Fic for kinkajou: Let Nothing You Dismay, Part 2/2
Chapter 3
~~~***~~~
John and Sherlock are standing in front of the Holmes’s family home and instead of knocking or ringing the doorbell, Sherlock pulls out a set of keys and opens the door.
John follows Sherlock inside and stands on the welcoming mat with his overnight bag in hand. “Are your parents not home?” John asks, puzzled.
“No,” says Sherlock, removing his scarf.
“It’s just us two?”
“Concerns?” inquires Sherlock, unbuttoning his coat.
John sighs, exasperated. “But you invited me to your birthday dinner at your parent’s place!”
“Yes,” says Sherlock, as if John is missing the obvious. “We’re at my parent’s place. It is my birthday. And we’re going to have dinner.”
“Jesus, Sherlock! That’s not how you made it sound,” explains John, slightly irked. “You implied that your parents were disappointed I didn’t come at Christmas because my presence makes you and your brother ‘behave’. And then you led me to believe that they were organizing a dinner party for you and that I should come because I missed Christmas. I’m here because I think it’s great that you’re spending more time with your folks!”
“It’s not my fault if you made an erroneous conclusion from the facts I put forth,” Sherlock says, distracted by the mail piled up on the small table in the entrance.
“Why didn’t we just stay home?” asks John, exasperated. “You don’t even like coming here.”
Sherlock sighs. “My parents asked me to check on the place, and you’ve complained on two different occasion since you’ve been back from Harriet’s that you need a weekend away to do absolutely nothing. Plus, I had no desire for you to take me out to the pub with Lestrade on my birthday… I merely combined these three variables, and here we are.”
“What about your birthday dinner, you twit? I’m not cooking for you,” John says, crossing his arms over his chest.
“And I appreciate that John, truly.”
John gives him a look. “Funny.”
“Don’t worry, my parents-mostly dad, mum hates to cook-prepared my favourite-chicken alfredo-and we just have to heat it up,” Sherlock says, opening an envelope John is pretty sure is not addressed to him. “Make yourself at home,” Sherlock says before stepping into a room to the left (the office if John remembers correctly.)
John grabs his wrist just as the wanker tries to close the door. “Sherlock, get back here,” John orders, pulling Sherlock back into the hallway again.
Sherlock frees his hand from John’s grasp. “You’re angry,” he says, a hint of surprise in his voice.
“Yes, you tricked me into coming.”
“I did not. You made a faulty assump-”
“Cut the crap, Sherlock. Why not just ask me?”
Sherlock blinks a few times, seemingly lost. John doesn’t buy it. “Sherlock,” he warns, “Truth. Now. Or I will get back in the car and go back home.”
Sherlock sighs and looks down at the floor. “I was afraid you’d say no,” he says and then looks up at John, his eyes honest and his face transparent and John knows that whatever comes out of Sherlock’s mouth next is (probably) the truth. “I abhor being in this house alone.”
They stare at each other, this weird admission hovering between them.
John knows with a quiet certainty that there is something strange about Sherlock’s relationship to the family home. Something that makes it difficult for Sherlock to visit his parents. John doesn’t know what it is, but if he had to guess, he’d say it’s all related to the sporadic episodes of OCD and Sherlock’s strange habit of talking to himself.
This is not the sort of stuff they ever talk about. Sherlock rarely lets anyone in. He’s built solid walls around himself like he’s a professional contractor and John has had no desire to ever force it down. And now Sherlock’s shown John a small fissure to get in.
But the thing is, will the whole damn thing crumble on them if John digs in too quickly?
John makes a decision. “Tell you what. You march your sneaky little arse in the living room and you build me a fire in that great huge fireplace. It’s bloody cold in here. And when you’re ready, you tell me about the house, alright?”
~~~***~~~
John has been reading all afternoon, sitting on the sofa, right in front of that great big fireplace where he threw Mary’s A.G.R.A stick in three years ago. But he doesn’t let himself think about that. If anything, John Watson is good at compartmentalizing, and right now, he’s going to focus on the coziness of the room, the snow falling outside, and the fact that Sherlock has been catering to his needs all afternoon like it’s John’s birthday instead of Sherlock’s.
Sherlock made John a fire, brought his travel bag up to the guest room, made him a hot chocolate, and is now cooking his own birthday dinner. John would help, but honestly, Sherlock seems to be enjoying himself playing host.
After a while, John stands to look out the window. It seems the snow has picked up in intensity and instead of falling to the ground in fat fluffy snowflakes like it was earlier, it’s now attacking the ground diagonally as if determined to go through the earth instead of just covering it.
