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Light tore through the curtains casting a bright blue white gleam in the small bedroom. As fast as a fox and hard as stone the quick flash came into the once dark, once comforting room like a knife tearing through flesh. The boom of thunder rattled the glass in their panes and the doors on their hinges. It was an explosion. It was a nightmare.
John reminded himself of his strength. He appealed to his logical, intelligent brain to settle the deep seated fear and horror at the sights and sounds of a storm. It wasn’t the storm that sent his nerves on edge, it was the memories the storm brought to the forefront of his mind that unsettled the normally unflappable soldier. This was no storm, this was a battle of sky and energy.
It reminded him too much of the battles he’d seen on solid ground against good, young men. His brain was reeling from the memories of it; the blood, the gore, the impassioned rage and outcry from his fellow soldiers. Each sound from outside his window was a wretch of pain from a soldier; each roll of thunder a bomb, a gun, an agony in the making.
John shook in his bed, sweat beading at his brow and upper lip. He couldn’t help but be sent hurtling back to the balmy heat of Afghanistan, to the sounds of terror and sorrow. John wanted to leave the bed, to focus on anything other than the sounds of the storm outside. Any way he sliced it, he knew Sherlock would never understand the horrors of war, or how it affected John daily. John also knew that he had no one else to turn to, and no one he would rather find comfort in.
Another rattle of the window panes and John was back to the battlefield, all thoughts of comfort gone in a flash of lightning. His friend Thomas, a man he had known in England and on the field in Afghanistan, was laying before him. Dust and sand were settling around them. Thomas was mostly gone, the light was leaving his eyes quickly after the blast. John was pressing down on the soldier’s leg, trying to stop the flow of blood pouring out of his missing limb. He needed to cauterize, he needed to sedate, he needed to help him, but it was futile. Nothing would help him at this point, and there were others, always there were others that needed him, that pulled him from a hundred directions at once. His eyes lingered on Thomas’s face he wanted to apologize or give him comfort, but the sounds of war were too loud for the poor man to hear his words. John stood, going to find his next, hopefully better fairing patient when a sharp crack and pin-point pain tore through him. A bolt of thunder. He was bleeding. He could see blood forming even now at his left shoulder, but he had to go on, to find others, to help them instead of himself.
Another snap lightning outside brought him back. He could feel the pain of a bullet wound, the ache of his leg, and the horror at leaving his friend behind as fully as if it were happening again, just now in his bedroom with lightning and thunder. Sherlock would have to understand. He would have to because John had no other choice.
He fared poorly on his leg, limping down the hall and nearly falling down the steep staircase. He was telling himself that it was all in his mind, but his mind simply did not listen. He wanted nothing less than to go back to the therapist, to admit defeat that his own version of treatment had failed him. It scared him to think of regression. As if his mind had heard his fears, John’s leg gave out fully on the next step, he dropped to the floor with a thud. Another rattle of thunder. He felt like crying, or screaming, or just giving up, but he stifled those thoughts, as he had done so many months ago and pulled himself up. He had one hand on the floor, the other on the knob to Sherlock’s door, and his good leg firmly planted to hoist himself up. He strained as he used what felt like the last of his energy just to stand.
John adjusted his weight on his one good leg while the other was balanced precariously just a toe touching the ground for support.Weak. The cruelness in his brain supplied. Weak coward. John tried to shake the thoughts. Tears forming at his eyes. He tried to tell himself it wasn’t true, but felt in his soul that it was. I am a coward. I could have saved him. I could have tried... Rational though John normally was, he lost himself at the thought of the war. His hand trembled on the door knob, not believing what he was about to do. Coward.
Sherlock was laying awake in bed, listening to the thunder. It boomed through the apartment walls again. Those crisp blue eyes moved from their fixed point on the ceiling and seemed to look directly into John. Stress. Anger. Humiliation. Favoring one leg. Middle of the night. Shaking. Even without his superior inferences, he would recognize John’s sorrow and self hatred.
“John?”
His eyes were lowered, his shoulders down in defeat. “I couldn’t sleep.” He shifted on his good leg with an awkward little hop as another clap of thunder rang through the room.
“Your leg?”
His sorrowful, pain filled eyes met with his friend, no words were needed.
Sherlock, usually so brilliant, so able to jump from condition to cause to solution, was lost. “Do you need something? I can call someone.” He made a mental list: Mycroft, Lestrade, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, Stamford, Harry- assuming John had her number, his therapist? None of them seemed right.
“I need...” John’s voice wavered. He hated sounding so weak and helpless. “I need a friend.”
“Who? I can call them.”
“No,” he sighed, knowing he was going to have to tell him plainer, knowing that the man could deduce any number of things other than human emotions. “ I mean, you. I need you.”
