With Me By Your Side Always
Title: With Me By Your Side Always
Author: janesgravity
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Rating: R
Word count: 2842
Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and, in this instance, the BBC. So not me. :-)
A/N: Written for the holmestice fic exchange. Gift for fuyu_no_fuhei Beta'd by i_bleed_magenta
Summary: Very loosely based on this prompt from http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/: “John and Sherlock go to a gay club for a case and everyone - and I mean everyone, even the bouncers and the bartender - hit on John.
Because dude, hot ex-soldier sitting alone at the bar, staring broodingly at the dance floor with an expression that says he will fuck you up or fuck you sideways depending on how nicely you ask? And his tight t-shirt clinging to his muscles? People are falling over themselves to try and hit that.
John thinks people are only chatting him up so they can use him to get closer to his gorgeous flatmate. And the more people hit on John, the more depressed he gets, because fuck, these people are young, beautiful, and fit. There's no way Sherlock would want a dull, sagging, plain-looking cripple when he could have any one of them. Meanwhile, Sherlock is silently fuming with possessive fury each time someone touches his John.”
“No, no. That won’t do at all. It’s taken me a great deal of time and trouble to track down this informant, John, and we are not going to this club with you looking like a bloody high school geography teacher. We have to blend in.”
John stands in the doorway of his bedroom and just watches as Sherlock starts going through his drawers and wardrobe, flinging his tidily arranged clothes anywhere.
“Sherlock. SHERLOCK! How can it possibly matter what I’m wearing? No one’s going to be looking at me ..” his protestations fade away as he watches Sherlock - impeccably dressed in perfectly fitted black trousers (John lets his eyes skitter over Sherlock’s ass - perfectly rounded and moulded by the fabric of said trousers just once … just … once) and a tailored shirt in some kind of blue/green/gray/purple colour that John knows doesn’t exist anywhere else and he’s wearing … boots. Sherlock’s wearing boots. With heels. Meaning he’ll be the tallest fucker in the room. Or, possibly London.
John drags his attention away again and sighs as he surveys his room, because he’s the one who’s going to have to bring order to this chaos tomorrow.
“Honestly, John, how is it that every piece of clothing you have makes you look like a high school geography teacher? Is there a store somewhere that just stocks sad jumpers and plaid shirts? Really …”
John just shrugs and starts unbuttoning his shirt. There are some fights that he will have with Sherlock - that he will go into battle for, but really what he wears to an exclusive gay club isn’t really one of them.
He thinks of protesting again when he sees what Sherlock’s laid out on the bed - a black t-shirt and faded blue jeans that he knows are at least one size too small for him. He weighs up his options as he peels off his shirt and studies the set of Sherlock’s chin. Nope. Not worth it. He’ll just have to hold his breath for however long this is going to to take and hope he can still walk by the end of the night.
“Right. Out,” he says, as brisk as he can. Sherlock looks up and frowns, but John folds his arms and stands his ground. “Privacy, Sherlock, actually means something to me. So. Out.”
Sherlock mutters something but strides past John anyway and John idly wonders for a minute whether Sherlock wishes he was wearing his coat so he could flourish the tail … shaking his head at his own fancy, John sighs, and battles his way into the clothes Sherlock has left out for him, sucking in his breath and praying for a quick end to the night.
“I look ridiculous,” he says, shifting uncomfortably in the too-tight jeans. “Why are you looking at me like that? I knew it, I look stupid …”
Before John can turn around and go back up to his room to change into something else, Sherlock has his hands on his shoulders (hands warm, fingertips digging in as they guide John towards the door …) “No time. He won’t wait all night. You look. Fine. You look fine.”
John grumbles mostly under his breath out of habit, because now it’s too late to do anything except battle into his own coat - Sherlock already wrapped up in his own (overly dramatic) black jacket - get down the stairs and out the door without breaking his neck and without leaning just enough so that Sherlock’s thumb would brush against skin ...
You’re a forty-year-old ex-serviceman doctor, John Watson, he tells himself sternly as they emerge into the cold, clear London night. You’re too old to fancy your flatmate - you’re too old to have a flatmate for god’s sake …
His thoughts break apart when Sherlock raises an arm to summon a taxi. John shivers, zips up his jacket and shifts his shoulders. He has no idea how the night is going to go, but he needs to be focused, just in case, because with Sherlock, anything could happen.
