Sherlock: Something Borrowed
Fandom: Sherlock
Characters: Sherlock/John, (Mary)
Words: ~ 2200
Rating/Warning: NC-17; this is smut, ladies and gentlemen, angsty smut; also quasi adultery, if you happen to find that scandalising; also gay sex, but I'm pretty sure you suspected that, being in fandom and all...
Summary: The first time John and Sherlock have sex is when they are both getting dressed up for John's wedding, was the prompt and it says it all.
A/N: I don't know how this happened, I don't even like writing sex.
Something Borrowed
There is a pain in Sherlock's chest since John showed him the ring. A persistent low ache, barely more than a shortness of breath, but never leaving.
"I'll ask her," he said. "This weekend. What do you think?" Was there a challenge in his voice? Sherlock couldn't tell, still doesn't know.
"She'll say yes," he answered through the trapped words that clogged his throat.
They are not alike; there are things about John Sherlock doesn't fully understand. Sherlock's brain is a machine, precise and efficient, his heart is a stranger. He is a creature of the present, comfortable in the certainty of facts, in a reality that is not more than the sum of what is and what has been. He doesn't understand how someone can live like John does: always searching for something that might not even exist, always dreaming, longing, wanting. Theorising ahead of the facts. Sherlock never wished for John before John and he never wished for more than what John gave him. He took what was offered and that was everything that mattered.
Now he feels bereft.
Now John dreams of a future with Mary.
Not even three hours until John will be hers. With that thought the realisation that once, John was his. Untrue. He never was. Could have been.
A whole new dimension.
Sherlock stands frozen before the bathroom mirror, clad in his dressing gown, razor still in hand. The man in the mirror looks like he's got a secret he won't tell.
The knock at the door startles him. John's knock, firm, two times, second knock slightly louder.
"Door's open," he says and when he turns around John is standing in the doorway, crisply white shirt tails hanging over unzipped black trousers; hair still a bit damp.
The pain is a hole in Sherlock's chest.
John holds his bow tie up with a sheepish smile. "Can't figure it out. Thought a toff like you would know what to do."
When Sherlock hesitates, John leans against the door frame. "Finish shaving first, I'll wait."
"I'm done," Sherlock says.
Two steps and they stand close, Sherlock's hand brushing John's as he takes the tie. Feels like he's not allowed to touch, though he clearly is, with John still smiling and not pulling back. He seems slightly nervous, but that is probably normal right before his wedding. Sherlock wouldn't know and he can't think about it. Touching John never felt dangerous before.
He loops the bow tie around John's neck, careful of the shirt collar, and ties it methodically. The task demands concentration mirrored on another man's throat. John holds still and his breath is a slight draught on Sherlock's chin. Warm and steady. When he is finished he pulls the bow into shape, his knuckles brushing over John's chest. Faint heartbeat under warm skin and stiff white cotton. He can't step back.
"Sherlock." John's voice is soft, just like his eyes are when Sherlock finally looks up. "It won't change our friendship."
He can't answer, not without calling John a liar. But part of him wants to. It's all John's fault anyway. He was fine until John came and he was fine until now. John is taking this away from him and he could hate him for it. But he couldn't. It all crumbles down, looking into John's eyes, thinking 'I hate you'; it's not real.
His hands shift to John's shoulders, holding him now. He can't let John take this away, he'll rather destroy it himself. He bends down, John freezes when their lips touch, but he doesn't pull away. For a moment it is just a chaste kiss and John's aftershave unfamiliar over the smell of detergent and John after a shower. He could stop it now, he could. A strange thing to do perhaps, kissing your friend before the wedding, but-
But John's hands have shifted to Sherlock's shoulders, unmoving, caught between shoving him away and pulling him closer. They aren't kissing any more, but close, their noses almost touching. John looks at him the way he does sometimes, unbelieving, amazed, terrified. Sherlock knows what it means. It means that Sherlock is about to do something utterly mad. It means that John will follow.
Sherlock pushes closer, his body against John's, mouth on the soft skin under his ear, one hand travelling down to sneak under the shirt.
"Sherlock," John groans, despairingly. Maybe intended as a protest, but the way it comes out it's anything but.
There is no resistance. John's arms are holding him close now and his head tilts to the side, giving Sherlock access.
The pain in Sherlock's chest explodes and spreads through his body. He can't breathe properly, he can't think. He only know that it ends today and whatever will become of his life will have less John in it. It's unacceptable now, but he knows he will accept it as a fact then. Truth is not negotiable. It will hurt less.
