Fic: Only If For A Night
Title: Only If For A Night
Rating: NC-17.
Fandoms: Sherlock.
Pairing(s): Sherlock/John.
Word Count: 1160.
Warnings: Sex, barebacking, angst.
Summary: There was a warm body wrapped around him. He must be imagining it, still dreaming, struggling for clarity in his thoughts. After all, he lived alone now.
Note: Set after "The Reichenbach Fall." I meant to write cutesy cuddling fic...but then, this happened. The title is a Florence + the Machine song: “but you came over me like some holy rite/and although I was burning/you’re the only light/only if for a night”
[ ao3 ]
~
John's eyes were closed, on the brink of waking and starting another day he wished wouldn’t come.
But…there was a warm body wrapped around him. He must be imagining it, still dreaming, struggling for clarity in his thoughts.
After all, he lived alone now.
So alone.
Even as he reminded himself of this, he couldn’t help indulging in the fantasy his mind provided, and his fingers curled, tangling in soft locks of wavy hair, brushing through it. He let himself doze a bit longer, imagining he wasn’t so alone, the image forming in his tired mind of his best friend’s smile--indecent as it often was, with those blue eyes positively glowing in excitement.
His lips formed a corresponding grin, thumb slipping gracefully down Sherlock’s pale neck.
Then, he remembered.
Sherlock’s call, his goodbye, his jump.
The unwanted memories flashed through his mind and his hands formed fists before going lax, knees pulling upwards in some instinct one develops to make oneself smaller, hidden, protected from the outside world--the real world.
His knee bumped something solid and warm in its journey and he finally, carefully, regretfully, opened his eyes.
Short, dark, curls rested on the pillow beside him, sharp, clear eyes looking at him, examining him. His pink lips part and John closes his eyes again, unsure if he had ever actually opened them.
When he chances another look, that same face is staring back at him. “Sherlock,” he tries to whisper, but the sound comes out choked and incomplete.
John’s not aware of the tears coming, although he can dimly feel the wetness on his cheeks, as hid hand grips Sherlock’s shoulder hard, wondering why it doesn’t go through him. He can’t stop staring at that face, the one he thought he’d never see again.
There hasn’t yet been a sound from the other man, but then, there it is, the softest murmur of, “John.” He’s moving closer now and Sherlock’s eyes flutter closed as he presses a kiss to John’s mouth.
John tries hard not to shut his eyes, to not lose this again, but he can’t help the ease at which his body disobeys. His hands cupping Sherlock’s face as it shifts from beside him to above. He feels more movement around him, but Sherlock’s tongue is licking its way into his mouth and he loses himself in the moment.
Sherlock tries to pull away, but John is resistant, refusing to stop kissing him, devouring him as if he knows he only has a moment before it all goes away again.
When he relents, he sees the shine of tears around the other man’s eyes, his hands slipping down to his chest.
Sherlock is naked now. John’s sure he hadn’t been before, had felt the fabric over the bone in his shoulder.
More importantly, there are fingers slipping gently under his waistband and tugging insistently, feels instantly as the air touches his freed cock. “Ah-- Sherlock--”
“Please, John.” These are words he’d only ever imagined Sherlock saying, knew could only exist in his fantasies, but there they were.
Sherlock was pulling him close, twisting them around so John ended up on top of him, a knee between his legs, pushing his shirt up so that their skin could press against each other. The sheets tangled about John’s waist, uncovering a wide expanse of moon pale flesh. Then, the man’s hand slipped down between them, fingers shining, and John held his breath as those long, slender digits worked themselves into Sherlock’s body, sliding and stretching.
Sherlock’s eyes were fixed on him though, teeth biting into his bottom lip as he lifted his hips, working himself open. “Sherlock.”
The detective leaned upwards, straining himself to reach John’s lips with his own, leaving teasing, barely there kisses, easing John down to cover him completely--or, as completely as someone of John’s size could with Sherlock’s height.
Sherlock breathed out deeply, removing his fingers and wrapping his leg around the back of John’s, pulling him close. “John, I miss you. I need you.”
A shudder ran through John’s body, desire flushing through him. “Sherlock, how--” He was silenced by another kiss and the insistence of his friend’s hips and leg, cock rubbing against his hole. He found himself giving in, slowly pushing into tight heat, Sherlock trembling beneath him.
