The Dangerous Edge of Things aka Sherlock Holmes has a Boyfriend who lives in Canada Extra
This has been the weirdest authorial scribblings ever. Law School application in one window. S/J porn in another. Huh. Ok.
The first time they have sex, John has to delete 58 text messages, all containing variations of Bored and Come Home NOW.
When he does come home five hours and two shopping bags later he finds the flat draped in red and white. John slides the bags onto the counter, careful to avoid several decomposing toes.
“What’s this, Sherlock?” He calls, looking around.
Sherlock ducks into the room, his purple shirt replaced with a red facsimile.
“Is this for a case?”
Sherlock ignores him, diving into the Tesco bags, pulling out the groceries and shoving everything into the fridge. He takes John’s elbow and leads him from the kitchen before he has a chance to protest that Jammy Dodgers don’t go in the icebox.
John allows himself to be led with bemusement, until Sherlock pushes him up the stairs.
“Sherlock, really, what is going on?” John protests, hand gripping the wall.
Sighing, Sherlock drops his hands. “You’ve been thinking about going back to Canada.” He states in his matter of fact way.
John shrugs. He had been thinking of going back. He had an apartment to sell, bills to pay, and a job to formally resign from. Not that he’d mentioned this to Sherlock. He supposed Sherlock had caught him looking at the Canadian Affair website.
“No, John. It was the mountains.” John drops his hand from the wall and tilts his head, puzzled.
“The Mountains?”
“You were wondering how I knew you were thinking of going home. Whenever you think of Canada, you look elsewhere and your eyes follow an irregular motion imitating the peaks and drops of mountains. No mountains here, ergo, home.”
John wants to ask him how he knows they’re mountains and not buildings, but he’s still trying to figure out when Sherlock caught him daydreaming.
“In order for you to not become homesick I have decided we shall celebrate every Canadian holiday here. I have found, after reasonable research that today is Canada Day. Happy independence or some rot.”
“Canada Day is a day of union, not independence -”
Sherlock waves him off.
“I’ve purchased all the necessary ingredients for Canada Day. They’re in your room. Go, change.”
Sherlock pushes him up another step then stands back, letting John climb the rest. Reaching the top John feels a curious sense of disconnection from his body. His tongue is tangled with questions. Are there severed limbs in my sheets ranks among the most pressing.
Instead, folded on his bed is a white button up shirt and a pair of blue jeans. The belt buckle is large enough to impress any cowboy wannabe at the Calgary Stampede, but the box of Alexander Keith balanced on top stops him from shouting a jest down the hall. A box of fireworks are on his bedside table, and maple lollipops are sprinkled on his pillow. Well damn.
When he comes down in his jeans and catches Sherlock tacking a Canadian Flag to the wall, John grins.
“Thank you,” he can’t stop the smile, and Sherlock tentatively grins back.
Well, John thinks one last time. Damn.
“Where did you get all this?”
“Online.”
John thinks back. He had accepted the packages, hell, even signed for them. He’d been curious, of course, but the contents of boxes addressed to Sherlock were best opened by Sherlock. A Jar of pickled tongues and two pig foetuses later, John had learned.
Crossing his arms, John asks, “And how many other holidays do you have planned?”
“Oh, all of them. Memorial Day. Family Day- I’m sure we can work something out, Labour Day, Rememberence Day- although we have that here but apparently yours is a bit dif-”
John crosses the room and twines his fingers in Sherlock’s hair, then pulls him down, planting a firm kiss on his mouth. John backs away when Sherlock’s mouth remains unmoving.
“Can’t have you getting nostalgic, can we?” Sherlock asks, unaffected even with his swollen lips and mussed hair.
“I suppose not.” John stuffs his hands in his pockets, and looks around.
“Sherlock, I know you’re not exactly looking for a…”
“A lover?” Sherlock supplies.
“Well, if you were ever considering getting one, let me know.”
“I already have one.”
“Oh?” John tries to not be disappointed. It doesn’t work.
“I’ve had one for several months now. Met him online.”
“You absolute dick.” John laughs.
John buries his fingers in Sherlock’s hair again, and presses his smile to Sherlock’s lips. He admires the texture, the feel of the curls as they slip between his fingers.
