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swissmargPart Five (1st half)
This time, John was ready for it. Sherlock sent him across the ice again, in the direction of the island. Instead of fighting for control or trying to stop again, though, John lifted his feet up and closed his eyes and let himself enjoy the rush of the air over his face, the vibration of the wheels across the ice, the simple thrill of being, and knowing that Sherlock was right there with him. He opened his eyes when he felt the wheelchair slow, and heard the scraping of Sherlock's shoes behind him as he ran and slid the last few metres to reconnect with the chair.
"Is that all you've got?" John teased.
"You're heavy," Sherlock complained. "But here." He started the chair rolling again, pushing it as he ran. When he had them going at a good clip, he put the rest of his strength into it and sent John off flying.
This time, the wheels rattled somewhat alarmingly over the uneven surface of the lake, and John kept his eyes open, watching for any sudden pitfalls. The possibility that the chair might tip over at speed gave an extra edge to the game. John was well aware how irresponsible that was. On the other hand, it was pretty close to the bottom of the list of irresponsible things he'd done in his life, most of them in the company of Sherlock. He was almost at the tree when the chair finally slowed to a stop, and Sherlock caught up a few moments later. John twisted around to look at him.
Sherlock's cheeks and the tops of his ears were red, and he was smiling as he took hold of the handles on the back of the chair. He hunched down a bit, and there was a mad second when they locked eyes and John thought Sherlock was going to kiss him, but then Sherlock ducked his head away and reached into his pocket for a tissue. John realised that his nose was also watering from the cold and got out a tissue from his own pocket.
"Looks like you were right," John said. His heart was hammering, and only partly from the wild ride across the ice. "It's solid all the way across."
"It only needs to be about four inches thick to guarantee stability on foot." Sherlock stowed his tissue and pushed the chair the rest of the way toward the tree, weaving slightly and stomping to test the ice as he went. "I wish I'd thought to bring a drill."
"The police can do it. Now that we know."
Sherlock grunted. He didn't care about follow-up investigations and convictions. For him, the case was solved as soon as he convinced himself of the solution.
They stopped where a stand of dead reeds marked the shore of the island. Sherlock hopped up onto the rocky ground and went right for the willow, brushing aside the curtain of filigree branches hanging down and scattering snow over his hair and coat.
"So this is where Biggs was killed," John said, picking his own way over the patch of land. He felt a vague sense of disappointment that Sherlock had pulled away just now. However, it was quickly displaced by admiration and anticipation as he caught the signs of Sherlock moving into the high-energy end phase of an investigation. The man was in his element, and John counted himself lucky to witness it.
"He would have stood here." Sherlock gestured animatedly at a spot in front of the tree. His eyes were alight with the excitement of the moment. "Look, John, here's where the bullet hit."
John came around to see the spot. There was a ragged hole maybe five centimetres across. It looked much too big to have been caused by a rifle bullet. Sherlock was caressing it wistfully.
"They dug it out, of course," Sherlock tossed out in answer to John's unspoken question. "Shame, I would have liked to see the original hole. Still." He clapped his hands together and rested them against his chin. "We know what happened." He stood on the spot he'd indicated before and continued with his narrative, his eyes fixed at a point in the middle distance. John didn't doubt that he was able to see everything in his mind as if he'd been there. "He wouldn't have been up against the tree. No. He wasn't backed into a corner. He was confident; strong. He wouldn't have believed the old man would shoot him. Not even when the rifle was aimed at him. Maybe he laughed at him, goaded him." Sherlock swept one arm around to point to a spot on the surface of the lake. "Jones would have been right there. John, stand here."
Without waiting for a response, Sherlock jumped down to the ice and paced around, looking for the right angle. John dutifully took up position in front of the tree. Sherlock crouched down and extended an arm, looking along it at John as through the sight of a rifle. John felt uncomfortably exposed. Could Sherlock tell that his mind wasn't entirely on the case? Could he tell what he was dwelling on instead, what he'd been dwelling on all day?
"How do you think he got Biggs out here in the first place?" John asked, as if to prove that he was just as focused as Sherlock. "And with the rifle, no less. He could hardly have concealed it."
"Told him he'd seen an animal down here," Sherlock said, offhanded, as if it weren't important. "Or- Oh!" He broke off, having caught sight of something near John's feet.
John wasn't sure whether to stay where he was or move out of the way as Sherlock darted toward him.
Sherlock ended up on his knees at the base of the tree, pawing away at the rocks. "What's this?"
John hunkered down next to him. As Sherlock cleared the rocks away, a hollow space between the roots and the ground came to light. Before John could voice a warning about possibly disturbing a wild animal, Sherlock whipped his glove off and stuck a hand into the hole. He felt around for a bit, then pulled out a filthy, clear plastic bag. It looked like there was a small bundle of banknotes inside.
"Hah!" Sherlock cried triumphantly. "This is our answer."
John gaped. "What- How did you know that was in there?"
"I didn't," Sherlock said, but he sounded smug. He wiped the bag off a bit and held it up so John could see. The zip seal was still intact. There were perhaps ten or so banknotes rubber-banded together. The one visible on the top of the stack was a tenner. "Tens and twenties," Sherlock said. "What do you think? Maybe a hundred and fifty?"
"Yeah, looks like," John agreed. "Sorry, I'm not- I assume this has to do with the murder, but... so Biggs was killed for a hundred and fifty pounds?"
Sherlock scoffed. "Obviously not, since Jones didn't retrieve the money. He couldn't have risked it, anyway. His wheelchair would have left tracks on the ground, and he couldn't be certain of obliterating them. He knew that Biggs was stealing from him, though. This was the transfer point. He'd leave the goods here, and whoever his fence was would leave the cash from the previous transaction."
"Amazing," John said in a hushed voice.
Sherlock looked pleased with himself.
"What about when the lake wasn't frozen, though?" John asked. "Biggs was hardly swimming back and forth all the time."
"They probably had several drop points. This was just an opportune one for a few weeks that winter. Unfortunate for Biggs, as it may have been the only one that Jones could get to without assistance."
"But I still don't- I mean, Biggs would have noticed his employer sneaking after him in his wheelchair."
"Precisely. Which is why Jones waited for him here."
"You can't possibly know that," John said, half incredulously, because he had no doubt that Sherlock could, in fact, know that.
"It's the only way it makes sense. As you say, Jones couldn't have followed him down here. So he waited. There's no place to hide, especially with all the foliage gone, so it must have been dark. Biggs wouldn't have come here in the day anyway, too much chance of being seen, either by Jones or by hikers or other visitors. - Oh yes, we're not the only ones to sneak in for a bit of fun on the ice. Just look at the tracks-" He gestured vaguely at the lake. John, of course, had not noticed any tracks on the ice.
John grinned. "That's brilliant."
"Not so brilliant, obviously. Jones knew what Biggs was up to."
"No, I mean you." John looked at Sherlock. There were tiny flakes of snow dusting his hair and shoulders, and two or three droplets glistening where they had melted on his eyebrows. He was beautiful. John's heart skipped a beat. This was... God, this was it, right here. Here, at the scene of a murder, no doubt soon to be chased off the property by the rifle-wielding killer himself, so cold he couldn't feel his fingers or toes, his head still throbbing dully where he'd bumped it, he was happy in a bone-deep way that nothing else could quite come close to. He leaned in a bit closer. The silence around them was absolute. There wasn't even any wind. Sitting there, inside the half-dome created by the hanging branches, surrounded by a vast field of white and blue, they might have been the only people left on earth.
"You're brilliant," John said in a soft voice. He slipped off his glove, reached up and wiped some of the moisture off Sherlock's cheek with his thumb. Sherlock held very still. John took a deep breath and plunged on. "I didn't want to need this," he said. "I couldn't let myself need this. Do you understand?"
Sherlock's brow twitched in the direction of a frown.
"I needed this- you- everything- to live, and then it was all gone, and I had to stop needing it."
The frown deepened. "John-"
"-but it never went away," John said over him. "It's still here, it always was, and it's taken me this long to accept it again. This is me, and you're a-" It was hard to keep his voice steady. "You're a really big part of it."
Sherlock's ungloved hand came up to cover John's on his cheek.
"I know a lot of people are going to think this is a spectacularly poor idea, but that's what they think about nearly everything we get up to, and it's worked out fairly well for me so far. No limp, no tremors, and as much free Italian food as I can eat."
Sherlock huffed out a laugh and squeezed John's hand gently under his.
"Okay, then I'm going to-" John said. He tilted his face a bit closer to Sherlock's. Just then, Sherlock ran his tongue ever so briefly along the inside of his lower lip. It was probably an unconscious reaction, yet it sent a spike of desire through John even as it served to assure him that Sherlock wanted this too. Still, he raised his eyes to Sherlock's once more, to be absolutely certain. The anticipation and ardor he saw there - mixed with a not insignificant dose of Sherlockian impatience - cleared away any final doubts.
He closed the last few centimetres, touching his lips gently to Sherlock's. They were cold, and his nose was cold against John's cheek. The rough-on-rough of their chins was a surprise, too. None of that mattered, though, as John's body warred between relaxing utterly as all the tension and frustration that had been building up over the past several weeks found its outlet in the slide and curl of their tongues against each other; and building up a new kind of tension that started below his belt line and left him in no doubt whatsoever that he would be prepared to propagate the species - theoretically, at least - in very short order and in any number of creative ways. For a while, John's brain wasn't capable of registering anything more than 'fuck, this is good' and 'I could seriously get used to this', but pretty soon the fact that he was kneeling on a pile of sharp rocks in subzero temperatures brought him back to reality.
He leaned his cheek against Sherlock's and spoke down towards the edge of his jaw: "This is actually pretty uncomfortable."
Sherlock chuckled. "You could have waited until we got back to the hotel."
"No, I couldn't. I really, really couldn't." He fumbled in his pocket for his tissue as his nose began to drip again. "And anyway, there's something appropriate about our first kiss taking place at the scene of an unsolved murder. Well, wildly inappropriate, I suppose," he said with a wry smile, "but you know what I mean."
"And it's not unsolved any more, John," Sherlock said as he rose and slowly straightened his legs. He jiggled the plastic bag with the money. "I'd say this calls for a bit of a celebration, wouldn't you? I'd suggest Chinese, but I don't think we'll find anything more exotic than a Cornish pasty around here."
