The Concoction of Two

[coloursciences]

Title: The Concoction of Two
Rating: R/NC-17
Warnings: Sex scene(s), briefly mentioned crimes
Notes: It's been so long since I wrote a fic as long as this (: I hope you enjoy
Words: 9,290
Pairing: John Watson/Sherlock Holmes
Summary: It's not exactly a normal relationship, but John has faith.

It’s been months since... whatever this was began. If John thought about it carefully enough, then he’d realise it’s been at least a year. He’s lived with Sherlock for longer, nearly a two, but the thing between them has been even less precise.

To understand the smile on John Watson’s face, we’d have to go back. Just a year, just to summarise. It began, not on a romantic whim, or a change in Sherlock’s heart, but whilst in the middle of a case. A particularly brutal case on both their parts. John knew for sure, though, that it was slowly killing Sherlock and his great mind to have not yet cracked the code.

John had been doing his usual part in helping out. On a drawn-out, complicated case like this, where all the evidence was presented and all that was left was for Sherlock to figure it out, his “usual part” meant staying out of the way, staying out of trouble, and making sure he was less than five minutes away when Sherlock texted for him. He would get fed up having to run home when all the detective needed was a pencil or for someone to find a book (in the alphabetised bookshelf opposite him), but he would stick by the rules anyway, just in case of an actual emergency.

The only thing that seemed to be missing this time was brain work. Sherlock had played his violin well into the night and further into the following day, but after that failed to help him, the violin was locked in its case and thrown under the sofa. John even caught him replacing one of his nicotine patches with an actual cigarette, but that didn’t last long once Mrs Hudson had heard of it.

When John was growing weary along with the rest of the Scotland Yard, and when Sherlock was becoming drained after a lack of sustenance and regular sleep, that’s when it happened. Sherlock was in the middle of one of his 48-hour thinking-sessions when he stopped pacing in the middle of the room and turned to John, who was innocently, distractedly eating Chinese on the sofa and watching the telly.

Sherlock leapt over to him and grabbed the box from his hand, almost knocking it away for the contents to be spilled elsewhere. John looked at him, shocked and full-mouthed as his roommate practically sat on him in eagerness for his attention. Sherlock’s insistence was simple and forward; ‘Fuck me’, almost so sincerely and professionally offered that John almost agreed.

After a moment of fumbling and flailing in attempts to get the consulting madman off of him, John finally swallowed the mouthful of rice in his gob and asked what had gotten into his head. The look in Sherlock’s eyes was less of one of desire and more so one of pleading, one that begged John to trust him. At John’s reflex of denial, Sherlock looked somewhat offended, but in the way he’d look when John would trash one of the experiments he had growing in the sink.

‘It will help the case’, he had whispered, to which John immediately scoffed. When Sherlock held, still positioned very firmly over the top of him, John’s disbelieving expression eventually fled from his face. ‘You can penetrate, John, it will be just like with a girl, but anally.”

John had licked his lips and frowned as he thought it over, mostly confused at himself for thinking it over. But the sense of sincerity in his friend’s eyes was too much to handle, and strangely enough, he knew he trusted the man.

Sherlock wasn’t lying when he’d told John that. It wasn’t a sudden craving for some cock, in fact, Sherlock never really considered his sexuality, it just so happened that John was the only person in the room and most likely to comply with his request. He needed something else to do while his mind ticked away, and if John was good at sex, then he would hopefully go blank for at least a few seconds so that he could clear the facts and re-order them appropriately.

Needless to say, John was good at sex.

Sherlock didn’t let them move to a bedroom or even a bed, and insisted that it would take too long to reposition themselves on the floor. In his haste, he unfastened his trousers, then John’s, then helped his friend with the arousal that didn’t come at first. For John, the whole thing was a bit too overwhelming to take in, so at first he was just paralysed where he sat, moving like a marionette in Sherlock’s capable hands. Even though he hadn’t had much experience in this area, he must have done some research on the topic.

What was slow and awkward at first eventually turned into John sitting upright, grabbing tightly onto Sherlock’s hips as he helped him lift and fall on his lap. He still couldn’t see what Sherlock was gaining out of this, but with Sherlock’s head on John’s shoulder, the doctor couldn’t see Sherlock’s face. His mind was racing, faster than ever before, and the concentration showed through.

It was about half way through when John, feeling a little eager (his cock was buried deep in somebody’s ass, no matter that it was his roommate instead of a girl he fancied), gripped his hips harder and rutted his hips up to get them deeper, narrow the angle. It seemed to do something, because, immediately, Sherlock let out a strangled groan deep in his throat, and all of the data packed tightly in his brain vanished in a single gesture of John’s hips.

Sherlock’s initial hypothesis of anal sex with John was that this would hopefully happen, but he had never bothered to measure or research the magnitude of how it would feel and how it would affect his thinking. The thing was, it didn’t. He just couldn’t think at all. There were no thoughts to be affected. When Sherlock’s finely manicured nails dug deeply into John’s uninjured shoulder and bicep, John’s ego inflated, just a little, and he made the move again.

The detective sat back, throwing his head back rather than dropping it forward like it had been the whole time. He couldn’t close his eyes, not yet, like they were frozen open and all he could take in was the blurred cracks in their ceiling. No data. Nothing. This wasn’t good. But Sherlock was feeling too incredible to think about that, to pack it away for later analysis.

