Fic: I Found You Sleeping Next To Me; I Thought I Was Alone (Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson)
Title: I Locked You Out; You Cut A Hole In The Wall
Fandom/Characters: Sherlock, Sherlock/John (and this time, the slash is, like, for-real slash)
Rated: R (for the usual--vomiting, snuggling, hands on things and stuff)
Word count: 2770+
Spoilers: s1 and s2
Summary: Following I Locked You Out; You Cut A Hole In The Wall, John and Sherlock sharing a bed in three acts: one time it's Sherlock's request as a patient; one time it's Sherlock's suggestion after a scare; and one time, it's the two of them coming home again.
("Lost" scenes from "A Scandal in Belgravia" and "The Hounds of Baskerville," then post-Reichenbach)
Notes: Once again not Brit-picked; not beta'ed either, since I was feeling impatient.
Chapter title from the James song "Laid." This time, the song has relevance...sexy relevance...
I. “Why Would I Need You?”
It turned out that Sherlock Holmes could vomit. Just like any other regular human being.
John shouldn’t have been surprised, speaking as a medical professional. But as Sherlock’s friend, he had to admit to a degree of shock. Even more surprising was that Sherlock did not deduce it was about to happen and, therefore, had his head stuck in his wastebasket rather than in a toilet as God, man, and most definitely John, would have intended. John had awoken to the sound of vomiting and flung open Sherlock’s bedroom door to find him sprawled on the floor, hands planted on either side of the bin, breathing heavily, nose running.
Good thing Lestrade had long gone, John thought to himself.
“All right; all right,” he repeated, patting Sherlock’s back. The undignified sound of Sherlock’s retching was his only reply.
After several minutes, Sherlock seemed spent. He pushed the bin forward and collapsed onto the floor, face first, groaning. “This was always the worst part,” he muttered into the carpet.
“Of what? Withdrawal? The vomiting was the worst part?”
“The lack of control. Body managing all sorts of unpleasant processes and tasks, all without one’s consent.”
John moved his hand from Sherlock’s back to his hair, moving his fingers around, aiming for something soothing but feeling ill at ease, as though Sherlock were going to snap at him for being condescending any moment.
“You can’t lay here on the floor next to your own sick all night,” John teased after a significant time of silence and immobility on Sherlock’s part had elapsed.
“Why not?” Sherlock burred.
“My leg is falling asleep. You’ll get rug imprint on your face.”
“Hmm.” Sherlock tipped his face so that he was looking up at John, who stilled his hand for a moment in the thicket of hair at the base of Sherlock’s skull. “Your bedside manner is delightful.”
John furrowed his brow. “Are you having me on while you smell like you do?”
“No!” Sherlock’s vehemence was followed by a protracted groan. “Don’t make me shout; my diaphragm hurts.”
“Nobody’s making you shout.” John sighed, moving his hand between his flatmate’s shoulder blades, patting encouragingly. “How’s this: you sit up, have a drink or two of water, get into bed, and if you like it so much you’re willing to practically roll about in puke, I’ll mess about with your hair for a while longer until, hopefully, you are rendered unconscious.”
“Now you’re being condescending,” Sherlock muttered as he sat up, putting his back against the mattress.
“My apologies. I’m going to take this...”--indicating the befouled wastebasket--”...out of here. Here’s water. Please don’t pour it out, because I’m not cleaning it up, and it’ll make the carpet musty.”
“I am aware of the effects of dehydration, John. One doesn’t need a doctorate in medicine to understand the balance of...”
“All right, arse. Just...drink it, yeah?”
Sherlock’s petulant manner of taking a draught, then mimicking soda-commercial refreshment would have been irritating if it weren’t so damn funny.
John dropped the bin in the sink, filled it with warm water and a liberal splash of bleach, and hoped to heaven he got back to it before Mrs. Hudson came up to fix breakfast. Grabbing a bucket from under the sink, he returned to Sherlock’s room, and found its resident was huddled on the left side of the bed, shivering under all the bedcovers.
“You okay?” John said, heading around to the other side.
“It’ll pass” was ground out through chattering teeth.
John lay on his side and said, “Probably don’t want me touching your hair at this point?”
Sherlock shook his head vehemently, then said, “I suppose it would trouble you and your obsession with people’s perception too much if I were to ask you to lie as close to me as you can until this passes.”
