Until I Wrap Myself Inside Your Arms I Cannot Rest
John/Sherlock | rated light r | 6000 words

read on AO3 || on LJ


summary: Sherlock wants to buy a gun. John wants to stop thinking about Sherlock. Perhaps there's a happy medium...

This is for my very favorite incapricious in the world. ♥ [gun!porn, injury!porn, tongue!porn]. Many thanks to venturous and yeomantpc for the beta work. ♥





:::


"I want to buy a gun."

John wakes ungracefully, with an awkward grunt. Sherlock stands in the doorway, a silhouette against the light.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Gun. I want to buy a gun."

John glances at the clock and looks back at Sherlock in disbelief. It is nearly four o'clock in the morning.

"You do realize that no stores are actually open right now." He pushes himself into a sitting position and rubs his eyes. "Nor, really, whether a legitimate armoury would consent to sell you a firearm in the first place."

Sherlock sighs; John can hear the sarcasm behind it.

"That's why I'm telling you."

"So that I might ... ?"

Now Sherlock's wearing his 'why are you being so willfully obtuse?' look.

"Do you want me to buy you a gun?"

"No, John. I am perfectly capable of purchasing my own firearm."

"Sherlock." John scrubs his hands over his eyes and rests his feet on the floor. "I realize that this is far from what you want to be doing right now, but humour me, please. It's four o'clock in the bloody morning. What do you need me for?"

Sherlock takes a deep breath. "I require your assistance. As you have so knowingly pointed out, I can't simply walk into William Evans and ask to try out some of their firearms. I need someone to--"

"... lie to them."

"Not lie, John. You're going to teach me how to clean it, and given your history with people that put my life in danger--" he quirks his lip at that one "-- you'll probably use it before I do. I need your ..."

"Pedigree?"

"If you'd kindly mind your attempts to divine my vocabulary, and listen to what I'm saying, this conversation would go a lot more quickly."

John laughs. "Well, if you would kindly refrain from waking me up at four o'clock in the morning, I'm sure we could have a much more coherent conversation."

Sherlock continues as though the last few statements hadn't occurred. "I need your background: doctor, infantryman -- out of commission, but not without regret."

"And I really need sleep."

Sherlock looks at him for a long moment. His eyes are dark, almost glittering in the low light streaming in from the window. John presses his lips together and holds his gaze. Moments pass, and John's mind helpfully ignores the tightness in his abdomen and the hot rush of blood under his skin. His resolve breaks -- or something like that. John's not entirely certain whether he quite has resolve when it comes to Sherlock Holmes.

"I might know a bloke."

Sherlock smiles at him, all the way through his cheeks and into his eyes.

"That's excellent. Who is he?"

John hedges. The way he acquired the Browning was not entirely in accordance with the letter of the law. "Just someone I know..."

"An illegal firearms dealer."

"Not illegal! He just- ... not every transaction happens in his store."

"Sounds perfect."

"It depends on what you want. Last I saw him--" John thinks back. It's been a while. "Last time he had quite a few older models, some almost collector types. He had the Browning, but also a Beretta 92F -- the American Air Force uses that one, I think... then a Colt Bisley -- that was an old one... a Walther PPK -- that's good if you want to act like James Bond... and a SIG Sauer P226. The Browning was the most familiar to me. He had some others, I didn't look at all of them. But the Colt might fit your hand better. It's fast, you might like the feel of it."

It's not until he says it aloud that John realizes that's true. Sherlock has long, powerful fingers -- not that he's looked (he hasn't) -- and the grip would fit well into the depth of his palm.

Sherlock's eyes are bright.

"Tonight, then. I want to go tonight."

John swallows, presses his hands to his knees and stands. There's no way his height is in any way intimidating, but he feels more grounded this way. He takes a step or two until he's in front of Sherlock and studies his face. Sherlock wears a slight smile of anticipation and John can all but feel the vibrations of near glee that stir off him. It takes far more effort than it should not to reach out, to press his fingertips to Sherlock's mouth, to entertain the dozens of inconvenient fantasies that coil into his mind far too often these days.

"Sherlock, if we're going to do this--" they're ridiculously close now. John loses the thread of his sentence, takes a half step back, and deliberately glances away before continuing.

"If we're going to do this, Sherlock, we're going to do it my way. You have to let me do the talking, and you can try out only whatever I hand you myself."