John wondered what Sherlock considered cause for celebration: the discovery of the last clue in the case, or the kiss. It was probably best not to think about it too hard, especially as it seemed Sherlock was going to get a good meal out of it either way. "We could go back to that pub we asked directions at," John said. He pulled his gloves on again. "It's a bit early for dinner. Maybe a couple of pints first?" Because he could probably use a bit of alcohol in his system in preparation for whatever was going to happen later on.
Sherlock pulled a face. "Beer, honestly. A couple of brandies in front of the fire, if you'd like, and then a nice bottle of wine with dinner, I'd say. We can stop off at the room first for you to change your socks."
"How'd you- Never mind." John shook his head with a fond smile. "Yes, that would be lovely. Come on. This time, you can sit and I'll push you." Now that he knew how strong the ice was, he didn't have any misgivings, and it turned out being pushed across the ice on wheels was rather fun.
"Take me around to the other side first," Sherlock said. "Where Jones was." He sat down in the chair, making a production of arranging his coat so that it didn't hang down to drag on the ice or get caught in the wheels anywhere.
John complied, then stood in for Biggs once more while Sherlock got his fill of sight lines and snapped pictures with his phone. The light - which had never been bright through the dreary cloud cover - was now fading perceptibly, and Sherlock soon agreed that he'd seen all he needed to.
They set off toward the shore again, this time with Sherlock pointing out the tracks which had eluded John's notice earlier. Those were from children playing tag. Those were from a worker or employee at the estate house, cutting across on her (yes, it was a woman) way home. And those-
"Wait, turn that way." Sherlock indicated the ground to the right.
John obediently turned the chair and followed a trail of footprints under the light dusting of snow. They were easy even for John to see, as it appeared whoever had walked that way had been wearing spikes on their boots, which had left sharp indentations in the ice.
Sherlock turned on the torch function on his phone in order to scan the ground where the tracks ended. "Look, there. Hold this." He thrust the phone at John and wheeled himself over to a spot where, John could see in the spotlight he directed downward, a nearly perfect circle of ice about the size of a dinner plate shone up at them, as if it had been smoothed out and polished. It was surrounded by a wreath of churned-up ice shavings.
John frowned. "What do you-?" But Sherlock was already rolling away, crowing triumphantly a moment later.
"Another one!"
John trotted over to shine the light onto another of the mysterious circles. The first thought that came to him was crop circles and aliens, but Sherlock's pronouncement was much more mundane.
"Ice fishing, John. Look, here are the marks from their chair. An aluminum folding one. And there's where they set their lantern."
John nodded in acknowledgement, although honestly, one scratch on the ice's surface looked much like another to him. At this point, he successfully negotiated the logical step from 'ice fishing' to 'those circles are the re-frozen holes', but he never forgave himself for not quite making it to '-where the ice will be thinner and what the hell is Sherlock doing rolling right over that one' before everything went horribly, inevitably wrong.
It all happened very quietly. In stories, there was usually a deafening crack when the ice broke on a river or lake, but this was more like a soft crunch, an eggshell sound, followed by a muffled thud as Sherlock hit the ice when the chair tipped forward, dumping him out and landing on top of him. A wet, fingernails-on-chalkboard grinding, like bone fragments under John's fingers in an open fracture, and then the chair was tented over a black hole and Sherlock was nowhere to be seen.
It couldn't have taken more than two seconds. John had thrown the chair aside before he even realised he'd moved. He felt the vibrations from it crashing across the ice in his chest, as he was now lying at the edge of the hole with his arms plunging down into the freezing black water, groping blindly for something - anything - For a mad, terrifying moment, he was on the street in front of Bart's. His head hurt - he'd fallen down and hit it on the ground, but at the same time he was completely numb, because where had Sherlock gone? He was just here a moment ago, and now people were grabbing him, holding him back, why couldn't he touch him?, he just needed to take Sherlock's hand to make everything right again, to make sure he was alive, but his arm wasn't long enough -
He was a split second away from diving in himself when Sherlock surfaced, sending a wave of icy water into John's face and across the ground where he was lying, soaking his front and shocking the air out of his lungs. It wasn't enough to stop him reaching frantically for Sherlock, though, and he managed to get a handful of coat, which he held onto with an iron grip. No one was going to pry his fingers off again.
Sherlock was conscious and coughing raggedly, clawing at John's shoulders and back in at attempt to pull himself out. It seemed to take forever, but between the two of them, they managed to get Sherlock up on to the ice again. He was wet, his face and hair were streaming, and there was a dark liquid pooling around him. John had to get it off, had to stop the bleeding. He pushed the hair out of Sherlock's face, wiped his forehead and cheeks with oh-so-steady hands, felt the sides and back of his head, patted down his own pockets looking for his fucking penlight so he could check Sherlock's eyes, he had to check his eyes -
"John, John, let me- I'm all right." Sherlock curled over onto his side, his body shaken by racking coughs, between which he tried to assure John that he was fine.
"You're not, Sherlock, fuck, you have a head injury, you're bleeding all over." John's voice sounded distant to his own ears, tinny and thin.
"No, it's-" Sherlock's hands came up to feel his face and head, rubbed his fingers together. "It's just water. It's not-" He coughed again, deeply.
"I think I'd know, Sherlock, I saw you fall, I saw you lying there, I-" He broke off, realising what he was saying. Sherlock had broken through the ice. He hadn't jumped off a building. Not this time. John felt sick. He sat back and put a hand over his mouth. It was shaking now. "Fuck."
"It's okay."
John shook his head. This hadn't happened to him in years. He stared down at Sherlock, who had an expression on his face that John had never seen before. It took a moment, but John eventually recognised it. Sherlock was frightened.
"Where's the light?" Sherlock asked, very quietly and very calmly. His eyes were still huge.
John could only shake his head. He didn't carry a penlight with him. Not anymore. Not since the army.
"My phone, John," Sherlock prompted him gently. "You were using it as a torch."
John took a deep, shuddering breath. Yes. He patted down his pockets automatically, but he must have dropped it when he dove for Sherlock. He scanned the ground; in the rapidly dimming light, he was able to make out a dark smudge a couple of metres away. He crawled over to it and closed his hand gratefully over the plastic device. It was probably ridiculous to care about the fate of an inanimate object after what had just happened, but that phone was nearly as important to Sherlock as his coat. He tapped the keys and found, to his relief, that it was still in working order. He held it out for Sherlock to take.
"Turn the light on and look at me." Sherlock was already shivering so hard it looked like he was having convulsions.
John had no idea what the purpose was, but he did exactly as he was told. In the weak light, he saw white, blue, black. No red. The pooled darkness around Sherlock's outline was just ice turned shadowy and translucent from the water.
John closed his eyes and breathed through his nausea until he felt he could speak. Sherlock was going into hypothermic shock. He could die, because John was stuck in a flashback. He forced himself to concentrate on assessment and action. "We have to get back to the car."
It was nearly dark now. Sherlock didn't say anything as John hauled him to his feet and started walking back in stony silence, one hand illuminating the way with the light from Sherlock's phone and the other pulling Sherlock along with an iron grip on his sleeve. The wheelchair was left abandoned to its fate.
John could feel the tremors running through Sherlock's arm before they'd even reached the end of the lake. He paused to shine the light at Sherlock's face. He was shivering uncontrollably. His jaw was clenched in miserable resignation and it looked like there were actually icicles forming on the ends of his hair.
"God, say something before you freeze to death," John muttered through his own clenched teeth.
"The shivering is good," Sherlock managed to say. "It's not like we have any other way to warm me up at the moment."
John unzipped his jacket. It was wet on the front and the sleeves, but the inside was dry thanks to its lining.
"No, you need that," Sherlock protested. "And my coat's thick enough it's actually helping."
John draped his jacket over Sherlock's head. "Reducing your heat loss by forty percent right there. My jumper's dry, I'll be fine." He didn't mention his sodden trousers; his thighs were no longer stinging, anyway, having moved on to numb.
Sherlock pulled the dangling ends of the jacket together under his chin and stared at the ground, holding his body stiff in an effort to control the shudders running through it. John considered saying something, but it was really Sherlock's own damn fault. If it had been anyone else, John would have called it a very unfortunate accident, but Sherlock had recognised what those circles were and had deliberately run right over them. Hell, he'd deliberately deviated from the path they'd taken on their way to the island - a path they'd tested and knew was safe - for what? Was it just his insatiable curiosity, or had he been trying to impress John? Either way, what was done was done. And it wasn't the worst that either his curiosity or need for validation had resulted in during the course of their friendship. Or would one day result in. This is what he was signing up for. What he had signed up for, that night four years ago when he'd come running to the call of 'could be dangerous'.
John squared his jaw and pulled Sherlock onward, faster this time, both in order to generate heat through muscle activity and to get back before Sherlock's temperature dropped any further.
As soon as they were inside the car, John turned the heater up full blast, which only had the effect of dousing them with a burst of icy air. John closed the vents to give the engine time to heat up and turned the car around. It was dark now, and the road was narrow and unfamiliar, forcing him to drive frustratingly slow. Sherlock wasn't saying anything, but John could hear him shivering, the dull staccato of his teeth bumping together and the breathy stutter of his respiration. John reached down and grasped Sherlock's leg through his coat. The material was stiff and leached all the heat out of his hand. John was torn between anger and despondence. It wouldn't do any good to point out what a foolhardy thing Sherlock had done. His silence told John that Sherlock was well aware of the fact.
"Give me your hand," John said, finally.
"I don't need you to hold my hand," Sherlock said sourly.
John set aside the tiny sting - when he had reached for Sherlock's hand the other times, it wasn't because he thought Sherlock was weak; it was to express affection and solidarity. But this time, it was even more practical.
"I want to start warming you up," John said evenly.
"It won't do any good to start with an extremity."
"I can't exactly wrap myself around your chest right now, just give me your hand!"
There was a hiss of annoyance, followed by a bit of fumbling as Sherlock worked his hands out of his wet gloves, and then a block of icy flesh was thrust against John's palm. John pulled Sherlock's hand toward himself, took a second to work his shirt out of his waistband, and slipped Sherlock's hand in underneath both jumper and shirt, flinching involuntarily at the sudden bloom of cold on his abdomen.