Rolling his eyes, John stood up, threw back the covers, and slid over until he was flush with Sherlock’s back (and backside, which, John realized with surprise, wasn’t as troubling as it should have been...though he supposed thinking about how untroubling it was indicated he was thinking about it in a way that should be troubling). He threw an arm over Sherlock and gave him a firm squeeze. “How’s that?”
“Sufficient.”
“You do talk sweet. Too bad you smell like a pub floor after a Saturday night.”
“John?”
“Yeah?”
“While I appreciate that you are sharpening your writer’s tool, kindly shut up.”
John awoke, face buried in the nape of Sherlock’s neck, to the sound of Mrs. Hudson shouting, “Bloody hell!” at the no-doubt-fetid bin in her sink.
II. “Sorry We Couldn’t Do A Double Room For You Boys”
After all the kerfuffle on the moors, it was well into 3 a.m. when John and Sherlock made it back to the inn. Sherlock’s post-case mellowness made John envious, as he still hadn’t quite shaken the events in the lab, not to mention shooting a dog. He took off his shoes and settled in one of the armchairs by the window, prepared to watch the sun rise after reading more of the old De Mille novel he’d unearthed from the restaurant’s take one-leave one library.
“You once did me a service,” Sherlock said just above his shoulder, “when I was recovering from an unfortunate drugging.”
John looked up at him, feeling the exhaustion resulting from the last three days settling in around his eyes and in his shoulders. “Remember that, do you? By the time I assured Mrs. Hudson I didn’t expect her to clean up the simmering vomit in our sink, you’d headed into the shower. Then Mycroft showed up and...”
“Yes. ‘And’ about covers that.” Sherlock’s hands settled at the top of the chair. “Is there something I can...do for you?”
There was a peculiar pinging somewhere in John’s chest that made him think of shrapnel, the way it hit an unintended target and rattled around. Only Sherlock’s genuine, reluctant kindness wasn’t fired from a gun and wasn’t meant to hurt.
It did anyway. John sat, quiet and motionless for several moments, looking out the window.
Sherlock settled a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “Do you remember, after the murdered prostitutes and that bank employee, when you...shared that scenario about leaving the flat?”
John nodded.
“You said you were comforted, subconsciously, by the notion you and I would always find each other.”
“Yes. And then you accused me of planning some elaborate seduction.” John was sure to put a thread of amusement in his tone so that Sherlock wouldn’t take offense or get derailed from whatever kindness he was aiming for.
“Well... I’m still not certain I was entirely wrong. You did have a particularly focused expression on your face just as we were preparing to leave the room.”
“Me? You were the one who stalked me into a corner while I was in a state of undress, you great pervert. If anyone was trying to get a leg over...” The rest of John’s playful protest was drowned out by Sherlock’s mouth pressed to his own at an awkward angle, as Sherlock was half-dangling over the top of the armchair. John tasted sugary tea and heat, closed his eyes and found his mind blank and calm. Perhaps after the evening’s events, his body simply had no more epinephrine to give.
The kiss ended when Sherlock turned his head and took a seat on the arm of the chair, then whispered into John’s ear,“You are, on occasion, very astute, even if subconsciously.” John wasn’t sure if his friend was referring to the implication of seduction or the statement that the two of them would always find one another. He didn’t ask, as he was best trying to figure out how to stand up and get another kiss in, just for science, just to see if his mind was still empty of thought or panic.
But John found himself rooted to the chair. “This your way of doing something to help?”
“Perhaps. Does it help?”
“Does it...well, do you...I’m confused.”
Sherlock gave him a look that implied “That’s nothing new, is it?” to which John said, “Shut up,” though Sherlock really hadn’t said the words. Then he followed with “Sherlock...” though he had no idea what he wanted to say or ask next.
“Yes, John?”
“What are we doing?”
“Passing the time until the sun comes up in a way that’s more soothing than reading the spy thriller you dug up.” John felt the brush of fingertips against his throat, just a hint of skin-on-skin contact that sent a hot charge of physical want into John’s core.
His throat tight, John swallowed hard and asked, “I thought ‘passing the time’ wasn’t your area?”