But John still remembered that this was apparently for Sherlock’s thought process to catch a murderer and he couldn’t let him get too carried away. He didn’t have the energy to keep thrusting up into him like that, so he settled for second best and wrapped a hand around Sherlock’s cock. He would admit later that it was the last thing he wanted to touch, but in the name of justice...

After a few strokes, Sherlock’s eyes slipped shut, and for him, it was like all the important points of the case were appearing behind his eyelids, like everything was being reorganised and revisited as points on a chalkboard in his mind. When the final spot of evidence found its way to the light, Sherlock’s eyes shot open and he came with a hot spurt in John’s hand.

‘Aaron Cartright!’

At first John was offended, until he recognised the name as the brother they had interviewed on one of the four crime scenes. The brother of the first woman to disappear. He expected Sherlock to close his eyes again, hold on tight and ride it out, until he realised that this was Sherlock, and of course he wasn’t going to wait for John to finish if he’d just solved who the man was behind a vicious quadruple murder.

Five minutes later, John found himself with his hand and an empty flat. It didn’t take long to finish off, and at least Sherlock’s absence gave him time to have a quick shower before he caught a cab to Scotland Yard.

Sherlock wasn’t up for talking about it afterwards, which John appreciated when they were surrounded by their colleagues at the Yard. But he remained silent about it at the flat, even after Mrs Hudson had left them alone for the night. They would have stopped at a restaurant to have dinner, since the case had been long and Sherlock hadn’t eaten a proper meal for weeks, save the small insistences John made which only ever resulted in a single bite at a time, be it from John’s Chinese or the crust from his toast, but Sherlock hadn’t slept either. He would find himself dozing off at his desk after a few days, but would force himself awake and punish himself with an entire pot of coffee.

John told himself that he’d discuss it with him the following day, because of the state the detective was in. Being a doctor, he knew he couldn’t stretch the man’s limits any, just to have a banter about a quick fuck. Instead, he helped Sherlock up the stairs, the man obviously already feeling the effects of his insomnia paired with the fasting, and when he was safely sitting down on the sofa, John hurried to the kitchen to make him a quick mug of cup’o’soup.

By the time it was done, Sherlock had dozed off on the sofa, but John had to wake him up to give it to him. ‘You’ve got to eat something,’ he told him apologetically as Sherlock sat up, startled and rubbing his tired eyes. ‘It’s not too hot and you can basically drink it. Have as much as you can then I’ll take you to bed.’

He kept his promise. He didn’t bother Sherlock during or after his meal, just led him down the stairs to the man’s bedroom so he’d have a proper bed to sleep in. Sherlock fell asleep almost the moment his head hit the pillow, and after John left the room with the door closed behind him, he didn’t say a word about the actions that took place a matter of hours ago.

To this day, neither have spoken of it, solely because neither of them felt the need. Of course, the matter of weeks following, John felt compelled to bring it up or at least reference it in every day life, but there was always the worry that someone would find out. That’s all he wanted to know, really, if it was a one-off to help Sherlock’s brain going, or if there was some hidden intent behind his roommate’s actions.

The weeks following were quite painful for John, but he eventually got his mind off of it with work at the clinic, and eventually, more cases with Sherlock. The sources of their cases was beginning to even out between helping at Scotland Yard and private inquiries. With their address on Sherlock’s website, people were beginning to come to the door with their problems. Now that he had the distraction of sitting in and listening to strangers telling their woes and troubles to Holmes, his mind was on less personal matters and was much more preoccupied on helping his friend solve the more puzzling cases.

It was during the Spring when a case brought them both to Germany. Sherlock could have gone on his own, but he had assured their client that John could definitely help as he was a professional medical man, and with such a large reward for their troubles, John felt somewhat obligated to go with him so that the money would be much more fairly split. Besides, the client was paying for the plane tickets.

They were looking for a missing man, apparently, who had been kidnapped by his brother with German relations and influence. Sherlock was half way through retelling the story told by their client to John, sitting next to him in the airplane seat, despite him being there when it was first laid upon their ears. John knew that Sherlock just had to go over all of the data so far, and he drew much less attention than a skull in public.

Sherlock silenced himself when a hostess came by with a dinner menu, but he didn’t not listen or respond to her. John looked over his friend’s shoulders as he leant over to inspect his pile of papers more carefully, just nodding at the hostess to bring them whatever’s most popular.

‘Digesting slows me down, John,’ Sherlock had uttered roughly, but his words seems half-hearted underneath his frown. John followed his gaze to the papers, before finally pulling them away from Sherlock’s line of vision to inspect them himself. They were a basic retelling of the story, which John had jotted down from a recording on his phone as they listened to their client speak.

He looked them over, reordering two of the pages for it to make sense and skimming past a few words. ‘She said, at the beginning, did you notice? She has a brother, and her being German, you could only assume he was as well. It didn’t sound like a faked accent to me.’

‘It wasn’t,’ Sherlock interrupted, assuring his claims were correct. John nodded and quickly glanced up at him, surprised to find his friend entirely engrossed in the doctor, watching him curiously as he made his own deductions about the statement.

‘Did she mention what her relationship was to the missing man?’ John asked, as he thumbed through the pages. When he found the first, he and Sherlock recited in unison, ‘“A close partner of mine”.’

