Five Times to Charm
Originally posted by kikislasha at Five Times to Charm
title: Five Times to Charm
fandom: BBC Sherlock
pairing: Sherlock/John
rating: NC17 (finally)
length: 3700 words
five-then-one format, first five parts written in loose verse, no spoilers
summary: It took five kisses to get to this point, and John realizes there's no turning back.
The first kiss was not expected.
The first kiss happened in a bar, on a case.
The first kiss was something that John decided he did not want to happen again, necessarily. It was messy and full of show but not of meaning, a clasp of chin and a mash of teeth and gums. It was an unfocussed ordeal; instead, Sherlock’s attention had been on the reaction, watching the mark. Gauging when to strike.
It had taken John by surprise, as well as the mark. He hadn’t known what to do, his hands held aloft by his shoulders, grasping the air for answers. John, that is.
He hadn’t really thought of it before. That is, other than those horrific times where he put his foot in his mouth because obviously Sherlock wasn’t implying that because obviously Sherlock doesn’t think about sex ever because he is married to his work he said so, so it’s true.
Right.
The first kiss was something that John chalked up to being something Sherlock just did because he knew what it would do to someone. Howard Blythe, the mark in this case, had frozen when Sherlock then approached him, instead of shooting him with the silenced 9mm in his jacket pocket. Distract and surprise. A well used tactic. John was bewildered, but even he could see the use in such a thing.
The first kiss left him unworried and unconcerned about where he stood with Sherlock. He was Dr. Watson, an ex army doctor who happened to be the friend of Sherlock Holmes, the world’s only consulting detective. He supposed that kissing was at least less dangerous than some of the things that he and Sherlock did, and left it at that.
“You’re lucky.”
“I don’t believe in luck John.”
“No, I mean, that you figured out how to mess him up. I mean, how could you know he’d react like that?”
A pause.
“Isn’t it obvious John? Clearly homophobic. Look at where he lives. Where he frequents. Half the bar in there didn’t know what to do.”
“He could have shot you for it if he was...homophobic that is.”
“A moral dilemma always gets in the way of a resolute decision. He had to reassess, since now I was more than just a threat to expose him. You should always use what someone fears the most.”
“Even if that fear is sticking you tongue down someone else’s throat?”
That earned John a smile, and what looked like a reappraisal.
“Indeed John.” Sherlock chuckled shortly. “Quite.”
***
The second kiss was a repeated accident.
The second kiss was for a case again, but this time, Sherlock didn’t necessarily initiate it.
The second kiss was an awkward, brief affair, where lips meant accidentally and was full of ‘well I should I tilt or--oh’s and ‘pull back because our noses squashed’s and ‘dear god, how would they have managed this.’ It was also when Sherlock was suspended upside down from the ceiling of 221b Baker Street by an elaborate harness meant to reproduce the angle of which someone claimed to have been able to hold someone out of a window for while being held hostage by a case defendant--three hours seemed an inordinately long period of time for adrenaline to continue to be a factor. Sherlock’s arms were wrapped around John, having finally found an equilibrium where his head should rest--nested tightly against John’s, his lips against John’s earlobe and his breath tickling with every exhale.
Right.
The second kiss could hardly be counted, John decided, and focussed on shifting his arms slightly to be able to hold onto Sherlock a little better. They swung with the inertia of the movement. He was rather uncomfortable, he also decided, as he had to hold his feet up to keep them from resting on the floor. Sherlock had to be able to support his entire weight, he claimed.
The second kiss left him unconcerned about their relationship, but concerned about Sherlock’s sanity, and his own as clearly he had been coerced into helping with this so-called “experiment” and had resigned three hours of his day to spend suspended from the ceiling with Sherlock.
“You know, this isn’t what normal people do, Sherlock.”
“Be quiet, unless you want me to drop you.”
“Oh yes, the fall of a staggering four inches will cause me to suffer, I’m sure.”
“You’re interfering with my breathing patterns. Shut up.”
“I don’t know why I agreed to this. I have things to do today, you know.”
“John, I’m quite serious. Either you stop talking or I will be forced to stop you.”
“I’d like to see you try Sherlock.”
Brave words that faltered at the warm chuckle in his ear.
That was why, just under three hours later, John finally put his feet down and then went out to do the shopping.
***
The third kiss was frightening.
The third kiss happened on a case, but without relevance to it.
The third kiss was a moment that John saw something real in Sherlock’s mask-of-the-day, a flaw in his usually perfect characterization. A weakness, a mistake. It was vulnerable, it was spontaneous and it hurt. John had been angry, he admitted, but even that was no excuse for saying that. He saw Sherlock’s eyes harden like they had when he’d first stepped out into the pool, a jacketful of explosives strapped to him. Betrayal. Mycroft was right about you. He hadn’t said about what. He hadn’t needed to. Sherlock knew just as much as him. Christ, he’d probably heard it more than he ever deserved. And it had been over his latest girlfriend--because Sherlock would never understand why John had girlfriends. Could never understand why he needed anyone else.
