Archive of Our Own

He thought of them as collections of clues towards a topic - a selection of books he'd carefully pick during his morning strolls and leave on one or two of the tables. A mix of old tomes and new unopened arrivals apparently addressing unconnected issues but together annotating one complex inquiry. He'd carefully add maps, graphic novels, dictionaries opened to a particular page, once in a while even objects that were just out of place in the reading rooms - a dry oak leaf, small tea spoon, coil of copper.

---

He always came in to the library much too early. The large entrance lobby empty, only the sound of his own steps over the marble. It was a routine. Damp coat and scarf shaken off as he walked past the wide counters to one of the side doors, unlocked them, dropped his things on the desk he seldom used, and strode into the stacks.

The overhead lights were still off. One of the staff will turn them on in an hour or so, an established warning his calm morning would be over and people would start streaming in. But for now he was alone in the gloomy light of the tall windows, in the dusty smell of paper. He enjoyed this time of the day, his time with the tomes in the less popular sections. He'd wander and pull one out at random, reacquainting himself with the moment he first held it or discovering one he never touched before. He read paragraphs at random, traversing subject matter, format, genre, language.

---

The job of a systems librarian was one of handling data, software, on more exciting days some scripting or programming. He'd rarely ever worked with the patrons directly, another colleague was rightfully deemed better suited for that. Still, his work supported every staff member's and patron's step in the building and outside it, every volume, every digital issue, every inquiry or idle exploration. He'd never openly admit to how much he found his role rewarding, preferring to stay aloof, preferring to watch and take in the paths of their small discoveries.

He detested his tiny office and preferred to work on his laptop shifting his location from one reading room to another, workstation to armchair, mingling with the patrons. Although his colleagues took his formal gray suits, unusual as they were for a man in his late twenties, and his withdrawn attitude as disinterest towards the patrons they couldn't have been more wrong. He observed. The university students hyped up on coffee and chasing deadlines, the kids who came in for story-time waving heart-shaped pink paper in February and silver tinsel in December, the jobless and the homeless who came in for a hot drink from the vending machine in the lobby and a few hours in the newspaper section. He never spoke to anyone unless they addressed him, and since he never wore his name tag they seldom did. But by observing the multitude of people in the building he felt a part of it and the city.

---

Just a Wednesday afternoon, just another autumn week, just another round of emails. He was slouching over his laptop standing at a counter near one of the computer stations. A sharp sound. He looked to his side and saw one of the patrons stretch down from where he sat at a computer to pick up an aluminum walking cane and rest it against his thigh. The man looked annoyed and embarrassed, immediately going back to pecking away slowly at the keyboard. In his mid-forties, so the cane meant an injury. Blond but graying, military haircut? Possible, although it had grown out a bit. Sturdy lace-up shoes, jeans and a wool jumper. Those two index fingers navigating the keyboard unnervingly slowly, eyes regularly moving from the screen down to search for a letter. So, not an office worker or someone who regularly used a computer. Once in a while he'd settle his left hand on his thigh, checking the cane was secure but also nervously kneading the fabric of his jeans. Hand cramp, arm or shoulder injury? Or the injured leg? Which side?

He was used to one or another patron drawing him away from his tasks. He looked forward to these breaks in his day, his guessing game of deductions and, if he was lucky, a borrowed book or a word spoken as confirmation.

One perk of his job was the ability to track traffic of all computer stations in the library network. He saw this as a last resort, an easy way to verify or rebut his conclusions about the people around him. It had been two hours and the injured man was not moving from his station, not to speak to the staff at the counter, not to approach any of the shelves or displays. And he could not see his screen from where he was standing at the counter, just follow the rhythm of typing, moving the mouse and scrolling through multiple pages without staying on any too long. This indicated a search. The man licked his lips frequently and as his search continued looked more and more frustrated.

Sighing he capitulated and typed in the right sequence of commands. Job listings for general practitioners. So, an injured, unemployed medical professional with possible military background who does not own a computer. Why was he interesting?

Later that night, sitting at home with his tablet and a cup of tea his thoughts went back to the injured man. He wondered what caught his attention, why he kept looking at the man, looking at his browsing history, for hours. Leaving only after the man got up with a shaky exhale, his hand gripping the handle of the cane and pain flashing across his features, to slowly limp towards the exit. He returned to the novel on his tablet. It was abysmally bad but he was determined to finish it, figure out what made it so popular, a bestseller, when many other books failed. Well, something to kill the time until he felt it was late enough to relocate to his bedroom, read some more, then sleep. He was a bored and boring man.

---

He now worked exclusively at or near the computer stations at the library. It was foolish, childish behavior. He could not know if the man would return and when. But he did know that his job listings search must had been mostly unsuccessful as he seldom took notes and had not printed anything out.

But the injured man did return. Again and again over the following weeks. Spending less and less time browsing and instead roaming the stacks with no apparent intent until his leg tired, then settling in the area where drinks were allowed with a cup of tea and a medical journal. So, he had not given up on his profession altogether. Perhaps there was a part-time position? Yes, he did come only in the mornings and never on Tuesdays or Fridays. He still looked tired but this was perhaps exhaustion of hours attending to patients, not the vacant eye stare of his first visits. He needed to meet this man.

