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Sherlock wakes with a headache and incredible thirst.
It takes him a few minutes to orientate himself, as his head is spinning and the dim light around him makes it hard to identify anything beyond the floor he is lying on.
Eventually, his eyes adjust and he carefully sits up. They have taken most of his clothes, leaving him with his long trousers and a thin long-sleeved shirt, for once not part of a fine suit. He had taken to more local attire for this case, hiding his hair under a headscarf and growing a bit of a beard to conceal his pale, foreign features.
Not that it had worked out that well in the end, given the fact that he is definitely locked up now. The last thing he remembers is creeping through the headquarters of the guerilla group Mycroft wanted him to investigate and, if possible, eliminate. The intense headache is a clear sign that somebody must have caught him and knocked him unconscious with a hard blow to the head.
Taking deep breaths to fight the nausea that comes with thirst and light concussions, Sherlock assesses his surroundings. The floor and walls are made of simple metal, illuminated by a single, hardly serviceable light bulb hanging off the ceiling. There’s a bucket in a corner Sherlock deduces to serve as the toilet, and a sixpack of small water bottles next to what is clearly the only entrance into the container.
There’s also another man in this metal box of a room. Stilling, Sherlock observes the crumpled form lying about three metres from the water bottles. It’s clear he’s part of some form of military, given the desert combat dress, but not even Sherlock can deduce what branch or country from this distance, especially with the light like this.
When he is sure that the other man is definitely not awake, Sherlock carefully stands and makes his way over to the other side of the container.
He’s surprised to realise the man’s Royal Army, Medical Corps to be precise. His fellow-countryman looks pale under the tan he’s sporting, blond hair bleached by sun, telling Sherlock he’s been stationed in Afghanistan for at least three months. His fingers are callused in a familiar pattern, indicating he’s not just a regular medic, but knows how to shoot and does so, too. The left leg of his uniform trousers has been cut open, undoubtedly to attach the bloody and sloppily done bandage wrapped around the thigh.
Given the circumstances, it is likely he was either shot or he wrangled his leg in some barbed wire surrounding much of the area’s buildings. Sherlock would have to remove the dressing to be sure, but having the man bleed out anymore than he has clearly done already is not really worth his curiosity.
Not that it will matter much if they’re locked up together for much longer. The very reason Sherlock chose tonight to investigate the headquarters is the phase of the moon. He knew being caught was a likely outcome, though he had been sure he would not be seen until much later, shortly before moonrise. He must have severely miscalculated.
With the metal box having no windows, it’s hard to predict precisely when the change will occur. He’ll feel it in his bones about thirty minutes beforehand, but until then, he is stuck estimating. As he has no way of knowing how long he has been out cold, Sherlock cannot say for certain how long it will be before the wolf takes over. Three or four hours left, at most.
Once he has changed, though, a helpless human smelling of fresh blood, locked in with him in a windowless metal box, won’t stand a chance.
Sherlock does not envy Mycroft the paperwork once he realises Sherlock has mangled one of their own instead of the majority of the guerilla force. Serves his brother right for dragging him into this godforsaken sandbox. The case had not even been all that thrilling in the end.
Stepping away from the unconscious soldier, Sherlock grabs one of the water bottles and empties is greedily. He knows the logical thing would have been to go slow, but his throat is incredibly dry and he already feels nauseous from the blow to his head.
Luckily, he doesn’t throw the fluid up again and so he takes another bottle, drinking the lukewarm water more slowly.
He should probably ration the rest of it. Who knows when his captors will return for him, and while the air in the box is merely warm now, it’s not clear if the metal container isn’t standing somewhere where the deadly heat of Afghanistan would make staying in it very uncomfortable very quickly come noon.
Sherlock nearly lets the bottle fall when the soldier suddenly stirs after all. With a low groan, he wiggles on the floor, then moans when he moves his hurt leg.
“Don’t move, you’re injured,” Sherlock drawls, already feeling bored with his surroundings, the headache and the bleeding soldier. He rather wishes the man hadn’t woken. Now, he has to talk to him before he bites his throat during the night.
Tedious.
“Huh?” the soldier grunts, but he does stop wiggling for a moment. Then, stupidly, he moves once more. He doesn’t moan in pain again, though he continues to grunt as he turns his head, then uses his arms to prop himself up.
Sherlock watches him silently as he works himself into a sitting position and finally leans against the nearest wall, small pearls of sweat running down his face.
