Fic for lyrical_sky: Butterfly, Pinned Under Glass
Title:Butterfly, Pinned Under Glass
Recipient: lyrical_sky
Author: [to be revealed]
Rating:Explicit
Word Count:~4,700
Warnings:Barebacking, minor come-play, jealous/possessive behavior
Summary:It started as a desire to keep John safe and whole, and ended up as just desire.
Butterfly, Pinned Under Glass
Sherlock didn't awaken in the hospital asking about John. Asking about John was pointless. He had no option but to be alive. Any other outcome was inconceivable.
Even if he had wanted to ask, Mycroft was there to tell him before he could form the words. Mycroft's men had dug them out of the rubble that used to be the pool where Carl Powers died, where John Watson could have died, and where Moriarty should have died. The vest had been a decoy, just smoke and a small explosion. The bomb on the roof Moriarty triggered as he ran had been real though. There was no way John could have known that, but Sherlock should have. It was so stupid that he hadn’t realized Moriarty would never have put himself in the line of fire like that. A split second after Sherlock pulled the trigger, John knocked Sherlock to the ground and shielded him with his body and subsequently took most of the roof on his broad back. Stupid, foolish man. Mycroft calmly and coolly related the extent of John's injuries, not life threatening but serious, before leaving Sherlock to sulk alone in his hospital room.
Even though Sherlock knows John will recover, he still spends the two days John falls in and out of consciousness by his bedside.
On the first day, Sherlock texts Mycroft.
Take care of it. SH
You won't handle this yourself? MH
I'm staying with him. SH
On the second day, John asks Sherlock, “When Moriarty said he'd burn the heart out of you? What did it mean?”
“It meant he was a mad man. Go back to sleep, John.”
But they both know that isn’t quite true.
***********************
It’s several weeks before John is able to return to work at the surgery. Weeks that Sherlock spent keeping John within sight as much as possible. Sherlock only left the flat when John was able to go with him and only a closed door within 221b Baker Street kept Sherlock from watching John Watson. John had even taken to sleeping with his bedroom door ajar, which Sherlock noticed when the urge to check on his flatmate in the night became overwhelming.
Now that John is away from him for the first time since the he regained consciousness after Moriarty’s bomb, Sherlock feels like his skin is trying to crawl from his muscles. Like he would split himself in half to have John back with him. Instead, he’ll have to make do with texting him. Any contact is better than none, after all.
John, when will you return home? SH
In time 4 dinner. Ive only been gone an hour & a half. JW
Sherlock goes back to tending an experiment. He can wait.
Do we have any more bleach? I used the bottle under the kitchen sink. SH
IDK Bathroom? JW
There’s none there. SH
Ill get another bottle on my way home. JW
No, I’ll go and get it. SH
Need it that badly then? JW
Not really. SH
John needs to come directly home after the surgery. Sherlock wants him back under his gaze far more than he wants to avoid going to the shop himself. Besides, he has hours before John gets back. He has the time to go out and nothing better to do.
John, do you prefer whole or semi-skimmed milk? I’m at the shop now. SH
…
John? SH
…
John, are you well? Do you need me? SH
…
John, are you hurt? I’m coming to the surgery. SH
Sherlock Im fine. Im at work. Working. JW
You should answer my texts in a more timely fashion. It’s the only way to confirm that you don’t need my assistance. SH
Im not going anywhere. He took me once but he wont again. Im here to stay, K? JW
I know. SH
Semi-skimmed is fine. JW
John comes home from the surgery right on time that first day. He makes tea and drinks the milk Sherlock bought. After that it gets easier to have John away from him. Easier, but not entirely comfortable.
***********************
Sherlock waits until he’s sure John is fully recovered before taking another case for Lestrade. He watches John’s wounds heal, his bruises fade, and his steps grow stronger. He needs John to be at his best, both for John and himself. It helps that most of what Lestrade brings him is boring and disgustingly easy to solve. He lives in amazement that the majority of Scotland Yard manages to keep their jobs at all.
In retrospect, Sherlock probably should have been paying more attention to the crime scene than to John’s quiet conversation with Lestrade. But John was smiling at Lestrade, they were laughing together, and didn’t John know he was here to help Sherlock not moon over the detective inspector? Why would John bother being friendly to Lestrade when it was so obvious that this wasn’t actually a crime scene? It was just a dump site, and the killer wouldn’t have gone far before the police showed up. The killer wanted to see this, wanted to watch the police bumble around like idiots. In fact he probably hadn’t left the scene at all... Oh.
After that, everything happens quickly. Sherlock identifies a man at the front of the crowd with his arms pushed deep into his coat pockets to hide the defensive wounds the victim left behind. He calls out for Lestrade, pointing toward the killer, and runs forward. The man doesn’t run. Instead he pulls a gun from his coat pocket and raises it in Sherlock’s direction. Before Sherlock can skid to a halt and properly berate himself for missing something so obvious, John is there.
Sherlock’s heart feels as if it has stopped in his chest when John steps between the killer and himself. With quick motions, John knocks the gun from the killer’s hand, sweeps his legs out from under him, and twists his right arm up as he falls to the ground. John stands over the prone figure with his hands pulling the man’s arm taunt and twisting it unnaturally from the shoulder and elbow. John’s heel is pressed into the man’s dislocated shoulder, and the sole of his shoe rests across the back of his neck. John’s shoulders are hunched, his chest heaving, and Sherlock has never seen anything so damn attractive in his life.
I wish I had seen him shoot the cabbie. His breathing is laboured from the excitement, not the exertion. I wish I had seen him kill a man for me.
Before Sherlock can pull himself together, Lestrade is there smacking John on the back and smiling as two uniformed officers pull the killer off the ground. The raw, ragged edges of John the Protector are gone, and his mask of congenial, unassuming John is smoothly back in place. Sherlock hates it, hates Lestrade for making John so ordinary.