This was ridiculous. He was standing in front of his wardrobe mirror after spending much longer than his typical minute or two to dress. Frowning at his pale and gaunt face he was now rethinking the blue shirt. It had been years since he paid any attention to his clothes, beyond the interchangeable shirts and suits being well fitted, clean and pressed. He closed his eyes for a moment then checked his reflection again. He was even wearing the name tag, took him half the evening to find it. An idiot.

Choosing one of the low tables just in front of the shelf of medical journals he set to work. His careful selection included a tome on the birds of Central Asia, a photography book on the daily life of the Marsh Arabs of Iraq, several old postcards from the Middle East he had picked up at a very good antique shop a few days ago, and an olive green camping water canteen, not military but close enough.

Then he spent the following hour nervously walking around feeling lightheaded. When the injured man finally arrived and approached the display he had to steady himself against the nearest wall. He heard a high pitched buzzing in his ears. Supported by his cane, the man leaned forward and touched one of the postcards, then reached to lift a publication.

So, Afghanistan. War veteran, injured in Afghanistan, sent home on a pension, looking for a job as a GP. A medical professional with combat experience. He was probably bored out of his mind. Both of them were. He collected himself, smoothing his buttoned suit jacket.

"Would you be interested in other volumes from our ornithology collection?"

"Sorry?" The man stared at him and he knew he was losing his nerve.

"...oh, I... perhaps I disturbed you..."

The man smiled. And it was a wonderful open smile and he was an idiot. Surely the whole library could hear his loud heartbeat.

"Not usually my thing, birds, but why not. Lead the way."

He tried opening his mouth but quickly shut it before any miserable stuttering could reappear. He walked towards the zoology section making sure his pace was slow enough to accommodate the other man.

Between the tall stacks he reached for a particularly beautiful atlas. "We also have some older publications in secure storage and a collection of digital sound recordings available at the computer stations." He paused offering the heavy atlas. The man leaned his cane against one stack and held the book with both hands. "Thank you..." He looked at the name tag. "Sherlock? Well, that's an unusual name." He felt himself blush, then blush more with the embarrassment. "I'm John by the way."

"If you need any help, or headphones, I'll... I'll be near the computers." He nervously cleared his throat and with a small pause turned and left.

This had not helped at all. He was a miserable idiot. He was transparent and the other man was probably laughing at his wretched attempt. With a nervous exhale he retrieved his laptop and settled in an armchair determined to lose himself in the most daunting task he could come up with. Perhaps maintenance of the system of the scale requiring him to stay and work overnight. Not that he was getting any sleep after that awkward situation.

After ten or so minutes he heard a familiar sound of uneven steps and taping of a cane. John was back with two smaller books, smiling at him. "You mentioned headphones?"

"Yes, of course, I'll be just a moment." He stood up a bit too fast but tried to calm his stride towards his office.

When he returned John was already at one of the computers frowning at the screen.

"I am not very good at this. Only ever filled out forms before, and that with some effort."

Sherlock pulled up a chair careful of not getting too close. He reached for the keyboard aware of John's right hand on the desk just next to it.

With a few clicks he accessed the collection. Then he connected the headphones trying them on to check volume. After a brief search he settled on the rufous-breasted accentor and passed the headphones to John.

As he listened to the unassuming bird he kept his eyes on Sherlock. He smiled and pointed to the screen. Reaching carefully Sherlock chose another bird call. And another. They sat and looked at each other without speaking for a while.

One of the librarians, a dull woman he never spoke with, passed and gave him a puzzling look. He ignored her. Sitting like this with John was perfect.

"Thank you." John took off the headphones and set them on the desk. "Perhaps you can show me how to enjoy the collection on my own? As I said, I am not computer literate. And it seems you are."

They spent the next hour with Sherlock slowly explaining not just how to navigate through the many collections the library had access to, but also how to access various online resources, e-books, archives and materials in the public domain, medical journals John was interested in. Sherlock relaxed as he spoke, moving a bit closer and turning the keyboard more towards himself.

"... and that one I developed myself so I also know all its quirks and..."

"You designed it?" It was the first time John spoke in a while and Sherlock looked at him.

"Yes, that's one of my tasks here."

"So, you're a computer expert?" He smiled. "I'm impressed."

"Why? You're a doctor and a soldier. That's far more impressive."

John frowned. "How do you know this?"

Oh, no. Idiot. Stalker. He felt a jolt of panic. "I did not mean... I... I observed... and the book with Afghan birds..." He shut up.

John laughed and it was the most joyful laugh, completely inappropriate for the library and Sherlock felt it envelop him. "So, not just a computer expert but an observant one? And how old are you?"

"Twenty eight."

John laughed again, then adjusted his grip on the cane and started to get up. "Expert, observant, and so very young." John's gaze traveled up from his cane to the open top button of Sherlock's carefully chosen shirt, up his neck, pausing for the briefest moment on his lips, then meeting his eyes. There was no chance he missed the blushing this time.

"I should leave you to your work. Don't need an old man who can barely use e-mail wasting your time." He smiled a tight smile.

Sherlock took a step back unsure what to say.

"Thank you for the lesson." And with a nod John walked away.