When John turns around again, Sherlock is standing in the doorway staring at him. He’s wearing a white shirt with dark charcoal trousers and he’s holding a tray with a pot of tea, tea cups, and saucers. He looks like a waiter politely waiting for John to take notice of him.
“You don’t have to play valet for me anymore. Looks like I’m not going anywhere…” John says, lightly, pointing to the window.
“The snow won’t last, you can still leave if you want,” Sherlock says, putting the tray on the coffee table carefully. “Tea?” asks Sherlock as he pours a cup for John.
“Thanks,” says John, amused that Sherlock keeps bringing him hot drinks as if their roles are suddenly reversed now that they’ve changed venue.
But Sherlock doesn’t seem to be amused. In fact he looks downright ill. His face is pale, his posture stiff and formal, and his hands are clasped tightly in front of him.
“Are you alright?” John asks, half concerned, half-suspicious.
Sherlock swallows. “I’m fine.”
“Do you need help with dinner?” John asks, sensing something’s off with his flatmate and trying to figure out what it is. Maybe Sherlock ruined the dish his parents made for him and now they need to come up with something else?
“No-dinner’s fine. It’ll be ready in an hour or so.”
“What is it, then?”
From the right pocket of his trousers, Sherlock pulls out a folded piece of paper and moves in front of John. Dusk has settled outside and has darkened the room, but the light of the fire in the huge fireplace casts a soft glow on them and John can now identify the paper Sherlock’s holding as one of the gift coupons he made Sherlock.
“John, I would like to use my last ‘anything coupon’ from the booklet you gave me for Christmas. And I do realize that it is a highly unusual request, but I would like you to recognize both the logic of the request and also its practicality.”
John suddenly feels like he should be drinking a double whisky instead of tea. “What would you like?” he inquires over the warning bells ringing loudly in his ears.
“I would like to redeem this coupon for sexual intercourse,” Sherlock says quickly.
For a brief second John assumes that he has misheard. But from the expression on Sherlock’s face-looking slightly lost and defensive-John can tell the stupid wanker is indeed asking for sex. Just the same, he asks him to repeat it.
“What did you say?”
“You heard me,” Sherlock says. “And you want me to repeat it because you don’t think I’m serious. But I am. I want to redeem this coupon for sex… with you. The sooner the better,” he adds, as if it’s something that’ll be less painful done quickly-like removing a plaster or something.
“What exactly are you up to now?”
Sherlock frowns. “I’m not up to anything. I am merely redeeming my coupon, John,” he says calmly. Too calmly.
John looks up to the ceiling asking for patience. Why, oh why, did he think giving Sherlock coupons was a good idea again? At best, this is a joke, at worst, for a case.
John gives Sherlock his composed smile. “Yeah, right, okay. Is this a joke? Is this for a case? Proposing sex just like you proposed marriage to Jeanine?”
Sherlock shakes his head ‘no’.
“Is it some kind of social experiment? I’m not playing along, Sherlock.”
“I’m serious, John. I would like to have sexual intercourse with you and I have a coupon here that says I can.”
Sherlock seems serious and John’s just going a stop to this crap now before they go around in circles endlessly. “Sherlock-No. Stop this nonsense right now.”
“Give me one good reason.”
“This is not the kind of thing that can be redeemed with a coupon.”
“Why not?”
“You know why. So glad I put the fine print on the back of those… now shall we go set the table?”
“But it meets all the conditions. It’s not unreasonable-in fact it’s a perfectly natural occurrence in all species.”
John remains composed, waiting for Sherlock to either burst out laughing or to explain how this is related to a case. Either way, this is not going to get too far.
Sherlock continues. “It’s not unethical-unless you’ve suddenly become a Christian extremist, and last but not least, it won’t endanger our life-at least not as much as some of the other stuff we’ve done together.”
“Sherlock, why are you doing this? I know you don’t really want to have sex with me.”
“I do!”
John rolls his eyes. “Well, I don’t.”
“I have enough evidence proving otherwise.”
“Oh, really? I’d love to see the evidence.”
“Excellent. As it turns out, I’ve been collecting data…”
“Of course, you have.”
“Ours is a unique friendship, would you say?”
John knows what Sherlock is doing now, distracting him, trying to trap him with words, but John knows it won’t work. “Yes, we have a unique bond,” he answers honestly.
“Well, I wondered if it was possible that you might want to be with me in a different context, so I had to formulate a hypothesis and then design a study to gather data. I knew it was a sensitive subject and that it had the potential to affect the nature of our friendship. I wouldn’t have brought it up if I wasn’t reasonably certain that my results were conclusive.”