"Other one," he said, suppressing a shiver himself.
"You got soaked as well," Sherlock pointed out, his voice unsteady through his tremors. "I have a higher metabolism than you, I'm probably-"
"Give me your other hand," John insisted with finality.
Sherlock shifted closer, slid his right hand around to John's back and placed his left hand on John's stomach under his jumper. He dumped John's jacket on the seat behind him and rested his forehead against John's shoulder.
"Get your shoes off and tuck your feet up," John said. "Minimise your surface area." He flicked open one of the vents, but the air coming out was still cold. He had no feeling in his fingers, and it was getting harder to stop his body from shaking. Sherlock shuffled around, squirming and pressing against John as he tried to fold his long legs up underneath himself on the seat. When he finally settled, he'd worked his hands in even further underneath John's shirt, his palms flat against John's skin and gripping gently. John could feel the cold tendrils of Sherlock's hair against his ear.
"I didn't do it on purpose," Sherlock mumbled.
John clenched his teeth to stop a shiver. "Don't."
"I thought the ice would hold." His hands tightened around John.
"Just- Leave it, all right?" John's voice grated.
Sherlock subsided, but nudged himself in closer, so that his knees were pressed against John's thigh.
When they got back to the B&B, they both stumbled upstairs, John calling out a request for a pot of hot tea as they went. John followed Sherlock into his room, where he headed straight for the bathroom to turn the shower on. The water came out fast and hard; surprisingly so, given that they were on the top floor and it was an old house. Sherlock appeared a few moments later, completely naked. He had his arms wrapped around his chest and his lips were an alarming colour. His neatly groomed penis and testicles formed a wrinkled knot of flesh close to his body, and he was still shivering, although only in fits and starts now, rather than incessantly.
John put his hand under the water stream to test the temperature, but all he felt was pins and needles, as the circulation in his hands hadn't recovered yet. He swore under his breath and yanked his jumper off.
"You should get in too," Sherlock said.
John pulled his shirtsleeve up and thrust his lower arm into the water. It felt a bit too hot, so he adjusted the faucets. "There's not enough room; remember the last time we showered together? You need to get as much of your body under the water as possible. It'd be better if we had a bathtub, but we don't. Now in you go." He held the shower curtain open, keeping his eyes on Sherlock's feet, both to afford him as much privacy as he could, and because he was afraid of what he'd see if he looked him in the face. His near breakdown on the lake was still fresh in his mind.
Sherlock stepped into the tiny cubicle, but before John could close the curtain, Sherlock laid a cold, trembling hand on his arm.
"You're completely blue. Please."
The plea stirred something uncomfortable in John. Sherlock was treating him as if he were fragile because of what had happened, how he'd reacted. "I'll take a shower after you. You're more critical."
More than a hint of irritation found its way into Sherlock's expression. "Don't be thick, John. You're probably colder than I am at this point. You need to take off those wet clothes anyway. Now get in here before the hot water runs out. Or do I have to forcibly undress you?"
John did not let himself hear the double entendre in those words. They glared at each other for exactly as long as John could stand to see Sherlock standing with one foot in the shower and one out, his lips a disturbing shade of purple. Knowing that Sherlock might actually slip into unconsciousness before giving in, and aware that he'd end up in the shower anyway if he went so far as to wrestle Sherlock underneath the water and hold him there, he reached for his belt. It was frustratingly slow going with his stiff fingers - and Sherlock was waiting for him to get undressed before going under the water himself, the berk - but he finally managed to work the buckle open and squeeze his feet out of his shoes without undoing the laces. He glanced at Sherlock from beneath his furrowed brow, only to see that he was just a few facial twitches away from a smirk.
"Enjoying the show?" John asked belligerently as he struggled with the buttons on his shirt.
Sherlock's mouth curled up. "Very much."
That sent a shot of heat through John's abdomen, and he made fast work of the rest of his clothes, finally kicking his way out of his trousers and as unselfconsciously as possible dropping his shorts onto the clammy pile.
"It's a wonder there's any hot water left after that display," Sherlock griped, but he stepped back under the shower spray and, without a moment's hesitation, wrapped his arms around John and pulled him close so they were plastered together front-to-front, forming a single human column under the water.
God, and that was- Not that it wasn't pleasant, but... Sudden. That's what it was. They'd kissed once and held hands - briefly - a couple of times, and that was really about it; for all the times they'd seen each other naked now, they had never actually done much touching. And now everything was touching. Everything. There were Sherlock's hands, gripping his back, skin against skin, hot and cold so that he couldn't tell the two apart; his chest, hard and flat, right against John's chest, and he could actually feel - were those his nipples? They must be, unless Sherlock had very prominent moles on either side of his chest, which John knew for a fact he didn't. And he was still cold, so of course. Sherlock's abdomen was gently expanding and contracting against John's rather softer stomach, and if John had been in any state of mind to be monitoring Sherlock's respiratory rate, he would have noticed that it was even higher than John's own. But he wasn't, because there was definitely something slightly rubbery in contact with his lower abdomen, and if he shifted to the right just the tiniest bit, he could feel the Velcro-like catch of hair against hair. John closed his eyes and tucked his face into the crook of Sherlock's neck as the warm water pounded down onto the crown of his head and ran down the back of his neck, over his back. He brought his hands up to complete the circle around Sherlock's body. The sensation of being cold was overlaid with arousal, so that he couldn't tell any more what the source of the tightening and trembling in his muscles was.
"I don't know that this is-" he started, but he felt slow, the blood throbbing in his fingers and toes and ears as chilled skin started to come back to life, and he didn't know exactly what this wasn't. It was, it just was, it was all there was.
"Body heat," Sherlock explained, although his voice was gruff and his fingers were slipping lower, grazing John's iliac crest. "Less exposed surface area as well."
John tried to nod, but all he succeeded in doing was brushing his lips against the hollow between Sherlock's collarbone and the trapezius muscle rising from his back. Once he'd started, he found himself powerless to stop. He kissed his way along the furrow to Sherlock's neck, then up the side, lazily, slowly, learning the taste of Sherlock's skin and thrilling in the way Sherlock stretched his neck out even longer, his hands clutching now at John's buttocks, trying to pull him in even closer when there was already less than nothing between them.
Then John parted his lips and pressed his tongue into the soft indentation under Sherlock's jaw, where his jugular throbbed hot and fast beneath the thin layer of skin. That seemed to be some sort of breaking point for Sherlock. His head swooped down and he caught John's mouth with his, pausing a moment with his lips resting against John's, closed, breathing through his nose, and that was somehow more erotic than any amount of tongue-fucking they might possibly have done. Then, though, as if on cue, they both took a breath and deepened the kiss, picking up where they left off on the island. It wasn't long before Sherlock was licking and sucking and insinuating himself into every last corner of John's awareness, until John was conscious of nothing other than the points at which their bodies were intertwined, which was fucking everywhere. He was suffused in Sherlock; the sound of the water falling against the tiles was long since drowned out of his sensory inventory by the gentle grunts and exhalations that attested to Sherlock's enthusiasm for exploring John's mouth - until a sharp rapping from somewhere outside their watery cocoon drew his attention slowly back to the here and now.
"The tea-" John managed to say before Sherlock had his tongue in his mouth again. "Sherlock- Sherlock-" he said between kisses. "They've sent someone up with the tea. They're liable to come in and leave it on the table if we don't answer."
"Fine," Sherlock said and tried to dive in again.
"No, wait, not fine," John said through a chuckle, "the bathroom door's wide open. Let me-" Sherlock kissed him again. "Let me just go take it, all right?" he said into Sherlock's mouth.
The knocking sounded again.
"Coming!" John called over his shoulder.
"Leave it outside!" Sherlock shouted even louder.
The water decided to become perceptibly cooler exactly at that moment.
"Come on, let's-" John unwrapped his arms from Sherlock and nodded toward the bedroom, smiling. "Come on. Think we've depleted the boiler." He stepped out of the shower stall and wrapped a towel around his waist as he walked, dripping, to the door. His heart was racing; he wondered how much further they would have gotten, had the arrival of the tea and the departure of the hot water not interrupted. He only realised now that he was half-hard, although the cool air and the possibility of the landlord standing outside the door were both doing their part to reverse the process with alacrity.
He set a friendly expression on his face and opened the door briskly, making sure to stand with his hips shielded behind it, just in case, but there was no one in the hall. The tray with the tea things was sitting sedately on the floor just outside the room.
He brought it in and set it on the table, locking the door automatically. He then looked around for his bag in order to get out some dry clothes, before remembering that they had two rooms. It would be awkward if he left now to go across the hall. He had only wanted to put on clean pants and a t-shirt. That could be taken as either on the way to getting fully dressed, if Sherlock wanted to leave things alone for the moment and continue with their plans to go to dinner; or, it could be taken as making himself comfortable for spending the rest of the evening in the room. But if he went over to his room and came back wearing only his underthings, it might be presumptuous, and even embarrassing, if when he returned Sherlock was already dressed for dinner. His indecision decided for him in the end, as Sherlock emerged from the bathroom a moment later, himself wearing only a towel.
"Darjeeling for me," Sherlock said as he began rummaging through the overnight bag on the chair. "You should put something on if you're going to wait for it to steep."
John started and looked in surprise at the tea tray, whose existence he'd already forgotten. "My things- My bag's in the other room." He reached mechanically for the bag of Darjeeling from the assortment and dropped it into one of the cups.
Sherlock eyed John from the side, then pulled out a pair of black pants and a white undershirt from his bag and handed them to him.
"What?" John said, regarding the items in his hand in confusion. Did Sherlock want John to dress him? Iron his underwear? Finally, as he saw Sherlock taking out a pair of pyjama bottoms for himself, he realised that Sherlock was offering the clothes to John to wear. That was... strangely thoughtful. Although there was no way the items would fit him.
"No, no, I'll go over in a minute," John said. He laid the clothes down and set up a cup for himself as well, then poured hot water from the thermal canister over both.
"You needn't worry, those weren't involved in the resiniferatoxin incident," Sherlock said. He dropped the towel on the floor and pulled the pyjama bottoms on.
