Fic: "Negotiations" (3/3)
Title: "Negotiations” (3/3)
Authors: impishtubist and canonisrelative
Characters: Sherlock/John, Lestrade
Rating: R
Disclaimer: We own nothing.
Word Count: c. 7,000; c. 11,000 total
Warnings: Asexuality Issues; Sexual Situations; Language; Mentions of suicide
Spoilers: through "Reichenbach"
Summary: Sherlock and John are in the process of becoming something more after the events of “Reichenbach,” but a disagreement threatens all they are to one another.
Notes: Operates in the “Winter’s Child” ‘verse, but is able to stand alone. Chronologically, this would be the beginning of the series. The master list can be found here.
----
Part Three: Resolutions
It was four days since he'd last seen Sherlock. After that first night, John had kept to stubborn silence. For once he hadn't been in the wrong - for once it was Sherlock who'd jumped to false conclusions, who'd said all the wrong things, who would need to come crawling back to apologize. John had been sleeping on the sofa in their living room, waiting and hoping that Sherlock would turn up.
He'd woken that morning to a call from the Yard - Lestrade's secretary requesting he come down to sign off on the Haversham case. He'd pulled himself together, wondering if Sherlock was going to be there too, and gone.
Sherlock's back was to the door when John arrived at Lestrade’s office; his shoulders hunched, hands tucked into his pockets. The normally neat lines of his so-familiar silhouette were rumpled and mussed. He was studying something on the floor in front of him, listening to whatever Lestrade was saying in low tones that did not carry words to John's ear, just an impression of worry; of care and concern. In a similar way that his hand on Sherlock's shoulder broadcasted the DI's concern for him. One might go so far as to say affection. John forced himself to unclench his hands, nails peeling away from his skin and leaving sharp crescents of pain in each palm. He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders, preparing to walk into the office.
And then Lestrade shook Sherlock lightly, giving him a small smile, and this time John could make out his words, Don't worry, Sunshine, I've got you, as Sherlock turned to look at Lestrade, his profile looking so very worn, to John, his eyes so tired, his skin so pale...his nose so close to Lestrade's, as he looked into his eyes, his lips parting slightly. And John saw the tremor go through him as he nodded, bowing his head to rest his forehead against Lestrade's.
Leave him out of this, Sherlock had said. Fucking hell.
When John returned, half an hour later, he had control of himself and the shaking of his hands, and Sherlock was gone.
He was so angry that it took nearly ten full minutes of silence as he completed his paperwork before he realised that Lestrade was behaving just as coldly towards him. A frosty silent treatment that smacked of anger, not guilt. John scrawled his final signature and handed the stack across and, confusion warring with his better sense, he met Lestrade's eyes.
The DI's lips thinned and he accepted the forms wordlessly. John stood to go. He almost made it to the door before Lestrade spoke.
"I hope you know what you're doing, Watson."
That stopped him flat. He couldn't remember the last time Lestrade had called him by his surname. He turned slowly, arms held stiffly at his sides, waiting for the punchline. I was a long time coming as Lestrade surveyed him across the cluttered island of his desk, but when the words dropped they hit John like a ton of bricks
"You're losing him. And you're doing nothing to stop it."
"I could be wrong, Inspector," John's voice was just as chilly as Lestrade's, "but I think that's none of your--"
"It's very much my business. You should see him, you have no idea what this has done to him. Are you really too thick to realise that he is the best thing that's ever happened to you and you're just--"
"If he's so bloody miserable," John found himself shouting, "then let him come and talk to me himself! Why are you--"
"Because," Lestrade bellowed back, standing to lean across his desk, eyes flashing, "he's a great bloody idiot and he's got it in his head you don't care for him and he's trying to--"
"I'm not listening to this," John snapped, spinning on his heel and marching for the door.
"John," Lestrade's voice was soft. Pleading. John paused with his hand on the door handle but didn't turn. "Please. Whatever it was he did, he's ready to beg your forgiveness if he thought there was the smallest chance you'd give it. I know that's not how arguments are usually resolved and I've tried to tell him that, tell him he should talk to you even without that assurance. But you know how he is. He just...he doesn't understand how these things work. He's...he's like a child. He thinks the world's ended because you've had an argument."
Lestrade sounded so hesitant, so uncomfortable to be giving this kind of advice, unsolicited, to even be talking about Sherlock in this way, that although John let his hand fall away from the door he still did not turn. He didn't think they could handle eye contact and words.
"It wasn't just an argument, Lestrade. It was...bad. The kind of thing that makes you question if it could ever work and if it's even worth it to try. We've hit a disconnect and I don't know there's any way to fix it. Trying might just make it worse, down the road."
"That doesn't sound like you. Not the John Watson Sherlock's madly in love with." John blinked and hunched his shoulders. Did he say that to you when he hasn't even said it to me? Dammit, Sherlock. "I didn't think you were afraid of anything."
"Didn't say I was afraid, did I?" But oh, God, he was. Terrified, even. These last few days had been unbearable. John had never been one to depend on one other person - not like this. In the war, in Afghanistan, it had been different; he'd depended on his men, his team, for survival. This felt too much like that, and all that John had ever heard made him think that that was very unhealthy.
"No," Lestrade said finally, and John heard the squeak of rusty wheels as he pulled out his desk chair, and the heavy sigh of the DI - his friend; their friend - as he sank down into it. "No, you didn't say that. And neither did he. But I know you both too well, and I'm not an idiot. Just...think on it, all right, John? That's all I'm asking. I didn't...well. Let's just say, after all I've been through with that one, I'd rather not lose him to something so mundane as a broken heart, eh?"
The sound John made sounded more like he was choking than laughing, but he tried to pass it off, turning to look at Lestrade and lifting the corners of his mouth. He gave a brief nod and reached for the door handle. Lestrade, mercifully, had nothing left to say.
---
His leg was still bothering him so he took the elevator. He punched the button for the ground floor and leaned against the wall, forehead pressed against the cool metal.
The door slid open and he stepped out into the hallway, the first bend in the corridor bringing him face-to-shoulder with a familiar black coat. He pulled up short but the muttered curse proved less easy to recall than his forward momentum. Sherlock turned to face him, looking quite as startled as he felt.
"Sorry," John stumbled over his words, half-turning back toward the elevator, "I'll just - "
"No," Sherlock said quickly, his right hand twitching away from his side. "No. That is - Don't."
John crossed his arms, feeling his defences grind into place, erecting a wall between himself and Sherlock. "Don't what?"
"Don't go."
John frowned at him, opening his mouth to ask Why when the sound of Sherlock's mobile split the charged silence between them. The detective silenced it with an impatient sigh. It began to ring again immediately.
"What is it, Lestrade?" John could hear the tinny sound of Lestrade's voice, muffled against Sherlock's cheek, and the lines around Sherlock's eyes relaxed just for a moment, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards. "Yes. Of course. Front corridor by the elevators." Sherlock hung up and slipped the phone into his pocket, tension creeping back into his face as he refocused on John. "Double homicide, just called in, apparently. Battersea."
"Ah." John shifted his weight, eyes slipping away from Sherlock's as the sound of several pairs of feet came hurrying toward them.
Lestrade looked surprised to see them standing there, together, and spared a moment for a quick grin and a nod before Sherlock was firing off questions and they were striding away, Donovan and Smith hurrying to catch up.
They were nearly at the front door before Sherlock called over his shoulder, "Coming, John?"
---
It might have been a new record, even for Sherlock. Two minutes at the crime scene and he'd hailed a cab without a word of explanation, grinning to himself as he tapped furiously away at his mobile. John had followed in a car with Donovan, who must have been briefed on the state of things between them as she remained mercifully silent as she drove.
