New Fic: A Study in Doubles 5/?
Title: A Study in Doubles
Author: jupiter_ash
Rating: NC17
Beta: trillsabells
Word Count: 8K this part. 35k+ so far and growing.
Pairings: Sherlock/John
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes created by ACD, Sherlock owned by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.
Summary: Sequel to A Study in Winning. Because winning Wimbledon is one thing, maintaining a relationship is something else entirely.
Warnings: Graphic sex, swearing, French.
Spoilers: Some for S2; mainly throwaway lines and some character appearances. No spoilers for S2 episode plots.
Previous: Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four
*
A Study in Doubles
Part Five
*
Sherlock’s lips curved in surprised beneath his, the door to their hotel room barely having closed behind them. The kiss was light but rewarding as John pressed himself up onto his toes for a better angle, his racket bag sliding from his shoulders down his arms to land on the floor with a soft thump.
“Mmmm,” he said breaking the kiss and running his tongue lightly over his lips, “been wanting to do that ever since the match finished.”
Sherlock’s smile was both bright and genuine to the point where he couldn’t resist pressing up to kiss those lips once more before stepping back to go and stow their equipment in the spare bedroom.
“I was starting to think they weren’t going to let us out of there,” he called as he went. “Anyone would think we’d just knocked the top seed out in the first round of a Grand Slam.”
“No one was really expecting us to get through,” Sherlock said from the vicinity of the kitchen, emerging again with two shop bought smoothies in his hands.
Exiting from the second bedroom, John caught the well thrown drink and made his way to the sofa to collapse. “Djokovic and Nadal got knocked out by another wild card pair. Did you hear that? And we’re back there again tomorrow, third match on Court One isn’t it?”
“Second,” Sherlock said as he took the armchair. “They switched them because of my evening match.”
“Oh god, yeah, your singles starts tomorrow. Who are you playing?”
“Melas.”
“Right. He beat what’s his name, Dancevic, then. You sure you’re going to manage two games like that so close together?”
“I’ll be fine, just have to keep them to just two sets each. Then even combined they’d be shorter than a Grand Slam five setter.”
True, John conceded, although if they have a repeat of this first match then unlikely. Either they will all go to three sets for each of the doubles matches, which wouldn’t be ideal, or they would be knocked out rather quickly, which would at least solve the problem of too many matches for Sherlock.
Then there was the issue of their first set.
Sitting forward, he placed his drink down and looked carefully at Sherlock. “Can we talk about what happened in that first set?”
Sherlock made an almost grunting noise. “I screwed up,” came the blunt reply. “Nothing more to say. It won’t happen again.”
“What? No. No, you didn’t screw up, or if you did then we both did. Enough of my own shots ended up in the net or going long. I was just surprised because, well, it wasn’t like you and you seemed so tense. Something I should know about? You’re not carrying an injury or something?”
Sherlock shook his head. “Like I said, it won’t happen again.” He rose from the seat and John had to grab his arm to stop him from what looked to be running away again.
“Look, just so you know, it’s not the tennis I care about,” he said carefully. “I just want to know that you’re okay. If there’s something wrong or troubling you, I want to know. Even if you think I can’t help I want to know. We can’t do this unless we talk to each other. Foundations of good doubles play remember; communication and trust. Works for both on the court and off. Alright?”
Sherlock gave a short nod. “I’m fine,” he said.
“Sure?”
“Quite sure.”
He held Sherlock’s gaze for a moment, determined to make sure, but there was nothing to see. “Alright, good,” he said with the hint of a smile, “now come here and give me another kiss.”
The kiss ended several minutes later with Sherlock sprawled against him, bright eyed and red lipped. God he was gorgeous. Gorgeous and his. He felt giddy and didn’t think he could blame that all on the kiss.
“That over the shoulder shot of yours was a work of beauty,” he said slumping back on the sofa. “Seriously. Could have snogged you then just for that.”
“Hmmmm. Would have liked to have seen you try.”
The laughter fading, John tilted his head to look at his lover. “You are alright, aren’t you?” he said.
“Of course.”
And then Sherlock was scrambling over him, kneeling on either side of his thighs, cupping his face to press their lips together again. Groaning appreciatively, he slid one hand under Sherlock’s shirt, the other to hold the incredibly shapely arse. The kiss kept going, Sherlock’s tongue light and teasing until finally it broke, their foreheads pressing together, mouths breathing the same air. They had to stop, before he unbuttoned their jeans and pushed Sherlock sideways onto the sofa and proved just how much he wanted him. How much he always wanted him.
“Café du lac,” Sherlock said, his voice a touch huskier than normal.
“Hmmm?”
“For dinner. Quebec-style bistro setting. Not quite as good as you would find in Montreal or Quebec City, but more than adequate.”
“Quebec-style,” he said with a smile. “Are you trying to seduce me with French cuisine?”
“Would it work?”
“Hell yes.”
Sherlock’s lips curved. “Good,” and then with a fleeting kiss he was on his feet and walking to the bedroom. “Table’s booked for eighty-two minutes time. Car will be here in an hour.”
“Is that it?” he called after his partner.
“Is that what?”
“No off hand comments about what I should or shouldn’t wear. No designer shirts to be thrust in my direction?”
Sherlock’s eyebrows pulled together in a confused looked. “Do you want a designer shirt thrust in your direction?”
He gave a quick shake of his head. “No surprises then?”
“Should there be?”
“Just thought I’d check.”
“No, no surprises. Just you, me and good cuisine.”
True to his word there were no surprises and they reached the restaurant without incident. Greeted at the door they were shown to a table near the back, one of the more secluded ones in the busy bistro. For some reason John couldn’t help but think of their first ‘not a date’ back in London at Angelo’s. The food here was excellent, the surroundings busy but not cramped and the company was, well, Sherlock was Sherlock and he wouldn’t have it any other way, even if he did get to show off by ordering in French once he had deduced the waiter to be a French speaking Quebecois. A two minute conversation with the young man revealed him to be a university student in his second year with a steady girlfriend back at home and fortunately no interest in any sport, which from the lack of recognition, included tennis.
“Show off,” he teased once the waiter had gone.
“Multilingual,” Sherlock corrected mildly before deducing the lives of those around them.
Back to the hotel after John had firmly insisted on picking up the bill, they finished their celebrations with John sliding carefully into his lover as Sherlock leant over the bed, body weight on his arms and elbows, head hanging as he relaxed into the ministrations.
“Oui, là… n'arrête pas… peu importe ce que tu fais, n’arrête pas.”
John pressed a kiss to the smooth back, the words washing over him as he finally reached his peak and, with a twist of his wrist, brought his lover along with him. He was sure he would never get tired of Sherlock’s voice as he climaxed or the feel of his body hot and tight around him, clenching and relaxing as he arched and shook.
He stayed like that for as long as he could, pressed against Sherlock’s back before pulling away to clean up and find some clothing. They ended up slumped in front of the large screen telly watching nothing in particular until bed called and he fell asleep to Sherlock’s regular breathing and an arm around his waist.
*
“Hello and welcome back to Day Two from here in Toronto. As the second round of the singles gets underway, we’ll be greeting the very familiar faces of the top seeds as eight of the top ten in the world step in to play after byes in the first round. We’ll be bringing you all the latest from Moriarty, Nadal, Holmes, Federer, Djokovic and the rest as the day progresses.
“For those of you wondering just who is missing from the top ten in the world, it is of course Andy Murray, World Number Four, out this time with a groin injury, and fellow Brit, John Watson, Wimbledon Champion from just a few weeks ago, but who is here competing in the doubles instead. Teaming up with Frenchman Sherlock Holmes, Watson will be playing a doubles second round match later today on Court One. Will it be as surprising as their first round match yesterday? We will just have to wait and see.”
*
“Out.”
Yes!
“Game and set, Holmes Watson; 7-6, 9-7 on the tie break. Holmes Watson lead one set to love.”
Now this was more like it. This was playing well against good opposition and somehow still winning. Oh, it felt good.
“How’s the shoulder?”
His shoulder? Oh yes, the ache. Trust Sherlock to have noticed. He rotated it as he dropped into his seat just to make sure. “Thought I may have pulled it with that last serve,” he admitted, “but it’s just a twinge. It’s fine.”
He offered a reassuring smile at Sherlock’s frown of concern.
“It’s fine,” he repeated, “just don’t expect any overhead acrobatics. I’ll leave those to you. How’s your arm? That looked like quite the blow.”
One of the dangers of playing close to the net in doubles was the chance of being struck by a well-placed shot, as Sherlock had been on his left arm when unable to get his racket there in time. It had sounded like everyone in the stadium had winced at the same time in sympathy, but after a moment Sherlock had shaken it off, waved away his looks of concern, and the game had resumed.
“I’ll have a lovely bruise,” he said.
Well, as long as it was only a bruise it would be fine. As battle wounds went that would be rather minor, and this was really turning into a real battle. Or a tussle at least. Two against two, well matched with neither side willing to concede. Really it was only with a certain amount of luck that they had even managed to steal the first set on the tie break. Jürgen Melzer and Philipp Petzschner were tough opposition, and, unlike them, hadn’t had to compete the day before as, like with the singles, the top eight seeds had received a bye in the first round. Melzer and Petzschner had been seeded fifth, were expected to reach the quarter finals at least, if not further, and had only recently walked away as Wimbledon Men’s Doubles Champions. That was only the start of the story.
Petzschner was a hard hitting, right hander with a powerful serve and an even more powerful forehand. He had a dangerous backhand slice and seemed to resemble a colossus when up close to the net. Melzer, in comparison, was a left handed all-rounder. There was little that he couldn’t do well. Together they covered everything. Trying to find a weak spot was proving difficult.
Still they were now one set up and hanging in there, with only a twinge in the shoulder and a bruise on the arm as the war wounds.