Right.
The third kiss was proof that perhaps Sherlock did know why John would need anybody else, and a painful piece of proof it was. He’d been hurt before, and John had never asked, never cared to. It made him realize just how little he really knew about this man who counted him as his only friend.
The third kiss left him ashamed where he had been angry. It made him wonder about what it meant that he was in Sherlock’s life, as opposed to just Sherlock being in his. It made his reassess the relationship he had forged with this exceptional individual, and the benefits that it had given both of them. Because all of a sudden he was frightened to lose it.
“Sherlock.”
A pause.
“Sherlock, I’m sorry.”
A pause, but with a slight hint that he was listening.
“I didn’t mean...I mean, I didn’t know...No. That’s not what I mean. I mean I’m sorry. Mycroft wasn’t right. That is, I don’t know that he’s right because I just don’t know. About whatever it is. At all.” A pause. “I’d like to. If you’d like to tell me. Because I am your friend. And if you need to...”
“That’s quite enough of that John.”
“I mean it Sherlock. If you need someone--”
“You seem to be confusing me with someone who requires a therapist because they are not in a condition to deal with what goes on inside their own minds. I am perfectly in control, unlike some who cannot even convince themselves that they remember how to walk.” Sharp, and deliberately hurtful.
It stung, but John decided to keep his silence as he left, resigning that Sherlock did not want to talk about certain things.
***
The fourth kiss was a peace offering, and quickly followed the third (comparatively).
The fourth kiss was not for a case, but rather, when Sherlock finally returned from it.
The fourth kiss was bestowed upon John from behind, as he sat in his armchair reading his emails, and he felt the brush of woolen fibers (of a particular blue scarf) across the back of his shoulder. He hadn’t said anything, merely relieved that he was home and chose not to hold a grudge for what he’d said earlier. He wouldn’t mind an apology for what Sherlock had ended up saying, but perhaps the nearness was enough for the moment. The fiber texture had increased in sensation as Sherlock leaned down and pressed his nose into the crook of John’s neck.
Right.
The fourth kiss could technically be called a nuzzle--much like what cats do upon owner’s arrival at home. The marking of territory overtop of outdoor smells. The reclaiming of partnership. Or...something instinctual like that. John wasn’t sure if that was reaching for an explanation, bust he didn’t want to look too closely into it, especially because it did the strangest thing to his abdominal muscles.
The fourth kiss left him feeling strangely stirred and frustratingly confused. He couldn’t figure out what Sherlock’s intention of it was, and fretted (possibly too hard) over it’s meaning.
“So...are we alright then?”
Another snuffle in reply. Another wave of not-quite-sure rippled through John’s abdomen.
“Sherlock...?”
“Please don’t let anything I ever say make you leave John.”
“Wha--why would I leave?”
“Because I am uncomfortable with having to deal with emotional responses that you, as a naturally social creature, expect and are accustomed to.”
A pause.
“That’s probably as close to an apology that I’ll get, right?” A laugh. “Right. Don’t worry about it. I’m sorry too. I mean it. I shouldn’t have said that. Not then.”
“Redundant. You’ve already apologized.” Still muffled by John’s neck.
“Not redundant. You didn’t accept it.”
Another pause.
“Fine. Accepted. What a silly tradition. Needing someone else’s acceptance.”
“I accepted your apology too...just for the record.” Another laugh.
“Yes. You did. Thank you.”
John let Sherlock nuzzle his nose into his neck and he didn't’t question why he liked it so much.
***
The fifth kiss was an occasion: and a challenge to rise to it.
The fifth kiss was not for a case, but at home, in pajamas and dressing gown.
The fifth kiss was an open invitation, a surrender and a gamble all rolled into one. John had been in the kitchen, thinking Sherlock to be on the sofa, as he usually was when in his dressing gown, and Supertramp’s Give a Little Bit came on the radio as he made breakfast. He’d always lip sync to his spatula. Especially when he thought no one was looking and now was no different. He even mimed a few smacks towards the oven’s rear end as he watched his eggs cook over-easy. But then he’d turned and Sherlock had been in the doorway, draped in that dressing gown of his, watching him so intently it had startled him.
Right.
The fifth kiss had begun with a pause between them: John worried about looking foolish, and Sherlock worried he might make a fool of himself; and had ended with John letting the eggs cook far too long for over easy. Sherlock had advanced, slowly--giving John plenty of time to leg it had he wanted to--and had stopped less than a foot away, seeming to marvel in their height difference, enjoying making John tilt his head back to look him in the eye.