That surprised him. Even in his fantasies, John had never once imagined the great Sherlock Holmes to be anything but sure and demanding…but there it was again, as he thrust back in, that tremor coursing through the body beneath him, a whimper as Sherlock’s lip goes white between his teeth as he does his best to remain quiet.
John rocks his hips, staring down at what he couldn’t believe was truly there.
It felt real though.
He shifted and pushed in again, bumping against Sherlock’s prostate, fingers clutching his back and sides, curling around him, digging short nails in, scratching at his skin, harder and more painfully as he did it again.
John slid his hand down between them and grasped Sherlock’s cock, the skin soft around his hard length. He marveled in the feel for a second before gripping it tightly, stroking it in time with his thrusts. He lost his rhythm as Sherlock’s mouth opened, lips swollen and red, parted and gasping, undignified noises slipping out.
What caused John to lose control was that breathy expression, that prayer like whisper of his name from Sherlock’s lips, reverent and worshipful.
John’s hips sped up without thought, trying to hit that spot inside of Sherlock with every movement of his body. Those noises, they weren’t just coming from the other man, John realized.
He was close, could feel the tightening in his belly down to his groin, “Sherlock, I--”
The other man’s arms wrapped around his neck, kissing him fervently, cutting him off as his orgasm overtook him, spilling himself deep inside Sherlock’s body as Sherlock’s own left sticky wetness between them.
John rested his forehead on Sherlock’s, “Sherlock…you don’t know much I-- I missed you. How are you here?” He pulled his head back, arms slipping loosely from his neck, so he could look into Sherlock’s eyes.
Sherlock’s gaze, however, was focused past him.
John slipped out of him and Sherlock didn’t move.
“Sherlock?”
“Go back to sleep, John.”
“No, I…” Yet, he was yawning, straining to keep his eyes open. “Did you drug me?” His eyes slipped closed. “Sherlock…”
~
The light falling around the room was enough to stir John and he slowly blinked open his eyes. He had… Sherlock had…
There was no one. Nothing. Not a sign. He felt his stomach and chest, his hands--all clean.
Could it have really been a dream? Some trick of his imagination to cope with his loss--to pretend he wasn’t alone?
Then, he saw it: a single strand of dark, curled hair resting on his pillow.
No one would ever believe him.
He didn’t believe himself.
Rating: NC-17.
Fandoms: Sherlock.
Pairing(s): Sherlock/John.
Word Count: 1160.
Warnings: Sex, barebacking, angst.
Summary: There was a warm body wrapped around him. He must be imagining it, still dreaming, struggling for clarity in his thoughts. After all, he lived alone now.
Note: Set after "The Reichenbach Fall." I meant to write cutesy cuddling fic...but then, this happened. The title is a Florence + the Machine song: “but you came over me like some holy rite/and although I was burning/you’re the only light/only if for a night”
[ ao3 ]
~
John's eyes were closed, on the brink of waking and starting another day he wished wouldn’t come.
But…there was a warm body wrapped around him. He must be imagining it, still dreaming, struggling for clarity in his thoughts.
After all, he lived alone now.
So alone.
Even as he reminded himself of this, he couldn’t help indulging in the fantasy his mind provided, and his fingers curled, tangling in soft locks of wavy hair, brushing through it. He let himself doze a bit longer, imagining he wasn’t so alone, the image forming in his tired mind of his best friend’s smile--indecent as it often was, with those blue eyes positively glowing in excitement.
His lips formed a corresponding grin, thumb slipping gracefully down Sherlock’s pale neck.
Then, he remembered.
Sherlock’s call, his goodbye, his jump.
The unwanted memories flashed through his mind and his hands formed fists before going lax, knees pulling upwards in some instinct one develops to make oneself smaller, hidden, protected from the outside world--the real world.
His knee bumped something solid and warm in its journey and he finally, carefully, regretfully, opened his eyes.
Short, dark, curls rested on the pillow beside him, sharp, clear eyes looking at him, examining him. His pink lips part and John closes his eyes again, unsure if he had ever actually opened them.
When he chances another look, that same face is staring back at him. “Sherlock,” he tries to whisper, but the sound comes out choked and incomplete.
John’s not aware of the tears coming, although he can dimly feel the wetness on his cheeks, as hid hand grips Sherlock’s shoulder hard, wondering why it doesn’t go through him. He can’t stop staring at that face, the one he thought he’d never see again.
