State to State - 2.2 - edited

A/N: thank you very much to @cloudkid for advice on how to write this darn thing and helping me to edit to minimize the major issues.  this should be much cleaner than it was when i first posted this morning.

--

“You know the more that you flail around during driving the more you’re going to bleed, right?”
“You’re the goddamn reason I’m bleeding in the first place!”
“Well I was just trying to be romantic.”

Sherlock turned away from eye contact with John, placing his head between his legs and trying very hard not to pass out. Even with the brutal and grisly scenes that he had seen over the years, it had been awhile since Sherlock had actually seen such a wound. And the panic rising through his chest came both from John’s blood soaking into the car seat, and the guilt of pushing the mechanic onto the stones.

He kept his eyes away until John parked outside of the house, jumping out to help the other man stumble up the concrete steps. As Sherlock unlocked the back door and pushed them both in side, the blanket around his should got caught in the jamb, as a sudden reminder that he was still wearing it.

“Alright, if you sit down in the kitchen, I’ll find the bandages and shit.”
“Why not the bathroom?”
“You can’t really sit on the toilet and the sink is useless. Kitchen is the best tactical position in the house.”

From underneath the bathroom cabinet, Sherlock heard the sudden question of “Tactical position?” but remained on the hunt. They had the proper medical supplies - somewhere.

For wounds, Emily would have just rinsed it out with soap and used some sort of healing magic. Magic that he did not possess. The only magic that he possessed was the computer in his head and even it wasn’t reliable.

In haste of getting out from under the sink, he knocked over a bottle of ammonia, causing an audible, "Shit."
Loud enough for John to yell back, "Arthur? Are you alright?"
"Everything is perfectly fine."

Sherlock spent far too long gathering the supplies with a hope that John wouldn’t want to talk about what happened. But as he pushed the mechanic’s chair over to the sink and turned on the water, the normal questions started.

“Do you want to talk about what happened, Arthur?”

Sherlock ignored him, washing the blood out of the wound and scrubbing it out from their hands. The small amount of water hanging in the sink remained pink, getting lighter and lighter as more progress was made.

“You made me call you by “John”. Can I ask you to call me by a name from my past life?”
“That doesn’t really answer my question. And it depends on the name you have in mind.”
“Sherlock.” The name carefully graced his lips as he poured the rubbing alcohol on the wound and held the gauze to it.
“Sherlock Holmes? What kind of fucking joke is that?”
“My father’s. That’s my real name but you can see why I might choose to go with Arthur.”

He lifted up the tube of triple antibiotic from the table, spreading it across the gash in John’s arm. Some blood was starting to trickle out of the corner again, but he wiped it away with a dish towel that was added to the wash pile. The cotton packing before the cloth bandage was rough against his palm, creating the question of how it must have felt against John’s tender skin.

“Is that alright, John?”
“Yes, uh – Sherlock. It’s perfect.”
“I mean you don’t have to call me that if it makes you uncomfortable. But I just thought I would be honest -”

Sherlock was stopped again by the lips he was starting to enjoy and the comfort of someone really accepting him. The others hadn’t been like this, even in a time when his name was unique and not a cultural joke. And even without John knowing who he was, at least being called the right thing and the right address was enough to tide him over in the meantime.

Alternate identities and dark magic were saved for the honeymoon.

“Come on, Sherlock. Are you okay with this? And I don’t blame you for pushing me off that rock.”

John pulled him back down to the opposite chair, leaving one of the rough hands on his thigh, and the other brushing against Sherlock’s cheek. His thoughts were quickly bouncing and predicting from John’s gestures. There was a place that he wanted to take this, even if it was moving too fast and being too reckless.

And to get onto the couch and into the most impulsive mindset, Sherlock decided to say, “Dragnet is on.”
“Hmm?”
Sherlock moved in to whisper, “If you want something to cover up the noise.” After he finished the statement, he left his head aside John’s, waiting for an answer.

Suddenly the mechanic leaned back, letting go of Sherlock to run the worn hands through his own hair.

“John, I’m sorry. Did I do something wrong?”
“Doesn’t this feel like too much too soon? You barely know me, Sherlock. Doesn’t that disturb you a bit?”
“You might judge me for it but I used to sleep with people after much less than six months of friendship, a first date and playing doctor in my friend’s kitchen. Every time that we drive somewhere, I hear things about your life and I know you’ve been flirting with me this entire time, even though I never tell you anything about my own circumstances.”

The left hand went back to his thigh and the right hand went back to the side of his cheekbones.

"And did something happen with the people who happened quickly? Some reason for why you flinch and some reason for the scars."

At the mention of scars, Sherlock pushed down at this sweatshirt and feeling John's hand on his wrist.

"You think you're the only one that's allowed to observe things? You do live up to the name Sherlock, you know?"
"Yeah, I do. The others don't matter anymore, all that matters is you."
"I'm sorry, dear. But if you're really okay with it, we can make some magic happen."

Magic.

It took him a second to recognize John's joke.

Of course a wizard would refer to it as that.

"John?"
"Yeah?"
"That would be nice, I think. Do you remember where the parlor room is?"

The mechanic slid out his chair, straightening the bandages around his arm.

"The one with the orange couch? Is that the best option, Sherlock? Or would you rather we go to bed?"
"I think the couch is best for the impulsiveness of a first date.

John went ahead of him to the parlor room and Sherlock cleaned up the blood as quickly as possible, leaving the soiled rags on the floor. While walking across the living room, he managed to undo his belt, take off his sweatshirt and start to unbutton his shirt. The mechanic was already lying on the couch in a pair of jeans and the cotton button up was hanging from his sides, blowing a little bit from the ceiling fan.

As Sherlock sat across the lap waiting for him, John looked up to ask, “Are you sure you’re okay with this? It’s not moving too quickly or anything?”
“It’s the perfect pace.”

It wasn’t.

He knew that right now he should still be in the kitchen with John, maybe offering him a glass of tea and maybe gentle kissing. Instead, he was already in the man’s lap in the near nude and going down this road.

John looked back to him with the continued questions of, “Really?”

From experience Sherlock knew there was a guaranteed line that would make them listen. Men. Women. Generally people. All of them responding to begging.

“Just fuck me, John Mason.”

Sherlock leaned down to kiss him, again wincing from the sudden hands on his hips but relaxing when remembering the touch. Most of the people that had chosen to hold him in that position and in that rough way, had not chosen to be gentle about it. Going through this over and over again was just a mistake but since the begininning he counted on one single thing.

John was different.

The mechanic’s clothing managed to magically disappear until he was left in his underwear, with Sherlock’s shirt missing and his pants partially undone.

“It’s really okay?”

No, but he stuck to the plan that he assumed. To get sex from the man who had stolen his heart and deal with the details later.

“I already asked you to fuck me, John. What else do you want?”
“You.”

They went back to the gentle position from the rock, from the point before Sherlock knocked him off. Being held in someone’s arms, even with the promise of whatever greater might come, it was very nice while this tender motion lasted. John’s hands wrapped around his waist, John’s head back in the crook of his neck…it was all nice.

“I’m asking one more time.”
“It’s okay.”

After being held without aggression, it did feel better.

It did feel closer to okay.

And just as the familiar hands worked to sliding his pants off, the familiar click of the front door lock sounded, along with Emily’s regular frustrations. The parlor door was shut but not locked. And from the sounds in the hallway, Joe was with her.

John was looking up at him to ask another question, this time being, “What’s wrong?”
“You uh wanted to meet Emily?”
“Yeah.”
“Well she’s home.”

Sherlock decided it was time to start preparing his story.