The tall, sharp witted detective felt his mind go soft. He never knew how to take emotions, certainly not when they were directed him, and especially not when they were felt by him. His heart sped for a moment, not understanding. Why would he need me?
“Sherlock?” John implored softly. Lightning lit the flat again, both men feeling naked under the harsh sudden light. This was a conversation that needed the dark. John set his jaw and ground out embarrassed, “I don’t want to be alone.”
Brighter than the storm outside, realization dawned on Sherlock, and his body seemed to know sooner than his mind what needed to happen. He moved slowly, or it felt slow, or it was. He couldn’t tell. It was like he was moving underwater, the weight of feeling and understanding pressing against him, flooding him. His body shifted back allowing more space on the bed. He hoped this is what John was asking for. Sherlock wanted nothing less than to answer to John why he had made room for him in his bed.
John heaved a sigh of relief. He didn’t have to explain himself any more than that, the brilliant git had picked it up.
He hobbled to the edge of the bed and sat down on its plush surface. “Thank you,” he whispered, back still turned to his friend. He wasn’t expecting a response, and didn’t get one, Sherlock never knew how to accept thanks. It made John smile for just a moment, comforted a little before he laid back on the overstuffed pillows and righted his body beside his friend.
“Is it the storm? I’ve read of changes in barometric pressure causing old injuries to ache.”
John wasn’t expecting conversation. “Oh, well, yes, I suppose, a bit.” His left hand subconsciously rubbed at the scar that was nestled under his shirt, just below his collarbone. “And...” His eyes moved to Sherlock. He had never seen him like this before. Curls pressed down, hand on the center of his chest, face lit only by the glow of the street lamps and lightning, resting near him in the same bed. He felt his stomach quake with something between humiliation and exaltation. “Nothing. Nevermind, it’s stupid.”
Sherlock squinted and John knew he was being read. Softly, in that deep rumbling baritone he said, “I won’t think it’s stupid.”
John smiled, self deprecatingly. “Yes you will, and that’s fine. It is stupid.”
“I don’t think anyone would call a former soldier unwillingly reliving the worst day of his life in battle stupid, John." Quietly he continued, "Not even me.”
John's eyebrows drew together and a pained look overtook his face. Something in the heart of Sherlock’s words and the pain of John’s memories was too much for him to bear. He pressed his palms into his eyes, forcing back the flood. He barely withheld a sob before regaining his composure. “It’s just all so real.” He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. His voice was quivering and desperate, “I can see them here, in the room with us, I can hear their cries for their mothers and for god, and just like before I can’t help them and it hurts.”
For the first time in Sherlock's life, he felt his heart thud in empathy. His friend was hurting.
There weren’t words after that. Sherlock didn’t know what to say, and he didn’t know if anything that he could have said would even have helped so he kept his mouth shut. His hand that had rested over his heart reached out to John’s. He weaved his fingers between John’s own and brought their interlocked fingers to his lips. His lashes fluttered shut as he pressed a chaste, compassionate kiss on the back of John’s hand.
Images of the war, of pain and suffering, and the sound of the storm outside were all stamped out and replaced with the feel of Sherlock’s lips, the sight of his dusky lashes, and the sound of John’s heart thrumming in his ears. He didn’t come to his room looking for this, but he knew it was what he needed as soon as it was done. John’s body turned itself toward Sherlock and his hand was on the side of his face, encouraging his friend to go on.
His cerulean eyes bore into John’s as he kissed his hand again, softer and wetter this time. It made John’s stomach leap to his throat. He could barely breathe.
John moved their hands away and instantly replaced them with his own lips. They both pulled in breath as their mouths touched, the smoldering tension between them finally coming to a head. It was soft, their skin just barely touching. It was a ghost of a kiss, but god almighty if it wasn’t intoxicating. John’s hand weaved into Sherlock’s hair and pulled him in closer, needing to feel him more fully.
Sherlock bent his neck, gaining better access to John’s mouth. He had never kissed a man before, he had never kissed anyone before. He mimicked John and moved his hand up to his neck, pulling the man into him. His thumb rubbed against his jawline feeling the day old growth rough against his touch. It was exhilarating.
John opened his lips slightly, letting his tongue just barely graze those lips before him. Sherlock moaned darkly with the pleasure of the feel of John. He opened his own mouth in turn and tasted for the first time the mouth of another man. There was mint and tea and the sharpness of the salty tears from earlier. When their tongues met a bolt of lightning struck outside, but neither man could see the bright flash beyond the light show in their minds.
John inched his body closer. He wrapped one leg over Sherlock, forcing the man to turn on his side and face him.The heat between their bodies increased tenfold. John’s leg was wrapped around Sherlock’s; Sherlock’s leg was tucked between John’s. They were both lost in the feel of their bodies pressed against this man each had known only as friend.