Sherlock stalks over the pair and pushes his way between them. “Are you going to continue to waste time with the Detective Inspector or do you remember that you’re here to help me in my investigation?”
John’s jaw tightens, and his smiles slips, “Help you? Did you miss the part where I just physically restrained a man that had a gun pointed at you?”
“You’re a doctor. You’re here to look at the bodies, not get into street brawls.” Sherlock pivots on his heel and storms from the alley.
He makes it to the main road before John grabs his elbow and spins him around more forcefully than strictly necessary. “What the fuck is the matter with you?” John grits out between clenched teeth.
“What’s the matter with me? You are. You stand there talking with Lestrade and who knows how many other idiot Yarders, then you jump a man with a gun. You were standing over him, and all I could think...” Sherlock’s breath catches in his throat, but his mind races on: all I could think is that I want to throw you to the ground and crawl over you, crawl in you, and never let any of the rest of them touch you again. That you are mine, and you are brutal, and you are lovely, and they don’t deserve your kindness.
“Sherlock.” John pinches the bridge of his nose and squeezes his eyes shut. “He was going to shoot you.”
“You should have let him!” Sherlock wrenches his arm free and grabs John firmly by the shoulders. “You cannot keep jumping in front of guns or subduing criminals for me.”
“The bloody hell I can’t!” John is gripping his upper arms, and Sherlock feels dizzy, “I’m not going to let someone hurt you if I can stop it.”
Sherlock steps forward and smashes his face into John’s hair. His cheek, his nose, his lips all pressed into the top of John’s head. “You have to stop doing things like that, John. Or I can’t be responsible for my reaction.” Sherlock pushes John away and steps into the street to hail a cab. He leaves John looking bewildered by the kerb.
***********************
It’s been hours since Sherlock returned to Baker Street. He doesn’t want to leave John at the crime scene, but he needs space, needs time to think. What is John Watson doing to him?
Sherlock flops on the sofa, dressing gown billowing around him dramatically even though there’s no one to witness it. Surely, if Sherlock just tells John that his involvement with other people, with any other people really, is driving him mad, John would stop? John will devote himself to Sherlock completely. There is no reason not to. Sherlock will wait. When John comes home, he will explain why he has been behaving this way and that the best way to make it stop is for John to be his. Sherlock steeples his fingers in front of his face and settles in. He will wait.
It was several more hours before John returns. Sherlock first hears John lean heavily against the front door, then his sluggish footsteps scraping up the stairs. Pub then, Sherlock thinks, probably with Lestrade or some other idiotic Yarders. Sherlock maintains his supine position on the sofa, eyes closed, until John is standing over him. Sherlock opens his eyes slowly to gaze up at his friend.
John stands, arms crossed on his chest and hair sticking up at odd angles where he has run his hands through it, looking down at Sherlock's passive face. “We need to talk.”
“You're drunk.”
“No, I am full of liquid courage. There is a difference.”
Sherlock throws his legs over the side of the sofa and sits forward, his knees pressing against John's, “Yes, let's talk”. Sherlock takes a deep breath, preparing himself to tell John of the serious change in their relationship and what Sherlock needs of John now.
“You can't keep acting this way, Sherlock.” John rubs and hand over his eyes and pushes on. “I know you're frightened, you're scared something will happen to me, but I am fine. I am fine, and I can take care of myself.” His knees are still pressed against Sherlock's, and his hand comes to rest on the back of the detective's head. “I know you may never have had a close friend before, but it's not socially acceptable...” Sherlock stands quickly, knocking John's hand from his hair and causing him to stumble back. Sherlock moves forward and opens his mouth to tell John the truth. To tell him that he doesn’t care about friendship, that this isn’t about keeping John safe, it’s about keeping John his and his alone. Before he can open his mouth to tell John the uncomfortable truth, Sherlock catches scent of the sticky, sweet perfume clinging to John's coat.
Sherlock stops cold. “Who were you with at the pub?” His voice is calm and quiet. It takes John's sluggish brain a few seconds to process the question.
“Lestrade and a few of the other officers,” John's brow creases in confusion.
“There was a woman. You sat with her, probably bought her a drink.”
John's eyes darken, “Of course you'd know that. Of course. Yes, there was a woman. A lovely woman out with some mates. We had a drink and laughed together a bit. She wasn't some agent of one of your enemies, and she wasn't there to try to kidnap me. This is exactly what I mean, Sherlock. You can't keep me from going out into the world because you're afraid something bad is going to happen!”
How can John be so thick? It isn’t about keeping him from the world. It’s about keeping strange women in pubs from touching him, flirting with him, and pulling him away from Sherlock. How can John not see what was the most important? The Doctor and the Detective together.
Sherlock leans forward until his lips are millimeters from John's ear. “You smell like her,” he snarls before turning on his heel and retreating to his bedroom. He slams the door harder than strictly necessary, leaving a very confused John Watson standing in the living room.
***********************
John has gone to the surgery by the time Sherlock leaves his bedroom the next afternoon. That is not at all intentional. Not at all, for either of them.
When John leaves isn’t important; what is important is when he comes back. Sherlock hears John’s footsteps on the stairs at least twenty minutes before he was due back from the surgery. John always walks or takes the tube back to Baker Street. He's far too concerned about money to take a cab and there's a strong stomach virus making it's way through the city so Sarah wouldn't have let him off his shift early. He must have been given a ride back to Baker Street by someone...Mycroft.
As John enters the flat, Sherlock is whipping out his phone.
Leave him alone. SH
Mycroft's reply is immediate and infuriating: I was merely giving Dr. Watson a ride back to your flat. Nothing more. MH
Stay out of this, Mycroft. SH
John slumps in his arm chair, looking weary. “Sherlock, we need to finish the conversation from last night.”