“Suggestions?” John prompted as he bit into his banana.
Sherlock just shook his head around his drink.
John took that for what it was but figured that that didn’t bode well. If Sherlock was out of ideas then this was going to be a very tight, very brutal contest against evenly matched opponents.
Think! There must be something. Some weakness they could exploit. Some trick they hadn’t tried. Sherlock’s well developed game plan had already kept them from being completely overshadowed and bashed around the court like the inexperienced pairing that they were, but it was clear that they needed more. There was no guarantee that they would win the next set like this and if it did end up going to three sets then the limitations of his fitness levels and his age would really start to go against them. He knew how it worked; where possible hit to the weakest player. Out of him and Sherlock he knew exactly who the weakest player was.
The weakest player?
By agreement they had been hitting a touch more to Melzer than Petzschner, but what if there was another way? What if they did something about Petzschner’s forehand? Something nagged at him but he couldn’t figure out what. Something he had read perhaps? He couldn’t think what, but the idea had formed and they didn’t have a huge amount of time.
“Well,” he said leaning over as he swapped his banana for a drink, “you know how Petzschner’s strength lies with his, well strength and power. What if we chose not to play that game? What would happen if the balls he received were slower, shorter and lower?”
He watched as the gears started to turn in Sherlock’s brain, the pale eyes flickered back and forth until his mouth formed a near perfect, “O” shape. “Of course,” he said, “Connors and Ashe, Wimbledon final 1975. Genius, John.”
Oh yes, that might have been it. Naturally Sherlock would be able to place the reference immediately and now he could practically see the pieces slotting into place in Sherlock’s mind. One… two… three… four… and then Sherlock beamed. Bingo.
Then Sherlock’s head tipped in contemplation, his sharp eyes peering at him. “We’ll have to adapt it a bit for doubles,” he said, “but tell me, how’s your underspin forehand?”
*
“Fifteen - Thirty.”
“Holmes and Watson have definitely changed their playing style since the first set. It’s like a completely different match. Tim, can you explain it?”
“They’re actually actively slowing the ball down on their returns, especially to Petzschner. There’s more spin, less height, they’re drifting it very close to the net, keeping it very low and basically not giving Melzer and Petzschner the balls they’re expecting, which means timing for the returns is just a little off.”
“Is that why when they are getting balls past Holmes and Watson they are often bouncing long or wide?”
“Absolutely.”
“Petzschner to serve, Watson backhand down the line, Melzer forehand, Watson sliced forehand, Petzschner driving it back, Holmes well read, Melzer forehand and Holmes with the volley that Petzschner can do nothing with.”
“Fifteen - Forty.”
“Good play again there from Holmes and Watson. They’re really taking command of this match.”
“Well Holmes is known as one of the best strategic players of the game. If anyone knows how to break down an opponent’s game and exploit their weaknesses then it’s Holmes, and in Watson he’s got a partner who is able to follow his lead and take advantage.”
“Melzer and Petzschner are certainly conferring more.”
“They look a little shaken. What was working for them in the first set isn’t any more. They were unlucky with losing that first set on the tie-break, but they’ve got to be more careful. Holmes and Watson are only one point away from going a break up. There might not be a way back if that happens.”
“Petzschner serves, Holmes returns with a wide forehand, Petzschner scrambles, Watson backhand, Melzer… and a lovely shot from Melzer to rescue a point.”
“Thirty - Forty.”
“Good play from both pairs there. Watson was unlucky with that one but it was a fine shot by Melzer.”
“Holmes and Watson have their weaknesses of course and there are times when Watson’s age is going to play against them. Not surprising of course, but at his best Watson is a threat in his own right.”
“He did beat the World Number One at Wimbledon and there aren’t many people who can say that they’ve beaten Jim Moriarty this year.”
“No, there aren’t, but the change in Watson’s form and game has been phenomenal. It’s been spoken of a lot and will no doubt be again, especially if they continue to progress here. If his shoulder holds people are going to start asking whether he should return to singles as well.”
“Petzschner to serve… but it’s long. If Holmes and Watson do go through here, how far could they get in the competition?”
“Who knows? It’s the quarter finals next of course….”
“Petzschner serves, Watson returns, Petzschner backhand, Holmes volley, Melzer digs it out, Watson forehand, Petzschner with the lob but Holmes with a brilliant over the head as he backtracks. Neither Petzschner nor Melzer could do anything with it and the break goes to Holmes and Watson.
“Game, Holmes Watson. Holmes Watson lead, three games to one. Watson to serve.”
*
“A Moi!”
He ducked and automatically moved left, the ball passing him and then hurtling back past his right shoulder a split second later.
“Thirty - Fifteen.”
He turned with a small rueful shake of his head to where Sherlock was collecting balls for his next serve. It wasn’t often that either of them shouted instructions, but he wondered if Sherlock realised he was lapsing back into French, although that was hardly surprising.
“Good call,” he said and then it was time to serve again.
Sherlock’s serve thudded past him and the point was on… and over quickly when the return landed in the net.
“Forty - Fifteen.”
This was it? Was this it? Match point. A nod from Sherlock confirmed the point plan and then the serve. Pushed wide, the return came down the line just as they had expected it to. Volley, forehand, volley, backhand, and then the smash to take the point and the match.
“Game, set and match, Holmes Watson; 7-6, 6-4.”
Oh, yes!
*
“You and Holmes are certainly doing well.”
He looked up at the sound of the familiar voice and watched as Dimmock dropped into the seat opposite him. Hair still a touch damp, he must have just come from his first round match, he realised, or at least from the aftermath of it.
“As are you I see,” he replied. “David Ferrer over three sets. How does it feel to have knocked out the tenth seed?”
“Awesome,” Dimmock said breaking into a grin. “And in front of my home crowd as well. Now I understand how you could have been so inspired during Wimbledon. I never stood a chance against you, did I? One big win and you’re on the top of the world and in demand of everyone.”
Now that was a situation he did know something about. Recently at least.
“A few weeks of that though and I can see why you took Holmes up on his offer to escape back onto the courts. Hear you beat Melzer and Petzschner in two sets. They’re what, seeded third?”
“Fifth,” John said.
“And you just took them to pieces. I played Petzschner earlier this year; he has a fierce forehand on him.”
“Yeah, so we discovered,” John said.
“Brilliant work though, and, uh, where’s your partner in crime?”
“Warming up again. He’s on Centre Court next.”
“Whose he got?”
“Melas.”
“The Greek?”
John nodded.
“He’s a sly player from what I remember,” Dimmock said, “but he’s not going to trouble Holmes at all, is he?”
“Shouldn’t do,” John said, “but it’s still two matches close together.”
“Yeah, but he’ll be fine,” Dimmock said. “He’s Sherlock Holmes. Only the big matches faze him. Where will you be watching from?”
“Player’s box.”
“So some advantages to being his doubles partner then. Hey, what you doing later? There’s this girl I’ve met, she’s got a friend. I can introduce you if you like and she may offer you some other form of post-match celebration.”
He forced a smile but couldn’t think of anything he wanted to do less. When it came to post match celebrations there was only one person he wanted to get close to and his body was very decided male. In fact it was hard for him to image ever getting close to a female again. Breasts and the rest didn’t interest him as much as they once had. When he thought about it, his desires were now very much rooted in the flat, muscular chest, the brush of stubble and a warm hardness between the legs.
“Thanks,” he said quickly, “but I’ll pass. I’ve already got plans.”
“Really? Well I hope it’s a she and I hope she’s good.”
A she, she was not, but good was practically a given.
Twenty minutes later he made his way to the stadium to take his place amongst the other fifteen thousand spectators. While the outside of the stadium often reminded him of a multi-storey car park, the inside he had to admit was lovely. The seating rose up neat and high while in the centre, at the bottom was the blue court and the white net.
Sherlock was already courtside when he took his seat next to Lestrade. Sat in his player’s chair staring into space Sherlock appeared to be in deep contemplation. He had changed from the white and blue of the previous match and was now sporting a dark red polo shirt with black shorts, a matching dark sweat band around the top of his forehead keeping his hair back, another on each of his wrists. He seemed relaxed when he took to his feet to complete his warm up, his movements looking fluid and easy. There didn’t appear to be any residual tiredness from the game that morning, nor a return of the tension from the game the day before. That was good. An on-form Sherlock was very good.
“Time."
Sherlock, it appeared, had won the toss and was serving first. Balls collected, he jumped up and down on the spot twice before making his way to the service line, tipping his head one way and then the next, stretching his neck and shoulders. Reaching his serving position he took the opportunity to check his racket once more and seemingly content settled and stilled. Eight seconds later the first of the balls shot over the net and the match was on.
From the moment the first game ended John knew it wouldn’t be either the longest or the most competitive match he had ever seen. Sherlock looked sharp, controlled and everything that made him a top world class player. Melas, on the other hand, looked nervous and a touch overwhelmed, and by the time it was Melas’ turn to serve after Sherlock had comfortably taken control of the first game, the nerves were even more apparent.
“Fifteen - Forty.”
Sherlock’s forehand took advantage of Melas’ poor returned backhand to shoot past the Greek and bounce in court. It was a lovely shot, but not something John hadn’t seen a hundred times before. For Melas though it only seem to add to his woes.
Serve from Melas, backhand down the line, forehand crosscourt, returned forehand, another forehand, then forehand down the line fast, deep and perfect.
“Game, Holmes. Holmes leads two games to love.”
“Not hanging around, is he?” he said leaning closer to Lestrade while Sherlock retrieved the next set of balls.
Not hanging around was perhaps putting it mildly. Melas could do nothing with Sherlock’s first serve of the next game and only just returned the one after that for an easy put away by Sherlock. The third was no better and the forth was an ace.
“Game, Holmes. Holmes leads three games to love.”