Three hours later the case was wrapped, the suspect in custody, and the Yarders on their way down to the pub to celebrate. John watched Lestrade clap Sherlock on the shoulder and earnestly entreat him to join them. Donovan's earlier silence in the car seemed less kind now as she added her voice to Lestrade's, telling Sherlock a night out would do him good. John watched in astonishment to see Lestrade's crew rallying around Sherlock, the man whom they’d believed a fraud and responsible for nearly costing their boss his job not two years ago. No one asked John if he'd like to join them.
But Sherlock resisted their invitations, insisting he still had work to do in the morgue and Yes, Lestrade, he would be fine. John didn't miss the glance Lestrade directed his way as he squeezed Sherlock's arm one last time, nor the way Sherlock's eyes followed the DI out the door.
Alone with Sherlock at last, John shuffled his feet, hands buried in his pockets. "Sherlock..."
"How did I know so quickly?" Sherlock asked, not looking at John. “Well, it was obvious from the soil on the bottom of her shoe -”
“No, Sherlock -”
“ - also, her clothes were all wrong for the occasion -”
“Sherlock -”
“ - not to mention the fact that -”
“Sherlock, are you in love with Lestrade?”
His blunt question, asked at a near-shout, had the desired effect. Sherlock ground to a halt mid-sentence, stupefied, and stared at John.
“What?”
John held his ground, arms crossed over his chest.
“I said,” he growled, “are you in love with Lestrade?”
“Don’t be ridiculo -”
“Don’t call me ridiculous!” John snapped. “You accused me out of bloody nowhere of seeing someone behind your back - is that why, you were projecting because you have your own secret? This happens every time we fight - even when we don’t fight, sometimes! You always go to him. You sleep over at his flat, you take smoke breaks with him at the Yard - yes, you do, don’t even try to hide that from me. You always go to him first.”
“Not always,” Sherlock said softly. “I came back to you, first, after -”
But he broke off, catching himself, because he knew as well as anyone that John hated to be reminded of the time when he thought Sherlock was dead. He preferred to keep it tucked back in the corner of his mind, buried under layers of dust and forgotten.
“It never occurred to you,” Sherlock said finally, rubbing his arm absently (on the inside of his elbow, an old habit, rubbing the place where the needles would slip into his skin), “that I could have a - be close to someone in a way that wasn’t romantic? Do you really believe me incapable of that?”
“You’re deflecting,” John said hotly. “Tell me. What is he to you?”
“He’s the reason I’m alive today,” Sherlock said bluntly. “In a sense, at least.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It means,” Sherlock growled, anger beginning to bubble to the surface, “that if not for him, I would be dead and we never would have met. Does that mean nothing to you?”
“Well, what do you mean, in a sense?”
“That’s not important at this moment,” Sherlock said, still stony. “Perhaps, one day, I’ll explain. But you must realize that I go to him for a reason, and you have to trust that it has nothing to do with...attraction.”
“What then?” John snapped, still not understanding. What the hell else could Sherlock want with the man? He’d seen them in Lestrade's office - he’d seen Sherlock’s expression; Lestrade’s tenderness; the touching.
“He -” Sherlock started, and then stopped. John waited out the silence. “I never had a father - or, to be more accurate, I never had what society considers a proper father to be. And Lestrade doesn't have children. I trust I don’t need to elaborate further than that. Or are you so thick that more explanation is necessary?”
John felt a rush of hot guilt slide down his throat and settle in his stomach. He’d never, not for a moment, considered the fact that Sherlock’s childhood might have been anything less than stellar. He’d never taken the time to think that his friend was capable of a variety of relationships - just because he only felt, only recognized, certain shades of emotion didn’t mean that the rest of his life was so black-and-white.
“I -” he licked his lips, cleared his throat. “I - I never realized that, Sherlock. I never thought -”
“Of course you didn’t,” Sherlock snapped, interrupting him. “You’re so focused on sex that you can’t see past it and consider the fact that there might be more to my interpersonal relationships than that. You view the whole bloody world through that one lens, and it makes you blind.”
John took a step back. It wasn’t like Sherlock to swear, not when he had witty and biting retorts in his repertoire, and the fact that he did so now felt like the equivalent of punching the wall in anger.
“There’s only you, John,” Sherlock continued, soft, forcing the words out even as his fists clenched - in frustration? Anger? Fury at having to admit that he needed someone? “There’s only ever been you. I wish you could see that.”
But John did see it - and that was the problem. Because these past few nights without Sherlock were nearly as unbearable as when Sherlock had been dead; perhaps even more so, because Sherlock had chosen to be apart from him and that ached, as though a red-hot ember had settled in the pit of his stomach and was slowly burning him from the inside out. He couldn’t bear it, the thought that Sherlock would ever voluntarily want to be apart from him - or the thought that he could exist without Sherlock. The very notion was absurd.
They couldn’t exist apart, but he doubted they could exist together, and that was the cruelest part of it all. They were two halves of a very particular whole, and yet they couldn’t fit. They wouldn’t fit.
That doesn’t sound like the John Watson I know.
John sat down heavily in the nearest chair and buried his face in his hands. Sherlock continued to stand some feet away, staring at him, waiting.
“You don’t like sex,” John said finally, processing. “You aren’t interested. And yet you want...me.”
“All of you,” Sherlock said in a low voice, and it sent a shiver down John’s spine.
“All right,” John said slowly, and licked his lips. Oh, he was done for; had been for ages. It was bloody terrifying.
And really, he wouldn’t want it any other way.
“Then...why don’t you tell me what it is you do like.”
The silence lasted for so long that John finally lifted his head, looking up to find Sherlock's eyes fixed on his face.
"That," Sherlock said at last, choosing each word deliberately, "is a question for another time and place."
"Oh, Sherlock, come on -"
"Please, John."
John blinked and looked hard at him, trying to read whatever emotions he might be keeping captive behind his impassive mask. His defences rising once again, he strove to keep his voice neutral. "We can hardly talk about it later if you keep hiding out at Lestrade's, can we?"
Sherlock's eyes narrowed and he drew himself up. "As ever, John - "
"As ever, I'm an idiot. Yeah, I get it. Will you come home?" The words echoed in the chilly silence of the morgue. John drew in a deep breath and looked Sherlock in the eye. "Please. Sherlock. Please, just...just come home. Will you?"
Sherlock's hands flexed in his pockets and his eyes flicked across John's face, running over him from his chin to his toes before once again meeting his gaze and nodding once. "Yes."
John felt his knees go weak and fought to keep from trembling. Or grinning. Or grabbing Sherlock and attacking his lips. He managed a brisk nod and a soft, "Good. I'll wait for you." Then he turned and walked out of the building.
---
John loved Sherlock. He really, truly did. He had never been so sure about anything, anyone, as he was about Sherlock. But alongside that surety, that absolute conviction that he loved Sherlock, that he needed him, came a fierce desire to strike him. To shake him, to claw out his heart, to destroy him - to make him know how he felt; to make him feel how much it hurt to love him.
The wild beast in his chest howled in rage as he squared off against Sherlock, half the room between them because Sherlock would not move from his place by the door, ready to run. John had been waiting for him to come home since he left him in Bart's morgue, and a little past midnight he had once again fallen asleep on the couch - still waiting. Sunlight stained the sky and the sounds of the morning commuters could be heard in the street below when he finally awoke to Sherlock's soft step in the doorway and, tact worn blunt by fitful sleep and a crick in his neck, he'd demanded sharply to know where the hell he'd been. The shutters had slammed shut behind Sherlock's eyes and he'd given John little more than chilly monosyllables in reply, growing colder as John grew hotter, trying to force a reaction from him.