The club is off the beaten track somewhat; down a side-street, then another side-street; an alleyway and down a flight of ancient, concrete stairs.
John squares his shoulders and narrows his eyes, letting them flick around the alley, over and down the stairs to the door … he wishes he had his gun with him.
He follows Sherlock in, smiling absently at the bouncer who flicks a gaze to Sherlock, then back to John before smiling widely.
“First time?” he asks, leaning forward. John frowns, confused for a moment before glancing at Sherlock, who’s waiting for him just beyond the bouncer. Oh, of course.
“Yes,” he says, his voice forbidding as he crosses his arms.
“Right,” says the bouncer, apparently unphased. “You need anything … anything, you ask for Alfred.”
John just shakes his head and follows Sherlock into the club proper, the bass from whatever passes for music thumping under their feet.
John makes a beeline for the bar - if he’s going to be the conduit for people hitting on Sherlock all night, he’s going to need alcohol. And if things stay calm, he’s planning on drinking lots of alcohol, if the way the bartender is looking at Sherlock is anything to go by.
“I’ll just be - “ he has time to gesture at the bar before Sherlock nods, half-distracted already, pushing through the crowd. He makes an impressive figure, and with the boots, he’s about half a head taller than most of the other people there, so it’s not hard for John - once he’s settled on a stool, his jacket folded neatly beside him - to keep track of Sherlock in the crowd.
“What can I get you?” John starts slightly, realising the bartender who had so recently been staring at Sherlock is leaning over the bar, his arms propped up, his hands resting on the smooth marbletop.
If John didn’t know any better - hadn’t just seen the man practically undressing Sherlock, he’d swear he was flirting. He sighs, resigned to always being the less-attractive friend that potential partners feel obliged to be nice to, rather than the star of any potential two-man show.
“Uhm -”
“Wait, don’t tell me. Let me guess …” the bartender is attractive, in a generic sort of way - brown hair; brown eyes, a kind set to his mouth, and if John wasn’t feeling put out over Sherlock pulling him every which way possible and still being gorgeous, and elusive and impossible and - the bartender’s eyes flick over to Sherlock again, where he seems to have found the person he was looking for, and is soon engaged in earnest discussion. John sighs and says, “Just a beer, mate. Whatever you have on tap is fine.”
The stools swivel, he finds, so he turns his outward to watch the dancefloor, folding his arms absently as his eyes flick to the front, then the fire door, then the small hallway that obviously leads to the loos …
Someone jostles his elbow as they lean over the bar, trying to catch the bartender’s attention. His gaze flits to John, and a wide grin appears, lighting up his previously fairly average face. He’s 20, if he’s anything at all, and John suddenly feels all of his forty years, his scars, his war service, his silent, pointless devotion to Sherlock … he glances over to Sherlock again, engaged in an intense discussion with someone who keeps looking back at John.
Sherlock puts his hand on his informant’s shoulder and bends down, dragging his attention back.
The boy standing next to John looks over in the same direction, raises his eyebrows and turns back to John, moving imperceptibly closer.
“So - on your own then?”
John takes a sip of his beer and wonders if he wills himself to be fifteen years younger hard enough, it will work.
The boy, and god, suddenly John feels like the oldest perv on the planet for even considering it - even though he’s pretty sure the boy - who’s obviously drunk because now he’s practically on John’s lap and what the hell - ? - would laugh him out of the club.
The music changes to something booming and bass driven that makes John smile for a moment. He doesn’t recognise the song at all but it doesn’t matter because it makes him feel nostalgic suddenly and he this 20 year old boy leaning against him, his eyes fluttered almost closed, his body starting to sway to the drumming, encompassing beat.
His eyes flutter open again and he grins, bright and John thinks - for a second, just a second that the smile is for him. But then he shakes his head and points to the corner where Sherlock still has his informant pinned. He’s looking over at them, frowning, his gaze hard and his face impassive.