The fifth kiss left John with no room for argument: Sherlock wanted him. Wanted him. And didn’t want to share. From the fingers that guided as well as stroked along the back of his neck to the tongue that seemed so greedy after so shyly licking along his bottom lip, John felt tested. And the look in Sherlock’s eyes as he pulled back were filled with awe and wonder, much to his surprise. His mouth was still open, mostly from surprise, but it also made him incapable of speaking.
“John.”
“...”
“John, look at me.”
A pause and a look.
“I am not often wrong. So I want you to make sure you pay close attention, as I would not like to repeat it. When we met. When I said I was married to my work. Or at least considered myself...for ease’s sake. I...I had not fully considered what it might mean. Not to be.”
He must have looked confused, because Sherlock hastily added:
“That is to say I find you rather intriguing Doctor Watson. Quite enough to consider attaching oneself to for a sustained period of time. And I find myself thinking...that I would very much like to know more of you.” A hand snuck behind John, pulling inwards at his waist and forcing them closer together.
“Sherl--”
“I was wrong, John. I thought I would never want to try again. And if it means that you won’t ever reciprocate it, I would like you to know. Because...I think it matters. It should matter...right?” He sounded so unsure, so vulnerable. John finally found his voice.
“Sherlock...” He started, bewildered. “It...it matters. You care, and that’s alright. It’s fine. It’s all fine.”
Confidence trickled slowly into that cat-like stare.
“So...perhaps. I may know more of you, John?”
A pause, full of consequence.
***
Five kisses led up to this.
Five simple kisses and John was staring into Sherlock Holmes’ eyes like he was trying to read the stars in them.
Five kisses and John decided that this man--this brilliant, temperamental, fragile man--needed him just as much as he needed Sherlock. Five kisses had let him close enough to ask for everything, and to give everything he could. To trust and be trusted. To risk everything to be loved.
“Sherlock, I want to know everything.”
Was the correct answer, apparently.
The sixth, seventh and eight kisses blended together--fueled by the bright spark that had ignited in Sherlock’s eyes at John’s words--with a slide of lips and tongue that shouldn’t have felt as sexy as it did. It was messy kissing, to be honest, but about when John realized that Sherlock was sucking and biting at his earlobe that he realized he rather liked messy kissing with Sherlock; and around the time when he realized Sherlock had his hand up his jumper to tweak his nipples was about the time he realized he very much wanted to know how Sherlock was in bed.
“If we don’t move this upstairs right now, I’ll never forgive you Sherlock.” The kitchen counters were hardly ideal for this type of activity. Filled with glass tubes and jars of potentially hazardous fluids and substances. On second thought, that rather ruled out Sherlock’s bedroom as well. “My room. Now.” He growled the order, and to his delight, Sherlock obeyed, giving a final playful bite to John’s bottom lip before dragging and pushing John up to his bedroom. His mouth was everywhere as they moved, and John barely missed the cream jumper as it lifted over his head to be discarded even before they reached the staircase.
Their shirts and John’s belt has disappeared on the stairs, John nearly tripping over the loose cuffs of his trousers on the landing as Sherlock had pushed his hands down the back of his pants. His hands cupped John’s arse and squeezed, as if he was staking a claim.
“God, Sherlock...” He panted after being bodily heaved to his bed, taking a moment to try to catch his breath and realize that Sherlock was just as undressed and showing an erection.
“I’d much prefer if you left him out of it.” Sherlock’s gaze never left his as he unbuckled his belt and unbuttoned his trousers. His expression was hungry and awestruck all at once.
“Hm. Vanity would have me call out your name, is that it?” John teased, but felt his cock twitch as Sherlock dropped his pants along with his trousers, his arousal bobbing as he moved closer.
“Precisely.” Sherlock teased back, straddling John’s legs as he crawled over him. “Because you say my name differently every time you say it. It’s quite extraordinary, and I thought I had heard every variation...” His grey-blue eyes focussed on John’s blonde fringe, and gentle fingers traced his hairline, causing John to suppress a shiver. “But I have never heard you say my name while in the throes on passion, John Watson, and I would very much like to.”
John had never actually whimpered at anything someone had said. Until just then. Sherlock’s breath had ghosted down his neck and chest, and his weight had shifted off the bed as he slid to kneel on the floor after making his way down John’s torso with suckling kisses. His chin pressed at John’s open fly, gave just enough pressure for him to press his hips up towards.
“Ah, Sherlock... that’s...that’s just not fair.”
“Not fair?” Sherlock chuckled, his deep voice sending vibrations through his chest into John’s thighs. He twitched again. “I believe it would only be unfair if I did not intend to follow through with the action that this...” He demonstrated with a soft nuzzle at John’s cock through his trousers. “Would imply.”
