John Watson may well have been invalidated out of the army, but he still wore armour. Combat boots and fatigues and tactical vests had been instead traded out for trainers and jeans, and jumpers over long-sleeved shirts buttoned to the collar. He was no longer in contact with anyone from secondary school, and contact with uni mates was sparse. So there was no one left to ask why the sunny man in tees had turned into a somber one in too many layers. Sometimes, John is even grateful that he didn't know Sherlock from before the war, that the detective can't know how different the John of now really is.

Sherlock might even complain about how often John tries getting a leg over, but he'd stopped even trying. Before he quit though, he had made sure that the lights were off before he stripped, and once they were off, he made sure that his partner was too overwhelmed to ask about the lack of light or to notice the skin of his shoulders under their sweaty palms. But even at home, relaxing in the flat with the person he trusts and cares more about than any other, the only skin he dares to put forth is the skin he can't hide: his face and hands. In a way, he felt lucky that the scars on his hands could so easily be explained away. The rest though...

Even on a night like this one, warm enough that, for once, Baker Street's windows were wide open for a reason that didn't involve letting out smoke of some origin or another, John was in long sleeves and lounge pants, wrapped up in his robe with feet encased in plain white socks when he emerged slightly damp from his shower on his way to the kitchen for tea. The living room was comfortably silent and a quick glance assured him of Sherlock's presence on the couch, supine and ridiculously lovely even in loose and tattered lounge clothes.

After he set the kettle and prepared their mugs, John leaned with his back against the worktop and allowed himself to daze. As much as he loved scrambling across rooftops with his best friend, he enjoyed these lazy, domestic afternoons just as much. Once their tea was prepared, he snagged his book off the table on his way to the sitting room, fully intent on finishing the blasted thing while he had the chance. Dropping it and his own cuppa on his side table, he leaned forward to place Sherlock's on the table next to him before trying to sit in his own chair, only to be stopped by fingers curling around his wrist.

John's heart stopped at the same time his breath caught in his throat as his brain struggled with the elation of skin-on-skin contact from the touch-adverse man and simultaneous panic at how close those fingers were to the things he hid under his sleeves. His eyes darted up to the detective's face in time to watch grey eyes opening slowly, pinning him in place as soon as they did.

"Sherlock, what're you-"

"Why do you hide your scars from me?" His heart stuttered and then stalled out completely as all colour drained from his face at the question. His mouth fell open but nothing came out as Sherlock watched him silently, waiting. He couldn't speak, couldn't move, shocked by this blatant admittance of knowledge of his secret. After a moment of this, long fingers of the other hand reached up and plucked apart the knot of his robe, the two halves falling open. They didn't stop there though, those fingers. They extended at the end of a delicate wrist exposed by the motion, and pulled the robe off his shoulder and then off his arm entirely before doing the same to the other side, releasing his captured wrist only long enough to drop the garment to the floor before curling back around, grounding him even as it sent him flying.

"Are you ashamed, John?" Sherlock's voice was a low susurrus in the air, sliding with ease through the suddenly heavy atmosphere. The doctor tried to speak, to enforce "No goddammit, I'm a soldier! Why would I be ashamed?" but he was still as frozen as the second their skin had came into contact. Sherlock sat up then, bringing his nose within inches of John's stomach without breaking eye contact and released his wrist a second time only to use both hands to slide up the doctor's shirt without touching him. As the shirt was tugged over ashen blonde hair, John was released from those piercing grey eyes only as long as it took for his shirt to join his robe. And then his torso was naked and in the light for the first time since he'd left Afghanistan and he'd never felt more exposed, even though Sherlock wasn't looking away from his eyes.

And then he was, and John couldn't move, couldn't breathe, as grey eyes took in skin more scarred than any he'd ever seen himself. Eyes traced scars left by scalpels and shrapnel and bullets and corrosive liquids and cigarettes and whips and so many other things that he could no longer remember them, and he could almost see his brilliant detective's brain whirring and deducing what had been done to him during his capture and what he'd endured to and in his escape. Then fingers started to follow the path his eyes had taken and John began to tremble under the feather-light touches tracing the raised marks. He'd never let any of his recent girlfriends even touch his skin, and he hadn't realised how sensitive it could be around and across his scars until calloused fingers slipped over them and his breath hitched in response.