The boy shifts then - away from John and fast. “Er. Right. I’ll just be -” and just like that he’s gone, disappeared into the mass of bodies on the dancefloor.
John shoots his own glare at Sherlock then, because what the hell? Sherlock’s gaze - John tracks it with increasing bemusement - flicks from the boy to the bartender to the bouncer and back to John who just raises his eyebrows.
are you done he mouths across the room.
Sherlock shrugs, which could mean anything from five minutes to five hours, a chase across London rooftops and John threatening someone he’s never met with deep bodily harm.
John’s mildly surprised when Sherlock leans down briefly to his informant, pats him on the shoulder and starts making his way around the crowded dancefloor to John, the kind of intent on his face that makes John shiver at the base of his spine with want.
“We’re leaving,” Sherlock says abruptly, not waiting for John to say anything, or follow. John slips off the stool, picks up his jacket drops a note on the bar for his beer, before following in Sherlock’s wake.
“Sherlock - SHERLOCK - what the bloody hell - ah!” John bowls through the club as fast as he can in frustration but by the time he’s out the door, Sherlock is halfway down the street, one arm up, hailing a cab. He holds the door open for John, who ducks in, still wondering what on earth has just happened.
The ride back to Baker Street is silent. John stares out the window and puzzles over the night, wondering what’s happened that he’s missed. Because he’s obviously missed something.
He starts, a couple of times, to ask Sherlock what’s going on because what the hell, but Sherlock’s gaze is blank and unwelcoming, so John bites the inside of his mouth and keeps quiet.
The silence isn’t broken until they’re both inside 221B. Sherlock shrugs off his coat, hangs it up on one of the hooks by the door, and makes to move off towards his room, but John reaches out, catching the sleeve of Sherlock’s shirt.
“No you don’t. What the bloody hell was that?”
Sherlock stops, and for a moment John thinks he’s going to break his hold and not say anything, the line of his shoulders tense. John gently wraps his fingers around Sherlock’s wrist, sensing that they’re at the start of something - a major shift, a fall from a precipice, and he doesn’t know how it’s going to end, but the first step - into mid-air; into the unknown - has to be now.
“Sherlock,” John says, softer, rubbing at the thin skin of Sherlock’s inner wrist. Sherlock doesn’t move for a long, endless moment, his eyes fixed on John’s thumb which is still stroking over the same, too-visible blue vein.
He looks up, finally, but John can’t read anything in his face, which makes him nervous. He can’t claim to know all of Sherlock intimately, but he can usually read him - his expressions, his movements … but this stillness, and the opacity of his shuttered eyes … John doesn’t know what to do with this.
“Tell me something,” Sherlock says, suddenly and John startles, the action enough to make him drop Sherlock’s wrist.
He rubs his hand on his jeans, distracted momentarily. “What? Oh - anything,” he says, carelessly, but gratified when a small smile curves Sherlock’s mouth and warms his eyes.
Sherlock studies him for a moment, head tilted and John braces himself for the rapidfire deductions that he’s sure are next.
“Would you have gone home with any of them? Any of the men who tried to pick you up tonight.”
John blinks in surprise before opening his mouth, and closing it again. “The men who tried to pick me up? I thought -” he stops, crossing his arms in a useless defence against Sherlock’s too-sharp gaze.
“I thought … they were talking to me to try to get to you,” John says, fiddling with the zipper on his jacket before undoing it and taking it off. He hangs it beside Sherlock’s, the back of his neck too warm in the silent flat.
“You thought … you thought that … those men see you the way you see yourself,” Sherlock says, slowly, thoughtfully, like he’s just worked something out about John he didn’t know before.
John crosses his arms again and leans back against the closed door, watching Sherlock. “Do you want to know how they really see you, John?”
John would swear he didn’t see Sherlock move, but suddenly he’s close enough that John has to tilt his head up to meet Sherlock’s steady gaze.
He feels his pulse rising under the steady, searching look Sherlock’s giving him and resists the impulse to lick his lips. He plants his feet, clears his throat and says, “Well, go on then. How do they see me?”
“When you look in your mirror, John, you see a middle-aged man. Battle-scarred, weary and a little … worn-in. You see someone that you think others will dismiss out of hand as … getting over the hill. Unattractive. Unappealing.”