John made the mistake of looking down at Sherlock’s face.
It would seem that Sherlock Holmes had rather sinful features from this particular angle. John groaned and dropped a hand over his eyes.
“Oh fuck.” He managed as Sherlock pulled his trousers off, and settled between his thighs...as one does, apparently. His cock twitched again as Sherlock blew a thin stream of air against the wet spot of his pants. His hips lifted off for a moment, his muscles tense and drawn tight. Anticipating. Waiting.
“John. Look at me.”
With a whine and some very controlled breathing, John managed to.
Sherlock looked far too serious, suddenly.
“You do want this...?”
A pause.
“Fuck, Sherlock. Yes. If that isn’t obvious to you, you are clearly an idiot. You fascinating, brilliant, utterly stupid and beautiful man. Bloody hell. Please...please suck me. Please. Christ.”
And Sherlock filed that away in the “John” room of his mind-palace before he allowed the confident smirk to wrap around John’s cock.
It was like he could read what John wanted before John knew he wanted it. It was possibly the best blowjob he’d ever had. In fact, it was so good, he started to doubt he’d ever had a blowjob before this one.
Sherlock’s mouth was quick and clever--as it was when it was talking--but the curve of that cupid’s-bow as it stretched around the circumference of John’s cock was hyperbolically perfect. Sherlock’s cheeks were hollowed, which gave more dramatic angle to his cheekbones, which gave the wicked glint in his eyes every time John had the courage to look down much more substance: oh, he could devour him whole if John let him.
John groaned and rested a hand on top of Sherlock’s head, his fingers twisting around the loose curls. Sherlock then let him guide him, responding to the lift of his hips and the slight pressure of his hand. John couldn’t help but watch as he pushed that wicked mouth down over his erection.
“Jesus...Christ...”
Sherlock pulled up and replaced his mouth with hand.
“Better leave him out of it as well.”
“Fuck Sherlock...I don’t...” John didn’t quite know how to put what he wanted to say.
“Let me make you come John. Really. I would like that more than you could know.”
How was it Sherlock knew what he was asking if he didn’t know himself?
The relevance of the question faded as Sherlock wrapped his lips around him again, his fist curled around the base of his cock as his tongue circled the tip and his cheeks sucked around his shaft with the most delicious pressure.
“Oh...Sherlock...I’m going to...”
The chuckle from Sherlock could have meant ‘well that’s the general idea’ or ‘I know, you idiot,’ but John was too preoccupied with the tight sensation of his balls and the white hot sparks of pleasure that ignited as Sherlock’s other hand smoothed up his thighs to gently fondle them, and the twist of his other wrist and the bump of the head of his erection against the back of Sherlock’s throat and the sliding pressure of his hollowed and those eyes that challenged him to come with his eyes open and looking at him.
And fuck him if he didn’t do just that.
John had never come with his eyes open before, and he caught the look of delighted surprise as Sherlock’s mouth filled with his seed, and spilled past his lips to leak down the shaft of his cock. The high blush on Sherlock’s cheeks as he groaned in reaction to John’s expression, and the disappearance of his second hand to below the line of the bed, clearly looking after himself at this point.
“N...no. No, let me see...” John panted desperately, his abdomen tight and shaking. He had to close his eyes just for a moment. Apparently talking and seeing were not simultaneous activities at the moment.
He opened his eyes to see a slight look of panic flit across Sherlock’s face.
“...Ple...please Sherlock.”
Sherlock’s mouth fell open as he exhaled shakily, his pupils dilating slightly. His jaw tensed, but he pushed himself up to standing, his eyes never leaving John’s gaze, and his hand on his cock.
John watched, and Sherlock watched John watch, and his breaths came ragged and rapid as his strokes accelerated, and John watched Sherlock’s orgasm ripple across his face as it spilled across his thigh.
Sherlock’s knees threatened to buckle, but it wasn’t until John reached out that Sherlock allowed himself down to the bed. He laid, panting, next to John.
“Sherlock...”
“Mmm.”
“I think I was wrong too.”
“You’re often wrong John.”
John swatted Sherlock, who snorted softly in reply.
“Oh I do apologize. On which occasion were you wrong, John?”
“It’s not funny now. You’ve ruined it.”
“I would not likely have laughed anyway, if it makes you feel better. It will appear to be just as funny as if I hadn’t ruined it.”
“Sherlock.”
“Please John.” Sherlock looked over, his curls seemed to like the pattern of John’s sheets and displayed themselves rather prettily across their surface. “Do tell your hilarious joke.”
“You’re a brat, you know?” John sighed. “I was just thinking. I guess I should stop making a fuss about people assuming we’re a couple now, right?”
“Ah. Yes. Likely.”