He kisses John, hard this time and deep. He wants to breathe him in, devour him. He pulls John's trousers down with the underwear, takes him in his hand. John's breath hitches and the hand on Sherlock's neck tightens and Sherlock wants. More than anything he wants one more moment where he is John's whole world. That used to be true, once.
"Fuck me," he says into John's ear, low and pleading. John's cock twitches and Sherlock tightens his grip.
"Why?" John says, breathlessly, confused. "Why now?"
Sherlock doesn't answer. There is nothing he could say that wouldn't result in John stopping this, no good answer and John knows. He sinks to his knees and takes John's cock into his mouth as far as possible. He's never done this and it has no direct physical appeal, but it's John's smell and taste and John who utters a string of profanities, John who has to grab for the handle of the bathroom door and Sherlock's shoulder to regain his balance. And none of the words John utters resembles 'Mary'.
He holds John's cock with one hand, sucks, pulls almost off and in again. He doesn't try for finesse, he has none. Works regardless, the grip on his shoulder is hard. He imagines the bruises that would form if it was hard enough. They would look lovely, like evidence.
He pulls away when John starts trembling and strokes his hands up his body, hips, abdomen, ribcage. Adoration, he thinks. John. He pulls him down carefully, to kneel too, and kisses him again, John's head trapped between both his hands. He likes this, likes how John's lips yield under his and the small sounds he makes, likes how John is his in this moment.
He is hard himself, dressing gown open and sliding down one shoulder, and now there is John's hand on him, small and broad and calloused. Utterly different from his own, distracting. He lets himself sink back and pulls John on top of him, between his legs. The bathroom floor is hard and the threshold uncomfortable against his left shoulder, but it can't be helped. Transition is out of the question, John could change his mind.
John pulls at his bow tie like it is choking him and Sherlock tears it of and fumbles open his collar. There is a spot right above John's collarbone that Sherlock always found particularly fascinating. A tendril of scar tissue that ends in a faint curl on slightly freckled skin. It's a soft place to bury his face when one of them almost died and it's where John smells best.
Licking there now, Sherlock knows that he's never been so close to losing John. Hot tears sting behind his eyes and he has to pull away. John's hand brushes from the back of his head over his cheekbone, down to his jaw. Sherlock can't read his expression. He takes John's hand in his and pulls two of his fingers into his mouth. John makes a noise that isn't more than a sharp intake of breath and lets his head fall down, hot breath against Sherlock's neck, then John's mouth. Sherlock shudders and almost bites John's fingers, then guides his hand down.
There's hesitation in the way John's hand gets heavier.
"Please," Sherlock says breathlessly between soft kisses to John's temple. "Please, John."
"We need-"
"No, do it," he interrupts with just the right mixture of force and pleading. The things he can make John do.
John growls something that could be 'pushy bastard' or no words at all and bites his neck, so endlessly careful to cause no damage, it makes Sherlock's head spin.
When the finger breaches him it's uncomfortable, hovering on the edge to actual pain, but never quite crossing. John has once asked him if he got off on pain (angry back then and afraid), but that's not it. Sherlock likes the control he feels in ignoring it. He likes that his mind can overcome his body. And this is not even pain, this is John being close and being his for a little while.
He tugs on John's hair so they can kiss again while John stretches him open. When John pushes in at last, it's too much for a moment. Not pain, though that is there, too, somewhere, just too much of everything. Too much to process. Sherlock makes a choked noise and he needs a moment to remember that everything is John and John is never too much. He clings to him helplessly for a few seconds, John says something soothing.
"It's good," Sherlock says eventually. "Move."
John does, slow at first, then faster, harder. Pushed up on his elbows, he's far enough away for Sherlock to see his face. Now his expression is open, defenceless. Sherlock stares and John looks away. He works one forearm under Sherlock's aching shoulder and rests his head against it. "John," Sherlock says just to hear it and reaches down to stroke himself.
"Sherlock." He feels it huffed against his collarbone more than he hears it and he strokes John's good shoulder, trailing his nails down to his hip and up again. John shudders and comes and Sherlock kisses him frantically. My John, he thinks when he comes himself a few moments later. Perfect, perfect John.