“Yes, all right Sherlock,” John says, stung as the words slice close to the bone. “Get to the point.”
Sherlock - if possible - moves even closer until there’s barely any space between them at all. John closes his eyes and resists the strong temptation to take a deep breath. He keeps his eyes closed as he feels Sherlock’s breath on the top of his ear as he starts speaking again, his voice low.
“So, you assume - wrongly - that these men are interested in me. When really ... what they saw in you, John, is what I see.”
“What’s … what do you see?” The words are tight in John’s throat; something coiling through him; his skin feeling heated and flushed all over.
“I see a man who is … very comfortable with himself. A man at home … in his own skin.”
Sherlock’s hands on his waist; his long fingers on the small of John’s back. John feels locked in place. His breath starts hitching and he tries to swallow it down, everything in him focused on Sherlock’s voice.
“They saw - I see - a man who … could do some damage; leave all kinds of marks behind on someone’s skin; depending on how prettily they said please. They saw - I see - a man capable of taking care of himself; of getting whatever he wants …”
“Sherlock,” John says finally, his voice strained, his whole body feeling like one giant nerve-receptor. Sherlock has one thigh insinuated between John’s legs now, and John’s forgotten why he should be embarrassed that he’s hard; too close to - “Sherlock,” he says again; clearer, but quieter.
Sherlock pulls back, but doesn’t take his hands away; digging his fingers into John’s t-shirt. He leans down and John moves, finally able to unlock the strange stasis he’s been in. He pushes up to meet Sherlock’s downward movement, and their mouths meet in the middle; clumsy at first, but warm. John pushes his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, threading them through the thick curls.
Eventually, John thinks hazily as Sherlock starts kissing his neck; seeking out sensitive spots with his tongue and oh god his teeth, they’re going to have to move; find a nice horizontal surface, or something, but for right now; with Sherlock’s tongue licking over a spot that makes John’s whole body feel like it’s going to combust and the word “mine”, being whispered against his skin over and over again …
“Yes,” he says when Sherlock moves to claim his mouth again.
“Yes.”
Author: janesgravity
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Rating: R
Word count: 2842
Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and, in this instance, the BBC. So not me. :-)
A/N: Written for the holmestice fic exchange. Gift for fuyu_no_fuhei Beta'd by i_bleed_magenta
Summary: Very loosely based on this prompt from http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/: “John and Sherlock go to a gay club for a case and everyone - and I mean everyone, even the bouncers and the bartender - hit on John.
Because dude, hot ex-soldier sitting alone at the bar, staring broodingly at the dance floor with an expression that says he will fuck you up or fuck you sideways depending on how nicely you ask? And his tight t-shirt clinging to his muscles? People are falling over themselves to try and hit that.
John thinks people are only chatting him up so they can use him to get closer to his gorgeous flatmate. And the more people hit on John, the more depressed he gets, because fuck, these people are young, beautiful, and fit. There's no way Sherlock would want a dull, sagging, plain-looking cripple when he could have any one of them. Meanwhile, Sherlock is silently fuming with possessive fury each time someone touches his John.”
“No, no. That won’t do at all. It’s taken me a great deal of time and trouble to track down this informant, John, and we are not going to this club with you looking like a bloody high school geography teacher. We have to blend in.”
John stands in the doorway of his bedroom and just watches as Sherlock starts going through his drawers and wardrobe, flinging his tidily arranged clothes anywhere.
“Sherlock. SHERLOCK! How can it possibly matter what I’m wearing? No one’s going to be looking at me ..” his protestations fade away as he watches Sherlock - impeccably dressed in perfectly fitted black trousers (John lets his eyes skitter over Sherlock’s ass - perfectly rounded and moulded by the fabric of said trousers just once … just … once) and a tailored shirt in some kind of blue/green/gray/purple colour that John knows doesn’t exist anywhere else and he’s wearing … boots. Sherlock’s wearing boots. With heels. Meaning he’ll be the tallest fucker in the room. Or, possibly London.
John drags his attention away again and sighs as he surveys his room, because he’s the one who’s going to have to bring order to this chaos tomorrow.