There hasn’t yet been a sound from the other man, but then, there it is, the softest murmur of, “John.” He’s moving closer now and Sherlock’s eyes flutter closed as he presses a kiss to John’s mouth.
John tries hard not to shut his eyes, to not lose this again, but he can’t help the ease at which his body disobeys. His hands cupping Sherlock’s face as it shifts from beside him to above. He feels more movement around him, but Sherlock’s tongue is licking its way into his mouth and he loses himself in the moment.
Sherlock tries to pull away, but John is resistant, refusing to stop kissing him, devouring him as if he knows he only has a moment before it all goes away again.
When he relents, he sees the shine of tears around the other man’s eyes, his hands slipping down to his chest.
Sherlock is naked now. John’s sure he hadn’t been before, had felt the fabric over the bone in his shoulder.
More importantly, there are fingers slipping gently under his waistband and tugging insistently, feels instantly as the air touches his freed cock. “Ah-- Sherlock--”
“Please, John.” These are words he’d only ever imagined Sherlock saying, knew could only exist in his fantasies, but there they were.
Sherlock was pulling him close, twisting them around so John ended up on top of him, a knee between his legs, pushing his shirt up so that their skin could press against each other. The sheets tangled about John’s waist, uncovering a wide expanse of moon pale flesh. Then, the man’s hand slipped down between them, fingers shining, and John held his breath as those long, slender digits worked themselves into Sherlock’s body, sliding and stretching.
Sherlock’s eyes were fixed on him though, teeth biting into his bottom lip as he lifted his hips, working himself open. “Sherlock.”
The detective leaned upwards, straining himself to reach John’s lips with his own, leaving teasing, barely there kisses, easing John down to cover him completely--or, as completely as someone of John’s size could with Sherlock’s height.
Sherlock breathed out deeply, removing his fingers and wrapping his leg around the back of John’s, pulling him close. “John, I miss you. I need you.”
A shudder ran through John’s body, desire flushing through him. “Sherlock, how--” He was silenced by another kiss and the insistence of his friend’s hips and leg, cock rubbing against his hole. He found himself giving in, slowly pushing into tight heat, Sherlock trembling beneath him.
That surprised him. Even in his fantasies, John had never once imagined the great Sherlock Holmes to be anything but sure and demanding…but there it was again, as he thrust back in, that tremor coursing through the body beneath him, a whimper as Sherlock’s lip goes white between his teeth as he does his best to remain quiet.
John rocks his hips, staring down at what he couldn’t believe was truly there.
It felt real though.
He shifted and pushed in again, bumping against Sherlock’s prostate, fingers clutching his back and sides, curling around him, digging short nails in, scratching at his skin, harder and more painfully as he did it again.
John slid his hand down between them and grasped Sherlock’s cock, the skin soft around his hard length. He marveled in the feel for a second before gripping it tightly, stroking it in time with his thrusts. He lost his rhythm as Sherlock’s mouth opened, lips swollen and red, parted and gasping, undignified noises slipping out.
What caused John to lose control was that breathy expression, that prayer like whisper of his name from Sherlock’s lips, reverent and worshipful.
John’s hips sped up without thought, trying to hit that spot inside of Sherlock with every movement of his body. Those noises, they weren’t just coming from the other man, John realized.
He was close, could feel the tightening in his belly down to his groin, “Sherlock, I--”
The other man’s arms wrapped around his neck, kissing him fervently, cutting him off as his orgasm overtook him, spilling himself deep inside Sherlock’s body as Sherlock’s own left sticky wetness between them.
John rested his forehead on Sherlock’s, “Sherlock…you don’t know much I-- I missed you. How are you here?” He pulled his head back, arms slipping loosely from his neck, so he could look into Sherlock’s eyes.
Sherlock’s gaze, however, was focused past him.
John slipped out of him and Sherlock didn’t move.
“Sherlock?”
“Go back to sleep, John.”
“No, I…” Yet, he was yawning, straining to keep his eyes open. “Did you drug me?” His eyes slipped closed. “Sherlock…”
~
The light falling around the room was enough to stir John and he slowly blinked open his eyes. He had… Sherlock had…
There was no one. Nothing. Not a sign. He felt his stomach and chest, his hands--all clean.
Could it have really been a dream? Some trick of his imagination to cope with his loss--to pretend he wasn’t alone?
Then, he saw it: a single strand of dark, curled hair resting on his pillow.
No one would ever believe him.
He didn’t believe himself.