Fic: Whispered Admiration
AUTHOR: bloodism
TITLE: Whispered Admiration
FANDOM: Sherlock BBC
RATING: NC-17 (Mature)
PAIRING: Sherlock/John
WORD COUNT: 3212
Fill for this prompt.
Sherlock and John are pressed together in the most compromising position, in a closet, whilst hiding from criminals. John should be scared, but it's hard to be when your mouth is only a few inches away from your infuriatingly captivating flatmate...
Heavy footsteps; the patter of shoes hitting wet concrete; the shimmer of rain in the blur of the yellow streetlight; gasping, weighted breaths heady and smoky in the chilly air - they were running.
Sherlock’s coat flapped behind him like a cape and John, despite the situation, found this amusing. Heroes don’t exist and if they did, I wouldn’t be one of them. Did he know how much like a superhero he looked now?
The piercing lamps cast distorted, bright flashes of light across Sherlock’s pale face, illuminating every dip and plane of smooth skin. The image was torn away as Sherlock threw himself round the corner. John swung after him, his feet slapping through a puddle.
“Hurry, John!” Sherlock yelled over his shoulder, easily sliding between two parked cars. John smiled and sped after him, adrenaline zipping its way through his body. A cold sweat was beginning to form at the base of his neck and his cheeks hurt from the cold, but it was all worth it. They continued to run, slowing only when they began to approach an unpleasant back alley. They entered and John leant against a damp wall beside Sherlock before peering around the corner. He snapped back into position seconds after.
“He’s there. The two of them, they’re there.” He said breathlessly, his chest moving up and down rapidly. Sherlock nodded in acknowledgement, readjusting his coat as he slowly regained his breath.
“Are you ready?” He asked John, a challenging smirk spreading over his frost-bitten cheeks. John opened his mouth to respond. Ready for what? Ready to-
“Sherlock!”
Sherlock gallantly walked out of the entrance to the alleyway, hands in the pockets of his long coat. John stared after him, bug-eyed. Was he trying to get himself killed?
“Sherlock!” He hissed after him, though he was much too far to hear his protests now. Sherlock had approached the two men and was now holding out his hand for them to shake. They didn’t take it.
John’s adrenaline became a blend of fear and worry. An unreciprocated handshake was not a good sign. And neither was the stiffening of Sherlock’s neck. The way Sherlock was now running towards him was definitely bad news.
“Time to go, John,” he quipped as he sprinted past the alleyway. John was rooted to the spot for a few hesitant seconds, his eyes darting towards the two men who had begun to run and between Sherlock’s departing form. With a defeated sigh and a roll of his eyes, he flipped around the corner to run after Sherlock.
But he was gone. John momentarily slowed, but multiple footsteps behind him sent him running again. More than a pair of footsteps - there wasn’t just two of them.
He looked over his shoulder, eyes widening. There were definitely more than two men following him now. He clenched his jaw and increased his speed, pounding the cobblestone beneath his feet harder and harder. Rain began to patter onto his nose.
Oh, great.
“Hey!”
The men were obviously gaining on him - he could hear their incoherent chatter and louder footsteps. John was more than a little unnerved now. He began to search for anything - anywhere he could hide. Then he spotted it. An open door.
He leaped into it and his shoulders visibly sunk as he let out a sigh. He was safe.
He was yanked out of his recovering stupor by a cold hand that covered his mouth and an arm that wrapped itself tightly around his chest. He squirmed as he was pulled backwards into a tight, enclosed closet that was covered with a slip of material.
“John, it’s me. Stop moving.”
He could have collapsed with relief. He flipped around to give Sherlock a lecture on how they were supposed to stick together, when he was pushed to the wall behind him. Sherlock stepped in close - was he trying to morph with John? - and pressed the tips of his fingers into the wall beside John’s head.
John sucked in a breath and squeezed himself as close to the wall as possible and as far away from Sherlock.
“Sherlock, what are you-“
“Shut up, John.”
John opened his mouth, bristling at Sherlock’s rudeness, but the words dissolved on his tongue. There were voices.
They were coming in.
John stared up at Sherlock with panicked eyes and both of their expressions fell vacant as they listened.
“They must’ve come in ‘ere.”
“Hey, boss, should we just leave it?”
“No! That Sherlock Holmes will destroy us, you fucking idiot. He knows.”
