FIC: You're Good Undercover, But I'm Better Under The Covers (2/2)
Title: You're Good Undercover, But I'm Better Under The Covers (2/2)
Characters/Pairing: Sherlock/John
Category: Slash
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Explicit sex, liberal abuse of a dance = sex metaphor
Summary: Sherlock may be the better dancer of the two of them, but John's not too shabby at one particular dance...
Author's Notes: Written for Sherlockmas 2012 as a gift for fiona_fawkes
On AO3
The thing is, just about everyone thought to pull John to one side and warn him about the sociopath he was moving in with. Everyone advised against it. Everyone advised John to be careful, to protect himself.
Everyone warned John Watson that his life wouldn’t be the same if he moved in with Sherlock Holmes.
The thing is, no one thought to warn Sherlock.
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It started out well enough. In the laboratory at Bart’s, John was an interesting contradiction, a useful aberration. Soldier and doctor, killer and healer. A man like that was invaluable to a trouble magnet - magnet is too passive, a trouble seeker, perhaps - like Sherlock Holmes. His new flatmate could be both bodyguard and physician and, if he was lucky, his personal solution to the Anderson problem.
Of course, this all looked very neat on paper. Neat and clinical and unbelievably fortuitous. John was a box of tricks, a collection of talents and skills.
In practice, he turned out to be much more.
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He should have known to expect it, really. With the gun came the loyalty. Fealty, almost. With the stethoscope came the care. (Love, almost.)
He hadn’t expected the laughter after a chase. The simple joy in a presence at his side, at his back. The pride when he took John to his first crime scene, he’s with me.
He hadn’t even expected the gunshot through a window, really. He’d made plans for John’s dual nature, but he hadn’t expected those talents of his to be extended to him so quickly, so freely.
In fact, he hadn’t expected it to the point where he almost gave John away to Lestrade, so certain that it couldn’t have been John who made the shot until he kept speaking about the man who might have done it (a crackshot, a fighter, acclimatised to violence, strong moral principle, history of military service), until he looked over and met John’s eyes and found something he was unaware he’d ever been looking for.
John killed a man for him after a single day of acquaintance. It spoke volumes of the trust John had already placed in him. For a man with known trust issues, that was quite something, Sherlock supposed. A display like that earned more than a little of his regard.
He couldn’t help but respond to it - protective, possessive as he lied to Lestrade to make sure he could keep John. He was wrong, he was in shock, he didn’t know what he was saying.
From then on, Sherlock knew he wasn’t dealing with a potential sidekick, whatever he might say. John wasn’t just his guard dog or his mother hen. John wasn’t just a doctor or protector, he was also a man, the type of man that couldn’t just be Sherlock’s partner in detection. John was to be his friend as well.
A friend. How novel.
Sherlock still thinks he deserved some form of warning about that.
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He definitely deserved the warning that, somewhere along the line, things between them would shift and blur until ‘friend’ was perhaps the most woefully inadequate description in the English language for their relationship.
It might also have helped if someone had told him that a better word wasn’t to be found in any dictionary.
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He knows he’s got it bad because the thoughts are starting to take up space.
Physically as well as mentally, some days. Unfortunately, the nicotine patches don’t help with the problem. They don’t help to order the flurry of thoughts and feelings that surge and ebb, but they’re something. The patches in general aren’t a great deal of help with his thought processes, more a tribute to a former addiction.
They’re a better choice than another old habit of his, the kind that sits in a box beneath the floorboards, kept for emergencies. His very own tell-tale heart, out of sight, but ever-present as it beats away at the back of his mind, beneath his feet.
John wouldn’t approve of him turning to that though, so he’s left with this.
He discards the patches one by one, peels them from his skin and flicks them onto the floor. John will huff at him later for that. Initially for the mess, which he will dispose of, and then for Sherlock’s health.
He recalls what he labelled the patches with in his mind as he pulls them off. Three of them, on this occasion. John is worthy of far more than even three patches as problems go, but Sherlock can recognise his own limitations, after a fashion. There’s the size of his arm to begin with.
The first was labelled ‘timing’.
The second is ‘reciprocation’.
The third: ‘sexuality’. He removes that one with a grimace.
There are more issues than these when it comes to John, naturally, but Sherlock has to spread these things out.
His ponderings in the direction of each patch on this afternoon have been entirely circular. ‘Timing’, well, John has always pointed out Sherlock’s problem with that. The trouble is, there will never be a good time for this sort of thing. Not with the lives they lead.
He imagines it, a body at their feet as he asks if John can’t stop thinking about him sometimes either. If it keeps him awake as well as an unsolved case does Sherlock, if it stops him focusing on the things he is meant to be focusing on. Timing, Sherlock. In the flat then, between cases, between the rush and tear and push and pull. Could he ask then? No, John would announce he was off on another of his tiresome, futile dates before he got the chance. Not now, Sherlock.
When, when can he bring this up? Over the past week he’s had the words permanently in his throat, lodged there and choking him, unable to spit them out or swallow them down. John is annoyed with his silences and dark moods. Sherlock can’t really blame him.
Sherlock doesn’t want to put the subject to him at all, not really. He wants to keep it secret, let it fester and chafe, but ultimately decay until things are as they used to be again.
He knows there isn’t much hope for that.
‘Timing’ will be put back on his arm on another day. Perhaps then he might get somewhere with it. Not now, Sherlock.
‘Reciprocation’, that must be the most loaded one of them all. He can barely parse his own troublesome feelings, let alone John’s. Sherlock’s endless mysteries, the only ones he can never unravel, they all seem to revolve around John Watson. He can read John’s actions as easily as he can breathe, he can tell where the man is going, where he’s been, but he cannot get a handle on John’s feelings.
Feelings. They’re soft, squishy things, as annoying and uncooperative as his own demanding inner organs, his transport. He’d cut them out if he could, the feelings, if he thought it might help. He’d put them under the microscope to examine their contents, run them through a centrifuge to separate out the layers. He’d stain them and label them, keep them in separate vials so he would always be able to identify each one.
Ah, that’s loneliness, he could say. A trifling matter, John’s voice should halt the process.
Oh, happiness? Don’t touch it, don’t change a thing. The composition is perfect as it is.
Hmm, that one’s lust. Easily slaked, an orgasm should do it.
That brings him to ‘sexuality’. His own is a veritable quagmire. Should he wade into its murky, unexplored depths, he finds a certain level of apathy in general, and a healthy dose of suppressed curiosity that relates only to John. It’s a failing of his, but until now he’s been well-versed enough in the human body and its desires to get by. Practical knowledge has never been necessary to understand the motive behind a crime of passion and beyond that he’s had no use for any sexual or romantic entanglements.