John had to stop himself from reaching out to caress the pale backside just inches away. Sherlock, oblivious, went over to the bed and burrowed under the fluffy duvet, making a point to flip it back on one side in invitation, all the while watching John nonchalantly. If John had had any doubts as to what Sherlock's intentions were for the rest of the evening, they all went flying out the window at that point. He could hardly get any clearer. John's heart rate increased by at least twenty beats a minute, accompanied by a pleasant tightening in his groin.
"Um. Right." John considered the merits of abandoning the tea, the clothes, and the towel, and just crawling into bed with Sherlock, naked. But the doctor in him said it was important to get warm fluids into both of them, and he really was feeling chilled again.
He plucked at the vest Sherlock had handed him. It was plain, white cotton, the same kind he usually wore himself. There was something intimate about wearing something of Sherlock's. It had always flattered the side of him that enjoyed being a protector and caretaker when one of his girlfriends had worn one of his shirts or track bottoms, either to sleep in or to have breakfast in the next day. It had also, in a caveman-like manner that he was somewhat ashamed to admit to, made him feel like she belonged to him. It was several steps away from a gold band on a finger, but the sentiment was much the same. Being on the other end of it, he now felt much the same thing, although without any shame whatsoever. He wanted Sherlock and himself to belong to each other. He wanted Sherlock to know that, and he wanted other people to know it as well. Sherlock probably didn't attach any such sentimental associations to the gesture; he had merely offered a practical solution to a minor problem, supplying John with something to cover his skin and retain his body heat with a minimum of fuss and effort. John picked up the vest and pulled it over his head. He fully expected it to be either embarrasingly long in the waist or tight around the stomach, most likely both, but to his surprise he found that it fit him perfectly.
He frowned down at himself. It was only a moment later that the realisation struck: this was his vest. Sherlock didn't wear anything under his dress shirts. He only had a couple of threadbare t-shirts with the neck stretched out that he used as pyjamas, none of which could by any reach of the imagination be called white anymore, if they even had been in the first place. This was one of John's vests, from his drawer, in his room. John was in turns disappointed by the revelation that it wasn't Sherlock's after all; indignant that Sherlock had gone rooting through his underwear drawer; and hesitantly touched that Sherlock would have thought to pack extra clothes for him in his bag. Except … Sherlock would never in a million years have done that.
"Why am I wearing my vest?" John asked. "I mean," he amended, "why do you have one of my vests in your bag? You were going to do something with it, weren't you? Hang it up at the island and shoot a hole through it to test for trajectories or something?"
Sherlock looked at John as if he'd gone completely round the twist. "Why on earth would I do something as inane as that? We didn't even bring a rifle. And Biggs was wearing several layers; shooting through a single undershirt wouldn't tell us anything."
"It's not that it bothers me," John went on, reaching for the pants. "Just curious. Why then?"
"You said I could have it," Sherlock said defensively and pulled the covers up over his shoulders, still sitting up against the headboard.
John didn't recall that, but it often happened that Sherlock took utterances like "What do you need it for?" as permission. The pants were clearly Sherlock's, he decided once he'd pulled them up and felt the stretch and pinch of the cloth and elastic. They probably wouldn't recover from being pressed into service over his arse. John thought he might just keep them. He draped the towel around his neck and finished preparing the tea, then brought both cups over to the bed.
He sat down on the side Sherlock had left open for him, and handed him his tea. When Sherlock stuck one bare arm out from under the cover to take it, John noticed that he wasn't wearing a top.
"Do you have a pyjama shirt in your bag?" John said, already standing up to retrieve it.
Sherlock shook his head and blew on his tea.
"What, you didn't bring one along?"
Sherlock eyed John warily. "You're wearing it, actually."
John's brows rose. "You mean- Is that why you took one of mine? Did all of yours finally fall apart?" Now it started to make sense. Sometimes Sherlock was laziness personified. "You could have said something. I wouldn't have minded picking up a couple of t-shirts for you." He sipped at his tea, being careful not to burn his tongue. He might have use for it yet tonight.
Sherlock lifted the edge of the duvet. "Come under the blanket. You're not properly warm yet."
John was feeling properly nervous now, albeit in a good way. They should probably talk about this. He didn't even have the first clue about Sherlock's sexual history. He knew he was a former intravenous drug user, which in itself merited at least an acknowledgement. Sherlock had seemed amenable to using a condom that afternoon... or had he really packed disposable razors? John felt he should at least tell Sherlock he'd never been with a man before, but he still wasn't exactly sure what Sherlock wanted. Did he just want to warm up together? Did he want sex? Somehow things had always been much easier with the women he'd dated; although that certainly had nothing to do with Sherlock's gender specifically. Everything always had a way of becoming sixteen times more complicated when Sherlock was involved.
"Hold on, I have to finish my tea," John said, both to stall for a bit more time, and because he really did want to get the hot liquid into his system. "Don't really want to end up sleeping in a wet spot," he joked, then winced into his cup as he realised what that sounded like. "You should drink up too, as long as it's hot." He drank as fast as he could, probably making more noise than was polite.
As they drank, Sherlock continued to watch John. John felt like Sherlock was able to read his every thought. Which, of course, he probably could do. It was both unnerving and arousing. As if there were anything about Sherlock at the moment which wasn't arousing. Damnit, Sherlock was probably able to read that thought from his face as well. John's ears were starting to burn. If he was lucky, it was just frostbite.
"Really, though," John said, more in attempt to fill in the silence than because it was important. "When did I say you could take one of my undershirts?"
That made Sherlock look down into his tea cup. He slid a leg over until it was pressing against John's hip through the cover. "You remember."
"I really don't." He watched Sherlock over the edge of his cup, even as he slipped his hand under the cover to squeeze Sherlock's knee. It was angular, and hairy, and John wanted very much to touch the rest of the leg it was attached to as well.
"The Lepowsky case." Sherlock tipped his cup up to drain the rest of his tea, then leaned over John to put the cup on the nightstand, resting his chest against John's knee as he did. After he let go of the cup, he stayed there and curved one arm around John's hip.
John made haste to finish his tea as well. "The one where we almost got turned into beef jerky?"
Sherlock nodded. He was all but curled around John now. He scooted in even more snugly so that he could nuzzle against John's chest. His breath was hot on John's nipple through the cotton of the undershirt. John's entire blood supply went south. He was barely able to get the tea cup safely onto the nightstand next to Sherlock's. He felt like he wasn't getting enough oxygen. This was the point of no return. And he found, quite calmly and emphatically despite the rush of arousal, that he didn't want to return. He and Sherlock were a unit, and had been probably since they first met. It had been a process that brought them to this point, and John recognised that this wasn't the end of the journey for them. But he knew that wherever this or anything else led them, they would be in it together. The realisation, here in bed, possibly about to have sex with another man for the first time, with said man wrapped around him, having just suffered physical stresses and injury that would have landed anyone else in hospital for observation at the very least, was all a bit overwhelming.
"God, Sherlock," he whispered.
Sherlock paused without looking up. "All right?"
"You're way beyond all right," John said shakily and ran one hand lightly over his still-wet hair. "Think you're skirting mind-blowing, actually." He closed his eyes and tried to gather his thoughts. "Just... the Lepowsky case?"
He was curious now, because he thought he remembered everything about that night - he'd certainly replayed it in his mind enough times. When had he given Sherlock a vest? They'd taken their clothes off, certainly, but Sherlock had put his own shirt back on (it had been the shimmery blue one), and John had- Oh. Oh. Sherlock had asked John for his vest, and John had handed it over without thinking, and Sherlock had wiped himself down with it. And John had said he could keep it. He'd meant, of course, that Sherlock could bloody well carry the thing home with him and wash it, but Sherlock had apparently actually kept it as a … as a sort of souvenir. And now he was mouthing at John's nipple through his vest, and he had slipped one hand inside the waistband of John's pants at the back, and John really couldn't give a flying fuck about his vest anymore. To say nothing of the fact that his borrowed pants were currently about two sizes too small and shrinking fast.
"Mm, Sherlock, Jesus, that's-" John bit his lip and tried to concentrate on breathing. He slid his hand down Sherlock's back, leaving visible goosebumps in its wake. "Come on, you're still cold, let's-" He inhaled sharply as Sherlock lifted his vest in order to press open-mouthed kisses to his stomach and chest. '-get under the covers,' he'd wanted to say, but it seemed more efficient to simply do it.
"I'm afraid these are going to have to come off again," Sherlock said, nudging helpfully at John's clothes. He didn't sound at all regretful. "Skin-on-skin contact is the most efficient treatment for hypothermia."
There was a brief tangle of limbs as they both tried to simultaneously remove their clothing while getting as much of their bodies in contact with each other as possible.
"It's actually heat packs," John pointed out, "but I think we're doing pretty well."
"Very well," Sherlock agreed. There was then an extended period of silence, as their mouths were otherwise occupied, to their mutual pleasure.
Suddenly, John giggled.
"What is it?" Sherlock asked, continuing to lavish attention on John's jaw and ear.
"You do realise, the last five cases we've investigated have ended up with us naked at some point."
"Mm, yes," Sherlock said. "Rather fruitful method, at that."
John kissed Sherlock's temple. "Although, we could try it sometime without getting fried, exposed to radiation, burnt, or dunked in a frozen lake first. Or having fifty-odd people around."
Sherlock lifted his head and offered John his most woebegone face. "Oh, but John. That would be boring."
John laughed. Because, truly, it would. And if there was one thing that life with Sherlock could never be allowed to become, it was boring.
End Notes: Details on ice safety here: http://www.dnr.state.mn.us/safety/ice/thickness.html. Because if there's one thing Minnesotans know, it's ice. And hypothermia: http://files.dnr.state.mn.us/education_safety/safety/ice/hypothermia.pdf.
This time, John was ready for it. Sherlock sent him across the ice again, in the direction of the island. Instead of fighting for control or trying to stop again, though, John lifted his feet up and closed his eyes and let himself enjoy the rush of the air over his face, the vibration of the wheels across the ice, the simple thrill of being, and knowing that Sherlock was right there with him. He opened his eyes when he felt the wheelchair slow, and heard the scraping of Sherlock's shoes behind him as he ran and slid the last few metres to reconnect with the chair.