---

There was no sleeping that night. And not due to the awkward stammering in the stacks of the library. Or the phrasing of what felt as a sudden dismissal. All Sherlock could think about was John's gaze on his neck, lips, reddening cheeks. How heated he felt under that gaze, how alone when John left. He was itching with desperation to not just be looked at but also touched. It was juvenile fantasy. But he was alone in his bedroom, it was past midnight, and he could indulge. He imagined John's hand reaching to touch his cheek, his fingers brushing his lips. He buried his head into the pillow and groaned. Could John ever see him like that, ever want him?

It was Friday. John never came in on Fridays or the weekend. So three more pointless days ahead, if not more. And he might never return if he felt embarrassed by Sherlock's pitiful approach.

A man who was a practicing physician, who had been a soldier, was injured and was still capable of the warmest smile. A man who was also very handsome. What would such a man see in Sherlock? A pale, scrawny, stiff computer nerd who dressed like a banker, spent his days gawking at library patrons unable to actually socialize, had no friends. And then there was the last bit of his inadequacy, something he didn't want to even think about.

Determined to pull himself away from his torment he spent the day in his office tearing apart three professors' curricula, getting into a heated argument with one of the senior staff, and redesigning the library website to promote easy access to several key digital archives with kindly-worded tutorials. That last bit might help with the now very irate senior staff member who threatened dismissal. He ignored the e-mails.

He spent the weekend sitting on the sofa in his pajamas, switching the television channels without actually taking in any of the broadcasts and drinking numerous cups of tea that somehow always cooled to an unpleasant and tasteless lukewarm temperature.

---

Monday. He was awake at five. Shaved carefully, fussed with his hair, changed shirts twice settling finally on a deep crimson one he hoped helped his pasty complexion. Checking his nails while thinking military doctors might care about neat nails, he caught his reflection in the bathroom mirror and shook his head. Beyond pathetic.

He arrived at the library so early he startled one of the cleaning staff. Then he set about to prepare his three collections of clues.

Touch. Texture. Terrain.

The one near the medical journals stretched the full length of the tables, even spilling over to the floor and held as its central point an oversized anatomy atlas opened to depict a view of arteries and nerves of the human hand. Next to it several of the more recent surgical journals with relevant articles intermixed with some antique ones he brought from home that held illustrations in vivid colors. And off centre one hand skeleton model, its index finger pointed while the others curved slightly.

By the computer stations a large tome on the history and logistics of the silk road trade, one carefully folded and very decadently embroidered silk and cashmere pashmina shawl, its colors matching that of his suit and shirt. Perhaps that was too much. And perhaps no one but him would even notice. A total of five photography books depicting weaving patterns and dress ranging from simple traditional costume to very current fashion, its surfaces shiny, its design and cut computer aided.

Then near the zoology stacks the last one. Several stunning monographs of deserts and steppes in contrasting colors of dry sand and lush greenery. One raised-relief map of Helmand Province, Afghanistan. And one of his most prized possessions, one of his closed terrariums, its mosses vibrant greens.

As the lights switched on and the staff started to arrive he was just putting the finishing touches to the last arrangement.

He did not notice one of his senior colleagues standing near until she spoke.

"Wow. We, yes, of course, we knew you would construct one of these once in a while but this is exceptional Sherlock." She approached the display and stooped down to peer into the terrarium. "I also noticed the tutorials you've put online Friday."

"Keeping busy."

"Good." She smiled and walked away.

He had some tea, throwing most of it away as it cooled. Checked e-mails. Walked among the stacks. Passed each location several times. After more than an hour of nervous maneuvers throughout the library he settled in one of the armchairs and started work on another tutorial.

"Those are real bones, I can tell you know."

John, smiling, his hair rain-damp, stood in front of him.

"I assume the hand model belongs to you?"

And Sherlock grinned. Like the idiot he was.

"Care to show it to me?"

They approached the first table collection together and Sherlock spoke about the older publications, about protection from cumulative light damage, about anatomicals theaters and skeletal models. He did not speak about the hand and where he got it.

John seemed captivated.

"It is not the only one."

"Oh? Well let's see then." John shifted on his feet a bit.

They walked to the second collection. This time Sherlock did not speak but ran the index finger of his right hand along the pattern of the embroidered shawl. John did the same and Sherlock visibly shivered. Still, he felt emboldened by the attention John was paying him and his small effort. Sherlock nervously straightened his shirt cuffs.

Soon they were alone in the stacks and Sherlock could only swallow dryly.

John was looking at the relief of the third collection.

"Thank you Sherlock."

He just blinked standing stiff and uncomfortable.

"Are you ok? You do look exhausted." He bent a bit to look closer at the terrarium. "But then I imagine this took some work."

Unsure of what to do Sherlock also stared into the moss.

"How about a cup of tea?"

And in his smallest voice, "Yes, please."

And then John smiled and gently took his hand.

"Not the vending machine, though, I think this effort deserves better."

Sherlock curled his fingers into the warm and callused palm. He no longer cared if he was blushing, if any of the staff saw, if, if. John squeezed his hand before letting go and they walked together towards the exit and to the nearby cafe. John pointed to a sofa and they sat down. Someone brought a pot of tea but Sherlock barely noticed.

"You live on your own?"

The question shook him from his trance. "What?"

"You cook you own meals?"

"Oh. No, not much of a cook."

John went away for a moment and then there was a plate of sandwiches.

