A/N: HAPPY CHAPTER!!!! :DDDD THAT'S LIKE TEN PAGES LONG!!!! :DDDD

John

John went to bed early. No one asked why he wasn't at Greg's, or why he was sleeping at seven thirty. No one ever asked any longer, it seemed.

He'd begun to ignore Pickard, because there was nothing else - nothing better to do.

John lay on his back because he didn't trust his front. He didn't trust his back, either, actually, or his sides, or his hands. Or his brain.

When John saw Sherlock walking down the hall, it hadn't even occurred to him exactly what was wrong with him until an hour later. And then, an hour after that, he still hadn't realized that he should've said something. It was rather disconnected. "Are you okay?" "Hey," he should have said. "What happened?" Instead, John stared like he'd never seen Sherlock before.

He felt like he'd never seen him before.

It wasn't as if John hadn't thought about Sherlock under his clothes. In fact, he'd thought of Sherlock naked a lot. (The degree of inappropriateness involving his naked body depended on John's mood.) But John was never able to fill in any of the details.

The only naked men he'd ever seen was probably his dad, when he was little, himself, and some of the magazines his mum sometimes forgot to lock away. He'd never even thought about men in that way. They never attracted him.

Sherlock... now, he could fill in some of the details. He could picture Sherlock. He couldn't stop. How had he not noticed how short the damn suits were? And how baggy? And why hadn't he expected Sherlock to be so muscled, but yet so frail? He looked like a china doll. The skin on his arms and legs were more clean, more porcelain than the gray of his face. The gray that was slowly turning pinker. And that made him so happy. But it still felt strange, to be able to picture his legs, but not his torso. Like it didn't exist.

John closed his eyes and imagined Sherlock again. Bow shaped lips, and freckles dotting slightly on his nose, like he was shy to let his blemishes show. Birthmarks, everywhere, two on his neck, dark and sweet to taste. Like chocolate swirls in vanilla. Cookies and cream.

Hey, John thought, What happened? You okay, Sherlock?

He'd texted, telling John not to come over, so he must've not been. Probably fucking fucked. Decisively not okay.

How would John even look at him now? How would he imagine Sherlock? He wouldn't be able to, not without automatically attaching on that yellow gym suit with the extra long zipper.

Christo, Batman.

Sherlock

The next day, Sherlock sent John a quick text.

Come over, if convenient. -SH

Then another.

If inconvenient, come anyway. -SH

He was trying to be brave.

Siger said he was going out, to meet up with some insurance people. He said it would be a really, really long time, and if he wanted anything, to call him. Sherlock smiled for maybe a millisecond before saying, "I'm fine, thank you."

"Okay. Will, uh..." Siger frowned. "Do good, son," which was about the kindest utterance Sherlock'd heard him say. "And vacuum!" Siger yelled as he walked out, holding a briefcase. Mycroft left with him, shooting Sherlock a look.

Sherlock wasn't used to being home alone. He vacuumed. Picked up some empty beers, just in case John followed his instructions and came, as he was told. Then, Sherlock turned on the TV, and watched this show called Girls (Why? he thought, throughout). And he fell asleep.

When he heard the doorbell, he shot up like a bullet, not even awake yet. He was sure it was John. He didn't need to check.

John

The car wasn't in the drive, so John figured that they weren't home. Sherlock was probably doing awesome fun stuff with his dad, eating fish and chips and taking family photos in matching sweaters while eating vanilla ice cream. He looked at his phone.

If inconvenient, come anyway. -SH

He walked up to the door, and knocked twice. He waited, and just as he was going to turn around and walk off the stoop, Sherlock jerked open the door, wearing a T-shirt, of all things. And then Sherlock was pulling him in by the collar. And John's arms were draped around Sherlock's back, dipping into his jeans because John swore he didn't need to want to be embarrassed anymore.