John jumped when an open-mouthed kiss was placed just under his navel, breaking the strange spell the other's actions had put him under without him realising it had even been done.

"Sherlo-ah!" A warm, wet tongue circling his navel cut off his objections and questions before they could even really start.

"Shhh," Sherlock whispered against his skin as he was tugged to kneel on the couch between drawn-up, spider-like legs. He felt out of sync with his body, like a puppet on strings and Sherlock his puppeteer, existing solely to dance for his master's whim. As soon as he was situated, long fingers curled around his hips, keeping him still as lips and tongue and teeth descended, mapping out each scar with such meticulous tenderness that John wanted to simultaneously vomit and cry. Then he realised Sherlock was whispering deductions over his hips and up his stomach, across his chest and along his shoulders, detailing his past, all that he'd been through, laid bare in the privacy of home.

John didn't realise that he had actually been crying until those fingers released his hips to cup his face, thumbs sweeping under his eyes to remove the tears. Then that warm mouth was pressing over his, wet tongue sweeping inside along his own, catching him up in the gentle swell of Sherlock's kisses until he grew dizzy with them.

"My John. My soldier. My strong soldier," was whispered into his mouth when he was released long enough to pull in ragged breaths that barely seemed to fill his lungs. "People believe me to be the strong one but they are idiots. They do not see. I want to criticise them for their blindness at the same I want to thank them for it."

"Thank them?" John echoed fuzzily, unable to comprehend anything other than Sherlock's mouth on him. He realised that his eyes had closed and they opened slowly but the sight that greeted him stole his breath in exchange: the way the afternoon sunlight lit up Sherlock's face and the unfamiliar soft, shy smile that graced it were worthy of being painted. But most of all, the look in those grey eyes made him feel like he was just as worthy.

"Their blindness gave you to me. Surely such a gift is worthy of thanks, even if the recipient is not?" It felt like Sherlock was trying to kill with asphyxiation, not giving him time to breath before he stole away the next breath with a careless look or thought.

"Sherlock, I'm not-" he began, his knowledge of who he was stronger than how Sherlock's affections were making him feel, but the man only shushed him again as he tipped John onto his back. Without another word, the process Sherlock had employed on him from waist to neck began in reverse, neck to waist. But when his waist was reached, the detective didn't stop, didn't pause as he pulled John's pyjama bottoms down his legs as he continued down John's left leg. Despite the intimacy of the moment and the heaviness in his heart and the intense urge to be sick, John's cock was reacting to the stimulation, all of his feelings mixing with the sensations he was being subjected to and turning it all into a confused lust. Not that that was anything new when it came to his flatmate.

When Sherlock reached the bottom of his foot, he began working up his right leg, only this time, Sherlock teeth deviated, nipping at the back of his knees and along his inner thighs. He didn't even realize the lanky man had slid between his legs and placed them over bony shoulders until that hot mouth that was so interested in tearing him down engulfed his cock and he cried out with the sensation. His fingers fluctuated wildly against air and sofa alike and he felt like he was flying away by the sensations, heart ready to burst from his chest. He didn't realise he'd been crying out for Sherlock until long fingers threaded through his own, grounding him easily to the pleasure now wracking his body. It was lovely, but it wasn't quite what he needed.

"Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock," he began to chant, tugging at the other's hands, needing him to see, needing him to understand what he couldn't find the words to say. The detective's eyes rose to meet his and, maintaining contact, slowly released John's cock. The doctor moaned brokenly at the sight, still tugging on the hands in his.

"I'm here, John. I'm here," his long-legged flatmate murmured as he lowered John's legs to the sofa before straddling them. The hand in his right tugged lightly and he immediately released the fingers, watching, a bit dazedly, as they dropped his own fingers in order for three of them to slide between Sherlock's lips. John's breath hitched at the sight of those fingers sliding into the detective's mouth and at the way grey eyes remained on his. When Sherlock finally pulled those digits free, shining with saliva, he sat up on his knees, cock brushing John's in a way that had his breath catching in his throat, to reach behind himself with those shining digits. John was immediately struck by the wrongness of that, of what Sherlock was going to do, and was shaking his head before he could quite stop it.

"John?" His genius's tone was wary, concerned.

"No," he objected, head still turning slightly side-to-side. "No, I need... I need..." He needed Sherlock to cover him, close him away from the world for just a minute. The smile suddenly gracing the other man's face told him that that's all he needed to say, that he was understood. A moment later, their positions were they way they had been when Sherlock had been... cataloging his scars, and then a slick finger was pressing inside him.