“Honestly, John, how is it that every piece of clothing you have makes you look like a high school geography teacher? Is there a store somewhere that just stocks sad jumpers and plaid shirts? Really …”
John just shrugs and starts unbuttoning his shirt. There are some fights that he will have with Sherlock - that he will go into battle for, but really what he wears to an exclusive gay club isn’t really one of them.
He thinks of protesting again when he sees what Sherlock’s laid out on the bed - a black t-shirt and faded blue jeans that he knows are at least one size too small for him. He weighs up his options as he peels off his shirt and studies the set of Sherlock’s chin. Nope. Not worth it. He’ll just have to hold his breath for however long this is going to to take and hope he can still walk by the end of the night.
“Right. Out,” he says, as brisk as he can. Sherlock looks up and frowns, but John folds his arms and stands his ground. “Privacy, Sherlock, actually means something to me. So. Out.”
Sherlock mutters something but strides past John anyway and John idly wonders for a minute whether Sherlock wishes he was wearing his coat so he could flourish the tail … shaking his head at his own fancy, John sighs, and battles his way into the clothes Sherlock has left out for him, sucking in his breath and praying for a quick end to the night.
“I look ridiculous,” he says, shifting uncomfortably in the too-tight jeans. “Why are you looking at me like that? I knew it, I look stupid …”
Before John can turn around and go back up to his room to change into something else, Sherlock has his hands on his shoulders (hands warm, fingertips digging in as they guide John towards the door …) “No time. He won’t wait all night. You look. Fine. You look fine.”
John grumbles mostly under his breath out of habit, because now it’s too late to do anything except battle into his own coat - Sherlock already wrapped up in his own (overly dramatic) black jacket - get down the stairs and out the door without breaking his neck and without leaning just enough so that Sherlock’s thumb would brush against skin ...
You’re a forty-year-old ex-serviceman doctor, John Watson, he tells himself sternly as they emerge into the cold, clear London night. You’re too old to fancy your flatmate - you’re too old to have a flatmate for god’s sake …
His thoughts break apart when Sherlock raises an arm to summon a taxi. John shivers, zips up his jacket and shifts his shoulders. He has no idea how the night is going to go, but he needs to be focused, just in case, because with Sherlock, anything could happen.
The club is off the beaten track somewhat; down a side-street, then another side-street; an alleyway and down a flight of ancient, concrete stairs.
John squares his shoulders and narrows his eyes, letting them flick around the alley, over and down the stairs to the door … he wishes he had his gun with him.
He follows Sherlock in, smiling absently at the bouncer who flicks a gaze to Sherlock, then back to John before smiling widely.
“First time?” he asks, leaning forward. John frowns, confused for a moment before glancing at Sherlock, who’s waiting for him just beyond the bouncer. Oh, of course.
“Yes,” he says, his voice forbidding as he crosses his arms.
“Right,” says the bouncer, apparently unphased. “You need anything … anything, you ask for Alfred.”
John just shakes his head and follows Sherlock into the club proper, the bass from whatever passes for music thumping under their feet.
John makes a beeline for the bar - if he’s going to be the conduit for people hitting on Sherlock all night, he’s going to need alcohol. And if things stay calm, he’s planning on drinking lots of alcohol, if the way the bartender is looking at Sherlock is anything to go by.
“I’ll just be - “ he has time to gesture at the bar before Sherlock nods, half-distracted already, pushing through the crowd. He makes an impressive figure, and with the boots, he’s about half a head taller than most of the other people there, so it’s not hard for John - once he’s settled on a stool, his jacket folded neatly beside him - to keep track of Sherlock in the crowd.
“What can I get you?” John starts slightly, realising the bartender who had so recently been staring at Sherlock is leaning over the bar, his arms propped up, his hands resting on the smooth marbletop.
If John didn’t know any better - hadn’t just seen the man practically undressing Sherlock, he’d swear he was flirting. He sighs, resigned to always being the less-attractive friend that potential partners feel obliged to be nice to, rather than the star of any potential two-man show.