“Hello,” Sherlock greets him, taking another sip of water from his bottle.
The soldier is even paler now, given the pain the movements undoubtedly caused, but Sherlock can tell he’s a fighter. Not likely to pass out again anytime soon, unless he moves his injured leg too much.
“Hi,” the man says in return, breathing heavily through his open mouth as he looks at Sherlock, his injured leg, then lets his eyes wander over their surroundings. Sherlock is surprised when the man lets out what can only be described as a strained giggle. “Well, shite.”
“You’re not satisfied with our humble lodgings?” Sherlock asks dryly.
“Have had better,” the soldier quips, and Sherlock finds himself smiling in spite of himself. Well, the man isn’t crying or panicking like Sherlock would have expected. Maybe, talking to him won’t be such a tedious bore after all.
“Barbed wire or gunshot?” Sherlock asks.
“Huh?”
“Your leg,” Sherlock elaborates, nodding towards the soldier’s injury. “Barbed wire or gunshot?”
“Gunshot,” the soldier replies, rubbing a hand over his face and ending up smearing grime over his left cheek. “Just grazed, though. Would be dead now if it weren’t. Especially with this mess of a dressing. Bloody incompetent, this lot. Can’t shoot a man right, can’t fix him up right either.”
Again, Sherlock feels himself smile. The soldier certainly has spirit. He finds that he likes that in a fellow captive.
“I’m Sherlock Holmes,” he introduces himself, raising his hand in lieu of a handshake.
The man gives an awkward wave back. “Captain John Watson. You’re not with the Forces, are you? Too skinny and your hair’s a mess.” He squints at Sherlock, taking him in. “What then? Journalist or something?”
“Or something, yes,” Sherlock replies with an eye-roll. “I’m a consulting detective.”
“Detective?” Watson asks, sounding incredulous. “What do you think this is, a game of Cluedo?”
Sherlock huffs. “I’m good at my job. In fact, I am the only one that has my job. When the police, or in this case the British government, are out of their depth, they consult me.”
“Well, didn’t work out so well this time, did it?” Watson says, then eyes the bottle in Sherlock’s hand. “Mind if I have one of those?”
“No,” Sherlock says, and doesn’t move.
“Can you hand me one?” Watson asks.
“Yes,” Sherlock replies, and still doesn’t move.
Watsons sighs. “Will you please hand me one?”
“Of course,” Sherlock says, and does so.
“Not surprised I end up in captivity with an arse like you,” Watson grumbles as he struggles to open his bottle, succeeds and promptly spills some of the water all over himself. He glares a Sherlock as if it was his fault. Eventually, he manages to drink most of it without further embarrassing himself.
“How long have we been in here?” Watson asks.
“I’m unsure,” Sherlock admits. “A few hours, at least.”
“Fantastic,“ Watson murmurs and empties his own bottle. “Any sign of them?“
Sherlock does not have to ask who he means. “No, not so far.“
“If we’re lucky, they’re negotiating already. Good sign we’re still alive, in any case.“
“You are oddly optimistic, given the circumstances,“ Sherlock cannot help but observe.
Watson lets out another strained giggle: “Can’t survive in this hellhole without your fair share of optimism, Mr Holmes.“
“It’s Sherlock. As we’ll be sharing a waste bucket, I think we can drop the formalities.“
Watson glances at the bucket in question and grins, rubbing pearls of sweat off his forehead. The leg must be bothering him, though he doesn’t let it show too much. “Fair enough. Sherlock.“ He shakes his head. “So, consulting detective. Working for the government. What was your plan exactly? Not getting caught, I take it?“
“No,“ Sherlock admits. “I was supposed to take out the main force once I’ve established their headquarters.“
“Of course,“ Watson replies, laughing again. “Right job for a civilian. Walk in, kill the bastards, walk out. Quite easy, really.“
“I am not helpless,“ Sherlock assures him, but it’s clear Watson doesn’t believe him.
Coming to a decision, Sherlock grabs the end of his right shirt sleeve and pulls it up. Even in the dim light of the single lightbulb, the silver bite mark is obvious. The scars cover the entirety of Sherlock’s lower arm, showing just how big a werewolf’s jaw can be.
“Bloody hell,“ Watson says, staring.