"Please," he moaned breathlessly. There was only the strange sensation of being entered, no discomfort and he needed more. He needed Sherlock. The man's head tilted minisculely to the side and then a second finger was sliding in alongside the first, accompanied with the desired sensation of actually being stretched as they slowly slid in and out. He shifted restlessly on the sofa for a moment, two fingers still not enough but the way his legs were draped over Sherlock's shoulders gave him no room to thrust down on the digits inside him. Still, Sherlock understood-Sherlock always understands-his motion and slid the third finger in before his body was ready but he still moaned at the intrusion, wishing he could grind down on them. Too soon the fingers pulled free, and, with a look of distaste that had John smiling even in the state he was in, Sherlock spat in his hand and slicked up his cock before pressing inside him.

This. This is what he needed: the man he loved filling him with a slow burn he relished and draping over his body, close enough to be able to bury his face in the lanky man's neck. Sherlock's arms closed on either side of his own, elbows braced on the cushions, and as John raised his knees to hug the other's slim hips, smooth fabric slipped over his bare legs and it finally clicked that Sherlock was still dressed. But the way he was in him, over him, it felt like they were in their own little bubble, that nothing else in the world existed beyond the dark and comfortably humid air surrounding him. Words were being whispered in his ear as Sherlock began to pull out and thrust back in, pace slow to match the sudden molasses of the world. It took him a little longer to recognise the words themselves.

"I have always been a little envious of your strength, John," Sherlock was whispering, breath hot right against his ear, tone even despite what he was doing to the man under him. "The way you carry yourself and the way you hide. John, you are magnificent. My own doctor. My strong, courageous army doctor." There was water on his cheeks and he realised he was crying as compliment after compliment was laid into him like a whip laying stripes into skin. It felt like his soul was being flayed, peeling away the scars that covered his inside as much as his outside, replacing them with a new sort of confidence born of the opinion of someone he trusted even more than he trusted himself. Suddenly, his hips were shifted a little higher and his prostrate became the willing victim to Sherlock's slow-and-steady pace and he cried out again with the sensation, sliding his calves around Sherlock's thighs to wrap around his waist and sliding his fingers under his flatmates baggy shirt to grasp at slim ribs.

"Oh god, Sherlock," he choked out, needing his cock to be stroked to accompany the slow rise of his orgasm but unwilling for their positions to change, even in the slightest.

"I know, John. I know." Sherlock continued whispering in his ears, making his heart swell with each sweet word branding itself on his soul. Somehow, the genius managed to get a hand between them, stroking John's cock with the same easy pace he was using to thrust into him with as the smaller man began to shake anew.

"Sherlock, please. I need..." Once again, he couldn't bring himself to say what he needed, the words stuck in his throat. He was used to voicing what he wanted but much more used to hiding what he needed.

"Shhh... I've got you, John. Trust me." The doctor opened his mouth to reply even as he nodded his assent only for Sherlock to began thrust, not quicker, but deeper, hitting his prostate harder, and suddenly there were no more words in John's vocabulary other than 'Sherlock' and 'Please', nor was there any breath in his lungs left to voice them. The rising swell of his orgasm renewed viciously and before he quite realised what was happening, it was breaking over him, a warmth followed by a temporary numbness spreading from the epicentre that was Sherlock's cock, all the way to the tip of his fingers and his toes and his nose. Sherlock's pace inside him remained for a long moment, suspending his orgasm until it all became too much and he was crying again before the man's hips stilled and a warmth filled him, like a salve over what remained of what made John Watson.

He didn't even realise he was trembling with more than aftershocks until Sherlock moved to pull out and away and his legs tightened around the slim waist, fingers attempting to tighten around a rib cage quite uselessly considering how badly they were shaking. The man settled back over him, the sensation of his softening cock slowly sliding out of John's now-leaking hole less than pleasant but the comfort of the way Sherlock's body weighed him down quickly overrode that discomfort.

"I love you, John Watson," Sherlock said suddenly against his ear. For a moment, his entire body froze at the confession. And then, in the all-encompassing and grounding embrace of the man he loved who loved him in return, the impenetrable but tremulous wall that had hid John Watson from the world since his return finally shattered.

FIN

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