Sherlock nods once, doesn't say anything. The cold from the floor seeps up into John's feet and he shivers slightly, licks his lips.

"I'm serious, Sherlock."

"Alright."

Sherlock nods at him then turns to walk through the doorway. John calls out to him, "Sherlock? You didn't say. Do you agree-- agree to my terms? I'm not doing this if you don't."

"Yes, John," Sherlock says from the doorway, looking down John's body then back up to his chest and into his eyes. "I agree to your terms."

Taking a slow breath, John wonders what, exactly, he's just got himself into. This might end up being a bloody nightmare. Sherlock steps out of sight and John can hear his feet pad lightly down the hallway.

"I'm in charge, Sherlock," he reminds him. "I'm running the show tonight."

"I know it, John." Sherlock's voice carries, "... I want to watch."



:::



This might be a really bad idea.

John looks sideways at Sherlock as they walk. He can see Sherlock's eyes -- bright against the darkness -- and John pushes back against the odd longing welling inside him.

"Sherlock. You are going to listen to me, right? If we don't do it my way, we're not doing it at all."

"Yes. Right. Fine." Sherlock strides with purpose; he keeps looking at John with the glitter of anticipation shining in his cheeks. John's quite sure Sherlock hasn't heard a word he's said since they left the flat.

Two more blocks, John thinks to himself. Anticipation thrums inside him; John finds the whole thing entirely disconcerting. At the next corner they take a right onto a street that isn't as well lit as the main road.

"It's down the end of this block."

Sherlock actually hops a step or two as they approach the door, then smoothes the lapels of his jacket and beams at John.

"Christ, you're like a fucking schoolgirl, Sherlock."

He catches Sherlock's wrist, his hand curling around the warm skin, and pulls him up short.

"This stops now. You keep your smiles to yourself. If you like something, nod at me. If you really like something, I want you to say: 'what's the cleaning regimen like?' and I don't want you to talk to Duncan Brone unless I touch my left ear first."

Sherlock looks at him curiously. "Why all the secrecy? You've never been particularly paranoid or fastidious before."

John glances around, steps into Sherlock's space, lowers his voice. "This isn't a man you want to tangle with. As far as he knows, you're a friend of a friend for whom I'm doing a favour. You and I are all but strangers to each other."

Cocking his head, Sherlock's eyes shift into data-collection mode and he looks intently back at John. "Go on."

"There are a lot of people I've met during my life, Sherlock. Some through the army, some through medical college, some through some other rather... uh, seedier channels. Brone is one of the latter. For him, relationships are barter. The less he knows about you -- and me -- the better. Then he can't use any of it in the future."

John hasn't let go of Sherlock's wrist, is rubbing his thumb gently over the thin skin. He looks at Sherlock seriously, licks his lips.

"Do you see? He has no reason to know anything about me, about us... that I'm a doctor, that you're a detective, that we're flat-mates, how I f--"

He tries again, "--that I ... that we consider each other a friend. It's best not to give too much information."

Sherlock glances down at John's mouth, then to the hand covering his wrist. "I understand."

"Alright."

John nods to show he's ready to move on, but Sherlock jerks his wrist just hard enough so that John overbalances. He has to step forward to right himself. The rough fabric of Sherlock's coat brushes his wrist; it tingles sharply all the way though John's skin, enough to take his breath away. When Sherlock leans down, his eyes are hooded. "I agree to your terms, John. But after this--" his lips are inches from John's "--I have some terms of my own."

John breathes Sherlock's words -- they taste almost sweet -- but he doesn't say a word. His mind has just hit overload.



:::



The room Brone leads them to is actually part of a large warehouse, cordoned off with walls that were clearly an afterthought to make the space multi-purpose. They're in a small, well-lit room, and John knows there's a shooting range at the wall opposite.

Brone has five guns laid out on the cloth in the middle of a large table. The Colt is still there, and the SIG Sauer. There's another Browning -- like John's -- a Beretta 92F that John can tell isn't the same one Brone had before, and a fifth he doesn't recognize.

John examines one after another, testing the weight in his hand, slipping out cartridges, opening barrels, and looking closely at how each of the parts move. When he's satisfied with one, he hands it to Sherlock for inspection and watches Sherlock's intense and thorough scrutiny. Sherlock touches, then sniffs, then braces his feet apart and lines up his sight with an old Keep Calm and Carry On poster that's tacked on the wall above a tattered map of London.