Sherlock shrugged. “‘Not my area’ didn’t imply I didn’t have any experience at all. Of course, I don’t remember a good portion of it, as I wasn’t always lucid at the time.”
“And why now?”
Another shrug. “It doesn’t have to be anything that is cause for some kind of emotional and psychological crisis on your part.”
John felt as though he must look something like an owl, all wide eyes and enormous pupils. “I’m pretty sure that this conversation is already giving me ample grounds for crisis.”
Sherlock slid down the length of the chair to his knees, almost as though someone had removed a significant portion of his skeletal system. John was disturbed by how erotic it was, how the sight was enough to begin to send blood coursing, expanding tissue, and all the rest of the glorious science of penile arousal.
“Hand or mouth?”
The question, with all its implications, in that rich, dark baritone, caused John to involuntarily move his hand to his groin and press down. “Jesus” escaped his lips before he could catch it.
“No, John, though I can understand the confusion.” Sherlock began to unbutton his sleeves and roll up the wrists.
Biting his lower lip so hard he felt a pinch of pain, John watched Sherlock patiently await an answer. “I...don’t...this is...”
Clever, long fingers wove into John’s, and then there was a movement of bones that resulted in John massaging himself through his jeans. He threw his head back against the chair, closed his eyes, and moved his legs further apart.
John felt, rather than saw, Sherlock insinuate himself between John’s knees and begin to undo his fly, then work John free of his boxers. The question was repeated, “Hand or mouth?” and John felt as his hips twitched upwards in response.
“Just...just the hand.” John opened his eyes in time to see Sherlock lick his own palm several times. He drove his teeth into his lower lip again, searched for the bolt of pain that would tell him he wasn’t dreaming, pain that should have encouraged him to stop whatever madness was about to happen.
But then Sherlock wrapped his hand around him, and John knew it was all a lost cause. He was too hard, wanting sex and release too much, and the mental image of Sherlock licking his own palm was a sort of looped bit of mental pornography that kept John rooted in place as Sherlock stroked steadily, using John’s own fluids as a supplement to the evaporating saliva.
Sherlock looked up from his work, and the eye contact caused John to dig his fingers into the arms of the chair to keep from coming on Sherlock’s face (which would have seemed rude rather than sexy, John found himself thinking). “Hydrogen,” John gritted. “Helium. Lithium Beryllium.”
“The periodic table, John? Now you really are trying to get a leg over on me.” The vulpine smile struck John somewhere competitive and hot, and he was almost seized by a desire to put Sherlock onto his back with a shove and rut himself into orgasm somewhere, anywhere on Sherlock’s bare skin.
“I’m close,” John announced.
“I’m well aware of that. You’re flushing on your neck and cheeks. I can feel the muscle contractions. What do you want?”
“To be...against you. I want to...” The rest of the sentence cut off in a groan as Sherlock slid his lips over the head of John’s dick, and John climaxed, ejaculating hard down his (platonic, God, until now, platonic) flatmate’s throat.
Sherlock stood and headed for the bathroom, where John heard him spit into the sink, then rinse his mouth with water. Then, quite audibly, Sherlock unzipped and hit the pump on the (pine-scented) lotion several times. John covered his face with his hand as he listened to the slick sounds of Sherlock stroking himself into an efficient orgasm of his own. The sound of Sherlock humming a perfect third and gripping the sink with one hand induced residual aching waves of lust, and John held onto his own softening dick for longer than was strictly necessary to put himself away.
Then the bathroom door swung closed.
John stripped down to his usual spring bedtime attire of his hoodie and cotton pyjama pants and slid into his bed. Despite the last rather eventful 20 minutes, John was socked with exhaustion, and when his head hit the pillow, he closed his eyes with relief. Not longer after he did, Sherlock emerged from the bathroom in a similar nighttime uniform--tee instead of hoodie, addition of a dressing gown--and, rather than collapse into his own twin bed, made his way over to John and unceremoniously threw himself half on top of his swaddled roommate.
“Ouch,” John grumbled half-heartedly.
Sherlock responded by cinching his left arm tightly around John’s upper body and emitting a sort of masculine purr.
Picking up his face from his pillow and forcing his eyes open for what he hoped was the last time for several hours, John asked (very rhetorically), “This is completely cocked up. You know that, right?”