Love isn't supposed to feel like this! The words lodged in his ribcage, that horrible chant set to the rhythm of his heartbeat for the past several days. But how could it be any other way?
"You treat every fight like it's the end of the world! And you have no idea - no. No, you know what? Sod this." John crossed the room to jab a finger in Sherlock's chest, his voice growing soft as he glared up at Sherlock. "You don't get to do this to me. You know what the end of the world is? It's watching your best friend fucking kill himself in front of you. All right? It's when the only person in the world I love decides to jump off a building while I watch. That, Sherlock, is the end of the world. And we both survived that, so don't you dare tell me we're not going to make it through this."
He was breathing hard through his nose, his heart feeling like he'd just run ten miles through the jungle with snipers after him.
Sherlock looked...blank. Well. He always looked blank. Well. Not always. Rarely, actually; not to John. His carefully cultivated poker face that didn't fool John for a second. Not anymore. But just now, Sherlock's face was actually, truly, devoid of expression and it was a terrifying thing to behold.
He braced his hand against Sherlock's chest, searching for a heartbeat, searching for some flicker of acknowledgment from Sherlock that he was alive, that he was hearing this. "I waited, Sherlock. All that time. Thinking you were dead. Praying you weren't. I was all but dead myself. And we got through that, so who the fuck are you to decide that this isn't going to work because in your head you've built this thing up to be...I mean...what the hell gives you the right to decide what is or isn't enough for me?"
Sherlock moved like a snake, capturing John's wrist in his long fingers, holding him tight. Unblinking, Sherlock said softly, "Sarah. Julia. Moriah. Jeanette. Stephen. Cara. Fletcher. Laura. Liam. Mary."
John's lips parted as Sherlock listed off every lover he'd had since meeting Sherlock, including the two he didn't think Sherlock had known about.
"Hang on." John licked dry lips and tried desperately to pull his thoughts together. "You're telling me that because of whatever you think you've deduced from watching me with other people, you've decided that we don't have a chance. Is that seriously what you're saying, Sherlock?"
"I'm saying," Sherlock tightened his hold on John, "that you are...normal."
"You really want to hear me say it?" John's tongue felt thick. Sherlock lifted his eyebrows. "Should I tell you a nice story about how all those people were to distract me from you? You made it very plain, Sherlock, very quickly, that you were not and would not be interested in me, and now - " John broke off, bringing his free hand up to rub his stinging eyes. God he needed to sleep. "Do you have any idea what it means for me to be with you like this?"
Sherlock looked hard at him, eyes flicking over his face and down his body - cataloguing. John didn't try to hide anything from him.
"You said just now that you love me," Sherlock began, almost tentative, gaining momentum as he went along. "You've never said that to me before, in fact you haven't said it aloud to anyone in - five years? Six? And then it was probably to your mother. You don't trust people quickly though you make friends easily - usually all the trust is on the other side and although you do feel guilty about it that guilt doesn't stop you from breaking that trust, just look at what you did to Sarah, and then to - "
John shook his head sharply, interrupting. "You do see the common factor, don't you, Sherlock? It's always for you."
"So you're asking me to believe that while you've lead a completely normal life thus far, in the blink of an eye, for me, you'd give it up."
John lifted one shoulder, not looking away from Sherlock. "I'd hardly call it the blink of an eye, but...yeah. Yes." Sherlock's frown deepened and he began to look away. John shook him lightly. "What good is that normal life if none of it means anything?"
"You'll resent it," Sherlock said suddenly. Still with a death grip on John's wrist, he lifted his other hand to trail surprisingly gentle fingers along the line of John's jaw. "You'll resent me. Maybe not now, but in six months, in a year. It will happen, John. How can you live, knowing I don't want you in that way?"
"You're not listening to me, "John got out through gritted teeth, fighting against the little shivers of pleasure Sherlock's touch sent coursing through him.
"But I am. I heard what you said the other day. You wanted me to stick my bloody cock in you like that was all there was to it, like that would solve all the problems of the world."
"Sherlock - no. I was an idiot the other day. I should never have said that - I don't know why I did, I was angry - "
"You're not usually one to say things you don't mean simply because you're angry."
John felt the same defensive anger rising in his chest and let out a long, slow breath. "And you're not usually one to accuse me of something so far off the mark."
"Was I so far?" Sherlock curled his fingers around John's ear. "You admitted you enjoyed his attentions."
John's eyes slipped half closed and he turned to kiss Sherlock's palm. "Nowhere near the same way I enjoy yours."
"But I can't give you what he could."
John let out a groan, twisting out of Sherlock's grip to push him against the wall, holding him there and staring up at him, willing him to get it. "I don't want you to. What I said the other day was horrible - and I don't mean it, I don't want that from you. What kind of idiot would I be to try and force you to feel something for me that you can't? It'd be like...like...I dunno, like you trying to convince me we had a shot at this if I were straight. Don't you see? I lo- I want to be with you. And yes, I want you. I want you every way I'm capable of wanting a person - would you want anything less from me? Would you really want to know I wasn't giving you everything I've got? But I don't need that from you!"
"How can you be so certain of that? How can this possibly work?" Sherlock's eyes were wide and dark - giving John one last chance to end this now, to call it off.
“I don't know. I don't know how it will work, but holy Christ, Sherlock, I want it to. Do you see this power you have over me?” John murmured, pressing kisses against his jaw. “You drive me absolutely bloody mad. I ache, I want you so badly, sometimes." He pulled away to look into Sherlock's eyes, laying a gentle hand on his chest. "And I wouldn’t want it any other way. And I don't want this any other way. All right?”
"You wouldn't prefer I - "
"No."
"You don't know what I was going to say."
"Yes, I do. And the answer's still no. No, Sherlock." John kissed him lightly, tasting smoke and coffee on his lips. Smelling chemicals in his skin and hair. Feeling Sherlock's heart begin to beat just a half-count faster than it had been a moment before. He cocked his head to one side, considering the tall man looming above him, all angles and shadows hiding a flame that burned brighter and hotter and better than anything else. "You do want me. You've said so, and I believe you. And you...I believe that you love me. And that's...that's good. That's wonderful."
----
It took John a while to get used to the idea that Sherlock didn’t want him - not in the way he was used to being wanted, at least. And, to be fair, he was still trying to wrap his head around the whole thing. But that was what he had been doing from the moment he set foot in 221b that cold January day more than three years ago now - reinventing reality. Reinventing normalcy. And it was all thanks to Sherlock.
They were managing. John was still learning, and Sherlock was - well, Sherlock. He tolerated kissing, and even sometimes initiated it himself. There were days when he would come home from working a case and proceed to undress John, painstakingly slow, covering each inch of flesh with his lips as it emerged from the confines of John’s clothing - cataloguing, he was fond of saying. Now and again he got John off, always with skillful and nimble fingers. John had protested at first, but for Sherlock it wasn’t about the sexual gratification - not his own, at any rate. It made John happy, he’d said, and it provided him with invaluable information for his hard drive.
He was memorizing John, rewriting old information with the new, every moment of every day. He wanted to know it all; know it over and over again until he had utterly and completely consumed John. And in return, John was not to touch him - no attempts to sneak a hand inside Sherlock’s waistband; no trying to bring him off; no penetration.
And in this way they negotiated their way through their days, putting it together piece by piece.
Building a life.