“He doesn’t need the doubles, does he?” he said to Lestrade. “He’s just doing it for me, isn’t he?”
“You really think I know?” Lestrade said.
Melas managed to take a point on his serve.
“You know him better than I do,” he said.
“I’ve known him for five years,” Lestrade said, “and no I don’t.”
Melas managed to keep the ball in for a rally of six which had him darting all over the court and ended with Sherlock putting him out of his misery with a lovely forehand that was too fast, too far and too good for him to reach.
“There’s probably only two people alive who could possibly know him better than you do,” Lestrade added as they joined in the applause, “and neither of them know him like you do”
John figured he meant that neither of them had ever shared Sherlock’s bed, so probably Irene and Mycroft then. He ignored the shoot of annoyance that Irene knew Sherlock better than he did. Time, he reminded himself, it should only take time and then he would know Sherlock better than everyone.
“Game, Holmes. Holmes leads four games to love.”
“He hasn’t said anything to you about the doubles then?” he asked.
“Not unless you count orders to set everything up. He’s not exactly the talkative kind when it comes to explaining.”
“Yeah, I’ve noticed,” he said. “Should I be concerned?”
“About the doubles? I wouldn’t. In my experience Sherlock never does anything without it benefiting him in some way. Brilliant he might be, altruistic he most decidedly is not.”
Sherlock held his serve again and somehow Melas found some confidence and good enough shots to hold his own service game before Sherlock finished the set in grand style winning it six games to one.
“I’ve never asked,” John said to Lestrade while the players took their between set break, “but how did you end up working for him? I’m presuming you didn’t exactly apply.”
“God no,” Lestrade said. “Right place, right time, right languages. And Mycroft can be very persuasive.”
“Mycroft? Mycroft hired you? Oh what am I saying, of course Mycroft hired you.”
Lestrade gave a small smile. “I doubt Sherlock of now would have wanted me around voluntarily, let alone Sherlock of five years ago.”
His mouth twitched into a small smile as he pictured it. “What was he like, when you first met him?”
“Stubborn, difficult, obnoxious.”
“Hasn’t changed much then.”
They shared a grin.
“Yeah, not so much,” Lestrade confirmed, “but at least now he’s got his head screwed back on. I can understand why he did what he did, but it didn’t make it easy for everyone else and as for his career….”
“Wait, ‘what he did’? What did he do?” He tried to think back to what he knew or had read about Sherlock’s career. Five years ago he would have been twenty. He couldn’t think of anything glaring that came to mind. Some injuries and change in coach but nothing unusual.
Lestrade stiffened slightly, shooting him an odd look. “You don’t know?”
He shook his head.
“Shit. Sorry, mate, forget I said anything. If you don’t know then it’s definitely not my place to say,” he said. “He’ll tell you himself, when he’s ready.”
They clapped as the players took their place for the second set, Melas to start on serve. The second set lasted only fractionally longer than the first. It appeared that Sherlock was not in the mood to drag it out.
“Game, set, match, Holmes; 6-1, 6-2.”
*
The more he thought about it, the more it concerned him that there were obviously things that Sherlock wasn’t telling him. It was stupid really, they had only been together a short length of time in the scheme of things, so he shouldn’t expect to know everything about him, but it was gnawing at him that there were significant things he didn’t know. Significant things that Sherlock hadn’t told him. Just what had happened five years ago and was that why Mycroft had hired Lestrade in the first place? Did it have anything to do with them now? Should he worry? Should he be worried?
No, he gave a slight shake to his head, he shouldn’t worry. Worrying was stupid and yet it was so easy to do, especially as he couldn’t be certain that there wasn’t something going on in Sherlock’s brain that he wasn’t privy to. Scrap that, there was probably a great deal going on in Sherlock’s brain that he wasn’t privy to, he just didn’t know whether any of it would be important or not.
He bit back a sigh and scratched a thumb against his forehead.
Returning to their suite they had agreed on room service and crashing rather than venturing into town. He didn’t have Sherlock’s level of observation but even he could tell that the matches had taken their toll, even just slightly. Not that Sherlock would admit it of course.
So food had been brought to them and once they had cleared room on the main table - it was amazing how much stuff Sherlock seemed to accumulate, take everywhere and then spread - they had enjoyed the food with much relish and some teasing. A couple of times he had considered asking about what Lestrade had said to him, but in the end had decided firmly against it. Whatever it was he had a feeling that this wasn’t the best of times to be broaching it. It could wait until they weren’t in the middle of a tournament or at least not in the middle of dinner.
It didn’t stop him from wondering though.
After food, Sherlock returned to his research and strategizing, spending much of the next few hours muttering to himself and peering into various notebooks before grabbing his violin and distracting himself that way.
He had figured that the best thing was to simply leave him to it and so had retreated into the bedroom to give his lover space. With one thing or another they had spent rather a great deal of time in each other’s proximity, it was good to have some time apart and Sherlock needed time alone with just his brain. Anyway, it gave him the opportunity to do a little research of his own.
He knew he shouldn’t, but he quickly gave in to the urge to read once more through Sherlock’s Wikipedia page. There wasn’t anything different there that he hadn’t read a dozen or more times before, but he just wanted to check that there wasn’t something blatant that he had missed or failed to take in. There wasn’t, just the same information as before.
Sherlock Holmes (born 6th January, 1985) is a French professional tennis player. He was born in Sussex, England, to an English father, Siger, and a French mother, Violet…
Reading it through twice he decided that any further digging would be a violation of trust and instead closed Wikipedia down and took the opportunity to update his blog, respond to a few emails and look through some of the new sponsorship deals Clara was apparently still negotiating for him. She didn’t appear satisfied with just Wilson, Fred Perry and Robinsons. She also asked when he thought he’d be back in Britain and he honestly answered that he had no clue.
That had brought him up short. He had originally been due to fly home again in less than a week, but due to the complications of competing in the doubles, he hadn’t really thought about what would now happen next. Now he had it again, now he was back out there, racket in hand, sun beating down on his shoulders, he wasn’t sure he wanted to give it up so easily again. And the thought of leaving Sherlock….
Ah, there is was again. That old fear, the fluttering in his stomach that was prone to returning at inopportune moments. Christ.
Closing the lid of the laptop he had moved to the doorway of the bedroom, looking out across the main room to where Sherlock was. The music had stopped a while ago now and as he had suspected, Sherlock was back sprawled across the sofa like a Victorian maiden, all long limbs and compact muscle, stretched out and still, as if waiting for a lover’s kiss to awaken him.
Oh god those lips were ever so kissable.
Pushing aside the worry that there was something significant that Sherlock was hiding from him and the fear that this might be a sight he wouldn’t always be privy to, he allowed himself to be lured in by the enticing scene and softly crossed the room, crouching down beside his lover.
A pale eye opened to follow him, but other than that there was very little movement. Certainly no effort was made to ward him off. He took that as a good sign.
“Hey,” he said gently, lifting a hand to brush a wayward curl across his forehead. “How you doing?”
He half expected some sort of sarcastic or cutting response, but there was just a non-committal sound and the turning of the head away from him.
Oh. Right. Well, that he understood.
Resisting the urge to press a brief kiss to Sherlock’s temple, he removed his hand and rose to his feet. Figuring that there wasn’t anything else Sherlock wanted from him - two matches today, two tomorrow, he needed his rest and time alone - he turned to go.
“John?”
The sound of his name surprised him, not because it was his name, but because of the tone Sherlock used.
“John, where are you going?”
He stopped, frowned and turned back to find Sherlock now propping himself up, a mirroring frown on his face, except his was more a frowny frown than a confused one.
“To, uh, get ready for bed,” he said motioning to the bathroom.
“Why?”
Why? “Because it’s late and we have another busy day tomorrow,” he said. “You look a little wiped too. Perhaps you should consider getting to bed earlier rather than later.”
“No,” Sherlock said. “I mean yes. No. I mean, come here.”
A long fingered hand motioned for him to come back.
“No, don’t just stand there. You’re no good all the way over there. Come back here where I can reach you.”
He raised his eyebrows but moved back to the sofa and back into range of Sherlock Holmes. His hand caught in a strong grip, he found himself tugged back and then down, pulled awkwardly half onto the sofa and half onto his lover, a face burying in his neck as lips breathed and then pressed against him.
“Hmmmm,” he felt and then heard. “That’s better.”
The other hand snaked around his waist to make sure he didn’t pull away easily. As if he had any plans to do that.
He smiled as the mouth slowly started to move across his neck. “You could have just asked, you know,” he pretended to grumble.
“Boring,” he heard and then their mouths were meeting and he found himself pulled further down until they were chest to chest, bodies stretched across the sofa and each other. The kisses were slow but deep, hot and wide mouthed, taking their time to lazily move across each other and to explore territories already mapped out and well known but more than worth taking the time over.
One of his hands reached up to cradle Sherlock’s face, to allow his fingers to get lost in that thick hair while holding his head still enough for their mouth to mouth explorations to continue with relative ease. His other hand slipped first against the smoothness of Sherlock’s shirt, before worming its way under the soft material to the warm skin below. Oh god that felt good, the dual sensation of soft cotton against the back of his hand and warm skin against his palm while his mouth was kept occupied by nimble and adept lips. He could stay like this forever.
“John.”
Their mouths broke apart along long enough for Sherlock’s hand to grip firmly at his arse and the name to slip almost soundlessly from his lips.
He closed his eyes, pressing their mouths back together against before dropping his head against the shoulder to catch his breath and his bearings once more.
“Please tell me this isn’t just some kind of tease,” John muttered.
“Touch me,” he felt breathed against him.
His pulse leapt. “God yes.”