Sherlock closed his eyes, quirked a corner of his mouth into a sort of facial shrug.
After inhaling deeply, then closing his eyes, John added, “And you smell like floor cleaner.”
That earned a chuckle. “I admit to not thinking through the consequences of the complimentary lotion.”
When John awoke at half-past ten, he felt refreshed and famished; Sherlock was already out of bed and having a morning cuppa with Greg.
They went about their day as if nothing had ever happened.
III. After The Fall
There were many feelings to sort out after Sherlock’s re-emergence in his life--relief, anger, more anger--but the one John hadn’t anticipated was the achy, pining feeling he had when, after days of nearly round-the-clock contact, either awake and talking or sleeping in various corners of the living room, he and Sherlock retired to their own bedrooms.
John lie awake for an hour watching the clock on his nightstand tick away. He tried reading himself into a snooze;no good. Then John tried to think peaceful thoughts, but all that came to mind was Sherlock’s grave in that quiet country churchyard and how the sounds of the city--traffic, people, sirens--seemed so absent it made John nervous, unconvinced that Sherlock would be able to find eternal rest there.
The last bit drove him from his bed down the stairs. Sherlock’s door was closed, which was almost enough to send John to his chair in the sitting room or back to his own room. But the nagging hope that seeing Sherlock alive and sleeping would be a sufficient balm moved him to the door, where he tapped and awaited a response.
Receiving none, John cautiously opened the door and whispered “Sherlock?”
Sherlock was sitting up against his headboard, his violin cradled to his chest, wide awake.
“Hello, John.” It reminded John, in an almost visceral way, of seeing Sherlock for the first time after his resurrection, the way he’d said “hello” as if they were meeting each other at airport baggage after a long, unwanted trip.
“Hello.” John clung to the door, like ship wreckage.
He wondered if that made Sherlock’s bed the rescue boat.
“Trouble sleeping?”
“I thought obvious questions were my line.” Sherlock smiled. He hadn’t done much of that since coming back. Then again, John had made precious few jokes.
Sherlock threw back the covers on the right side of the bed; John took in a hard, sharp breath.
Then, like always, John was compelled forward. Because Sherlock would lead him into something mad and frustrating, but also exhilarating and right.
Fandom/Characters: Sherlock, Sherlock/John (and this time, the slash is, like, for-real slash)
Rated: R (for the usual--vomiting, snuggling, hands on things and stuff)
Word count: 2770+
Spoilers: s1 and s2
Summary: Following I Locked You Out; You Cut A Hole In The Wall, John and Sherlock sharing a bed in three acts: one time it's Sherlock's request as a patient; one time it's Sherlock's suggestion after a scare; and one time, it's the two of them coming home again.
("Lost" scenes from "A Scandal in Belgravia" and "The Hounds of Baskerville," then post-Reichenbach)
Notes: Once again not Brit-picked; not beta'ed either, since I was feeling impatient.
Chapter title from the James song "Laid." This time, the song has relevance...sexy relevance...
I. “Why Would I Need You?”
It turned out that Sherlock Holmes could vomit. Just like any other regular human being.
John shouldn’t have been surprised, speaking as a medical professional. But as Sherlock’s friend, he had to admit to a degree of shock. Even more surprising was that Sherlock did not deduce it was about to happen and, therefore, had his head stuck in his wastebasket rather than in a toilet as God, man, and most definitely John, would have intended. John had awoken to the sound of vomiting and flung open Sherlock’s bedroom door to find him sprawled on the floor, hands planted on either side of the bin, breathing heavily, nose running.
Good thing Lestrade had long gone, John thought to himself.
“All right; all right,” he repeated, patting Sherlock’s back. The undignified sound of Sherlock’s retching was his only reply.
After several minutes, Sherlock seemed spent. He pushed the bin forward and collapsed onto the floor, face first, groaning. “This was always the worst part,” he muttered into the carpet.
“Of what? Withdrawal? The vomiting was the worst part?”
“The lack of control. Body managing all sorts of unpleasant processes and tasks, all without one’s consent.”
John moved his hand from Sherlock’s back to his hair, moving his fingers around, aiming for something soothing but feeling ill at ease, as though Sherlock were going to snap at him for being condescending any moment.