"Is that all you've got?" John teased.
"You're heavy," Sherlock complained. "But here." He started the chair rolling again, pushing it as he ran. When he had them going at a good clip, he put the rest of his strength into it and sent John off flying.
This time, the wheels rattled somewhat alarmingly over the uneven surface of the lake, and John kept his eyes open, watching for any sudden pitfalls. The possibility that the chair might tip over at speed gave an extra edge to the game. John was well aware how irresponsible that was. On the other hand, it was pretty close to the bottom of the list of irresponsible things he'd done in his life, most of them in the company of Sherlock. He was almost at the tree when the chair finally slowed to a stop, and Sherlock caught up a few moments later. John twisted around to look at him.
Sherlock's cheeks and the tops of his ears were red, and he was smiling as he took hold of the handles on the back of the chair. He hunched down a bit, and there was a mad second when they locked eyes and John thought Sherlock was going to kiss him, but then Sherlock ducked his head away and reached into his pocket for a tissue. John realised that his nose was also watering from the cold and got out a tissue from his own pocket.
"Looks like you were right," John said. His heart was hammering, and only partly from the wild ride across the ice. "It's solid all the way across."
"It only needs to be about four inches thick to guarantee stability on foot." Sherlock stowed his tissue and pushed the chair the rest of the way toward the tree, weaving slightly and stomping to test the ice as he went. "I wish I'd thought to bring a drill."
"The police can do it. Now that we know."
Sherlock grunted. He didn't care about follow-up investigations and convictions. For him, the case was solved as soon as he convinced himself of the solution.
They stopped where a stand of dead reeds marked the shore of the island. Sherlock hopped up onto the rocky ground and went right for the willow, brushing aside the curtain of filigree branches hanging down and scattering snow over his hair and coat.
"So this is where Biggs was killed," John said, picking his own way over the patch of land. He felt a vague sense of disappointment that Sherlock had pulled away just now. However, it was quickly displaced by admiration and anticipation as he caught the signs of Sherlock moving into the high-energy end phase of an investigation. The man was in his element, and John counted himself lucky to witness it.
"He would have stood here." Sherlock gestured animatedly at a spot in front of the tree. His eyes were alight with the excitement of the moment. "Look, John, here's where the bullet hit."
John came around to see the spot. There was a ragged hole maybe five centimetres across. It looked much too big to have been caused by a rifle bullet. Sherlock was caressing it wistfully.
"They dug it out, of course," Sherlock tossed out in answer to John's unspoken question. "Shame, I would have liked to see the original hole. Still." He clapped his hands together and rested them against his chin. "We know what happened." He stood on the spot he'd indicated before and continued with his narrative, his eyes fixed at a point in the middle distance. John didn't doubt that he was able to see everything in his mind as if he'd been there. "He wouldn't have been up against the tree. No. He wasn't backed into a corner. He was confident; strong. He wouldn't have believed the old man would shoot him. Not even when the rifle was aimed at him. Maybe he laughed at him, goaded him." Sherlock swept one arm around to point to a spot on the surface of the lake. "Jones would have been right there. John, stand here."
Without waiting for a response, Sherlock jumped down to the ice and paced around, looking for the right angle. John dutifully took up position in front of the tree. Sherlock crouched down and extended an arm, looking along it at John as through the sight of a rifle. John felt uncomfortably exposed. Could Sherlock tell that his mind wasn't entirely on the case? Could he tell what he was dwelling on instead, what he'd been dwelling on all day?
"How do you think he got Biggs out here in the first place?" John asked, as if to prove that he was just as focused as Sherlock. "And with the rifle, no less. He could hardly have concealed it."
"Told him he'd seen an animal down here," Sherlock said, offhanded, as if it weren't important. "Or- Oh!" He broke off, having caught sight of something near John's feet.
John wasn't sure whether to stay where he was or move out of the way as Sherlock darted toward him.
Sherlock ended up on his knees at the base of the tree, pawing away at the rocks. "What's this?"
John hunkered down next to him. As Sherlock cleared the rocks away, a hollow space between the roots and the ground came to light. Before John could voice a warning about possibly disturbing a wild animal, Sherlock whipped his glove off and stuck a hand into the hole. He felt around for a bit, then pulled out a filthy, clear plastic bag. It looked like there was a small bundle of banknotes inside.
"Hah!" Sherlock cried triumphantly. "This is our answer."
John gaped. "What- How did you know that was in there?"
"I didn't," Sherlock said, but he sounded smug. He wiped the bag off a bit and held it up so John could see. The zip seal was still intact. There were perhaps ten or so banknotes rubber-banded together. The one visible on the top of the stack was a tenner. "Tens and twenties," Sherlock said. "What do you think? Maybe a hundred and fifty?"
"Yeah, looks like," John agreed. "Sorry, I'm not- I assume this has to do with the murder, but... so Biggs was killed for a hundred and fifty pounds?"
Sherlock scoffed. "Obviously not, since Jones didn't retrieve the money. He couldn't have risked it, anyway. His wheelchair would have left tracks on the ground, and he couldn't be certain of obliterating them. He knew that Biggs was stealing from him, though. This was the transfer point. He'd leave the goods here, and whoever his fence was would leave the cash from the previous transaction."
"Amazing," John said in a hushed voice.
Sherlock looked pleased with himself.
"What about when the lake wasn't frozen, though?" John asked. "Biggs was hardly swimming back and forth all the time."
"They probably had several drop points. This was just an opportune one for a few weeks that winter. Unfortunate for Biggs, as it may have been the only one that Jones could get to without assistance."
"But I still don't- I mean, Biggs would have noticed his employer sneaking after him in his wheelchair."
"Precisely. Which is why Jones waited for him here."
"You can't possibly know that," John said, half incredulously, because he had no doubt that Sherlock could, in fact, know that.
"It's the only way it makes sense. As you say, Jones couldn't have followed him down here. So he waited. There's no place to hide, especially with all the foliage gone, so it must have been dark. Biggs wouldn't have come here in the day anyway, too much chance of being seen, either by Jones or by hikers or other visitors. - Oh yes, we're not the only ones to sneak in for a bit of fun on the ice. Just look at the tracks-" He gestured vaguely at the lake. John, of course, had not noticed any tracks on the ice.
John grinned. "That's brilliant."
"Not so brilliant, obviously. Jones knew what Biggs was up to."
"No, I mean you." John looked at Sherlock. There were tiny flakes of snow dusting his hair and shoulders, and two or three droplets glistening where they had melted on his eyebrows. He was beautiful. John's heart skipped a beat. This was... God, this was it, right here. Here, at the scene of a murder, no doubt soon to be chased off the property by the rifle-wielding killer himself, so cold he couldn't feel his fingers or toes, his head still throbbing dully where he'd bumped it, he was happy in a bone-deep way that nothing else could quite come close to. He leaned in a bit closer. The silence around them was absolute. There wasn't even any wind. Sitting there, inside the half-dome created by the hanging branches, surrounded by a vast field of white and blue, they might have been the only people left on earth.
"You're brilliant," John said in a soft voice. He slipped off his glove, reached up and wiped some of the moisture off Sherlock's cheek with his thumb. Sherlock held very still. John took a deep breath and plunged on. "I didn't want to need this," he said. "I couldn't let myself need this. Do you understand?"
Sherlock's brow twitched in the direction of a frown.
"I needed this- you- everything- to live, and then it was all gone, and I had to stop needing it."
The frown deepened. "John-"
"-but it never went away," John said over him. "It's still here, it always was, and it's taken me this long to accept it again. This is me, and you're a-" It was hard to keep his voice steady. "You're a really big part of it."
Sherlock's ungloved hand came up to cover John's on his cheek.
"I know a lot of people are going to think this is a spectacularly poor idea, but that's what they think about nearly everything we get up to, and it's worked out fairly well for me so far. No limp, no tremors, and as much free Italian food as I can eat."
Sherlock huffed out a laugh and squeezed John's hand gently under his.
"Okay, then I'm going to-" John said. He tilted his face a bit closer to Sherlock's. Just then, Sherlock ran his tongue ever so briefly along the inside of his lower lip. It was probably an unconscious reaction, yet it sent a spike of desire through John even as it served to assure him that Sherlock wanted this too. Still, he raised his eyes to Sherlock's once more, to be absolutely certain. The anticipation and ardor he saw there - mixed with a not insignificant dose of Sherlockian impatience - cleared away any final doubts.
He closed the last few centimetres, touching his lips gently to Sherlock's. They were cold, and his nose was cold against John's cheek. The rough-on-rough of their chins was a surprise, too. None of that mattered, though, as John's body warred between relaxing utterly as all the tension and frustration that had been building up over the past several weeks found its outlet in the slide and curl of their tongues against each other; and building up a new kind of tension that started below his belt line and left him in no doubt whatsoever that he would be prepared to propagate the species - theoretically, at least - in very short order and in any number of creative ways. For a while, John's brain wasn't capable of registering anything more than 'fuck, this is good' and 'I could seriously get used to this', but pretty soon the fact that he was kneeling on a pile of sharp rocks in subzero temperatures brought him back to reality.
He leaned his cheek against Sherlock's and spoke down towards the edge of his jaw: "This is actually pretty uncomfortable."
Sherlock chuckled. "You could have waited until we got back to the hotel."
"No, I couldn't. I really, really couldn't." He fumbled in his pocket for his tissue as his nose began to drip again. "And anyway, there's something appropriate about our first kiss taking place at the scene of an unsolved murder. Well, wildly inappropriate, I suppose," he said with a wry smile, "but you know what I mean."
"And it's not unsolved any more, John," Sherlock said as he rose and slowly straightened his legs. He jiggled the plastic bag with the money. "I'd say this calls for a bit of a celebration, wouldn't you? I'd suggest Chinese, but I don't think we'll find anything more exotic than a Cornish pasty around here."
John wondered what Sherlock considered cause for celebration: the discovery of the last clue in the case, or the kiss. It was probably best not to think about it too hard, especially as it seemed Sherlock was going to get a good meal out of it either way. "We could go back to that pub we asked directions at," John said. He pulled his gloves on again. "It's a bit early for dinner. Maybe a couple of pints first?" Because he could probably use a bit of alcohol in his system in preparation for whatever was going to happen later on.