Sherlock stops and then pulls out a small notebook from his back pocket. He flips through a few pages, and then finds what he’s looking for.
“I have a lot of data which can be considered statistically significant, but I’d like to focus on the latest event-the one that has given me the final proof.”
Sherlock pauses and takes the time to look at John. He looks so nervous and so earnest at the same time. It brings to mind the time he’d apologized to John in 221B after he’d been tossed in the fire.
Sherlock swallows. “John, my hypothesis was that you would be amiable to have sex with me. The measurement tool I used was the backscratch… I won’t cite all the variables I tested because I could not even find a control. Apparently, ‘friends’ do not get into bed together, do not touch each other the way you did, and do not fall asleep with their arms around each other unless there’s a possibility-”
It feels like John’s stomach has turned to lead. He smiles his angry smile and shakes his head, “So, you admit to tricking me. You asked for a back scratch knowing full that it sounded quirky enough for me to think it would be something you’d want. And now you’re using this as proof that I secretly want to sleep with you?”
“No-it’s not like that, John.”
“Did you bloody write an actual study on this?”
“Yes. It’s the best way to organize my thoughts when it’s something I have no experience with. I follow the scientific method.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Don’t worry, I’m not submitting it for publication or anything like that,” Sherlock jokes weakly.
John is irked, and that’s putting it mildly; it’s like he’s got an angry bull within, smashing its horns against its enclosure, but he manages to hold it inside. “Sherlock, you’re ruining a perfectly nice afternoon. I’m really not in the mood to play your stupid game,” he says evenly.
“It’s not a game.”
“Well, whatever this is, I’m not falling for it.”
John is losing the battle with his metaphorical bull. It seems the beast has smashed through the fence and is now looking for the insensitive prick he calls his best friend.
For whatever reason Sherlock is doing this, John feels Sherlock’s crossed the line. John can’t point exactly what that line is but he knows it’s got something to do with Sherlock using John’s gift to ridicule the nature of their friendship. And what angers John the most is that Sherlock dares call what he’s doing ‘science’ when he bloody well knows neither one of them want to have sex with each other.
“John, you fail to see the logic,” says Sherlock.
John barks out a laugh. “That’s because there’s no logic to this. This has nothing to do with the science and probabilities and everything to do with being a decent human being-which you clearly don’t get, do you? I bloody well know it was a bit out there, but I did it because it was you, and you don’t count as a normal friend, so your results are invalid!”
John knows he should take a step back before he says anything more. But it seems that Sherlock has just hit a very sore spot-one that somehow had been festering unattended-and now the loose angry bull within is going after Sherlock. “This is really classy. How about you do a study on how to be considerate and respectful of people who are bravely willing to be your friend?” he says, regretting the words as soon as they are out of his damn mouth.
Sherlock’s eyes widen and he swallows hard. He looks stricken. Hurt.
Nice going, John.
But within seconds Sherlock has composed himself again and his face becomes devoid of emotions. “I thought this was the most efficient method to lead us to the resolution we both want. I was clearly mistaken. But please know it was my inexperience and not any lack of respect for you that led to this unfortunate request.”
Sherlock turns and stiffly climbs up the stairs, the damn coupon still clasped tightly in his hands.
John feels terrible. Terrible enough that he feels like vomiting. He sits back down on the sofa and drops his head in his hands. What the hell just happened?
Regret lodges itself in his sternum, heavy and sharp, like an anvil. Jesus Christ, he didn’t mean to hurt Sherlock like that. He should’ve been more ‘emotionally’ mature about this. He should’ve been able to take a step back and ask Sherlock why he wanted to have sex instead of getting all defensive about it.
John shakes his head; he’d been warned by his therapist that this might happen at one point. John, if you never tell Sherlock how you felt when he tricked you into declaring your forgiveness on that subway car, it’ll come back to haunt you. You’ll find it difficult to trust him.
The thing is, John does trust Sherlock! He trusts him with his life. And God dammit if Sherlock hasn’t saved it a few times too. But it’s the other stuff-the emotional things-he has difficulty trusting Sherlock with. It’s as if he expects to find Sherlock breaking down in chuckles if John shares anything remotely sentimental. You should see your face.
John runs a hand through his hair. Well he’s not going to sit here over analyzing things at this point. They obviously need to talk to each other and, unfortunately, a sex proposal is just too much to be swept under the rug.
There’s only one thing to do-go find the great idiot upstairs and fix things.