----
Sherlock made a grab for John’s wrist and pressed his thumb to the pulse-point, feeling it leap and race as his tongue traced a path along John’s jaw. He paused at the skin just below John’s ear - gonial angle of the mandible - and sucked, teasing the flesh with his teeth. John drew a shuddering breath, bringing his hand up and pressing it into Sherlock’s hair, holding him there.
Oh. Sensitive point. Must catalogue for later; see if results can be reproduced.
Sherlock pulled back, watching as red bloomed across John’s skin, and brushed the pad of his thumb across the fresh bruise. Too high for John to cover, even with a scarf. He felt his lips tug into a smile, exposing his teeth.
Mine.
He ducked his head for another kiss, hand feeling for John’s chest, positioning it over his heart. It thundered away as he pried open the cracked lips and dipped his tongue inside, tasting, gradually probing until he found John’s. The doctor was hesitant at first, darting away as Sherlock’s tongue brushed across his own, but then Sherlock flicked the tip of his tongue across his upper lip and a groan rumbled up through his chest, reverberating into Sherlock’s own. Sherlock sank into the kiss, pulled down by John’s arms going around him, pressing him closer. John finally parted his knees, spreading his legs, and Sherlock settled fully on top of him. Their chests pressed together, slick skin against slick skin, and John moaned into Sherlock’s mouth at the sudden contact.
Fascinating.
Sherlock drew back and started to trail kisses instead down John’s sternum and torso, pausing to swirl his tongue around John’s navel, relishing the soft hiss of breath that provoked from his partner. He hooked his fingers into John’s waistband as his tongue moved back up to his sternum, cataloguing and memorizing the differences in taste and salt content, and John lifted his hips long enough for Sherlock to slide the shorts off, freeing him. John grunted and kicked the shorts off from where they had gotten tangled around his ankles whilst simultaneously kneeing Sherlock in the side, nudging him up. He grabbed Sherlock by the shoulders finally and pulled him so they were face to face and Sherlock was leaning over him once more, one knee nestled between his legs and straddling John’s thigh. Irked slightly at having his explorations interrupted, Sherlock captured John’s lips in a bruising kiss and drew back long enough to mutter, “Yes, I’m sure,” knowing full well John’s reasons for pulling him back up.
And - the fascinating; the delightful thing was - he was sure. John hadn't asked this of him. Did not, would not, expect this of him. This was a gift. A thing he could give John. His John. His John, who loved him, who wanted him, who would not leave him.
"I'm sure," he repeated, the words nearly lost as he fused their lips together, rocking slightly against John's hips.
“Oh - okay,” John gasped, stunned, presumably, by the ferocity of the kiss. Sherlock made note of that, of how John’s lips looked in the aftermath of such a kiss; of how he clung to Sherlock, nails digging into his shoulders, and of how his eyes darkened noticeably, even with the only light in the room coming from the lamp outside their window. “What are you -?”
But Sherlock didn’t wait for him to finish his sentence. He returned to his target area, nipping and licking the hollow of John’s hip before finally focusing on his cock, weeping against his belly. He took it in one go, remembering to relax the muscles of his throat, pleased that the reaction was automatic even though he had not performed such a manoeuver in ages. This was new, for them, and John’s hiss was as much one of surprise as it was one of pleasure. It wasn't a sound of protest, however, not even remotely close, and within moments shaking fingers were gripping his hair and John had been reduced to nothing more than moans and gasps and Sher - oh - Jesus!
“You - God,” John muttered later, between gasps, as Sherlock swiped his thumb across his lips, noting the taste - adequate - before coming back up and laying his head next to John’s on the pillow.
“Flattered though I am by the mistake - and it’s admittedly an easy one to make - I must point out to you that I am, in fact, Sherlock, and not God.”
“Idiot,” John muttered fondly. “No, that’s not - not quite what I meant. I mean...Jesus, Sherlock, that was unbelievable.”
“Does your disbelief come from your presumption that I would not perform such an act, or your astonishment that it was pleasurable?”
“Pleasurable? Christ, Sherlock, that wasn’t just pleasurable, that was mind-blowing. Bad pun intended.”
“Interesting,” Sherlock said, allowing John to kiss him before he sought out the blankets they had kicked away and arranged them around their bodies. He had experiments to run in the kitchen, but he’d noticed that John preferred he stay for a while after the act. And he couldn’t deny that it was...pleasant, the way that John pressed against his side, his head tucked just under his chin, smelling of musk and sweat in a way that was just John.
There was a pause, and John drew a breath as though he were about to speak - but the words didn’t come at first, and Sherlock suppressed a sigh. They had been down this conversational path before.
“Are you sure that I can’t - I dunno - do anything...in return?” John asked finally, hesitantly.
“Quite sure.” Sherlock said, and laced their fingers together. He tilted his head to press a kiss to John’s still-sweaty forehead, and added, “I do appreciate the thought, but you need never 'return the favour.'”
“I want -” But John stopped, and Sherlock had to press a hand to his elbow, squeezing lightly, to get him to continue. “I want - this to be enough.”
“Do you doubt me when I tell you that it is?” Sherlock asked, that familiar fear curling in his chest. John wanting him to change; John wanting more than he was able to give.
“No,” John said, but he must have known that Sherlock didn’t believe him, because he added, “Right, only sometimes. Now and again. I wonder. And I don’t want you to change; that’s not it at all. I just wish - I wish, when you tell me it’s enough, I could stop worrying that maybe it isn’t.”
"John." He waited for John to look up at him before continuing, willing him to hear the truth in his voice. "I wasn't looking for you, or for this. I hadn't ever planned...or...hoped...to have anything like this. And yet, here we are. And it's not simply enough, it's not just sufficient. It is..." Sherlock pressed his palm to John's chest, counting heartbeats. "It's wonderful. It's everything."
---
John was humming to himself as he made tea.
Sherlock walked past the kitchen, his hair damp from his shower, glancing at John as he passed. He stopped, took two steps backwards, and paused in the doorway, watching.
John looked up. Smiled. "Morning."
"Good morning."
John's smile grew broader and he handed Sherlock a warm mug, sidling past him to get to his desk chair.
"What were you humming?"
"Hm, me? What was I humming?"
"Yes, you, I was hardly asking the skull."
John laughed and shrugged, the back of his neck flushing slightly. "Dunno. That tune you were playing last night, wasn't it?"
"Ah." Sherlock blinked down into his mug. "I - hm. I'm sorry I woke you."
John shook his head, opening his laptop. "I'm not. There are worse ways you could wake me - have woken me, in fact." John glanced over his shoulder. "And it was really good, what was it?"
Sherlock took a quick gulp of scalding tea, waving a hand in dismissal as he shrugged and looked away.
John shook his head. "You wrote that, didn't you."
Sherlock hummed, making his way to the mantel to examine the correspondence pinned under his pocketknife. John grinned at the back of his head, laughed again, and began pecking at his laptop.
As John tugged on his jacket to leave for the surgery, Sherlock loitered by the door, barefoot and still in his dressing gown. John watched him from the corner of his eye, saying nothing. As he stepped to the door, reaching for his keys on the side table, Sherlock stopped him with a hand in the centre of his chest. John looked up, questioning.
"I..." Sherlock blinked, ducked his head on a soft exhale, and looked up to meet his eyes once again on a slight smile. He shook himself, tapping one long finger against John's sternum. "I hope you have a good day, John."
"Oh...kay." John gave a puzzled smile, touching his hip briefly and lifting himself up to kiss the corner of Sherlock's mouth. As Sherlock turned to capture his lips, lingering and deepening the kiss, John chuckled softly, wrapping one arm around Sherlock's narrow waist. When Sherlock paused for breath, John murmured, "Love you too, yeah?"
Sherlock's eyes were closed, but he nodded.