Sherlock was wrong though. He did laugh.
title: Five Times to Charm
fandom: BBC Sherlock
pairing: Sherlock/John
rating: NC17 (finally)
length: 3700 words
five-then-one format, first five parts written in loose verse, no spoilers
summary: It took five kisses to get to this point, and John realizes there's no turning back.
The first kiss was not expected.
The first kiss happened in a bar, on a case.
The first kiss was something that John decided he did not want to happen again, necessarily. It was messy and full of show but not of meaning, a clasp of chin and a mash of teeth and gums. It was an unfocussed ordeal; instead, Sherlock’s attention had been on the reaction, watching the mark. Gauging when to strike.
It had taken John by surprise, as well as the mark. He hadn’t known what to do, his hands held aloft by his shoulders, grasping the air for answers. John, that is.
He hadn’t really thought of it before. That is, other than those horrific times where he put his foot in his mouth because obviously Sherlock wasn’t implying that because obviously Sherlock doesn’t think about sex ever because he is married to his work he said so, so it’s true.
Right.
The first kiss was something that John chalked up to being something Sherlock just did because he knew what it would do to someone. Howard Blythe, the mark in this case, had frozen when Sherlock then approached him, instead of shooting him with the silenced 9mm in his jacket pocket. Distract and surprise. A well used tactic. John was bewildered, but even he could see the use in such a thing.
The first kiss left him unworried and unconcerned about where he stood with Sherlock. He was Dr. Watson, an ex army doctor who happened to be the friend of Sherlock Holmes, the world’s only consulting detective. He supposed that kissing was at least less dangerous than some of the things that he and Sherlock did, and left it at that.
“You’re lucky.”
“I don’t believe in luck John.”
“No, I mean, that you figured out how to mess him up. I mean, how could you know he’d react like that?”
A pause.
“Isn’t it obvious John? Clearly homophobic. Look at where he lives. Where he frequents. Half the bar in there didn’t know what to do.”
“He could have shot you for it if he was...homophobic that is.”
“A moral dilemma always gets in the way of a resolute decision. He had to reassess, since now I was more than just a threat to expose him. You should always use what someone fears the most.”
“Even if that fear is sticking you tongue down someone else’s throat?”
That earned John a smile, and what looked like a reappraisal.
“Indeed John.” Sherlock chuckled shortly. “Quite.”
***
The second kiss was a repeated accident.
The second kiss was for a case again, but this time, Sherlock didn’t necessarily initiate it.
The second kiss was an awkward, brief affair, where lips meant accidentally and was full of ‘well I should I tilt or--oh’s and ‘pull back because our noses squashed’s and ‘dear god, how would they have managed this.’ It was also when Sherlock was suspended upside down from the ceiling of 221b Baker Street by an elaborate harness meant to reproduce the angle of which someone claimed to have been able to hold someone out of a window for while being held hostage by a case defendant--three hours seemed an inordinately long period of time for adrenaline to continue to be a factor. Sherlock’s arms were wrapped around John, having finally found an equilibrium where his head should rest--nested tightly against John’s, his lips against John’s earlobe and his breath tickling with every exhale.
Right.
The second kiss could hardly be counted, John decided, and focussed on shifting his arms slightly to be able to hold onto Sherlock a little better. They swung with the inertia of the movement. He was rather uncomfortable, he also decided, as he had to hold his feet up to keep them from resting on the floor. Sherlock had to be able to support his entire weight, he claimed.
The second kiss left him unconcerned about their relationship, but concerned about Sherlock’s sanity, and his own as clearly he had been coerced into helping with this so-called “experiment” and had resigned three hours of his day to spend suspended from the ceiling with Sherlock.
“You know, this isn’t what normal people do, Sherlock.”
“Be quiet, unless you want me to drop you.”
“Oh yes, the fall of a staggering four inches will cause me to suffer, I’m sure.”
“You’re interfering with my breathing patterns. Shut up.”
“I don’t know why I agreed to this. I have things to do today, you know.”
“John, I’m quite serious. Either you stop talking or I will be forced to stop you.”
“I’d like to see you try Sherlock.”
Brave words that faltered at the warm chuckle in his ear.
That was why, just under three hours later, John finally put his feet down and then went out to do the shopping.
***
The third kiss was frightening.
The third kiss happened on a case, but without relevance to it.
The third kiss was a moment that John saw something real in Sherlock’s mask-of-the-day, a flaw in his usually perfect characterization. A weakness, a mistake. It was vulnerable, it was spontaneous and it hurt. John had been angry, he admitted, but even that was no excuse for saying that. He saw Sherlock’s eyes harden like they had when he’d first stepped out into the pool, a jacketful of explosives strapped to him. Betrayal. Mycroft was right about you. He hadn’t said about what. He hadn’t needed to. Sherlock knew just as much as him. Christ, he’d probably heard it more than he ever deserved. And it had been over his latest girlfriend--because Sherlock would never understand why John had girlfriends. Could never understand why he needed anyone else.