~~~***~~~
Chapter 4
~~~***~~~
John stands in front of what he assumes to be Sherlock’s closed bedroom door, takes a deep breath, and knocks.
“In here,” says a voice-Sherlock’s, obviously-coming from somewhere behind him. John turns around and realizes he’s knocking at the wrong bloody door. Go figure.
He pokes his head in the room across the landing, and sure enough, Sherlock is in there, now dressed in his pajamas and wearing a navy blue bathrobe. He’s sitting in a chair that looks exactly like John’s in 221B but with a less faded fabric. John figures the chairs must’ve been a matched pair at some point until Mrs Holmes changed the décor or Sherlock took one with him when he moved out.
John steps into the room. It smells of old books and fresh linen and looks nothing like he’d expected a younger Sherlock to live in. Sherlock’s bed is different than the one he has in the flat. It’s made of a lighter wood and the headboard is actually a bookshelf. There is a white duvet on it and a red and blue quilt folded at the footboard. The walls are bare and painted light blue except for a faded rectangle where Sherlock’s poster of the Periodic Chart of the Elements must’ve hung. There is a tall, narrow bookshelf, filled with what appears to be yellowed scientific journals organized in boxes. The closet door is opened and the clothes Sherlock was wearing earlier are now hanging neatly on a hanger.
Sherlock is not paying attention to him. He seems to be reading an old, bulky, university textbook entitled Developmental Cognitive Neuroscience.
John sighs. He’s not quite sure how to go about this. It’s a delicate situation and it seems they both owe each other an apology.
“You can sit on my bed,” says Sherlock, his face glued to the book.
John quietly moves to the bed and sits down. Sherlock finally looks up and stares at John with big, wide eyes, face completely neutral. This feels like any old time John’s interrupted Sherlock’s reading. Except, it’s not any old time, is it? Now there’s a weird ‘sex’ proposal between them and a very hurtful comment, too.
Sherlock suddenly snaps the book shut and drops it on the carpeted floor in a loud thud. He then sits straighter, and John thinks he looks so much younger than he actually is, sitting like this with his hands folded on his lap and his feet placed squarely on the floor. It makes John regret his words even more; it’s like Sherlock’s body posture emphasizes his innocence, his total lack of experience in matters of the heart.
“Listen, Sherlock,” he starts. “I think-”
“Not apologizing,” interrupts Sherlock in an odd, childish voice. He blinks and then starts over. “I am not apologizing, John, if that’s what you came up here for.”
John closes his eyes briefly, and then inhales. “I’m here to fix things between us. I don’t know about you, but I feel like shit.”
Sherlock’s lips tremble slightly and then his face resets to neutral, but John notices that he is clasping the hands on his lap tighter. “I feel just fine,” Sherlock says.
The obvious lie makes John feel even worse. “Well, just in case I hurt your feelings earlier, I’d like to apologize.”
“As I said, John. I’m perfectly fine. I do not expect an apology and don’t expect one from me. We are two grown men who have expressed what was on their minds. We could not come to an amiable solution, therefore I believe we should move on and put it behind us. Should we go eat?”
Sherlock delivers this little monologue as if he just memorized it from the psychology book he dropped on the floor. John doesn’t buy it. Sherlock hates when John is upset with him (not that it ever stops Sherlock from pushing John’s buttons…) In fact, they are both miserable when they fight and they are usually pretty quick to talk things through and make it right again (faked death notwithstanding).
But now-in the face of Sherlock’s presumed indifference-John feels like he’s talking to a stranger. He feels like grabbing Sherlock by the feet and shaking him upside down, until the real Sherlock comes tumbling down on the floor. “Sherlock, you know me and you know I didn’t mean any of the stuff I said. I’m sorry I said it; I reacted poorly to your…er.. request.”
Sherlock’s expression doesn’t change and he keeps staring straight ahead. John sighs, and tries one more time to get Sherlock to talk, or to at least accept his apology.
Sometimes, not always, Sherlock reacts better if John is somewhat stern with him. “Stop being a stubborn idiot and say ‘of course, you damn well forgive me’,” instructs John.
This seems to snap Sherlock out of his trance, and a near smile appears on his lips. “This is tedious,” he announces, “but I ‘damn’ well forgive you,” he says repeating John’s words verbatim.
John sees that they are finally close to a bloody resolution, and now Sherlock needs to do his part. “Now apologize to me and say you’re sorry for using the gift coupons to collect data on me.”
Sherlock shakes his head. “But I’m not sorry, John,” he says, earnestly. “I wanted that back scratch and it’s not my fault you provided me with further evidence.”
