The Only Thing Worth Fighting For

Chapter 12

Sherlock frowned as the pair climbed from the sleek black car provided by Mycroft (although thankfully Anthea had given them privacy to allow them to make up. Something which John was glad of when Sherlock pushed him into the car and snogged him passionately) and walked to the black door. Noticing that the knocker had been straightened by Mycroft again, Sherlock childishly moved it to an angle before opening the door and holding it open for John who had begun to limp. Sherlock watched carefully as John hobbled through the entrance and up the stairs, grimacing with each heavy footstep. It didn't look like his usual stress related limp, but Sherlock couldn't be entirely sure without further data.

A slight shiver ran up John's spine as he made his way up the stairs to the flat, Sherlock following close behind him. The anticipation of finally making it home, for them to be alone was pressing low in John's lower stomach and blooming through his limbs.

Locking the door behind them, Sherlock followed John up the stairs and into the living room which had been refreshed by Mrs Hudson, who'd lovingly lit the fire in the mantle to ensure her tenants were warm enough when they returned. Sherlock pulled off his coat and placed his long, musician's fingers against John's warm neck as he helped the doctor slide off his own jacket. Placing them onto the coat rack, Sherlock watched as John collapsed tiredly into his chair beside the fire, his face a mask of pain as he attempted to toe off his shoes.

"Did you hurt yourself?" Sherlock asked redundantly, it was fairly obvious that John had hurt himself although the detective wasn't sure under what circumstances.

"I er... forgot to put on shoes when I went out this morning in my panic," John blushed, rubbing his neck.

Sherlock moved quickly between John's feet, his fingers making quick work of the laces in John's brogues before slipping them off as softly as possible. With careful movements, Sherlock teased down John's shoes and listened to the doctor hiss and swear under his breath at the ripping sensation when the fabric teared at scabbed flesh.

"Sorry, sorry," Sherlock whispered, one hand stroking up to John's knee in sympathy. "It's off now."

The detective looked over at the cut feet and felt a pang of hurt in his stomach; he understood that John had reacted terribly to his nightmare, not to the events which had transpired before but Sherlock was still nervous. He'd never been in a relationship before, especially not with somebody who claimed to be straight previously. He wasn't entirely sure of the boundaries.

"I'm not going to freak out," John sighed, rubbing his fingers through Sherlock's curls and lowering his eyes to focus on Sherlock's own. "I'm sorry I was an idiot."

"Today, or just in general?" Sherlock quipped, looking up lovingly and watching as John's thin lips relaxed into a quirky smile.

"Git," John laughed and pulled Sherlock up for a soft kiss; it was neither passionate not arousing, rather just a brief brush of skin on skin as they reassured one another of their feelings. Sherlock let his fingers spread across John's cheek whilst moving the other to cup the back of John's neck, his large hands cradling the doctor's skull perfectly, as though it was made only for him.

John bunched his hand inelegantly in Sherlock's crimson shirt and combed his other hand through the raven curls, frizzling them beyond taming but neither man cared as they warmed themselves by the fire.

"I'm sorry," John whispered, "I'm so sorry."

"Shush now," Sherlock soothed, his forehead resting against John's own. "It's okay."

John shuffled forward on his chair until his bum was only barely on the cushion; Sherlock moved backwards and allowed John to re-position himself onto the floor facing his lover. Kissing again, John pushed Sherlock back until the taller man was laid out on his back, and grabbing a pillow he slipped it under Sherlock's head and straddled the detective's hips, ignoring the creak of his knees and the aches on the soles of his feet. Sherlock groaned low and deep and opened his bright eyes to stare at John in awe, the light from the fire giving him an almost ethereal glow and catching the shine on each follicle of hair making it look golden and angelic.