One does not have to be a medic to know the significance of such a mark, but it certainly helps to know the biological processes behind it. Sherlock has no illusions about Watson not realising what this means for them both. Werewolves are much sought after in the Forces due to their often aggressive nature and high resilience against virtually any disease or injury. Watson is sure to have treated some in the course of his career, knows their behavioural patterns and instincts.
“You realise why I chose tonight to move in,“ Sherlock says firmly.
Watson swallows, still looking at the silver mark as he nods. “We always keep track of the moon,“ he whispers shakily. “Extra prep for surgeries.“ He clears his throat and looks up again, facing Sherlock with a resigned look. “You don’t think they have failed to notice you’re a wolf, do you?“
“No,“ Sherlock replies bluntly.
Watson rubs his hand over his face. Suddenly, he looks incredibly tired and wary. “So they don’t give a damn about us after all. Or me, at least. You look like you could get them a nice sum. Maybe they even thought I’d make for a nice meal for you, subdue you with a bit of fresh meat until they have the transfer figured out.“
“Human meat makes me sluggish,“ Sherlock informs him.
Again, Watson giggles weakly. Sherlock wonders if there isn’t something severely wrong with this man. Is this what war does to soldiers? Inappropriate emotional responses in the face of injury or death?
“Not even an apology,“ the soldier says, shaking his head. He closes his eyes, leaning back until his head rests against the wall with a dull thud.
“Why should I apologise? It is not my fault I was bitten as a child and not killed, neither did I pick you as a meal. I prefer beef, you understand. It’s much more tender.“
“So I won’t even be a good meal.“
“Average, I’d assume.“
Watson sighs and opens his eyes. “Can I ask a favour, at least?“
“Go ahead.“
His eyes are very serious when he says: “Knock me out right before your change. I’d rather I wasn’t awake for it. I know you lot go for the neck first, but it’s not always a clean kill. I’d hate to spent my last minutes in agony as I’m ripped apart. Just grab my jaw, smash my head against the wall. Two or three times should do it. Don’t mind a fracture, just make sure I’m out properly.“
Sherlock could tell him that the wolf prefers his prey to move and put up a fight, but he isn’t quite so cruel, no matter what Donovan and Anderson like to tell Lestrade. If Watson wants to be knocked out, he can do that for him.
“I will,“ he promises.
“Thanks. Really, I appreciate it.“
They sit in silence after that.
When Sherlock awakes, he expects the familiar feeling of an unpleasantly full stomach and a deep ache in his bones. While he certainly feels the latter, the former is not true. In fact, Sherlock feels rather hungry.
Curious.
The next thing he becomes aware of is the softness of his surroundings. Blinking, Sherlock shifts and hears a grunt that does not come from himself. Surprised, Sherlock sits up.
He is half-sitting in John Watson’s lap. John Watson who, while still pale and clearly in pain, does not resemble the sorry remnants of a werewolf meal. Rather, he seems perfectly fine except for the fact that he is currently lying on his back in the same metal container as the previous day, with a naked shapeshifter curled up on top of his legs and his clothes partly ripped off.
Sherlock hurries to climb off the man, only to instantly feel like that’s the wrong thing to do.
Memories flash through him as he sits down right next to Watson’s injured leg. You promised to knock me out. Sherlock, please, you promised. What-- what are you doing? The bandage looks more bloody than before, but not like a werewolf has decided to start his meal there. More like somebody had continuously touched it. The smell of human blood -- enticing, but not maddening, not like food. Like home.
Acting on a suspicion, Sherlock rubs a finger against his nose. It comes away covered in dried blood. It becomes clear that Sherlock has been spending a certain amount of last night nuzzling Watson’s wound like a worried dog.
There is exactly one logical conclusion to this, and Sherlock can hardly believe it. There can only be one reason why he has not ripped the other man apart during the moon. It is not something Sherlock wants to think about, let alone say out loud.
Yet, he feels compelled to touch Watson, to stay close. Giving into the instinct, Sherlock leans down until he can press his nose against the man’s neck, deeply inhaling his scent.
“Bloody hell.“
When Sherlock raises his head, John Watson stares at him with wide eyes, clearly awake. All Sherlock manages is a low, guttural noise before nuzzling the man’s neck again. This is not good, is all he can think before once more basking in the man’s delicious scent.
Because it really is delicious. Utterly irresistible.
