(no subject)

[substituteskull]

Three years since the outbreak and John Watson still doesn't know what to make of it. Like all doctors, he'd heeded the call of city and country as England did what all smart island nations did the moment the moment WHO released a statement that the virus had spread outside of America through international travel. It shut down completely. He'd not paid attention to the politics of it, hadn't bothered so much with the news. John had his work to do, people to treat, safety and quarantine to enforce. His world because St. Barts'.

At first, isolation seemed to work. Patriots were forced to stay outside of the relative safety of Great Britain as the airports and the Eurostar stations shut down. Ferries between the islands were discontinued.

The problem was that no one could isolate whatever it was causing humanity to change. The virus didn't seem to kill the host's brain, just every other part of their systems. A day post infection, the victim would become feverish. Two days later, they'd succumb. And after that...nothing short of dismemberment could stop them. It wasn't airbourne. And not in the blood either. Just the saliva. John had never seen anything like it. The internet called it a zombie plague, but that wasn't quite right either.

It took six months for everyone worldwide to realize that quarantine wouldn't help. Infections sprouted up for no discernible reason. People turned in the Underground, in shopping centres, on the playground. London, and the country, didn't stand a chance. The government fell overnight. Society followed.

And John just stayed on at St Barts'. He stopped trying to do the most good. And just attempted to survive.

It's not easy, even for an ex-soldier. There's no heading down to Tesco's any more. Ammo is impossible to come by. But if John, and the others holed up in St. Barts' still want to eat, someone has to go out. And that someone is almost always John.

Comments

[substituteskull]

The touch of cool fingers to his burning face is distracting enough that John misses all of the physical cues to Sherlock's first journey over the edge of pleasure. He jerks back his head at the onslaught of thick not-quite liquid hitting the roof of his mouth, catches a jet across his nose and milks the remainder over his knuckles.

John's eyes stay focused on Sherlock's face, regardless of how loud he's certainly being, and stays with him through to the softening of his penis and into his refractory period.

He probably will want water or a breath mint in the near future, but smiles whenever Sherlock finds it in him to look up again.

Not too bad, he figures. He certainly feels proud of himself!

[consulting_freak]

Sherlock is by no means quiet when he reaches that final moment. Too much electricity and muscle contraction. Oxytocin overload and a dopamine chaser. It makes him writhe and press himself into John's mouth. As soon as he does, John's off of him, but the moment's already started and won't stop just because of that.

Eyes half-lidded, Sherlock watches John through the entirety of his orgasm. And for one moment that lasts maybe fifteen or twenty seconds in total, Sherlock's mind is blissfully blank. Nothing but him, John, and an overwhelming physical pleasure.

And when it's all over, he collapses back down into relaxation. It'll take him a moment to catch his breath. When he does, he'll look back down at his friend now lover. "Time for my practical?" Sherlock asks him, smirking a little bit. Maybe John will appreciate how good of a student Sherlock can be. Well, if he can figure out a way to hold himself up with his arms in the state they are.

[substituteskull]

It's much too late for these things, John thinks as he carefully fits himself to Sherlock in regards to that broken arm. It's much too late and now they both need another shower. He doesn't bother going for a breath freshener after all and instead settles a hand over Sherlock's hip and closes his eyes.

He's up first, his body refusing to sleep past sunrise, and groaning, aching, John watches Sherlock in his sleep for several long moments before he brushes back hacked at curls and presses a kiss to his forehead.

Evidently, they'd been loud last night. There's no sound proofing between the old offices and John groans as he hits the locker room. Josie, also there, at least decides to ask after his face instead of last night's entertainment.

"What got you, Doc?"

John touches the plaster over his cheek. "Just a disagreement with a fist," he explains. "It's all right." Josie winks at him and John just turns in a huff and rinses off the mess dried to his skin.

[consulting_freak]

Sherlock's performance hadn't been the most graceful. At one point, he'd lost his balance when his right shoulder gave out, but it had lightened the mood instead of destroying it. And, eventually, Sherlock had been able to gather a fair amount of data about both his and John's likes and dislikes in regards to sexual stimuli.

If they'd been a decade younger and their situation less grim, perhaps they would have stayed up exploring each other for another hour or two. But, they had work to do in the morning and both men settled against each other to enjoy the post-sex biochemical bliss.