Sherlock was still watching him with his brows knitted together as John fumbled to his own conclusion. ‘Do you think, maybe, the woman thinks her brother didn’t approve of the man? Maybe she’s just blaming him for his disappearance?’

The consulting detective snatched the papers back but he didn’t need them to recite what he remembered: ‘“I found traces in our internet history of plane tickets booked and map references to places I’ve only heard of when my brother spoke to me”.’

‘So why would the brother need map references if he’d been there before?’ John quizzed.

‘Because she doesn’t want to believe that her boyfriend left of his own accord!’

The shout startled one of the hostesses but John just grinned wide at his friend as he shoved the papers into the pocket of the back of the seat in front of him. ‘We can’t, of course, jump to conclusions without investigating,’ Sherlock added as he sat back in his seat. ‘Even though the rest of the evidence she’s found points to a runaway husband.’

John breathed out a laugh as he relaxed in his seat as well. He was just about to comment, some relieved notion of having a lead, when he found his head turned and his jaw in the hands of Sherlock Holmes. The man was kissing him, hard and quick on the lips, and when he pulled away and let go, all that was evidence of the kiss was the large smile spread across Sherlock’s face, and the shock slapped across John’s.

‘John Watson, you brilliant man,’ Sherlock muttered, almost to himself as he eagerly began to tear open the plastic case with his cutlery for the meal which had just been placed down in front of him.

The boyfriend, so it turned out, had been trying to get away from his obsessive girlfriend. John tried to assure Sherlock it was just a good guess. Sherlock tried to remind John that they had two remaining weeks of a holiday in Germany. John knew Sherlock wouldn’t last that long, just “holidaying”, but at least they got two days out of it before they caught an express plane home. John never mentioned anything about the kiss.

After the Germany trip, things seemed to happen much more quickly, leaving less space for thought than between the fuck and the smooch. Sherlock picked up a bug, and being his on-call roommate-slash-nanny, John saw to it that he got better as soon as possible. He couldn’t let the streets of London become a criminal wasteland just because Mr Sherlock Holmes felt too ill to get out of bed, but there was also the matter of Sherlock’s stubborn ass making life hell for John when he was sick.

‘I need to run some tests,’ he coughed as John caught him in the door way of the flat’s main room, the third time that day. ‘Discolouration of skin and mucus when the two are brought into contact, and -’

‘Sherlock, shut up, or you’re going to make me sick in a minute,’ John demanded. He grabbed Sherlock by the arms and led him back down the stairs to his bedroom, despite his friend’s constant protests. There was nothing wrong with his sinuses, so his voice was its usual deep and brooding tone, but the bags under his eyes, the dryness of his lips, the rough edge to his voice after a coughing fit and the sometimes chattering teeth made it so much more peculiar to hear such statements coming with such a tone from such a frail body.

He forced the younger man onto his bed and watched as Sherlock reluctantly crawled up to the head to sit on top of his pillows. John wouldn’t leave him like that, though. He shut the door behind him as he left for the kitchen, preparing yet another quick meal of cup’o’soup, this time with two mixed saches of different meat chunks within. He took it down to Sherlock, surprised to find him still curled up on top of his blankets when he returned.

‘I’ve got an experiment of my own,’ John claimed as he sat on the bed next to him. At this, Sherlock seemed to perk up and readjust the blue robe around him so it was tied at the waist properly. ‘I’m to see how long I can keep you occupied with what normal people may consider a pointless task.’

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed as he tried to deduce the nature of the experiment from John’s introduction of it.

‘I’m going to wait here with you while you try to calculate the different textures and products in this soup without letting its contents go to waste.’

‘This is ridiculous.’

‘You’re acting ridiculous. No adult would behave like this, Sherlock, and it’s very clear that you are, in fact, an adult, no matter how different.’

John scoots up to the head of the bed and hands Sherlock the large, warm mug filled with his dinner. ‘If you don’t fulfil the task then who knows what the punishment may be. Something loud and irrelevant to your precious hard drive, maybe...’

Sherlock groaned and leant against the headboard. ‘Not another audio book lecture on the orbital patterns of Saturn’s moons?’

‘I won’t say yes, I won’t say no.’

The threat seemed to be enough to work on the detective’s tired brain. Although it was obvious that he wasn’t actually trying to calculate the contents of his lunch, he ate it quietly while John sat with him on the bed. This date isn’t necessarily relevant because of John’s ability to make Sherlock shut up, although that may be an extraordinary day in history, but there are other things which occurred which make John remember the nature of their developing... thing.

It was the smaller actions and moments which made this day stand out to him. The evening, for example, when Mrs Hudson searched through their apartment for any hint of life, before finally coming down to Sherlock’s bedroom to find John and Sherlock entangled on the bed. It seems that the company, as well as John’s remarkable capacity to care, was what made Sherlock cease his fussing. When she found them there, both asleep on top of the covers, she found John’s shoulder hitched awkwardly up against the headboard, with one arm draped over Sherlock’s chest from behind, and the other man curled up in a ball with his fingers entangled in John’s by his chest. She found an unintentional spooning moment, where only one half of the pair was aware of the position, and the other half being the only one to realise what it meant.