Leaning back, he made sure to completely take in the sight before him. Sherlock with his hair dishevelled, his lips swollen, his chest rising and falling more heavily than usual and a faint flush across his face. Christ if only he had a way of preserving it for ever. Perfect. So bloody, fantastically perfect.
He pressed his lips against the v of skin available by Sherlock’s collar and then began what he didn’t often have the time or opportunity to do; he started to adore with his mouth, his lips, his tongue everything he could find. And Sherlock just lay there and took it. Eyes half closed, head tipping back and chin up, breathing through his mouth as his hips desperately tried to press his need further into John’s own body. All in good time and given the opportunity he wasn’t going to rush having a passive but responsive Sherlock under his fingertips. His to do whatever he wanted to. And oh god, did he ever want to.
The buttons stood no chance, popped out of their holes, driven by the need to reveal more and more flesh for him to suckle on, kiss, flick and enjoy.
“John.”
Another groaned version of his name, barely audible, joined by the hand that grasped at his head, wanting more, wanting less.
It would never be enough.
Fabric pushed aside, he could see the extent of the tan lines across his lover’s body, similar to the ones that marked his own; shirt lines, t-shirt lines, and his own personal favourite, the waist line that proved that for all things his lover indulged in, nude sunbathing and skinny dipping were not included.
Good, he should be the only person who saw this body naked. Him. Only him.
Sliding down, he pressing another linger kiss to warm skin and let his fingers drift to the belted trouser waist. A small smile and he leant back only enough to deftly undo it, looking up to find Sherlock’s pale eyes watching him closely, hooded and intense. Trouser button popped, he could feel Sherlock full interest, hard and throbbing under his fingers, clearly wanting to be freed. Well then, freed it should therefore be, but not quite yet.
With the lightest of tugs he first revealed the start of the pale skin, Sherlock’s natural colour, an almost shocking lightness compared to the rest of him, poking out tantalisingly above the waistband of his underwear. A rumble of pleasure and he pressed his mouth back, kissing, licking, mouthing, sucking and sometimes nipping as he explored what he could and then pushed clothing down or away to explore that bit more. It was like opening a present, slowly savouring each little reveal until he could feel Sherlock flexing and relaxing into his ministrations in turn, his full blown arousal nudging hard and hot against his chin.
He could smell Sherlock more now. Not just his deodorant, his cologne, his body wash, he could smell Sherlock, the natural Sherlock buried under it all, musky, warm, heady. He pressed his nose into the skin, rubbed his cheek against the line of hair leading downwards. More Sherlock, stronger, fresher and then, like that, his desire for more overweighed his desire to stretch it out and with careful fingers he tugged both trousers and underwear completely off and away, leaving one of Sherlock’s legs across the sofa, the other dangling down to the floor.
Sherlock didn’t move, didn’t speak, didn’t try to stop him or move to cover himself, just stretched slightly and lay there, open and exposed, legs splayed.
It was an image he wanted to sear into his memory.
“John?”
A hand reached up to touch his shoulder, fingers then curling around his upper arm. He went with the movement, leaning back up and over his lover, bracing himself on his arms either side of Sherlock’s body.
“You have no idea, do you?” he said leaning down to capture those lips once more. “No bloody idea.” How much he wanted him, needed him, feared having to live without him.
“John.”
The lips that met his again were passionate and insistent, the tongue reaching and straining as they pressed against each other, tasting and swallowing, hands gripping at each other, holding, pulling, needing.
“John, I need… I need….”
“It’s okay,” he said fumbling with his own buttons. “Let me just go get the lube.”
“No.”
Strong hands pulled him back, lips pressing against his increasingly damp skin.
“Sherlock?”
“No,” Sherlock repeated, one hand under his shirt, pressed firmly against his back preventing his escape. “Don’t, just… stay.”
He frowned slightly but there was urgency in the voice that had him relaxing back into the embrace.
“Okay,” he said, stealing another kiss. “Okay. But we do this my way.”
“Your way, right.” There was a small smile on Sherlock’s lips as he relaxed, his head tipping back as he closed his eyes. “I believe I’m going to enjoy your way.”
Scooting back, John quickly unbuttoned his flies and tried to make himself more comfortable all round. Not the easiest task when one has a virtually naked and rather exposed Sherlock Holmes under them.
“Yes,” he said, leaning down to land a kiss just beside Sherlock’s belly button. “You always do.” He flicked his tongue. Sherlock’s mouth opened as he breathed out. He flicked it again.
“Now who’s the one teasing?” Sherlock managed.
He smiled and nipped playfully. “Shut up and open your eyes,” he said.
He waited until the pale eyes opened and focused on him, then he slowly licked his lips and deliberately lowered his head.
At the first touch of his tongue to the swollen tip Sherlock’s hips rose to meet him, just slightly, but more than enough for him to know just how much Sherlock wanted this. As much as he wanted to do it in fact. He had always enjoyed giving oral sex and with Sherlock this was no exception. The smell, the taste, the texture, he could barely get enough. Here it was pure Sherlock and he ran the tip of his tongue over the hot skin, teasing and encouraging, flicking around the swollen tip, before closing his mouth around what he could.
“Mon Dieu.”
And there it was; his reward.
“Oh… oui. S’il-te-plait, Jean… S’il-te-plait.”
Eyes wide, hips twitching with the fight to hold still, Sherlock’s hands opened and closed as if desperate to find something to grasp onto. There was something about seeing Sherlock in such a state, where the usual vestments of his control had been stripped away leaving him bare and open, that got him every time. He had done this, he was the one responsible for pushing the most controlled man he knew towards a state of abandonment, he was the one, the only one, who now got to see him like this.
Taking in as much as he could, he closed his eyes and hummed contentedly, hands holding the thighs apart, making sure that the resulting twitches or mini jerks didn’t turn into anything he couldn’t handle. Then pulling back, he once more sought out the most sensitive places, licking and flicking until there was no doubt as to what state Sherlock was in.
God it was a beautiful sight.
“Jean…”
But he wasn’t finished and considering everything he had been through today he wasn’t about to go easy on his lover.
Pulling away slightly, he slid his mouth away and down, lips parted and eyes purposely trained on Sherlock’s as he moved to nip at the soft skin on the inside of the thighs, before moving further down so he could run his tongue over a hot and heavy ball sack.
“Putain… Jean”
Oh yes, that was definitely liked.
“Putain! J’vais… j’vais...”
Replacing mouth with hand, he pressed his fingers against the one spot he knew would do it and returned his mouth to where he had started. He could feel his jaw starting to get tired, but he wasn’t going to give up now, not when they were so close.
“Jean….”
He didn’t stop. Even when the hips jerked within his grasp, even when the hand gripped almost desperately at his arm, even when the tiredness of his jaw started to become an ache. He didn’t stop. He just pushed Sherlock through, upper and higher, moving in counter balance to the rocking hips, until finally he knew that gasp, that tense, and sealing his mouth he sucked hard.
Sherlock came, flooding his mouth as his hips lifted and his lips parted. He swallowed quickly, ignoring the bitter taste in favour of concentrating on the sight in front of him; Sherlock laid out shuddering through the aftermath of his climax. He looked tired and spent, eyes closed, chin tilted up and back, Adam’s apple bobbing between laboured breaths.
He looked beautiful.
He eased back and lifted his face away from Sherlock’s crotch, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He was painfully hard, pressing against his underwear and jeans as if battling to get out. God, Sherlock looked gorgeous like that, legs spread, cock wet from their activities, a faint blush to his skin.
He tugged himself out with a satisfied moan, all thought of getting Sherlock to reciprocate fleeing his mind at the touch of his fingers. There had been evenings during their time apart when he had imagined Sherlock looking just like this while he had curved his fingers around his own length in a pale shadow of the real thing, when all he’d had was his imagination and his memories. But not this time.
Stretching out sideways, he rested against Sherlock’s chest, turning his head so he could breathe in the scent, feeling the heat from his lover’s skin. Slick and hot, his hand moved smoothly over his own length, edging him closer and closer.
Eyes closed, Sherlock’s finger’s caught him by surprise, threading first through his hair and then across his cheek and jaw until two pressed against his mouth. He didn’t hesitate, just parted his lips and groaned as the fingers slipped in and he sucked.
Oh God, he was close now.
He still had the taste of Sherlock on his tongue, the heat of him against his skin, the smell of him by his nose and now a part of him once more in his mouth. He sucked harder as he heard, felt, tasted Sherlock saying his name, and then he was there.
He came with a cry, panting in the smell of himself and Sherlock and sex, hardly caring about the mess he was making of his clothing, of Sherlock’s skin, of the sofa itself, caring only that this wave of contentment could last as long as he could make it.
They stayed like that for some considerable time; Sherlock sprawled bonelessly across the sofa, him slumped equally bonelessly half on the sofa, half on Sherlock. Bodies pressed tightly against each other. Silent, but together, each in their own world.
All too soon though, reality set back in. The stickiness couldn’t be ignored, Sherlock grew restless in his almost nude state, and aching muscles or heavy bladders forced them up and away from each other.
Despite protests to the contrary, Sherlock’s exhaustion quickly became apparent and exiting the bathroom, John found his now clean lover sat on the bed, t-shirt and pyjamas bottoms on, mind elsewhere as he stared at the wardrobe doors. Not wanting to interrupt, he left him to it for a while, finishing his own pre-bed preparations until it became clear that Sherlock wasn’t moving.
“Bed,” he said, pressing a kiss to the curls as he resting a hand on Sherlock’s arm. “Give that great brain of yours a rest.”
There was only a token protest as he guided Sherlock down and under the covers, one that lacked length and passion.
Lights off, he crawled in bedside him, shifting to get comfortable.
“John?”
“Hmmm?”
There was a pause, and then, “Goodnight.”
Sleep found them both rather quickly.
*
End Part Five
Another picture for you. Another brilliant picture by detectivelyd and perfect for Sherlock's return to singles.