John had been able to fall asleep first. Sherlock's orgasm happening sooner in the night meant that his body had a chance to wake up afterwards. So, he lied there on his back with his good arm curled around his friend. Cuddling. It just seemed like the right thing to do after something like that.


Sherlock wakes the next morning to an empty bed and the reluctance to open his eyes. Not enough sleep. It takes him almost ten minutes to drag himself out of bed and into his trousers.

No one asks about Sherlock leaving John's bedroom that morning. He can tell by a few hastily averted glances that they all know what had happened the night before, but he can't seem to find it in him to be embarrassed or really care about that.

A few smiles and good mornings are exchanged (surprisingly not faked, even after their discussion. He's in a good mood) and he brings a change of clothes to the locker room for a morning shower.

Bill, at least for the moment, is nowhere to be seen. He doubts that luck will continue.

[substituteskull]

By that point, John's gone to get breakfast and returned to his room to change the sheets and change his plasters. He's in the middle of that, dabbing cream onto his sutures, when Sherlock returns. John must say he's taking a bit of time to glance a little more invitingly at Sherlock now, or at least, he's realizing it for what it is.

His own mood is much improved, certainly a great deal lighter, and he finishes up his bandaging, door left partially open, before he turns back to Sherlock.

"We should get the unpleasantness done with," he suggests. Right back into the fray with them. And it's so easy. John had forgotten just what it's like for that to happen, for the world to just click, and it makes him a little bit restless. "I brought you something to eat, which I'm relatively sure you'll ignore," he teases.

Sherlock can get dressed on his own, independently, but John is here to help should he require it.

"Unless your leg is still giving you trouble. I can get your samples for you, if need be."

[consulting_freak]

Sherlock is on his way back to his own room when he notices that John's door is open, just a little bit. That's where his friend has gone. They must have missed each other along the way to take care of morning business. They've got more planning to do for the rest of the day, so a detour to drop in on his friend - lover? - is in order.

He doesn't knock before pushing John's door open the rest of the way. He steps in, lets the door fall partially closed behind him, then takes a look around at John's room.

He's still in a good mood, but it's also a thoughtful one. No formal greetings shared between them. Just a bit of business, but that's how it should be.

"Arm's better and leg's easy enough to work with," Sherlock tells him, realising after a few seconds that his gaze is lingering on his friend a bit too long. He turns around and makes an overly exaggerated point to look at the breakfast John's brought him. It's a cooling bowl of oat porridge sprinkled with soy protein flavoured like bacon. Made with powdered milk and water, most likely.

He doesn't find it very appetising, but he's feeling hungry, so he'll eat a few bites of it.

But first, he owes something to John from the night before. A certain request he hadn't fulfilled.

"There are places I remember
All my life though some have changed.
Some forever not for better.
Some have gone and some remain.
All these places have their moments
With lovers and friends I still can recall.
Some are dead and some are living
In my life I've loved them all.

But of all these friends and lovers,
There is no one compares with you.
And these memories lose their meaning
When I think of love as something new.
Though I know I'll never lose affection
For people and things that went before.
I know I'll often stop and think about them.
In my life I love you more."

[substituteskull]

Why bother with pleasantries when they never have before? Their machine works beautifully just the way it does and John wants for it to be no different...minus a few additions here and there. He's about to tell Sherlock to let him rewrap his arm and check his ankle when the man begins to sing to him.

No. Not sing. Sherlock is serenading him...a Beetles song. A couple hours behind schedule but John can't keep the smile from his face, nor the look of wonder as he watches the full lips of his former flatmate sound out vowels that John Lennon could never manage.

It's impressive and beautiful and the words make him feel entirely too warm. It takes a great deal of strength to actually stand. They've never been exceedingly touchy. John isn't sure what sort of embrace Sherlock might accept now that his libido has been satisfied--

But ultimately, he just does not care.

Mindful of the arm, John tugs Sherlock close -- and lifts himself up on the balls of his feet -- to deliver a sweet, honestly well deserved kiss on his mouth.

Sherlock might have just done the most romantic thing John's ever experienced not coming from himself.

[consulting_freak]

Sherlock doesn't look at John while he sings the song. It had come to him in the shower as he'd been going over the night before and organising his thoughts around it. It was one of a handful of songs Sherlock realised he knew, and he'd chosen this one specifically because of the parallels between their condition and the lyrics in the song. He won't tell John that's why he'd chosen it, but he won't deny it either.

