it's a small crime and i've got no excuse [closed thread]
With propergenius
R/NC-17.
Continuation from here.
John had not slept very well. Not very well at all. Once he had finished doing the dishes, he had taken the trash downstairs and outside, and spent a considerable amount of time in the bathroom after that. In direct contrast to Sherlock's cold shower, his was scoldingly, almost punishingly hot, and for the longest time he just stood under the stream of water, not moving. Eventually, he washed and dried himself, got dressed in his usual pajama pants and t-shirt, soft and worn with age, brushed his teeth, and retired to his room. Lying in bed, he just stared at the ceiling, going over the events of the evening, trying to figure out what had happened, how they had gone from giddy and relaxed, to drowning in sensation and desire and each other, to warm embraces of affection while they came down from their high, to an almost clinical distance. It made no sense. John shifted restlessly, frustrated at himself when he could feel himself getting aroused again, just by thinking of the sight of Sherlock, losing control and coming all over his hand. Whatever happened tomorrow, that image was sure to haunt John for the rest of his life. His mind had gone perfectly silent, he'd told him. Perhaps Sherlock was just as scared as John was? Could it be that simple? Not knowing what to do with all these unknown feelings and sensations? Ah, but he had to stop thinking about this, it would do no good. They would talk in the morning, Sherlock had said. He might as well try and get some sleep now.
He didn't, of course, ended up floating in and out of sleep, thoughts and images of the evening on perpetual repeat in his mind until John wondered if it had happened at all, or was it just a dream. He got up early, giving up on getting any kind of proper sleep that night, and headed back into the bathroom to wash his face, shocking it awake with freezing cold water. He stared at himself in the mirror for some moments. His lips were still a little bruised from the many kisses he and Sherlock had shared last night, ranging from chaste to downright filthy, and John had enjoyed every single one of them. Touching fingertips to his lips, he shivered at the memory, and quickly set on getting dressed and heading downstairs.
Once there, he made a point of not looking at the sofa. It was difficult enough to be back in the sitting room. Making himself some tea and toast, John sat behind his laptop, and considered what he would do were this a normal morning. What if nothing had happened last night, after dinner? Starting up his laptop, he opened the browser and looked up the website of the Royal Opera House in Covent Garden. Within a few clicks, a webpage with Mozart's Zauberflöte came up. He watched the trailer, Google'd and read some of the descriptions of the opera, and decided to leave the window open for Sherlock to find. He himself had some shopping to do.
Once at Tesco, John got the usual things, taking his time. It was quiet, the store only just having opened, and John appreciated the quiet, the space, the opportunity to think some more as he wandered through the aisles. John had no issue with homosexuality. His sister had been married to a woman, had been into women all her life, and not once had it occurred to John as being something weird, or wrong. But he... he fancied women. Fancied them a lot. Even now, feeling this exhausted, frustrated and confused, he still noticed when an attractive woman walked by him with her shopping cart. He never noticed men like that, never. He'd noticed Sherlock, on that first day, but it was impossible not to, with those eyes, that face. And the way in which he'd read John had been remarkable, memorable, an instant impression. But he had never thought of Sherlock on that level. Until now. And now, it seemed he couldn't stop thinking about him that way, thinking back to all the moments they'd shared together, adding this new dimension to it, and John realized that yes, yes, he was attracted to the man, drawn to him like a moth to flame. But wasn't everyone? Until Sherlock opened his mouth and told them something they did not want to hear. Yet John was still there. Was it loyalty? Or something else? Or loyalty, and something else? Oh, why was this so confusing?
Walking back to their flat, John could feel his heart beating faster with every step he took. Sherlock would be awake by now. They would have to talk about this. John did not feel ready, but at the same time, he wanted it to be done with. He needed to know where they stood, find some assurance that life needn't change drastically. It would be fine, he told himself firmly. Unlocking and opening the door to their flat, John walked up the stairs, shouting out "I'm back" (obviously, he could almost hear Sherlock say it). Whatever would happen, would happen. At the end of the day, all John wanted was to not lose his best friend.