Right.
The third kiss was proof that perhaps Sherlock did know why John would need anybody else, and a painful piece of proof it was. He’d been hurt before, and John had never asked, never cared to. It made him realize just how little he really knew about this man who counted him as his only friend.
The third kiss left him ashamed where he had been angry. It made him wonder about what it meant that he was in Sherlock’s life, as opposed to just Sherlock being in his. It made his reassess the relationship he had forged with this exceptional individual, and the benefits that it had given both of them. Because all of a sudden he was frightened to lose it.
“Sherlock.”
A pause.
“Sherlock, I’m sorry.”
A pause, but with a slight hint that he was listening.
“I didn’t mean...I mean, I didn’t know...No. That’s not what I mean. I mean I’m sorry. Mycroft wasn’t right. That is, I don’t know that he’s right because I just don’t know. About whatever it is. At all.” A pause. “I’d like to. If you’d like to tell me. Because I am your friend. And if you need to...”
“That’s quite enough of that John.”
“I mean it Sherlock. If you need someone--”
“You seem to be confusing me with someone who requires a therapist because they are not in a condition to deal with what goes on inside their own minds. I am perfectly in control, unlike some who cannot even convince themselves that they remember how to walk.” Sharp, and deliberately hurtful.
It stung, but John decided to keep his silence as he left, resigning that Sherlock did not want to talk about certain things.
***
The fourth kiss was a peace offering, and quickly followed the third (comparatively).
The fourth kiss was not for a case, but rather, when Sherlock finally returned from it.
The fourth kiss was bestowed upon John from behind, as he sat in his armchair reading his emails, and he felt the brush of woolen fibers (of a particular blue scarf) across the back of his shoulder. He hadn’t said anything, merely relieved that he was home and chose not to hold a grudge for what he’d said earlier. He wouldn’t mind an apology for what Sherlock had ended up saying, but perhaps the nearness was enough for the moment. The fiber texture had increased in sensation as Sherlock leaned down and pressed his nose into the crook of John’s neck.
Right.
The fourth kiss could technically be called a nuzzle--much like what cats do upon owner’s arrival at home. The marking of territory overtop of outdoor smells. The reclaiming of partnership. Or...something instinctual like that. John wasn’t sure if that was reaching for an explanation, bust he didn’t want to look too closely into it, especially because it did the strangest thing to his abdominal muscles.
The fourth kiss left him feeling strangely stirred and frustratingly confused. He couldn’t figure out what Sherlock’s intention of it was, and fretted (possibly too hard) over it’s meaning.
“So...are we alright then?”
Another snuffle in reply. Another wave of not-quite-sure rippled through John’s abdomen.
“Sherlock...?”
“Please don’t let anything I ever say make you leave John.”
“Wha--why would I leave?”
“Because I am uncomfortable with having to deal with emotional responses that you, as a naturally social creature, expect and are accustomed to.”
A pause.
“That’s probably as close to an apology that I’ll get, right?” A laugh. “Right. Don’t worry about it. I’m sorry too. I mean it. I shouldn’t have said that. Not then.”
“Redundant. You’ve already apologized.” Still muffled by John’s neck.
“Not redundant. You didn’t accept it.”
Another pause.
“Fine. Accepted. What a silly tradition. Needing someone else’s acceptance.”
“I accepted your apology too...just for the record.” Another laugh.
“Yes. You did. Thank you.”
John let Sherlock nuzzle his nose into his neck and he didn't’t question why he liked it so much.
***
The fifth kiss was an occasion: and a challenge to rise to it.
The fifth kiss was not for a case, but at home, in pajamas and dressing gown.
The fifth kiss was an open invitation, a surrender and a gamble all rolled into one. John had been in the kitchen, thinking Sherlock to be on the sofa, as he usually was when in his dressing gown, and Supertramp’s Give a Little Bit came on the radio as he made breakfast. He’d always lip sync to his spatula. Especially when he thought no one was looking and now was no different. He even mimed a few smacks towards the oven’s rear end as he watched his eggs cook over-easy. But then he’d turned and Sherlock had been in the doorway, draped in that dressing gown of his, watching him so intently it had startled him.
Right.
The fifth kiss had begun with a pause between them: John worried about looking foolish, and Sherlock worried he might make a fool of himself; and had ended with John letting the eggs cook far too long for over easy. Sherlock had advanced, slowly--giving John plenty of time to leg it had he wanted to--and had stopped less than a foot away, seeming to marvel in their height difference, enjoying making John tilt his head back to look him in the eye.