"Almost lunch. My treat."

They were eating sandwiches together and drinking tea. It was so simple and at the same time exhilarating. He watched John bite into the bread and chew and sip from his cup. And smile at him.

"Now, you should tell me if I am reading this wrong before I embarrass myself Sherlock."

Sherlock just stared.

"OK, let's just... Would you like to meet? Meet outside of the library?"

"Yes." His response was immediate and a bit breathless.

John chuckled nervously and shook his head. He took a moment and sipped more tea as Sherlock squirmed in his seat.

"Dinner after work tonight?"

"You place?" That just came out.

And John laughed and looked at him with such open joy.

"You are amazing. Unbelievable. I must be imagining this."

Sherlock blinked and blushed some more.

They finished the tea and sandwiches. John escorted him back to the library and as they approached its doors took out his mobile. "Your number? I'll text you the address. Would seven be ok?" Now John looked a bit tense.

They exchanged numbers and Sherlock walked back in in a complete daze.

---

Before he left for the night, Sherlock removed the shawl from one of the displays and wrapped it around his neck. John would recognize it.

The address was a fifteen minute walk from the library and there was a shop on the way he planned to visit. He was careful not to start too early and calculated in the time necessary to purchase a bottle of wine but he still arrived a few minutes before seven. Readjusting the shawl one more time and clutching the wrapped bottle he rung the doorbell. The building was old and its unkempt facade and mismatched curtains spoke of a disinterested landlord and tenants that came and went.

After a moment the door opened and he was faced with a smiling John, his shirt sleeves rolled up and instead of a cane one hand clutching a tea towel.

"Hello. Come in, come out of the rain." He had not noticed the rain but was now aware of his damp and probably messy hair.

He followed John down the corridor towards an open door. Without the cane his limp was even more prominent. He was a head shorter than Sherlock. Also he was not wearing shoes, his feet in thick wool socks. Somehow this vulnerability of John's body made his calm demeanor more and not less intimidating. Sherlock had spent the afternoon fretful and unable to do any work. At one point he planned to leave early, go home, take a shower and change but he did not want John to have even more evidence of how inadequate he felt, how much effort he was investing in what for John may be a simple drink and take-out curry eaten in front of a television. Still, the way John had touched his hand in the stacks, the way he'd called him amazing, he was hopeful.

They entered a colorless and cramped bedsit. One single bed, a wardrobe, a sofa barely wider than an armchair, a table with two chairs, a corner kitchenette where some pots were steaming and a door he assumed led to a bathroom. Although there were not many possessions in sight, all spoke about John and he felt invited into the intimacy of the man's everyday. The narrow bed was made with military precision but the duvet was thick, John needed warmth if the landlord kept the heating low or off during the nights. Next to the bed several books from the library stacked just within reach, including one on ornithology. And a notebook with a pen sticking out from its pages. Did he keep a journal, or perhaps write? On the back of the armchair the wool jumper John wore earlier today, carefully folded. No television or radio. And the cane nowhere in sight.

He set the bottle on the table and turned towards John who closed the door behind him, threw the tea towel across his right shoulder and reached out for Sherlock's coat.

"Thank you for inviting me." He shook off the coat and John hung it up on the back of the door next to his own jacket. Sherlock liked the way the two garments draped against each other.

John chuckled. "As I recall you invited yourself." Sherlock fidgeted with the shawl for a nervous moment. Then John reached out, his hands on either side of Sherlock's neck and his fingers sinking into the swathes of soft fabric as if assessing the material. Looking not at the shawl but straight into his eyes he whispered. "Gorgeous."

He felt breathless. He felt ready to sink into John's arms. Then the hands took the shawl away to hang over the coat. And John limped towards the kitchenette. He followed to stand by the sole counter.

John proceeded to grate a chunk of parmesan into a bowl. He gestured at the room. "Not much but I've only been out of the rehabilitation hospital four months now."

"You have found work since?"

"Limited hours, mostly substituting for colleagues on sick leave and such." He turned toward the larger pot and uncovered it to stir in the cheese.

"I didn't know if you were a vegetarian so pasta seemed a safe bet."

"Oh, I eat everything."

"Or you rather don't eat much of anything." John glanced at his skinny frame. "Never mind, we can work on changing that."

He blushed.

John reached to open one of the cupboards, Sherlock captivated by how John's shirt stretched across his muscular shoulders, then gestured towards the pot. "Here, you take the pot, I'll set the plates. You brought wine?" Sherlock stopped his gaping and nodded. "Great."

Soon they were digging into the pasta and sharing the wine. Food rarely tasted this good and he ate a bit more than was his usual portion. John spoke about cooking, about getting back into a routine after leaving the hospital. He asked Sherlock questions about his job and the library. It was an easy conversation and Sherlock forgot his earlier fretting. At one point he eased out of his suit jacket and hung it on the back of the chair.

He was full and warm and relaxed. And John looked at him with interest, his gaze full of life. Feeling bold he reached out and touched John's hand. It did not move away. He brushed his fingers over the knuckles then wrapped his hand around John's wrist. He could feel the steady heartbeat, the warmth of the skin. He wanted to touch more of John and more than that he needed John to touch him. John turned his hand until it was enveloping his and started to get up. He looked up at the man in front of him, so close, still touching him, still watching him with an attentiveness that made him respond with an enthusiasm he did not know he was capable of.