“You can’t lay here on the floor next to your own sick all night,” John teased after a significant time of silence and immobility on Sherlock’s part had elapsed.
“Why not?” Sherlock burred.
“My leg is falling asleep. You’ll get rug imprint on your face.”
“Hmm.” Sherlock tipped his face so that he was looking up at John, who stilled his hand for a moment in the thicket of hair at the base of Sherlock’s skull. “Your bedside manner is delightful.”
John furrowed his brow. “Are you having me on while you smell like you do?”
“No!” Sherlock’s vehemence was followed by a protracted groan. “Don’t make me shout; my diaphragm hurts.”
“Nobody’s making you shout.” John sighed, moving his hand between his flatmate’s shoulder blades, patting encouragingly. “How’s this: you sit up, have a drink or two of water, get into bed, and if you like it so much you’re willing to practically roll about in puke, I’ll mess about with your hair for a while longer until, hopefully, you are rendered unconscious.”
“Now you’re being condescending,” Sherlock muttered as he sat up, putting his back against the mattress.
“My apologies. I’m going to take this...”--indicating the befouled wastebasket--”...out of here. Here’s water. Please don’t pour it out, because I’m not cleaning it up, and it’ll make the carpet musty.”
“I am aware of the effects of dehydration, John. One doesn’t need a doctorate in medicine to understand the balance of...”
“All right, arse. Just...drink it, yeah?”
Sherlock’s petulant manner of taking a draught, then mimicking soda-commercial refreshment would have been irritating if it weren’t so damn funny.
John dropped the bin in the sink, filled it with warm water and a liberal splash of bleach, and hoped to heaven he got back to it before Mrs. Hudson came up to fix breakfast. Grabbing a bucket from under the sink, he returned to Sherlock’s room, and found its resident was huddled on the left side of the bed, shivering under all the bedcovers.
“You okay?” John said, heading around to the other side.
“It’ll pass” was ground out through chattering teeth.
John lay on his side and said, “Probably don’t want me touching your hair at this point?”
Sherlock shook his head vehemently, then said, “I suppose it would trouble you and your obsession with people’s perception too much if I were to ask you to lie as close to me as you can until this passes.”
Rolling his eyes, John stood up, threw back the covers, and slid over until he was flush with Sherlock’s back (and backside, which, John realized with surprise, wasn’t as troubling as it should have been...though he supposed thinking about how untroubling it was indicated he was thinking about it in a way that should be troubling). He threw an arm over Sherlock and gave him a firm squeeze. “How’s that?”
“Sufficient.”
“You do talk sweet. Too bad you smell like a pub floor after a Saturday night.”
“John?”
“Yeah?”
“While I appreciate that you are sharpening your writer’s tool, kindly shut up.”
John awoke, face buried in the nape of Sherlock’s neck, to the sound of Mrs. Hudson shouting, “Bloody hell!” at the no-doubt-fetid bin in her sink.
II. “Sorry We Couldn’t Do A Double Room For You Boys”
After all the kerfuffle on the moors, it was well into 3 a.m. when John and Sherlock made it back to the inn. Sherlock’s post-case mellowness made John envious, as he still hadn’t quite shaken the events in the lab, not to mention shooting a dog. He took off his shoes and settled in one of the armchairs by the window, prepared to watch the sun rise after reading more of the old De Mille novel he’d unearthed from the restaurant’s take one-leave one library.
“You once did me a service,” Sherlock said just above his shoulder, “when I was recovering from an unfortunate drugging.”
John looked up at him, feeling the exhaustion resulting from the last three days settling in around his eyes and in his shoulders. “Remember that, do you? By the time I assured Mrs. Hudson I didn’t expect her to clean up the simmering vomit in our sink, you’d headed into the shower. Then Mycroft showed up and...”
“Yes. ‘And’ about covers that.” Sherlock’s hands settled at the top of the chair. “Is there something I can...do for you?”
There was a peculiar pinging somewhere in John’s chest that made him think of shrapnel, the way it hit an unintended target and rattled around. Only Sherlock’s genuine, reluctant kindness wasn’t fired from a gun and wasn’t meant to hurt.
It did anyway. John sat, quiet and motionless for several moments, looking out the window.
Sherlock settled a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “Do you remember, after the murdered prostitutes and that bank employee, when you...shared that scenario about leaving the flat?”