The apparently speedy events which took place after Sherlock’s sick week were all on Sherlock’s part, so they were small, if large in number. He asked to use John’s computer, if John was in the room. He began using question marks in his text messages, rather than cold demands. He once actually thanked John for use of his favourite fantastic adjective during the middle of deducing a crime scene. And more than once, more commonly outside of the comfort of their own four walls, Sherlock would pull John close and kiss his forehead. The number of times that this happened in front of the Scotland Yard, John’s shock seemed to give away the fact that this wasn’t a regular occurrence, and that no, they hadn’t started shagging yet. John would have to hold his head in his hands at that thought, especially at the word yet.

It was a very slow process for the thing to actually become a thing. John, to this day, still isn’t sure whether it would be safe to call Sherlock his boyfriend, especially not after the incident which occurred last Summer.

The string of little events, including the kissing, apologising, asking and thanking, had become habit. John would wake up of a morning, trudge about the place and everything would be the same as it was when he first moved in. Sherlock would either be non-existent, or filling his own corner of the flat, reading the newspaper, scribbling down notes, or finding some other quiet way to fill his morning. He would always be in his blue robe, cradling a cup of coffee, and eventually, John would find an empty plate of crumbs somewhere amidst the papers and books covering the coffee table.

But those habits still found their way into every day life. When John made toast for himself, he would always make an extra piece or two in case Sherlock was still hungry. He didn’t do much to them, but Sherlock always thanked him by ghosting up to him in the kitchen and kissing him on the back or side of his head. He didn’t always eat the toast, but he always thanked him with that kiss.

Unless they were rushing on a case, Sherlock had almost always opened the door for John as well, held it open until he passed through, then followed behind until his long legs overpassed him to wherever they were walking. Lately, though, Sherlock never just held the door, but also helped him through. It was obvious John didn’t need assistance, but even still, one of the consulting detective’s hands would find its way to press to John’s back. As time passed, the hand would fall, and after a few weeks of his palm on John’s shoulder, the gesture would evolve into a touch to his lower back. John never minded, in fact, it gave him a feeling of comfort like he was never going to endure something on his own, but the unknown nature of these touches gave enough adrenaline to stop his hand from twitching.

The incident, which will always remain fresh in John’s mind, took place at a bar which John had only just begun to regular at when he wasn’t on a case with the detective. He hadn’t many friends, and so becoming familiar with a bar seemed like a good way to pass the time when he craved dull interaction with other normal human beings.

Nighttime had fallen and the usual crowd were all comfortably seated around the bar, where John had joined them. He’d only been able to enjoy one drink and was starting on his second when the front door opened and a tall, dark figure swept inside, designer coat flowing behind him. John didn’t think much of a newcomer, so he didn’t bother to look, but Sherlock Holmes managed to find him among the few regulars by scanning for familiarities in the back of his head.

Beforehand, while John was on his first pint, a different newcomer had approached him with a look in his eyes of clear desire. John didn’t need to be the world’s only consulting detective to pick him out as a gay man, although he was acting on stereotype rather than solid evidence.

Although, biting and licking his lips, as well as an overly-suggestive gaze at John before even saying hello was probably evidence enough.

John turned the man down when he asked to buy him a drink. For the first time in his life, he didn’t follow it up with the excuses of I’m not gay, but instead tried to bite back his smile as he made the claims to have a boyfriend. John wasn’t thinking when he said this, but it just seemed to be the right thing to say.

Despite these claims, the man had return only a matter of seconds before Sherlock walked into the bar, probably after being coached by his small group of friends to give John another attempt. When Sherlock walked up to the bar, stopping between John and his admirer, the doctor grinned and set his glass down.

‘This is him,’ he said, leaning over the bar for the gay man to see and hear him, before he turned his attention back to Sherlock. The detective frowned and stepped back, turning to look at the stranger before turning away dismissively and setting his eyes back onto John. He opened his mouth, ready to talk, but the man interrupted him without noticing that he was preparing to speak.

‘Oh, my,’ he whistled, ‘You’ve got yourself a looker.’

Sherlock shut his mouth and closed his eyes, taking a breath to avoid snapping impatiently. Instead, he forced a smile and turned back to the stranger, ready to speak. Again, he was interrupted when the man grabbed Sherlock’s hand to shake it for longer than he needed.

‘I’m Daniel, you must forgive me for chatting up your man, but you’ve got to admit he’s quite a piece.’

Sherlock’s eyes widened and he tugged his gloved hand from Daniel’s in one quickly jerked movement. He looked at John, finding him slouched over his drink, seemingly trying to avoid eye contact, but Sherlock could easily see the blush that made the tips of his ears pink.

‘I’m not normally so forward, I assure you, but if you boys are ever looking for a...’ Daniel paused to grin excitedly at his own proposal, ‘third party, then you should definitely give me a call.’

‘Look, Daniel, I can assure you that we don’t-’

‘John,’ Sherlock snapped, making the both of them jump at the sudden outburst. Sherlock’s eyes had gone wide and his mouth had shrunk into a thin, tight line, obviously not in the right mood to be interrupted so many times in a row. ‘You may be having fun with this little idea of yours, that we have fallen into, quite frankly, one of the most ridiculous social conventions of the pick, but I am trying to do a job here, and I don’t have time for your incessant cravings for domestic comfort.’

Sherlock was speaking much louder for just John to hear, and much more harshly than was needed to get his message across. John felt frozen in his bar seat and even swallowing the lump in his throat felt like it would hurt too much to handle. He was actually scared of his flatmate, solely for the anger that seemed to be radiating from him. He was clearly worked up about something different, but even knowing this didn’t make the experience any easier.