The kiss is chaste until John’s mouth slips open. Sherlock, finally taking the hint begins to kiss back, his tongue darting past John’s lips, teasing. Sherlock begins to trace the shape of John’s mouth, nipping the corners. Sherlock begins to make a thorough study of John's mouth, tongue probing and exploring when John moans into his mouth. Moves down to John’s jaw, sucking and biting ,Sherlock leaves that will bruise in the morning, not that John can be moved to care.
John huffs a breath, tilting his head to give Sherlock access to his neck.
Teeth scrape along skin, Sherlock can taste his heartbeat. Can trace the irregular marks and feel where John broke his collarbone as a child. Can smell John’s shampoo and aftershave.
Sherlock quiets the part of him that shrieks exactly where John bought each item, how long it took, and what the salesperson said as he’d gone through the cash register - forgoing the Chip and Pin machine again.
Their bodies press flush to the other, and John’s rubbing against Sherlock’s leg, their clothes providing much needed friction.
“Off.” Sherlock orders, his voice a low and dangerous sound in John’s ears.
Breaking away, John begins to shuck his jeans, the buckle clicking and hitting the floor with a sharp clatter. The detective pushes him to the couch and John’s legs buckles when the edge of the cushion hits his calves. Sherlock disappears for a second before returning. He leans over John, his long arms trapping the smaller man on the couch.
The Canadian finds a bottle being pressed into his hand, and Sherlock is back to kissing him. Heady and buzzed, John takes a moment to glance down to what he's holding.
“Oh dear god,” he says, pulling away from Sherlock. “Is this maple lube?”
“Nostalgia, John,” Sherlock admonishes.
“I’ve never- I mean- who makes this stuff?”
Sherlock huffs and rolls his eyes and John’s forced to translate this to mean Priorities, John, really. And John does have to agree.
Sherlock takes the bottle from John’s hands and John lifts his hips to slide his underwear off.
He then moves back to watch as John begins to prepare himself, fingers circling and entering as Sherlock stares. Watches as John adds a second finger then a third. He catalogues John’s breathy sighs and moans, and only when John chokes out “Sherlock” does he begin to disrobe.
The red silk shirt is tossed aside without ceremony, and his pants follow.
John pulls Sherlock to him in another kiss. Sherlock takes the lube from where the tube rests on the patterned chesterfield and begins to slick his cock, his hand pumping and rubbing, paying attention to the head as his already hard member stiffens even more. Sherlock pauses, takes in John, breathless and wanting. His John. He presses his cock to the tight ring of muscle and pushes. They both moan as he moves in to the tight heat, and when he’s fully seated, Sherlock waits.
John claws at Sherlock’s arms, tells him to Move, damnit until Sherlock actually moves and then he’s moaning again, hands scrabbling as the force of Sherlock's thrusts drive him back into the couch.
Sherlock lifts John’s legs so they rest on his shoulders, and Sherlock admits that John is contorting in an admirable fashion. When he asks, John gasps about a brief brief stint with Cirque Du Soleil.
Sherlock can feel his orgasm building and he fists a hand around John’s flagging erection, beginning to stroke the smooth flesh. He cups John’s testicles, rolling them, pressing a finger to John’s perineum.
With a moan, Sherlock spills his release inside of John. Not flagging, Sherlock continues to fist John’s cock, the head disappearing in and out of his hand even as John continues to ride Sherlock’s softening member.
John comes with a shout and the semen spills warm and sticky on Sherlock’s hand. Rubbing John’s head until the last of his seed has been milked; Sherlock collapses on the sofa and pulls John to him. Their chests heave, and a giddy lethargy steals across their limbs. John lays a possessive hand on Sherlock’s thigh.
Later, while John sags to the couch feeling well and truly fucked, Sherlock extricates himself from John’s grasp. After washing his hands and dressing, the detective moves to his violin case and raises the violin from his case to his neck. He fiddles for a moment with the tuning pegs and the board, checks the sound of each string, then begins to draw the bow across the strings.
There, sitting in the dark flat of 221B, the street lights filtering past the curtains and casting lace shadows on the cluttered hardwood, John begins to laugh. And Sherlock plays Oh Canada one more time.
____________________________________________________________________________________________
Well thank you everyone for reading and sticking with this fic as it went on its merry, predictable way. You're all absolute charmers, and I hope you feel welcome to read my fics in the future. In the meantime, I hope you never listen to the Canadian National Anthem the same way again.