John lifted his distracted eyes back to Sherlock. The cold chill that had previously been wrapped around John had now gone. Replacing it quickly was the strange warmth emanating off of Sherlock. How was it that he was so warm when it was so cold outside? It was… strange. John felt safe. It was almost like Sherlock was providing him with a shield that dissipated all of his nerves.
Sherlock’s face was still blank, focused, inattentive. John stared in wonderment at the expression, strangely entranced by the beauty of it. Watching the thoughts flitter behind the distant eyes of a genius was thrilling.
John took advantage of the lack of attention Sherlock was giving him and searched his face.
In the husky light of the cupboard, he could see only a fraction of his pale cheekbone and half of his heart-shaped, light pink lips. His luscious curls were damp at the edges, sticking to parts of his long face. A droplet was trickling down the edge of his jaw - sweat or rain, John couldn’t tell.
His gaze dropped.
Sherlock had gone without his scarf that evening (Mrs Hudson was sewing it up after an overenthusiastic criminal had decided to slash it), so Sherlock’s neck was on show. It was long, sculptured, pasty and dabbled with a cold sweat.
John licked his lips subconsciously and his eyes travelled lower. The top three buttons of Sherlock’s dark blue shirt had unfastened, the fourth half way through its hole. It would only take a nudge and it would fall open, exposing more of that delicious, protruding collarbone…
John froze. His eyes widened after realising that he was admiring Sherlock Holmes. His throat dried when he noticed the way his thoughts were going. He swallowed after seeing that he just wanted.
Nervously, John looked to see if Sherlock had noticed his scrutiny. Their gazes locked.
Oh.
“Hey, should we check in ‘ere?” A voice called out from precariously close. In one quick movement, Sherlock placed his feet on either side of John’s, pushing as close as he could to him. His eyes never left him as he dropped his forearm to the wall, leaning over John with apparent disinterest.
The lack of personal space wasn’t even fazing Sherlock.
John would have found this funny, if he wasn’t rigid with tension - they were seconds away from being found - and temptingly distracting by the collarbones that were now a few inches away from his own dry lips. He needed to dampen them, but in doing so, he was at risk of his tongue connecting with Sherlock’s skin.
You don’t want that, you’re not gay. You’re straight. Straight. Straight…
“Check this out, guys!”
The footsteps pattered away. John let out a breath of relief, his forehead bumping with Sherlock’s jawline. Sherlock shifted slightly, causing the edge of his lips to lightly brush John’s hair. The men were still outside, rustling about in bags, by the sounds of things. John tried to focus on that instead of the gentle, sweet bursts of air tickling his scalp.
“John.”
Oh, God. John felt Sherlock’s voice more than heard. It had vibrated through Sherlock’s chest into his own and had now branched out, sending a badly supressed shiver towards his head and feet.
“John.”
“Hm?” John didn’t trust his voice, so hummed in question, quietly.
“They’re preoccupied. We can slip past them if we’re quick enough...” don’t look at his throat. Don’t do it, John. “…I’m sure you’re more than capable…” Oh, damn it. Sherlock’s Adam’s apple bobbed and danced teasingly as he talked and John couldn’t look away.
The warmth, the closeness, the throat, the breathing, the vibrations, the voice, the scent - God, he smelt divine, how had he not noticed before? - it was too much. John - eyelids drooped, body searing with heat, troubled frown on his brow - leant forwards the last, dangerous few inches and pressed his lips to the hollow of Sherlock’s throat.
The words stopped tumbling from Sherlock’s mouth, but John didn’t notice. He parted his lips and pressed his tongue flat against the skin, inhaling through his nose. He smelt of fresh smoke, dampness and warm ginger. It was… deadly.
John grasped the front of Sherlock’s shirt underneath the flowing coat, tucking his short arms inside it. He wanted more, he needed to be closer, he had to-
His breath hitched as his erection came into contact with Sherlock’s waist. When had that happened?
John half-opened his eyes, watching interestingly as Sherlock swallowed. His Adam’s apple jolted temptingly.
Somewhere, in the dark caverns of his mind, he was aware that he was in a closet, hiding from men that - by the sounds of it - were now leaving. Sherlock was muttering to himself, seemingly oblivious to John, who was nuzzling his throat with his nose. He opened his mouth, hovering over the skin, contemplating whether to stretch down and taste him again.