“Uhm -”
“Wait, don’t tell me. Let me guess …” the bartender is attractive, in a generic sort of way - brown hair; brown eyes, a kind set to his mouth, and if John wasn’t feeling put out over Sherlock pulling him every which way possible and still being gorgeous, and elusive and impossible and - the bartender’s eyes flick over to Sherlock again, where he seems to have found the person he was looking for, and is soon engaged in earnest discussion. John sighs and says, “Just a beer, mate. Whatever you have on tap is fine.”
The stools swivel, he finds, so he turns his outward to watch the dancefloor, folding his arms absently as his eyes flick to the front, then the fire door, then the small hallway that obviously leads to the loos …
Someone jostles his elbow as they lean over the bar, trying to catch the bartender’s attention. His gaze flits to John, and a wide grin appears, lighting up his previously fairly average face. He’s 20, if he’s anything at all, and John suddenly feels all of his forty years, his scars, his war service, his silent, pointless devotion to Sherlock … he glances over to Sherlock again, engaged in an intense discussion with someone who keeps looking back at John.
Sherlock puts his hand on his informant’s shoulder and bends down, dragging his attention back.
The boy standing next to John looks over in the same direction, raises his eyebrows and turns back to John, moving imperceptibly closer.
“So - on your own then?”
John takes a sip of his beer and wonders if he wills himself to be fifteen years younger hard enough, it will work.
The boy, and god, suddenly John feels like the oldest perv on the planet for even considering it - even though he’s pretty sure the boy - who’s obviously drunk because now he’s practically on John’s lap and what the hell - ? - would laugh him out of the club.
The music changes to something booming and bass driven that makes John smile for a moment. He doesn’t recognise the song at all but it doesn’t matter because it makes him feel nostalgic suddenly and he this 20 year old boy leaning against him, his eyes fluttered almost closed, his body starting to sway to the drumming, encompassing beat.
His eyes flutter open again and he grins, bright and John thinks - for a second, just a second that the smile is for him. But then he shakes his head and points to the corner where Sherlock still has his informant pinned. He’s looking over at them, frowning, his gaze hard and his face impassive.
The boy shifts then - away from John and fast. “Er. Right. I’ll just be -” and just like that he’s gone, disappeared into the mass of bodies on the dancefloor.
John shoots his own glare at Sherlock then, because what the hell? Sherlock’s gaze - John tracks it with increasing bemusement - flicks from the boy to the bartender to the bouncer and back to John who just raises his eyebrows.
are you done he mouths across the room.
Sherlock shrugs, which could mean anything from five minutes to five hours, a chase across London rooftops and John threatening someone he’s never met with deep bodily harm.
John’s mildly surprised when Sherlock leans down briefly to his informant, pats him on the shoulder and starts making his way around the crowded dancefloor to John, the kind of intent on his face that makes John shiver at the base of his spine with want.
“We’re leaving,” Sherlock says abruptly, not waiting for John to say anything, or follow. John slips off the stool, picks up his jacket drops a note on the bar for his beer, before following in Sherlock’s wake.
“Sherlock - SHERLOCK - what the bloody hell - ah!” John bowls through the club as fast as he can in frustration but by the time he’s out the door, Sherlock is halfway down the street, one arm up, hailing a cab. He holds the door open for John, who ducks in, still wondering what on earth has just happened.
The ride back to Baker Street is silent. John stares out the window and puzzles over the night, wondering what’s happened that he’s missed. Because he’s obviously missed something.
He starts, a couple of times, to ask Sherlock what’s going on because what the hell, but Sherlock’s gaze is blank and unwelcoming, so John bites the inside of his mouth and keeps quiet.
The silence isn’t broken until they’re both inside 221B. Sherlock shrugs off his coat, hangs it up on one of the hooks by the door, and makes to move off towards his room, but John reaches out, catching the sleeve of Sherlock’s shirt.
“No you don’t. What the bloody hell was that?”
Sherlock stops, and for a moment John thinks he’s going to break his hold and not say anything, the line of his shoulders tense. John gently wraps his fingers around Sherlock’s wrist, sensing that they’re at the start of something - a major shift, a fall from a precipice, and he doesn’t know how it’s going to end, but the first step - into mid-air; into the unknown - has to be now.