The first time they have sex, John has to delete 58 text messages, all containing variations of Bored and Come Home NOW.
When he does come home five hours and two shopping bags later he finds the flat draped in red and white. John slides the bags onto the counter, careful to avoid several decomposing toes.
“What’s this, Sherlock?” He calls, looking around.
Sherlock ducks into the room, his purple shirt replaced with a red facsimile.
“Is this for a case?”
Sherlock ignores him, diving into the Tesco bags, pulling out the groceries and shoving everything into the fridge. He takes John’s elbow and leads him from the kitchen before he has a chance to protest that Jammy Dodgers don’t go in the icebox.
John allows himself to be led with bemusement, until Sherlock pushes him up the stairs.
“Sherlock, really, what is going on?” John protests, hand gripping the wall.
Sighing, Sherlock drops his hands. “You’ve been thinking about going back to Canada.” He states in his matter of fact way.
John shrugs. He had been thinking of going back. He had an apartment to sell, bills to pay, and a job to formally resign from. Not that he’d mentioned this to Sherlock. He supposed Sherlock had caught him looking at the Canadian Affair website.
“No, John. It was the mountains.” John drops his hand from the wall and tilts his head, puzzled.
“The Mountains?”
“You were wondering how I knew you were thinking of going home. Whenever you think of Canada, you look elsewhere and your eyes follow an irregular motion imitating the peaks and drops of mountains. No mountains here, ergo, home.”
John wants to ask him how he knows they’re mountains and not buildings, but he’s still trying to figure out when Sherlock caught him daydreaming.
“In order for you to not become homesick I have decided we shall celebrate every Canadian holiday here. I have found, after reasonable research that today is Canada Day. Happy independence or some rot.”
“Canada Day is a day of union, not independence -”
Sherlock waves him off.
“I’ve purchased all the necessary ingredients for Canada Day. They’re in your room. Go, change.”
Sherlock pushes him up another step then stands back, letting John climb the rest. Reaching the top John feels a curious sense of disconnection from his body. His tongue is tangled with questions. Are there severed limbs in my sheets ranks among the most pressing.
Instead, folded on his bed is a white button up shirt and a pair of blue jeans. The belt buckle is large enough to impress any cowboy wannabe at the Calgary Stampede, but the box of Alexander Keith balanced on top stops him from shouting a jest down the hall. A box of fireworks are on his bedside table, and maple lollipops are sprinkled on his pillow. Well damn.
When he comes down in his jeans and catches Sherlock tacking a Canadian Flag to the wall, John grins.
“Thank you,” he can’t stop the smile, and Sherlock tentatively grins back.
Well, John thinks one last time. Damn.
“Where did you get all this?”
“Online.”
John thinks back. He had accepted the packages, hell, even signed for them. He’d been curious, of course, but the contents of boxes addressed to Sherlock were best opened by Sherlock. A Jar of pickled tongues and two pig foetuses later, John had learned.
Crossing his arms, John asks, “And how many other holidays do you have planned?”
“Oh, all of them. Memorial Day. Family Day- I’m sure we can work something out, Labour Day, Rememberence Day- although we have that here but apparently yours is a bit dif-”
John crosses the room and twines his fingers in Sherlock’s hair, then pulls him down, planting a firm kiss on his mouth. John backs away when Sherlock’s mouth remains unmoving.
“Can’t have you getting nostalgic, can we?” Sherlock asks, unaffected even with his swollen lips and mussed hair.
“I suppose not.” John stuffs his hands in his pockets, and looks around.
“Sherlock, I know you’re not exactly looking for a…”
“A lover?” Sherlock supplies.
“Well, if you were ever considering getting one, let me know.”
“I already have one.”
“Oh?” John tries to not be disappointed. It doesn’t work.
“I’ve had one for several months now. Met him online.”
“You absolute dick.” John laughs.
John buries his fingers in Sherlock’s hair again, and presses his smile to Sherlock’s lips. He admires the texture, the feel of the curls as they slip between his fingers.