Their breathing was quicker now, lips nearly sore from the passion with which they kissed. John pulled back, panting and looked into Sherlock’s eyes. They were near black from dilation. It filled him with unabashed lust to know he had done that to this man that was so cold to all other people. He leaned his head in again and kissed down Sherlock’s sharp jaw, and long, unending neck. He suckled the flesh just where his shoulders met that luxurious column of skin he so adored. His tongue lashed at the skin and mouth caressed the flesh that was so thin against the muscles of his neck.
Ecstasy overtook Sherlock. His head rolled back slowly and body arched into John. The groan that escaped him was involuntary and as loud as the thunder outside. He was lost in John Watson, god help him, he was lost to this man. One hand found the back of John’s head, while the other pressed against the small of his back, trying to press John’s groin more fully against his own. He wanted to spend his eternity like this. No case had ever thrilled him compared to the feel of John Watson sucking on his neck.
John nibbled at him between his kisses, extracting gasps and moans from the man intertwined with his body. He needed more. John pushed Sherlock over and straddled him. He sat back on his lap feeling the erection he had elicited from his best friend. He peeled the faded t-shirt over his head and rocked his hips back, teasing Sherlock even more.
Sherlock’s hands moved on their own over John’s broad, masculine chest. His hands reveled in the feel of coarse hair and hard muscle. He was fascinated by John. His movements turned from ones of hurried passion to ones of intense and deliberate study. His fingers trailed over John’s scar, down his firm pectorals, and down his softer sides. He watched as the skin danced under his touch and quivered the further south his fingers traveled.
His fingertips just barely made contact with John’s skin as they trailed down to the of hair just below his navel. John was watching him, breath ragged and eyes focused intently on Sherlock. He could feel John watching him, and slowly tore his eyes away from his abdomen. When their eyes met, the fire that had been lit between them burned brighter and hotter than before.
Sherlock roughly held John’s body down at the hips, firmly planting the man on top of him. He rolled him over and ground his pelvis against John’s, each man arching into the other. Sherlock tore at the buttons on his shirt, exposing his chest to John. He kept his shirt on, not wanting to waste the time it would take him to remove it completely. He leaned over John, both relishing the feel of skin on skin. Their kissing was deeper as their lips met again. The urgency of passion driving them to be bolder and less delicate.
John wrapped his legs around Sherlock’s hips, pressing his aching body against him as much as he could. He growled in frustration that the friction he so desired was eluding him. Sherlock understood the need in John. He could hear it as clearly as if John had shouted it in his face. Sherlock smiled against his lips and slowly palmed the front of John’s boxers, causing the soldier to cry out in rapture against the sound of the storm. Encouraged, Sherlock dipped his hand under the man’s straining flannel shorts, gripping fully the thick hardness that was the very essence of John.
Involuntarily, John bucked his hips against Sherlock’s palm and sucked on the tip of his tongue with mewling moans of passion. Without a word each man began tugging on the other’s pants. John’s boxers were easily discarded, especially when compared to Sherlock’s slacks. John fumbled with the zipper as Sherlock released the clasp of his belt as quickly as he could. Being on top and having his knees sunk into the mattress did nothing to make their desperate movements more fluid. Frustrated by their progress he extricated himself from John and dropped his pants and stepped out of them. He then threw his shirt down to join them on the floor.
Finally, both men were naked. The awkwardness of Sherlock disrobing had given them enough pause to consider what was about to happen. Sherlock crawled onto the bed slowly. John, who had been sitting up on his elbows was pushed back fully against the pillows. Sherlock wrapped his hands around his wrists and held him firmly to the bed. This time, it was Sherlock’s turn to worship John. He left love bites on his neck and jaw. He nibbled, caressed, and pulled every moan out with torturous slow precision.
Sherlock lowered his hips just enough, just barely grazing himself against the other man. The heavy length of Sherlock trailed a wet line over the thicker measure of John’s body. He could feel him twitch, and impossibly, harden even more at the touch. Sherlock moved over him again, fascinated by John’s body. He kept his chin down, eyes focused on the way their unmentionable skin touched and glided over each other.
John freed his wrist from Sherlock’s distracted grasp and clamped his hand down on the back of Sherlock’s neck, pulling him back in for a brutal kiss. Their bodies matched the pace then, fervently rubbing against one another. Neither man could control the sounds they made as their need came closer to fulfillment. They moaned and strained as their bodies and mouths moved against one another’s as strong and passionate as the storm outside.
It was after, when they were just laying together hot, sticky, and spent from their fervor, that Sherlock heard what he was hoping to hear. John was gently snoring in the bed beside him. Sherlock Holmes had cured his doctor. Sherlock reached over to his nightstand and grabbed his phone without disturbing John. He opened his browser and quickly typed in his search request. The results made his smug smile grow ever wider. Tomorrow, thunderstorm warning, 80% chance of rain.