"Perhaps the sofa?"

He nodded.

They sat together, hands still linked. John raising his other hand to brush an errant curl away from his forehead. "Truly gorgeous."

He felt a nervousness creeping up on him. They sat very close, John's thigh brushing against his. He could not look John in the eye.

"John... I... There is something..."

John looked uncertain and started to pull away. "Oh, if this is not what you want, or if you've changed your mind Sherlock, it's fine, of course it's fine..."

"No, no, just the opposite. I want this very badly. This. You." He slid both of his hands up John's forearms. "It is just that I am not... I have not... I know the basics but have never... I don't want you to be disappointed." He dared one brief gaze at John who looked uneasy and rather perplexed.

"Disappointed? Why would you think that?"

"You are a soldier, obviously experienced, you have expectations I am sure." He released an exasperated exhale. "John, I am very experienced with computers, but not much else in life."

And just like that John drew him closer, brought Sherlock's head to his good shoulder and enveloped him in his arms. Sherlock slid his hands to the back of John's neck and felt himself trembling in the embrace.

"You cannot imagine how alive you make me feel. How privileged I feel to be able to even touch you. Sherlock, you are beautiful and intelligent and if anyone should feel deficient here it is certainly not you. Nothing needs to happen tonight, or ever. I have no expectations, only the hope we can at least stay friends, meet again, talk. Just holding you like this..." John went quiet but kept running his warm hands up and down Sherlock's back.

"I've had a very difficult year. I've been injured, invalided, lost my career as a military surgeon. The rehabilitation can fix only so much, and I am too old for my body to deal with this level of injury easily. I live alone in this place and have no friends and family to speak of, I have no steady job, I have nothing."

His speech was muffled against John's shirt collar. "Me. You can have me."

One of John's hands moved up to cup the back of his head, they shifted and he felt John's lips on his cheekbone. A tender kiss. Then another. He slipped his fingers into John’s hair feeling its coarse texture, feeling John's hot moist breath on his cheek, and finally on his lips. Kissing softly at first, as if John were tasting him. He was incredibly aroused and pushed his chest against John's, pushed his lips against John's until the kisses became more heated and John's tongue slightly more insistent. Sherlock's hands were touching everything he could reach, hair, neck, cheek, shoulder. He gripped John's arm and sighed into his mouth.

John pulled away to look at him. "You are incredible. So gorgeous. You are amazing." He touched Sherlock's lips with his fingertips and smiled. Then pulled him closer to kiss his neck. All the while John held him tenderly, caressing his back and shoulders, reaching into his hair. He felt cherished and so happy. And somehow safe in John arms. He buried his face in the crook of John's neck and smiled.

"This is nice."

John laughed. "Nice? Not that I was expecting an evaluation but perhaps I'm out of practice."

"Oh, we should definitely practice more."

John sounded somewhat reluctant. "Unfortunately it is getting very late and we both work tomorrow. I'd ask you to stay but..."

Sherlock sat up and took John's hands in his. "Your bed is too small. So we're having dinner tomorrow at my place. You should bring a change of clothes and anything else you might need." He winked at John.

"You really are extraordinary."

Waiting for the taxi presented a chance for more kissing and Sherlock found out he enjoyed the height difference very much, clutching John to him, enveloping him in his long arms. John didn't seem to mind.

---

Tuesday went by in a frenzy of work tasks. Sherlock felt strangely energized and carefree. He smiled at everyone he passed which resulted in some quizzical looks from his colleagues. He tended to some technical issues, ordered a few pieces of equipment and had two meetings. He spoke animatedly, gesturing wildly and with a smile he couldn't shake off.

He wondered if they could all tell. This was him, Sherlock, same gray suit, same overused laptop, but he wasn't the same. Two days ago he was miserably alone and had no idea what kissing someone felt like. Now the most interesting man, the most striking person he ever laid his eyes on wanted him. Smiled at him with passionate eyes, held him gently as if he was something precious and desired.

At moments he'd wonder about what would happen tonight. His fearful hesitation was replaced with optimistic excitement. He wanted more. He could barely wait for more. Although he spent a short time dealing with his morning erection in the shower, he was again aroused several times during the day as his thoughts strayed and he remembered the way it felt to press against John's solid chest, the smell of John's skin, the taste of his kisses.

On the way home he visited the pharmacy. It was a first for him but he had researched online during his lunch break. The kissing was going very well, so the rest of it cannot be that difficult to learn. With three kinds of lubricant, John might have preferences after all, and more condoms than was reasonable he stopped to pick up an extra toothbrush grinning like a madman.

By seven he was buzzing. Checking the window, checking the still hot order from a restaurant that was highly recommended but not too ostentatious, checking the cooling wine, checking his dark blue shirt and carefully arranged hair in the mirror. When the doorbell finally rang he jumped startled.

Clutching the cane in one and a small parcel in his other hand John waited at the door. New shirt and cardigan. Freshly shaved. Polished shoes. Slightly nervous. The package held Belgian chocolates, expensive ones.

"John." He whispered.

"Well, hello.." Before John could finish he pulled him in, slammed the door and crowded him against the hallway wall holding his face with both his hands and kissing him for a long minute. Suddenly he was aware how he'd pinned the man who had his hands full and drew back a bit sliding his hands down John's shoulders.