He tries each one in turn then comes back to the Beretta.

Something about the line of Sherlock's body holding the Beretta makes John's blood thunder inside his temples. He's one long, fierce line: all-over length, made entirely of limbs. With the gun braced in his hands, dark against light... well, John has never really found guns sexy before. At least not before he watched Sherlock arrogantly brandishing his Browning toward Moriarty at the--

Well, fuck. This is rather a bit disconcerting.

When Sherlock turns back to him his eyes are bright. "John, I-"

John shakes his head imperceptibly at him and Sherlock changes words mid-stream. "I'm not certain I have a preference, really."

"Perhaps you'd like to try a few of them out in the range?" Brone's voice is low, steady.

John touches his ear, and Sherlock turns to Brone. "Please. The Browning, the Colt, and the Beretta."

"Watson?" Duncan Brone looks at John knowingly.

"Yeah, alright. Do you still have the Walther PPK?" Brone nods. John grins wryly. "I've long thought I'd make an excellent James Bond."

Duncan Brone grabs a few boxes of ammunition out of the cabinet behind him, fits each gun into a large, padded case, and leads them out the door.



:::



Sherlock isn't a crack shot, but he's not bad. For every eighth round John punches through the center of the target, Sherlock hits one. He frowns as he lines up each shot, taking a slow deep breath just before he squeezes the trigger. His hands absorb the kick well; he's clearly quite powerful.

His stance isn't over-wide, though it would make sense with his height. John looks up the full line of Sherlock's body: from his ridiculously expensive shoes, over the tailored line of his trousers, to the deep burgundy of the dress shirt he's removed his suit coat for. The bones of Sherlock's wrists are visible above his shirtsleeves; John can see them shift minutely with each movement. With his arms outstretched in front of him the shirt pulls taut over his shoulders, and really -- if anything -- the shirt looks even better on him this way. Sherlock is miles of posh beauty. John's fingers itch; if he were an artist he would dive for pencils right about now.

Each time John takes a turn in the shooting range, he can feel Sherlock's eyes on him, tracing the lines of his back and arms as if with charcoal on a sketchpad. John is made of information and he can tell Sherlock is taking in every bit of data that he can. It's exhilarating (it always is) to have Sherlock so intently focused on him, reading what he can never explain with words.

They each empty the barrels of their guns (John more than once), and take turns leaning back against the wall to watch the other shoot. Brone looks on from the far corner, checking his watch every few minutes. His eyes dart around nervously.

When Sherlock glances at John, his eyes vivid, John cocks his head toward the door and raises his eyebrows. Sherlock keeps his mouth neutral, but smiles at him with his eyes. John can tell he's barely reigning himself in from jumping around like a child on Christmas morning (or, more appropriately, the world's only consulting detective just given an exciting case) and has to reign in the warm smile he wants to grant in return.

Brone clears his throat, pushing away from the wall and tapping his watch obviously. Sherlock flips the safety, lays the gun down, and then starts toward John. John's mind pricks with alarm, electricity shoots down into his gut and he's instantly on guard. He lunges for the loaded Berretta, flicks off the safety, and spins toward a moving shadow in the east corner of the warehouse. Before he hears the crack of the first shot John has his sight on two more figures moving in the darkness.

"Sherlock!" he hisses, stepping in front of him and tugging at him to bend down. Brone dives under the table, his eyes wide.

John's eyes rake the environment around him. He spots an electrical box across the warehouse from them, outside the shooting range. It's not a perfect idea, but should definitely give them some time. Backing up quickly, he crowds Sherlock out the door of the shooting range, then presses them both back against the wall.

John turns his head and leans close to Sherlock's ear. "Wait for my signal," he breathes, "then run like bloody hell toward the door."

He feels Sherlock's nod, feels his exhalation of breath on John's neck. He's momentarily relieved that Sherlock appears to be following his orders.

John can't see the shooters anymore, they must have moved position, but he's not willing to keep them closed in that much longer with a couple of possibly deranged men carrying guns -- not if he can get them out. John takes a deep breath, lifts up the Berretta and lines it up with the fuse box, squeezing off two quick rounds and then hitting Sherlock's hip with his own. "Run!"