Sherlock pulled a face. "Beer, honestly. A couple of brandies in front of the fire, if you'd like, and then a nice bottle of wine with dinner, I'd say. We can stop off at the room first for you to change your socks."
"How'd you- Never mind." John shook his head with a fond smile. "Yes, that would be lovely. Come on. This time, you can sit and I'll push you." Now that he knew how strong the ice was, he didn't have any misgivings, and it turned out being pushed across the ice on wheels was rather fun.
"Take me around to the other side first," Sherlock said. "Where Jones was." He sat down in the chair, making a production of arranging his coat so that it didn't hang down to drag on the ice or get caught in the wheels anywhere.
John complied, then stood in for Biggs once more while Sherlock got his fill of sight lines and snapped pictures with his phone. The light - which had never been bright through the dreary cloud cover - was now fading perceptibly, and Sherlock soon agreed that he'd seen all he needed to.
They set off toward the shore again, this time with Sherlock pointing out the tracks which had eluded John's notice earlier. Those were from children playing tag. Those were from a worker or employee at the estate house, cutting across on her (yes, it was a woman) way home. And those-
"Wait, turn that way." Sherlock indicated the ground to the right.
John obediently turned the chair and followed a trail of footprints under the light dusting of snow. They were easy even for John to see, as it appeared whoever had walked that way had been wearing spikes on their boots, which had left sharp indentations in the ice.
Sherlock turned on the torch function on his phone in order to scan the ground where the tracks ended. "Look, there. Hold this." He thrust the phone at John and wheeled himself over to a spot where, John could see in the spotlight he directed downward, a nearly perfect circle of ice about the size of a dinner plate shone up at them, as if it had been smoothed out and polished. It was surrounded by a wreath of churned-up ice shavings.
John frowned. "What do you-?" But Sherlock was already rolling away, crowing triumphantly a moment later.
"Another one!"
John trotted over to shine the light onto another of the mysterious circles. The first thought that came to him was crop circles and aliens, but Sherlock's pronouncement was much more mundane.
"Ice fishing, John. Look, here are the marks from their chair. An aluminum folding one. And there's where they set their lantern."
John nodded in acknowledgement, although honestly, one scratch on the ice's surface looked much like another to him. At this point, he successfully negotiated the logical step from 'ice fishing' to 'those circles are the re-frozen holes', but he never forgave himself for not quite making it to '-where the ice will be thinner and what the hell is Sherlock doing rolling right over that one' before everything went horribly, inevitably wrong.
It all happened very quietly. In stories, there was usually a deafening crack when the ice broke on a river or lake, but this was more like a soft crunch, an eggshell sound, followed by a muffled thud as Sherlock hit the ice when the chair tipped forward, dumping him out and landing on top of him. A wet, fingernails-on-chalkboard grinding, like bone fragments under John's fingers in an open fracture, and then the chair was tented over a black hole and Sherlock was nowhere to be seen.
It couldn't have taken more than two seconds. John had thrown the chair aside before he even realised he'd moved. He felt the vibrations from it crashing across the ice in his chest, as he was now lying at the edge of the hole with his arms plunging down into the freezing black water, groping blindly for something - anything - For a mad, terrifying moment, he was on the street in front of Bart's. His head hurt - he'd fallen down and hit it on the ground, but at the same time he was completely numb, because where had Sherlock gone? He was just here a moment ago, and now people were grabbing him, holding him back, why couldn't he touch him?, he just needed to take Sherlock's hand to make everything right again, to make sure he was alive, but his arm wasn't long enough -
He was a split second away from diving in himself when Sherlock surfaced, sending a wave of icy water into John's face and across the ground where he was lying, soaking his front and shocking the air out of his lungs. It wasn't enough to stop him reaching frantically for Sherlock, though, and he managed to get a handful of coat, which he held onto with an iron grip. No one was going to pry his fingers off again.
Sherlock was conscious and coughing raggedly, clawing at John's shoulders and back in at attempt to pull himself out. It seemed to take forever, but between the two of them, they managed to get Sherlock up on to the ice again. He was wet, his face and hair were streaming, and there was a dark liquid pooling around him. John had to get it off, had to stop the bleeding. He pushed the hair out of Sherlock's face, wiped his forehead and cheeks with oh-so-steady hands, felt the sides and back of his head, patted down his own pockets looking for his fucking penlight so he could check Sherlock's eyes, he had to check his eyes -
"John, John, let me- I'm all right." Sherlock curled over onto his side, his body shaken by racking coughs, between which he tried to assure John that he was fine.
"You're not, Sherlock, fuck, you have a head injury, you're bleeding all over." John's voice sounded distant to his own ears, tinny and thin.
"No, it's-" Sherlock's hands came up to feel his face and head, rubbed his fingers together. "It's just water. It's not-" He coughed again, deeply.
"I think I'd know, Sherlock, I saw you fall, I saw you lying there, I-" He broke off, realising what he was saying. Sherlock had broken through the ice. He hadn't jumped off a building. Not this time. John felt sick. He sat back and put a hand over his mouth. It was shaking now. "Fuck."
"It's okay."
John shook his head. This hadn't happened to him in years. He stared down at Sherlock, who had an expression on his face that John had never seen before. It took a moment, but John eventually recognised it. Sherlock was frightened.
"Where's the light?" Sherlock asked, very quietly and very calmly. His eyes were still huge.
John could only shake his head. He didn't carry a penlight with him. Not anymore. Not since the army.
"My phone, John," Sherlock prompted him gently. "You were using it as a torch."
John took a deep, shuddering breath. Yes. He patted down his pockets automatically, but he must have dropped it when he dove for Sherlock. He scanned the ground; in the rapidly dimming light, he was able to make out a dark smudge a couple of metres away. He crawled over to it and closed his hand gratefully over the plastic device. It was probably ridiculous to care about the fate of an inanimate object after what had just happened, but that phone was nearly as important to Sherlock as his coat. He tapped the keys and found, to his relief, that it was still in working order. He held it out for Sherlock to take.
"Turn the light on and look at me." Sherlock was already shivering so hard it looked like he was having convulsions.
John had no idea what the purpose was, but he did exactly as he was told. In the weak light, he saw white, blue, black. No red. The pooled darkness around Sherlock's outline was just ice turned shadowy and translucent from the water.
John closed his eyes and breathed through his nausea until he felt he could speak. Sherlock was going into hypothermic shock. He could die, because John was stuck in a flashback. He forced himself to concentrate on assessment and action. "We have to get back to the car."
It was nearly dark now. Sherlock didn't say anything as John hauled him to his feet and started walking back in stony silence, one hand illuminating the way with the light from Sherlock's phone and the other pulling Sherlock along with an iron grip on his sleeve. The wheelchair was left abandoned to its fate.
John could feel the tremors running through Sherlock's arm before they'd even reached the end of the lake. He paused to shine the light at Sherlock's face. He was shivering uncontrollably. His jaw was clenched in miserable resignation and it looked like there were actually icicles forming on the ends of his hair.
"God, say something before you freeze to death," John muttered through his own clenched teeth.
"The shivering is good," Sherlock managed to say. "It's not like we have any other way to warm me up at the moment."
John unzipped his jacket. It was wet on the front and the sleeves, but the inside was dry thanks to its lining.
"No, you need that," Sherlock protested. "And my coat's thick enough it's actually helping."
John draped his jacket over Sherlock's head. "Reducing your heat loss by forty percent right there. My jumper's dry, I'll be fine." He didn't mention his sodden trousers; his thighs were no longer stinging, anyway, having moved on to numb.
Sherlock pulled the dangling ends of the jacket together under his chin and stared at the ground, holding his body stiff in an effort to control the shudders running through it. John considered saying something, but it was really Sherlock's own damn fault. If it had been anyone else, John would have called it a very unfortunate accident, but Sherlock had recognised what those circles were and had deliberately run right over them. Hell, he'd deliberately deviated from the path they'd taken on their way to the island - a path they'd tested and knew was safe - for what? Was it just his insatiable curiosity, or had he been trying to impress John? Either way, what was done was done. And it wasn't the worst that either his curiosity or need for validation had resulted in during the course of their friendship. Or would one day result in. This is what he was signing up for. What he had signed up for, that night four years ago when he'd come running to the call of 'could be dangerous'.
John squared his jaw and pulled Sherlock onward, faster this time, both in order to generate heat through muscle activity and to get back before Sherlock's temperature dropped any further.
As soon as they were inside the car, John turned the heater up full blast, which only had the effect of dousing them with a burst of icy air. John closed the vents to give the engine time to heat up and turned the car around. It was dark now, and the road was narrow and unfamiliar, forcing him to drive frustratingly slow. Sherlock wasn't saying anything, but John could hear him shivering, the dull staccato of his teeth bumping together and the breathy stutter of his respiration. John reached down and grasped Sherlock's leg through his coat. The material was stiff and leached all the heat out of his hand. John was torn between anger and despondence. It wouldn't do any good to point out what a foolhardy thing Sherlock had done. His silence told John that Sherlock was well aware of the fact.
"Give me your hand," John said, finally.
"I don't need you to hold my hand," Sherlock said sourly.
John set aside the tiny sting - when he had reached for Sherlock's hand the other times, it wasn't because he thought Sherlock was weak; it was to express affection and solidarity. But this time, it was even more practical.
"I want to start warming you up," John said evenly.
"It won't do any good to start with an extremity."
"I can't exactly wrap myself around your chest right now, just give me your hand!"
There was a hiss of annoyance, followed by a bit of fumbling as Sherlock worked his hands out of his wet gloves, and then a block of icy flesh was thrust against John's palm. John pulled Sherlock's hand toward himself, took a second to work his shirt out of his waistband, and slipped Sherlock's hand in underneath both jumper and shirt, flinching involuntarily at the sudden bloom of cold on his abdomen.
"Other one," he said, suppressing a shiver himself.
"You got soaked as well," Sherlock pointed out, his voice unsteady through his tremors. "I have a higher metabolism than you, I'm probably-"
"Give me your other hand," John insisted with finality.