He hears the sound of John shifting across the room, so he pauses before repeating the chorus to watch his friend approach him. He looks happy. Maybe a touch of pink on his cheeks. Determined to show his gratitude. But it's just a song. One that he'd had to move down by two-fifths in order for his voice to reach the notes comfortably.

The way John's eyes move to Sherlock's mouth tells him what to expect. He leans down without trying to resist to meet John's lips with his own.

"Why did you get eggs?" Sherlock asks when the kiss breaks. Obviously, John got eggs because he'd been in the kitchen when breakfast was served. Sherlock's portion probably came from the pot after everyone else got their fill.

[substituteskull]

Eggs? Oh. John's noticeably impressed by the deduction and tilts his head to the side as he steps back to fetch his boots. "I got eggs because I regularly eat breakfast and I was the first one in the kitchen," John says naturally enough. "You would have likely turned your nose up so...porridge it is," John says, the curve of his lips never falling.

He's no idea why they've waited so long but the feeling of being centred is not one he can deny now. John's had this before, he knows, the honeymoon period is always the best, but it feels better than any he's had before.

John drops onto the edge of his bed to pull on his socks.

"I should get sung to every morning," he says almost wistfully. He prefers it to the violin, if he's honest.

[consulting_freak]

"Who was the chef? Sarah, wasn't it?" Sherlock deduces. There'd been a bit of a black pepper taste as well, and she's the one who's overly fond of adding that particular spice to her cooking.

To Sherlock, there's little that's changed in how he feels toward John. There are a few added curiosities he has, but for the most part John is the same as he's ever been. The smaller man's even in a better mood than he's been in since the first few minutes of meeting up with him on his first day back. A little more stable and seeming like the old John. He won't complain about that, since the old John is the one he'd been trying to come home to all this time.

He doesn't know about things like the honeymoon phase of new relationships and he'd probably scoff if John tried to explain it to him.

"You should give me something to sing about every morning, then," Sherlock comments over his shoulder as he turns his attention back to the cold porridge. He doesn't mean for the phrase to come out sounding so suggestive, but it does and he won't take it back. Having a way to get a nice high regularly without the risk of withdrawal symptoms in the morning sounds like a winning situation to him.

"This is awful," he grumbles over a mouth full of breakfast.

[substituteskull]

"How did-- Yes, Sarah," John agrees. He ought to know better than to ask. Perhaps she breaks the yolks a certain way or gets shell in it -- how Sherlock could taste that, he doesn't know. Maybe he'd just remembered the assignment board. He's about to put on his second sock when the innuendo comes and... John decides just to back up to the meal with Sarah at it's head because he can remember last night all too well and he would very much to give Sherlock that reason every night they're both awake to have it.

He wets his lips, imagining he can taste Sherlock there when all it is is the toothpaste he'd used in the bathroom that morning and nothing else. Pity.

"Well I might have a deduction myself as to why your porridge is terrible," John says, teasing lightly as he checks his shoes for bugs that might have crawled inside. Yes, he's been out of Afghanistan for years and yet he still has his rituals from that arid, rocky country. "If Sarah heard you, and chances are she did, you probably broke her heart."

John's not all that sad about it. Pulling those noises from Sherlock had been one of the finer moments of his life thus far.

"Sorry about that. I'll save you an egg next time the chickens bother to lay any?"

[consulting_freak]

Sherlock just smiles when John is at a complete loss on how he'd made his deduction about the identity of the chef. He likes to keep some things to himself because it keeps an air of mystery about him. It's not directly related to anything important, anyway.

He takes all of five very large bites of his porridge before he can't seem to swallow anymore of it down. The soy crumbles make it taste too salty to someone unused to that much dietary sodium. But, he's not wasting the entire bowl, so he shouldn't annoy too many people by not having all of his breakfast.

"Really?" Sherlock asks when John announces his deduction. Oh, so a romantic rivalry. Are people so petty? Wait, no. He doesn't need to ask that to know the answer.

"She's a minor. And, for God's sake, I'm over twice her age," he says, shaking his head with his eyebrows drawing together and nose lifting. It crinkles the skin there in the centre of his forehead. "And up until last night, I wasn't exactly interested in sharing that sort of activity with anyone."

Will having sex with John make things difficult to keep up the charade of pleasantries so he can keep that lab?