Until now. Until his mind, unbidden, began to wander to John’s successful dates, the ones Sherlock couldn’t manage to thwart or didn’t care to. The ones that John stayed out all night for and came back after the next day satisfied, relaxed, and smelling at once distinctly like himself and distinctly not like himself at all. Perfume is not a good smell on John. Sweat after chasing all over London is far better.
He wonders what happens, sometimes. He wonders what tips the balance of a date, what tips them over from a friendly dinner and a promise of more into a frenzy of skin and moans and pleasure.
He wonders what it would take for them.
Does John make the first move? Does she? Tradition would dictate that the man generally makes the first move, but these are modern times. Perhaps it’s a mutual agreement after shy glances and increasingly meaningful touches throughout the evening.
Yes, that’s probably John’s style. Subtle, easy-going flirtation without overt intention or expectation.
Perhaps he’s been too subtle about his own intentions? No matter. To call attention to them loudly could be disastrous.
Sometimes he thinks about what must happen next, after that mutual agreement. The tense cab ride, the first kiss, the removal of clothes. Most of the time, he cuts off the train of thought with something else. Anything else. Anything but that soft-focus imagining of John sharing his body with some nameless, faceless woman.
He’s not sure why it bothers him so much, why he should suddenly want this with John. They were fine as flatmates and inordinately close friends.
Sherlock has to question whether it’s just that curiosity of his growing. He’s experienced sexual gratification by his own hand, why should he speculate what it might be like by another’s? Has he just reached a point in his life where speculation is not enough?
It’s probably just that jealous, selfish part of him coming to the fore - he wants to be the one to put that satisfied look on John’s face. No external help required.
If he thinks about it more deeply, if he allows himself to be honest, he knows it’s because his connection with John is unlike any he’s had with anyone before. If he were to ever explore this side of himself, there’s no one else he could imagine doing so with. He wants the permission to touch John wherever and whenever he feels like it. With John’s enthusiastic consent, that is. Sherlock isn’t incredibly tactile by nature, but he dislikes the boundary of ‘just friends’ between them (in John’s mind if not his), and he hates the rules about what he can and cannot do.
It’s rather difficult to get anywhere though when one can’t even be truthful in the privacy of one’s own mind.
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When he takes the case, he begins planning it. It’s the perfect opportunity to be close to John and get some answers to his intractable problems. Being close to someone like that, dancing with them and communicating with them with your body alone… well, it’s almost like sex, right? Ceroc dancing may not be his usual style, in as much as he has one, but it will do. If anything, it will be an excuse to teach John to dance properly.
And he’s already got six, maybe seven ideas about that.
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He just didn’t expect they would backfire so spectacularly.
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Sherlock conducts experiments. It’s what he does.
He takes two reactants, adds a catalyst, and records his results.
This time was no different. He took himself and John, added a dance lesson and a close embrace, and right when he was about to get a positive result, the whole thing blew up in his face.
He was so sure of himself, so sure of John and now he isn’t sure of anything at all. It’s a feeling he’s not used to, and he doesn’t ever want to be used to it because it’s absolutely loathsome. It’s worse than the height of boredom between cases.
He’s never wanted to pry a few floorboards loose more, but if John comes back… John can’t find him that way.
A futile search for cigarettes later and he settles for the harmless patches, mind too jumbled to even give them orderly names as he adheres the standard three to his skin with trembling fingers.
Why did John pull away from him? Why did he run away from him?
Has he finally pushed too far?
Wait, did he think if John comes back? No, it’s when John comes back. John has to come back or Sherlock will pull up the floorboards with his bare hands to get to that box, so help him. His fingernails will crack and his fingers will bleed and it will hurt, and John doesn’t want him to hurt, so he’ll come back.
Any minute now.
Any second.
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Come home, he texts.
John’s phone chimes in the kitchen.
Sherlock goes out to it, picking it up to see his own name flash across the screen as the alert sounds again.
Pocketing the phone for no reason that he can identify, he switches on the kettle, scratches idly at one of his patches and goes back to lie on the sofa and wait.
He thinks in circles again.
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“Is that three patches?”
Sherlock’s eyes snap open at the sound of John’s voice. He heard the door open and the creak-thump of John coming up the stairs, the rustle as John took off his coat. He thought it best to keep his eyes closed, pretend to be deep in thought or asleep in case John wanted to go to his room and not face him.
He’s not sure how much time has passed since John left, but John has been gone long enough to bring a swirl of cold, wintery air in with him. The fire is still blazing; John should warm up soon enough. A cup of tea should set him right, or perhaps another glass of wine, or some of the brandy they have left over from Christmas…
“It’s a three patch problem,” he says when he remembers what John asked.
“The case?”
Sherlock looks up at John’s face, searching for the rage he left in. It’s dissipated. John just looks tired now, pale lips and drawn features. His shoulders are hunched as he rubs his hands together.
“I’ll make tea,” Sherlock says, sitting up. “Or would you like something stronger?”
“Another glass of wine would be good.” Sherlock walks into the kitchen, taking John’s phone from his pocket and softly setting it back where he found it while John continues to talk from the living area. “I think we should have a talk, Sherlock.”
He asked for wine. It’s a difficult conversation then, he doesn’t want to do it completely sober. I want to move out because you almost kissed me earlier counts as a difficult conversation, doesn’t it?
Sherlock pours the wine, focused on his task and not on what John might say to him, hands steady.
“Did you hear me?” John calls out to him.
“I did,” Sherlock walks back into the sitting room, delivering the glass into John’s waiting hand. Their fingers brush. Sherlock closes his eyes and pulls away, taking the chair opposite John’s, a perfect mirror to their positions before Sherlock went and managed to break this fragile thing they have. He never realised how precariously balanced they were, how close to the precipice.
Or, rather, he did, but he thought they’d be landing somewhere else entirely. As it is, they’ve fallen into a pit of jagged rocks, a thick fog of uncertainty surrounding them, and Sherlock has no idea how to navigate now.
John takes a large sip of the wine. “What happened- what nearly happened when we were-”
Sherlock interrupts, he just has to. He can’t bear to listen to John stuttering and stammering around the issue. “It was my mistake,” he says, the words foreign and dull on his tongue. “You don’t want to… to dance with me. I understand. Forget it ever occurred.”
Well. It seems he’s no better than John at this. Really? He’s going to go with a dance metaphor for this conversation? It’s easier than speaking plainly, far easier, but it’s completely childish. Sherlock slumps in his chair and folds his arms, wishing he could take the words back.
John is obviously surprised. He looks away from Sherlock, swirls the crimson wine around his glass, takes another drink. “I thought you didn’t like to dance.”
“I don’t, generally. But I can be tempted.”
Always, he had said to John. If it’s John asking, the answer is always.
