.
They wait until most of the prison is asleep, and then John goes to the washrooms and slides under one of the showers, stomach pulling pleasantly tight at the fact that there’s nobody else around. He gets the water going and soaps himself up for a bit until he hears the bathroom door open, and then he closes his eyes and hopes with all his being that it’s Sherlock, and not some random person - gets his answer when there’s a rush of cool air, and then Sherlock is pressed warm and wet against him, miles of soft skin, and John nearly falls over with the sudden shock of want. Bites his lip and lets his head fall back on Sherlock’s shoulder as Sherlock’s arms snake around him, and his mouth comes down to slide around John’s neck, making his eyes fall closed. Neither of them says anything - there’s nothing but the sound of the water, and Sherlock’s breathing against his ear - and then Sherlock’s hand slides down across his chest, rests on John’s stomach, and John hitches in a shaky breath, his knees going a bit weaker underneath him, and - god, he’s missed this. Thought they’d be tearing each other apart by now - but the slow drag of Sherlock’s hands is just as good, just as intoxicating, fingers sliding across his nipples and chest and back down to his stomach as Sherlock scrapes his teeth and lips along his neck, and John only realizes he’s panting when Sherlock smiles against his neck. Takes an even longer time to realize that this feels like seduction, Sherlock keeping the movements light and gentle, even as his cock slides against John’s ass, and the thought’s as much of an aphrodisiac as Sherlock’s hands on his body - but they’re in a public washroom, christ, and the longer they’re here, the greater the chances of someone random wandering in and making this a lot more complicated.
“Relax.”
“Sherlock -”
“You tensed up. There’s nobody here but me.”
“If someone -”
“If someone joins us, then we’ll just have to be very quiet.”
Sherlock’s voice is low and soft against his ear, and John should really be arguing, but coherent thought is difficult when Sherlock’s fingers are drawing circles against his stomach. He flashes back, suddenly, to the first time they did this - when Sherlock had been wide-eyed and nervous and so fucking desperate to not show it, and John’s heart had broken at being the first person who Sherlock had ever let get that close - and then closes his eyes again as Sherlock bites down gently against his damp shoulder, and - christ. He breathes through the slow burn inside him, lets Sherlock explore him, fingers light and gentle and teasing, until Sherlock’s hand slides down to wrap around his cock, and John squeezes his eyes shut a little tighter, damn near whining through his teeth as Sherlock keeps the motion slow and careful and not nearly enough. Keeps it up until John’s trembling top to bottom, head still helplessly tipped back on Sherlock’s shoulder, his skin drawing tight all over - until it’s taking everything he has to stay where he is - but somehow he does, grits his teeth and holds tight to Sherlock’s arm as Sherlock slowly brings him higher, until Sherlock’s hand speeds up, his other hand sliding up to rub circles against John’s nipple, and John can’t stop the tiny whimper, helpless heat spreading out through him as he bucks up into Sherlock’s fist, everything soaking wet and hot as he squirms against Sherlock.
“Sherlock -”
“I love having you like this.”
And Sherlock - John hasn’t even touched him yet, and Sherlock already sounds wrecked. Voice rough against John’s ear, barely audible over the roar of the shower, and John presses back - shudders at the feeling of Sherlock’s cock sliding against his ass, at the way Sherlock groans and thrusts against him - and then finds himself held still by Sherlock’s fingers on his hip, his other hand never stopping its slow movement around John’s cock, warm and slippery and not enough.
“Just - let me.”
It sounds bitten out, Sherlock’s teeth scraping across his skin, and John helplessly tilts his head to the side, giving Sherlock even more access to his neck, lips and teeth and tongue licking and biting at him, shattering bits of sensation underneath the warm water on his skin - but, somehow, John does as Sherlock says, and makes himself stay where he is as Sherlock slowly takes him apart. Makes his legs hold him as Sherlock’s mouth and fingers never stop their exploration, his other hand never leaving John’s cock, keeping him at a slow, maddening burn, until he finally speeds up, grip tightening, slightly, and John can feel it spreading out inside him, a low, throbbing heat that threatens to burn up - and then Sherlock drags a finger down the crease of his ass, presses against the entrance to his body, and John’s suddenly right on the edge, shaking, barely able to breathe. Makes a noise that sounds almost pained, and hangs there, helplessly, for a long moment, Sherlock’s hand sliding along his cock and his finger massaging circles against his asshole - and then he crests, tips over, as Sherlock`s teeth sink down into the side of his neck again, and everything goes hot and white behind his eyes as Sherlock strokes him through it, his hand never slowing until John finally whines and clutches tight to his wrist, stilling Sherlock’s hand as he pants for air under the hot spray and just lets Sherlock hold him up, his knees gone from underneath him and his heart slamming so fast it hurts. For a moment, he just hangs there, clutching at Sherlock’s arms - and then Sherlock exhales low and shaky against his neck, and John nearly chokes on the wave of affection, somehow makes his legs turn him around, finds Sherlock’s mouth in the dark, and kisses him under the hot spray. Clings to him and just kisses him, still too boneless to do much else, until Sherlock’s breathing hard against him, his hands tight against John’s back, and John gets a hand down in between them and wraps it around Sherlock’s cock, loving the way Sherlock groans into his mouth and bucks towards him. Clutches tight to him in the darkness.
“John -”
“Is this - what do you -”
“Perfect, hell - perfect, this is -”
And then Sherlock’s mouth finds his again, cutting himself off, and John has barely begun to take Sherlock apart - gets his mouth down on his soaked chest, and bites his way across it; closes his lips around a nipple, licks and sucks, and loves the way it makes Sherlock buck against him; tightens his grip around Sherlock’s cock and speeds up, wants to get him close and then back off again; wants to take his time and make Sherlock shake himself apart, the same way Sherlock had done with him - when Sherlock goes still against him and spills all over his hand, warm and wet and his arms tightening around John and his voice breaking on a low moan into John’s hair, and John is suddenly shaking nearly as badly as Sherlock. Strokes him through it and then pulls Sherlock close, holding on tighter to him under the hot water as their breathing starts to level out, their hearts still slamming together in between them, and Sherlock’s fingers so tight against his back they’re sure to leave bruises; and then Sherlock murmurs his name, low and shaky and barely audible over the hot water, and John’s chest suddenly hurts. He swallows hard, tightens his grip around Sherlock, and just holds on to him, nothing but the two of them alone in the darkness, and the shower pounding down on them, washing them both clean again.
- - -
Chapter Five