[substituteskull]

"She's a teenager," John says casually. "Most teenagers fancy rockstars are one point in time." After everything John's told this group about Sherlock, he is the only living rockstar this world could well have to offer. Or, at least, Europe. John leans back on his elbows to watch Sherlock make faces at his breakfast. Perhaps adding a bit of sweet would have helped a bit, but it's a little too late now to change the menu. They ought to not eat too heavily any way. They have a great deal of exertion head of them and, let's be honest, running about with large meal in their stomachs isn't going to help in the slightest.

The good mood seems impossible to break, even after he and Sherlock head down the front stairs to the A & E lobby to make the trek across the street. Sherlock with his sword and John, his crowbar with a backup revolver, are equipped to handle most of what may lay inside.

The sentries have not yet made it over to the building yet, and that will certainly be a good thing on their part. John, vigilant but still distracted by Sherlock, nearly misses the telltale scape of feet behind the front door.

He pauses, hand on the door.

"You didn't chain up the back entry did you...?" he asks, exasperated but certainly not angry. His hand tightens on his bludgeon of choice.

[consulting_freak]

As fun as flirting is, as soon as John and Sherlock are outside the safety of their sectioned off home in Bart's, the detective goes into business mode. He spares glances at John only briefly as he scans the area around them for any sign of life. Infected or otherwise. If the disease can be spread to cats, there's a chance it can jump species again. And, he knows at least one of them is on the shit list of at a certain human entity.

When they hesitate at the door, Sherlock glances at his friend and thinks back to the day before whn he'd come here. He'd been in such a bad way after everything was said and done that it takes a moment to actually remember.

"I left the patient room door open. There were no chains in the monitoring corridor, so I left that as it is. I didn't chain up the main back entrance, but I also didn't open any of the other patient rooms. The smell and noise might have attracted others, but only if there were some nesting nearby," Sherlock explains, being as thorough as he can and also as quiet as he can.

His grip shifts on the hilt of his sword and he presses his back against the wall next to the door. Hopefully the shuffling inside is the same as he'd heard before. Coming from the patient rooms where it's nice, cosy, and safe for them. If not, he'll go point and take out or distract any infected. Let's face it, he's got better reflexes that John even with his injuries, and John's skills lie with crack shooting. A good combination as long as John doesn't get it into his head to be overprotective.

[substituteskull]

John cared for many people in his life, and though he cared for Sherlock like no other -- song be damned -- he has no intention of being over protective. The battlefield slips back in to his mindset as he readgusts the grip on the crowbar. It's dark here, but darkness doesn't matter. They can't see any better than he can. It's noise and scent that attracts them more than anything else. Scent is not something they can mask. He's tried, but nothing works. Noise-- Well, it hasn't heard them yet.

A glance to Sherlock signals that he's ready and the muscles of his legs tighten as he rocks back on the heels of his feet to yank open the door.

He won't fight Sherlock for taking the lead. He knows his limitations. Height, shorter limbs -- He's better as a clean up crew than most. With four bullets in his gun, he'd rather not use them if possible either.

Scant light filters through grimy, gummed up windows as three people, none of whom he knows, turn to look in their direction. Teeth bare with infection and their shambling turns to mindless rage focused in their direction.

Sherlock can get two easily. John is already planning on whacking the third. The nameless ones don't get the care that his friends did, set in rooms around the central corridor. Perhaps that's cold. Cold is just something you have to accept during war.

[consulting_freak]

There's a moment as he's standing against the wall and waiting for John to open the door that the thought of these pitiful creatures still having some of their humanity and cognitive function threatens to paralyse him. All of this time, he'd been so sure that he was killing mindless creatures no more human than a rabid dog.

Maybe it makes him soft. (Funny how that works out, isn't it?)

But, it's an Us versus Them situation. If there were only one infected waiting for them, he could have disabled it and ushered it into a locked area with the others. But three means fighting - and killing - is not optional.

Sherlock lures the fastest infected to the side, using her charging speed against her as he easily throws her onto her back. The sword makes a clean strike across the second creature's neck and it sends the elderly man into a staggering daze before he finally falls. He severs the first creature's head while she tries to lunge at his ankle.

One glance over at John tells him that his friend is making clean work of the last of the aggressors.