John clears his throat. “You know, I don’t dance with men. Generally.”
“Generally.” Sherlock cringes internally. He usually can’t abide repetition. Look at him now, metaphors and repetition in one night.
“I danced with quite a few men tonight, though,” John says with a thoughtful expression.
“I do hope we’ve come to the natural end of this euphemism.”
He knows what John means, but the thought has been planted in his mind: John with other men. It rankles as much if not more than the thought of John with women.
John laughs brightly. “Yes, I am referring solely to dancing now, Sherlock. What I’m saying though is… if you want a- a dance partner, and I mean really want one, then I’m… I guess I’m amenable.”
Sherlock frowns. “If you’re amenable, why did you leave earlier? That was what we were heading towards, wasn’t it?”
“I thought you were acting,” John says, tilting his glass this way and that, watching the wine move against the sides. “I thought it was part of our cover, an experiment to see how far you could take this.”
“It was an experiment.”
John’s face falls.
“Not for the purpose you think,” Sherlock says at once. “You don’t understand, I had to be sure. Reciprocation, sexuality.” He indicates one of the patches and then another.
John’s gaze follows the gesture. “I’m the three patch problem?”
“Of course. You’re far more than a three patch problem, John, but the boxes only contain so many. I’ve been spreading it out.”
“You mean… you’ve done this before? Put patches on and tried to- to solve me?”
“And I never can,” Sherlock says quietly. “I just end up back where I started.”
“Why couldn’t you just ask me?”
Sherlock points at the third patch. “Timing,” he says. “There’s never a good time. I can’t stand being unsure, John, it paralyses me.”
“Tonight seems like a good time. Tonight is the perfect time, actually.” John smiles at him, soft eyes, soft mouth. “Ask me to dance, Sherlock.”
Sherlock feels a light tremor in his chest. They’re back to the metaphor, aren’t they? “Would you… would you like to dance with me, John?”
“We could try that close embrace again.” John sets his wine glass on the table beside him. “I rather liked that one. I think you’ll find that I can teach you a thing or two in this particular dance.”
“I’m sure,” Sherlock says, eyes tracking John’s every movement as he stands and moves forward to offer his hands to Sherlock this time. “I should probably warn you that I’m a beginner. A complete beginner, in fact. I’ll try not to step on your toes, but it’s no guarantee.”
John’s smile doesn’t waver. “That’s fine. I know you’re a quick learner. And toe-stepping-on is expected when you find a new partner.”
Their palms and fingers fit together well. John pulls him to his feet, keeps only a small distance between them as he holds Sherlock’s hand to guide him, puts his other hand in the middle of Sherlock’s back.
“Do you mind if I lead this time?” John asks, raising his head from where he’s been concentrating on the placement of his hands to meet Sherlock’s eyes.
Without answering verbally, Sherlock relaxes into John’s embrace but keeps his core strong. The follower should submit to the leader. He places his hand on John’s shoulderblade and tugs him nearer until they’re as close as they were before, chests touching. He tilts his head down to rest his nose and forehead against the side of John’s face.
John trembles at the intimate touch, opening his mouth to breathe hotly in Sherlock’s ear. He’s becoming aroused already, just from this. From the anticipation. Sherlock closes his eyes, letting his own harsh breaths out through his mouth, letting John know he’s not the only one.
Ready to follow, Sherlock waits for John to take the lead.
He isn’t kept waiting for long, because John soon walks them both across the room, pushing until Sherlock’s back meets the wall. He lets Sherlock’s hand go to take hold of his chin gently between thumb and forefinger. When he catches and holds Sherlock’s gaze, there’s a wary question in his eyes. Ignoring the curious fluttering in his stomach, Sherlock nods into John’s hand, and John finally angles Sherlock’s head further down until their lips meet in a kiss.
John teases him at first, keeping the kiss light and shallow. His mouth remains closed as he brushes it over Sherlock’s and Sherlock finds himself leaning forwards, pushing back and asking for more.
John’s lips part then and the kiss changes entirely as his tongue sweeps along the shape of Sherlock’s lower lip, seeking permission once again. Sherlock opens his mouth in answer and is overwhelmed with the rush of John that fills his senses as John’s tongue pushes, curls, strokes. Emboldened, Sherlock lets his own tongue come forward to dip into John’s mouth and sets about exploring.
His focus narrows to that contact, the soft, slick noises of their lips moving together, the sweetness of the wine he can taste in John’s mouth. It’s all more intoxicating than the alcohol itself. Sherlock’s head is spinning, he feels like he’s floating up above and this is happening to someone else. He’s seized with the desire to know everything about this side of John, what he wants, what he likes. He wants to know what beautiful sounds he can coax from him. His hands clutch desperately at John’s forearms to ground himself before he thinks but I can touch now and brings them up to cradle John’s face, changing the angle of John’s head to deepen their kiss.
The hand holding his chin lets go and moves to scrabble fingers at Sherlock’s patches, trying to remove them.
“Off,” John says. “These need to come off.”
Sherlock can’t help but feel that the patches aren’t the main thing that needs to come off when they’re both still fully dressed.
“Whatever problem you’ve been trying to solve,” John keeps talking, sliding a fingernail beneath one of the patches. He peels it off and discards it, flicking it carelessly behind them and moving onto the next. “I think this is your answer.”
John rocks his hips forward, lets Sherlock feel how hard he is. They both groan at the sensation and Sherlock presses back, insistent and unabashed. John laughs and raises Sherlock’s now-bare arm to his lips, pressing open-mouthed kisses to the circles of skin where the patches had been before pinning Sherlock’s arm to the wall above his head. As he does it, his thigh insinuates itself between Sherlock’s and pushes upwards. Sherlock gasps, holding on to John like a lifeline because that felt ridiculously good. John’s thigh presses up again, encouraging him to use it for the friction he needs against his cock.
“Bed,” John pants. “More comfortable there.”
Full sentences have apparently gone out the window. Sherlock doesn’t want to see if his own language skills are similarly diminished in this state and settles for nodding. John releases him from their embrace and takes hold of both his wrists, tugging Sherlock forwards as he walks backwards in the direction of Sherlock’s bedroom.
“Is your bed-”
“Clean, devoid of any experiments.”
John actually giggles at that, and Sherlock laughs with him. It’s cut off when John surges towards him to press another hard kiss to Sherlock’s mouth as if he can’t get enough, as if he can’t be without that connection for too long now he’s had it. John’s teeth graze his lower lip and Sherlock slides a hand around the back of John’s head to hold him there, prolonging the kiss.
When he dared imagine what he and John would be like as lovers, he hoped it would be like this: intense but playful, serious but still fun. He should have known John wouldn’t disappoint.