John sighs. It’s obvious he needs to approach this from another angle or else this conversation will go around and around in circles. “Alright, Sherlock. Can you explain to me clearly why you felt the need to gather this kind of-er-data on me, and why you think the solution to your findings is sex?”
Sherlock closes his eyes briefly as if he’s organizing his thoughts to deliver a clear, composed answer. “You like your life with me because I provide the element of danger and adventure that you seek. I, too, enjoy your company, but soon you will be ready to start dating again because, frankly, you enjoy sex far too much to go without it. Statistically speaking, the odds of you finding a girlfriend who will tolerate me are very slim and consequently, you will let your desire for a relationship trump your desire for adventure and you will end up moving out of 221B. Since I’m trying to avoid that very possibility, I’ve surmised that if you and I had enter in a sexual relationship, we could then bypass the part where you move out, and consequently we would both get what we want.”
Sherlock pauses as if he expects John to challenge his speech, but John stays silent, waiting for Sherlock to explain the rest.
Sherlock takes a deep breath and continues. “Contrary to popular belief, I do have some insights about the risks of proposing a change of parameters in a friendship, but I deemed that the reward would be worth the risk of offending you.”
John runs a hand through his hair and fights back the urge to laugh in disbelief. Could Sherlock sound more clinical? Plus it seems the bloody tosser forgot a very important variable in this little plan of his… “But Sherlock, you don’t do sex and relationships. Remember, human error?”
Sherlock lifts his chin in defiance. “As I said, I’ve weighed the pros and cons and I think the risk is worth it.”
“You’re making me feel all warm and fuzzy,” John says, rolling his eyes.
“In the past you’ve never expected serenades and flowers before coitus,” replies Sherlock with a tiny smile to indicate he understood John’s sarcasm. But the fact that he actually used the word coitus just proves John’s point even more.
John doesn’t even ask if Sherlock’s had sex before. The answer is obvious. In fact, John’s pretty sure it’s not something Sherlock would particularly like, especially the loss of control part and the shared intimacy.
“And the fact that I’m not gay?”
Sherlock looks up to the ceiling and sighs as if he’s running out of ways to explain his point to John. “As I said,” he begins, with great emphasis on the fact that he’s repeating himself. “I have evidence that it’s not a factor for you, hence my decision to propose this in the first place.”
John looks at Sherlock. He seems so sure of this nonsense plan of his. So confident that he would be able to go through with it. John realizes he doesn’t even need to debate with Sherlock anymore. The fastest and easiest way to end this is to let Sherlock realize that he’s not interested in John that way. Let Sherlock discover for himself why you don’t ask for sex like you’re presenting a new efficient cost/benefit business model to your colleague.
John crosses his arms. “Okay, fine. You’ve convinced me. I’m letting you redeem the coupon for sex.”
Sherlock doesn’t start blinking endlessly like John expected him to. Instead, he looks at John with great scrutiny. “You’re trying to prove a point. You don’t think I will be able to do this,” he concludes, eyes smart and sharp.
John shrugs. “Maybe,” he says, unfolding his arms, “There’s only one way to find out.”
Sherlock only stares, hands steepled together, as is his habit when he’s thinking.
They need to resolve this now one way or another before they return to Baker Street; Sherlock needs to get this ridiculous idea out of his head. Either he concedes that sex was a piss poor plan all along, or he will try to chicken out soon after.”
“Go on then. If that’s what you really want… if you think your data is solid, come over here and kiss me.”
Sherlock sits up straighter in the chair and braces both hands on the armrest as if he’s preparing to jump out of an aeroplane. “Fine,” he says, but doesn’t move.
It seems this charade is finally over and John resists the urge to tease Sherlock about it.
But John says nothing and just waits. The thing is, John does care a hell of a lot about his best friend, and by some complicated logic John is quite touched that Sherlock would contemplate going this far out of his comfort zone just to keep John at his side.
Time stands still. The only thing that seems to be moving is the slow, pink flush creeping up Sherlock’s throat.
“John,” he says. “You’ve correctly deduced-not that it was that difficult-that I’ve never done this before. I’ve never even kissed anyone, except for a case.”
There’s a note of sincerity in Sherlock’s voice that goes straight through John’s heart and pulls hard, making his sternum feel tight.
But what the hell is John supposed to do? Help Sherlock follow through?
“The ball’s in your court, Sherlock,” John says.
Sherlock looks down at his feet for a few moments. “So I’ve been told,” he says, quietly.