“Sherlock,” John says, softer, rubbing at the thin skin of Sherlock’s inner wrist. Sherlock doesn’t move for a long, endless moment, his eyes fixed on John’s thumb which is still stroking over the same, too-visible blue vein.
He looks up, finally, but John can’t read anything in his face, which makes him nervous. He can’t claim to know all of Sherlock intimately, but he can usually read him - his expressions, his movements … but this stillness, and the opacity of his shuttered eyes … John doesn’t know what to do with this.
“Tell me something,” Sherlock says, suddenly and John startles, the action enough to make him drop Sherlock’s wrist.
He rubs his hand on his jeans, distracted momentarily. “What? Oh - anything,” he says, carelessly, but gratified when a small smile curves Sherlock’s mouth and warms his eyes.
Sherlock studies him for a moment, head tilted and John braces himself for the rapidfire deductions that he’s sure are next.
“Would you have gone home with any of them? Any of the men who tried to pick you up tonight.”
John blinks in surprise before opening his mouth, and closing it again. “The men who tried to pick me up? I thought -” he stops, crossing his arms in a useless defence against Sherlock’s too-sharp gaze.
“I thought … they were talking to me to try to get to you,” John says, fiddling with the zipper on his jacket before undoing it and taking it off. He hangs it beside Sherlock’s, the back of his neck too warm in the silent flat.
“You thought … you thought that … those men see you the way you see yourself,” Sherlock says, slowly, thoughtfully, like he’s just worked something out about John he didn’t know before.
John crosses his arms again and leans back against the closed door, watching Sherlock. “Do you want to know how they really see you, John?”
John would swear he didn’t see Sherlock move, but suddenly he’s close enough that John has to tilt his head up to meet Sherlock’s steady gaze.
He feels his pulse rising under the steady, searching look Sherlock’s giving him and resists the impulse to lick his lips. He plants his feet, clears his throat and says, “Well, go on then. How do they see me?”
“When you look in your mirror, John, you see a middle-aged man. Battle-scarred, weary and a little … worn-in. You see someone that you think others will dismiss out of hand as … getting over the hill. Unattractive. Unappealing.”
“Yes, all right Sherlock,” John says, stung as the words slice close to the bone. “Get to the point.”
Sherlock - if possible - moves even closer until there’s barely any space between them at all. John closes his eyes and resists the strong temptation to take a deep breath. He keeps his eyes closed as he feels Sherlock’s breath on the top of his ear as he starts speaking again, his voice low.
“So, you assume - wrongly - that these men are interested in me. When really ... what they saw in you, John, is what I see.”
“What’s … what do you see?” The words are tight in John’s throat; something coiling through him; his skin feeling heated and flushed all over.
“I see a man who is … very comfortable with himself. A man at home … in his own skin.”
Sherlock’s hands on his waist; his long fingers on the small of John’s back. John feels locked in place. His breath starts hitching and he tries to swallow it down, everything in him focused on Sherlock’s voice.
“They saw - I see - a man who … could do some damage; leave all kinds of marks behind on someone’s skin; depending on how prettily they said please. They saw - I see - a man capable of taking care of himself; of getting whatever he wants …”
“Sherlock,” John says finally, his voice strained, his whole body feeling like one giant nerve-receptor. Sherlock has one thigh insinuated between John’s legs now, and John’s forgotten why he should be embarrassed that he’s hard; too close to - “Sherlock,” he says again; clearer, but quieter.
Sherlock pulls back, but doesn’t take his hands away; digging his fingers into John’s t-shirt. He leans down and John moves, finally able to unlock the strange stasis he’s been in. He pushes up to meet Sherlock’s downward movement, and their mouths meet in the middle; clumsy at first, but warm. John pushes his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, threading them through the thick curls.
Eventually, John thinks hazily as Sherlock starts kissing his neck; seeking out sensitive spots with his tongue and oh god his teeth, they’re going to have to move; find a nice horizontal surface, or something, but for right now; with Sherlock’s tongue licking over a spot that makes John’s whole body feel like it’s going to combust and the word “mine”, being whispered against his skin over and over again …
“Yes,” he says when Sherlock moves to claim his mouth again.
“Yes.”