After a few stops and starts, they end up in Sherlock’s bedroom. John spins them around when they get through the door so he’s no longer pulling at Sherlock and instead begins pushing him towards the bed in the centre of the room. As they go, John’s hands slide down from his neck to his chest and begin unbuttoning his shirt. In return, Sherlock’s nimble fingers make quick work of John’s buttons and they both shrug their respective shirts off impatiently, eyes on each other the whole time.
The first touch of John’s fevered palm to his waist is incredible. It’s a small, insignificant thing that the sexually adept probably wouldn’t even blink at, but Sherlock is inundated with new sensations and nothing is insignificant to him. No one has ever touched his bare skin with this kind of intent. And John is intent on him, bottom lip caught between his teeth, face flushed and eyes dark.
“I want to- I want-”
Sherlock has no idea what it is that John wants, because he never finishes the sentence, only moves his hands to undo Sherlock’s belt and trousers, so Sherlock has some idea. John hooks his fingers in the waistband of Sherlock’s underwear on either side and, for an absurd moment, Sherlock feels panic bolt through him.
John registers the change immediately and takes his hands away, looking up to search Sherlock’s face for clues.
“It’s nothing,” Sherlock says, attempting to pull John’s hands back to his hips. “Carry on.”
John resists and his fingers twine with Sherlock’s instead. “Beginners can be nervous,” he says. “That’s up there with toe-stepping-on; it’s expected. And practice makes perfect.”
Sherlock smiles at the promise and the reminder of their earlier euphemism. “Remember how I said the follower should trust the leader and how he should give himself over to his partner? Well, that’s what I’m doing. I want this, John.”
“And you’ll tell me if I make a wrong move?”
“Honestly, it’s like you don’t even know me,” Sherlock teases, edging towards the bed still and bringing John with him. “Of course I will. Without hesitation or concern for your feelings, as you know.”
Evidently satisfied with that, John leans forwards and kisses him again. Their mouths move together, slow and unhurried, and Sherlock feels John’s hands carefully pulling his underwear and trousers down over his thighs. Sherlock breaks the kiss to gasp when John’s hand closes around him and strokes.
John smirks. “There’ll be time for practice and finesse later,” he says, pushing until Sherlock’s legs finally meet the mattress behind him. “For now, let’s just take the edge off, yeah?”
He keeps pushing and Sherlock takes the hint and sits. John neatly divests him of his pants, trousers and socks before removing his own, sighing with relief as he does.
Sherlock watches him, enthralled with each new exposed inch of skin. Aesthetically, John’s body isn’t what holds Sherlock captivated. John has kept in relatively good shape since Afghanistan, his muscles are defined, but he’s softer around the middle than he was when they first met. He’s an expanse of tanned skin with a sparse dusting of light blond hair down his chest and legs. He has scars, most notably the one on his left shoulder. His erect penis looks generously sized, but not greatly above average. John is attractive, pleasingly symmetrical for the most part, but what’s most interesting about him aren’t his physical features, but the story they collectively tell.
The second John is done undressing himself, Sherlock reaches for him. He feels coarse hair and smooth skin under his palm when he lays it on the nape of John’s neck to pull him close before sweeping his hand down across John’s bare shoulder. His fingertips catch and stutter over the ridges of skin there. Scar tissue.
John stiffens slightly and Sherlock stills his hand. He goes to pull away, thinking he’s overstepped, and John’s hand comes up to rest over his. John’s hand doesn’t pull his away but holds him lightly in place, encouraging him to touch.
“It’s okay,” John says, and Sherlock splays his fingers over the scar, gauging its size.
He’s never had access to this much data on John before.
He doesn’t get long to collect data though, because John shakes his head fondly at him and then drops to his knees to push Sherlock’s thighs apart. He settles between them, makes himself comfortable, and then leans forward to take Sherlock into his mouth.
If Sherlock thought a touch to his waist was incredible, then this is indescribable. John’s mouth is hot and tight around him, his fist covering what his mouth can’t and pulling in time with his sucks. Sherlock’s hips jerk involuntarily and John’s free hand plants itself on his abdomen, pushing him back down into the mattress.
Sherlock breathes hard through his nose, torn between letting his head tip back the way it wants to and watching John the way he wants to. He’s not going to last long, he can say that for certain. The sight of John’s head between his legs is unbearably erotic, saying nothing for the feeling of John’s tongue lapping delicately at the head of his cock, the knowledge that John wants to do this to him.
He’s always thought that this act must be somehow degrading for the person performing it, that it puts them into a position of vulnerability. Right now though, he can see how wrong he was. John very much wants to do this to him, going by the moans he can feel vibrating against his sensitised skin, and John is the one with almost all the power in this particular exchange as he sets the pace, changes the pressure. Sherlock has never felt more lost, more out of control of his body and its movements and desires. His earlier panic doesn’t make a reappearance though, now he’s just overwhelmed with feelings of trust and affection for John. Oxytocin at work?
His thighs quiver as he gets close and, unsure what else to do, his hand flutters over John’s shoulder, trying to get his attention. John’s hand finds it’s way to his and squeezes reassuringly.
Sherlock barely gets a second to recognise the gesture as the permission it is before he’s coming with a surprised gasp, eyes falling shut.
In that moment, Sherlock loses himself entirely. He can think of nothing beyond the waves of bliss he’s experiencing, the feeling of John’s mouth as John swallows until he’s finished and he slumps back onto the bed, letting out a long, shaky exhale.
It’s never been like that before.
In his post-orgasmic daze, he registers a warm body settling alongside his, an affectionate chuckle and the rhythmic movements of someone masturbating. When he regains his senses, he reaches across a heavy, rubbery arm in John’s general direction to lend a hand.
“Don’t worry too much,” John says, the words strained and breathless. “Nearly there just from watching you, hearing you. Christ, Sherlock, I- oh!”
John comes before Sherlock even gets his hand on him, and he leans over Sherlock to kiss him fiercely, clumsily as his orgasm takes hold and he spills across both their stomachs.
Sherlock keeps kissing John after, pleased with the way John’s mouth turns soft and yielding under his and the feeling of their heartbeats thudding together, Sherlock’s slowing and John’s still racing.
When he pulls back, John’s eyes are closed. He’ll fall asleep any minute at this rate. Sherlock takes a prideful moment to admire John’s flushed cheeks and swollen lips, and John reaches up a hand to caress the side of Sherlock’s face with the backs of his knuckles.
“Amazing,” John breathes, hushed in the silence of the room. It feels almost reverent.
“Yes,” Sherlock agrees. “You are.”
He ducks his head down to lay a trail of kisses across John’s throat, partly out of gratitude, partly out of the sheer thrill of being able to.
