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It had been a murder case: locked room, double homicide, unidentifiable causes of death - an eight at least. It had culminated in a seven-hour long stake-out and a chase across London, darting through alleyways and backstreets, the wind blowing in his back and his heart rapidly pumping adrenaline around his body, numbing the ache in his legs. This, in turn, led to a fistfight with the criminal, earning Sherlock a few decent bruises, very mild in comparison to what he had to do to get the criminal to stay on the ground before police could come. Overall, it had been a highly satisfactory case with a thrilling conclusion.
Sherlock felt nothing.
Nothing of the usual post-case high, making him light and giggly like he’d downed two flutes of champagne. No satisfaction that it was a job well done, restoring balance to the universe with the arrest of the killer. Only the gaping, hollow, loneliness that had resided like a parasite inside him since the morning John shipped out for Afghanistan, eight months ago.
Eight months of brief, scarce emails skimming over confidential details and the horrors John is witnessing. Eight months of accidentally pouring two cups of tea in the morning. Eight months of grainy skype calls, of touching his hand to John’s face on the screen, as though it would magically cure him of how utterly touch starved he had become. Funny, how quickly one became accustomed to a luxury such as touch; a kiss on the cheek in the morning, a hand on the lower back at crime scenes, an entire body to hold and press against in the now too empty, too large bed.
One month, he thought to himself as he limped home, freezing and hurting and vacant of that usual post-case high. One month until John comes home.
A month had never seemed so long.
He stumbled into the flat, shucking off his coat onto the floor and throwing his shoes somewhere into the corner. He was exhausted, yet somehow too on edge to sleep. He showered perfunctorily, ridding himself of London’s grime and dirt and soothing his weary muscles. He observed himself in the mirror when he left the shower: dark circles under his eyes, prominent bruising on his face and ribs, which would be sticking out too much for John’s liking. The appearance of a tired, lonely man, utterly disinterested in his life in London while his boyfriend was 5000 miles away.
With a sigh, he tied his towel around his waist and entered his bedroom.
Then he froze in the doorway. Back straight, limbs immobile, not even daring to breathe, as though the slightest exhale could blow away the mirage before him like dandelion seeds.
John was on their bed.
Why wasn't he in Afghanistan?
And why wasn't he wearing any clothes?
John lay starfished on the bed, snoring softly, wearing nothing but his red briefs and dog tags. Sherlock observed him, made random, dizzying deductions that fled as quickly as they came: jet-lagged, sleep-deprived, has been travelling since early this morning. Frequent exercise out in the sun in full uniform - in the light from the bathroom, his face was sun-beaten, tanned, while his chest, arms and legs remained as pale as when he had been living in London, though much, much more muscle hardened. All this didn’t even matter - John was home.
He wanted to wake John up, talk to him for hours and hours until his throat ached about the case and Afghanistan and just how much he’d missed him. He wanted to curse him for leaving and beg him to stay, to not even leave this room or this bed ever again. He wanted to kiss him and strip him down and tease him until he was a pleading, writhing mess beneath him, incapable of leaving his side. He wanted to embrace him and never let go and whisper in his ear over and over - I love you, I love you, I love you. But as he watched John’s chest rise and fall, the rest of him unmoving, he knew it would be cruel to tear him away from sleep now: heaven knew how little rest John gained while in the army. So as quickly and quietly as he could, he turned off the bathroom light, gently opened his pyjama drawer and put on the first pyjama bottoms he could find.
Tomorrow, he compromised with himself, as he climbed in beside John, curling up on his side with an arm thrown over John's stomach. Tomorrow morning, when they were well-rested and recovered and Sherlock looked a little less like a corpse, he will wake John up and finally, finally, be rewarded with the reunion they deserved -
“Oof!”
The next thing he knew he was flat on his back, the wind knocked from his lungs with the force of it. He was pinned to the mattress by John’s firm grip on his wrist, almost enough to hurt, and his knees straddling his hips. He was looking down at him with a cold and fierce gaze, the kind of look that said ‘I could hurt you, if I felt I needed to.’ To a casual observer, it was impossible to tell that he was asleep a minute ago. Oh, good Lord. “What the hell are you doing?”
At the sound of Sherlock's baritone voice snapping him back to reality, John’s glare softened into a warm smile, and his grip relaxed. “Sherlock. You’re home.”
“I’m home?! You’re — you —“ At a loss for words, Sherlock lifted his head off the pillow, and at the same time, John met him halfway and crashed their lips together. Every second of their separation, every minute spent yearning and pining, it all poured out into this one kiss, until it was gone, and Sherlock felt only light and warmth and heady arousal.
John pulled away, drawing an embarrassing whimper from Sherlock. No, come back. “God, I’m so sorry about - this. Pinning you down. I forgot where I was.”
“It’s okay. Honestly,” Sherlock breathed. God, he’d missed his voice. His smell. His weight on top of him. “I suppose it's to be expected, when one crawls into bed without warning beside an army doctor who has seen combat."