Afterwards he lies in a content haze, hard floor forgotten for the moment and John warm and pliant in his arms. He's probably heavy, Sherlock can't quite tell. When the craving gets stronger than the reluctance to move, he fumbles for the nicotine patches in the pocket of his dressing gown. John stirs and sits up. Sherlock makes a point of not reacting when he pulls out. He watches John and John is starring at his hands as he peels the foil off the nicotine patch and sticks it to his arm. Post-coital, confused John. He will be livid in a few minutes. When John doesn't say anything Sherlock adds a second patch. He longs for a cigarette, though. There is something pleasing about the clean, almost medical application of patches, but a cigarette gives a subtle, utterly different kind of satisfaction when you watch it burn.
"I believe we have a wedding to attend," he says. Still a dull pain, nothing's changed.
The words make John look up and glare at him.
He just lifts a brow. "Wouldn't want to be late."
John growls something unrecognisable, sheds his rumpled shirt and steps under the shower. Sherlock washes at the sink and goes to his room where the clothes are laid out on his bed.
He is just putting on his waistcoat when John storms in, trousers done up now, shirt less than pristine, but probably acceptable under a dinner jacket.
"What the hell, Sherlock?" he asks very unspecifically. "You don't even have sex!"
"I do occasionally. I don't often see the point, but-"
"Oh great! So there is a point to fucking me on my wedding day!"
"It was hardly me who-"
"Don't start, Sherlock!" John warns and Sherlock grinds his teeth.
"Well, you certainly participated," he says coolly.
"I-" John breaks off with a frustrated groan and deflates slightly. "Yes, I know, all right? What I want to know is what you were thinking! You can't expect me to just go along with every new insanity."
"You already went along remarkably well," Sherlock points out.
"Stop it, Sherlock! I just want to know what this was about. That's not too much to ask, is it?"
Sherlock doesn't answer. There's nothing that makes sense and everything he can come up with is something he'd rather not tell John. Not good, all of it.
"Do you want me to not get married?" John tries. "Is that it? Because you had months and you did nothing, so... it's not some crazy manipulation, is it?"
Sherlock shakes his head. It's not. It would have been a good one a week ago, but now John will see it through. He won't blow off the wedding on the very day. And he's still mad at Sherlock, so that would have been a terrible plan. Sherlock is pretty sure that even his subconsciousness could do better.
They stare at each other for a long moment, John still almost married and maybe with even less room for Sherlock in his future.
"Come here," Sherlock says calmly. "I'll do your bow tie."
.
Characters: Sherlock/John, (Mary)
Words: ~ 2200
Rating/Warning: NC-17; this is smut, ladies and gentlemen, angsty smut; also quasi adultery, if you happen to find that scandalising; also gay sex, but I'm pretty sure you suspected that, being in fandom and all...
Summary: The first time John and Sherlock have sex is when they are both getting dressed up for John's wedding, was the prompt and it says it all.
A/N: I don't know how this happened, I don't even like writing sex.
Something Borrowed
There is a pain in Sherlock's chest since John showed him the ring. A persistent low ache, barely more than a shortness of breath, but never leaving.
"I'll ask her," he said. "This weekend. What do you think?" Was there a challenge in his voice? Sherlock couldn't tell, still doesn't know.
"She'll say yes," he answered through the trapped words that clogged his throat.
They are not alike; there are things about John Sherlock doesn't fully understand. Sherlock's brain is a machine, precise and efficient, his heart is a stranger. He is a creature of the present, comfortable in the certainty of facts, in a reality that is not more than the sum of what is and what has been. He doesn't understand how someone can live like John does: always searching for something that might not even exist, always dreaming, longing, wanting. Theorising ahead of the facts. Sherlock never wished for John before John and he never wished for more than what John gave him. He took what was offered and that was everything that mattered.
Now he feels bereft.
Now John dreams of a future with Mary.
Not even three hours until John will be hers. With that thought the realisation that once, John was his. Untrue. He never was. Could have been.
A whole new dimension.
Sherlock stands frozen before the bathroom mirror, clad in his dressing gown, razor still in hand. The man in the mirror looks like he's got a secret he won't tell.
The knock at the door startles him. John's knock, firm, two times, second knock slightly louder.
"Door's open," he says and when he turns around John is standing in the doorway, crisply white shirt tails hanging over unzipped black trousers; hair still a bit damp.
The pain is a hole in Sherlock's chest.
John holds his bow tie up with a sheepish smile. "Can't figure it out. Thought a toff like you would know what to do."
When Sherlock hesitates, John leans against the door frame. "Finish shaving first, I'll wait."
"I'm done," Sherlock says.