“What the fuck is going on! Sherlock? What--“
“Quiet,“ Sherlock growls and, to his own horror, licks at the juncture of Watson’s neck.
“Get off of me!“ the man yells immediately, shoving weakly at the part of Sherlock he can reach with one arm.
Sherlock curls a possessive arm around the man’s chest in response and continues licking. The man tastes of salt, sweat mingled with sand and grime. Sherlock feels warmth pool in his stomach.
Watson struggles for a few more moments, then settles down with a deep sigh. “Is this why I’m not dead?“ he asks weakly. “Keeping me for breakfast? I thought I didn’t taste good.“
“Quiet,“ Sherlock repeats, feeling irritated. Watson shouldn’t be talking. He should be responding, grunting, moaning, arching into him.
The thought startles Sherlock so much, he actually manages to retreat. He ceases his attentions to Watson’s neck and uncurls, though his arm stays where it keeps the man close.
“Don’t like your snacks to talk, do you?“ Watson says weakly. He suddenly seems calm in the face of a naked shapeshifter licking his throat, but Sherlock can feel his heart race in his chest, can smell the fear where there should be arousal.
“Are you really that much of an idiot?“ Sherlock asks him, annoyed at his last thought and covering for it by being irritated with the other man. “I haven’t eaten you during the moon, I obviously won’t do it now. I’m not a cannibal.“
“Why are you licking me then?“
“Because you smell magnificent.“
Before Watson can reply, the sound of metal-on-metal screeches through the room. Sherlock cannot remember the last time he has moved this fast outside a case. When the door opens with a loud bang, his bare body covers every available inch of Watson’s. John’s. His mate’s.
God, he hates this already.
When Mycroft steps into the container, flanked by two heavily muscled security men clad entirely in black, Sherlock bares his teeth and growls.
Of course, it takes Mycroft less than ten seconds to take in the scene and come to the right conclusion. His indulgent smile is so infuriating, Sherlock wishes he were still in wolf form so he could rip out his brother’s throat. But then, his smell marks him family, so that would be impossible, unless he tried really, really hard. So far, it hasn’t been worth the effort.
“I sent you here to get rid of this lot quietly, not to pick a lifemate,“ Mycroft says, voice laced with faint disapproval. “I had to cancel four important meetings so make sure you’ve not caused more trouble instead of less.“
“Fuck off,“ Sherlock growls, just as John wiggles underneath him and calls: “Lifemate? What is going on?“
“Do you require medical assistance, Dr. Watson?“ Mycroft asks, and of course the bastard already knows John’s name, knows who has been locked in with Sherlock, probably has already done all the background checks in the world and made his decision whether or not he approves of Sherlock’s choice. Already knew Sherlock hadn’t ripped the man apart before he even entered the container.
Not that is was much of real choice. More of a biological necessity. If Sherlock wasn’t so busy shielding his mate from the others in the room, he might waste more than a thought on how he does not want this, not at all.
Even as his body tells him that yes, yes he does, John Watson is perfect and he needs to have him soon, or he might die.
“Yes, I do,“ John calls out. “Whoever you are.“
“I am Sherlock’s brother. If you can convince him to let go of you for more than a few seconds, I will send somebody in to look after your … leg.“
Sherlock narrows his eyes at his brother’s acute deductive skills. Show-off. Sherlock hardly had the time to show John his own skills, and here comes Mycroft, deducing as he pleases. The bastard.
“That would be very much appreciated. Sherlock? Get. Off. Me.“
The shove is much less half-hearted this time and Sherlock finally moves, although like before, he does not leave John’s side. Rather, he presses close to his right flank, seeking contact without covering him completely.
He growls at the pretty medic as she fixes up John’s leg, calls him lucky for not catching a nasty infection and gives him some strong painkillers.
He growls at the security men as they toss him clothes to cover up himself and his half-hard penis.
He growls at Mycroft as they are escorted to a non-descriptive jeep and brought away to what Mycroft calls “more appropriate lodgings“.
He growls as he is handed a pack of raw meat which he devours in the matter of minutes.
He growls, snaps, snarls and nearly breaks one of the security guards’ necks as John and he are separated for all but three minutes for a quick shower.
Then finally, finally he is in a comfortable room with a bed and windows and alone with John, who throws Mycroft a worried glance as he wishes them good luck before closing the door behind them.