Sherlock

John usually held his arms around Sherlock's waist, or his hands, like they were dancing. But now, they weren't dancing, they were... doing something else. John's head was in his chest, his arms were loose at Sherlock's sides, reaching, but not quite - and Sherlock could only think about how soft and fuzzy and warm his skin was, like soft-fuzzy-warm.

Sherlock tried to feel embarrassed again.

Sherlock kicked the door shut and hugged John against him, tighter, like he was a lifeline, and maybe John was.

"Missed you," Sherlock mumbled. His hair was curly and rambunctious against his forehead, and his eyes fluttered close, his eyelashes batting.

"Were you sleeping?" John asked softly. Like he didn't want to wake Sherlock up if he still was.

Sherlock smiled lackadaisically.

And John was kissing him, then, and his head was falling into John's hands, opened mouth kisses pressing in and pulling out and in and out, like the feelings rising into his throat. There wasn't any way to pull in his stomach or suck in his breaths or let John not touch him; nowhere could he hide when his stomach was pressed into John's.

Sherlock didn't really know what he was doing, kissing John like it was the end of the world, he just was, and his arms were hanging at his sides like he didn't have enough energy for physical efforts. John made a noise that rumbled in the back of his throat; Sherlock found himself making the noise likewise. Like he was an animal - John's hands were in his hair and he was touching and feeling and finally he was tasting those delightful John-flavored everythings Sherlock craved so much.

Suddenly, John was pulling away. He tried to wipe his mouth on the sleeve of his shirt, and he looked at Sherlock like it was the first time he'd ever seen him. "Hey," he whispered. "What happened? You okay, Sherlock?"

Sherlock looked down at John, lips tilted upwards like they were waiting for something or someone; his hair ruffled and displaced. He looked like he was about to make love to a goddess.

He was touching Sherlock in all the places that he was afraid to be touched...

Sherlock tried one last time to be embarrassed.

John

For a second, John had thought he went too far, and he'd pulled away like he was unwieldy metal.

He hadn't even meant to kiss Sherlock like that - he was practically asleep when he'd done so. He was thinking about Sherlock so long he'd started to think his dreams were a reality. Sherlock was still in his arms. John thought he'd crossed a line.

Because Sherlock was still against his chest - and then, he wasn't anymore.

Sherlock touched him. His lips. Following the curve of his chin, down to his collarbones, down to where the skin beneath his skin was. Sherlock traced a line down his chest, and somehow John wanted to stretch his body and make his torso longer so Sherlock could run his fingertips down his chest forever.

John was so rough compared to Sherlock. His bones were so fragile where Sherlock touched him, like he knew every crevice and every weakness in John's armor.

And John thought that maybe Sherlock didn't want this as much as he did, but if Sherlock wanted him even a quarter as much...

Sherlock

This was how Sherlock touched John in his head.

From lips, to neck, to collarbone, to pectorals, to stomach. One straight line.

When he did it, it wasn't straight. It followed the paths of John's body, already assigned and not ready to be rearranged. John would never be rearranged. John was so warm, and so firm, too. Like he had his bones pressed to the front of his chest. Like his heart was going to burst.

That was how Sherlock touched John.

John

John felt his hands on Sherlock's back, and Sherlock's back on his hands. When Sherlock kissed his throat, he made a noise that made his knees buckle. He gripped on tight and decided to be embarrassed later.

If he was shy now, he'd never get what he wanted.

Sherlock

Sherlock was alive, John was awake, and this was real.

John was his. Maybe not forever - in fact, definitely not forever, but at least now. Long enough to touch. Slowly, Sherlock's hand slid beneath his shirt, grazing soft, firm skin. John heaved; in, and out, as Sherlock splayed his fingers, trying to touch every available inch of skin possible. He was faintly aware of hearing John's breathing catch as he curled his fingers into his stomach.

He touched John because he wanted to. Because he could; because there was nothing more, and nothing less to do, nowhere else to let John feel him. Because he wanted to. Because when he began to touch John, it was impossible to stop.