“No,” Sherlock shakes his head and moves to the window. Mycroft's hated black saloon car is gone. “You missed the entire point of the conversation last night, and I will not revisit it.”
“I missed the... How can I have missed the point of a conversation I started?”
“Because that's not the conversation we were meant to be having!” Sherlock snaps.
“Unbelievable. You are absolutely unbelievable. You're as bad as your brother and his ridiculous spooks.”
Sherlock whirls on John, “What did my brother say to you? What did he do?”
John's eyes widen, “Nothing. He picked me up as I left the surgery and drove me home. Shockingly normal small talk in the car.”
“He can't have you. If he tries to take you away from me...”
John rises from his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose once again, “Sherlock, will you listen to yourself. You sound like a jealous lover!”
Sherlock stares silently at John, waiting for his dull mind to make the connections. It only takes a moment.
“This isn't about keeping me safe, well maybe it was at the beginning, but not anymore. It's about jealousy.”
Sherlock remains silent, his hand playing absently with his jacket buttons but his eyes not leaving John's.
“You can't keep behaving this way. It isn't appropriate.”
“Why not?”
“Because we're not lovers!” John snaps, his chest heaving as his temper finally gets the better of him.
Sherlock stalks forward until he is pressed into John's personal space. John stands his ground. He never backs down from a challenge, from Sherlock, and he loves that about John. Sherlock is so close now that John has to tilt his head back in order to maintain eye contact.
“I would flay myself open and tuck you inside so no one could see you, or speak to you, or touch you ever again, and your biggest concern is that you aren't shoving your cock up my arse?” There's a moment's pause while Sherlock breathes raggedly and his eyes cut into John's. Then his hands twist in the hair at the side of John's head while John's hands grip his hips almost painfully. Their mouths come together hot and hard, Sherlock's teeth coming down on John's bottom lip before he thrusts his tongue inside Sherlock's mouth.
It feels like drowning and being saved all at once. It feels like the night the roof of the pool collapsed on them, and Sherlock never wants to let go. John slides his lips away from Sherlock’s mouth, down to his jaw, and to the side of his neck. Sherlock’s fingers skid to a halt after undoing three of John’s shirt buttons as John bites down gently on the spot where his neck meets his shoulder. “John,” Sherlock moans and is treated to a wicked grin from his counterpart.
Sherlock makes quick work of the rest of John’s buttons while John continues to suck and lick his neck. He pushes the worn plaid shirt from John’s shoulders, leaving it tangled around his elbows. John pulls back, lips red and swollen, “Bedroom, now.”
John tries to turn toward Sherlock’s bedroom, his arms tighten around John’s shoulders. Even letting go for a moment was too much. Sherlock feels like John may float away with the slightest breeze. They can’t relocate to the bedroom; it’s too big a risk to take.
“Sherlock, I’m not fucking you over the arm of the sofa the first time we do this.” Oh, well, bedroom it is.
And Sherlock almost lets them get to the bedroom un-harassed. He pushes John against the doorway just before they cross the threshold. His fingers press under John’s vest to rub his ribcage. John tries to raise his arms to pull Sherlock closer, but his shirt is still hanging to his elbows, giving him the illusion of having a pair of trapped wings as he tries to raise his arms up to Sherlock’s shoulders.
Like a butterfly, or a less colorful moth. Would John let me stretch out his arms and pin him to a card? A collection of one for the rest of my days.
John lets out a growl and rips the shirt from his arms and tosses it to the floor, followed quickly by his vest and Sherlock’s jacket. John pushes Sherlock’s hips toward the bedroom. “Move.”
Sherlock complies willingly. It helps when your very-soon-to-be lover’s orders match exactly what you intend to do anyway. He’s unbuttoning his shirt with one hand and pulling it from his trouser with the other before John is fully in the room. John crosses the room quickly and presses against Sherlock’s back, his hands coming forward to undo Sherlock’s belt. He spins in John’s arms, leaving the doctor’s hands resting on his arse. Sherlock’s hands start to work on John’s flies. “I need you naked. Now.”
Both John’s jeans and pants hit the floor within scant seconds. He squeezes Sherlock’s arse and rolls his hips to press his cock into Sherlock’s trousers. “You too. I want to see you naked so bloody much.”
Sherlock pushes John toward the bed. “Sit, feet on the floor.” John takes his position on the side of Sherlock’s bed and leans back on his elbows to watch Sherlock remove his trousers and pants. John’s cock bobs against his stomach, leaving a sticky string of pre-cum connecting the head of his cock to the line of hair trailing from his navel.
Sherlock fishes a tube of lubricant from the nightstand and tosses it on the bed beside John before straddling his naked lap.
John eyes the lube and cocks an eyebrow. “No foreplay?”
Sherlock rocks his hips forward, causing the head of his cock to drag against the underside of John’s. “The foreplay has gone on for months. I think we’re both ready for the main event.” Sherlock grins wickedly and lowers his voice, “But if that is a complaint, I’m happy to suck you until you scream next time.”
John groans, and his hips are thrusting upward beyond his control, “You are definitely getting buggered over the arm of the sofa in the near future.”
Sherlock slicks two of his fingers and reaches behind his back. John surges up, grasping Sherlock’s hips as he prepares himself. “God, you’re beautiful,” John whispers while pressing open mouthed kisses to Sherlock’s chest.
John’s mouth finds Sherlock’s nipple, and a low groan escapes his throat. Sherlock works his fingers in and out of his arsehole in a twisting motion, careful not to brush his prostate. It would be too much, too soon. He needs John inside him before the pleasure rises to that height.
John is still gripping Sherlock’s hip with one hand, but he’s now working his own cock with the other. “Sherlock? Condoms?” John pants.