“Please tell me this is not happening,“ John says, and Sherlock would laugh if he weren’t so busy from keeping himself from jumping the man, licking him all over, then covering him in come and sweat until he smells completely like Sherlock.
God, he hates this. Not John -- he is quite perfect -- but this. The instincts, the barbarity of it all. The fact that he is hard and aching for a complete stranger who giggled at the prospect of being eaten and laughed when he was told he’d be an average meal.
Frustrated, Sherlock lets out another growl, going to check the door to calm the lingering thought that somebody might come and snatch John away.
“Would you rather I have eaten you?“ Sherlock snaps at him as he turns the doorknob. Locked. Wonderful. Perfect. A reason to hate Mycroft a tiny bit less just then.
“Of course not. But I’m not much for being chosen for a mate without any input from my part, either.“
“Well, you weren’t my free choice either,“ Sherlock retorts angrily, checking the windows, then closing the blinds attached. Good. No strange eyes on his mate. None. Sherlock hates how good it feels to prepare the room like this.
Instead of acting offended, John relents. “Yes, okay,“ he says. “That’s true.“
Sherlock is just lucid enough to appreciate the fact that his mate is going to be a pragmatic doctor with obviously extensive knowledge of werewolf biology instead of a freaked-out little man.
“You’re not currently attached,“ Sherlock reminds him with a sense of satisfaction, turning towards him.
“How do you even know that? Don’t tell me you can smell--“
“Consulting detective,“ Sherlock barks, finally standing by the bed John is sitting on, his injured leg resting at an awkward ankle. “Now, please tell me I can fuck you, because I don’t think I will be able to talk much longer. Your smell is everywhere.“
John does not rush his decision. He stares at Sherlock and he stares at the bedside table where Mycroft’s people have placed a silver dagger next to what is clearly a small bottle of lubrication. Mycroft might be capable of many things, but he does not lock in honored serviceman to be raped by hormone-ridden werewolves. This is not a mate-or-die situation and if John chooses to defend himself, Sherlock is sure the door will open and Sherlock will never see John again and be doomed to wank to the memory of John’s magnificent smell for the rest of his life.
But Mycroft hopes, just like Sherlock, that John does not say no.
And he does not. Instead, he sighs, lies down on the bed and says: “You know, you were kind of cute when you were curling up on me last night. Come here, then.“
Sherlock all but bounces on top of John, somehow managing not to put any weight on John’s injury.
The first thing he does is enthusiastically bite John’s neck. Not like an animal out to rip out a piece of flesh, but like a playful dog roughhousing with a friend. John groans in appreciation and Sherlock licks the bite mark with excitement.
“Mine,“ he growls, feeling like a porn cliché and not minding much. It simply feels too right.
“Yes, yours, all right. Can we please remove our clothes before you go into headspace?“
If Sherlock still had the lucidity for it, he would wonder just why this man has so much knowledge about werewolf mating rituals, but he hasn’t. What he has is a throbbing erection and a willing, pliant, delicious mate underneath whose smell is just begging Sherlock to fuck the man into ecstasy.
Sherlock gets rid of his own clothes in record time, throwing them carelessly onto the ground next to the bed. John dressed into non-descriptive jeans and a shirt after his shower. Sherlock grins as he simply rips up the grey t-shirt, exposing John’s chest.
He’s slightly toned and bronzed from the Afghanistan sun and Sherlock curiously nuzzles the identification discs around his neck before pushing them aside to have better leeway to nibble and lick at the skin available.
The small moans John makes are like music to his ears, egging him on, and before he knows it, John has been flipped on the bed, his jeans and underpants pooling around his ankles. Sherlock is too far gone to really worry whether John’s leg is causing him pain, but as John is busy moaning and sighing instead of whimpering, he should be safe.
Slowly losing all conscious thought, Sherlock bites at John’s right buttock before prying both cheeks apart. True to his wolf nature, he nuzzles and licks at John’s hole. His mate makes a noise like he’s dying a little bit and Sherlock growls in appreciation.
Sherlock will later wonder why Mycroft even bothered with the lubricant, as it should have been clear that he will be too frantic with need and want to prepare John with it. Luckily, the wolf in him is content to lick and prod at John’s hole until he’s loose, wet, pliant and mewling with lust.
Every breathless “Sherlock” coming from his mate sends shivers down Sherlock’s back and finally, his instincts deem John ready and he climbs on top of him and pushes in. He growls as he feels the tight muscle stretch around his cock and John grunts, moans, sighs as Sherlock pushes deeper until he’s stretched out on top of John, his hard cock deep inside him and his delicious-looking neck just in proximity to bite it.