Part Six
Author: jupiter_ash
Rating: NC17
Beta: trillsabells
Word Count: 8K this part. 35k+ so far and growing.
Pairings: Sherlock/John
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes created by ACD, Sherlock owned by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.
Summary: Sequel to A Study in Winning. Because winning Wimbledon is one thing, maintaining a relationship is something else entirely.
Warnings: Graphic sex, swearing, French.
Spoilers: Some for S2; mainly throwaway lines and some character appearances. No spoilers for S2 episode plots.
Previous: Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four
*
A Study in Doubles
Part Five
*
Sherlock’s lips curved in surprised beneath his, the door to their hotel room barely having closed behind them. The kiss was light but rewarding as John pressed himself up onto his toes for a better angle, his racket bag sliding from his shoulders down his arms to land on the floor with a soft thump.
“Mmmm,” he said breaking the kiss and running his tongue lightly over his lips, “been wanting to do that ever since the match finished.”
Sherlock’s smile was both bright and genuine to the point where he couldn’t resist pressing up to kiss those lips once more before stepping back to go and stow their equipment in the spare bedroom.
“I was starting to think they weren’t going to let us out of there,” he called as he went. “Anyone would think we’d just knocked the top seed out in the first round of a Grand Slam.”
“No one was really expecting us to get through,” Sherlock said from the vicinity of the kitchen, emerging again with two shop bought smoothies in his hands.
Exiting from the second bedroom, John caught the well thrown drink and made his way to the sofa to collapse. “Djokovic and Nadal got knocked out by another wild card pair. Did you hear that? And we’re back there again tomorrow, third match on Court One isn’t it?”
“Second,” Sherlock said as he took the armchair. “They switched them because of my evening match.”
“Oh god, yeah, your singles starts tomorrow. Who are you playing?”
“Melas.”
“Right. He beat what’s his name, Dancevic, then. You sure you’re going to manage two games like that so close together?”
“I’ll be fine, just have to keep them to just two sets each. Then even combined they’d be shorter than a Grand Slam five setter.”
True, John conceded, although if they have a repeat of this first match then unlikely. Either they will all go to three sets for each of the doubles matches, which wouldn’t be ideal, or they would be knocked out rather quickly, which would at least solve the problem of too many matches for Sherlock.
Then there was the issue of their first set.
Sitting forward, he placed his drink down and looked carefully at Sherlock. “Can we talk about what happened in that first set?”
Sherlock made an almost grunting noise. “I screwed up,” came the blunt reply. “Nothing more to say. It won’t happen again.”
“What? No. No, you didn’t screw up, or if you did then we both did. Enough of my own shots ended up in the net or going long. I was just surprised because, well, it wasn’t like you and you seemed so tense. Something I should know about? You’re not carrying an injury or something?”
Sherlock shook his head. “Like I said, it won’t happen again.” He rose from the seat and John had to grab his arm to stop him from what looked to be running away again.
“Look, just so you know, it’s not the tennis I care about,” he said carefully. “I just want to know that you’re okay. If there’s something wrong or troubling you, I want to know. Even if you think I can’t help I want to know. We can’t do this unless we talk to each other. Foundations of good doubles play remember; communication and trust. Works for both on the court and off. Alright?”
Sherlock gave a short nod. “I’m fine,” he said.
“Sure?”
“Quite sure.”
He held Sherlock’s gaze for a moment, determined to make sure, but there was nothing to see. “Alright, good,” he said with the hint of a smile, “now come here and give me another kiss.”
The kiss ended several minutes later with Sherlock sprawled against him, bright eyed and red lipped. God he was gorgeous. Gorgeous and his. He felt giddy and didn’t think he could blame that all on the kiss.
“That over the shoulder shot of yours was a work of beauty,” he said slumping back on the sofa. “Seriously. Could have snogged you then just for that.”
“Hmmmm. Would have liked to have seen you try.”
The laughter fading, John tilted his head to look at his lover. “You are alright, aren’t you?” he said.
“Of course.”
And then Sherlock was scrambling over him, kneeling on either side of his thighs, cupping his face to press their lips together again. Groaning appreciatively, he slid one hand under Sherlock’s shirt, the other to hold the incredibly shapely arse. The kiss kept going, Sherlock’s tongue light and teasing until finally it broke, their foreheads pressing together, mouths breathing the same air. They had to stop, before he unbuttoned their jeans and pushed Sherlock sideways onto the sofa and proved just how much he wanted him. How much he always wanted him.
“Café du lac,” Sherlock said, his voice a touch huskier than normal.
“Hmmm?”
“For dinner. Quebec-style bistro setting. Not quite as good as you would find in Montreal or Quebec City, but more than adequate.”
“Quebec-style,” he said with a smile. “Are you trying to seduce me with French cuisine?”
“Would it work?”
“Hell yes.”
Sherlock’s lips curved. “Good,” and then with a fleeting kiss he was on his feet and walking to the bedroom. “Table’s booked for eighty-two minutes time. Car will be here in an hour.”
“Is that it?” he called after his partner.
“Is that what?”
“No off hand comments about what I should or shouldn’t wear. No designer shirts to be thrust in my direction?”
Sherlock’s eyebrows pulled together in a confused looked. “Do you want a designer shirt thrust in your direction?”
He gave a quick shake of his head. “No surprises then?”
“Should there be?”
“Just thought I’d check.”
“No, no surprises. Just you, me and good cuisine.”
True to his word there were no surprises and they reached the restaurant without incident. Greeted at the door they were shown to a table near the back, one of the more secluded ones in the busy bistro. For some reason John couldn’t help but think of their first ‘not a date’ back in London at Angelo’s. The food here was excellent, the surroundings busy but not cramped and the company was, well, Sherlock was Sherlock and he wouldn’t have it any other way, even if he did get to show off by ordering in French once he had deduced the waiter to be a French speaking Quebecois. A two minute conversation with the young man revealed him to be a university student in his second year with a steady girlfriend back at home and fortunately no interest in any sport, which from the lack of recognition, included tennis.
“Show off,” he teased once the waiter had gone.
“Multilingual,” Sherlock corrected mildly before deducing the lives of those around them.
Back to the hotel after John had firmly insisted on picking up the bill, they finished their celebrations with John sliding carefully into his lover as Sherlock leant over the bed, body weight on his arms and elbows, head hanging as he relaxed into the ministrations.
“Oui, là… n'arrête pas… peu importe ce que tu fais, n’arrête pas.”
John pressed a kiss to the smooth back, the words washing over him as he finally reached his peak and, with a twist of his wrist, brought his lover along with him. He was sure he would never get tired of Sherlock’s voice as he climaxed or the feel of his body hot and tight around him, clenching and relaxing as he arched and shook.
He stayed like that for as long as he could, pressed against Sherlock’s back before pulling away to clean up and find some clothing. They ended up slumped in front of the large screen telly watching nothing in particular until bed called and he fell asleep to Sherlock’s regular breathing and an arm around his waist.
*
“Hello and welcome back to Day Two from here in Toronto. As the second round of the singles gets underway, we’ll be greeting the very familiar faces of the top seeds as eight of the top ten in the world step in to play after byes in the first round. We’ll be bringing you all the latest from Moriarty, Nadal, Holmes, Federer, Djokovic and the rest as the day progresses.
“For those of you wondering just who is missing from the top ten in the world, it is of course Andy Murray, World Number Four, out this time with a groin injury, and fellow Brit, John Watson, Wimbledon Champion from just a few weeks ago, but who is here competing in the doubles instead. Teaming up with Frenchman Sherlock Holmes, Watson will be playing a doubles second round match later today on Court One. Will it be as surprising as their first round match yesterday? We will just have to wait and see.”
*
“Out.”
Yes!
“Game and set, Holmes Watson; 7-6, 9-7 on the tie break. Holmes Watson lead one set to love.”
Now this was more like it. This was playing well against good opposition and somehow still winning. Oh, it felt good.
“How’s the shoulder?”
His shoulder? Oh yes, the ache. Trust Sherlock to have noticed. He rotated it as he dropped into his seat just to make sure. “Thought I may have pulled it with that last serve,” he admitted, “but it’s just a twinge. It’s fine.”
He offered a reassuring smile at Sherlock’s frown of concern.
“It’s fine,” he repeated, “just don’t expect any overhead acrobatics. I’ll leave those to you. How’s your arm? That looked like quite the blow.”
One of the dangers of playing close to the net in doubles was the chance of being struck by a well-placed shot, as Sherlock had been on his left arm when unable to get his racket there in time. It had sounded like everyone in the stadium had winced at the same time in sympathy, but after a moment Sherlock had shaken it off, waved away his looks of concern, and the game had resumed.
“I’ll have a lovely bruise,” he said.
Well, as long as it was only a bruise it would be fine. As battle wounds went that would be rather minor, and this was really turning into a real battle. Or a tussle at least. Two against two, well matched with neither side willing to concede. Really it was only with a certain amount of luck that they had even managed to steal the first set on the tie break. Jürgen Melzer and Philipp Petzschner were tough opposition, and, unlike them, hadn’t had to compete the day before as, like with the singles, the top eight seeds had received a bye in the first round. Melzer and Petzschner had been seeded fifth, were expected to reach the quarter finals at least, if not further, and had only recently walked away as Wimbledon Men’s Doubles Champions. That was only the start of the story.
Petzschner was a hard hitting, right hander with a powerful serve and an even more powerful forehand. He had a dangerous backhand slice and seemed to resemble a colossus when up close to the net. Melzer, in comparison, was a left handed all-rounder. There was little that he couldn’t do well. Together they covered everything. Trying to find a weak spot was proving difficult.
Still they were now one set up and hanging in there, with only a twinge in the shoulder and a bruise on the arm as the war wounds.