Another small eternity goes by and finally Sherlock stands and approaches John slowly. He looks like a spooked animal that has decided to be brave and accept food from the outstretched hand of a human. His eyes are alert and his movements are guarded, yet determined.
John’s seen Sherlock give a very convincing performance with Jeanine. It sure seemed a lot less painful than the way he’s doing it now.
Sherlock swallows. “I might need some assistance,” Sherlock continues, as he stands in front of John. “And I’ve always been able to count on you.”
There’s something in the way Sherlock says this that is very touching and now John feels like shit for making Sherlock do this.
Sherlock licks his lips and leans in ever so slightly towards John until John can smell the pleasant odour of his shampoo and after-shave. John feels his heart beating out of his chest wildly in perfect rhythm with the words dancing around his head Don’t do it, do it, don’t do it, do it….
And for the life of him, John has no idea where the Do it comes from but it’s there all the same-pulsing, insistent, and daring.
Sherlock approaches, his face closer and closer to John’s. And he then stops, hovering just above him. John holds his breath, looking directly at Sherlock’s unique face.
Sherlock is concentrating so hard-like kissing is a complicated physics problem and the right tangent needs to be calculated before proceeding.
Yet, there’s something more than just nervousness in his eyes, there is also a hint of earnestness and… anticipation? Good Lord, does Sherlock seriously want to kiss him?
Tension tugs and pulls in the air between them.
Do it.
It’s difficult for John to remain still. Sherlock seems paralyzed and there is a very instinctual need for John to help him. He really wants to make this easier for Sherlock, knowing full well that it would defeat the purpose.
The more Sherlock stands there looking vulnerable the more John wants to go to him, wants to wrap his arms around him, hug him, tell him it’s all good. (Isn’t that what he did at his own bloody wedding?)
And the worst part in this? Is that John wants this kiss. He wants it so bad. Sherlock’s data was right all along, wasn’t it? On some deep unconscious level, John must be attracted to more than the danger his best friend provides.
In fact, they’re both right. John wants this and Sherlock doesn’t. How goddamn funny!
John laughs then, a short bark. Sherlock freezes in surprise, blinking his incredible grey-green eyes at him, his mouth so damn close John could kiss him without half trying.
But John thinks of Jeanine. Thinks of Sherlock going as far as proposing to Jeanine.
No let him. Let him see this is madness.
“John, I am proceeding,” he announces, as if he doesn’t want to catch John by surprise.
John inhales long and soft as Sherlock strokes John’s neck with his fingertips. There is a certain reverence to his touch that makes John’s heart swell in a strange combination of affection and confusion, as if Sherlock’s fingertips are trying to tell him that this is much more than a simple risk analysis.
Sherlock lets his hand drop.
Surely he’s going to back out now.
But no. He plants his arms on the bed on each side of John and leans in to press a kiss on John’s cheek and then hides against John’s throat.
“Please John,” he whispers.
John doesn’t move, doesn’t react and waits it out. It’s important that Sherlock realizes that Sherlock doesn’t want this. In fact it’s paramount so it doesn’t ever occur again.
Sherlock pulls away and lifts his head. “You really don’t want to,” he says, surprised as if it’s the first time his data has ever let him down. “Am I really so repulsive to you?”
Repulsive?
John knows Sherlock is using the word repulsive in a scientific sense-to mean the opposite of attracted… just like in his damn study, but still, it does something to John. No, you’re not repulsive at all, Sherlock.
John runs a frantic hand through his hair. Don’t let me reach for him.
John sees him starting to falter; Sherlock is going to change his mind and things will eventually go back to normal between them, this strange episode will get swept under the carpet and forgotten.
But John doesn’t really want normal, does he?
Aw, fuck it!
“Come here, you stupid idiot,” John says, grabbing Sherlock by the arm and pulling him down onto the bed next to him. He dips down and kisses Sherlock firmly on the lips. “Is this really what you want?”
“Yes,” Sherlock says, blinking in surprise.
“Alright.” Your way Sherlock, John thinks as he guides Sherlock down on the mattress, moving fully over him in order to kiss him again. Always your way.
This time John really kisses Sherlock. He wraps his hands around the back of Sherlock’s head and brings his face right up to his. “This is how you do it,” John says, angling his mouth on Sherlock’s and pushing their lips together in quiet determination. Sherlock’s arms move around John’s back and he opens his mouth wide as he moans the softest John ever. Their tongues meet and swirl and glide around each other. It’s like the waltzing lessons-intimate and sweet-but this time it’s John who’s leading.