John nodded.
“You said you were comforted, subconsciously, by the notion you and I would always find each other.”
“Yes. And then you accused me of planning some elaborate seduction.” John was sure to put a thread of amusement in his tone so that Sherlock wouldn’t take offense or get derailed from whatever kindness he was aiming for.
“Well... I’m still not certain I was entirely wrong. You did have a particularly focused expression on your face just as we were preparing to leave the room.”
“Me? You were the one who stalked me into a corner while I was in a state of undress, you great pervert. If anyone was trying to get a leg over...” The rest of John’s playful protest was drowned out by Sherlock’s mouth pressed to his own at an awkward angle, as Sherlock was half-dangling over the top of the armchair. John tasted sugary tea and heat, closed his eyes and found his mind blank and calm. Perhaps after the evening’s events, his body simply had no more epinephrine to give.
The kiss ended when Sherlock turned his head and took a seat on the arm of the chair, then whispered into John’s ear,“You are, on occasion, very astute, even if subconsciously.” John wasn’t sure if his friend was referring to the implication of seduction or the statement that the two of them would always find one another. He didn’t ask, as he was best trying to figure out how to stand up and get another kiss in, just for science, just to see if his mind was still empty of thought or panic.
But John found himself rooted to the chair. “This your way of doing something to help?”
“Perhaps. Does it help?”
“Does it...well, do you...I’m confused.”
Sherlock gave him a look that implied “That’s nothing new, is it?” to which John said, “Shut up,” though Sherlock really hadn’t said the words. Then he followed with “Sherlock...” though he had no idea what he wanted to say or ask next.
“Yes, John?”
“What are we doing?”
“Passing the time until the sun comes up in a way that’s more soothing than reading the spy thriller you dug up.” John felt the brush of fingertips against his throat, just a hint of skin-on-skin contact that sent a hot charge of physical want into John’s core.
His throat tight, John swallowed hard and asked, “I thought ‘passing the time’ wasn’t your area?”
Sherlock shrugged. “‘Not my area’ didn’t imply I didn’t have any experience at all. Of course, I don’t remember a good portion of it, as I wasn’t always lucid at the time.”
“And why now?”
Another shrug. “It doesn’t have to be anything that is cause for some kind of emotional and psychological crisis on your part.”
John felt as though he must look something like an owl, all wide eyes and enormous pupils. “I’m pretty sure that this conversation is already giving me ample grounds for crisis.”
Sherlock slid down the length of the chair to his knees, almost as though someone had removed a significant portion of his skeletal system. John was disturbed by how erotic it was, how the sight was enough to begin to send blood coursing, expanding tissue, and all the rest of the glorious science of penile arousal.
“Hand or mouth?”
The question, with all its implications, in that rich, dark baritone, caused John to involuntarily move his hand to his groin and press down. “Jesus” escaped his lips before he could catch it.
“No, John, though I can understand the confusion.” Sherlock began to unbutton his sleeves and roll up the wrists.
Biting his lower lip so hard he felt a pinch of pain, John watched Sherlock patiently await an answer. “I...don’t...this is...”
Clever, long fingers wove into John’s, and then there was a movement of bones that resulted in John massaging himself through his jeans. He threw his head back against the chair, closed his eyes, and moved his legs further apart.
John felt, rather than saw, Sherlock insinuate himself between John’s knees and begin to undo his fly, then work John free of his boxers. The question was repeated, “Hand or mouth?” and John felt as his hips twitched upwards in response.
“Just...just the hand.” John opened his eyes in time to see Sherlock lick his own palm several times. He drove his teeth into his lower lip again, searched for the bolt of pain that would tell him he wasn’t dreaming, pain that should have encouraged him to stop whatever madness was about to happen.
But then Sherlock wrapped his hand around him, and John knew it was all a lost cause. He was too hard, wanting sex and release too much, and the mental image of Sherlock licking his own palm was a sort of looped bit of mental pornography that kept John rooted in place as Sherlock stroked steadily, using John’s own fluids as a supplement to the evaporating saliva.
Sherlock looked up from his work, and the eye contact caused John to dig his fingers into the arms of the chair to keep from coming on Sherlock’s face (which would have seemed rude rather than sexy, John found himself thinking). “Hydrogen,” John gritted. “Helium. Lithium Beryllium.”