John licked his lips, his tongue catching only a taster of Sherlock’s skin. John was long gone - the rationality of his mind had crumbled and blown away.
He leant down again.
-
Sherlock narrowed his mind and senses, feeding his ears with absolute attention. He needed to hear. He needed to listen. A name. Give me a name.
“Looks like ole’ Mikey Gates left us a little gift.”
A smirk threatened to spread across his face.
Excellent.
“How much is this worth, boss?”
“Oh, we’ll get a coupla hundred. Gaver it up boys!”
Sherlock allowed the stoppers on his mind to break free, his other senses coming back to him. He looked down at John, who was pressed to his front. He frowned.
John didn’t seem to paying attention to the men outside, which was… uncharacteristic. Nor was he panicking about their predicament. It was…
Sherlock leant closer, narrowing his eyes.
“John,”
John’s eyes seemed to glaze over, the pupils engorging. The chest that was pressed to Sherlock’s pulsed rapidly. Was John ill? His heartbeat was…
“John,” he hissed impatiently. John looked up.
Oh. Oh. What was that? John’s eyes were dark, luminous, heavy.
Sherlock’s ears pricked up as he heard the men rustling through their findings in the other room. They were distracted. Good. He stared distantly at the slip of material separating them from their pursuers, visualising them on the other side.
“They’re preoccupied. We can slip past them if we’re quick enough. We split up - you will go through the back door and I will go through the front. Meet me at the main road. I’m sure you’re more than capable-“ Sherlock found himself cut off. He had, once again, focused all of his attention into listening. So he wasn’t sure what it was that had silenced him. His body was growing warmer, which was peculiar.
“Gaver it up, fasta, ya idiots!”
“Sorry, boss! Ya heard ‘im. Hurry it up!”
They were leaving. They left quicker than I thought. They obviously didn’t see the other stash. Sherlock drew back, regaining his other senses.
And oh, that was why.
Sherlock sucked in a breath as John’s tongue slid along his pulse point. John. What was John doing? How-Why-What-
John’s hands were rigid on his shirt and the warmth spread through the material onto Sherlock’s chest. They pulled Sherlock tighter, closer. He raised his other arm to settle against the wall by John’s head, pushing more skin into John’s direction.
It was nice. Whatever it was that John was doing was… God. Sherlock swallowed and clenched his eyes shut when John lightly nipped at his skin.
“John,” his voice sounded different. Hoarse; needy; begging.
John stiffened underneath him and his mouth lifted off of the skin. His breath blew across the cold, tender piece he had been sucking on. Sherlock trembled and looked down at him, eyes ablaze.
“I-Sherlock?” John was confused. Aroused. Bad combination.
Sherlock said nothing. Just stared. John held his gaze and Sherlock was entranced. Nobody’s eyes were as vibrant, vivid and revealing as John’s were. But he didn’t know. He’d never seen someone look at him how John was now. He needed to be closer - he needed to see.
Sherlock ducked his head lower, his chin colliding with the bridge of John’s nose. Too close. Too out of focus. Now all he could see was black, glistening pools. He was going to draw back so that they would be more open for him, but he was rooted. His breath was no longer his own. John’s breath was mingling, pulling him closer and closer…
His eyes were closing. He didn’t want them to - he had to see what was in John’s eyes he had to…
Their lips touched. Sherlock inhaled sharply through his nose and he echoed John’s troubled frown. It was confusing to him. He didn’t know what he was feeling. He…
His body was leading him. His hands came off of the wall to tightly encase John’s head and he kissed harder. Open mouthed, rushed and hungry, he devoured John, who was scrabbling almost desperately against his coat now. It was violent and Sherlock was filled with an unquenchable thirst. It was transpiring from where their lips were touching and cascaded harshly throughout his entire body. Its final destination was a pool at the bottom of his stomach. And it ached. Oh, it ached. It was empty. And he was thirsty.
He pressed himself closer to John, tilting his flatmates head up to gain deeper access to his mouth. He was running on instincts, he was vacant and his body was controlling. And then John’s tongue licked across his bottom lip. It increased the ebb and the unbearable ache was overflowing.
He was aroused. He wanted John. John wanted him.
Obvious.