---------
Next Story: "Commitments"
Authors: impishtubist and canonisrelative
Characters: Sherlock/John, Lestrade
Rating: R
Disclaimer: We own nothing.
Word Count: c. 7,000; c. 11,000 total
Warnings: Asexuality Issues; Sexual Situations; Language; Mentions of suicide
Spoilers: through "Reichenbach"
Summary: Sherlock and John are in the process of becoming something more after the events of “Reichenbach,” but a disagreement threatens all they are to one another.
Notes: Operates in the “Winter’s Child” ‘verse, but is able to stand alone. Chronologically, this would be the beginning of the series. The master list can be found here.
----
Part Three: Resolutions
It was four days since he'd last seen Sherlock. After that first night, John had kept to stubborn silence. For once he hadn't been in the wrong - for once it was Sherlock who'd jumped to false conclusions, who'd said all the wrong things, who would need to come crawling back to apologize. John had been sleeping on the sofa in their living room, waiting and hoping that Sherlock would turn up.
He'd woken that morning to a call from the Yard - Lestrade's secretary requesting he come down to sign off on the Haversham case. He'd pulled himself together, wondering if Sherlock was going to be there too, and gone.
Sherlock's back was to the door when John arrived at Lestrade’s office; his shoulders hunched, hands tucked into his pockets. The normally neat lines of his so-familiar silhouette were rumpled and mussed. He was studying something on the floor in front of him, listening to whatever Lestrade was saying in low tones that did not carry words to John's ear, just an impression of worry; of care and concern. In a similar way that his hand on Sherlock's shoulder broadcasted the DI's concern for him. One might go so far as to say affection. John forced himself to unclench his hands, nails peeling away from his skin and leaving sharp crescents of pain in each palm. He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders, preparing to walk into the office.
And then Lestrade shook Sherlock lightly, giving him a small smile, and this time John could make out his words, Don't worry, Sunshine, I've got you, as Sherlock turned to look at Lestrade, his profile looking so very worn, to John, his eyes so tired, his skin so pale...his nose so close to Lestrade's, as he looked into his eyes, his lips parting slightly. And John saw the tremor go through him as he nodded, bowing his head to rest his forehead against Lestrade's.
Leave him out of this, Sherlock had said. Fucking hell.
When John returned, half an hour later, he had control of himself and the shaking of his hands, and Sherlock was gone.
He was so angry that it took nearly ten full minutes of silence as he completed his paperwork before he realised that Lestrade was behaving just as coldly towards him. A frosty silent treatment that smacked of anger, not guilt. John scrawled his final signature and handed the stack across and, confusion warring with his better sense, he met Lestrade's eyes.
The DI's lips thinned and he accepted the forms wordlessly. John stood to go. He almost made it to the door before Lestrade spoke.
"I hope you know what you're doing, Watson."
That stopped him flat. He couldn't remember the last time Lestrade had called him by his surname. He turned slowly, arms held stiffly at his sides, waiting for the punchline. I was a long time coming as Lestrade surveyed him across the cluttered island of his desk, but when the words dropped they hit John like a ton of bricks
"You're losing him. And you're doing nothing to stop it."
"I could be wrong, Inspector," John's voice was just as chilly as Lestrade's, "but I think that's none of your--"
"It's very much my business. You should see him, you have no idea what this has done to him. Are you really too thick to realise that he is the best thing that's ever happened to you and you're just--"
"If he's so bloody miserable," John found himself shouting, "then let him come and talk to me himself! Why are you--"
"Because," Lestrade bellowed back, standing to lean across his desk, eyes flashing, "he's a great bloody idiot and he's got it in his head you don't care for him and he's trying to--"
"I'm not listening to this," John snapped, spinning on his heel and marching for the door.
"John," Lestrade's voice was soft. Pleading. John paused with his hand on the door handle but didn't turn. "Please. Whatever it was he did, he's ready to beg your forgiveness if he thought there was the smallest chance you'd give it. I know that's not how arguments are usually resolved and I've tried to tell him that, tell him he should talk to you even without that assurance. But you know how he is. He just...he doesn't understand how these things work. He's...he's like a child. He thinks the world's ended because you've had an argument."
Lestrade sounded so hesitant, so uncomfortable to be giving this kind of advice, unsolicited, to even be talking about Sherlock in this way, that although John let his hand fall away from the door he still did not turn. He didn't think they could handle eye contact and words.
"It wasn't just an argument, Lestrade. It was...bad. The kind of thing that makes you question if it could ever work and if it's even worth it to try. We've hit a disconnect and I don't know there's any way to fix it. Trying might just make it worse, down the road."
"That doesn't sound like you. Not the John Watson Sherlock's madly in love with." John blinked and hunched his shoulders. Did he say that to you when he hasn't even said it to me? Dammit, Sherlock. "I didn't think you were afraid of anything."
"Didn't say I was afraid, did I?" But oh, God, he was. Terrified, even. These last few days had been unbearable. John had never been one to depend on one other person - not like this. In the war, in Afghanistan, it had been different; he'd depended on his men, his team, for survival. This felt too much like that, and all that John had ever heard made him think that that was very unhealthy.
"No," Lestrade said finally, and John heard the squeak of rusty wheels as he pulled out his desk chair, and the heavy sigh of the DI - his friend; their friend - as he sank down into it. "No, you didn't say that. And neither did he. But I know you both too well, and I'm not an idiot. Just...think on it, all right, John? That's all I'm asking. I didn't...well. Let's just say, after all I've been through with that one, I'd rather not lose him to something so mundane as a broken heart, eh?"
The sound John made sounded more like he was choking than laughing, but he tried to pass it off, turning to look at Lestrade and lifting the corners of his mouth. He gave a brief nod and reached for the door handle. Lestrade, mercifully, had nothing left to say.
---
His leg was still bothering him so he took the elevator. He punched the button for the ground floor and leaned against the wall, forehead pressed against the cool metal.
The door slid open and he stepped out into the hallway, the first bend in the corridor bringing him face-to-shoulder with a familiar black coat. He pulled up short but the muttered curse proved less easy to recall than his forward momentum. Sherlock turned to face him, looking quite as startled as he felt.
"Sorry," John stumbled over his words, half-turning back toward the elevator, "I'll just - "
"No," Sherlock said quickly, his right hand twitching away from his side. "No. That is - Don't."
John crossed his arms, feeling his defences grind into place, erecting a wall between himself and Sherlock. "Don't what?"
"Don't go."
John frowned at him, opening his mouth to ask Why when the sound of Sherlock's mobile split the charged silence between them. The detective silenced it with an impatient sigh. It began to ring again immediately.
"What is it, Lestrade?" John could hear the tinny sound of Lestrade's voice, muffled against Sherlock's cheek, and the lines around Sherlock's eyes relaxed just for a moment, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards. "Yes. Of course. Front corridor by the elevators." Sherlock hung up and slipped the phone into his pocket, tension creeping back into his face as he refocused on John. "Double homicide, just called in, apparently. Battersea."
"Ah." John shifted his weight, eyes slipping away from Sherlock's as the sound of several pairs of feet came hurrying toward them.
Lestrade looked surprised to see them standing there, together, and spared a moment for a quick grin and a nod before Sherlock was firing off questions and they were striding away, Donovan and Smith hurrying to catch up.
They were nearly at the front door before Sherlock called over his shoulder, "Coming, John?"
---
It might have been a new record, even for Sherlock. Two minutes at the crime scene and he'd hailed a cab without a word of explanation, grinning to himself as he tapped furiously away at his mobile. John had followed in a car with Donovan, who must have been briefed on the state of things between them as she remained mercifully silent as she drove.