“Suggestions?” John prompted as he bit into his banana.
Sherlock just shook his head around his drink.
John took that for what it was but figured that that didn’t bode well. If Sherlock was out of ideas then this was going to be a very tight, very brutal contest against evenly matched opponents.
Think! There must be something. Some weakness they could exploit. Some trick they hadn’t tried. Sherlock’s well developed game plan had already kept them from being completely overshadowed and bashed around the court like the inexperienced pairing that they were, but it was clear that they needed more. There was no guarantee that they would win the next set like this and if it did end up going to three sets then the limitations of his fitness levels and his age would really start to go against them. He knew how it worked; where possible hit to the weakest player. Out of him and Sherlock he knew exactly who the weakest player was.
The weakest player?
By agreement they had been hitting a touch more to Melzer than Petzschner, but what if there was another way? What if they did something about Petzschner’s forehand? Something nagged at him but he couldn’t figure out what. Something he had read perhaps? He couldn’t think what, but the idea had formed and they didn’t have a huge amount of time.
“Well,” he said leaning over as he swapped his banana for a drink, “you know how Petzschner’s strength lies with his, well strength and power. What if we chose not to play that game? What would happen if the balls he received were slower, shorter and lower?”
He watched as the gears started to turn in Sherlock’s brain, the pale eyes flickered back and forth until his mouth formed a near perfect, “O” shape. “Of course,” he said, “Connors and Ashe, Wimbledon final 1975. Genius, John.”
Oh yes, that might have been it. Naturally Sherlock would be able to place the reference immediately and now he could practically see the pieces slotting into place in Sherlock’s mind. One… two… three… four… and then Sherlock beamed. Bingo.
Then Sherlock’s head tipped in contemplation, his sharp eyes peering at him. “We’ll have to adapt it a bit for doubles,” he said, “but tell me, how’s your underspin forehand?”
*
“Fifteen - Thirty.”
“Holmes and Watson have definitely changed their playing style since the first set. It’s like a completely different match. Tim, can you explain it?”
“They’re actually actively slowing the ball down on their returns, especially to Petzschner. There’s more spin, less height, they’re drifting it very close to the net, keeping it very low and basically not giving Melzer and Petzschner the balls they’re expecting, which means timing for the returns is just a little off.”
“Is that why when they are getting balls past Holmes and Watson they are often bouncing long or wide?”
“Absolutely.”
“Petzschner to serve, Watson backhand down the line, Melzer forehand, Watson sliced forehand, Petzschner driving it back, Holmes well read, Melzer forehand and Holmes with the volley that Petzschner can do nothing with.”
“Fifteen - Forty.”
“Good play again there from Holmes and Watson. They’re really taking command of this match.”
“Well Holmes is known as one of the best strategic players of the game. If anyone knows how to break down an opponent’s game and exploit their weaknesses then it’s Holmes, and in Watson he’s got a partner who is able to follow his lead and take advantage.”
“Melzer and Petzschner are certainly conferring more.”
“They look a little shaken. What was working for them in the first set isn’t any more. They were unlucky with losing that first set on the tie-break, but they’ve got to be more careful. Holmes and Watson are only one point away from going a break up. There might not be a way back if that happens.”
“Petzschner serves, Holmes returns with a wide forehand, Petzschner scrambles, Watson backhand, Melzer… and a lovely shot from Melzer to rescue a point.”
“Thirty - Forty.”
“Good play from both pairs there. Watson was unlucky with that one but it was a fine shot by Melzer.”
“Holmes and Watson have their weaknesses of course and there are times when Watson’s age is going to play against them. Not surprising of course, but at his best Watson is a threat in his own right.”
“He did beat the World Number One at Wimbledon and there aren’t many people who can say that they’ve beaten Jim Moriarty this year.”
“No, there aren’t, but the change in Watson’s form and game has been phenomenal. It’s been spoken of a lot and will no doubt be again, especially if they continue to progress here. If his shoulder holds people are going to start asking whether he should return to singles as well.”
“Petzschner to serve… but it’s long. If Holmes and Watson do go through here, how far could they get in the competition?”
“Who knows? It’s the quarter finals next of course….”
“Petzschner serves, Watson returns, Petzschner backhand, Holmes volley, Melzer digs it out, Watson forehand, Petzschner with the lob but Holmes with a brilliant over the head as he backtracks. Neither Petzschner nor Melzer could do anything with it and the break goes to Holmes and Watson.
“Game, Holmes Watson. Holmes Watson lead, three games to one. Watson to serve.”
*
“A Moi!”
He ducked and automatically moved left, the ball passing him and then hurtling back past his right shoulder a split second later.
“Thirty - Fifteen.”
He turned with a small rueful shake of his head to where Sherlock was collecting balls for his next serve. It wasn’t often that either of them shouted instructions, but he wondered if Sherlock realised he was lapsing back into French, although that was hardly surprising.
“Good call,” he said and then it was time to serve again.
Sherlock’s serve thudded past him and the point was on… and over quickly when the return landed in the net.
“Forty - Fifteen.”
This was it? Was this it? Match point. A nod from Sherlock confirmed the point plan and then the serve. Pushed wide, the return came down the line just as they had expected it to. Volley, forehand, volley, backhand, and then the smash to take the point and the match.
“Game, set and match, Holmes Watson; 7-6, 6-4.”
Oh, yes!
*
“You and Holmes are certainly doing well.”
He looked up at the sound of the familiar voice and watched as Dimmock dropped into the seat opposite him. Hair still a touch damp, he must have just come from his first round match, he realised, or at least from the aftermath of it.
“As are you I see,” he replied. “David Ferrer over three sets. How does it feel to have knocked out the tenth seed?”
“Awesome,” Dimmock said breaking into a grin. “And in front of my home crowd as well. Now I understand how you could have been so inspired during Wimbledon. I never stood a chance against you, did I? One big win and you’re on the top of the world and in demand of everyone.”
Now that was a situation he did know something about. Recently at least.
“A few weeks of that though and I can see why you took Holmes up on his offer to escape back onto the courts. Hear you beat Melzer and Petzschner in two sets. They’re what, seeded third?”
“Fifth,” John said.
“And you just took them to pieces. I played Petzschner earlier this year; he has a fierce forehand on him.”
“Yeah, so we discovered,” John said.
“Brilliant work though, and, uh, where’s your partner in crime?”
“Warming up again. He’s on Centre Court next.”
“Whose he got?”
“Melas.”
“The Greek?”
John nodded.
“He’s a sly player from what I remember,” Dimmock said, “but he’s not going to trouble Holmes at all, is he?”
“Shouldn’t do,” John said, “but it’s still two matches close together.”
“Yeah, but he’ll be fine,” Dimmock said. “He’s Sherlock Holmes. Only the big matches faze him. Where will you be watching from?”
“Player’s box.”
“So some advantages to being his doubles partner then. Hey, what you doing later? There’s this girl I’ve met, she’s got a friend. I can introduce you if you like and she may offer you some other form of post-match celebration.”
He forced a smile but couldn’t think of anything he wanted to do less. When it came to post match celebrations there was only one person he wanted to get close to and his body was very decided male. In fact it was hard for him to image ever getting close to a female again. Breasts and the rest didn’t interest him as much as they once had. When he thought about it, his desires were now very much rooted in the flat, muscular chest, the brush of stubble and a warm hardness between the legs.
“Thanks,” he said quickly, “but I’ll pass. I’ve already got plans.”
“Really? Well I hope it’s a she and I hope she’s good.”
A she, she was not, but good was practically a given.
Twenty minutes later he made his way to the stadium to take his place amongst the other fifteen thousand spectators. While the outside of the stadium often reminded him of a multi-storey car park, the inside he had to admit was lovely. The seating rose up neat and high while in the centre, at the bottom was the blue court and the white net.
Sherlock was already courtside when he took his seat next to Lestrade. Sat in his player’s chair staring into space Sherlock appeared to be in deep contemplation. He had changed from the white and blue of the previous match and was now sporting a dark red polo shirt with black shorts, a matching dark sweat band around the top of his forehead keeping his hair back, another on each of his wrists. He seemed relaxed when he took to his feet to complete his warm up, his movements looking fluid and easy. There didn’t appear to be any residual tiredness from the game that morning, nor a return of the tension from the game the day before. That was good. An on-form Sherlock was very good.
“Time."
Sherlock, it appeared, had won the toss and was serving first. Balls collected, he jumped up and down on the spot twice before making his way to the service line, tipping his head one way and then the next, stretching his neck and shoulders. Reaching his serving position he took the opportunity to check his racket once more and seemingly content settled and stilled. Eight seconds later the first of the balls shot over the net and the match was on.
From the moment the first game ended John knew it wouldn’t be either the longest or the most competitive match he had ever seen. Sherlock looked sharp, controlled and everything that made him a top world class player. Melas, on the other hand, looked nervous and a touch overwhelmed, and by the time it was Melas’ turn to serve after Sherlock had comfortably taken control of the first game, the nerves were even more apparent.
“Fifteen - Forty.”
Sherlock’s forehand took advantage of Melas’ poor returned backhand to shoot past the Greek and bounce in court. It was a lovely shot, but not something John hadn’t seen a hundred times before. For Melas though it only seem to add to his woes.
Serve from Melas, backhand down the line, forehand crosscourt, returned forehand, another forehand, then forehand down the line fast, deep and perfect.
“Game, Holmes. Holmes leads two games to love.”
“Not hanging around, is he?” he said leaning closer to Lestrade while Sherlock retrieved the next set of balls.
Not hanging around was perhaps putting it mildly. Melas could do nothing with Sherlock’s first serve of the next game and only just returned the one after that for an easy put away by Sherlock. The third was no better and the forth was an ace.
“Game, Holmes. Holmes leads three games to love.”