‘If you’re done with this pathetic charade then you can catch your own cab to the Yard. I’ve had a call from Detective Inspector Lestrade and he would like-’ Sherlock paused for an unnecessary sneer, ‘us, to come down at once.’

When Sherlock spun on his heel to leave the bar, John jumped again, making the blush spread wider across his cheeks. He looked across at Daniel, whose eyes were following Sherlock out of the bar, one hand over his mouth as he remained silent. John didn’t bother saying goodbye as he forced himself out of his seat to run for the door, hoping to catch the detective before he drove off.

He managed to catch Sherlock as the man shut the door of his cab. John reached out, noticing the non-existent tremor in his left hand when he grabbed the door handle. Silently, he shuffled past Sherlock to take a seat, only cringing when he felt an all-too-familiar jolt of pain in the side of his leg.

Needless to say, John didn’t return to that bar for at least a few months.

The cab ride had been quiet, which was nothing new. When they arrived at Scotland Yard for Lestrade to fill them in on the case he was inquiring about, Sherlock was quick to point out three mistakes they’d made already, correct one of his facts, and resolve not only the errors but the entire mystery. Lestrade had only intended to ask for an opinion and a spot of advice, but by the time Sherlock and John stepped outside the building two hours later, the whole thing had been solved and dusted.

John had hardly paid attention, but he assumed that Sherlock had either completely forgotten about the bar incident, or purposely deleted it from his “hard drive”. But the oddness came when they were back at the flat. Almost as soon as they had walked up the stairs and taken their coats off, Sherlock grabbed John’s hand and tugged him along to the kitchen. He stood John in front of the kettle as a silent plea for him to make a cup of tea, then wrapped his arms around the doctor’s shoulders from behind.

It was an odd feeling to be hugged like that for the first time in months. It was also odd that it was Sherlock, but he had to push that aside and focus on making the tea. Once the kettle was beginning to boil, Sherlock finally loosened his grip so he could turn John around in his arms, then press his lips to the man’s forehead. It wasn’t a quick peck like he normally gave, it was long, gentle and riddled with emotion and hidden meaning. When he finally pulled back, he gave John’s arms a squeeze before letting go entirely and turning to walk out of the kitchen.

‘I’ll be in the bedroom, researching. Bring me the tea when it’s done,’ he had called to him, and not another word was said.

In remembering these events, John realises that he doesn’t understand many of the things that happened while their relationship was taking this turn. He remembers well, though, that after he had made that cup of tea, the pair had found themselves something of an item. Even though Sherlock’s behaviour was confusing, and the kiss seemed to be something of an apology, in hindsight, it was more of a proposal. A proposal of an idea, that they ignore what he had snapped about in the bar and just let things progress.

Of course Sherlock never said these things. He would never call John his boyfriend in public or in private, and never did what conventional couples would do. Really, John could only expect that from the first conversation they had about Sherlock’s sexuality on the night after they had met. Married to his work, he said. Relationships were not his area. Actually being a part of a relationship with Sherlock made John realise this.

Work came first. Work always came first. He left the flat at the drop of a hat and texted demands for assistance without any trace of affection. When he was working, he still refused to eat, or sleep for a humane amount of time. Sometimes, the frustrations were taken out on John, but they were never sincere. The high of the chase always beat the high of a loving gaze.

John was just glad that he had lately become a large part of Sherlock’s work. If anything, joining in and assisting on cases reminded him that they were still young and that they could still do these kinds of things; that Sherlock had so much potential to be more than just a boyfriend. That thought was what kept his hand still when he poured their tea of a morning, what helped him sleep at night.

It had taken a long time for John to have Sherlock open up to affection. The kissing continued, but it was mostly Sherlock’s lips grazing John’s head, through his hair or against his temple. A touch to John’s lower back still assured him that Sherlock was there, and occasionally, John could hold Sherlock’s hand on top of the table when they ate out.

But the raw sexual frustration and a desperation to be touched would still course through John’s body on the particularly cold nights. He once tried to kiss Sherlock more fully, but the detective had been on a case and it only resulted in a one-sided fight, in which Sherlock shouted for four minutes about how he couldn’t afford petty distractions. A week later, when Sherlock was free, John tried again and got a mouthful of tongue in return.

He had to make sure he wouldn’t be interrupting any thoughts when John attempted things like passionate kisses. He could do little else but wait until Sherlock was sat on the sofa, eyes fixed on the television screen and emitting a loud sigh every ten minutes. It only took a week for Sherlock to get the hang of kissing, but he was always loud when offering his opinion that it was probably the most pointless of actions and offered little to no stimulation for anything else. John begged to differ.

He’ll always remember when he first got Sherlock to consent to ‘recreational sex’, as the consulting detective would continually name it. He’d brought up the idea before, on the days when John was particularly desperate, but Sherlock still hadn’t gotten the hang of his role in the relationship and failed to see why John needed his help. ‘Just masturbate, John,’ he’d told him off handedly, while his eyes never even left the page of his book.