They are plunged into darkness. John runs with directional memory, rather than sight, toward the door. He can hear Sherlock's footfalls not far behind him, hears the crack of two more shots fired. He slows a bit so they can arrive at the door at the same time. John pulls open the door, pushes Sherlock through, and shuts it behind them, breathing heavily.

They both look at each other with faintly stunned expressions, then nod in unison and take off running down the block to the main street. After another three quiet blocks, they run into the middle of the busy London nightlife and slow to a walk, both looking behind them in turns.

"What in the bloody hell was that?" John asks as he tucks the Beretta into his waistband, his heart pounding. He can't quite look directly at Sherlock without wanting to burst into something like laughter.

"I haven't the faintest," Sherlock says. "And," he continues, "before you ask, I'm nearly certain that they weren't actually after me."

John looks at him out of the corner of his eyes for a minute; he's not sure whether to believe him or not. But Sherlock doesn't have a case on, not now. So he might be telling the truth.

"Alright then." He bumps against Sherlock as they walk, accidentally on purpose. He feels exhilarated. The blood is still pounding in his head, his heart is pumping, and he can't stop grinning.

Sherlock winces, and then returns the smile.

"Are you alright?"

"I'm fine."

"Why did you--" John glances down. "Sherlock! Did you get shot?"

"Not really."

"Not real-- bloody hell, your trousers are ripped." John grabs Sherlock's shoulders and stills him, then turns him face on and kneels down. There's a hole on the outer edge of Sherlock's trousers, wet and sticky, and John frowns. "Christ, we've got to take care of this."

He steers Sherlock down the pavement; they're not too far from Baker Street and John has an often-opened kit of medical supplies there.

"Christ, Sherlock," he says once they've shut the door behind them and started up the stairs. "I bloody well can't take you anywhere."



:::



When John returns to the kitchen with his med kit, he sees Sherlock on his phone, texting furiously. He frowns at him; the tea towel he'd told Sherlock to keep pressed to his leg is lying, faintly bloodstained, on the floor.

"Sherlock."

Sherlock's thumbs move blurrily fast over the small keyboard.

John shakes his head and sets his kit on the (mostly clean) kitchen table. He presses the tea towel back to Sherlock's leg and affixes a temporary bandage around it. After pulling out several supplies from his kit and laying them on the table, he walks to the sink and washes his hands thoroughly. When John turns back to Sherlock he hasn't moved at all.

"Sherlock?"

Nothing.

"Alright, then." John kneels and unwinds the bandage and pulls off the tea towel. Sherlock hasn't looked up once. He reaches for the button of Sherlock's trousers, unfastens it with a practiced hand, and Sherlock shoots back so quickly the chair almost tips over.

John bites his lip and doesn't let out a single trace of laughter.

"John!"

"Don't act like you didn't know what was coming."

Sherlock looks appalled. "I was texting Lestrade, John. Didn't you see? It was important. I imagine you recall our most recent adventure? Just now? The unnamed assailants who shot at us?"

John gestures to Sherlock's torn trousers. "Yes, Sherlock. I do remember." He feels slightly exasperated. "And you would see -- if you'd pay attention -- I'm actually trying to patch up the aftermath of the very same shooters, as we speak."

Sherlock stares defiantly at him; John doesn't break his gaze.

He holds up his hands in surrender. "Up to you, Sherlock. We can do this one of two ways: either you let go of your bloody phone for a moment and take off your trousers so I can handle this, or you pay no attention at all and I cut the leg off of a very ostentatious and probably expensive pair of trousers."

John shrugs at him, hopes his eyes aren't showing any hint of mirth. He glances down at the trousers again. "What would your tailor say, Sherlock?"

There's a long, rather weighty pause as Sherlock stares at him, his eyes roaming John's face. Then he puts his phone on the table in a very exaggerated manner, pulls down the zip of his trousers, and slips them down his long (long) legs before stepping out of them and kicking them aside.

It's all a very innocent and juvenile moment, but as soon as Sherlock stops, standing there in the middle of their kitchen in a rather well-fitted pair of boxer shorts, John finds that he can only breathe very shallowly. All of the air has gone out of the room. Whatever is left freezes him in place; John can't move.

Sherlock looks at him significantly, then sits down, not taking his eyes from John's. John blinks, licks his lip. He glances briefly down at the blood on Sherlock's outer thigh, and his medical training takes over.