"So why didn't you warn me?"
"I was trying my best not to wake you. You looked exhausted.”
“Yeah. Sorry. I tried to stay awake for you. Really, I did. I had a plan and everything for how it would go. But - you were out so long, and the bed was so soft. Between that and the jet lag, I was out for the count before I knew it.”
“If you’d rather go back to sleep -“
“You're joking, right?" John chuckled. Sherlock missed that, too. His laughter, his easy, sunny smiles that could charm the North Pole into melting. "I see your face for the first time in ages, in our bed, and you think I want to sleep?”
“Yes, that does seem like a stupid suggestion now that I think about it.”
He carded his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, exhaled softly, as Sherlock preened at the touch. He was distantly aware of himself shaking, his heart beating so hard he was sure John could feel it as strongly as his own. “So where were you? Some exciting case or other?”
“Stake-out. Seven hours, then chase, then an altercation between myself and the killer.”
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
John’s suspicion made itself clear in the pregnant pause that followed. He leaned over to turn the bedside lamp on, and hissed through his teeth when he saw Sherlock’s face and ribs in the bright light. “Oh, love.”
“It’s fine. Worth it, in the end. You should see the other guy.”
John tutted. “You’re going to need ice for that. Wait here, I’ll go and -”
“No!” Sherlock grabbed John’s wrist, pulling him back onto the bed. “Ice can wait. You’re home, John. A month early, might I add.”
“I managed to get some early leave, on account of my ‘hard work and heroic deeds.’” John coughs gruffly at that. He’s never been that fond of praise, or at least the kind he feels he doesn’t deserve, normally too elaborate or too public for his modest effort. Sherlock would bestow him with a thousand medals and it still wouldn’t be enough for everything John has done, both in and out of the army.
"Ah yes. My boyfriend, the war hero." There was only the tiniest hint of genuine sarcasm to this statement. "Mycroft told me the details."
“I was just doing my job. But if that’s what gets me home, I’ll take it.”
“And what about this?” Sherlock trailed his fingers down John’s sternum until he found the dog tags hanging around John’s neck, and weighed them in his hand with a teasing grin. “Did you just fall asleep halfway through undressing?”
“Ah - no. More deliberate than that. I mentioned having a plan earlier, didn't I, before I fell asleep. I was hoping to sort of put on a... display for you when you came in.” Sherlock could picture it now: John, posing like a model in a pin-up calendar, his head resting up against the headboard, one arm above his head, the other hand teasingly touching himself through his red pants with a lazy smirk, as though he had all the time in the world, his dog tags glinting in the orange light of the sunset against his golden chest. At Sherlock's wide eyes, John blushed scarlet. “It's a bit cheesy, but between the red pants and the dog tags, and posing a little bit, I hoped that it would do it for you. Does it?”
Sherlock laughed, and kissed him. “Completely unnecessary. You could wear your most horrific corduroy trousers and ugly knitted jumper, and it would still ‘do it for me.’ Even without the eight-month absence. That being said -” he smirked, his forehead pressed to John’s, as his hand traced a path down John’s spine, to the waistband of his pants, the fingers dipping underneath them just enough to make his intentions clear. “ - You do look very fetching in red.” John’s eyes darkened. “So, do you think you’re awake enough now?”
“Yes.” John’s voice came out low and rough. “Very much awake.”
“And as a doctor, do you not think it is your duty to stay here in bed and kiss all my injuries better? The Hippocratic oath, and all that.”
“I seriously doubt that this is what Hippocrates had in mind when he wrote it.” John lowered Sherlock back down onto the pillow anyway. He first kissed his black eye, gentle and affectionate. Then he kissed the cut at Sherlock’s cheekbone, to bruising at his jaw. His mouth found itself at Sherlock’s neck and kissed that too, despite it being (for now) decidedly bruise-less. Sherlock couldn’t complain, now that the kisses were becoming more heated and teasing and wonderfully distracting from the pain.
“I wouldn’t be so sure - ohh.” Sherlock moaned as the kisses on his neck become rougher - light bites and suction, teeth scraping against the sensitive skin there. “Those ancient Greeks, they never had it far from their mind.”
John chuckled, crawling lower down Sherlock’s body, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to every place the criminal had punched him, kicked him, slammed him into a wall, the painful memories fading more and more with every brush of his lips and ghost of his tongue. In the back of his mind, he was vaguely aware of the cold metal John’s dog tags against his skin, sending a thrilling chill down his spine. John was right; it did do it for him. “I don’t need convincing, y’know,” John murmured. “I’m back home on leave. We haven’t seen each other in the better part of the year. Just being in the same room as you is enough.”
“Likewise,” Sherlock breathed, lifting his hips up off the bed to allow John to pull down his pyjama bottoms. “Even so, I would very much like it if you left the pants and dog tags on.”
John grinned, a familiar, mischievous twinkle in his eye. “As you wish.”
John Watson was home, and Sherlock had never been happier.