Tomorrow, he thinks. Tomorrow they’ll teach each other new dances.
He can’t wait.
Characters/Pairing: Sherlock/John
Category: Slash
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Explicit sex, liberal abuse of a dance = sex metaphor
Summary: Sherlock may be the better dancer of the two of them, but John's not too shabby at one particular dance...
Author's Notes: Written for Sherlockmas 2012 as a gift for fiona_fawkes
On AO3
The thing is, just about everyone thought to pull John to one side and warn him about the sociopath he was moving in with. Everyone advised against it. Everyone advised John to be careful, to protect himself.
Everyone warned John Watson that his life wouldn’t be the same if he moved in with Sherlock Holmes.
The thing is, no one thought to warn Sherlock.
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It started out well enough. In the laboratory at Bart’s, John was an interesting contradiction, a useful aberration. Soldier and doctor, killer and healer. A man like that was invaluable to a trouble magnet - magnet is too passive, a trouble seeker, perhaps - like Sherlock Holmes. His new flatmate could be both bodyguard and physician and, if he was lucky, his personal solution to the Anderson problem.
Of course, this all looked very neat on paper. Neat and clinical and unbelievably fortuitous. John was a box of tricks, a collection of talents and skills.
In practice, he turned out to be much more.
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He should have known to expect it, really. With the gun came the loyalty. Fealty, almost. With the stethoscope came the care. (Love, almost.)
He hadn’t expected the laughter after a chase. The simple joy in a presence at his side, at his back. The pride when he took John to his first crime scene, he’s with me.
He hadn’t even expected the gunshot through a window, really. He’d made plans for John’s dual nature, but he hadn’t expected those talents of his to be extended to him so quickly, so freely.
In fact, he hadn’t expected it to the point where he almost gave John away to Lestrade, so certain that it couldn’t have been John who made the shot until he kept speaking about the man who might have done it (a crackshot, a fighter, acclimatised to violence, strong moral principle, history of military service), until he looked over and met John’s eyes and found something he was unaware he’d ever been looking for.
John killed a man for him after a single day of acquaintance. It spoke volumes of the trust John had already placed in him. For a man with known trust issues, that was quite something, Sherlock supposed. A display like that earned more than a little of his regard.
He couldn’t help but respond to it - protective, possessive as he lied to Lestrade to make sure he could keep John. He was wrong, he was in shock, he didn’t know what he was saying.
From then on, Sherlock knew he wasn’t dealing with a potential sidekick, whatever he might say. John wasn’t just his guard dog or his mother hen. John wasn’t just a doctor or protector, he was also a man, the type of man that couldn’t just be Sherlock’s partner in detection. John was to be his friend as well.
A friend. How novel.
Sherlock still thinks he deserved some form of warning about that.
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He definitely deserved the warning that, somewhere along the line, things between them would shift and blur until ‘friend’ was perhaps the most woefully inadequate description in the English language for their relationship.
It might also have helped if someone had told him that a better word wasn’t to be found in any dictionary.
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He knows he’s got it bad because the thoughts are starting to take up space.
Physically as well as mentally, some days. Unfortunately, the nicotine patches don’t help with the problem. They don’t help to order the flurry of thoughts and feelings that surge and ebb, but they’re something. The patches in general aren’t a great deal of help with his thought processes, more a tribute to a former addiction.
They’re a better choice than another old habit of his, the kind that sits in a box beneath the floorboards, kept for emergencies. His very own tell-tale heart, out of sight, but ever-present as it beats away at the back of his mind, beneath his feet.
John wouldn’t approve of him turning to that though, so he’s left with this.
He discards the patches one by one, peels them from his skin and flicks them onto the floor. John will huff at him later for that. Initially for the mess, which he will dispose of, and then for Sherlock’s health.
He recalls what he labelled the patches with in his mind as he pulls them off. Three of them, on this occasion. John is worthy of far more than even three patches as problems go, but Sherlock can recognise his own limitations, after a fashion. There’s the size of his arm to begin with.
The first was labelled ‘timing’.
The second is ‘reciprocation’.
The third: ‘sexuality’. He removes that one with a grimace.
There are more issues than these when it comes to John, naturally, but Sherlock has to spread these things out.
His ponderings in the direction of each patch on this afternoon have been entirely circular. ‘Timing’, well, John has always pointed out Sherlock’s problem with that. The trouble is, there will never be a good time for this sort of thing. Not with the lives they lead.
He imagines it, a body at their feet as he asks if John can’t stop thinking about him sometimes either. If it keeps him awake as well as an unsolved case does Sherlock, if it stops him focusing on the things he is meant to be focusing on. Timing, Sherlock. In the flat then, between cases, between the rush and tear and push and pull. Could he ask then? No, John would announce he was off on another of his tiresome, futile dates before he got the chance. Not now, Sherlock.
When, when can he bring this up? Over the past week he’s had the words permanently in his throat, lodged there and choking him, unable to spit them out or swallow them down. John is annoyed with his silences and dark moods. Sherlock can’t really blame him.
Sherlock doesn’t want to put the subject to him at all, not really. He wants to keep it secret, let it fester and chafe, but ultimately decay until things are as they used to be again.
He knows there isn’t much hope for that.
‘Timing’ will be put back on his arm on another day. Perhaps then he might get somewhere with it. Not now, Sherlock.
‘Reciprocation’, that must be the most loaded one of them all. He can barely parse his own troublesome feelings, let alone John’s. Sherlock’s endless mysteries, the only ones he can never unravel, they all seem to revolve around John Watson. He can read John’s actions as easily as he can breathe, he can tell where the man is going, where he’s been, but he cannot get a handle on John’s feelings.
Feelings. They’re soft, squishy things, as annoying and uncooperative as his own demanding inner organs, his transport. He’d cut them out if he could, the feelings, if he thought it might help. He’d put them under the microscope to examine their contents, run them through a centrifuge to separate out the layers. He’d stain them and label them, keep them in separate vials so he would always be able to identify each one.
Ah, that’s loneliness, he could say. A trifling matter, John’s voice should halt the process.
Oh, happiness? Don’t touch it, don’t change a thing. The composition is perfect as it is.
Hmm, that one’s lust. Easily slaked, an orgasm should do it.
That brings him to ‘sexuality’. His own is a veritable quagmire. Should he wade into its murky, unexplored depths, he finds a certain level of apathy in general, and a healthy dose of suppressed curiosity that relates only to John. It’s a failing of his, but until now he’s been well-versed enough in the human body and its desires to get by. Practical knowledge has never been necessary to understand the motive behind a crime of passion and beyond that he’s had no use for any sexual or romantic entanglements.