He pulls his medical kit down off the table, pulls on a pair of gloves and digs around for some antiseptic. Quickly, he cleans the wound and peers closely at it. Sherlock's 'not really' had been about right; it's more than a graze, but still rather superficial and nothing life-threatening. It's only a couple of inches above his right knee and wide enough that he really should close it up. He presses a gauze pad tightly against the wound, then looks into his bag and frowns. If this were anyone else he'd just pack it closed with plenty of antiseptic, gauze, and tape, show them how to re-dress it, and tell them to be well careful for the next four days.

But this is Sherlock. Sherlock, who barely listens to John on his best days. Sherlock, who takes off after criminals without a second thought then laughs about it while his adrenaline still runs high. Sherlock, who looks ridiculously good with a bit of colour from their run on his cheeks. Sherlock, who says he has 'some terms of his own,' who does John's head in with his brilliance, his arrogance, with the way he looks at John in ways John can't begin to read.

Sherlock, who dominates John's dreams: long and willing and pliant, with those hands, and that mouth ... with his bloody voice, and ... and--

Sherlock, who won't stop looking at him.

This can't be good.

"Sherlock," he says quietly.

"Hmm?"

"I need to stitch this closed, but I - do I have your permission?"

Sherlock's eyes flash; he nods. John follows the line of his jaw with his eyes, wants to push back the hair curling over his ears.

"I need verbal assent, please. Then you can, uh ... go back to playing with your phone or whatever."

Sherlock's eyes darken slightly. John feels triumphant, grins at him.

"You have my permission," Sherlock's voice is low, throaty, "doctor."

His voice will never not get under John's skin and twist his insides. There's a flutter in the muscle of Sherlock's thigh under his fingers and John tries not to wish they were somewhere else entirely, with his fingers deep insi--

Okay, and that is another entirely gratuitous and futile train of thought. Focus, he tells himself. You're not a bloody fourteen year old anymore.

John breaks the gaze, reaching into his bag and pulling out a pack of surgical sutures, a vial of a lidocaine/prilocaine mixture, two needles, and a syringe. He twists a needle onto the syringe and pushes it into the vial, drawing out a small amount of fluid, then sets it down on Sherlock's other thigh for a moment.

John swabs the area above and below with alcohol, twists a smaller needle onto the syringe, then glances up at Sherlock. Sherlock is watching him intently, his mouth slightly parted. John nods at him, then presses the tip of the needle into the skin above the injury, depressing the plunger of the syringe to inject a little anesthetic. He does it twice more around the open skin, twists off the needle, and puts the vial and both used needles up on the table.

Reaching for the suture pack, John pulls it open, holds it with his left hand. He rocks up onto his knees and uses his other hand to compress the edges of Sherlock's skin together and hold it there.

"This may hurt a little," he warns. "But you only need a couple of stitches, so it shouldn't take long."

Sherlock's skin is warm through his gloves, and John glances up again, this time to a low exhalation of breath from Sherlock. His silence is slightly disconcerting; Sherlock generally keeps up a running commentary after an experience like tonight.

With a slow, practiced hand, John sews three stitches across the injury, pulling them tightly enough to keep it closed, but not so much that Sherlock's penchant for unpredictable, frenzied movement will tear them out. He pulls off his gloves and pulls out a square of gauze and some tape, then presses it down over the stitches. When he looks up, Sherlock's eyes are wide, he's biting his lip -- literally pressing his teeth down hard against his lower lip.

"Did I hurt you?" John says in alarm. "Christ, Sherlock, I'm sorry. I didn't even think-- with your history of nicotine and ... er, other substance use, that injection might not have been enough to--"

Sherlock tugs on John's wrist, surprisingly hard, and crushes their lips together. At first John can't sort out exactly what's happened, or what's going on, but after several long, long pushes of soft warm wet lips, reality threads deep down inside him. John makes a low noise and -- oh bloody hell -- he kisses Sherlock back.

Their first kisses involve only the surface: lips over lips and nothing else.

John opens his eyes and sees Sherlock's eyelids pressed tightly shut, his eyelashes crinkling between them: dark and full. John pulls away slightly so their lips are inches apart. Sherlock kisses once, gets nothing, and opens his eyes in surprise. John watches him, crooks his mouth into a smile, and touches Sherlock's bottom lip with the tip of his finger. John's nearly done with this polite Victorian courtship bollocks. If they're actually going to do this -- finally, finally do this -- then John wants to kiss: wet and dirty and very, very real.