"Oh, sorry, I..." He did not want to seem too desperate. Well, too late, no hiding it now.

"Missed me?" John rubbed his nose against his chin smiling. "That's ok, I've missed you, too."

"Please come up. It's a few stairs, I hope that's ok." He took the parcel from John and tilted his body to allow the man to pass.

"Manageable."

Following John, who took the stairs slowly and with some difficulty, made him calm down a bit.

"Wow, this is very nice." John looked around the spacious sitting room. A large sofa draped with a wool blanket. A thick and beautifully patterned oriental carpet. Large desk overflowing with books and notebooks. Shelves with many more books and various objects: framed butterflies, several meerschaum pipes, an antique metronome and apothecary bottles with fading labels, two small globes, what looked like a Turkish coffee grinder and many other trinkets he could not recognize. And two very comfortable armchairs in front of a lit fireplace.

Sherlock was paying close attention to John's taking in his home. He did have a cleaner come on a weekly basis as otherwise things quickly got out of hand, but he had also tidied up a bit himself today making sure some of his favorite possessions were in the spotlight. His belongings were a carefully curated collection that mapped his interests but also reflected the amount of time he spent alone reading and researching various topics.

"A fireplace? I should have trained to become a librarian." John beamed at him.

"Family property. But very comfortable, yes. Unfortunately this society does not sufficiently appreciate the importance of librarians' work, if only it were so." He huffed. Leaving the chocolates on the desk he strode over to help John out of his jacket. Which led to another kiss, more restrained this time but with John's hand rubbing the small of his back in a way that made him squirm with excitement.

John pulled away. "Something smells nice."

While watching John in his home and kissing him Sherlock had completely forgotten this was supposed to be a dinner together. John had worked today, had obviously been home only to shower and change, and was probably hungry. He blushed. "Yes, I've set the table in the kitchen."

They went to the kitchen together and John watched as Sherlock spread out bowls holding several salads, uncovered a plate of pita breads and set aside the heavy looking dome-shaped cover of a tagine pot.

"Moroccan, I hope that's ok?"

"It looks great." Before sitting down at the table he leaned closer and gave Sherlock another small kiss on the cheek. Unable to stop grinning Sherlock brought the white wine and poured some in the two glasses.

They ate hungrily and spoke about their day. John's endless coughs and sniffles of the flu season, Sherlock's issues with some software updates. It was easy, comfortable. It felt as if this was something they've done on numerous occasions before. He'd make John laugh and that made him giddy. They cleared the table together and packed away the leftovers into the fridge.

"Perhaps the sofa?" He purposely used the same phrase as John last night.

"That might be nice." They both laughed and he took John by the hand and led him to sit down.

John settled down on the sofa, leaning a bit to shove his cane off to the far side.

"You hate it. The cane." Sherlock was pushing off his shoes to pull up his legs onto the sofa sideways and look at John.

"Don't particularly like it."

"In your bedsit, I couldn't see it anywhere, you keep it hidden." He moved a bit closer and felt the edge of John's cardigan with one hand.

"Not hidden, but you're right. I don't like seeing it and keep it in the wardrobe. Even when I'm sitting and do not feel my leg it's a visual reminder."

"You are still going to physical therapy?"

"Only once a week now. Plus exercises at home, strength building and such."

Sherlock grinned. "Oh, I'd like to see that." Letting his fingers graze the thigh of John's uninjured leg.

"Wouldn't you?" They both laughed. "Come, let me hold you."

Sherlock happily twisted and turned to sink into John's arms resting against his chest and burying his nose in John's neck. "I am very happy you choose my library John."

"Me too." John started rubbing his back in way that was more comforting than arousing. They stayed like this for a while, silent and content, breathing together, exchanging soft caresses.

"I keep thinking this is a dream and I'll wake up in the bedsit, or worse, in the hospital."

"Oh, no John. The next time you awake from sleep it will be in my bed."

John stiffly exhaled and tightened his grasp, his fingers now actively feeling the muscles under only a thin shirt. "Sherlock..." And hearing the want in that voice Sherlock softly bit his neck and started sucking and kissing. His hands felt down John's chest and slid around his waist, touching and scratching. He wanted this man so much. He licked John's lips panting and moaning without restraint and he knew the other man was just as stimulated as he was.

"Oh fuck Sherlock..." John's hands slid to his hips and further to squeeze his buttocks. He was now gasping into the kisses and his erection was prominent.

Sherlock felt lightheaded and a small laugh escaped him. "I already told you that you can have me John." At this John's hands dug into his flesh and the kiss turned almost violent with want. It was thrilling and he couldn't get enough of it. If this handsome soldier could get past his unappealing and bony body and kiss him like that Sherlock was ready to risk asking for more.

After a few heated moments he broke the kiss and sat up straight keeping one hand on John's stomach just above his belt and brought the other to unbutton his own top shirt button, then one by one the rest of them. He felt himself blushing and his fingers were a bit shaky but the lust in John's eyes and his chest shaky with heavy breaths was a sight that dismissed any last fears he might have had. He shifted to straddle John fully, taking care not to burden his injured leg, and unbuttoned his shirt cuffs.