“The periodic table, John? Now you really are trying to get a leg over on me.” The vulpine smile struck John somewhere competitive and hot, and he was almost seized by a desire to put Sherlock onto his back with a shove and rut himself into orgasm somewhere, anywhere on Sherlock’s bare skin.
“I’m close,” John announced.
“I’m well aware of that. You’re flushing on your neck and cheeks. I can feel the muscle contractions. What do you want?”
“To be...against you. I want to...” The rest of the sentence cut off in a groan as Sherlock slid his lips over the head of John’s dick, and John climaxed, ejaculating hard down his (platonic, God, until now, platonic) flatmate’s throat.
Sherlock stood and headed for the bathroom, where John heard him spit into the sink, then rinse his mouth with water. Then, quite audibly, Sherlock unzipped and hit the pump on the (pine-scented) lotion several times. John covered his face with his hand as he listened to the slick sounds of Sherlock stroking himself into an efficient orgasm of his own. The sound of Sherlock humming a perfect third and gripping the sink with one hand induced residual aching waves of lust, and John held onto his own softening dick for longer than was strictly necessary to put himself away.
Then the bathroom door swung closed.
John stripped down to his usual spring bedtime attire of his hoodie and cotton pyjama pants and slid into his bed. Despite the last rather eventful 20 minutes, John was socked with exhaustion, and when his head hit the pillow, he closed his eyes with relief. Not longer after he did, Sherlock emerged from the bathroom in a similar nighttime uniform--tee instead of hoodie, addition of a dressing gown--and, rather than collapse into his own twin bed, made his way over to John and unceremoniously threw himself half on top of his swaddled roommate.
“Ouch,” John grumbled half-heartedly.
Sherlock responded by cinching his left arm tightly around John’s upper body and emitting a sort of masculine purr.
Picking up his face from his pillow and forcing his eyes open for what he hoped was the last time for several hours, John asked (very rhetorically), “This is completely cocked up. You know that, right?”
Sherlock closed his eyes, quirked a corner of his mouth into a sort of facial shrug.
After inhaling deeply, then closing his eyes, John added, “And you smell like floor cleaner.”
That earned a chuckle. “I admit to not thinking through the consequences of the complimentary lotion.”
When John awoke at half-past ten, he felt refreshed and famished; Sherlock was already out of bed and having a morning cuppa with Greg.
They went about their day as if nothing had ever happened.
III. After The Fall
There were many feelings to sort out after Sherlock’s re-emergence in his life--relief, anger, more anger--but the one John hadn’t anticipated was the achy, pining feeling he had when, after days of nearly round-the-clock contact, either awake and talking or sleeping in various corners of the living room, he and Sherlock retired to their own bedrooms.
John lie awake for an hour watching the clock on his nightstand tick away. He tried reading himself into a snooze;no good. Then John tried to think peaceful thoughts, but all that came to mind was Sherlock’s grave in that quiet country churchyard and how the sounds of the city--traffic, people, sirens--seemed so absent it made John nervous, unconvinced that Sherlock would be able to find eternal rest there.
The last bit drove him from his bed down the stairs. Sherlock’s door was closed, which was almost enough to send John to his chair in the sitting room or back to his own room. But the nagging hope that seeing Sherlock alive and sleeping would be a sufficient balm moved him to the door, where he tapped and awaited a response.
Receiving none, John cautiously opened the door and whispered “Sherlock?”
Sherlock was sitting up against his headboard, his violin cradled to his chest, wide awake.
“Hello, John.” It reminded John, in an almost visceral way, of seeing Sherlock for the first time after his resurrection, the way he’d said “hello” as if they were meeting each other at airport baggage after a long, unwanted trip.
“Hello.” John clung to the door, like ship wreckage.
He wondered if that made Sherlock’s bed the rescue boat.
“Trouble sleeping?”
“I thought obvious questions were my line.” Sherlock smiled. He hadn’t done much of that since coming back. Then again, John had made precious few jokes.
Sherlock threw back the covers on the right side of the bed; John took in a hard, sharp breath.
Then, like always, John was compelled forward. Because Sherlock would lead him into something mad and frustrating, but also exhilarating and right.