R/NC-17.
Continuation from here.
John had not slept very well. Not very well at all. Once he had finished doing the dishes, he had taken the trash downstairs and outside, and spent a considerable amount of time in the bathroom after that. In direct contrast to Sherlock's cold shower, his was scoldingly, almost punishingly hot, and for the longest time he just stood under the stream of water, not moving. Eventually, he washed and dried himself, got dressed in his usual pajama pants and t-shirt, soft and worn with age, brushed his teeth, and retired to his room. Lying in bed, he just stared at the ceiling, going over the events of the evening, trying to figure out what had happened, how they had gone from giddy and relaxed, to drowning in sensation and desire and each other, to warm embraces of affection while they came down from their high, to an almost clinical distance. It made no sense. John shifted restlessly, frustrated at himself when he could feel himself getting aroused again, just by thinking of the sight of Sherlock, losing control and coming all over his hand. Whatever happened tomorrow, that image was sure to haunt John for the rest of his life. His mind had gone perfectly silent, he'd told him. Perhaps Sherlock was just as scared as John was? Could it be that simple? Not knowing what to do with all these unknown feelings and sensations? Ah, but he had to stop thinking about this, it would do no good. They would talk in the morning, Sherlock had said. He might as well try and get some sleep now.
He didn't, of course, ended up floating in and out of sleep, thoughts and images of the evening on perpetual repeat in his mind until John wondered if it had happened at all, or was it just a dream. He got up early, giving up on getting any kind of proper sleep that night, and headed back into the bathroom to wash his face, shocking it awake with freezing cold water. He stared at himself in the mirror for some moments. His lips were still a little bruised from the many kisses he and Sherlock had shared last night, ranging from chaste to downright filthy, and John had enjoyed every single one of them. Touching fingertips to his lips, he shivered at the memory, and quickly set on getting dressed and heading downstairs.
Once there, he made a point of not looking at the sofa. It was difficult enough to be back in the sitting room. Making himself some tea and toast, John sat behind his laptop, and considered what he would do were this a normal morning. What if nothing had happened last night, after dinner? Starting up his laptop, he opened the browser and looked up the website of the Royal Opera House in Covent Garden. Within a few clicks, a webpage with Mozart's Zauberflöte came up. He watched the trailer, Google'd and read some of the descriptions of the opera, and decided to leave the window open for Sherlock to find. He himself had some shopping to do.
Once at Tesco, John got the usual things, taking his time. It was quiet, the store only just having opened, and John appreciated the quiet, the space, the opportunity to think some more as he wandered through the aisles. John had no issue with homosexuality. His sister had been married to a woman, had been into women all her life, and not once had it occurred to John as being something weird, or wrong. But he... he fancied women. Fancied them a lot. Even now, feeling this exhausted, frustrated and confused, he still noticed when an attractive woman walked by him with her shopping cart. He never noticed men like that, never. He'd noticed Sherlock, on that first day, but it was impossible not to, with those eyes, that face. And the way in which he'd read John had been remarkable, memorable, an instant impression. But he had never thought of Sherlock on that level. Until now. And now, it seemed he couldn't stop thinking about him that way, thinking back to all the moments they'd shared together, adding this new dimension to it, and John realized that yes, yes, he was attracted to the man, drawn to him like a moth to flame. But wasn't everyone? Until Sherlock opened his mouth and told them something they did not want to hear. Yet John was still there. Was it loyalty? Or something else? Or loyalty, and something else? Oh, why was this so confusing?
Walking back to their flat, John could feel his heart beating faster with every step he took. Sherlock would be awake by now. They would have to talk about this. John did not feel ready, but at the same time, he wanted it to be done with. He needed to know where they stood, find some assurance that life needn't change drastically. It would be fine, he told himself firmly. Unlocking and opening the door to their flat, John walked up the stairs, shouting out "I'm back" (obviously, he could almost hear Sherlock say it). Whatever would happen, would happen. At the end of the day, all John wanted was to not lose his best friend.