Because... what if he was never able to touch John this way again?

John

When Sherlock's fingers brushed against the skin of his stomach, John let out a subtle groan. His fists clenched, and he slammed his head into the wall behind him, opening his mouth and gasping. Another kiss was deep into the collar of his shirt, followed by Sherlock gripping onto the hem; trying to lift it up, but being unsuccessful. John grunted as he pushed Sherlock up the stairs, going two at a time, trying to feel and touch and kiss, all at once.

When they reached Sherlock's bedroom, they tried to push each other into the bed. In the movies, this happened smoothly, but in Sherlock's bedroom, it was just gangly and awkward. Sherlock was pulling up John's shirt, and John wouldn't let go of Sherlock's hips, and they were trying to madly get into Sherlock's bed. He'd figured that it would envelop them in soft, gentle warmth, but all they really did was crash into it with a pained grunt, and a breathless heave of air. John fell on top of Sherlock, straddling him down.

John tried to look into Sherlock's eyes, but it was hard when their noses were pressed so close. "Sherlock," he whispered.

Sherlock looked up expectantly as John nodded, lifting up his arms. Taking off John's shirt in a sweeping motion, Sherlock then dipped his fingers into the dimples of John's back, circling faintly. John sighed when he leaned down to kiss Sherlock again.

"Sherlock..." he repeated, whispering into Sherlock's cheek. "I love you."

He looked up at him, eyes alight, like the earliest morning glow. Their gazes locked, and Sherlock didn't glance away when he grinned up at John.

John smiled back, gently, watching Sherlock's breaths rise and fall, like a tide. He could spend his entire life staring down at him, lips parted and eyes shiny and wild. Without thinking, John curled his fingers under the hem of Sherlock's shirt.

"Sorry, I..." John stopped, and placed his hands in his lap. But Sherlock took his hands back, and placed them back on his tee.

Sherlock's brow kneaded. "John. Please."

John's face crumpled as he pushed up the stomach of Sherlock's tee, and he looked down at the soft, pink skin. There were small dark marks all over, sprinkled across the pale flesh, and John felt the need to taste his skin with his lips, so he leaned down, and planted his mouth to the right of Sherlock's navel. At that, he felt Sherlock's fingers dig into the soft curve of his spine, right in the dip of his lower back. He kissed Sherlock's abdomen again, trying to make him utter that noise he'd made a while ago.

He was cooler than John had expected. Cool, and anticipant, almost lifting himself into John's open mouth. Sherlock nearly giggled when John bit down on him, and absentmindedly, John's hands travelled down the length of his hips and cupped his arse. Sherlock went absolutely still. He ceased to breathe.

"Is... is that okay?"

"No," Sherlock said. "But, I mean, if you want to..."

"No. I don't need to." John smiled again as Sherlock placed one hand on John's heart. "I love you," John repeated.

"I know." Sherlock's eyes were dark and shiny, and he rendered John to speechlessness. He didn't know what to do with himself anymore; the sight of Sherlock underneath him and flustered and beautiful was absolutely mesmerizing.

"You know?" he repeated. "You're not the Han Solo in this relationship."

"I've never had the good fortune of watching that movie," Sherlock said with a smirk, so John kissed him.

"You damned well should."

"I don't need to. I'm obviously more of a Han Solo, if you believe that you're Han Solo." Sherlock's breath hitched when John kissed his neck. He could feel Sherlock's Adam's apple bob under his lips.

"I'm definitely not bloody Princess Leia."

"Don't be so obsessed with gender roles."

Sherlock sat up, and lifted his arms over his head, soft and milky against his tee. John nodded once, and Sherlock started to laugh when John pulled the shirt over top of him. Now their chests were both bare, and John was transfixed on the almost ethereal quality of Sherlock's skin. He saw faint tints of yellow on his shoulders, in the shape of a man's hand, but he didn't want Sherlock to think about it. Instead, he kissed his collarbones, and then his lips.