Fingers still buried in his arse, Sherlock leans forward and kisses John slowly. He pulls back just enough to be heard clearly, “No, nothing between us. Not ever.” John’s eyes close, and Sherlock slides his cock along John’s again to push his decision in the right direction.
“Fine,” John closes his hand around both their cocks to stop Sherlock’s movement. “But you can’t take this back, Sherlock. After this, it’s permanent. Understand?”
“Yes,” Sherlock hisses between his teeth, torn between wanting to rock back onto his fingers or push forward into John’s hand.
John gives him a gentle squeeze before letting go. “Good, pass me the lube.” Sherlock scrambles to hand John the tube, then raises himself straight up on John’s lap to fuck himself in earnest. He’s sliding up and down on his fingers, stretching himself for John’s cock, while the other man slicks his prick in preparation.
“I’m ready, John, please…” Sherlock moves forward to position himself over John’s cock. John settles back on his elbows as Sherlock guides his cock to his entrance.
John groans as the head of his cock breaches Sherlock for the first time. He grasps the base of his cock to steady himself as Sherlock lowers himself down the shaft. Too soon, and not soon enough, John Watson is buried balls deep in Sherlock’s gorgeous arse. Sherlock’s chest is flushed, and his head thrown back. He moves his hips in agonizing small circles for a few moments.
John’s muscles are straining to keep him bent at the waist, and closer to Sherlock, while he runs his hands from Sherlock’s hips to his ribs and back again. “While this is fantastic, if you don’t move, I’m going to have to flip us over and take matters into my own hands,” John huffs out.
“If I move, this will all be over too quickly.” Despite his words, Sherlock plants his hands on John’s stomach and slowly pushes up until just the head of John’s cock is left inside his body. He hovers there for a moment before lowering himself down John’s shaft again. Sherlock’s thighs are trembling, and his voice is shaky but clear, “You’re mine. Mine. Absolutely mine.”
John’s head thumps back on the mattress, and his hands clutch those fantastic thighs, “Yes, yours. Always yours. Always have been.”
With a choked sound, Sherlock rides him in earnest. John keeps his eyes squeezed shut and his body flat against the mattress. If he looks, if he sees that porcelain body over his, he’ll come apart, and he’s not ready for that. Not yet.
His body does take over after a few moments of Sherlock’s attentions, and his hips thrust up as Sherlock bears down on him. Sherlock moans his name more loudly than John was expecting, and he thrusts again.
Sherlock’s motions are less smooth. He’s grinding down on John’s cock and moving his hips in those tiny circles again. John props himself up on his elbows, finally ready to watch. The flush has spread from Sherlock’s chest, up his neck, and across his cheeks. He’s working his cock with one hand and his eyes are wide and shining. John grasps his hips and pushes up to provide more pressure for Sherlock’s slow grind.
His hand is stroking his cock rapidly, and his voice is pleading, “John…”
John’s hands dig into his hips leaving red marks and probably bruises come tomorrow. “Yes, Sherlock. God, Sherlock, come for me. Please.”
Sherlock’s hand stills, and he presses on the top of his cock to angle it downward. His cum shoots across John’s belly, his chest, and onto his chin. Sherlock cries out and begins to fall forward. John sits up and wraps his arms around Sherlock’s waist, pulling Sherlock to his chest. He presses his face into Sherlock’s shoulder and pounds up into his arse, using his feet on the floor as leverage. The pace is brisk and John isn’t going to last long, especially with the feel of Sherlock’s cum sticking them together from navel to sternum.
Sherlock can hear John’s breath coming in great gasps, and his rhythm is faltering. He uses his thumb to scrape the cum from John’s chin and press it to his lips. John moans and sucks his thumb into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the digit. John thrusts up a final time and sucks hard on Sherlock’s thumb as he empties himself into Sherlock’s body.
They loosen their grasps on each other as their ragged breathing slows to a more normal pace. John moves them under the covers without even bothering to clean them of the sweat and cum sticking to their bodies. I won’t let him shower until absolutely necessary. Would he wear me like this to a crime scene, under his clothes? John lies on his back and pulls Sherlock partially on top of him, partially beside him. Sherlock’s back is pressed against John’s chest as they both stare wordlessly at the ceiling. John’s arm is wrapped around Sherlock’s chest. He entwines his longer, pale fingers with John’s shorter ones.
“Sherlock, I meant what I said earlier. You can’t act like a jealous lover all the time,” John’s voice was quiet but firm as he pressed his lips into Sherlock’s curls.
“But I am a jealous lover now. Wasn’t that your chief complaint during our earlier argument?”
“Stop it.” John squeezed his arm around Sherlock’s chest. “I will never give you a real reason to be jealous. I don’t expect you to become suddenly pleasant just because you’re getting shagged on the regular” --Sherlock hummed approvingly at that-- “but I do expect you to be respectful. Of our friends, our colleagues, and my life outside you.”
“What if I don’t want you to have a life outside me?” Sherlock did his best not to sound like a petulant child. His fingers were stroking across John’s now, paying close attention to the sensitive skin between his knuckles.
John chuckled. Chuckled at something that would have undoubtedly driven weaker men from his bed. He would never stop surprising Sherlock. “I barely have a life outside of you already. But this is the way it has to be, alright?”
Sherlock thought for a few moments. This entire conversation was pointless. He would continue to be a possessive, jealous pain in the arse, John would continue to be angry about it, and then they’d try to shag it out of each other. Ideally, this pattern would continue until they were old and grey and retired to the country. But John needed to hear the lie. Dull.
“Fine.” Sherlock cleared his throat, “I will endeavour to control myself.” John rumbled an agreement, but Sherlock could already feel John’s body going slack as sleep over took him.