He swipes his tongue out, starting at the corner of Sherlock's mouth and sliding over the full shape of his top lip. They don't break eye contact, not for a moment. John does it again, tastes the edges of Sherlock's lips and (god, oh god) ... he wants. Sherlock allows one more sweep of his tongue then he moans low in his throat and cups John's jaw in his hands; this does dangerous things to John's insides. Sherlock's eyes pierce his, pull John wide open as he opens his mouth and kisses John messily.

Christ.

Then John is in his lap, wrapping himself inside Sherlock and holding on.

Kissing Sherlock is nothing like John would have imagined. Not that he has. (Dreams don't count). Kissing Sherlock is a slow rapture that starts low and blooms outward inside him like a migrating pain. Kissing Sherlock -- really kissing Sherlock -- is a bloody enigma, it's something immeasurable, far too real to contemplate.

Kissing Sherlock is something John should stop his mind thinking about and just bloody well enjoy it.

Sherlock's mouth is warm and soft, his tongue traces patterns inside John's mouth, never the same one twice. His skin is nearly smooth against John's mouth, barely a trace of stubble. John slides his hands up over Sherlock's shoulders, rests them on the back of his skull and tangles his fingers in the dark curls. Sherlock tastes of tea, and far sweeter than John expects.

"My god," John breathes when Sherlock's hands slide over his backside and pull him closer. He is straddling Sherlock's lap completely now; his toes just barely touch the floor. John's aware that his thigh is only a short distance from the patch of gauze gracing Sherlock's.

There's a thick rush of desire inside him when Sherlock squeezes his buttocks, and slides him upward. Then a hard press of metal against his back startles him. John realises the Berretta is still tucked into his waistband and he shifts backward, slightly alarmed. Sherlock winces slightly and pulls John closer.

John locks his eyes on Sherlock's when their bodies come into deeper contact. God. Sherlock tugs the gun out of John's waistband slowly, his eyes hooded. The metal is skin-warmed and unyielding; John can feel the tip pressing into his lower back and he sucks his breath. Sherlock's eyes darken; he licks his lip, then slides it upward over John's back, tracing a dangerous pattern.

John stops breathing. He can hear only Sherlock's slow, uneven breath. Sherlock's eyes map over his face: his mouth, down to the lines of his jaw, then back up to his eyes. John doesn't move at all.

"Christ," he hisses when Sherlock gets to his neck. Sherlock leans the slightest bit forward and opens his mouth. John's mouth is already riding open, it takes too much effort to breathe through his nose right now, so he presses forward, touches the tip of Sherlock's tongue with his own. The shock of it (warm, electric) jolts through him like liquid desire, but he doesn't let himself go. Not yet. Sherlock's tongue is wet and possibly the most perfect thing to explore. He rubs over it, under, then sucks it right into his mouth. Sherlock cups his skull and lets out a slight moan. John can feel the press of metal against his neck and his eyes fly open.

Sherlock's eyes widen in recognition. He doesn't move his mouth, but John can feel the tension in Sherlock's body against his own. Sherlock slides the gun over John's collar, then sets it firmly on the table and jerks John closer against him, kissing him roughly.

They kiss wet and open-mouthed for a long, long time.

Sherlock slides his fingers under the hem of John's shirt, brushes John's skin delicately and something deep inside John just ... breaks apart.

John's dimly aware of every point where Sherlock's body is pressed against his, and he wonders how long they can stay in this chair without tipping over. He has vague thoughts of tugging Sherlock out of the chair, pulling him down the corridor to his bedroom and pressing him bodily against the wall.

Sherlock pulls back for a moment, grins at him, and touches John's lower lip with his thumb. It's familiar enough that John realises they must have done this in some wayward fantasy he's had in between wake and sleep. Then he wonders: has Sherlock thought about this before, too?

Because, really, isn't it just like him to finally kiss John in the middle of something like this? Not in the middle of another moment where John feels like his desire is palpable and on display, not in the middle of their living room when Sherlock is bored out of his skull, not in one of the numerous moments where they're close and silent and staring... but this: after firing guns in a warehouse for a quarter of an hour, after escaping some ridiculous adventure in the warehouse, running in exhilaration, after John's just had his fingers in such incredibly intimate places: inside Sherlock's skin, his blood.