Three hours later the case was wrapped, the suspect in custody, and the Yarders on their way down to the pub to celebrate. John watched Lestrade clap Sherlock on the shoulder and earnestly entreat him to join them. Donovan's earlier silence in the car seemed less kind now as she added her voice to Lestrade's, telling Sherlock a night out would do him good. John watched in astonishment to see Lestrade's crew rallying around Sherlock, the man whom they’d believed a fraud and responsible for nearly costing their boss his job not two years ago. No one asked John if he'd like to join them.
But Sherlock resisted their invitations, insisting he still had work to do in the morgue and Yes, Lestrade, he would be fine. John didn't miss the glance Lestrade directed his way as he squeezed Sherlock's arm one last time, nor the way Sherlock's eyes followed the DI out the door.
Alone with Sherlock at last, John shuffled his feet, hands buried in his pockets. "Sherlock..."
"How did I know so quickly?" Sherlock asked, not looking at John. “Well, it was obvious from the soil on the bottom of her shoe -”
“No, Sherlock -”
“ - also, her clothes were all wrong for the occasion -”
“Sherlock -”
“ - not to mention the fact that -”
“Sherlock, are you in love with Lestrade?”
His blunt question, asked at a near-shout, had the desired effect. Sherlock ground to a halt mid-sentence, stupefied, and stared at John.
“What?”
John held his ground, arms crossed over his chest.
“I said,” he growled, “are you in love with Lestrade?”
“Don’t be ridiculo -”
“Don’t call me ridiculous!” John snapped. “You accused me out of bloody nowhere of seeing someone behind your back - is that why, you were projecting because you have your own secret? This happens every time we fight - even when we don’t fight, sometimes! You always go to him. You sleep over at his flat, you take smoke breaks with him at the Yard - yes, you do, don’t even try to hide that from me. You always go to him first.”
“Not always,” Sherlock said softly. “I came back to you, first, after -”
But he broke off, catching himself, because he knew as well as anyone that John hated to be reminded of the time when he thought Sherlock was dead. He preferred to keep it tucked back in the corner of his mind, buried under layers of dust and forgotten.
“It never occurred to you,” Sherlock said finally, rubbing his arm absently (on the inside of his elbow, an old habit, rubbing the place where the needles would slip into his skin), “that I could have a - be close to someone in a way that wasn’t romantic? Do you really believe me incapable of that?”
“You’re deflecting,” John said hotly. “Tell me. What is he to you?”
“He’s the reason I’m alive today,” Sherlock said bluntly. “In a sense, at least.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It means,” Sherlock growled, anger beginning to bubble to the surface, “that if not for him, I would be dead and we never would have met. Does that mean nothing to you?”
“Well, what do you mean, in a sense?”
“That’s not important at this moment,” Sherlock said, still stony. “Perhaps, one day, I’ll explain. But you must realize that I go to him for a reason, and you have to trust that it has nothing to do with...attraction.”
“What then?” John snapped, still not understanding. What the hell else could Sherlock want with the man? He’d seen them in Lestrade's office - he’d seen Sherlock’s expression; Lestrade’s tenderness; the touching.
“He -” Sherlock started, and then stopped. John waited out the silence. “I never had a father - or, to be more accurate, I never had what society considers a proper father to be. And Lestrade doesn't have children. I trust I don’t need to elaborate further than that. Or are you so thick that more explanation is necessary?”
John felt a rush of hot guilt slide down his throat and settle in his stomach. He’d never, not for a moment, considered the fact that Sherlock’s childhood might have been anything less than stellar. He’d never taken the time to think that his friend was capable of a variety of relationships - just because he only felt, only recognized, certain shades of emotion didn’t mean that the rest of his life was so black-and-white.
“I -” he licked his lips, cleared his throat. “I - I never realized that, Sherlock. I never thought -”
“Of course you didn’t,” Sherlock snapped, interrupting him. “You’re so focused on sex that you can’t see past it and consider the fact that there might be more to my interpersonal relationships than that. You view the whole bloody world through that one lens, and it makes you blind.”
John took a step back. It wasn’t like Sherlock to swear, not when he had witty and biting retorts in his repertoire, and the fact that he did so now felt like the equivalent of punching the wall in anger.
“There’s only you, John,” Sherlock continued, soft, forcing the words out even as his fists clenched - in frustration? Anger? Fury at having to admit that he needed someone? “There’s only ever been you. I wish you could see that.”
But John did see it - and that was the problem. Because these past few nights without Sherlock were nearly as unbearable as when Sherlock had been dead; perhaps even more so, because Sherlock had chosen to be apart from him and that ached, as though a red-hot ember had settled in the pit of his stomach and was slowly burning him from the inside out. He couldn’t bear it, the thought that Sherlock would ever voluntarily want to be apart from him - or the thought that he could exist without Sherlock. The very notion was absurd.
They couldn’t exist apart, but he doubted they could exist together, and that was the cruelest part of it all. They were two halves of a very particular whole, and yet they couldn’t fit. They wouldn’t fit.
That doesn’t sound like the John Watson I know.
John sat down heavily in the nearest chair and buried his face in his hands. Sherlock continued to stand some feet away, staring at him, waiting.
“You don’t like sex,” John said finally, processing. “You aren’t interested. And yet you want...me.”
“All of you,” Sherlock said in a low voice, and it sent a shiver down John’s spine.
“All right,” John said slowly, and licked his lips. Oh, he was done for; had been for ages. It was bloody terrifying.
And really, he wouldn’t want it any other way.
“Then...why don’t you tell me what it is you do like.”
The silence lasted for so long that John finally lifted his head, looking up to find Sherlock's eyes fixed on his face.
"That," Sherlock said at last, choosing each word deliberately, "is a question for another time and place."
"Oh, Sherlock, come on -"
"Please, John."
John blinked and looked hard at him, trying to read whatever emotions he might be keeping captive behind his impassive mask. His defences rising once again, he strove to keep his voice neutral. "We can hardly talk about it later if you keep hiding out at Lestrade's, can we?"
Sherlock's eyes narrowed and he drew himself up. "As ever, John - "
"As ever, I'm an idiot. Yeah, I get it. Will you come home?" The words echoed in the chilly silence of the morgue. John drew in a deep breath and looked Sherlock in the eye. "Please. Sherlock. Please, just...just come home. Will you?"
Sherlock's hands flexed in his pockets and his eyes flicked across John's face, running over him from his chin to his toes before once again meeting his gaze and nodding once. "Yes."
John felt his knees go weak and fought to keep from trembling. Or grinning. Or grabbing Sherlock and attacking his lips. He managed a brisk nod and a soft, "Good. I'll wait for you." Then he turned and walked out of the building.
---
John loved Sherlock. He really, truly did. He had never been so sure about anything, anyone, as he was about Sherlock. But alongside that surety, that absolute conviction that he loved Sherlock, that he needed him, came a fierce desire to strike him. To shake him, to claw out his heart, to destroy him - to make him know how he felt; to make him feel how much it hurt to love him.
The wild beast in his chest howled in rage as he squared off against Sherlock, half the room between them because Sherlock would not move from his place by the door, ready to run. John had been waiting for him to come home since he left him in Bart's morgue, and a little past midnight he had once again fallen asleep on the couch - still waiting. Sunlight stained the sky and the sounds of the morning commuters could be heard in the street below when he finally awoke to Sherlock's soft step in the doorway and, tact worn blunt by fitful sleep and a crick in his neck, he'd demanded sharply to know where the hell he'd been. The shutters had slammed shut behind Sherlock's eyes and he'd given John little more than chilly monosyllables in reply, growing colder as John grew hotter, trying to force a reaction from him.