One of John's hands slid up from his hip towards his chest. He touched gently. "You are so beautiful Sherlock, so lovely."

Just as Sherlock was about to protest John pulled him closer and started to suck kisses into his chest. As if this wasn't enough the move had shifted him so that he could now feel John's erection. He felt dizzy, he was gasping for air, his hands were clutching at John's neck and shoulders, and he was rubbing himself against John.

"Please, John, please..."

Suddenly and with strength that was incredibly arousing, John moved them both laying Sherlock on his back and, with some shifting of limbs, kneeling between his legs. With one arm supporting his weight he resumed kissing and biting down his chest while the other moved down, slid across his stomach and through the thin wool fabric of his trousers gently palmed his cock.

Sherlock cried out and thrust into the touch, his hands frantically grabbing the back of John's head and his shoulders. John moved to unbutton his trousers but stilled for a moment and looked up. His hair was a mess, his lips red and smeared with saliva. It was the sexiest thing Sherlock had ever seen.

"Is this ok?"

"Yes, yes, please, please, John, please.

John squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his face into Sherlock's stomach "Oh, fuck, when you beg..." He quickly unbuttoned the trousers and shoved them and the briefs down to expose a medium-sized, elegantly curved and very stiff cock. With a moan he started licking and kissing it, burying his face into the soft black pubic hair. Sherlock was now uncontrollably trembling and loudly moaning. He looked down at John's lips and swiping, lascivious tongue and could not suppress a weak thrust.

With one of his hands on Sherlock's hip John closed his eyes and sucked Sherlock's cock down. The feeling, the sight of it, he was overwhelmed and without any warning started to come immediately. He was about to panic but John was sucking him down even deeper, hungrily swallowing around his cock, kneading his hip.

He lay back panting, his eyes closed, aware he was damp with sweat and saliva. His breathing was labored and he couldn't stop the small shakes of his body. John was shifting to lay on top of him and embrace him, kissing his neck and his cheek, his breathing just as heavy and broken.

He felt wonderful with John's weight on him, warm and sated in a new, fascinating way. He wrapped his hands around John and sighed. They stayed entwined and silent for a while in the silent room.

---

After a while, their breathing calmer, John pushed up to look at him with a dazed smile, his face still a bit sweaty and flushed. "You are simply amazing. Would you mind if I kissed you now?"

Sherlock laughed with happiness and pulled John into a long and deep kiss. He could taste himself on John but that only made it more thrilling. He kept laughing into the kiss.

"And we haven't even made it to the bed yet." He ran his hands down John's back and started to lift the edge of his cardigan and pull the shirt underneath loose.

"That's fine.. No rush. This was perfect, you are perfect." His voice was a little tight and muffled by Sherlock's shirt collar. He gave Sherlock a small kiss on the cheek and started to pull away from him to sit up on the sofa, the back of one hand rubbing against his eyes.

Something was wrong. Was John regretting this? He felt naked, exposed, and hurried to button his trousers and close his open shirt.

"John? Was it something I did?" Now he was panicking, pulling at his shirt and not managing to close any of the buttons.

John took his shaking hands into his own. "No, of course not, you were, you are wonderful." He looked at Sherlock who was on the verge of bursting into tears and pulled him into a tight embrace. "I am amazed by you, I've never wanted anyone as much as I want you now." He held Sherlock tightly to his chest.

"But you do not want to take me to bed? You do not want me to... reciprocate?" He whispered.

"Of course I do. I shouldn't, but I do." John sighed.

None of this was making any sense. Sherlock shifted taking John's head in his hands and gazed into his eyes. John was obviously uncomfortable, he looked down, tense and sheepish.

"Sherlock, I'm... I'm past forty. My body... I have multiple injuries, scars. You are so young, so beautiful, your skin is pristine. Mine is..." His voice broke.

Sherlock was dumbfounded.

"John, you are an idiot."

John gave him a puzzled look.

"I've spent weeks stalking you at the library and lusting after you. I've gone to great lengths to catch your attention and meet you. You are the most handsome person I've ever laid eyes on, you're in fact the only person I've ever wanted. And I was worried you'd be repulsed by my gangly body, anemic skin, boring personality." He added a little quieter. "And you are the first person I've kissed. And I want to keep doing that, and... much more than that."

John hugged him tightly and groaned. "So, we are both idiots." And all that tension dissipated.

Sherlock was now determined, all shyness and nerves dispensed with for good. He was tugging at John's cardigan. "Bed, now." He got up and turning towards the bedroom shook the shirt off his shoulder and dropped it to the floor, then proceeded to unbutton his trousers but stopped and looked at John.

"No, actually you seemed very apt at taking those off yourself." He pulled John up by the hand, kissed him and proceeded to hustle him towards the bedroom. By the time they reached the door they were both giggling.

Sherlock's bedroom was nothing like the sitting room. Minimalist and without clutter, just the one wardrobe, a large bed with immaculately white sheets and two pillows, and a single nightstand. And on the nightstand a different collection altogether - the bottles of lubricant, the many condoms, and a pitcher of water with two glasses.

John stared wide-eyed. "Oh, you're prepared. Very prepared."

Sherlock laughed and maneuvered him to sit on the bed. Thinking about how vulnerable John had seemed he pulled off his trousers, briefs and socks swiftly and without ceremony and presented his body as it was to John.