And then, without having a reason why, John laid his body on Sherlock's. Sherlock crumpled, and that made John become unhinged in more ways than he'd thought possible.

"You know," John whispered, "I'll allow you to be Han Solo, if I can be Boba Fett. I'll cross the sky for you."

Sherlock

He hadn't known this two hours ago. (Well, he knew, he just didn't have the firsthand experience.) Things he hadn't known:

John was covered in skin. Blanketed in it. Some of it was soft and warm, and other parts were calloused and scarred; he'd found cicatrices dotting his abdominal area like freckles dotted Sherlock's chest - he didn't ask, because there was no point. John treated his scars with the utmost disregard.

The things that were less obvious, like how John's abdomen contracted, were brought out by the softness and warmth of his skin. There were things Sherlock loved about John's body (how his chest rose when he breathed, rather than his stomach, and how when he swallowed you could see his entire neck tremble with the effort), and he noted them duly. His skin was tan, tender and muscled, and in some places he had more flesh than in others, but those parts of his body were warmer and softer. Sherlock loved the dip of his shoulders, and the slopes of his body, and the absence of blemishes from the uniform tan of his chest.

He loved the tenderness of his stomach to the faint chest hair brushing against Sherlock's chest likewise.

He'd only kissed his abdomen once, but he remembered the exact pH level. His skin was a bit salty, a bit sweet. Saltwater taffy. It was all his.

And it was all wonderful.

Sherlock was also covered in skin, it seemed. It became apparent when John touched him - where John touched him, which was from the bottom of his torso to the top of his head. Evidently, Sherlock had nerve endings that hadn't done a damn thing his entire life but cause him pain, but now, he felt them. When John touched him, his body lit up like a firecracker.

And even though Sherlock was ashamed of things... like his hands and his stomach and his almost freckles, John liked those things too. John said that his eyes were sea green and sky blue and beautiful, and he said his lips were candy pink. And his birthmarks (which were everywhere) were like Oreo crumbs in whole milk.

He wanted John to touch him everywhere.

And he stopped once he'd dipped his thumbs into the skin beneath Sherlock's sweatpants. He froze, as if held back by an invisible force. His eyes had darted to Sherlock's for only a millisecond, but he stopped. Sherlock hadn't stopped him. Well, he'd objected, but he hadn't told him to stop, in fact, Sherlock didn't want him to. He just didn't want John to see the purple blue yellow bruises. That would make John hate him, but still, Sherlock would never stop him. John could do what he wanted with Sherlock, and it wasn't because he was scared of resisting, as with Siger, but because he entrusted John with his mind, his body, his heart. Especially his heart.

Nothing was dirty, with John.

Nothing was shameful.

Because John was the sun, and that was the only way Sherlock could think to explain it.

John

When it was almost dark out, Sherlock said it was certain his dad would be home sometime soon - and he didn't want Mycroft and he to find John's knee up in between his legs and John's lips pressed to the arch of Sherlock's neck and John's everything everywhere.

John pulled away from him, and brushed his messily trimmed hair out of his face. They were both flushed, but less because of physical exertion and more because of the touch. "We should stop," Sherlock sighed. John's fingers were sliding in and out of the dip in Sherlock's collarbones.

John was going to pull his shirt back on when Sherlock sat up in bed, but he looked so flustered and beautiful John gave into his urges and climbed back on top of him again.

A half-hour later, John tried again. This time, his stood as he pulled on his shirt. "Going to take a wash..."

"Don't look back."

John looked back.

After a few minutes; "I'll go, then, if you insist upon gaping."

While Sherlock was gone, John sat on his bed and checked if it looked too illicit. It didn't seem to.

He then ran downstairs, got a Coke and sat at the telly, turning it on. He flipped through a dozen channels vacantly.

"Frankly, dear, I do not-"

"-Wally, that'd be-"

"-calls me... chicken."

John left the TV on. When Sherlock came back, his face was wet.