Which really should not be as fucking erotic as it is, considering all of the serious danger from the past hour or so.

Sherlock's eyes have darkened further; kisses have degenerated into a bruising, licking lack of finesse that shouldn't send shivers over John's skin.

"Christ," he whispers, shifting forward and curling his arms as far around Sherlock as they can possibly go and kissing the top of his lips shallowly. "Bloody hell, why haven't we done this before?"

"For a highly intelligent man, you can be irritatingly obtuse," Sherlock says.

"I'm sorry?"

"I said: 'for a highly intelligent man, you can be irritatingly obtuse.'" Sherlock frowns at him. "You are quite inept at reading signals."

"Well. For a genius, you can be rather an idiot."

Sherlock's frown breaks. Grins at him.

"Guess it's good we finally got over that particular barrier," John says.

"Indeed."

John leans in to kiss Sherlock again, difficult while they're both grinning stupidly, but John's rather certain they're up to the challenge. His thigh shifts and Sherlock grimaces in pain, so John has to shift his leg back again. His thigh shakes with the exertion of holding still, but really, what are a few sore muscles in the grand scheme of things? Particularly when he's got Sherlock under him, his hands warming John's stomach, and the promise of a fair bit more of some (frankly incredible) kissing on the horizon?

Just as he reaches between them for the top button of Sherlock's shirt, the door bursts open and Lestrade strides in.

"Oh, bloody hell," he says. "Can't you two even--"

"Inspector," Sherlock interrupts. "I'd suggest stopping right there if you'd like even the slightest bit of information about the thugs that shot at us tonight. I could very happily solve this case on my own and you'd have very little to go on."

John, meanwhile, extricates himself carefully from Sherlock's lap and realises Sherlock is still only wearing his boxers. But if Lestrade notices, he wisely doesn't say anything, just listens as they explain everything that happened at the warehouse.

This time, he doesn't even interrupt.



:::



It takes a good forty-four minutes for Lestrade to finish with them, admonish Sherlock for not going to a hospital, and give them his patented half-indulgent smile/half-glare before he leaves in a rush.

It then takes an additional twenty-seven minutes after Duncan Brone phones John to offer, on speakerphone, his own version of events, including why the shooters were there (they weren't there for Sherlock, to which Sherlock nodded sagely), why John's quick thinking had saved his life (he had infrared goggles; the shooters did not), why he now owed them a big favour (see the previous explanation re: saving his life), and why they should keep the Berretta (he wants the damn thing out of his sight and would John possibly like a second for himself as well?).

Then, of course, Mrs. Hudson brings a pot of tea and her concerned tutting upstairs to make sure her boys are alright. That's another fifty-one minutes.

So, by the time the flat is clear, Sherlock is still in his boxers, John still hasn't closed his med kit, and it has been more than two hours since they've done any snogging.

This John considers a damn shame and something to rectify post haste. He rises from his chair, intent on making the most of their (finally) empty flat. John can feel the distance between them like a tightly strung violin string. Desire vibrates inside him like a fingered tremolo.

"My god, they talk a lot," Sherlock says, rolling his eyes and standing. "You'd think I'd never helped with a case before. It will be useful to have Brone owe us a favour; there are a lot of connections that might bring for us."

He strides into the kitchen, talking all the while. "Now that Lestrade is on the trail of the shooters -- they're clearly not from the UK, I wonder if I should tell him or let him figure out that bit on his own? Well, I do wonder how long it'll take him to realise that from the collection of weaponry that Brone had -- it was quite obvious if you look at it that way. It must be something related to the recent art thefts we've been reading about; all of the locations of the thefts coincide with places marked on the map Brone had on the wall behind us. Oh, and perhaps we might--"

John steps forward, right into Sherlock's space, and Sherlock looks down at him in surprise.

"John."

He touches Sherlock's lower lip, traces it gently with his fingertip.

"You think you might consider shutting up anytime soon?"

Sherlock's eyes brighten; he licks his lip.

"Are you going to make it worth my while, doctor?"

John beams, heat pooling inside him as Sherlock eyes him intently.

"Oh god, yes."

They don't speak for a long, long time after that.


:::



~thank you for reading. ♥



NOTE: title comes from Howl by Florence+The Machine, which was on repeat for much of the writing of this story.