Fic: Counting
Title: Counting
Rating: PG-13.
Genre: ?
Fandoms: Sherlock.
Pairing(s): Sherlock/John.
Word Count: 881.
Warnings: Mentions of sex that one might consider a bit dub con (but not really), mention of past drug use.
Summary: John didn't know how to bring it up.
Note: I don't even know why I wrote this. I'm only posting it here so all my fic is in one place.
~
It had been over a dozen times now.
John had been counting, but it was hard to decide how to-whether by day, by hour, by encounter.
Sherlock never said a word to him about it, which was strange in itself as there seemed to be nothing Sherlock wouldn’t discuss. Perhaps he saw it as too insignificant to be worthy of a conversation. However, there it was.
He’d taken to doing it whenever he came to a temporary standstill in an investigation. John had been attempting to document a case one night when it had first happened. He had protested, but it was difficult when a mouth was smothering his, swift hands undoing his belt and trousers. Of course his body reacted. It wasn’t often someone even touched him, much less fucked him. All he had ended up expressing was a groan and a gasp as Sherlock had impaled himself onto him, riding him on the chair in the sitting room.
It was quick and forceful and unexpected, over only moments after it had begun. Sherlock had immediately tidied himself, stalking out of the room, ideas and conclusions flowing forth.
John didn’t bring it up.
The next time it happened, he was asleep. He felt a weight on top of him and opened his eyes to see his companion up close, only catching a gleam of something he couldn’t quite explain before Sherlock was rutting against him and he was hard. And…it happened again.
John was determined to find out what was going on. He wasn’t quite sure how to mention it. The way Sherlock never said a word made him feel like he had imagined it-perhaps prolonged exposure to Sherlock Holmes did, in fact, lead to madness-but he knew that he hadn’t. He had a bruise on his right hip.
“Sherlock,” he had started, “last night…?” He wasn’t sure where to go with it, assuming the man who observed everything would understand his question without further information.
Sherlock was sat upon the couch, fingers steepled, lips pursed tightly. “Oh, yes, I came to some conclusions about the man we’re looking for, or, rather, woman.” He didn’t even look at Watson, absorbed in his thought process as he continued on.
Dr. John Watson let him get away with not informing him again, if only to avoid his own embarrassment-one that would certainly arise from a discussion with Sherlock Holmes about sex of all things.
The third time, he had been having a most normal breakfast-toast with jam and a cup of tea-when he had ended up on top of the messy table.
The fourth and fifth times blurred together as both occurred on the sofa within an extremely small window of time.
He again tried to speak to Sherlock, limping to the kitchen area in the morning. The sixth incident having taken place while he was brushing his teeth before bed the night before. “What is this that you’re doing? That we’re doing?”
Sherlock simply made a humming noise at him that said he was very busy and that he had no time for irrelevant questions. Which is why, when he had nearly fucked the life out of John a mere hour later, the man had been more vocal in his protest.
“Sherlock-” He was silenced again.
The bath, the floor, his bed again, a few more encounters with the sofa, and one awkward experience in which he had been attempting to descend the stairs later, and John still had no idea what it was. He assumed it to be some quirk-something he’s sure Sherlock saw as necessary, although he wasn’t sure how.
One night, he found Sherlock in his armchair, long legs stretched before him, fingers pressed to his lips as if in prayer.
“So.” Seemed a good a time as any.
“Yes, that.” Sherlock sighed. “If you must know, I’ve given up cocaine. Sex triggers endorphins and I’ve found it helps me think, and occasionally, distracts me when I’m really, truly bored.”
“Right,” John continued, staring at Holmes incredulously. “You didn’t think you might ask me first?”
“No need.” He glanced at Watson’s mouth, which hung open like a gasping fish, “You showed an interest in me. I simply reciprocated.”
“I-when did I-how did I-” John started, searching the room as if it would give him some hint as to how he had shown a desire for Sherlock Holmes.
Sherlock pushed himself up from the chair and approached his companion. “Pupils. Breathing. Heart rate,” he listed, standing what would be extraordinarily close, were Sherlock ordinary.
A breath hitched in John’s throat and he hated himself for it.
“Not to mention the erections.” John flushed. “However, the main reason I came to my-extremely accurate, may I say-conclusion was that I did, in fact, fuck you. Fourteen and a half times.”
The word sounded exceedingly crass coming from the detective’s lips.
“Fourteen-You know what, nevermind.” He grabbed the much taller man’s collar and pushed his lips to Sherlock’s, a chaster kiss than they had yet shared. There was no point in arguing with Sherlock Holmes. John Watson pulled away, a sideways grin appearing on his face, “Well, let’s at least get to a whole number.”
It was only logical.