The kiss is chaste until John’s mouth slips open. Sherlock, finally taking the hint begins to kiss back, his tongue darting past John’s lips, teasing. Sherlock begins to trace the shape of John’s mouth, nipping the corners. Sherlock begins to make a thorough study of John's mouth, tongue probing and exploring when John moans into his mouth. Moves down to John’s jaw, sucking and biting ,Sherlock leaves that will bruise in the morning, not that John can be moved to care.
John huffs a breath, tilting his head to give Sherlock access to his neck.
Teeth scrape along skin, Sherlock can taste his heartbeat. Can trace the irregular marks and feel where John broke his collarbone as a child. Can smell John’s shampoo and aftershave.
Sherlock quiets the part of him that shrieks exactly where John bought each item, how long it took, and what the salesperson said as he’d gone through the cash register - forgoing the Chip and Pin machine again.
Their bodies press flush to the other, and John’s rubbing against Sherlock’s leg, their clothes providing much needed friction.
“Off.” Sherlock orders, his voice a low and dangerous sound in John’s ears.
Breaking away, John begins to shuck his jeans, the buckle clicking and hitting the floor with a sharp clatter. The detective pushes him to the couch and John’s legs buckles when the edge of the cushion hits his calves. Sherlock disappears for a second before returning. He leans over John, his long arms trapping the smaller man on the couch.
The Canadian finds a bottle being pressed into his hand, and Sherlock is back to kissing him. Heady and buzzed, John takes a moment to glance down to what he's holding.
“Oh dear god,” he says, pulling away from Sherlock. “Is this maple lube?”
“Nostalgia, John,” Sherlock admonishes.
“I’ve never- I mean- who makes this stuff?”
Sherlock huffs and rolls his eyes and John’s forced to translate this to mean Priorities, John, really. And John does have to agree.
Sherlock takes the bottle from John’s hands and John lifts his hips to slide his underwear off.
He then moves back to watch as John begins to prepare himself, fingers circling and entering as Sherlock stares. Watches as John adds a second finger then a third. He catalogues John’s breathy sighs and moans, and only when John chokes out “Sherlock” does he begin to disrobe.
The red silk shirt is tossed aside without ceremony, and his pants follow.
John pulls Sherlock to him in another kiss. Sherlock takes the lube from where the tube rests on the patterned chesterfield and begins to slick his cock, his hand pumping and rubbing, paying attention to the head as his already hard member stiffens even more. Sherlock pauses, takes in John, breathless and wanting. His John. He presses his cock to the tight ring of muscle and pushes. They both moan as he moves in to the tight heat, and when he’s fully seated, Sherlock waits.
John claws at Sherlock’s arms, tells him to Move, damnit until Sherlock actually moves and then he’s moaning again, hands scrabbling as the force of Sherlock's thrusts drive him back into the couch.
Sherlock lifts John’s legs so they rest on his shoulders, and Sherlock admits that John is contorting in an admirable fashion. When he asks, John gasps about a brief brief stint with Cirque Du Soleil.
Sherlock can feel his orgasm building and he fists a hand around John’s flagging erection, beginning to stroke the smooth flesh. He cups John’s testicles, rolling them, pressing a finger to John’s perineum.
With a moan, Sherlock spills his release inside of John. Not flagging, Sherlock continues to fist John’s cock, the head disappearing in and out of his hand even as John continues to ride Sherlock’s softening member.
John comes with a shout and the semen spills warm and sticky on Sherlock’s hand. Rubbing John’s head until the last of his seed has been milked; Sherlock collapses on the sofa and pulls John to him. Their chests heave, and a giddy lethargy steals across their limbs. John lays a possessive hand on Sherlock’s thigh.
Later, while John sags to the couch feeling well and truly fucked, Sherlock extricates himself from John’s grasp. After washing his hands and dressing, the detective moves to his violin case and raises the violin from his case to his neck. He fiddles for a moment with the tuning pegs and the board, checks the sound of each string, then begins to draw the bow across the strings.
There, sitting in the dark flat of 221B, the street lights filtering past the curtains and casting lace shadows on the cluttered hardwood, John begins to laugh. And Sherlock plays Oh Canada one more time.
____________________________________________________________________________________________
Well thank you everyone for reading and sticking with this fic as it went on its merry, predictable way. You're all absolute charmers, and I hope you feel welcome to read my fics in the future. In the meantime, I hope you never listen to the Canadian National Anthem the same way again.