Until now. Until his mind, unbidden, began to wander to John’s successful dates, the ones Sherlock couldn’t manage to thwart or didn’t care to. The ones that John stayed out all night for and came back after the next day satisfied, relaxed, and smelling at once distinctly like himself and distinctly not like himself at all. Perfume is not a good smell on John. Sweat after chasing all over London is far better.
He wonders what happens, sometimes. He wonders what tips the balance of a date, what tips them over from a friendly dinner and a promise of more into a frenzy of skin and moans and pleasure.
He wonders what it would take for them.
Does John make the first move? Does she? Tradition would dictate that the man generally makes the first move, but these are modern times. Perhaps it’s a mutual agreement after shy glances and increasingly meaningful touches throughout the evening.
Yes, that’s probably John’s style. Subtle, easy-going flirtation without overt intention or expectation.
Perhaps he’s been too subtle about his own intentions? No matter. To call attention to them loudly could be disastrous.
Sometimes he thinks about what must happen next, after that mutual agreement. The tense cab ride, the first kiss, the removal of clothes. Most of the time, he cuts off the train of thought with something else. Anything else. Anything but that soft-focus imagining of John sharing his body with some nameless, faceless woman.
He’s not sure why it bothers him so much, why he should suddenly want this with John. They were fine as flatmates and inordinately close friends.
Sherlock has to question whether it’s just that curiosity of his growing. He’s experienced sexual gratification by his own hand, why should he speculate what it might be like by another’s? Has he just reached a point in his life where speculation is not enough?
It’s probably just that jealous, selfish part of him coming to the fore - he wants to be the one to put that satisfied look on John’s face. No external help required.
If he thinks about it more deeply, if he allows himself to be honest, he knows it’s because his connection with John is unlike any he’s had with anyone before. If he were to ever explore this side of himself, there’s no one else he could imagine doing so with. He wants the permission to touch John wherever and whenever he feels like it. With John’s enthusiastic consent, that is. Sherlock isn’t incredibly tactile by nature, but he dislikes the boundary of ‘just friends’ between them (in John’s mind if not his), and he hates the rules about what he can and cannot do.
It’s rather difficult to get anywhere though when one can’t even be truthful in the privacy of one’s own mind.
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When he takes the case, he begins planning it. It’s the perfect opportunity to be close to John and get some answers to his intractable problems. Being close to someone like that, dancing with them and communicating with them with your body alone… well, it’s almost like sex, right? Ceroc dancing may not be his usual style, in as much as he has one, but it will do. If anything, it will be an excuse to teach John to dance properly.
And he’s already got six, maybe seven ideas about that.
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He just didn’t expect they would backfire so spectacularly.
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Sherlock conducts experiments. It’s what he does.
He takes two reactants, adds a catalyst, and records his results.
This time was no different. He took himself and John, added a dance lesson and a close embrace, and right when he was about to get a positive result, the whole thing blew up in his face.
He was so sure of himself, so sure of John and now he isn’t sure of anything at all. It’s a feeling he’s not used to, and he doesn’t ever want to be used to it because it’s absolutely loathsome. It’s worse than the height of boredom between cases.
He’s never wanted to pry a few floorboards loose more, but if John comes back… John can’t find him that way.
A futile search for cigarettes later and he settles for the harmless patches, mind too jumbled to even give them orderly names as he adheres the standard three to his skin with trembling fingers.
Why did John pull away from him? Why did he run away from him?
Has he finally pushed too far?
Wait, did he think if John comes back? No, it’s when John comes back. John has to come back or Sherlock will pull up the floorboards with his bare hands to get to that box, so help him. His fingernails will crack and his fingers will bleed and it will hurt, and John doesn’t want him to hurt, so he’ll come back.
Any minute now.
Any second.
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Come home, he texts.
John’s phone chimes in the kitchen.
Sherlock goes out to it, picking it up to see his own name flash across the screen as the alert sounds again.
Pocketing the phone for no reason that he can identify, he switches on the kettle, scratches idly at one of his patches and goes back to lie on the sofa and wait.
He thinks in circles again.
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“Is that three patches?”
Sherlock’s eyes snap open at the sound of John’s voice. He heard the door open and the creak-thump of John coming up the stairs, the rustle as John took off his coat. He thought it best to keep his eyes closed, pretend to be deep in thought or asleep in case John wanted to go to his room and not face him.
He’s not sure how much time has passed since John left, but John has been gone long enough to bring a swirl of cold, wintery air in with him. The fire is still blazing; John should warm up soon enough. A cup of tea should set him right, or perhaps another glass of wine, or some of the brandy they have left over from Christmas…
“It’s a three patch problem,” he says when he remembers what John asked.
“The case?”
Sherlock looks up at John’s face, searching for the rage he left in. It’s dissipated. John just looks tired now, pale lips and drawn features. His shoulders are hunched as he rubs his hands together.
“I’ll make tea,” Sherlock says, sitting up. “Or would you like something stronger?”
“Another glass of wine would be good.” Sherlock walks into the kitchen, taking John’s phone from his pocket and softly setting it back where he found it while John continues to talk from the living area. “I think we should have a talk, Sherlock.”
He asked for wine. It’s a difficult conversation then, he doesn’t want to do it completely sober. I want to move out because you almost kissed me earlier counts as a difficult conversation, doesn’t it?
Sherlock pours the wine, focused on his task and not on what John might say to him, hands steady.
“Did you hear me?” John calls out to him.
“I did,” Sherlock walks back into the sitting room, delivering the glass into John’s waiting hand. Their fingers brush. Sherlock closes his eyes and pulls away, taking the chair opposite John’s, a perfect mirror to their positions before Sherlock went and managed to break this fragile thing they have. He never realised how precariously balanced they were, how close to the precipice.
Or, rather, he did, but he thought they’d be landing somewhere else entirely. As it is, they’ve fallen into a pit of jagged rocks, a thick fog of uncertainty surrounding them, and Sherlock has no idea how to navigate now.
John takes a large sip of the wine. “What happened- what nearly happened when we were-”
Sherlock interrupts, he just has to. He can’t bear to listen to John stuttering and stammering around the issue. “It was my mistake,” he says, the words foreign and dull on his tongue. “You don’t want to… to dance with me. I understand. Forget it ever occurred.”
Well. It seems he’s no better than John at this. Really? He’s going to go with a dance metaphor for this conversation? It’s easier than speaking plainly, far easier, but it’s completely childish. Sherlock slumps in his chair and folds his arms, wishing he could take the words back.
John is obviously surprised. He looks away from Sherlock, swirls the crimson wine around his glass, takes another drink. “I thought you didn’t like to dance.”
“I don’t, generally. But I can be tempted.”
Always, he had said to John. If it’s John asking, the answer is always.
John clears his throat. “You know, I don’t dance with men. Generally.”