The night that John was successful, Sherlock was just as stubborn. But he was also desperate. John had fallen asleep on the sofa watching TV, and it was not ten minutes later that Sherlock woke him up with complaints of insomnia. ‘I’m bored, John,’ he told him, while sat next to him on the two-seater, curled up in a ball and both hands holding onto John’s shirt. ‘I want to go to sleep but I keep tossing and turning and it’s the worst feeling in the world, and our internet connection is down so I can’t search for anything to help, and my phone is still charging it’s battery so I can’t use the internet on that. John, wake up.’

John, still slightly dazed, rubbed at his eyes as he struggled to listen. Sherlock was saying far too many words far too quickly, and the only way he could think to shut him up was to lean over and kiss the side of his mouth. Sherlock momentarily kissed back, but pulled back again with an expectant look still in his eyes. At least he was quiet now.

‘Orgasm helps you sleep,’ John told him off handedly. He had, at the time, wished that he had thought before he spoke, but there was no taking it back now. Sherlock just raised an eyebrow in a way that John knew meant that sex wouldn’t come from just one comment. John wondered why Sherlock was so difficult.

‘That’s a myth, John,’ Sherlock assured him as he began to relax against the man’s side.

‘Have there been studies, then?’ The doctor asked, smiling in a way that the amusement touched his eyes. ‘How would you know if you hadn’t experienced it yourself?’

‘It seems so dull,’ Sherlock finally groaned, to which John’s eyebrows rose.

‘Dull? That’s what you use to describe the mind blowing sex I gave you those months ago?’ Sherlock rolled his eyes at him and sat back, head lolling over the back of the sofa. John, now that he had sex on his mind, couldn’t help his eyes from falling onto the curve of the man’s neck.

He shuffled on the spot so he could lean over more comfortably, allowing his lips to fall upon the pale expanse of skin. Sherlock immediately closed his eyes and huffed out a bored sigh when he felt John’s lips, then his tongue and teeth, nipping gently at his neck. He would admit that it felt curious, but not enough to convince him. What did convince him was the sincerity in John’s words when he whispered them to him.

‘I promise it won’t be a waste of your time, and you will find it easier to sleep afterwards.’

John, fortunately, had been prepared for the day that Sherlock finally said yes, so he didn’t need to waste their time with a trip to buy condoms. He’d already convinced himself that he didn’t want another quick, unprepared screw like last time, and he would make Sherlock lay down so they could do it properly. He took him to his room, sat Sherlock down on the bed and kissed him.

‘John-’ Sherlock sighed between mouthfuls of the other’s eagerness, ‘You know I find this part pointless.’

‘Sherlock,’ John reciprocated, ‘Shut up.’

He continued the kiss on, to which Sherlock seemed to comply with. As he did, John’s hands began to unbutton Sherlock’s pyjama shirt and eventually he was given access to the hairless chest hidden beneath the clothes. When John’s thumb rubbed across Sherlock’s left nipple, he felt the man tense under his hands and heard a sound resonate through the kiss, which he couldn’t tell between it being impatience or pleasure.

John guided Sherlock’s hands to the bottom of his own sweater, and soon enough, he got the idea and they began to undress one another. John noticed something in Sherlock’s eye; doubt, perhaps, like he still wasn’t convinced that this would get them anywhere. Seeing that look only made John more determined for this to be great.

When left in their boxers, John had to pause and think the next step through. He’d done research since their first time, to try and aid him in making this a good experience, but it didn’t change the fact that he was mostly clueless. Of course, being a doctor, he knew how it all worked, what body parts were where, and the buttsex-for-beginners side of all of it. But having never truly experimented with other men, he wouldn’t have that experience which he was so convinced that he’d need.

After sitting there for a minute, he noticed that doubt in Sherlock’s eyes once more and that reminded him that he wasn’t trying to impress anyone, not really, and they were both as amateur as one another.

John was quick to fetch a condom and his small bottle of lube from his chest of drawers, using that moment to disguise a deep breath to up his confidence. When he sat back down on the bed, he pecked Sherlock’s lips once more before pressing a hand to his chest to lay him down. John was quick to strip them of their boxers, but paused just long enough to catch a glimpse of what was beneath him. He hadn’t had this opportunity before and was so frightened that he’d miss out on having it again, but it was so hard to cram so much data into one tiny glimpse.

Finally, he sat back on his knees and drew in another breath for confidence. ‘Turn over,’ he told him, ‘and.. You can touch yourself.’

Sherlock almost seemed uncomfortable from the request, like he was being asked to do something he just didn’t do. John knew he would have to, at one point, and managed to convince himself that he was just not used to doing it in front of another person. John was feeling the same nervousness for doing this properly with another man.

Finally, Sherlock lay on his stomach, slightly hitched up by bending his knees and resting one elbow on the bed. John took this time to coat his fingers with the lube, then parting Sherlock’s legs to prepare him, one finger at a time.

‘We’ve done this before,’ Sherlock pointed out, voice low and husky from the intrusion. ‘We didn’t do this back then.’

‘Well, I’m in charge now,’ John pointed out. ‘This isn’t for you to solve a case or collect data. This is for me, to... To be right, for once.’

Sherlock made another strained little noise and John could see the muscles in his back flexing when he got to the third finger. ‘John, really,’ Sherlock begged under his breath. ‘Let’s just..’

‘Never thought I’d hear you asking for it,’ John teased, licking and biting his lip as he pulled his fingers out and wiped his hand on the bedsheets. With what was left, he gave himself a few strokes and rolled on a condom while Sherlock adjusted himself to sit up on his knees. ‘It’s not a big deal,’ John murmured to him, all the while contradicting every thought running through his head. That was the problem, really; he was thinking too much. He had to forget, and just... do.