Sherlock continued to stroke John’s fingers while the other man slept peacefully. How soon can I convince him to wear a ring? I’d wear one in return if he insisted. That would surely keep others at bay…
Recipient: lyrical_sky
Author: [to be revealed]
Rating:Explicit
Word Count:~4,700
Warnings:Barebacking, minor come-play, jealous/possessive behavior
Summary:It started as a desire to keep John safe and whole, and ended up as just desire.
Butterfly, Pinned Under Glass
Sherlock didn't awaken in the hospital asking about John. Asking about John was pointless. He had no option but to be alive. Any other outcome was inconceivable.
Even if he had wanted to ask, Mycroft was there to tell him before he could form the words. Mycroft's men had dug them out of the rubble that used to be the pool where Carl Powers died, where John Watson could have died, and where Moriarty should have died. The vest had been a decoy, just smoke and a small explosion. The bomb on the roof Moriarty triggered as he ran had been real though. There was no way John could have known that, but Sherlock should have. It was so stupid that he hadn’t realized Moriarty would never have put himself in the line of fire like that. A split second after Sherlock pulled the trigger, John knocked Sherlock to the ground and shielded him with his body and subsequently took most of the roof on his broad back. Stupid, foolish man. Mycroft calmly and coolly related the extent of John's injuries, not life threatening but serious, before leaving Sherlock to sulk alone in his hospital room.
Even though Sherlock knows John will recover, he still spends the two days John falls in and out of consciousness by his bedside.
On the first day, Sherlock texts Mycroft.
Take care of it. SH
You won't handle this yourself? MH
I'm staying with him. SH
On the second day, John asks Sherlock, “When Moriarty said he'd burn the heart out of you? What did it mean?”
“It meant he was a mad man. Go back to sleep, John.”
But they both know that isn’t quite true.
***********************
It’s several weeks before John is able to return to work at the surgery. Weeks that Sherlock spent keeping John within sight as much as possible. Sherlock only left the flat when John was able to go with him and only a closed door within 221b Baker Street kept Sherlock from watching John Watson. John had even taken to sleeping with his bedroom door ajar, which Sherlock noticed when the urge to check on his flatmate in the night became overwhelming.
Now that John is away from him for the first time since the he regained consciousness after Moriarty’s bomb, Sherlock feels like his skin is trying to crawl from his muscles. Like he would split himself in half to have John back with him. Instead, he’ll have to make do with texting him. Any contact is better than none, after all.
John, when will you return home? SH
In time 4 dinner. Ive only been gone an hour & a half. JW
Sherlock goes back to tending an experiment. He can wait.
Do we have any more bleach? I used the bottle under the kitchen sink. SH
IDK Bathroom? JW
There’s none there. SH
Ill get another bottle on my way home. JW
No, I’ll go and get it. SH
Need it that badly then? JW
Not really. SH
John needs to come directly home after the surgery. Sherlock wants him back under his gaze far more than he wants to avoid going to the shop himself. Besides, he has hours before John gets back. He has the time to go out and nothing better to do.
John, do you prefer whole or semi-skimmed milk? I’m at the shop now. SH
…
John? SH
…
John, are you well? Do you need me? SH
…
John, are you hurt? I’m coming to the surgery. SH
Sherlock Im fine. Im at work. Working. JW
You should answer my texts in a more timely fashion. It’s the only way to confirm that you don’t need my assistance. SH
Im not going anywhere. He took me once but he wont again. Im here to stay, K? JW
I know. SH
Semi-skimmed is fine. JW
John comes home from the surgery right on time that first day. He makes tea and drinks the milk Sherlock bought. After that it gets easier to have John away from him. Easier, but not entirely comfortable.
***********************
Sherlock waits until he’s sure John is fully recovered before taking another case for Lestrade. He watches John’s wounds heal, his bruises fade, and his steps grow stronger. He needs John to be at his best, both for John and himself. It helps that most of what Lestrade brings him is boring and disgustingly easy to solve. He lives in amazement that the majority of Scotland Yard manages to keep their jobs at all.
In retrospect, Sherlock probably should have been paying more attention to the crime scene than to John’s quiet conversation with Lestrade. But John was smiling at Lestrade, they were laughing together, and didn’t John know he was here to help Sherlock not moon over the detective inspector? Why would John bother being friendly to Lestrade when it was so obvious that this wasn’t actually a crime scene? It was just a dump site, and the killer wouldn’t have gone far before the police showed up. The killer wanted to see this, wanted to watch the police bumble around like idiots. In fact he probably hadn’t left the scene at all... Oh.
After that, everything happens quickly. Sherlock identifies a man at the front of the crowd with his arms pushed deep into his coat pockets to hide the defensive wounds the victim left behind. He calls out for Lestrade, pointing toward the killer, and runs forward. The man doesn’t run. Instead he pulls a gun from his coat pocket and raises it in Sherlock’s direction. Before Sherlock can skid to a halt and properly berate himself for missing something so obvious, John is there.
Sherlock’s heart feels as if it has stopped in his chest when John steps between the killer and himself. With quick motions, John knocks the gun from the killer’s hand, sweeps his legs out from under him, and twists his right arm up as he falls to the ground. John stands over the prone figure with his hands pulling the man’s arm taunt and twisting it unnaturally from the shoulder and elbow. John’s heel is pressed into the man’s dislocated shoulder, and the sole of his shoe rests across the back of his neck. John’s shoulders are hunched, his chest heaving, and Sherlock has never seen anything so damn attractive in his life.
I wish I had seen him shoot the cabbie. His breathing is laboured from the excitement, not the exertion. I wish I had seen him kill a man for me.
Before Sherlock can pull himself together, Lestrade is there smacking John on the back and smiling as two uniformed officers pull the killer off the ground. The raw, ragged edges of John the Protector are gone, and his mask of congenial, unassuming John is smoothly back in place. Sherlock hates it, hates Lestrade for making John so ordinary.