“He doesn’t need the doubles, does he?” he said to Lestrade. “He’s just doing it for me, isn’t he?”
“You really think I know?” Lestrade said.
Melas managed to take a point on his serve.
“You know him better than I do,” he said.
“I’ve known him for five years,” Lestrade said, “and no I don’t.”
Melas managed to keep the ball in for a rally of six which had him darting all over the court and ended with Sherlock putting him out of his misery with a lovely forehand that was too fast, too far and too good for him to reach.
“There’s probably only two people alive who could possibly know him better than you do,” Lestrade added as they joined in the applause, “and neither of them know him like you do”
John figured he meant that neither of them had ever shared Sherlock’s bed, so probably Irene and Mycroft then. He ignored the shoot of annoyance that Irene knew Sherlock better than he did. Time, he reminded himself, it should only take time and then he would know Sherlock better than everyone.
“Game, Holmes. Holmes leads four games to love.”
“He hasn’t said anything to you about the doubles then?” he asked.
“Not unless you count orders to set everything up. He’s not exactly the talkative kind when it comes to explaining.”
“Yeah, I’ve noticed,” he said. “Should I be concerned?”
“About the doubles? I wouldn’t. In my experience Sherlock never does anything without it benefiting him in some way. Brilliant he might be, altruistic he most decidedly is not.”
Sherlock held his serve again and somehow Melas found some confidence and good enough shots to hold his own service game before Sherlock finished the set in grand style winning it six games to one.
“I’ve never asked,” John said to Lestrade while the players took their between set break, “but how did you end up working for him? I’m presuming you didn’t exactly apply.”
“God no,” Lestrade said. “Right place, right time, right languages. And Mycroft can be very persuasive.”
“Mycroft? Mycroft hired you? Oh what am I saying, of course Mycroft hired you.”
Lestrade gave a small smile. “I doubt Sherlock of now would have wanted me around voluntarily, let alone Sherlock of five years ago.”
His mouth twitched into a small smile as he pictured it. “What was he like, when you first met him?”
“Stubborn, difficult, obnoxious.”
“Hasn’t changed much then.”
They shared a grin.
“Yeah, not so much,” Lestrade confirmed, “but at least now he’s got his head screwed back on. I can understand why he did what he did, but it didn’t make it easy for everyone else and as for his career….”
“Wait, ‘what he did’? What did he do?” He tried to think back to what he knew or had read about Sherlock’s career. Five years ago he would have been twenty. He couldn’t think of anything glaring that came to mind. Some injuries and change in coach but nothing unusual.
Lestrade stiffened slightly, shooting him an odd look. “You don’t know?”
He shook his head.
“Shit. Sorry, mate, forget I said anything. If you don’t know then it’s definitely not my place to say,” he said. “He’ll tell you himself, when he’s ready.”
They clapped as the players took their place for the second set, Melas to start on serve. The second set lasted only fractionally longer than the first. It appeared that Sherlock was not in the mood to drag it out.
“Game, set, match, Holmes; 6-1, 6-2.”
*
The more he thought about it, the more it concerned him that there were obviously things that Sherlock wasn’t telling him. It was stupid really, they had only been together a short length of time in the scheme of things, so he shouldn’t expect to know everything about him, but it was gnawing at him that there were significant things he didn’t know. Significant things that Sherlock hadn’t told him. Just what had happened five years ago and was that why Mycroft had hired Lestrade in the first place? Did it have anything to do with them now? Should he worry? Should he be worried?
No, he gave a slight shake to his head, he shouldn’t worry. Worrying was stupid and yet it was so easy to do, especially as he couldn’t be certain that there wasn’t something going on in Sherlock’s brain that he wasn’t privy to. Scrap that, there was probably a great deal going on in Sherlock’s brain that he wasn’t privy to, he just didn’t know whether any of it would be important or not.
He bit back a sigh and scratched a thumb against his forehead.
Returning to their suite they had agreed on room service and crashing rather than venturing into town. He didn’t have Sherlock’s level of observation but even he could tell that the matches had taken their toll, even just slightly. Not that Sherlock would admit it of course.
So food had been brought to them and once they had cleared room on the main table - it was amazing how much stuff Sherlock seemed to accumulate, take everywhere and then spread - they had enjoyed the food with much relish and some teasing. A couple of times he had considered asking about what Lestrade had said to him, but in the end had decided firmly against it. Whatever it was he had a feeling that this wasn’t the best of times to be broaching it. It could wait until they weren’t in the middle of a tournament or at least not in the middle of dinner.
It didn’t stop him from wondering though.
After food, Sherlock returned to his research and strategizing, spending much of the next few hours muttering to himself and peering into various notebooks before grabbing his violin and distracting himself that way.
He had figured that the best thing was to simply leave him to it and so had retreated into the bedroom to give his lover space. With one thing or another they had spent rather a great deal of time in each other’s proximity, it was good to have some time apart and Sherlock needed time alone with just his brain. Anyway, it gave him the opportunity to do a little research of his own.
He knew he shouldn’t, but he quickly gave in to the urge to read once more through Sherlock’s Wikipedia page. There wasn’t anything different there that he hadn’t read a dozen or more times before, but he just wanted to check that there wasn’t something blatant that he had missed or failed to take in. There wasn’t, just the same information as before.
Sherlock Holmes (born 6th January, 1985) is a French professional tennis player. He was born in Sussex, England, to an English father, Siger, and a French mother, Violet…
Reading it through twice he decided that any further digging would be a violation of trust and instead closed Wikipedia down and took the opportunity to update his blog, respond to a few emails and look through some of the new sponsorship deals Clara was apparently still negotiating for him. She didn’t appear satisfied with just Wilson, Fred Perry and Robinsons. She also asked when he thought he’d be back in Britain and he honestly answered that he had no clue.
That had brought him up short. He had originally been due to fly home again in less than a week, but due to the complications of competing in the doubles, he hadn’t really thought about what would now happen next. Now he had it again, now he was back out there, racket in hand, sun beating down on his shoulders, he wasn’t sure he wanted to give it up so easily again. And the thought of leaving Sherlock….
Ah, there is was again. That old fear, the fluttering in his stomach that was prone to returning at inopportune moments. Christ.
Closing the lid of the laptop he had moved to the doorway of the bedroom, looking out across the main room to where Sherlock was. The music had stopped a while ago now and as he had suspected, Sherlock was back sprawled across the sofa like a Victorian maiden, all long limbs and compact muscle, stretched out and still, as if waiting for a lover’s kiss to awaken him.
Oh god those lips were ever so kissable.
Pushing aside the worry that there was something significant that Sherlock was hiding from him and the fear that this might be a sight he wouldn’t always be privy to, he allowed himself to be lured in by the enticing scene and softly crossed the room, crouching down beside his lover.
A pale eye opened to follow him, but other than that there was very little movement. Certainly no effort was made to ward him off. He took that as a good sign.
“Hey,” he said gently, lifting a hand to brush a wayward curl across his forehead. “How you doing?”
He half expected some sort of sarcastic or cutting response, but there was just a non-committal sound and the turning of the head away from him.
Oh. Right. Well, that he understood.
Resisting the urge to press a brief kiss to Sherlock’s temple, he removed his hand and rose to his feet. Figuring that there wasn’t anything else Sherlock wanted from him - two matches today, two tomorrow, he needed his rest and time alone - he turned to go.
“John?”
The sound of his name surprised him, not because it was his name, but because of the tone Sherlock used.
“John, where are you going?”
He stopped, frowned and turned back to find Sherlock now propping himself up, a mirroring frown on his face, except his was more a frowny frown than a confused one.
“To, uh, get ready for bed,” he said motioning to the bathroom.
“Why?”
Why? “Because it’s late and we have another busy day tomorrow,” he said. “You look a little wiped too. Perhaps you should consider getting to bed earlier rather than later.”
“No,” Sherlock said. “I mean yes. No. I mean, come here.”
A long fingered hand motioned for him to come back.
“No, don’t just stand there. You’re no good all the way over there. Come back here where I can reach you.”
He raised his eyebrows but moved back to the sofa and back into range of Sherlock Holmes. His hand caught in a strong grip, he found himself tugged back and then down, pulled awkwardly half onto the sofa and half onto his lover, a face burying in his neck as lips breathed and then pressed against him.
“Hmmmm,” he felt and then heard. “That’s better.”
The other hand snaked around his waist to make sure he didn’t pull away easily. As if he had any plans to do that.
He smiled as the mouth slowly started to move across his neck. “You could have just asked, you know,” he pretended to grumble.
“Boring,” he heard and then their mouths were meeting and he found himself pulled further down until they were chest to chest, bodies stretched across the sofa and each other. The kisses were slow but deep, hot and wide mouthed, taking their time to lazily move across each other and to explore territories already mapped out and well known but more than worth taking the time over.
One of his hands reached up to cradle Sherlock’s face, to allow his fingers to get lost in that thick hair while holding his head still enough for their mouth to mouth explorations to continue with relative ease. His other hand slipped first against the smoothness of Sherlock’s shirt, before worming its way under the soft material to the warm skin below. Oh god that felt good, the dual sensation of soft cotton against the back of his hand and warm skin against his palm while his mouth was kept occupied by nimble and adept lips. He could stay like this forever.
“John.”
Their mouths broke apart along long enough for Sherlock’s hand to grip firmly at his arse and the name to slip almost soundlessly from his lips.
He closed his eyes, pressing their mouths back together against before dropping his head against the shoulder to catch his breath and his bearings once more.
“Please tell me this isn’t just some kind of tease,” John muttered.
“Touch me,” he felt breathed against him.
His pulse leapt. “God yes.”
Leaning back, he made sure to completely take in the sight before him. Sherlock with his hair dishevelled, his lips swollen, his chest rising and falling more heavily than usual and a faint flush across his face. Christ if only he had a way of preserving it for ever. Perfect. So bloody, fantastically perfect.