The fifth kiss left John with no room for argument: Sherlock wanted him. Wanted him. And didn’t want to share. From the fingers that guided as well as stroked along the back of his neck to the tongue that seemed so greedy after so shyly licking along his bottom lip, John felt tested. And the look in Sherlock’s eyes as he pulled back were filled with awe and wonder, much to his surprise. His mouth was still open, mostly from surprise, but it also made him incapable of speaking.
“John.”
“...”
“John, look at me.”
A pause and a look.
“I am not often wrong. So I want you to make sure you pay close attention, as I would not like to repeat it. When we met. When I said I was married to my work. Or at least considered myself...for ease’s sake. I...I had not fully considered what it might mean. Not to be.”
He must have looked confused, because Sherlock hastily added:
“That is to say I find you rather intriguing Doctor Watson. Quite enough to consider attaching oneself to for a sustained period of time. And I find myself thinking...that I would very much like to know more of you.” A hand snuck behind John, pulling inwards at his waist and forcing them closer together.
“Sherl--”
“I was wrong, John. I thought I would never want to try again. And if it means that you won’t ever reciprocate it, I would like you to know. Because...I think it matters. It should matter...right?” He sounded so unsure, so vulnerable. John finally found his voice.
“Sherlock...” He started, bewildered. “It...it matters. You care, and that’s alright. It’s fine. It’s all fine.”
Confidence trickled slowly into that cat-like stare.
“So...perhaps. I may know more of you, John?”
A pause, full of consequence.
***
Five kisses led up to this.
Five simple kisses and John was staring into Sherlock Holmes’ eyes like he was trying to read the stars in them.
Five kisses and John decided that this man--this brilliant, temperamental, fragile man--needed him just as much as he needed Sherlock. Five kisses had let him close enough to ask for everything, and to give everything he could. To trust and be trusted. To risk everything to be loved.
“Sherlock, I want to know everything.”
Was the correct answer, apparently.
The sixth, seventh and eight kisses blended together--fueled by the bright spark that had ignited in Sherlock’s eyes at John’s words--with a slide of lips and tongue that shouldn’t have felt as sexy as it did. It was messy kissing, to be honest, but about when John realized that Sherlock was sucking and biting at his earlobe that he realized he rather liked messy kissing with Sherlock; and around the time when he realized Sherlock had his hand up his jumper to tweak his nipples was about the time he realized he very much wanted to know how Sherlock was in bed.
“If we don’t move this upstairs right now, I’ll never forgive you Sherlock.” The kitchen counters were hardly ideal for this type of activity. Filled with glass tubes and jars of potentially hazardous fluids and substances. On second thought, that rather ruled out Sherlock’s bedroom as well. “My room. Now.” He growled the order, and to his delight, Sherlock obeyed, giving a final playful bite to John’s bottom lip before dragging and pushing John up to his bedroom. His mouth was everywhere as they moved, and John barely missed the cream jumper as it lifted over his head to be discarded even before they reached the staircase.
Their shirts and John’s belt has disappeared on the stairs, John nearly tripping over the loose cuffs of his trousers on the landing as Sherlock had pushed his hands down the back of his pants. His hands cupped John’s arse and squeezed, as if he was staking a claim.
“God, Sherlock...” He panted after being bodily heaved to his bed, taking a moment to try to catch his breath and realize that Sherlock was just as undressed and showing an erection.
“I’d much prefer if you left him out of it.” Sherlock’s gaze never left his as he unbuckled his belt and unbuttoned his trousers. His expression was hungry and awestruck all at once.
“Hm. Vanity would have me call out your name, is that it?” John teased, but felt his cock twitch as Sherlock dropped his pants along with his trousers, his arousal bobbing as he moved closer.
“Precisely.” Sherlock teased back, straddling John’s legs as he crawled over him. “Because you say my name differently every time you say it. It’s quite extraordinary, and I thought I had heard every variation...” His grey-blue eyes focussed on John’s blonde fringe, and gentle fingers traced his hairline, causing John to suppress a shiver. “But I have never heard you say my name while in the throes on passion, John Watson, and I would very much like to.”
John had never actually whimpered at anything someone had said. Until just then. Sherlock’s breath had ghosted down his neck and chest, and his weight had shifted off the bed as he slid to kneel on the floor after making his way down John’s torso with suckling kisses. His chin pressed at John’s open fly, gave just enough pressure for him to press his hips up towards.
“Ah, Sherlock... that’s...that’s just not fair.”
“Not fair?” Sherlock chuckled, his deep voice sending vibrations through his chest into John’s thighs. He twitched again. “I believe it would only be unfair if I did not intend to follow through with the action that this...” He demonstrated with a soft nuzzle at John’s cock through his trousers. “Would imply.”