Sherlock stalks over the pair and pushes his way between them. “Are you going to continue to waste time with the Detective Inspector or do you remember that you’re here to help me in my investigation?”
John’s jaw tightens, and his smiles slips, “Help you? Did you miss the part where I just physically restrained a man that had a gun pointed at you?”
“You’re a doctor. You’re here to look at the bodies, not get into street brawls.” Sherlock pivots on his heel and storms from the alley.
He makes it to the main road before John grabs his elbow and spins him around more forcefully than strictly necessary. “What the fuck is the matter with you?” John grits out between clenched teeth.
“What’s the matter with me? You are. You stand there talking with Lestrade and who knows how many other idiot Yarders, then you jump a man with a gun. You were standing over him, and all I could think...” Sherlock’s breath catches in his throat, but his mind races on: all I could think is that I want to throw you to the ground and crawl over you, crawl in you, and never let any of the rest of them touch you again. That you are mine, and you are brutal, and you are lovely, and they don’t deserve your kindness.
“Sherlock.” John pinches the bridge of his nose and squeezes his eyes shut. “He was going to shoot you.”
“You should have let him!” Sherlock wrenches his arm free and grabs John firmly by the shoulders. “You cannot keep jumping in front of guns or subduing criminals for me.”
“The bloody hell I can’t!” John is gripping his upper arms, and Sherlock feels dizzy, “I’m not going to let someone hurt you if I can stop it.”
Sherlock steps forward and smashes his face into John’s hair. His cheek, his nose, his lips all pressed into the top of John’s head. “You have to stop doing things like that, John. Or I can’t be responsible for my reaction.” Sherlock pushes John away and steps into the street to hail a cab. He leaves John looking bewildered by the kerb.
***********************
It’s been hours since Sherlock returned to Baker Street. He doesn’t want to leave John at the crime scene, but he needs space, needs time to think. What is John Watson doing to him?
Sherlock flops on the sofa, dressing gown billowing around him dramatically even though there’s no one to witness it. Surely, if Sherlock just tells John that his involvement with other people, with any other people really, is driving him mad, John would stop? John will devote himself to Sherlock completely. There is no reason not to. Sherlock will wait. When John comes home, he will explain why he has been behaving this way and that the best way to make it stop is for John to be his. Sherlock steeples his fingers in front of his face and settles in. He will wait.
It was several more hours before John returns. Sherlock first hears John lean heavily against the front door, then his sluggish footsteps scraping up the stairs. Pub then, Sherlock thinks, probably with Lestrade or some other idiotic Yarders. Sherlock maintains his supine position on the sofa, eyes closed, until John is standing over him. Sherlock opens his eyes slowly to gaze up at his friend.
John stands, arms crossed on his chest and hair sticking up at odd angles where he has run his hands through it, looking down at Sherlock's passive face. “We need to talk.”
“You're drunk.”
“No, I am full of liquid courage. There is a difference.”
Sherlock throws his legs over the side of the sofa and sits forward, his knees pressing against John's, “Yes, let's talk”. Sherlock takes a deep breath, preparing himself to tell John of the serious change in their relationship and what Sherlock needs of John now.
“You can't keep acting this way, Sherlock.” John rubs and hand over his eyes and pushes on. “I know you're frightened, you're scared something will happen to me, but I am fine. I am fine, and I can take care of myself.” His knees are still pressed against Sherlock's, and his hand comes to rest on the back of the detective's head. “I know you may never have had a close friend before, but it's not socially acceptable...” Sherlock stands quickly, knocking John's hand from his hair and causing him to stumble back. Sherlock moves forward and opens his mouth to tell John the truth. To tell him that he doesn’t care about friendship, that this isn’t about keeping John safe, it’s about keeping John his and his alone. Before he can open his mouth to tell John the uncomfortable truth, Sherlock catches scent of the sticky, sweet perfume clinging to John's coat.
Sherlock stops cold. “Who were you with at the pub?” His voice is calm and quiet. It takes John's sluggish brain a few seconds to process the question.
“Lestrade and a few of the other officers,” John's brow creases in confusion.
“There was a woman. You sat with her, probably bought her a drink.”
John's eyes darken, “Of course you'd know that. Of course. Yes, there was a woman. A lovely woman out with some mates. We had a drink and laughed together a bit. She wasn't some agent of one of your enemies, and she wasn't there to try to kidnap me. This is exactly what I mean, Sherlock. You can't keep me from going out into the world because you're afraid something bad is going to happen!”
How can John be so thick? It isn’t about keeping him from the world. It’s about keeping strange women in pubs from touching him, flirting with him, and pulling him away from Sherlock. How can John not see what was the most important? The Doctor and the Detective together.
Sherlock leans forward until his lips are millimeters from John's ear. “You smell like her,” he snarls before turning on his heel and retreating to his bedroom. He slams the door harder than strictly necessary, leaving a very confused John Watson standing in the living room.
***********************
John has gone to the surgery by the time Sherlock leaves his bedroom the next afternoon. That is not at all intentional. Not at all, for either of them.
When John leaves isn’t important; what is important is when he comes back. Sherlock hears John’s footsteps on the stairs at least twenty minutes before he was due back from the surgery. John always walks or takes the tube back to Baker Street. He's far too concerned about money to take a cab and there's a strong stomach virus making it's way through the city so Sarah wouldn't have let him off his shift early. He must have been given a ride back to Baker Street by someone...Mycroft.
As John enters the flat, Sherlock is whipping out his phone.
Leave him alone. SH
Mycroft's reply is immediate and infuriating: I was merely giving Dr. Watson a ride back to your flat. Nothing more. MH
Stay out of this, Mycroft. SH
John slumps in his arm chair, looking weary. “Sherlock, we need to finish the conversation from last night.”