“Generally.” Sherlock cringes internally. He usually can’t abide repetition. Look at him now, metaphors and repetition in one night.
“I danced with quite a few men tonight, though,” John says with a thoughtful expression.
“I do hope we’ve come to the natural end of this euphemism.”
He knows what John means, but the thought has been planted in his mind: John with other men. It rankles as much if not more than the thought of John with women.
John laughs brightly. “Yes, I am referring solely to dancing now, Sherlock. What I’m saying though is… if you want a- a dance partner, and I mean really want one, then I’m… I guess I’m amenable.”
Sherlock frowns. “If you’re amenable, why did you leave earlier? That was what we were heading towards, wasn’t it?”
“I thought you were acting,” John says, tilting his glass this way and that, watching the wine move against the sides. “I thought it was part of our cover, an experiment to see how far you could take this.”
“It was an experiment.”
John’s face falls.
“Not for the purpose you think,” Sherlock says at once. “You don’t understand, I had to be sure. Reciprocation, sexuality.” He indicates one of the patches and then another.
John’s gaze follows the gesture. “I’m the three patch problem?”
“Of course. You’re far more than a three patch problem, John, but the boxes only contain so many. I’ve been spreading it out.”
“You mean… you’ve done this before? Put patches on and tried to- to solve me?”
“And I never can,” Sherlock says quietly. “I just end up back where I started.”
“Why couldn’t you just ask me?”
Sherlock points at the third patch. “Timing,” he says. “There’s never a good time. I can’t stand being unsure, John, it paralyses me.”
“Tonight seems like a good time. Tonight is the perfect time, actually.” John smiles at him, soft eyes, soft mouth. “Ask me to dance, Sherlock.”
Sherlock feels a light tremor in his chest. They’re back to the metaphor, aren’t they? “Would you… would you like to dance with me, John?”
“We could try that close embrace again.” John sets his wine glass on the table beside him. “I rather liked that one. I think you’ll find that I can teach you a thing or two in this particular dance.”
“I’m sure,” Sherlock says, eyes tracking John’s every movement as he stands and moves forward to offer his hands to Sherlock this time. “I should probably warn you that I’m a beginner. A complete beginner, in fact. I’ll try not to step on your toes, but it’s no guarantee.”
John’s smile doesn’t waver. “That’s fine. I know you’re a quick learner. And toe-stepping-on is expected when you find a new partner.”
Their palms and fingers fit together well. John pulls him to his feet, keeps only a small distance between them as he holds Sherlock’s hand to guide him, puts his other hand in the middle of Sherlock’s back.
“Do you mind if I lead this time?” John asks, raising his head from where he’s been concentrating on the placement of his hands to meet Sherlock’s eyes.
Without answering verbally, Sherlock relaxes into John’s embrace but keeps his core strong. The follower should submit to the leader. He places his hand on John’s shoulderblade and tugs him nearer until they’re as close as they were before, chests touching. He tilts his head down to rest his nose and forehead against the side of John’s face.
John trembles at the intimate touch, opening his mouth to breathe hotly in Sherlock’s ear. He’s becoming aroused already, just from this. From the anticipation. Sherlock closes his eyes, letting his own harsh breaths out through his mouth, letting John know he’s not the only one.
Ready to follow, Sherlock waits for John to take the lead.
He isn’t kept waiting for long, because John soon walks them both across the room, pushing until Sherlock’s back meets the wall. He lets Sherlock’s hand go to take hold of his chin gently between thumb and forefinger. When he catches and holds Sherlock’s gaze, there’s a wary question in his eyes. Ignoring the curious fluttering in his stomach, Sherlock nods into John’s hand, and John finally angles Sherlock’s head further down until their lips meet in a kiss.
John teases him at first, keeping the kiss light and shallow. His mouth remains closed as he brushes it over Sherlock’s and Sherlock finds himself leaning forwards, pushing back and asking for more.
John’s lips part then and the kiss changes entirely as his tongue sweeps along the shape of Sherlock’s lower lip, seeking permission once again. Sherlock opens his mouth in answer and is overwhelmed with the rush of John that fills his senses as John’s tongue pushes, curls, strokes. Emboldened, Sherlock lets his own tongue come forward to dip into John’s mouth and sets about exploring.
His focus narrows to that contact, the soft, slick noises of their lips moving together, the sweetness of the wine he can taste in John’s mouth. It’s all more intoxicating than the alcohol itself. Sherlock’s head is spinning, he feels like he’s floating up above and this is happening to someone else. He’s seized with the desire to know everything about this side of John, what he wants, what he likes. He wants to know what beautiful sounds he can coax from him. His hands clutch desperately at John’s forearms to ground himself before he thinks but I can touch now and brings them up to cradle John’s face, changing the angle of John’s head to deepen their kiss.
The hand holding his chin lets go and moves to scrabble fingers at Sherlock’s patches, trying to remove them.
“Off,” John says. “These need to come off.”
Sherlock can’t help but feel that the patches aren’t the main thing that needs to come off when they’re both still fully dressed.
“Whatever problem you’ve been trying to solve,” John keeps talking, sliding a fingernail beneath one of the patches. He peels it off and discards it, flicking it carelessly behind them and moving onto the next. “I think this is your answer.”
John rocks his hips forward, lets Sherlock feel how hard he is. They both groan at the sensation and Sherlock presses back, insistent and unabashed. John laughs and raises Sherlock’s now-bare arm to his lips, pressing open-mouthed kisses to the circles of skin where the patches had been before pinning Sherlock’s arm to the wall above his head. As he does it, his thigh insinuates itself between Sherlock’s and pushes upwards. Sherlock gasps, holding on to John like a lifeline because that felt ridiculously good. John’s thigh presses up again, encouraging him to use it for the friction he needs against his cock.
“Bed,” John pants. “More comfortable there.”
Full sentences have apparently gone out the window. Sherlock doesn’t want to see if his own language skills are similarly diminished in this state and settles for nodding. John releases him from their embrace and takes hold of both his wrists, tugging Sherlock forwards as he walks backwards in the direction of Sherlock’s bedroom.
“Is your bed-”
“Clean, devoid of any experiments.”
John actually giggles at that, and Sherlock laughs with him. It’s cut off when John surges towards him to press another hard kiss to Sherlock’s mouth as if he can’t get enough, as if he can’t be without that connection for too long now he’s had it. John’s teeth graze his lower lip and Sherlock slides a hand around the back of John’s head to hold him there, prolonging the kiss.
When he dared imagine what he and John would be like as lovers, he hoped it would be like this: intense but playful, serious but still fun. He should have known John wouldn’t disappoint.