Love isn't supposed to feel like this! The words lodged in his ribcage, that horrible chant set to the rhythm of his heartbeat for the past several days. But how could it be any other way?
"You treat every fight like it's the end of the world! And you have no idea - no. No, you know what? Sod this." John crossed the room to jab a finger in Sherlock's chest, his voice growing soft as he glared up at Sherlock. "You don't get to do this to me. You know what the end of the world is? It's watching your best friend fucking kill himself in front of you. All right? It's when the only person in the world I love decides to jump off a building while I watch. That, Sherlock, is the end of the world. And we both survived that, so don't you dare tell me we're not going to make it through this."
He was breathing hard through his nose, his heart feeling like he'd just run ten miles through the jungle with snipers after him.
Sherlock looked...blank. Well. He always looked blank. Well. Not always. Rarely, actually; not to John. His carefully cultivated poker face that didn't fool John for a second. Not anymore. But just now, Sherlock's face was actually, truly, devoid of expression and it was a terrifying thing to behold.
He braced his hand against Sherlock's chest, searching for a heartbeat, searching for some flicker of acknowledgment from Sherlock that he was alive, that he was hearing this. "I waited, Sherlock. All that time. Thinking you were dead. Praying you weren't. I was all but dead myself. And we got through that, so who the fuck are you to decide that this isn't going to work because in your head you've built this thing up to be...I mean...what the hell gives you the right to decide what is or isn't enough for me?"
Sherlock moved like a snake, capturing John's wrist in his long fingers, holding him tight. Unblinking, Sherlock said softly, "Sarah. Julia. Moriah. Jeanette. Stephen. Cara. Fletcher. Laura. Liam. Mary."
John's lips parted as Sherlock listed off every lover he'd had since meeting Sherlock, including the two he didn't think Sherlock had known about.
"Hang on." John licked dry lips and tried desperately to pull his thoughts together. "You're telling me that because of whatever you think you've deduced from watching me with other people, you've decided that we don't have a chance. Is that seriously what you're saying, Sherlock?"
"I'm saying," Sherlock tightened his hold on John, "that you are...normal."
"You really want to hear me say it?" John's tongue felt thick. Sherlock lifted his eyebrows. "Should I tell you a nice story about how all those people were to distract me from you? You made it very plain, Sherlock, very quickly, that you were not and would not be interested in me, and now - " John broke off, bringing his free hand up to rub his stinging eyes. God he needed to sleep. "Do you have any idea what it means for me to be with you like this?"
Sherlock looked hard at him, eyes flicking over his face and down his body - cataloguing. John didn't try to hide anything from him.
"You said just now that you love me," Sherlock began, almost tentative, gaining momentum as he went along. "You've never said that to me before, in fact you haven't said it aloud to anyone in - five years? Six? And then it was probably to your mother. You don't trust people quickly though you make friends easily - usually all the trust is on the other side and although you do feel guilty about it that guilt doesn't stop you from breaking that trust, just look at what you did to Sarah, and then to - "
John shook his head sharply, interrupting. "You do see the common factor, don't you, Sherlock? It's always for you."
"So you're asking me to believe that while you've lead a completely normal life thus far, in the blink of an eye, for me, you'd give it up."
John lifted one shoulder, not looking away from Sherlock. "I'd hardly call it the blink of an eye, but...yeah. Yes." Sherlock's frown deepened and he began to look away. John shook him lightly. "What good is that normal life if none of it means anything?"
"You'll resent it," Sherlock said suddenly. Still with a death grip on John's wrist, he lifted his other hand to trail surprisingly gentle fingers along the line of John's jaw. "You'll resent me. Maybe not now, but in six months, in a year. It will happen, John. How can you live, knowing I don't want you in that way?"
"You're not listening to me, "John got out through gritted teeth, fighting against the little shivers of pleasure Sherlock's touch sent coursing through him.
"But I am. I heard what you said the other day. You wanted me to stick my bloody cock in you like that was all there was to it, like that would solve all the problems of the world."
"Sherlock - no. I was an idiot the other day. I should never have said that - I don't know why I did, I was angry - "
"You're not usually one to say things you don't mean simply because you're angry."
John felt the same defensive anger rising in his chest and let out a long, slow breath. "And you're not usually one to accuse me of something so far off the mark."
"Was I so far?" Sherlock curled his fingers around John's ear. "You admitted you enjoyed his attentions."
John's eyes slipped half closed and he turned to kiss Sherlock's palm. "Nowhere near the same way I enjoy yours."
"But I can't give you what he could."
John let out a groan, twisting out of Sherlock's grip to push him against the wall, holding him there and staring up at him, willing him to get it. "I don't want you to. What I said the other day was horrible - and I don't mean it, I don't want that from you. What kind of idiot would I be to try and force you to feel something for me that you can't? It'd be like...like...I dunno, like you trying to convince me we had a shot at this if I were straight. Don't you see? I lo- I want to be with you. And yes, I want you. I want you every way I'm capable of wanting a person - would you want anything less from me? Would you really want to know I wasn't giving you everything I've got? But I don't need that from you!"
"How can you be so certain of that? How can this possibly work?" Sherlock's eyes were wide and dark - giving John one last chance to end this now, to call it off.
“I don't know. I don't know how it will work, but holy Christ, Sherlock, I want it to. Do you see this power you have over me?” John murmured, pressing kisses against his jaw. “You drive me absolutely bloody mad. I ache, I want you so badly, sometimes." He pulled away to look into Sherlock's eyes, laying a gentle hand on his chest. "And I wouldn’t want it any other way. And I don't want this any other way. All right?”
"You wouldn't prefer I - "
"No."
"You don't know what I was going to say."
"Yes, I do. And the answer's still no. No, Sherlock." John kissed him lightly, tasting smoke and coffee on his lips. Smelling chemicals in his skin and hair. Feeling Sherlock's heart begin to beat just a half-count faster than it had been a moment before. He cocked his head to one side, considering the tall man looming above him, all angles and shadows hiding a flame that burned brighter and hotter and better than anything else. "You do want me. You've said so, and I believe you. And you...I believe that you love me. And that's...that's good. That's wonderful."
----
It took John a while to get used to the idea that Sherlock didn’t want him - not in the way he was used to being wanted, at least. And, to be fair, he was still trying to wrap his head around the whole thing. But that was what he had been doing from the moment he set foot in 221b that cold January day more than three years ago now - reinventing reality. Reinventing normalcy. And it was all thanks to Sherlock.
They were managing. John was still learning, and Sherlock was - well, Sherlock. He tolerated kissing, and even sometimes initiated it himself. There were days when he would come home from working a case and proceed to undress John, painstakingly slow, covering each inch of flesh with his lips as it emerged from the confines of John’s clothing - cataloguing, he was fond of saying. Now and again he got John off, always with skillful and nimble fingers. John had protested at first, but for Sherlock it wasn’t about the sexual gratification - not his own, at any rate. It made John happy, he’d said, and it provided him with invaluable information for his hard drive.
He was memorizing John, rewriting old information with the new, every moment of every day. He wanted to know it all; know it over and over again until he had utterly and completely consumed John. And in return, John was not to touch him - no attempts to sneak a hand inside Sherlock’s waistband; no trying to bring him off; no penetration.
And in this way they negotiated their way through their days, putting it together piece by piece.
Building a life.
----
Sherlock made a grab for John’s wrist and pressed his thumb to the pulse-point, feeling it leap and race as his tongue traced a path along John’s jaw. He paused at the skin just below John’s ear - gonial angle of the mandible - and sucked, teasing the flesh with his teeth. John drew a shuddering breath, bringing his hand up and pressing it into Sherlock’s hair, holding him there.