There's a sound down the corridor that sounds an awful lot like approaching shuffling. Just one more creature, this one slower than the rest. A dragging sound sends his brain right back to the day before when he'd fought off Mycroft. And Sherlock completely freezes at hearing it, even though the creature that rounds the corner is a child with festering legs dragging herself with her hands across the floor.

[substituteskull]

There is no easy way to deal with the children that have been infected and John needs to dig into the places he never wants to be again to muster up the courage for it. He waits for a moment to see if Sherlock will take a step towards the girl, but he doesn't. In fact, he seems almost shell shocked to see her.

John is a smart man -- Sherlock would want his company far less if he was not -- but he doesn't equate the girl's dragging leg for the trauma he'd put up with the afternoon before. There's no snap, no 'ah-ha' moment.

And yet...and yet Sherlock must have done this before. Must have run across infected children. Does this have to do with John's assertion about their life signs?

John lowers his crow bar and checks that his arm guards are strapped down before he strides passed Sherlock.

They need a mobile infected to draw out the parasites, right? Well, children are easier to deal with and wrangle than the larger ones. From the sounds of it, she's the last anyhow.

[consulting_freak]

It's John walking by his side that snaps him out of his momentary paralysis. Sherlock watches the back of his friend's head as he continues onward. He pushes the door behind them almost closed with the back of his foot - this way, they will hear it in case there are others lurking in the shadows that might become alerted to their presence and decide to investigate.

Now that the girl is subdued, he's no longer reminded of Mycroft. He won't talk about it unless asked specifically. He's not the type to seek counselling and therapy.

He slips his hand into his pocket and retrieves his freshly made tool pack. A glass vial for the sample. A jaw brace to prevent biting, pliers, a long scalpel, and a pipette with a broad opening. Wide enough to get the parasites in without trouble.

"Pull her head back," Sherlock instructs, setting his tools down and picking up the brace first. Once he's got her mouth open, he can worry about the rest.

[substituteskull]

Old times, minus infected children, plus a new appreciation for pale skin and maybe a slightly hazy afterglow he'd very much like another go at and-- John is only paying a quarter attention to Sherlock. Typically, this would be a mistake. The girl is secure and from what he can hear, they're otherwise alone. That doesn't give him the right to carry on in a romantic haze when it could get them both injured.

No more afterglow, buddy. No more nothing.

Wetting his lips, John forces his mind back on the work. Extracting the parasites is...difficult. Holding a writhing girl who doesn't understand the concept of anything but infecting others leaves his arms exhausted and his chest covered in rot.

They're eventually successful, but John's muscles are strained and there is still quite a lot to do. First, they need to get the girl into confinement. After, they have to sweep the rest of the building.

"I think I'm going to single handedly use up the remaining storage of shower water at this rate,' he tells Sherlock as he leans against the door. The girl has already stopped thrashing now that she's lost sight and scent of them beyond the hallway.

[consulting_freak]

Science is disgusting work sometimes, but right now the necessity of getting samples outweighs the need to feel clean. The girl is bitey, so it makes his job of putting the brace on his job a challenge. But after that, it's a matter of getting the right angles. Since he only has one arm to work with, it's time consuming and frustrating work. Eventually he's able to take four flukes through the pipette and a small section of her submandibular gland to keep the parasites fed. Then, he closes up the vial and helps John usher her into the room Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson are in. As much as it pains him, he doesn't remove their bodies. They would only attract more infected to the area if they aren't locked away.

Unlike John, Sherlock's mind can't be farther from romance. Camaraderie, yes. But so much disgusting bodily fluids are a good repellent for such distracting thoughts.

"You're going to share is what you're going to do," Sherlock corrects. There's no way he isn't going to spend a good amount of time scrubbing himself clean, even if he isn't quite as saturated with rot. He's got a good deal of blood from the first two infected he's killed on him and he's worked up a good sweat from all their efforts.

"Ready to finish up?" Sherlock asks as soon as he notices John's breathing steadying out to normal. They've just got half the building left to look through. With any luck they won't find anymore infected.

[substituteskull]

"No," John says with every honest bone in his body. His hand falls from the handle and he steps back to pop his neck into place. "But we don't have a lot of choice." He'd gotten use to sharing everything with Sherlock, including sleepless nights and hours meant to be spent at the clinic. Or with girlfriends. Or meals Sherlock never ate but indulged John in. He runs a hand over his head and heads back down the hallway.