Wrapping an arm around Sherlock’s middle, John pulled him closer so the small of his back was against his own stomach and he was able to push himself in. He supposed it was the slow speed compared to that of their first time that was making Sherlock react differently; all in all, more impatiently.

John’s second hand was pressed deep into the mattress to hold himself up as he rocked his hips to create something of a rhythm. He knew that the friction at least was having a positive effect, for he could feel Sherlock’s stomach muscles tensing and twitching beneath the hand wrapped around his stomach. He liked to prove Sherlock wrong, far too much, and it was probably a bad thing that he was feeling a little smug.

He didn’t let it get in the way of the warmth between them, though. Knowing first-hand that Sherlock could handle it, John make no hesitation to speed up and jerk his hips a little harder every two or three thrusts. He could feel the heat tensing in the pit of his stomach when he saw Sherlock’s head fall from between his shoulders, being able to clearly hear the detective’s deep and heavy breaths.

The sensitivity in John’s cock was being tended to, yes, but since it had been so long since he’d gotten this kind of attention, John still felt a desperate need to touch as much as he could all at once. He leant over Sherlock’s body, and the hand on the detective’s stomach ran up to hold his chest. His own chest was pressed to Sherlock’s shoulder blades, now, creating that much more friction between them when he pressed his hips harder into him. It seemed to have a positive effect on Sherlock, making him emit yet a much more audible groan, the baritone choked and husky from the different sensations his body would be feeling.

By then, Sherlock had become something of a rag doll. He couldn’t keep himself up very well as his knees had slipped from the sheets, but both his elbows remained dug into the mattress and his shoulders hunched to hold himself up. He was tense, so tense all over that John could feel it in almost every inch of where they were connected, but his limbs continued to fail him as his feet pressed into the bed desperately for purchase.

Luckily, John remained steady and he held him up with the arm wrapped around his torso. It was getting difficult, mind, with the heat pooling lower and lower in his gut the more he thrust into him, and his legs were beginning to ache with the redundancy of the position. An idea sparked him, then, and he pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s shoulder and pulled himself up so he was sitting upright, still buried deep inside him. Sherlock coughed a mix between a moan and a whimper, but John was quick to return his attention to him.

‘Sit up, come on, grab the headboard if you need,’ John coaxed, his voice barely audible above a whisper. Sherlock did as he was told and they shuffled forward, John helping to get Sherlock sitting up, pressing up close to John’s chest as his head fell back over his shoulder. Both hands held onto the top of the headboard and John’s thighs parted to situate the detective in his lap, and finally resumed the place of his hand over the man’s stomach.

The teasing touch lasted only a few moments longer as they got back into the rhythm; Sherlock rubbing his hips back as John thrust forward. The hand lowered and his palm pressed in against his gut, before he finally wrapped his fingers around Sherlock’s cock. He felt it slick with pre-cum, giving him enough natural lubricant to work up a comfortable pace for the both of them.

John felt so painfully close to orgasm, but he forced himself to hold on until Sherlock’s head fell forward and his knuckles turned white around the top bar of the headboard. John let go, pulsing his hips up to make sure he hit that all important spot inside, and it was barely a moment before Sherlock was coming hard into his hand.

He tensed around John as he came and the two rode it out together, unlike the last time, both hot and raw and exhausted in general. Finally, Sherlock relaxed and his hands fell from the bar, his head dropping back to John’s shoulder, only this time he more or less nuzzled into John’s short hair. He didn’t move from his lap for at least a few minutes, and John wouldn’t let him anyway. His clean hand had wrapped around his stomach, just holding him there as they caught their breath together.

Barely five minutes later was John stripping the dirtied duvet from the bed and letting it fall into a heap on the floor. Sherlock had stretched out over the bed before curling up on his side, favouring the right hand pillow as John was left to crawl onto the bed and occupy the left. They wouldn’t need the duvet, or pyjamas, not really. The late Summer atmosphere and their own bodies were enough to warm them through the night.

Despite Sherlock’s usual avoidance of pointless affection, John found that he was unable to resist scooting closer and returning his hand to its place around Sherlock’s stomach. He was happy to find that Sherlock just leaned back into it, closing the gap between them and replacing it with warm, soft skin. He heard the detective sigh out of audible comfort and content, giving John the little push that he needed to press a small victory kiss to the back of Sherlock’s neck.

The following morning, Sherlock met him in the kitchen with yet another kiss to his forehead.

The two were quick to fall into habit, giving Sherlock and John the one assurance of stabilisation that they needed in their very unstable lives. If Sherlock wanted to have sex of an evening, he would sit down next to John on the sofa and place a hand on his knee until the doctor stood and led them to the bedroom. Otherwise, on most nights, John would retreat to bed early and be joined by the detective some time after midnight.

The regulating sex and rare affectionate touches were not the only things that made the entire thing feel like a normal relationship. Once or twice, John actually found Sherlock, the so-called high-functioning sociopath, showing real emotion. Not just obvious emotion like gratitude or jealousy, but on more than on occasion, Sherlock proved to John that he cared.

