My Saving Grace

Chapter 9

*To a friend, for creating a fantastic cover*

Perfection, that's what waking up with Sherlock Holmes' arms wrapped around you was like. Utter perfection. John yawned and looked up at Sherlock, who was sleeping with one arm over his eyes. John felt a smile tug at his lips. He could lay here for forever, but nature called.

He wondered how long he could wait before he had to get up and go. The answer: Three minutes. With a huff, John slowly pushed Sherlock's arm off from around his shoulders and carefully detangled their legs. When he had relieved himself, he opened the door to Sherlock, who shoved past him and closed the door behind him.

Shower. He needed a shower. An ice cold shower to freeze him and his thoughts. A shower to cool himself down.

When he exited he was surprised to find Mrs. Hudson and John talking together.

"I think you would make a fine doctor." Mrs. Hudson smiled patting the boy's hand.

"Why thank you." John laughed covering her hand with his

"Oh, Sherlock." Mrs. Hudson yelled standing "I didn't see you there."

Ignoring her, he went further into the kitchen and rummaged through the cupboard. John followed Mrs. Hudson to the door and held it open for her.

"Thank you for stopping by." He smiled warmly at her.

"Of course, warm rice in a sock will bring down the swelling in that eye."

"I will keep that in mind."

"How did you-

John trailed off his eyes locked on the smooth bareness of Sherlock's chest, still glistening with rivulets of water. The towel around his hips was dangerously close to opened not that Sherlock cared to fix it. His tongue darted out to lick his dry lips. At the sound of Sherlock clearing his throat, John looked back up at Sherlock, hoping he wasn't blushing. Sherlock stood with a cigarette tucked between his lips which were curved up at the ends forming a smirk.

He lit the stick and walked back to his room, leaving a trail of smoke in his wake. Shivering at the sight of him, John pinched himself. Get it together. He isn't gay John Watson he mentally scolded himself.

Back in his room, Sherlock was fighting hard to gain composure. He saw the way John looked at him. There was no mistake in the way his pupils dilated. And that tongue. The way John looked at him.

He emerged shortly thereafter wearing a black pair of slacks with a white button down tucked in them. He grabbed his coat from the chair and left telling John he would be back.

He walked down the street with a quick speed determined to do what he had to do. Ready to get where he needed to be. He had memorized the path over and over. He knew exactly where he was going and what he was going to say he just needed to spit it out.

He turned down a street and removed his hands from his pockets, flexing and unflexing his fingers. Walking up the drive, he rang the doorbell and waited. A girl answered. She was in her early twenties and reeked of alcohol. She had the same sandy hair and eyes as John. 

"Yes?" She asked softly looking over her shoulder at her sleeping father. 

Sherlock pushed past her making his way inside. He saw the man asleep in a chair in the living room. He was covered in bruises and beer bottles lined the floor around his chair.

"What are you doing?" The girl hissed pulling at Sherlock's arm to stop him. "Who are you." He continued without a falter in his step. He rounded the corner to the hall and peeked into a room. Girls. The next was John's.