“No,” Sherlock shakes his head and moves to the window. Mycroft's hated black saloon car is gone. “You missed the entire point of the conversation last night, and I will not revisit it.”
“I missed the... How can I have missed the point of a conversation I started?”
“Because that's not the conversation we were meant to be having!” Sherlock snaps.
“Unbelievable. You are absolutely unbelievable. You're as bad as your brother and his ridiculous spooks.”
Sherlock whirls on John, “What did my brother say to you? What did he do?”
John's eyes widen, “Nothing. He picked me up as I left the surgery and drove me home. Shockingly normal small talk in the car.”
“He can't have you. If he tries to take you away from me...”
John rises from his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose once again, “Sherlock, will you listen to yourself. You sound like a jealous lover!”
Sherlock stares silently at John, waiting for his dull mind to make the connections. It only takes a moment.
“This isn't about keeping me safe, well maybe it was at the beginning, but not anymore. It's about jealousy.”
Sherlock remains silent, his hand playing absently with his jacket buttons but his eyes not leaving John's.
“You can't keep behaving this way. It isn't appropriate.”
“Why not?”
“Because we're not lovers!” John snaps, his chest heaving as his temper finally gets the better of him.
Sherlock stalks forward until he is pressed into John's personal space. John stands his ground. He never backs down from a challenge, from Sherlock, and he loves that about John. Sherlock is so close now that John has to tilt his head back in order to maintain eye contact.
“I would flay myself open and tuck you inside so no one could see you, or speak to you, or touch you ever again, and your biggest concern is that you aren't shoving your cock up my arse?” There's a moment's pause while Sherlock breathes raggedly and his eyes cut into John's. Then his hands twist in the hair at the side of John's head while John's hands grip his hips almost painfully. Their mouths come together hot and hard, Sherlock's teeth coming down on John's bottom lip before he thrusts his tongue inside Sherlock's mouth.
It feels like drowning and being saved all at once. It feels like the night the roof of the pool collapsed on them, and Sherlock never wants to let go. John slides his lips away from Sherlock’s mouth, down to his jaw, and to the side of his neck. Sherlock’s fingers skid to a halt after undoing three of John’s shirt buttons as John bites down gently on the spot where his neck meets his shoulder. “John,” Sherlock moans and is treated to a wicked grin from his counterpart.
Sherlock makes quick work of the rest of John’s buttons while John continues to suck and lick his neck. He pushes the worn plaid shirt from John’s shoulders, leaving it tangled around his elbows. John pulls back, lips red and swollen, “Bedroom, now.”
John tries to turn toward Sherlock’s bedroom, his arms tighten around John’s shoulders. Even letting go for a moment was too much. Sherlock feels like John may float away with the slightest breeze. They can’t relocate to the bedroom; it’s too big a risk to take.
“Sherlock, I’m not fucking you over the arm of the sofa the first time we do this.” Oh, well, bedroom it is.
And Sherlock almost lets them get to the bedroom un-harassed. He pushes John against the doorway just before they cross the threshold. His fingers press under John’s vest to rub his ribcage. John tries to raise his arms to pull Sherlock closer, but his shirt is still hanging to his elbows, giving him the illusion of having a pair of trapped wings as he tries to raise his arms up to Sherlock’s shoulders.
Like a butterfly, or a less colorful moth. Would John let me stretch out his arms and pin him to a card? A collection of one for the rest of my days.
John lets out a growl and rips the shirt from his arms and tosses it to the floor, followed quickly by his vest and Sherlock’s jacket. John pushes Sherlock’s hips toward the bedroom. “Move.”
Sherlock complies willingly. It helps when your very-soon-to-be lover’s orders match exactly what you intend to do anyway. He’s unbuttoning his shirt with one hand and pulling it from his trouser with the other before John is fully in the room. John crosses the room quickly and presses against Sherlock’s back, his hands coming forward to undo Sherlock’s belt. He spins in John’s arms, leaving the doctor’s hands resting on his arse. Sherlock’s hands start to work on John’s flies. “I need you naked. Now.”
Both John’s jeans and pants hit the floor within scant seconds. He squeezes Sherlock’s arse and rolls his hips to press his cock into Sherlock’s trousers. “You too. I want to see you naked so bloody much.”
Sherlock pushes John toward the bed. “Sit, feet on the floor.” John takes his position on the side of Sherlock’s bed and leans back on his elbows to watch Sherlock remove his trousers and pants. John’s cock bobs against his stomach, leaving a sticky string of pre-cum connecting the head of his cock to the line of hair trailing from his navel.
Sherlock fishes a tube of lubricant from the nightstand and tosses it on the bed beside John before straddling his naked lap.
John eyes the lube and cocks an eyebrow. “No foreplay?”
Sherlock rocks his hips forward, causing the head of his cock to drag against the underside of John’s. “The foreplay has gone on for months. I think we’re both ready for the main event.” Sherlock grins wickedly and lowers his voice, “But if that is a complaint, I’m happy to suck you until you scream next time.”
John groans, and his hips are thrusting upward beyond his control, “You are definitely getting buggered over the arm of the sofa in the near future.”
Sherlock slicks two of his fingers and reaches behind his back. John surges up, grasping Sherlock’s hips as he prepares himself. “God, you’re beautiful,” John whispers while pressing open mouthed kisses to Sherlock’s chest.
John’s mouth finds Sherlock’s nipple, and a low groan escapes his throat. Sherlock works his fingers in and out of his arsehole in a twisting motion, careful not to brush his prostate. It would be too much, too soon. He needs John inside him before the pleasure rises to that height.
John is still gripping Sherlock’s hip with one hand, but he’s now working his own cock with the other. “Sherlock? Condoms?” John pants.