He pressed his lips against the v of skin available by Sherlock’s collar and then began what he didn’t often have the time or opportunity to do; he started to adore with his mouth, his lips, his tongue everything he could find. And Sherlock just lay there and took it. Eyes half closed, head tipping back and chin up, breathing through his mouth as his hips desperately tried to press his need further into John’s own body. All in good time and given the opportunity he wasn’t going to rush having a passive but responsive Sherlock under his fingertips. His to do whatever he wanted to. And oh god, did he ever want to.
The buttons stood no chance, popped out of their holes, driven by the need to reveal more and more flesh for him to suckle on, kiss, flick and enjoy.
“John.”
Another groaned version of his name, barely audible, joined by the hand that grasped at his head, wanting more, wanting less.
It would never be enough.
Fabric pushed aside, he could see the extent of the tan lines across his lover’s body, similar to the ones that marked his own; shirt lines, t-shirt lines, and his own personal favourite, the waist line that proved that for all things his lover indulged in, nude sunbathing and skinny dipping were not included.
Good, he should be the only person who saw this body naked. Him. Only him.
Sliding down, he pressing another linger kiss to warm skin and let his fingers drift to the belted trouser waist. A small smile and he leant back only enough to deftly undo it, looking up to find Sherlock’s pale eyes watching him closely, hooded and intense. Trouser button popped, he could feel Sherlock full interest, hard and throbbing under his fingers, clearly wanting to be freed. Well then, freed it should therefore be, but not quite yet.
With the lightest of tugs he first revealed the start of the pale skin, Sherlock’s natural colour, an almost shocking lightness compared to the rest of him, poking out tantalisingly above the waistband of his underwear. A rumble of pleasure and he pressed his mouth back, kissing, licking, mouthing, sucking and sometimes nipping as he explored what he could and then pushed clothing down or away to explore that bit more. It was like opening a present, slowly savouring each little reveal until he could feel Sherlock flexing and relaxing into his ministrations in turn, his full blown arousal nudging hard and hot against his chin.
He could smell Sherlock more now. Not just his deodorant, his cologne, his body wash, he could smell Sherlock, the natural Sherlock buried under it all, musky, warm, heady. He pressed his nose into the skin, rubbed his cheek against the line of hair leading downwards. More Sherlock, stronger, fresher and then, like that, his desire for more overweighed his desire to stretch it out and with careful fingers he tugged both trousers and underwear completely off and away, leaving one of Sherlock’s legs across the sofa, the other dangling down to the floor.
Sherlock didn’t move, didn’t speak, didn’t try to stop him or move to cover himself, just stretched slightly and lay there, open and exposed, legs splayed.
It was an image he wanted to sear into his memory.
“John?”
A hand reached up to touch his shoulder, fingers then curling around his upper arm. He went with the movement, leaning back up and over his lover, bracing himself on his arms either side of Sherlock’s body.
“You have no idea, do you?” he said leaning down to capture those lips once more. “No bloody idea.” How much he wanted him, needed him, feared having to live without him.
“John.”
The lips that met his again were passionate and insistent, the tongue reaching and straining as they pressed against each other, tasting and swallowing, hands gripping at each other, holding, pulling, needing.
“John, I need… I need….”
“It’s okay,” he said fumbling with his own buttons. “Let me just go get the lube.”
“No.”
Strong hands pulled him back, lips pressing against his increasingly damp skin.
“Sherlock?”
“No,” Sherlock repeated, one hand under his shirt, pressed firmly against his back preventing his escape. “Don’t, just… stay.”
He frowned slightly but there was urgency in the voice that had him relaxing back into the embrace.
“Okay,” he said, stealing another kiss. “Okay. But we do this my way.”
“Your way, right.” There was a small smile on Sherlock’s lips as he relaxed, his head tipping back as he closed his eyes. “I believe I’m going to enjoy your way.”
Scooting back, John quickly unbuttoned his flies and tried to make himself more comfortable all round. Not the easiest task when one has a virtually naked and rather exposed Sherlock Holmes under them.
“Yes,” he said, leaning down to land a kiss just beside Sherlock’s belly button. “You always do.” He flicked his tongue. Sherlock’s mouth opened as he breathed out. He flicked it again.
“Now who’s the one teasing?” Sherlock managed.
He smiled and nipped playfully. “Shut up and open your eyes,” he said.
He waited until the pale eyes opened and focused on him, then he slowly licked his lips and deliberately lowered his head.
At the first touch of his tongue to the swollen tip Sherlock’s hips rose to meet him, just slightly, but more than enough for him to know just how much Sherlock wanted this. As much as he wanted to do it in fact. He had always enjoyed giving oral sex and with Sherlock this was no exception. The smell, the taste, the texture, he could barely get enough. Here it was pure Sherlock and he ran the tip of his tongue over the hot skin, teasing and encouraging, flicking around the swollen tip, before closing his mouth around what he could.
“Mon Dieu.”
And there it was; his reward.
“Oh… oui. S’il-te-plait, Jean… S’il-te-plait.”
Eyes wide, hips twitching with the fight to hold still, Sherlock’s hands opened and closed as if desperate to find something to grasp onto. There was something about seeing Sherlock in such a state, where the usual vestments of his control had been stripped away leaving him bare and open, that got him every time. He had done this, he was the one responsible for pushing the most controlled man he knew towards a state of abandonment, he was the one, the only one, who now got to see him like this.
Taking in as much as he could, he closed his eyes and hummed contentedly, hands holding the thighs apart, making sure that the resulting twitches or mini jerks didn’t turn into anything he couldn’t handle. Then pulling back, he once more sought out the most sensitive places, licking and flicking until there was no doubt as to what state Sherlock was in.
God it was a beautiful sight.
“Jean…”
But he wasn’t finished and considering everything he had been through today he wasn’t about to go easy on his lover.
Pulling away slightly, he slid his mouth away and down, lips parted and eyes purposely trained on Sherlock’s as he moved to nip at the soft skin on the inside of the thighs, before moving further down so he could run his tongue over a hot and heavy ball sack.
“Putain… Jean”
Oh yes, that was definitely liked.
“Putain! J’vais… j’vais...”
Replacing mouth with hand, he pressed his fingers against the one spot he knew would do it and returned his mouth to where he had started. He could feel his jaw starting to get tired, but he wasn’t going to give up now, not when they were so close.
“Jean….”
He didn’t stop. Even when the hips jerked within his grasp, even when the hand gripped almost desperately at his arm, even when the tiredness of his jaw started to become an ache. He didn’t stop. He just pushed Sherlock through, upper and higher, moving in counter balance to the rocking hips, until finally he knew that gasp, that tense, and sealing his mouth he sucked hard.
Sherlock came, flooding his mouth as his hips lifted and his lips parted. He swallowed quickly, ignoring the bitter taste in favour of concentrating on the sight in front of him; Sherlock laid out shuddering through the aftermath of his climax. He looked tired and spent, eyes closed, chin tilted up and back, Adam’s apple bobbing between laboured breaths.
He looked beautiful.
He eased back and lifted his face away from Sherlock’s crotch, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He was painfully hard, pressing against his underwear and jeans as if battling to get out. God, Sherlock looked gorgeous like that, legs spread, cock wet from their activities, a faint blush to his skin.
He tugged himself out with a satisfied moan, all thought of getting Sherlock to reciprocate fleeing his mind at the touch of his fingers. There had been evenings during their time apart when he had imagined Sherlock looking just like this while he had curved his fingers around his own length in a pale shadow of the real thing, when all he’d had was his imagination and his memories. But not this time.
Stretching out sideways, he rested against Sherlock’s chest, turning his head so he could breathe in the scent, feeling the heat from his lover’s skin. Slick and hot, his hand moved smoothly over his own length, edging him closer and closer.
Eyes closed, Sherlock’s finger’s caught him by surprise, threading first through his hair and then across his cheek and jaw until two pressed against his mouth. He didn’t hesitate, just parted his lips and groaned as the fingers slipped in and he sucked.
Oh God, he was close now.
He still had the taste of Sherlock on his tongue, the heat of him against his skin, the smell of him by his nose and now a part of him once more in his mouth. He sucked harder as he heard, felt, tasted Sherlock saying his name, and then he was there.
He came with a cry, panting in the smell of himself and Sherlock and sex, hardly caring about the mess he was making of his clothing, of Sherlock’s skin, of the sofa itself, caring only that this wave of contentment could last as long as he could make it.
They stayed like that for some considerable time; Sherlock sprawled bonelessly across the sofa, him slumped equally bonelessly half on the sofa, half on Sherlock. Bodies pressed tightly against each other. Silent, but together, each in their own world.
All too soon though, reality set back in. The stickiness couldn’t be ignored, Sherlock grew restless in his almost nude state, and aching muscles or heavy bladders forced them up and away from each other.
Despite protests to the contrary, Sherlock’s exhaustion quickly became apparent and exiting the bathroom, John found his now clean lover sat on the bed, t-shirt and pyjamas bottoms on, mind elsewhere as he stared at the wardrobe doors. Not wanting to interrupt, he left him to it for a while, finishing his own pre-bed preparations until it became clear that Sherlock wasn’t moving.
“Bed,” he said, pressing a kiss to the curls as he resting a hand on Sherlock’s arm. “Give that great brain of yours a rest.”
There was only a token protest as he guided Sherlock down and under the covers, one that lacked length and passion.
Lights off, he crawled in bedside him, shifting to get comfortable.
“John?”
“Hmmm?”
There was a pause, and then, “Goodnight.”
Sleep found them both rather quickly.
*
End Part Five
Another picture for you. Another brilliant picture by detectivelyd and perfect for Sherlock's return to singles.
Part Six