After a few stops and starts, they end up in Sherlock’s bedroom. John spins them around when they get through the door so he’s no longer pulling at Sherlock and instead begins pushing him towards the bed in the centre of the room. As they go, John’s hands slide down from his neck to his chest and begin unbuttoning his shirt. In return, Sherlock’s nimble fingers make quick work of John’s buttons and they both shrug their respective shirts off impatiently, eyes on each other the whole time.
The first touch of John’s fevered palm to his waist is incredible. It’s a small, insignificant thing that the sexually adept probably wouldn’t even blink at, but Sherlock is inundated with new sensations and nothing is insignificant to him. No one has ever touched his bare skin with this kind of intent. And John is intent on him, bottom lip caught between his teeth, face flushed and eyes dark.
“I want to- I want-”
Sherlock has no idea what it is that John wants, because he never finishes the sentence, only moves his hands to undo Sherlock’s belt and trousers, so Sherlock has some idea. John hooks his fingers in the waistband of Sherlock’s underwear on either side and, for an absurd moment, Sherlock feels panic bolt through him.
John registers the change immediately and takes his hands away, looking up to search Sherlock’s face for clues.
“It’s nothing,” Sherlock says, attempting to pull John’s hands back to his hips. “Carry on.”
John resists and his fingers twine with Sherlock’s instead. “Beginners can be nervous,” he says. “That’s up there with toe-stepping-on; it’s expected. And practice makes perfect.”
Sherlock smiles at the promise and the reminder of their earlier euphemism. “Remember how I said the follower should trust the leader and how he should give himself over to his partner? Well, that’s what I’m doing. I want this, John.”
“And you’ll tell me if I make a wrong move?”
“Honestly, it’s like you don’t even know me,” Sherlock teases, edging towards the bed still and bringing John with him. “Of course I will. Without hesitation or concern for your feelings, as you know.”
Evidently satisfied with that, John leans forwards and kisses him again. Their mouths move together, slow and unhurried, and Sherlock feels John’s hands carefully pulling his underwear and trousers down over his thighs. Sherlock breaks the kiss to gasp when John’s hand closes around him and strokes.
John smirks. “There’ll be time for practice and finesse later,” he says, pushing until Sherlock’s legs finally meet the mattress behind him. “For now, let’s just take the edge off, yeah?”
He keeps pushing and Sherlock takes the hint and sits. John neatly divests him of his pants, trousers and socks before removing his own, sighing with relief as he does.
Sherlock watches him, enthralled with each new exposed inch of skin. Aesthetically, John’s body isn’t what holds Sherlock captivated. John has kept in relatively good shape since Afghanistan, his muscles are defined, but he’s softer around the middle than he was when they first met. He’s an expanse of tanned skin with a sparse dusting of light blond hair down his chest and legs. He has scars, most notably the one on his left shoulder. His erect penis looks generously sized, but not greatly above average. John is attractive, pleasingly symmetrical for the most part, but what’s most interesting about him aren’t his physical features, but the story they collectively tell.
The second John is done undressing himself, Sherlock reaches for him. He feels coarse hair and smooth skin under his palm when he lays it on the nape of John’s neck to pull him close before sweeping his hand down across John’s bare shoulder. His fingertips catch and stutter over the ridges of skin there. Scar tissue.
John stiffens slightly and Sherlock stills his hand. He goes to pull away, thinking he’s overstepped, and John’s hand comes up to rest over his. John’s hand doesn’t pull his away but holds him lightly in place, encouraging him to touch.
“It’s okay,” John says, and Sherlock splays his fingers over the scar, gauging its size.
He’s never had access to this much data on John before.
He doesn’t get long to collect data though, because John shakes his head fondly at him and then drops to his knees to push Sherlock’s thighs apart. He settles between them, makes himself comfortable, and then leans forward to take Sherlock into his mouth.
If Sherlock thought a touch to his waist was incredible, then this is indescribable. John’s mouth is hot and tight around him, his fist covering what his mouth can’t and pulling in time with his sucks. Sherlock’s hips jerk involuntarily and John’s free hand plants itself on his abdomen, pushing him back down into the mattress.
Sherlock breathes hard through his nose, torn between letting his head tip back the way it wants to and watching John the way he wants to. He’s not going to last long, he can say that for certain. The sight of John’s head between his legs is unbearably erotic, saying nothing for the feeling of John’s tongue lapping delicately at the head of his cock, the knowledge that John wants to do this to him.
He’s always thought that this act must be somehow degrading for the person performing it, that it puts them into a position of vulnerability. Right now though, he can see how wrong he was. John very much wants to do this to him, going by the moans he can feel vibrating against his sensitised skin, and John is the one with almost all the power in this particular exchange as he sets the pace, changes the pressure. Sherlock has never felt more lost, more out of control of his body and its movements and desires. His earlier panic doesn’t make a reappearance though, now he’s just overwhelmed with feelings of trust and affection for John. Oxytocin at work?
His thighs quiver as he gets close and, unsure what else to do, his hand flutters over John’s shoulder, trying to get his attention. John’s hand finds it’s way to his and squeezes reassuringly.
Sherlock barely gets a second to recognise the gesture as the permission it is before he’s coming with a surprised gasp, eyes falling shut.
In that moment, Sherlock loses himself entirely. He can think of nothing beyond the waves of bliss he’s experiencing, the feeling of John’s mouth as John swallows until he’s finished and he slumps back onto the bed, letting out a long, shaky exhale.
It’s never been like that before.
In his post-orgasmic daze, he registers a warm body settling alongside his, an affectionate chuckle and the rhythmic movements of someone masturbating. When he regains his senses, he reaches across a heavy, rubbery arm in John’s general direction to lend a hand.
“Don’t worry too much,” John says, the words strained and breathless. “Nearly there just from watching you, hearing you. Christ, Sherlock, I- oh!”
John comes before Sherlock even gets his hand on him, and he leans over Sherlock to kiss him fiercely, clumsily as his orgasm takes hold and he spills across both their stomachs.
Sherlock keeps kissing John after, pleased with the way John’s mouth turns soft and yielding under his and the feeling of their heartbeats thudding together, Sherlock’s slowing and John’s still racing.
When he pulls back, John’s eyes are closed. He’ll fall asleep any minute at this rate. Sherlock takes a prideful moment to admire John’s flushed cheeks and swollen lips, and John reaches up a hand to caress the side of Sherlock’s face with the backs of his knuckles.
“Amazing,” John breathes, hushed in the silence of the room. It feels almost reverent.
“Yes,” Sherlock agrees. “You are.”
He ducks his head down to lay a trail of kisses across John’s throat, partly out of gratitude, partly out of the sheer thrill of being able to.
Tomorrow, he thinks. Tomorrow they’ll teach each other new dances.
He can’t wait.