John made the mistake of looking down at Sherlock’s face.
It would seem that Sherlock Holmes had rather sinful features from this particular angle. John groaned and dropped a hand over his eyes.
“Oh fuck.” He managed as Sherlock pulled his trousers off, and settled between his thighs...as one does, apparently. His cock twitched again as Sherlock blew a thin stream of air against the wet spot of his pants. His hips lifted off for a moment, his muscles tense and drawn tight. Anticipating. Waiting.
“John. Look at me.”
With a whine and some very controlled breathing, John managed to.
Sherlock looked far too serious, suddenly.
“You do want this...?”
A pause.
“Fuck, Sherlock. Yes. If that isn’t obvious to you, you are clearly an idiot. You fascinating, brilliant, utterly stupid and beautiful man. Bloody hell. Please...please suck me. Please. Christ.”
And Sherlock filed that away in the “John” room of his mind-palace before he allowed the confident smirk to wrap around John’s cock.
It was like he could read what John wanted before John knew he wanted it. It was possibly the best blowjob he’d ever had. In fact, it was so good, he started to doubt he’d ever had a blowjob before this one.
Sherlock’s mouth was quick and clever--as it was when it was talking--but the curve of that cupid’s-bow as it stretched around the circumference of John’s cock was hyperbolically perfect. Sherlock’s cheeks were hollowed, which gave more dramatic angle to his cheekbones, which gave the wicked glint in his eyes every time John had the courage to look down much more substance: oh, he could devour him whole if John let him.
John groaned and rested a hand on top of Sherlock’s head, his fingers twisting around the loose curls. Sherlock then let him guide him, responding to the lift of his hips and the slight pressure of his hand. John couldn’t help but watch as he pushed that wicked mouth down over his erection.
“Jesus...Christ...”
Sherlock pulled up and replaced his mouth with hand.
“Better leave him out of it as well.”
“Fuck Sherlock...I don’t...” John didn’t quite know how to put what he wanted to say.
“Let me make you come John. Really. I would like that more than you could know.”
How was it Sherlock knew what he was asking if he didn’t know himself?
The relevance of the question faded as Sherlock wrapped his lips around him again, his fist curled around the base of his cock as his tongue circled the tip and his cheeks sucked around his shaft with the most delicious pressure.
“Oh...Sherlock...I’m going to...”
The chuckle from Sherlock could have meant ‘well that’s the general idea’ or ‘I know, you idiot,’ but John was too preoccupied with the tight sensation of his balls and the white hot sparks of pleasure that ignited as Sherlock’s other hand smoothed up his thighs to gently fondle them, and the twist of his other wrist and the bump of the head of his erection against the back of Sherlock’s throat and the sliding pressure of his hollowed and those eyes that challenged him to come with his eyes open and looking at him.
And fuck him if he didn’t do just that.
John had never come with his eyes open before, and he caught the look of delighted surprise as Sherlock’s mouth filled with his seed, and spilled past his lips to leak down the shaft of his cock. The high blush on Sherlock’s cheeks as he groaned in reaction to John’s expression, and the disappearance of his second hand to below the line of the bed, clearly looking after himself at this point.
“N...no. No, let me see...” John panted desperately, his abdomen tight and shaking. He had to close his eyes just for a moment. Apparently talking and seeing were not simultaneous activities at the moment.
He opened his eyes to see a slight look of panic flit across Sherlock’s face.
“...Ple...please Sherlock.”
Sherlock’s mouth fell open as he exhaled shakily, his pupils dilating slightly. His jaw tensed, but he pushed himself up to standing, his eyes never leaving John’s gaze, and his hand on his cock.
John watched, and Sherlock watched John watch, and his breaths came ragged and rapid as his strokes accelerated, and John watched Sherlock’s orgasm ripple across his face as it spilled across his thigh.
Sherlock’s knees threatened to buckle, but it wasn’t until John reached out that Sherlock allowed himself down to the bed. He laid, panting, next to John.
“Sherlock...”
“Mmm.”
“I think I was wrong too.”
“You’re often wrong John.”
John swatted Sherlock, who snorted softly in reply.
“Oh I do apologize. On which occasion were you wrong, John?”
“It’s not funny now. You’ve ruined it.”
“I would not likely have laughed anyway, if it makes you feel better. It will appear to be just as funny as if I hadn’t ruined it.”
“Sherlock.”
“Please John.” Sherlock looked over, his curls seemed to like the pattern of John’s sheets and displayed themselves rather prettily across their surface. “Do tell your hilarious joke.”
“You’re a brat, you know?” John sighed. “I was just thinking. I guess I should stop making a fuss about people assuming we’re a couple now, right?”
“Ah. Yes. Likely.”
Sherlock was wrong though. He did laugh.