Chapter Text
"I know what day it is, you know."
"John, I'm so proud," Sherlock drawled. "Your deductive skills have come a long way. What's next for you? Little hand, big hand?"
John abandoned the soapy flannel he was holding to aim a punitive pinch at a vulnerable part of Sherlock's anatomy. Sherlock squirmed evasively, sending water sloshing against the sides of the bath, and John tightened his thighs to secure him in place. He fortified his trap by folding his arms around Sherlock's chest and sealed the lock with a kiss to the back of his neck.
"You aren't fooling me, you know," he murmured, nuzzling his nose into the damp hair over Sherlock's ear. He breathed in the humid scent of his skin. "I know why we're here."
"Because you said you wanted a bath afterward." Sherlock hummed, deep and drowsy. Sinuous tendrils of steam coiled away from his calf as he lifted one leg out of the warm water. He touched the tip of his toe to the underside of the chrome-plated bath spout. "Have you forgotten? When you said it was mind-blowing, I didn't realize you'd actually suffered memory loss."
"I know," John grinned doggedly, retrieving the flannel from Sherlock's thigh and dragging it in a lazy arc across his chest, "why we are here in this hotel on this day."
"You said the chemical smell was unpleasant," Sherlock said, leaning his head back against John's shoulder with a satisfied sigh.
"It's the fourteenth."
"And the smoke was burning your eyes."
John rubbed the cloth along the ridge of Sherlock's collarbone and over the curve of his shoulder. "Isn't it fortunate you'd taken your case notes off the wall before the sofa caught fire?"
John saw the crinkles at the edges of Sherlock's eyes. "That was fortunate," he agreed solemnly.
Press clippings and photos and notes, taped and pinned to the sitting room wall, with a web of string drawing out the connections. Although John understood some of those connections, most of it was a jumble to him…but Sherlock had started to see a pattern. Once he began to figure it out, he'd almost crackled aloud with energy. His eyes had been glittering like ice in the sunlight for days now since he'd caught the scent of his prey once again. Watch out, Brook. He's going to find you. We're going to find you.
And meanwhile, the sex… bloody hell, the sex… John's body stirred in remembrance and readiness against Sherlock's—again, already? Yes, please, already—as he exchanged his flannel for a bath sponge. He dunked and then wrung out the sponge, letting the air-cooled water trickle down the slope of Sherlock's chest. "And interesting, hm, that it happened three months to the day since we met?" It seemed longer. It seemed like forever, in the best possible way. Every day John thought he could not possibly love Sherlock more, and the next day he discovered how wrong he'd been.
He felt Sherlock's thighs stretch out and his shoulders press back, preening with his whole body. "Is it?" Sherlock finally turned his head to give John a surprised, innocent look over his shoulder.
John kissed the corner of his ridiculously pursed mouth and Sherlock subsided happily into the comfort of John's embrace.
"So what did you get me?" John asked.
Sherlock turned again and raised his eyebrows at the obvious lapse in John's powers of observation. He presented the length of his body to John with a dramatic hand flourish and a pointed look.
"Thanks." John snickered into his hair. "I love it."
"Well, I thought you should have the best," Sherlock purred. "And for me?"
John wriggled his hips against Sherlock's backside, also pointedly. He felt Sherlock's silent chuckle.
"I love it," Sherlock rumbled appreciatively.
"You love me."
Sherlock pressed his hips back. Just a little. Just enough. "Do I?"
John heard the smile in his voice…and the challenge. The game was always on. "You do. You said so. I remember it well." John's voice dropped as he nuzzled underneath the back corner of Sherlock's jawline. His hands dipped down, one with his palm flat, the other trailing the sponge, to Sherlock's lower belly, and dragged slowly back up to his shoulders again. He touched his tongue to the pulse point on the side of Sherlock's neck, felt the steady thrum whilst he tasted the salt and mineral tang of his skin. "I remember it very, very well."
Sherlock closed his palm over the back of John's hand, lacing their fingers together. As John placed the sponge on the side of the white porcelain bath, Sherlock flattened John's hand between his, raising them to his chin in his thinking pose. He inspected John's hand, caught between his. Little hand, big hand. They were both learning. "I recently read a study in manufactured memories," he began to muse, playfully.
Almost playfully. He was still trying, but John heard a hitch in his voice, and loved him just a little bit more. "You're going to say it again tonight," he promised, as heart-sure of his power over Sherlock as he was of Sherlock's over him.
At 221B, at home, John still had his own room upstairs. It was his, it was wonderful, and he couldn't bear to give it up—not just yet—but he and Sherlock had not spent a night apart since John had moved in.
The lights in the black and white tiled bathroom were low, and the air still heavy with steam and the sweet-spicy bergamot scent that drifted up when their bodies moved in the water. A set of fluffy white towels were draped over the stainless steel towel warmer. Their clothes were elsewhere, scattered across the suite, a jumper draped over the back of the upholstered burgundy wingback chair, a shoe under the padded ottoman, a green wool sock peeking out from under the dove-grey duvet. "We're here because you're a romantic," John accused softly.
Sherlock pulled John's hand against his chest. "Am I?"
John ran his other hand down the long stretch of Sherlock's bicep to rest in the damp hollow at the crook of his elbow. He twisted his wrist so his thumb could stroke the smooth, delicate skin there. It had been Lestrade who told John about the drugs. Sherlock never spoke of it. There were a lot of things Sherlock had never told him, and maybe never would. That was all right, though. John never spoke of Afghanistan, and maybe he never would. Everyone had their war. He knew what to do if anything ever happened to the smooth skin at Sherlock's elbow, just as Sherlock knew what to do if John woke up crying in the night. They knew enough. They were all right.
"You're a very good romantic," John assured him, with a hard, happy hug.
"Well. I'm very good at everything."
John grinned at the boast. "Like…pub quiz?"
"Almost everything," Sherlock grumbled. "We're never doing that again."
"No," John agreed readily, "We are not."
"I'm good at everything you like."
He couldn't deny that. If John liked something, Sherlock made certain he was amazing at it. Sherlock was amazing. And his. "Sherlock. Say it now?" John requested, this time humbly. "For me?"
Sherlock turned his head, shifted, pressed his mouth against John's throat and whispered his secret, just for him to know, just three words, so softly they could barely be heard beyond John's skin. The words shivered through John's body so hard the water around them rippled. Sherlock blinked away the hazy warmth in the air and gave John a look that was almost savage with need. "John. Tell me you're ready again," he growled.
Ready. For howling his heart out with Sherlock's hand clapped over his mouth. For sex so strenuous he might need his cane again for the next few days. For finding their furniture in flames. For huddling in a cold alley for hours waiting for a smuggler to show up. For tracking down the psychopath who had blown them a cruel kiss goodbye. For a bag full of severed toes next to the milk. For tea by the fire. For sock feet tucked under a warm thigh. John was ready, and he told Sherlock so.