John has always immersed himself in Sherlock’s brilliant-dangerous-outrageous personality, has fed off the endorphins provided by awe and danger, but now that desire has been added to the mix, he’s drowning in Sherlock.
John lowers Sherlock on the bed and kisses him as if his life depends on it, as if the only way to stay afloat is to reach somewhere deep inside Sherlock.
John’s pulse is beating strong and loud in his throat, pounding rhythmically in his lower gut, sending delicious pulses of heat to his groin.
“C’mon, let’s get this off,” says John, gruffly. He pulls off Sherlock’s t-shirt over his head and then slides Sherlock’s pajama bottoms down.
Suddenly he’s filled with a heady feeling of being invited to a rare, exclusive event. John has been privy to the workings of Sherlock’s brilliant mind. Has been welcomed in to the point that Sherlock talks to him even when he’s not around. And now, he has access to his amazing body as well.
It’s not the first time that John’s noticed Sherlock’s perfect body. Didn’t he even compare him to Michelangelo’s David? But it’s the first time John’s ever been with a man. John’s fingers trail down Sherlock’s hips and he finds that he is more concerned with making Sherlock feel safe and good than he is with the fact that he is about to touch another man’s body intimately.
Who would’ve thought?
John feels Sherlock’s hands tugging at the back of his shirt, trying to pull it out of his trousers, all the while keeping his mouth on John’s. He is so determined to do both at the same time. To show John that, he too, wants this. That it was his idea.
John takes a deep breath and forces himself to slow the hell down. He needs to make this good for Sherlock.
He pushes himself up on one arm and looks at Sherlock, naked and lying deep in the white duvet, his hair spread around his head like an halo. He can’t go as far as comparing Sherlock to an angel-but it’s pretty damn close. And John is filled with something so strong, so powerful that he wonders how he managed to spend the night in Sherlock’s bed two weeks ago without kissing him.
“John, what’s wrong?” asks Sherlock, frowning. “Did I do-”
“No, it’s fine. It’s great. I just wanted to look at you… you’re really something else, Sherlock. Really beautiful…”
Sherlock’s cheeks colour and his eyes blink twice before they drop down to John’s waist. “Can I look at you as well?”
John smiles and nods. He sits back on his knees and removes his shirt quickly and tosses it on the floor. He is oddly pleased when Sherlock pushes John’s hand out of the way to help him undo his belt and pull his trousers off.
And then they are both naked on the duvet, and when their eyes meet, they look at each other with mutual trust and intensity. The switch to lovers feels like the very first time they met-an instant, intuitive connection, full of adrenaline and underlying humour.
“John--”
“Don’t tell me you’ve changed your mind,” John says, laughing softly, pushing Sherlock’s fringe out of his eyes.
“No-but we only have twenty minutes until dinner is ready,” he says with a tiny smile.
“I’m pretty sure that’s not going to be a problem,” John replies.
Finally, John scoops Sherlock in his arms and kisses him desperately, his hands messing up Sherlock’s hair, his mouth nipping and sucking Sherlock’s glorious lips. Pretty soon, they are both panting and wanting more. John’s hand guides Sherlock’s hips closer and closer until their bodies are aligned and they are bare skin to bare skin, creating delicious friction until they are both erect and craving to be touched.
John reaches between their bodies and takes hold of Sherlock’s cock.
“Oh, God,” inhales Sherlock.
“Good?”
“Yeah” he whispers. “More?” he adds.
John smiles at the fact that it’s a question. Smiles at the thought of an untouched Sherlock who is uncertain just how much more he wants, just how much more there is.
John leans back a bit and cradles Sherlock’s face. “As much as you like.”
“Okay,” Sherlock says simply, granting John permission, handing the control over to him.
John kisses him deeply, their tongues swirling together until John slides down, stamping Sherlock’s body with minute wet kisses all the way down to his navel. John touches Sherlock’s knee and says, “It’ll be easier if you open up a bit.”
Slowly, trustingly, Sherlock opens his legs wider. On instinct, John’s hand sneaks down to cup Sherlock’s balls. He massages them gently, because he knows just how goddamn awesome it feels.
“That’s,” Sherlock moans gruffly, “that’s extremely… good,” he exhales.
The thin skin of Sherlock’s balls tighten under John’s touch, so he lets go before it becomes too much; he simply goes back to kissing Sherlock’s skin. And when he feels Sherlock is ready, John takes Sherlock’s cock in his mouth.