Sherlock shifted closer, slid his right hand around to John's back and placed his left hand on John's stomach under his jumper. He dumped John's jacket on the seat behind him and rested his forehead against John's shoulder.
"Get your shoes off and tuck your feet up," John said. "Minimise your surface area." He flicked open one of the vents, but the air coming out was still cold. He had no feeling in his fingers, and it was getting harder to stop his body from shaking. Sherlock shuffled around, squirming and pressing against John as he tried to fold his long legs up underneath himself on the seat. When he finally settled, he'd worked his hands in even further underneath John's shirt, his palms flat against John's skin and gripping gently. John could feel the cold tendrils of Sherlock's hair against his ear.
"I didn't do it on purpose," Sherlock mumbled.
John clenched his teeth to stop a shiver. "Don't."
"I thought the ice would hold." His hands tightened around John.
"Just- Leave it, all right?" John's voice grated.
Sherlock subsided, but nudged himself in closer, so that his knees were pressed against John's thigh.
When they got back to the B&B, they both stumbled upstairs, John calling out a request for a pot of hot tea as they went. John followed Sherlock into his room, where he headed straight for the bathroom to turn the shower on. The water came out fast and hard; surprisingly so, given that they were on the top floor and it was an old house. Sherlock appeared a few moments later, completely naked. He had his arms wrapped around his chest and his lips were an alarming colour. His neatly groomed penis and testicles formed a wrinkled knot of flesh close to his body, and he was still shivering, although only in fits and starts now, rather than incessantly.
John put his hand under the water stream to test the temperature, but all he felt was pins and needles, as the circulation in his hands hadn't recovered yet. He swore under his breath and yanked his jumper off.
"You should get in too," Sherlock said.
John pulled his shirtsleeve up and thrust his lower arm into the water. It felt a bit too hot, so he adjusted the faucets. "There's not enough room; remember the last time we showered together? You need to get as much of your body under the water as possible. It'd be better if we had a bathtub, but we don't. Now in you go." He held the shower curtain open, keeping his eyes on Sherlock's feet, both to afford him as much privacy as he could, and because he was afraid of what he'd see if he looked him in the face. His near breakdown on the lake was still fresh in his mind.
Sherlock stepped into the tiny cubicle, but before John could close the curtain, Sherlock laid a cold, trembling hand on his arm.
"You're completely blue. Please."
The plea stirred something uncomfortable in John. Sherlock was treating him as if he were fragile because of what had happened, how he'd reacted. "I'll take a shower after you. You're more critical."
More than a hint of irritation found its way into Sherlock's expression. "Don't be thick, John. You're probably colder than I am at this point. You need to take off those wet clothes anyway. Now get in here before the hot water runs out. Or do I have to forcibly undress you?"
John did not let himself hear the double entendre in those words. They glared at each other for exactly as long as John could stand to see Sherlock standing with one foot in the shower and one out, his lips a disturbing shade of purple. Knowing that Sherlock might actually slip into unconsciousness before giving in, and aware that he'd end up in the shower anyway if he went so far as to wrestle Sherlock underneath the water and hold him there, he reached for his belt. It was frustratingly slow going with his stiff fingers - and Sherlock was waiting for him to get undressed before going under the water himself, the berk - but he finally managed to work the buckle open and squeeze his feet out of his shoes without undoing the laces. He glanced at Sherlock from beneath his furrowed brow, only to see that he was just a few facial twitches away from a smirk.
"Enjoying the show?" John asked belligerently as he struggled with the buttons on his shirt.
Sherlock's mouth curled up. "Very much."
That sent a shot of heat through John's abdomen, and he made fast work of the rest of his clothes, finally kicking his way out of his trousers and as unselfconsciously as possible dropping his shorts onto the clammy pile.
"It's a wonder there's any hot water left after that display," Sherlock griped, but he stepped back under the shower spray and, without a moment's hesitation, wrapped his arms around John and pulled him close so they were plastered together front-to-front, forming a single human column under the water.
God, and that was- Not that it wasn't pleasant, but... Sudden. That's what it was. They'd kissed once and held hands - briefly - a couple of times, and that was really about it; for all the times they'd seen each other naked now, they had never actually done much touching. And now everything was touching. Everything. There were Sherlock's hands, gripping his back, skin against skin, hot and cold so that he couldn't tell the two apart; his chest, hard and flat, right against John's chest, and he could actually feel - were those his nipples? They must be, unless Sherlock had very prominent moles on either side of his chest, which John knew for a fact he didn't. And he was still cold, so of course. Sherlock's abdomen was gently expanding and contracting against John's rather softer stomach, and if John had been in any state of mind to be monitoring Sherlock's respiratory rate, he would have noticed that it was even higher than John's own. But he wasn't, because there was definitely something slightly rubbery in contact with his lower abdomen, and if he shifted to the right just the tiniest bit, he could feel the Velcro-like catch of hair against hair. John closed his eyes and tucked his face into the crook of Sherlock's neck as the warm water pounded down onto the crown of his head and ran down the back of his neck, over his back. He brought his hands up to complete the circle around Sherlock's body. The sensation of being cold was overlaid with arousal, so that he couldn't tell any more what the source of the tightening and trembling in his muscles was.
"I don't know that this is-" he started, but he felt slow, the blood throbbing in his fingers and toes and ears as chilled skin started to come back to life, and he didn't know exactly what this wasn't. It was, it just was, it was all there was.
"Body heat," Sherlock explained, although his voice was gruff and his fingers were slipping lower, grazing John's iliac crest. "Less exposed surface area as well."
John tried to nod, but all he succeeded in doing was brushing his lips against the hollow between Sherlock's collarbone and the trapezius muscle rising from his back. Once he'd started, he found himself powerless to stop. He kissed his way along the furrow to Sherlock's neck, then up the side, lazily, slowly, learning the taste of Sherlock's skin and thrilling in the way Sherlock stretched his neck out even longer, his hands clutching now at John's buttocks, trying to pull him in even closer when there was already less than nothing between them.
Then John parted his lips and pressed his tongue into the soft indentation under Sherlock's jaw, where his jugular throbbed hot and fast beneath the thin layer of skin. That seemed to be some sort of breaking point for Sherlock. His head swooped down and he caught John's mouth with his, pausing a moment with his lips resting against John's, closed, breathing through his nose, and that was somehow more erotic than any amount of tongue-fucking they might possibly have done. Then, though, as if on cue, they both took a breath and deepened the kiss, picking up where they left off on the island. It wasn't long before Sherlock was licking and sucking and insinuating himself into every last corner of John's awareness, until John was conscious of nothing other than the points at which their bodies were intertwined, which was fucking everywhere. He was suffused in Sherlock; the sound of the water falling against the tiles was long since drowned out of his sensory inventory by the gentle grunts and exhalations that attested to Sherlock's enthusiasm for exploring John's mouth - until a sharp rapping from somewhere outside their watery cocoon drew his attention slowly back to the here and now.
"The tea-" John managed to say before Sherlock had his tongue in his mouth again. "Sherlock- Sherlock-" he said between kisses. "They've sent someone up with the tea. They're liable to come in and leave it on the table if we don't answer."
"Fine," Sherlock said and tried to dive in again.
"No, wait, not fine," John said through a chuckle, "the bathroom door's wide open. Let me-" Sherlock kissed him again. "Let me just go take it, all right?" he said into Sherlock's mouth.
The knocking sounded again.
"Coming!" John called over his shoulder.
"Leave it outside!" Sherlock shouted even louder.
The water decided to become perceptibly cooler exactly at that moment.
"Come on, let's-" John unwrapped his arms from Sherlock and nodded toward the bedroom, smiling. "Come on. Think we've depleted the boiler." He stepped out of the shower stall and wrapped a towel around his waist as he walked, dripping, to the door. His heart was racing; he wondered how much further they would have gotten, had the arrival of the tea and the departure of the hot water not interrupted. He only realised now that he was half-hard, although the cool air and the possibility of the landlord standing outside the door were both doing their part to reverse the process with alacrity.
He set a friendly expression on his face and opened the door briskly, making sure to stand with his hips shielded behind it, just in case, but there was no one in the hall. The tray with the tea things was sitting sedately on the floor just outside the room.
He brought it in and set it on the table, locking the door automatically. He then looked around for his bag in order to get out some dry clothes, before remembering that they had two rooms. It would be awkward if he left now to go across the hall. He had only wanted to put on clean pants and a t-shirt. That could be taken as either on the way to getting fully dressed, if Sherlock wanted to leave things alone for the moment and continue with their plans to go to dinner; or, it could be taken as making himself comfortable for spending the rest of the evening in the room. But if he went over to his room and came back wearing only his underthings, it might be presumptuous, and even embarrassing, if when he returned Sherlock was already dressed for dinner. His indecision decided for him in the end, as Sherlock emerged from the bathroom a moment later, himself wearing only a towel.
"Darjeeling for me," Sherlock said as he began rummaging through the overnight bag on the chair. "You should put something on if you're going to wait for it to steep."
John started and looked in surprise at the tea tray, whose existence he'd already forgotten. "My things- My bag's in the other room." He reached mechanically for the bag of Darjeeling from the assortment and dropped it into one of the cups.
Sherlock eyed John from the side, then pulled out a pair of black pants and a white undershirt from his bag and handed them to him.
"What?" John said, regarding the items in his hand in confusion. Did Sherlock want John to dress him? Iron his underwear? Finally, as he saw Sherlock taking out a pair of pyjama bottoms for himself, he realised that Sherlock was offering the clothes to John to wear. That was... strangely thoughtful. Although there was no way the items would fit him.
"No, no, I'll go over in a minute," John said. He laid the clothes down and set up a cup for himself as well, then poured hot water from the thermal canister over both.
"You needn't worry, those weren't involved in the resiniferatoxin incident," Sherlock said. He dropped the towel on the floor and pulled the pyjama bottoms on.
John had to stop himself from reaching out to caress the pale backside just inches away. Sherlock, oblivious, went over to the bed and burrowed under the fluffy duvet, making a point to flip it back on one side in invitation, all the while watching John nonchalantly. If John had had any doubts as to what Sherlock's intentions were for the rest of the evening, they all went flying out the window at that point. He could hardly get any clearer. John's heart rate increased by at least twenty beats a minute, accompanied by a pleasant tightening in his groin.