Fingers still buried in his arse, Sherlock leans forward and kisses John slowly. He pulls back just enough to be heard clearly, “No, nothing between us. Not ever.” John’s eyes close, and Sherlock slides his cock along John’s again to push his decision in the right direction.
“Fine,” John closes his hand around both their cocks to stop Sherlock’s movement. “But you can’t take this back, Sherlock. After this, it’s permanent. Understand?”
“Yes,” Sherlock hisses between his teeth, torn between wanting to rock back onto his fingers or push forward into John’s hand.
John gives him a gentle squeeze before letting go. “Good, pass me the lube.” Sherlock scrambles to hand John the tube, then raises himself straight up on John’s lap to fuck himself in earnest. He’s sliding up and down on his fingers, stretching himself for John’s cock, while the other man slicks his prick in preparation.
“I’m ready, John, please…” Sherlock moves forward to position himself over John’s cock. John settles back on his elbows as Sherlock guides his cock to his entrance.
John groans as the head of his cock breaches Sherlock for the first time. He grasps the base of his cock to steady himself as Sherlock lowers himself down the shaft. Too soon, and not soon enough, John Watson is buried balls deep in Sherlock’s gorgeous arse. Sherlock’s chest is flushed, and his head thrown back. He moves his hips in agonizing small circles for a few moments.
John’s muscles are straining to keep him bent at the waist, and closer to Sherlock, while he runs his hands from Sherlock’s hips to his ribs and back again. “While this is fantastic, if you don’t move, I’m going to have to flip us over and take matters into my own hands,” John huffs out.
“If I move, this will all be over too quickly.” Despite his words, Sherlock plants his hands on John’s stomach and slowly pushes up until just the head of John’s cock is left inside his body. He hovers there for a moment before lowering himself down John’s shaft again. Sherlock’s thighs are trembling, and his voice is shaky but clear, “You’re mine. Mine. Absolutely mine.”
John’s head thumps back on the mattress, and his hands clutch those fantastic thighs, “Yes, yours. Always yours. Always have been.”
With a choked sound, Sherlock rides him in earnest. John keeps his eyes squeezed shut and his body flat against the mattress. If he looks, if he sees that porcelain body over his, he’ll come apart, and he’s not ready for that. Not yet.
His body does take over after a few moments of Sherlock’s attentions, and his hips thrust up as Sherlock bears down on him. Sherlock moans his name more loudly than John was expecting, and he thrusts again.
Sherlock’s motions are less smooth. He’s grinding down on John’s cock and moving his hips in those tiny circles again. John props himself up on his elbows, finally ready to watch. The flush has spread from Sherlock’s chest, up his neck, and across his cheeks. He’s working his cock with one hand and his eyes are wide and shining. John grasps his hips and pushes up to provide more pressure for Sherlock’s slow grind.
His hand is stroking his cock rapidly, and his voice is pleading, “John…”
John’s hands dig into his hips leaving red marks and probably bruises come tomorrow. “Yes, Sherlock. God, Sherlock, come for me. Please.”
Sherlock’s hand stills, and he presses on the top of his cock to angle it downward. His cum shoots across John’s belly, his chest, and onto his chin. Sherlock cries out and begins to fall forward. John sits up and wraps his arms around Sherlock’s waist, pulling Sherlock to his chest. He presses his face into Sherlock’s shoulder and pounds up into his arse, using his feet on the floor as leverage. The pace is brisk and John isn’t going to last long, especially with the feel of Sherlock’s cum sticking them together from navel to sternum.
Sherlock can hear John’s breath coming in great gasps, and his rhythm is faltering. He uses his thumb to scrape the cum from John’s chin and press it to his lips. John moans and sucks his thumb into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the digit. John thrusts up a final time and sucks hard on Sherlock’s thumb as he empties himself into Sherlock’s body.
They loosen their grasps on each other as their ragged breathing slows to a more normal pace. John moves them under the covers without even bothering to clean them of the sweat and cum sticking to their bodies. I won’t let him shower until absolutely necessary. Would he wear me like this to a crime scene, under his clothes? John lies on his back and pulls Sherlock partially on top of him, partially beside him. Sherlock’s back is pressed against John’s chest as they both stare wordlessly at the ceiling. John’s arm is wrapped around Sherlock’s chest. He entwines his longer, pale fingers with John’s shorter ones.
“Sherlock, I meant what I said earlier. You can’t act like a jealous lover all the time,” John’s voice was quiet but firm as he pressed his lips into Sherlock’s curls.
“But I am a jealous lover now. Wasn’t that your chief complaint during our earlier argument?”
“Stop it.” John squeezed his arm around Sherlock’s chest. “I will never give you a real reason to be jealous. I don’t expect you to become suddenly pleasant just because you’re getting shagged on the regular” --Sherlock hummed approvingly at that-- “but I do expect you to be respectful. Of our friends, our colleagues, and my life outside you.”
“What if I don’t want you to have a life outside me?” Sherlock did his best not to sound like a petulant child. His fingers were stroking across John’s now, paying close attention to the sensitive skin between his knuckles.
John chuckled. Chuckled at something that would have undoubtedly driven weaker men from his bed. He would never stop surprising Sherlock. “I barely have a life outside of you already. But this is the way it has to be, alright?”
Sherlock thought for a few moments. This entire conversation was pointless. He would continue to be a possessive, jealous pain in the arse, John would continue to be angry about it, and then they’d try to shag it out of each other. Ideally, this pattern would continue until they were old and grey and retired to the country. But John needed to hear the lie. Dull.
“Fine.” Sherlock cleared his throat, “I will endeavour to control myself.” John rumbled an agreement, but Sherlock could already feel John’s body going slack as sleep over took him.
Sherlock continued to stroke John’s fingers while the other man slept peacefully. How soon can I convince him to wear a ring? I’d wear one in return if he insisted. That would surely keep others at bay…