It was the two-year anniversary for the death of one of John’s close army friends. He was eager to help Sherlock and the officers of the Scotland Yard solve a theft which they had inquired Sherlock’s help with, but unfortunately, the case was solved by late afternoon and John was left with his own thoughts for the rest of the day.

He had mentioned the man to Sherlock the previous year, but he doubted that it would be remembered. John knew it wasn’t the kind of thing that Sherlock would need to store in that hard drive of his. He resisted mentioning it through dinner (at an actual restaurant, too, as a part of one of the infrequent dates they found themselves on after cases) and let Sherlock think he was fine for the entirety of the evening, despite the fact that his mind hadn’t left it alone since morning.

Needless to say, John was in for an uneasy night sleep. Sherlock had remained downstairs to record one of this latest experiments so he found himself in bed alone, still without company by the time he fell asleep. His dreams were more like nightmares, not of anything in specific, but of constant bright flashes, loud bangs and systematic screaming which sounded far too much like his passed on friend.

John found himself in a horrible balance between awake and asleep, where the images of his dreams kept lingering behind his eyelids, but was still conscious enough to feel his heart pounding behind his ribcage and the sweat on his brow.

He can’t remember when it was, but some time through the night, in the middle of one of these battles for consciousness, the screams began to warp and change inside his head. The flickers of light dimmed and the sounds took over, lowering and lowering in pitch and volume until they were but a gentle thrum in the sides of his head. John’s eyes were still squeezed shut, but the rest of his body started to relax as the pitch of this hum began to slowly rise and fall, rise and fall, and eventually, he could hear the faint scratches of strings dominating over the remaining flutters of imaginary bullets flying around him.

If John were to open his eyes, he would find, through his bleary vision, one solemn consulting detective leaning against the door frame of his bedroom; one foot hitched up against the wall and his arms full with his battered violin. Alas, John couldn’t win the fight between consciousnesses, and his mind tumbled back into slumber as his heart beat slowed to a more relaxed pace.

Sherlock had either been too modest to tell John what he’d done, or didn’t find it appropriate or relevant to bring up, but John knew what had happened. He knew from the moment he woke up and found Sherlock in bed with him, still full dressed in his clothes from the night before. He didn’t ask, nor did he thank, but he hoped Sherlock could deduce his gratitude from the gentle kiss he pressed to his forehead, just before he eyed the violin leaning up against the wall of his bedroom.

The instances like these were few and far between, causing John to sometimes forget that, at the end of the day, he was in a relationship with Sherlock Holmes. At times, he felt like he was more of Sherlock’s nanny than his partner, and often it was as if he was just a skull for the detective to talk to. But when John needed him most, he would always pull through.

He supposes that’s why he’s feeling so smug. It’s not an easy thing to do; to be smiling like this, genuinely, when he’s all alone at night. But when he leapt up the stairs of their Baker Street apartment two at a time to find Sherlock fast asleep on the sofa, he couldn’t help but smile. There’s something about the scene that just takes him back, back to all those times, to the beginning, when Sherlock would work himself to the point of passing out. It reminds John that the excitement in his life isn’t going to run out any time soon, even if sometimes that excitement takes the form of a snoring Holmes.

Yes, that image is what brought the smile upon John’s face, but the smugness is something of a different variety. The smugness sewing his lips together is but a whisper in the air; a mumble, to be more precise. It brings John closer to the ghostly figure collapsed on their sofa, down to his knees to inspect Sherlock’s pulse to make sure he hasn’t exhausted himself too severely. It brings John’s ear to Sherlock’s lips, to listen, to hear, as Sherlock whispers in his sleep.

Eventually, the word becomes clearer and John is sure that it’s his own name that he’s hearing. It causes him to gently press his lips to the corner of Sherlock’s mouth, teetering closer to his cheek, as he decides to let Sherlock sleep this one off.

The smugness that binds his lips and brings a twinkle to his eye is the knowledge that no matter how exciting or ridiculously out of hand things get, no matter how dangerous their situations and exhausted they feel as individuals and as a couple, John can always come home to the knowledge that he’ll always be on Sherlock’s mind, if buried deep in his subconscious.

John’s eyes wander down from Sherlock’s face to his hands, noticing them both clutching a notebook and pen loosely in his long fingers. John takes the book from him, carefully as to not wake him up, and glances at the contents of the opened page. Jibberish, to him, numbers and symbols and some mathematical sums that Sherlock must have jotted down before falling asleep. John takes the pen out of his hand and sets it with the book on the coffee table, before closing his hands around his partner’s upper arms to help him ease back more comfortably on the sofa.

Before standing and leaving, there is another thing that catches his eye. His left hand loosens its grip around his arm, gently trails down his forearm and pauses over Sherlock’s palm. He traces the words scribbled onto Sherlock’s skin with his finger tip, his smile slowly growing as he nears the end of the sentence.

* Remember to tell John I love him

John licks his lips before bringing his thumb to his mouth, moistening it and then lowering it back to Sherlock’s hand. He rubs the ink gently, enough to smudge the words so they can’t be read. He doesn’t need or want Sherlock to say it for the first time solely because he’s written it down. Call him old fashioned, but John would rather Sherlock say it as it comes to mind, earnestly. John leans down once more to press a lighter kiss to Sherlock’s hand, pulling back when Sherlock’s hand flexes and he closes his fingers into his palm.

Call him old fashioned, but John trusts the detective to do it right. Because he loves Sherlock too.