He rolled his hips and took advantage of the wanton groan John produced to stick his tongue into his mouth. They fought for dominance, John’s tongue entwining with his. North to South. East to West. Above. Underneath. A low growl stabbed the silence of the closet and it took Sherlock a while to realise it had come from him. The way John’s nifty, quick tongue had stroked across his… impossible.
Sherlock withdrew his hot mouth from John’s, eyes half-lidded and cheeks flushed. John sported a similar look. Their chests were so tightly pressed together, their breaths were in time and they inhaled the oxygen ravenously. The closet was chilled and puffs of grey floated out of their mouths and burst into the warm air.
“Sherlock,” John’s voice was croaky, but stable. “I think we should-oh.”
Sherlock silenced him with a stronger thrust of his hips, their covered erections grinding dangerously together. His hands still encased John’s head, firm and unmoving. Sherlock was uncontrollable now. He wasn’t going to be stopped. He wouldn’t be stopped. He wanted to absorb, taste, devour, ignite every part of John. He would start with the damp, inviting neck that was revealed when he yanked John’s head backwards harshly. His lips were on the skin in seconds and John’s hands were in Sherlock’s curls, pushing and pulling in time with his gasps.
Teeth. Sherlock used his teeth, grazing the pulse point, nibbling the collarbone, marking a freckle. John’s skin was cold, but the droplets of moisture Sherlock was absorbing with fervour meant his body was confused - hot and cold at the same time. How very John.
“Sherlock, we need to talk about this,” John gasped out, fingers digging slightly into Sherlock’s scalp. Sherlock brought his hands away from John’s head, oblivious to the protests, and they found refuge underneath John’s jumper. His skin under there was so warm and the muscles contracted when Sherlock’s cold hand brushed lightly against them.
“You like me, John,” Sherlock whispered huskily against a tender piece of skin. It sent a tremble through John’s body. “There’s nothing more to it.”
-
Did he? Did he like Sherlock? There was no denying lust. But like and even… love?
“There is - ugh - there is,” John screwed his eyes shut in an attempt to block out the absolutely fantastic feeling of Sherlock’s hand crawling further and further upwards until-
He moaned in the back of his throat when Sherlock’s finger brushed his pert nipple.
“No more talking,” Sherlock whispered into the hollow of John’s throat. John’s mind was a blur of questions, lust and confusion. Was this really Sherlock in front of him? It didn’t seem like it. It didn’t seem like it at all.
“Stop thinking.” Sherlock’s order was followed by a gentle nip to John’s skin. John opened his mouth to reply, but the words were replaced with a suction of air and a choked gasp. John’s skin was between Sherlock’s teeth, the pressure both painful and pleasurable. A love bite, the voice in John’s head was breathless, he’s giving me a love bite.
John tilted his head back against the wall and brought his hands to the small of Sherlock’s back. And then he pushed Sherlock closer.
They both moaned as their crotch’s aligned. The abused skin on John’s neck was throbbing and Sherlock was breathing heavily across it.
“Do that again,” he breathed. John swallowed and thrust his hips upwards. Sherlock’s forehead rolled along his shoulder, eyes clenched shut and mouth open and inviting. John brought a hand to Sherlock’s curls, tugged his head back and dove in for another kiss. Hot, passionate, uncontrollably hungry, their lips slid across each other, their tongues teased and entangled themselves.
They parted for breath and John realised with mild embarrassment that he was rubbing himself rhythmically into Sherlock’s thigh, a damp wet spot appearing in the course fabric of his trousers. He stopped and looked up at Sherlock. Their gazes locked, as they had done before.
A thousand words passed between them in the time it took to blink and John stretched forwards to gently capture Sherlock’s hand in his. It was the first show of tenderness since they had kissed and he found it shifted the atmosphere. John blinked and smiled at Sherlock, who seemed lost.
“We’ll finish this at home,” John whispered, his voice catching and deep. The way Sherlock’s expression shifted was captivating - such tiny movements and John could read them all.
Before John could move to push Sherlock away, he found Sherlock’s hand torn from his own and then he was captured inside the detective’s arms. He stood through the hug, arms limp, not knowing how to react.
Sherlock mumbled something into John’s ear. John finally returned the hug.
“What?” John asked, having not heard the first time. Sherlock moved so his soft lips were millimetres away from the shell of his ear and John repressed a shiver. Sherlock placed a gentle kiss to his earlobe before whispering;
“Be mine, John.”