Dusk was turning to velvet darkness as the cab drew up in front of the flat. Sherlock had rested against John during the ride home, frequently nuzzling and pressing his face to John’s neck, gaining comfort from his nearness. The same was true for John, who was reassured by Sherlock’s contented touch. Nevertheless, he remained highly alert, scanning their surroundings for the slightest indication of danger. He would relax only when they were once more in the safety of their home.

“C’mon sweetheart, let’s get you upstairs where I can check your injuries and patch you up if you need it, alright?”

Sherlock nodded and climbed out of the cab but as John had known he would be, he was almost too exhausted to climb the stairs to the flat. John half carried him the final few steps and through the door. At least he hadn’t suffered another episode of heat-fueled sexual desperation since he’d run from the flat, which pleased John who wanted him to be able to sleep and not have to struggle more with the unfamiliar sensations of a heat and the frightening loss of control over his own body.

“Would you like a bath, Sherlock? I can help you wash and we’ll see where you’re hurt.”

Sherlock nodded, so John assisted him to the bathroom. John turned the water on to fill the tub and began to undress Sherlock; his clothes would join the others in the trash bag. John would remove his pistol from the bag for cleaning later and toss the rest of the contents in the bin.

Dirt smudged, bruised and with his usual vitality noticeably absent, Sherlock displayed an unusual vulnerability; his movements were cautious and his manner halting; like someone awakening to find their old body had been replaced by a strange new one with no familiar features. He sank up to his neck in the warm water and rested his head back against the tub with closed eyes. John knelt beside the tub and with soap, started at the top of Sherlock’s head where he would work his way down in his search for injuries. He noted a bruised forehead and temple; pain in Sherlock’s left shoulder from fighting his restraints−John frowned angrily remembering the sight of Sherlock being bound and forced to his knees−and tenderness in his lower abdomen where there was a large red mark, possibly from a boot...
Here John hesitated in his examination. Below the kick mark, he could see Sherlock growing erect rapidly and obviously becoming aroused; he arched his back and twisted his body restlessly, murmuring “John…” in a tone that, had John not already been on his knees, would most certainly have put him there.

“John, please...” Sherlock’s second breathy plea almost undid John completely.

“What is it?” he asked, his voice thick, “What do you need Sherlock?”

“You. Inside me. Deep inside. To fill the emptiness, John.”

“Oh God, Sherlock. I want you too. You know I do! But after what you’ve been through today…this isn’t a good time.”

Sherlock groaned in frustration and turned away, bringing his knees to his chest in a tight clench. “Why not, John?!” he begged, “What is wrong with now?!”

John, torn between concern for Sherlock and fighting his own fiery desire, whispered, “I gave you my word Sherlock that I wouldn't take advantage of you and I intend to keep it." He breathed deeply, "Let me pour some cold water into the bath and get you a cool flannel. It will help you feel better. And it’s okay to touch yourself if you want to, you never have before, I know, but it’s okay to do it, almost everyone does at some time.”
...not that it will help me tonight, John thought, I could wank all night and in the morning still fuck you senseless, my beautiful, perfect Sherlock…