"You washed your face?"

Sherlock nodded.

"You thought you could scrub it off?" John smiled, and stood. He heard the telly running in the background, but he disregarded Marty McFly's wholehearted proclamations of not being chicken as he walked up to Sherlock, giving him a once over.

He was pink, and his bare chest was heaving, like he'd run a mile. John threw him a shirt with a laugh, and Sherlock seemed to blush as he caught it, slipping it over his head. His lips were swollen and his eyes were wild. John loved it.

"You're fine. What about me?"

Sherlock smiled. "Good. Ridiculously, impossibly good."

John took his hand and pulled him to the couch. Smoothly, almost, and Sherlock seated himself so John could lay his head in Sherlock's lap. He stared at up him, and it was alright. "It's not going to be, you know... strange, is it?" John said. Sherlock's hands worked their way into John's hair.

"No, lovely," Sherlock said. He kissed John's nose, and brushed hair away from his face. "Only for a bit, maybe. Only a little while."

John had never seen Sherlock so open. So readable, so damned happy. His lips opened and closed for only a few moments, and he only spoke if it were necessary; he needn't fill the world with his head, his space. He only needed to fill up John, and he'd already done that - such a long time ago. John had never seen Sherlock free.

"Still haven't told me about what happened in gym," John said, closing his eyes. He felt Sherlock's hands dig into his scalp.

"Well, an imbecile stole my clothing."

"Moriarty?"

"Yes."

"Do you know that for a fact?"

"Of course I do."

John sat up. "Are you okay?"

"Yes. I don't really want to... discuss it, though." Sherlock frowned. "It needn't be spoken of."

"Okay." John swung his legs over Sherlock's. "We needn't speak," he teased, kissing Sherlock's chin. Sherlock wrapped his frail arms around John's neck.

"Need you," was all he said.

When Siger got home, he told John to scurry. He had things to do, papers to file, people to talk to, and John smiled graciously and Sherlock told his father he'd be escorting John off the premises.

"Okay," Siger said.

Sherlock almost felt bad when John pulled him into the alleyway; his grandparents were upset and empty and now, they had the added aggravation of kids loitering on their property. But then John slammed their chests together and hugged Sherlock breathless. "Do you think we'll ever be alone like that again?"

Sherlock hugged back. "Ever? Yes. Soon? Improbable."

John hugged Sherlock harder than he'd thought possible.

When he got home, Pickard was watching a documentary about the daily lives of four celebrities no one had ever heard of. Harry was sleeping next to him. John was struck by fear.

"Where've you been," he said. "Where do you keep on disappearing to?"

John said, "Greg's." He kept walking.

"Greg's must be fuckin' Disneyland, then. You can't get enough." There was a glowing cigarette in his left hand, and an Old English on the coffee table in front of him.

John stopped at the door, and put his arm against the frame. "You know," John began, "I'm beginning to wonder what you're playing at."

"What I'm playing at?"

"Yeah. You beat up my sister and mum for longer than I can remember, also abusing me in the process, and suddenly, one day, you're done. You go get a job, you give me 2,000 pounds, and you call me son."

Pickard blinked.

"Can you just..." John sighed. "Leave me alone?" John reached inside the door, took out the boots, and threw them outside. "Hope you kept a receipt."

Pickard's eyes slowly squinted, and then he went off; "Are you askin' for something? I'm pretty damned well sure that you are, boy."

"No, I'm just-"

"Listen here," Pickard yelled. Spit flecked. "Listen good, boy. I can do whatever the fuck I want. I own this house. I pay the fucking bills. I pay for the fucking food, the fucking clothes. I don't give a fuck what you want, because I own you. Okay? Get that straight. Put that into your little brain, and keep it there, because you're gonna be here a long time."

"Sir," John said quickly, then he went into his room, shutting the door and laying on it. He thumbed Sherlock's ring and hyperventilated into the chilly air...

It was only a matter of time.