It is an odd experience for John, but he finds the feel of Sherlock’s sleek skin under his tongue to be utterly erotic in its novelty. He loves the fact that Sherlock’s cock seems to be humming under John’s touch. And he loves the sounds Sherlock makes, all strangled and raw, and so unbelievably sexy. John moves his mouth lower, his tongue reaching muskier, sexier places, until Sherlock starts producing deeper sounds that make John’s skin pulse with need.
Sherlock pushes into the bed with his feet, his hands grasping the sheets. “No, yess, nooo,” he begs, like he doesn’t know what he wants.
But John knows. “Shhh,” he says, and then moves back up to capture Sherlock’s cock in his mouth, scraping his teeth along the shaft. “I’m going to use my hand now,” he says as if he wants Sherlock to know what to expect.
John makes a tight fist around Sherlock’s cock and jerks him off with his hand. He only needs to pump his hand a few times and, sliding his thumb over the sleek head, Sherlock is coming on his hand, with his lips parted, head thrown back. Lost to sensation.
John gathers Sherlock to him, malleable and spent and warm and his. And he kisses him on the lips, nipping and sucking until Sherlock’s breathing returns to normal.
But too soon, Sherlock pushes himself up and looks at John, his cheeks very pink, his lips swollen deep red from all the kissing.
“John, let me,” he says, pointing in the general direction of John’s crotch.
John sees that Sherlock wants to show him it is mutual, that this thing they’ve started is not one-sided at all. John nods, letting Sherlock do whatever he wants with him.
Sherlock crawls between John’s thighs and wraps his arms around John’s waist tightly, as if he wants to hug him.
Then Sherlock pulls away again, dips his tongue in John’s navel, and sits back on his heels, looking at John. “You are devastatingly handsome,” Sherlock says, with so much sincerity that John’s heart seems to do a backbeat in dismay. No one’s ever said anything remotely like that to John before and he feels the warmth of a blush crawl right up his face.
Sherlock bends down again, and proceeds to kiss John all the way down his torso just like John did to Sherlock. When he gets to his crotch, Sherlock sucks briefly on the soft skin inside John’s thigh.
John’s feels the delicious tension mount in his balls and spread outward to his cock, filling his lower gut with warm, pulsing need.
And then Sherlock takes hold of John’s cock and guides it into his mouth, his eyes fixed on John’s.
“Christ, Sherlock,” John moans, and it doesn’t matter if Sherlock nips John with his teeth a bit, it is by far the most striking thing he’s ever experienced. John finds he needs to close his own eyes because to look at Sherlock like this-so eager, so humanly sexual-is too much right now.
Sherlock sucks him off, the smooth pressure of his mouth exquisite as he slowly drags John’s cock through his gorgeous lips.
John tries to pull away, his breathing fast, and his ears pounding with the sound of rushing blood, and he knows he is very close. But Sherlock doesn’t release him and John is powerless to stop his orgasm from pulsing through him in warm, satisfying spurts on the edge of Sherlock’s surprised lips.
The sight of a disheveled Sherlock, gracefully wiping his chin clean with long elegant fingers, looking at John with a potent mixture of fierce pride and coyness, is enough for John do whatever the hell it takes to make it all happen again.
“Jesus, Sherlock, where did you learn to do that? You couldn’t even kiss me earlier.”
Sherlock simply smiles and John pulls him down and covers both of them with the duvet. They turn on their sides and Sherlock wraps an arm around John’s waist, pushing a knee between his legs until he is seemingly anchored to John’s back.
“John?” whispers Sherlock, his voice warm and soft in John’s nape.
“Hmmm?”
“You are much more attracted to me than my data predicted,” Sherlock says, a note of dismay evident in his voice.
John chuckles quietly, pulling Sherlock’s musky palm to his mouth for a kiss. “Maybe there’s much more than attraction at play here.”
John feels a bunch of little kisses tickle his neck and then cascade down to his shoulder. “Yes, much more.”
~~~****~~~
And later, much later, after a nearly burnt birthday dinner is eaten and a quick walk in the freshly fallen snow results in a multitude of kisses on red cheeks and red noses, John learns, while straddled on his back in the snow by Sherlock, that it is possible to see someone’s face everyday and not realize until that moment that you’ve been looking at the love of your life all along.
Sherlock learns, hovering above a flushed John in the snow, that it is possible to call love a mistake and not realize until that moment that it is in fact a miracle.
Together, back inside the house, they learn that it is possible to have sex more than once, like besotted teenagers. And it isn’t until the faint light of the cold winter morning enters the room that they also learn how to fall asleep together in Sherlock’s boyhood bed, John cradled inside Sherlock’s arms.
~~~***~~~