Not moving an inch, Sherlock takes a minute to nibble at the back of John’s throat before starting to move his hips.
He fucks his mate hard and fast, growling “mine” and “fuck” and making noises there is no human equivalent for. Underneath him, John bucks into him as far as possible from his position, moaning and groaning “god” and “Sherlock”, clearly not at all complaining about being shagged into the mattress by a sex-crazed shapeshifter.
When Sherlock comes, it’s quick and violent and he lets his cock slip out before he’s fully spent, shooting some of his come on John’s bare back. Through his lusty haze, Sherlock thinks he has hardly ever seen anything more beautiful.
Sensing his mate has not yet found release, Sherlock manhandles him until he’s lying on his back again and swallows the flushed cock down without another thought.
It takes hardly any work before John comes down Sherlock’s throat. Although it is actually bitter and sticky, Sherlock’s senses tell him that John’s release tastes delicious and just right.
When they have both calmed their harsh breathing, Sherlock feels like he can think again. His mind is still hazy, but at least he’s not still thinking about how John needs to present his arse to him so he can fuck him as hard as possible. Well, not only. It will undoubtedly take several days before the urge to mate with him again and again will subside.
For now, though, Sherlock can actually voice coherent thoughts and says: “Thank you.” It seems appropriate for the situation.
Next to him, John shifts and lets out a chuckle. Sherlock grins up at the ceiling as he hears it. He is suddenly filled with a warmth of a different sort, not just sexual want, but a different kind of yearning. God, he hardly knows this man, but John is still not freaking out, not crying about being stuck with Sherlock for eternity now that Sherlock has made his claim. Instead, he snuggles closer to Sherlock, throwing an arm over him and laughs.
Nothing has ever felt so right, so perfect, and Sherlock gives in, curling on his side and throwing half of his limbs over his mate’s nude, sticky body.
“You’re not panicking,” Sherlock observes, staring into his mate’s exhausted but hardly panicked face. In fact, John looks rather pleased underneath his tired expression. “I am not complaining, but why aren’t you panicking?”
John grins. “Aren’t you a detective? Do your detective thing, collect the clues. Surprise me.”
For a moment, Sherlock only stares at him. He is not sure, but that might have been the most beautiful thing anyone has ever said to him.
“You know more about werewolf biology than the average man, even the average doctor,” he starts, and John nods, still smiling. “You knew exactly what Mycroft was talking about when he mentioned a lifemate, and he didn’t take the time to explain it to you, meaning he knew that you knew what would happen if you agreed.” John nods, licking his lips. “You know somebody, don’t you? A werewolf. A good friend? Family even?”
John nods again. “That’s brilliant,” he says. “Yes, I know somebody. My sister Harry.”
Sherlock studies Johns face, and says: “But she’s not the wolf.”
“No,” John agrees. “Her partner is. Her name’s Clara. They fight and piss each other off on a regular basis, but God if I haven’t seen two people more happy with each other in between.”
“Fascinating,” Sherlock says and snuggles up closer, watching John’s face closely. He would have all the time in the world to observe and analyse every facet of it, every pockmark an scar, every wrinkle. The thought excites him in a way only very gruesome murder cases do.
“Must be a family trait, being a werewolf magnet,” John says, seemingly unbothered by the fact. “Though Harry didn’t think she’d get eaten first, as far as I know.”
“You never truly panicked,” Sherlock says. “You showed signs of fright, but you stayed calm. You giggled in the face of death. Why is that, John Watson. Do you get a kick of out danger?”
John smiles again, looking the slightest bit wicked. “I might,” he says, and Sherlock growls again, because he too loves danger and if he can’t have his mate again right now, he doesn’t know what might happen.
“Flip over,” he orders as he feels his cock fill out again slowly.
“Bossy,” John sighs, but obliges. Clearly, the pheromones are getting to him, too. Sherlock can smell his returning arousal.
They should probably worry about the consequences, but now is not the time to brood. Only time will tell if John is willing to return to London with Sherlock, to pursue criminals and endure the violin at 3am and not get angry when Sherlock doesn’t talk for days on end.
For now, though, Sherlock wants to smell and taste and bite his mate. And that’s exactly what he does.