They'll do a full sweep, just to be utterly careful, and luckily, there's nothing lurking in the dusty, candle nub riddled darkness to get them.

Josie is just getting to his post when he spots the two coming up the stairs and frowns over a cup of watered down coffee. "Visiting? Shit, you look horrible. Breach?" he asks, seeing John's clothing.

John shakes his head. "Went collecting. Sherlock is going to finish Jill's work. Or try to."

Now Josie blinks before he claps Sherlock on the back. "Well all right man. All right. Listen, you need anything from me, I'll be here til sunset."

John glances at Sherlock as they head back out into the sun. Imagine that. It only takes the world ending for Sherlock to get some praise.

And, you know, a potential death threat thanks to Bill.

[consulting_freak]

Sherlock can't blame John for wanting to delay the inevitable. This will be the smaller man's third day in the lion's den and as therapeutic as the night before had been for both of them, it ate into their recharge time. And, humans tend to obey Newton's first law of motion, especially when faced with exhausting tasks.

His steps are unsteady and favouring his left leg when they meet up with Josie. He lets John do most of the talking, trying to push out any bad mood the pain's giving him to remain pleasant to speak with. When his friend announces they're collecting, Sherlock's hand moves over the pocket he's carrying the vial in to make sure it's still there. It should be warm enough against his skin to keep the parasites satisfied.

"I think I can manage without --" he catches John's gaze, then stops mid-sentence. "Sorry. What I mean is... ah, thank you. I'll keep that in mind," he amends, giving Josie a smile that will probably look natural enough to anyone who doesn't know him as well as John.

Praise is a good thing, but Sherlock isn't used to dealing with it. He has a service and he will fulfil the requirements of said service with or without the open consent and pleasure of the people he's working with.

"I'm going to put the sample in the 37 degree storage, then I'm going to have a shower."

[substituteskull]

"You made me promise to share," John points out, "so you have to too." And he doesn't want a repeat of last night. He has to go and find Bill, they need to have one of those discussions that John is never pleased to be forced into. There's just no help for it. Not this time.

First, though, he needs to put on something clean. And he'd very much like to smell of something other than rot and body odour.

Sherlock naturally walks a bit ahead of him, longer stride, longer legs, but the limp does allow John to keep up easily without forcing himself to speak up. There are always pluses to every negative, he's found, if you really look at it.

"I'll wait for you in the locker room," he tells Sherlock, not seeing anyone in the corridors. There's so few of them that there are always chores to be done. John has some this afternoon as well: laundry duty. Not one of the finer tasks but it's better than worrying about well rounded meals or scrubbing the common areas.

John pulls his shirt over his head the moment he hits the locker room and then sinks onto one of the benches, just to relax for a few minutes. No one is here. The world is quiet.

His laughter is slow. Soft. Happy. Things feel right again.

[consulting_freak]

"If I don't share, there's no way you could share," Sherlock points out to John, letting a little of his grin show through. Now that the harder part of the day is over, he's looking forward to a relaxing afternoon in the lab working with his new find. It's the only place in this new life he feels completely and totally at home. Other than in John's bed, at least.

Sherlock looks his friend over as they part ways. It's that time of day where everyone's busy. Even the children have their assigned duties. Two on the roof at any time, and one shadowing one of the adult members of the team.

Sherlock washes his hands in the lab after depositing the sample, then he types in a combination that he'd reset so no one accidentally tampers with it. (Either Bill - who he doesn't trust - or one of the younger, more restless team mates.) The last thing they need is to have someone accidentally infect themselves by poking about in the wrong place.

He'll pick up a change of clothes and then go straight to the shower room to meet up with his friend.

[substituteskull]

John glances up as the door opens and for a moment, all of the muscles in his bare shoulders and arms seem to tighten and then relax against just after. He looks relieved and smiles with his lips together. "You'll let me have at that ankle after this," John says. "It's about time we wrapped it. You can keep it elevated while you work, all right?"

John will help with that, run the lab errands back and forth after his trip to do the laundry. Sherlock is use to that any way. Lazy. It's a wonder he didn't turn out like his brother, honestly!

Maybe there's something in the water or maybe John's just use to wanting to be physical with people he's already established that relationship with or maybe Sherlock just looks like home, but John certainly lets his desire to touch get the better of him as his hands find the other's hips. And then his fly.

What? He's just helping undress him is all!