John stared as he approached the bed. "Gorgeous."

He sat next to John and put one hand on his thigh. "And yours." He leaned down to kiss John. Planting kisses on his cheeks, jaw, lips and neck he started to unbutton John's cardigan. He stopped for a moment before pulling it off his shoulder to check, but John looked calm and undisturbed. Good. He threw it as far away as he could. He intensified the kisses, adding teeth and sucking while John's hands slid over his lower back and hips with reverent touch. He was aware his own erection was back in force. That was also good. He'd make sure John saw how arousing he found him. Soon the shirt was unbuttoned and one sleeve was off.

John pulled away slightly from a particularly heated kiss. He spoke quietly. "If it is too much I can keep the shirt on." Sherlock rolled his eyes, grasped the hand of John's sleeveless arm and placed it on his now fully hard cock. John's fingers curled around it gently. That managed to keep John distracted enough to get rid of the shirt.

They sat close, Sherlock practically in John's lap, and kissed and touched. Sherlock let his hands roam over the now naked back, shoulders, arms and chest immersed in the sensations of the skin under his fingertips. John's skin was warm, his chest slightly hairy, he was sturdy and muscular. But it was the many unique marks that captivated Sherlock, cuts, burns and on his left shoulder blade what must have been a gunshot wound. "You are beautiful and fascinating John. Yes, you can have me."

He felt John smile, then felt him squeeze his cock. He gasped and pulled away with a mischievous grin.

"It's my turn."

He slid off the bed and moved to kneel in front of John. First the shoes were off, then socks. He briefly caressed one bare foot deciding to postpone that exploration for later and focus on getting John naked. He ran his hands up John's shins and thighs, brushing what was clearly a large erection. John's breathing was heavy.

Finally he unbuttoned the jeans. John leaned back on his hands closing his eyes for a moment and Sherlock pulled the jeans and pants down and off.

Sherlock dropped the jeans and crawled until he was between John's parted knees with both his hands on John's waist. Solid legs, with a fuzz of light brown hair, one thigh weaker and marked with a large constellation of scars; bullet then surgery and external fixators, he assumed. And twitching against John's stomach in a crown of darker hair a very hefty cock. Not extravagantly long but quite thick. The foreskin rolled back to reveal a large glistening head. He shivered with anticipation.

"Oh, John." He started placing small open-mouthed kisses everywhere he could reach, knees, scars, hip, stomach. "You are magnificent." He looked up to find John smiling but again looking slightly nervous. "Although we may have to take longer than I anticipated to work up to full penetration." He smirked at the bewildered look John gave him. "And none of these condoms will fit." And with that he bent down, never breaking eye contact, a licked the full length of John's cock eliciting a loud, arresting moan.

He kept licking, sucking, taking in as much as he could fit into his mouth, while running his hands on John's inner thighs and feeling for his testicles with the tips of his fingers. The tasting was extremely arousing, the musky smell of skin, sweat, pre-ejaculate was intoxicating. He frequently looked up to meet John's admiring and lustful gaze.

He wanted more. So he pushed John to lay fully on the large bed and crawled to kneel straddling him, bringing his erection into contact with John's beautiful cock and allowing him to bend down and kiss John's open mouth. He was learning fast.

"John, please..."

John was panting noisily, gripping his hips and thrusting up. "Yes, fuck, anything, yes."

Sherlock reached for the nearest bottle of lubricant and with some fussing filled his right hand with a large amount. He then carefully reached down to spread some on his own erection and lower, over his now tight scrotum and perineum. John was watching and loudly grunting, any shyness long forgotten, one hand reaching to grasp Sherlock's cock, the other to slide over his hip and caress his buttocks.

Then, after taking a moment to feel the sensations of John's attention, with his slick and long fingers he enveloped John's cock and started pumping it in earnest. He was soon overwhelmed and felt another orgasm approaching, but John was not too far behind, stroking his cock and pressing his fingers into the cleft of his buttocks, rubbing the lubricant over his hole. Sherlock was lost, whimpering into John's mouth, thrusting into John's callused hand, massaging his thick cock.

"Please, please..." And then John pushed the tip of one finger into him and he was suddenly ejaculating over both their hands. With one last loud grunt John stiffened and was coming, too.

He allowed his body to slide onto John who was now holding him tight, resting his head on his shoulder until their breathing calmed. It took a while but neither man moved or spoke.

He was feeling happy and sleepy. And sticky, but he ignored that. Under him John was happily sighing.

"So, nice?" John whispered.

"Very nice." They giggled.

"Shower?"

"It can wait. I am comfortable. And we may get sticky again later anyway."

"Fuck. You do remember I am not twenty? I need to pace myself."

"Neither am I. Twenty eight and three quarters."

John was laughing and it shook him. "And three quarters!"

"Although, you should pace yourself, tomorrow will be a long day."

John rolled him off so they could face each other. "Oh? I don't have work. Are you taking a day off and keeping me busy?"

"Yes, first because I need to shag you again, possibly twice, second because you are packing and getting out of that miserable bedsit."

John was scratching his semen covered stomach and smiling. "I am?"

"Because I was wrong about one thing."

"Oh?"

"The next time you awake from sleep it will be in our bed."

John laughed and kissed him again.