"Um. Right." John considered the merits of abandoning the tea, the clothes, and the towel, and just crawling into bed with Sherlock, naked. But the doctor in him said it was important to get warm fluids into both of them, and he really was feeling chilled again.
He plucked at the vest Sherlock had handed him. It was plain, white cotton, the same kind he usually wore himself. There was something intimate about wearing something of Sherlock's. It had always flattered the side of him that enjoyed being a protector and caretaker when one of his girlfriends had worn one of his shirts or track bottoms, either to sleep in or to have breakfast in the next day. It had also, in a caveman-like manner that he was somewhat ashamed to admit to, made him feel like she belonged to him. It was several steps away from a gold band on a finger, but the sentiment was much the same. Being on the other end of it, he now felt much the same thing, although without any shame whatsoever. He wanted Sherlock and himself to belong to each other. He wanted Sherlock to know that, and he wanted other people to know it as well. Sherlock probably didn't attach any such sentimental associations to the gesture; he had merely offered a practical solution to a minor problem, supplying John with something to cover his skin and retain his body heat with a minimum of fuss and effort. John picked up the vest and pulled it over his head. He fully expected it to be either embarrasingly long in the waist or tight around the stomach, most likely both, but to his surprise he found that it fit him perfectly.
He frowned down at himself. It was only a moment later that the realisation struck: this was his vest. Sherlock didn't wear anything under his dress shirts. He only had a couple of threadbare t-shirts with the neck stretched out that he used as pyjamas, none of which could by any reach of the imagination be called white anymore, if they even had been in the first place. This was one of John's vests, from his drawer, in his room. John was in turns disappointed by the revelation that it wasn't Sherlock's after all; indignant that Sherlock had gone rooting through his underwear drawer; and hesitantly touched that Sherlock would have thought to pack extra clothes for him in his bag. Except … Sherlock would never in a million years have done that.
"Why am I wearing my vest?" John asked. "I mean," he amended, "why do you have one of my vests in your bag? You were going to do something with it, weren't you? Hang it up at the island and shoot a hole through it to test for trajectories or something?"
Sherlock looked at John as if he'd gone completely round the twist. "Why on earth would I do something as inane as that? We didn't even bring a rifle. And Biggs was wearing several layers; shooting through a single undershirt wouldn't tell us anything."
"It's not that it bothers me," John went on, reaching for the pants. "Just curious. Why then?"
"You said I could have it," Sherlock said defensively and pulled the covers up over his shoulders, still sitting up against the headboard.
John didn't recall that, but it often happened that Sherlock took utterances like "What do you need it for?" as permission. The pants were clearly Sherlock's, he decided once he'd pulled them up and felt the stretch and pinch of the cloth and elastic. They probably wouldn't recover from being pressed into service over his arse. John thought he might just keep them. He draped the towel around his neck and finished preparing the tea, then brought both cups over to the bed.
He sat down on the side Sherlock had left open for him, and handed him his tea. When Sherlock stuck one bare arm out from under the cover to take it, John noticed that he wasn't wearing a top.
"Do you have a pyjama shirt in your bag?" John said, already standing up to retrieve it.
Sherlock shook his head and blew on his tea.
"What, you didn't bring one along?"
Sherlock eyed John warily. "You're wearing it, actually."
John's brows rose. "You mean- Is that why you took one of mine? Did all of yours finally fall apart?" Now it started to make sense. Sometimes Sherlock was laziness personified. "You could have said something. I wouldn't have minded picking up a couple of t-shirts for you." He sipped at his tea, being careful not to burn his tongue. He might have use for it yet tonight.
Sherlock lifted the edge of the duvet. "Come under the blanket. You're not properly warm yet."
John was feeling properly nervous now, albeit in a good way. They should probably talk about this. He didn't even have the first clue about Sherlock's sexual history. He knew he was a former intravenous drug user, which in itself merited at least an acknowledgement. Sherlock had seemed amenable to using a condom that afternoon... or had he really packed disposable razors? John felt he should at least tell Sherlock he'd never been with a man before, but he still wasn't exactly sure what Sherlock wanted. Did he just want to warm up together? Did he want sex? Somehow things had always been much easier with the women he'd dated; although that certainly had nothing to do with Sherlock's gender specifically. Everything always had a way of becoming sixteen times more complicated when Sherlock was involved.
"Hold on, I have to finish my tea," John said, both to stall for a bit more time, and because he really did want to get the hot liquid into his system. "Don't really want to end up sleeping in a wet spot," he joked, then winced into his cup as he realised what that sounded like. "You should drink up too, as long as it's hot." He drank as fast as he could, probably making more noise than was polite.
As they drank, Sherlock continued to watch John. John felt like Sherlock was able to read his every thought. Which, of course, he probably could do. It was both unnerving and arousing. As if there were anything about Sherlock at the moment which wasn't arousing. Damnit, Sherlock was probably able to read that thought from his face as well. John's ears were starting to burn. If he was lucky, it was just frostbite.
"Really, though," John said, more in attempt to fill in the silence than because it was important. "When did I say you could take one of my undershirts?"
That made Sherlock look down into his tea cup. He slid a leg over until it was pressing against John's hip through the cover. "You remember."
"I really don't." He watched Sherlock over the edge of his cup, even as he slipped his hand under the cover to squeeze Sherlock's knee. It was angular, and hairy, and John wanted very much to touch the rest of the leg it was attached to as well.
"The Lepowsky case." Sherlock tipped his cup up to drain the rest of his tea, then leaned over John to put the cup on the nightstand, resting his chest against John's knee as he did. After he let go of the cup, he stayed there and curved one arm around John's hip.
John made haste to finish his tea as well. "The one where we almost got turned into beef jerky?"
Sherlock nodded. He was all but curled around John now. He scooted in even more snugly so that he could nuzzle against John's chest. His breath was hot on John's nipple through the cotton of the undershirt. John's entire blood supply went south. He was barely able to get the tea cup safely onto the nightstand next to Sherlock's. He felt like he wasn't getting enough oxygen. This was the point of no return. And he found, quite calmly and emphatically despite the rush of arousal, that he didn't want to return. He and Sherlock were a unit, and had been probably since they first met. It had been a process that brought them to this point, and John recognised that this wasn't the end of the journey for them. But he knew that wherever this or anything else led them, they would be in it together. The realisation, here in bed, possibly about to have sex with another man for the first time, with said man wrapped around him, having just suffered physical stresses and injury that would have landed anyone else in hospital for observation at the very least, was all a bit overwhelming.
"God, Sherlock," he whispered.
Sherlock paused without looking up. "All right?"
"You're way beyond all right," John said shakily and ran one hand lightly over his still-wet hair. "Think you're skirting mind-blowing, actually." He closed his eyes and tried to gather his thoughts. "Just... the Lepowsky case?"
He was curious now, because he thought he remembered everything about that night - he'd certainly replayed it in his mind enough times. When had he given Sherlock a vest? They'd taken their clothes off, certainly, but Sherlock had put his own shirt back on (it had been the shimmery blue one), and John had- Oh. Oh. Sherlock had asked John for his vest, and John had handed it over without thinking, and Sherlock had wiped himself down with it. And John had said he could keep it. He'd meant, of course, that Sherlock could bloody well carry the thing home with him and wash it, but Sherlock had apparently actually kept it as a … as a sort of souvenir. And now he was mouthing at John's nipple through his vest, and he had slipped one hand inside the waistband of John's pants at the back, and John really couldn't give a flying fuck about his vest anymore. To say nothing of the fact that his borrowed pants were currently about two sizes too small and shrinking fast.
"Mm, Sherlock, Jesus, that's-" John bit his lip and tried to concentrate on breathing. He slid his hand down Sherlock's back, leaving visible goosebumps in its wake. "Come on, you're still cold, let's-" He inhaled sharply as Sherlock lifted his vest in order to press open-mouthed kisses to his stomach and chest. '-get under the covers,' he'd wanted to say, but it seemed more efficient to simply do it.
"I'm afraid these are going to have to come off again," Sherlock said, nudging helpfully at John's clothes. He didn't sound at all regretful. "Skin-on-skin contact is the most efficient treatment for hypothermia."
There was a brief tangle of limbs as they both tried to simultaneously remove their clothing while getting as much of their bodies in contact with each other as possible.
"It's actually heat packs," John pointed out, "but I think we're doing pretty well."
"Very well," Sherlock agreed. There was then an extended period of silence, as their mouths were otherwise occupied, to their mutual pleasure.
Suddenly, John giggled.
"What is it?" Sherlock asked, continuing to lavish attention on John's jaw and ear.
"You do realise, the last five cases we've investigated have ended up with us naked at some point."
"Mm, yes," Sherlock said. "Rather fruitful method, at that."
John kissed Sherlock's temple. "Although, we could try it sometime without getting fried, exposed to radiation, burnt, or dunked in a frozen lake first. Or having fifty-odd people around."
Sherlock lifted his head and offered John his most woebegone face. "Oh, but John. That would be boring."
John laughed. Because, truly, it would. And if there was one thing that life with Sherlock could never be allowed to become, it was boring.
FIN
...unless you would like to see what happens next and don't mind an Explicit rating, in which case may I direct you to...
Epilogue: The Porn
======Epilogue: The Porn
End Notes: Details on ice safety here: http://www.dnr.state.mn.us/safety/ice/thickness.html. Because if there's one thing Minnesotans know, it's ice. And hypothermia: http://files.dnr.state.mn.us/education_safety/safety/ice/hypothermia.pdf.
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Date: 2012-10-11 11:28 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-10-11 02:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-10-11 05:28 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-10-11 06:07 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-10-13 08:49 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-10-13 08:50 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-10-14 05:47 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-10-14 04:08 am (UTC)Really enjoyed it. Thanks for a great read!
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Date: 2012-10-14 05:50 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-10-15 02:55 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-10-16 07:13 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-10-18 06:44 pm (UTC)Very sorry to see the series ended.
I enjoyed it hugely.
Thank you and goodbye!
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Date: 2012-10-18 08:21 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-11-01 12:23 pm (UTC)Great job! Thanks for sharing. :D
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Date: 2012-11-01 12:56 pm (UTC)