Two steps and they stand close, Sherlock's hand brushing John's as he takes the tie. Feels like he's not allowed to touch, though he clearly is, with John still smiling and not pulling back. He seems slightly nervous, but that is probably normal right before his wedding. Sherlock wouldn't know and he can't think about it. Touching John never felt dangerous before.
He loops the bow tie around John's neck, careful of the shirt collar, and ties it methodically. The task demands concentration mirrored on another man's throat. John holds still and his breath is a slight draught on Sherlock's chin. Warm and steady. When he is finished he pulls the bow into shape, his knuckles brushing over John's chest. Faint heartbeat under warm skin and stiff white cotton. He can't step back.
"Sherlock." John's voice is soft, just like his eyes are when Sherlock finally looks up. "It won't change our friendship."
He can't answer, not without calling John a liar. But part of him wants to. It's all John's fault anyway. He was fine until John came and he was fine until now. John is taking this away from him and he could hate him for it. But he couldn't. It all crumbles down, looking into John's eyes, thinking 'I hate you'; it's not real.
His hands shift to John's shoulders, holding him now. He can't let John take this away, he'll rather destroy it himself. He bends down, John freezes when their lips touch, but he doesn't pull away. For a moment it is just a chaste kiss and John's aftershave unfamiliar over the smell of detergent and John after a shower. He could stop it now, he could. A strange thing to do perhaps, kissing your friend before the wedding, but-
But John's hands have shifted to Sherlock's shoulders, unmoving, caught between shoving him away and pulling him closer. They aren't kissing any more, but close, their noses almost touching. John looks at him the way he does sometimes, unbelieving, amazed, terrified. Sherlock knows what it means. It means that Sherlock is about to do something utterly mad. It means that John will follow.
Sherlock pushes closer, his body against John's, mouth on the soft skin under his ear, one hand travelling down to sneak under the shirt.
"Sherlock," John groans, despairingly. Maybe intended as a protest, but the way it comes out it's anything but.
There is no resistance. John's arms are holding him close now and his head tilts to the side, giving Sherlock access.
The pain in Sherlock's chest explodes and spreads through his body. He can't breathe properly, he can't think. He only know that it ends today and whatever will become of his life will have less John in it. It's unacceptable now, but he knows he will accept it as a fact then. Truth is not negotiable. It will hurt less.
He kisses John, hard this time and deep. He wants to breathe him in, devour him. He pulls John's trousers down with the underwear, takes him in his hand. John's breath hitches and the hand on Sherlock's neck tightens and Sherlock wants. More than anything he wants one more moment where he is John's whole world. That used to be true, once.
"Fuck me," he says into John's ear, low and pleading. John's cock twitches and Sherlock tightens his grip.
"Why?" John says, breathlessly, confused. "Why now?"
Sherlock doesn't answer. There is nothing he could say that wouldn't result in John stopping this, no good answer and John knows. He sinks to his knees and takes John's cock into his mouth as far as possible. He's never done this and it has no direct physical appeal, but it's John's smell and taste and John who utters a string of profanities, John who has to grab for the handle of the bathroom door and Sherlock's shoulder to regain his balance. And none of the words John utters resembles 'Mary'.
He holds John's cock with one hand, sucks, pulls almost off and in again. He doesn't try for finesse, he has none. Works regardless, the grip on his shoulder is hard. He imagines the bruises that would form if it was hard enough. They would look lovely, like evidence.
He pulls away when John starts trembling and strokes his hands up his body, hips, abdomen, ribcage. Adoration, he thinks. John. He pulls him down carefully, to kneel too, and kisses him again, John's head trapped between both his hands. He likes this, likes how John's lips yield under his and the small sounds he makes, likes how John is his in this moment.
He is hard himself, dressing gown open and sliding down one shoulder, and now there is John's hand on him, small and broad and calloused. Utterly different from his own, distracting. He lets himself sink back and pulls John on top of him, between his legs. The bathroom floor is hard and the threshold uncomfortable against his left shoulder, but it can't be helped. Transition is out of the question, John could change his mind.
John pulls at his bow tie like it is choking him and Sherlock tears it of and fumbles open his collar. There is a spot right above John's collarbone that Sherlock always found particularly fascinating. A tendril of scar tissue that ends in a faint curl on slightly freckled skin. It's a soft place to bury his face when one of them almost died and it's where John smells best.