Oh. Sensitive point. Must catalogue for later; see if results can be reproduced.
Sherlock pulled back, watching as red bloomed across John’s skin, and brushed the pad of his thumb across the fresh bruise. Too high for John to cover, even with a scarf. He felt his lips tug into a smile, exposing his teeth.
Mine.
He ducked his head for another kiss, hand feeling for John’s chest, positioning it over his heart. It thundered away as he pried open the cracked lips and dipped his tongue inside, tasting, gradually probing until he found John’s. The doctor was hesitant at first, darting away as Sherlock’s tongue brushed across his own, but then Sherlock flicked the tip of his tongue across his upper lip and a groan rumbled up through his chest, reverberating into Sherlock’s own. Sherlock sank into the kiss, pulled down by John’s arms going around him, pressing him closer. John finally parted his knees, spreading his legs, and Sherlock settled fully on top of him. Their chests pressed together, slick skin against slick skin, and John moaned into Sherlock’s mouth at the sudden contact.
Fascinating.
Sherlock drew back and started to trail kisses instead down John’s sternum and torso, pausing to swirl his tongue around John’s navel, relishing the soft hiss of breath that provoked from his partner. He hooked his fingers into John’s waistband as his tongue moved back up to his sternum, cataloguing and memorizing the differences in taste and salt content, and John lifted his hips long enough for Sherlock to slide the shorts off, freeing him. John grunted and kicked the shorts off from where they had gotten tangled around his ankles whilst simultaneously kneeing Sherlock in the side, nudging him up. He grabbed Sherlock by the shoulders finally and pulled him so they were face to face and Sherlock was leaning over him once more, one knee nestled between his legs and straddling John’s thigh. Irked slightly at having his explorations interrupted, Sherlock captured John’s lips in a bruising kiss and drew back long enough to mutter, “Yes, I’m sure,” knowing full well John’s reasons for pulling him back up.
And - the fascinating; the delightful thing was - he was sure. John hadn't asked this of him. Did not, would not, expect this of him. This was a gift. A thing he could give John. His John. His John, who loved him, who wanted him, who would not leave him.
"I'm sure," he repeated, the words nearly lost as he fused their lips together, rocking slightly against John's hips.
“Oh - okay,” John gasped, stunned, presumably, by the ferocity of the kiss. Sherlock made note of that, of how John’s lips looked in the aftermath of such a kiss; of how he clung to Sherlock, nails digging into his shoulders, and of how his eyes darkened noticeably, even with the only light in the room coming from the lamp outside their window. “What are you -?”
But Sherlock didn’t wait for him to finish his sentence. He returned to his target area, nipping and licking the hollow of John’s hip before finally focusing on his cock, weeping against his belly. He took it in one go, remembering to relax the muscles of his throat, pleased that the reaction was automatic even though he had not performed such a manoeuver in ages. This was new, for them, and John’s hiss was as much one of surprise as it was one of pleasure. It wasn't a sound of protest, however, not even remotely close, and within moments shaking fingers were gripping his hair and John had been reduced to nothing more than moans and gasps and Sher - oh - Jesus!
“You - God,” John muttered later, between gasps, as Sherlock swiped his thumb across his lips, noting the taste - adequate - before coming back up and laying his head next to John’s on the pillow.
“Flattered though I am by the mistake - and it’s admittedly an easy one to make - I must point out to you that I am, in fact, Sherlock, and not God.”
“Idiot,” John muttered fondly. “No, that’s not - not quite what I meant. I mean...Jesus, Sherlock, that was unbelievable.”
“Does your disbelief come from your presumption that I would not perform such an act, or your astonishment that it was pleasurable?”
“Pleasurable? Christ, Sherlock, that wasn’t just pleasurable, that was mind-blowing. Bad pun intended.”
“Interesting,” Sherlock said, allowing John to kiss him before he sought out the blankets they had kicked away and arranged them around their bodies. He had experiments to run in the kitchen, but he’d noticed that John preferred he stay for a while after the act. And he couldn’t deny that it was...pleasant, the way that John pressed against his side, his head tucked just under his chin, smelling of musk and sweat in a way that was just John.
There was a pause, and John drew a breath as though he were about to speak - but the words didn’t come at first, and Sherlock suppressed a sigh. They had been down this conversational path before.
“Are you sure that I can’t - I dunno - do anything...in return?” John asked finally, hesitantly.
“Quite sure.” Sherlock said, and laced their fingers together. He tilted his head to press a kiss to John’s still-sweaty forehead, and added, “I do appreciate the thought, but you need never 'return the favour.'”
“I want -” But John stopped, and Sherlock had to press a hand to his elbow, squeezing lightly, to get him to continue. “I want - this to be enough.”
“Do you doubt me when I tell you that it is?” Sherlock asked, that familiar fear curling in his chest. John wanting him to change; John wanting more than he was able to give.
“No,” John said, but he must have known that Sherlock didn’t believe him, because he added, “Right, only sometimes. Now and again. I wonder. And I don’t want you to change; that’s not it at all. I just wish - I wish, when you tell me it’s enough, I could stop worrying that maybe it isn’t.”
"John." He waited for John to look up at him before continuing, willing him to hear the truth in his voice. "I wasn't looking for you, or for this. I hadn't ever planned...or...hoped...to have anything like this. And yet, here we are. And it's not simply enough, it's not just sufficient. It is..." Sherlock pressed his palm to John's chest, counting heartbeats. "It's wonderful. It's everything."
---
John was humming to himself as he made tea.
Sherlock walked past the kitchen, his hair damp from his shower, glancing at John as he passed. He stopped, took two steps backwards, and paused in the doorway, watching.
John looked up. Smiled. "Morning."
"Good morning."
John's smile grew broader and he handed Sherlock a warm mug, sidling past him to get to his desk chair.
"What were you humming?"
"Hm, me? What was I humming?"
"Yes, you, I was hardly asking the skull."
John laughed and shrugged, the back of his neck flushing slightly. "Dunno. That tune you were playing last night, wasn't it?"
"Ah." Sherlock blinked down into his mug. "I - hm. I'm sorry I woke you."
John shook his head, opening his laptop. "I'm not. There are worse ways you could wake me - have woken me, in fact." John glanced over his shoulder. "And it was really good, what was it?"
Sherlock took a quick gulp of scalding tea, waving a hand in dismissal as he shrugged and looked away.
John shook his head. "You wrote that, didn't you."
Sherlock hummed, making his way to the mantel to examine the correspondence pinned under his pocketknife. John grinned at the back of his head, laughed again, and began pecking at his laptop.
As John tugged on his jacket to leave for the surgery, Sherlock loitered by the door, barefoot and still in his dressing gown. John watched him from the corner of his eye, saying nothing. As he stepped to the door, reaching for his keys on the side table, Sherlock stopped him with a hand in the centre of his chest. John looked up, questioning.
"I..." Sherlock blinked, ducked his head on a soft exhale, and looked up to meet his eyes once again on a slight smile. He shook himself, tapping one long finger against John's sternum. "I hope you have a good day, John."
"Oh...kay." John gave a puzzled smile, touching his hip briefly and lifting himself up to kiss the corner of Sherlock's mouth. As Sherlock turned to capture his lips, lingering and deepening the kiss, John chuckled softly, wrapping one arm around Sherlock's narrow waist. When Sherlock paused for breath, John murmured, "Love you too, yeah?"
Sherlock's eyes were closed, but he nodded.
---------
Next Story: "Commitments"