Licking there now, Sherlock knows that he's never been so close to losing John. Hot tears sting behind his eyes and he has to pull away. John's hand brushes from the back of his head over his cheekbone, down to his jaw. Sherlock can't read his expression. He takes John's hand in his and pulls two of his fingers into his mouth. John makes a noise that isn't more than a sharp intake of breath and lets his head fall down, hot breath against Sherlock's neck, then John's mouth. Sherlock shudders and almost bites John's fingers, then guides his hand down.
There's hesitation in the way John's hand gets heavier.
"Please," Sherlock says breathlessly between soft kisses to John's temple. "Please, John."
"We need-"
"No, do it," he interrupts with just the right mixture of force and pleading. The things he can make John do.
John growls something that could be 'pushy bastard' or no words at all and bites his neck, so endlessly careful to cause no damage, it makes Sherlock's head spin.
When the finger breaches him it's uncomfortable, hovering on the edge to actual pain, but never quite crossing. John has once asked him if he got off on pain (angry back then and afraid), but that's not it. Sherlock likes the control he feels in ignoring it. He likes that his mind can overcome his body. And this is not even pain, this is John being close and being his for a little while.
He tugs on John's hair so they can kiss again while John stretches him open. When John pushes in at last, it's too much for a moment. Not pain, though that is there, too, somewhere, just too much of everything. Too much to process. Sherlock makes a choked noise and he needs a moment to remember that everything is John and John is never too much. He clings to him helplessly for a few seconds, John says something soothing.
"It's good," Sherlock says eventually. "Move."
John does, slow at first, then faster, harder. Pushed up on his elbows, he's far enough away for Sherlock to see his face. Now his expression is open, defenceless. Sherlock stares and John looks away. He works one forearm under Sherlock's aching shoulder and rests his head against it. "John," Sherlock says just to hear it and reaches down to stroke himself.
"Sherlock." He feels it huffed against his collarbone more than he hears it and he strokes John's good shoulder, trailing his nails down to his hip and up again. John shudders and comes and Sherlock kisses him frantically. My John, he thinks when he comes himself a few moments later. Perfect, perfect John.
Afterwards he lies in a content haze, hard floor forgotten for the moment and John warm and pliant in his arms. He's probably heavy, Sherlock can't quite tell. When the craving gets stronger than the reluctance to move, he fumbles for the nicotine patches in the pocket of his dressing gown. John stirs and sits up. Sherlock makes a point of not reacting when he pulls out. He watches John and John is starring at his hands as he peels the foil off the nicotine patch and sticks it to his arm. Post-coital, confused John. He will be livid in a few minutes. When John doesn't say anything Sherlock adds a second patch. He longs for a cigarette, though. There is something pleasing about the clean, almost medical application of patches, but a cigarette gives a subtle, utterly different kind of satisfaction when you watch it burn.
"I believe we have a wedding to attend," he says. Still a dull pain, nothing's changed.
The words make John look up and glare at him.
He just lifts a brow. "Wouldn't want to be late."
John growls something unrecognisable, sheds his rumpled shirt and steps under the shower. Sherlock washes at the sink and goes to his room where the clothes are laid out on his bed.
He is just putting on his waistcoat when John storms in, trousers done up now, shirt less than pristine, but probably acceptable under a dinner jacket.
"What the hell, Sherlock?" he asks very unspecifically. "You don't even have sex!"
"I do occasionally. I don't often see the point, but-"
"Oh great! So there is a point to fucking me on my wedding day!"
"It was hardly me who-"
"Don't start, Sherlock!" John warns and Sherlock grinds his teeth.
"Well, you certainly participated," he says coolly.
"I-" John breaks off with a frustrated groan and deflates slightly. "Yes, I know, all right? What I want to know is what you were thinking! You can't expect me to just go along with every new insanity."
"You already went along remarkably well," Sherlock points out.
"Stop it, Sherlock! I just want to know what this was about. That's not too much to ask, is it?"
Sherlock doesn't answer. There's nothing that makes sense and everything he can come up with is something he'd rather not tell John. Not good, all of it.
"Do you want me to not get married?" John tries. "Is that it? Because you had months and you did nothing, so... it's not some crazy manipulation, is it?"
Sherlock shakes his head. It's not. It would have been a good one a week ago, but now John will see it through. He won't blow off the wedding on the very day. And he's still mad at Sherlock, so that would have been a terrible plan. Sherlock is pretty sure that even his subconsciousness could do better.
They stare at each other for a long moment, John still almost married and maybe with even less room for Sherlock in his future.
"Come here," Sherlock says calmly. "I'll do your bow tie."
.