Fic: A Little Competition, Part Three

[entangled_now]

Title: A Little Competition, Part Three
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Rating: R
Word Count: 18,000
Disclaimer: In no way mine, or anything to do with me, I own nothing.
Summary: "Still, John, a ghost story at Halloween, during a power cut, in a thunderstorm. The terribly predictable cliche of it all." Sherlock slides down in the chair until his chin touches his chest.


Sherlock
Dagenham Hall

"Two years ago I received a letter from the custodian of Dagenham Hall, just outside Sussex. Built in the seventeenth century by John Hampton. It's an obscenely ostentatious building, most of it completely unnecessary. And it had long had a reputation for being haunted. The request was simple enough, the man wanted an explanation for some of the more lurid stories of 'encounters with the supernatural' that people had been reporting. "

John can feel the air quotes in that sentence.

"I thought people wanted their old manor houses to be haunted," he says. "Isn't it good for tourists and things. Why would they want you to prove it wasn't haunted."

Sherlock shrugs." I don't remember, possibly they'd had enough of sightseers and gawkers, or maybe they were hoping to let the house out for the filming of some dull period drama or another."

"Still, looking into a haunting, that doesn't sound like you."

Sherlock grunts in a way that suggests he's done a lot of things that would surprise people.

"In the last two hundred years there had been at least twenty disappearances and nine deaths in mysterious circumstances inside the house."

John laughs under his breath. "My mistake, there was a seething underbelly of subtle horror and possible murder, of course you'd be interested."

"Exactly," Sherlock lifts his hands like he'd been given the most fabulous present, and narrowly avoids throwing tea everywhere. "Two hundred years of grisly murders and baffling disappearances pinned on ghosts. Ludicrous."

"Naturally you had to explore the concept," Mycroft says.

"Naturally," Sherlock agrees, and he seems to miss how widely he's now smiling at his brother. "I was shown around the Hall by Mr Duncan? Dobson? Dodson! Yes, that's it, Dodson. His brother, who'd been custodian before him had invited in a TV crew from some irritating television show trying to commune with the dead, in a bid for ratings and cheap thrills no doubt."

John groans.

"Yeah, I've seen those on Living, the one with - oh god, what's it called - with the screamy woman and the annoying psychic." John frowns over his mug of tea. "All that unnecessary excitement over bits of dust."

Sherlock gives an irritated shake of his head, like the name of the show doesn't matter at all in regards to his story.

"Irritating, and loud and generally prone to overreact at a moments notice," he offers though. "Mr Dodson didn't approve of all the noise and publicity. His brother had drowned in the bedroom a few years before."

John frowns, absolutely certain that he'd heard that wrong.

"Sorry, drowned...in the bedroom?"

"Hence the phrase 'deaths in mysterious circumstances' that I used before," Sherlock says slowly and clearly. Then he waves a hand dismissively. "And he's not important."

John frowns and wonders if Sherlock is going to offer them any details that he doesn't consider of vital importance.

He catches Mycroft's brief, sympathetic expression.

So does Sherlock, and he narrows his eyes at it.

"What?"

John's starting to understand how these two argue. It's all insinuation, interpretation and micro expressions. Until Sherlock is pushed to be loud and obvious and offensive almost in self-defence. They're too alike and too opposite at exactly the same time. Christ, it really is amazing that they have the self-control to be in the same room as each other at all.

"You do know how to ruthlessly tell a story don't you," Mycroft says curiously, though there's a tone of amusement there.

Sherlock glares at him. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Mycroft folds his hands in almost exactly the same way as Sherlock had done a minute before.

"Some people have difficulty follow a string of pertinent details to their conclusion. I believe there needs to be a human interest element to the story."

Sherlock looks briefly at John with an expression that he can't quite read.

"This story is about me, I was there, I'm the human interest," Sherlock's tone clearly thinks this is obvious, while at the same time being offended at the suggestion he's not interesting enough to carry a story.

John clears his throat and distracts Mycroft by stealing his empty mug. Which gets him a brief but genuine expression of surprise.

"It's fine, you're fine, Sherlock, carry on please."

Sherlock folds his hands, takes a breath.

"Dodson was a quite irritating man, always following me around, asking if I wanted cups of tea and determined to regale me with tales of his lurid but not particularly interesting family history, telling me how nice it was that I'd agreed to come."

"He sounds nice," John says. Because Sherlock's obviously attempting to add details he thinks John might appreciate rather than details he thinks are relevant.

"Does he?" Sherlock honestly sounds surprised. "I found him annoying - wouldn't stop talking."

John tries to hide a laugh behind the empty mug. Mycroft doesn't bother with subterfuge.

Sherlock gives them both stern looks until they stop.

"He'd given me a room upstairs, which I immediately checked thoroughly for speakers, wires, connections to other rooms, any sort of devices which might be helpful if someone was planning to fabricate the most commonly reported symptoms of a so-called haunting. I was eventually satisfied that the room was exactly as it seemed.

I visited the house's library, examined the stair carpet. Searched the most obvious places if someone were inclined to fake audio. I was rewarded, amusingly enough, with proof that the house's occupants in the forties had indeed seen fit to make their own ghostly sounds, probably voices. Though the equipment was unusable by then, having fallen prey to mice and damp. The sounds upstairs could have been explained easily enough, since they were both starlings and bats in the roof.

In the interests of brevity I shall refrain from explaining all that I discovered that first day. Though before the end of the first night I was confident that I had successfully refuted roughly sixty percent of the claims pertaining to a so-called atmosphere or emotional disturbance and even spontaneous bleeding to the interference of infrasound due to the configuration of pipes and an old organ in the hall downstairs. I'd also found explanations for several of the more lurid murders and solved at least three of the disappearances. "

"It sounds like a very successful night," John tells him.

"I thought as much," Sherlock presses his hands together, fingers touching his chin. "I was confident at the time that all the disturbances would have perfectly rational explanations. Even if, due to time, or other circumstances, I never managed to find them all. Dodson followed me, of course, so I couldn't work quite as efficiently as I would have liked. The man seemed completely immune to my desire to avoid him."

John winces, he's seen some of Sherlock's attempts to avoid people. He knows from experience that they're never anything close to subtle. He's starting to feel sorry for Mr Dodson.

"The man seemed compelled to attempt distraction in the form of family history, or food, or other meaningless nonsense. A habit, I surmised eventually, rather than genuine loneliness or a desire to watch the process I employed."

John can picture the two of them all too well and now he's definitely feeling sorry for this Mr Dodson, who had clearly been making friendly overtures.

"So you didn't experience anything you couldn't explain?" John asks.

Sherlock's eyes drift sideways to find his.

"Something which appears to resist all possible explanations at the time does not immediately mean supernatural entities," he says over an unimpressed eyebrow.

"That's not a no," John says.

Sherlock sighs.

"I was at no point harassed by full-bodied apparitions if that's what you mean."

John can't help laughing at Sherlock's expression.

"Be quiet and let me finish," Sherlock tells him.

"Of course, sorry." John gestures for him to continue.

"I spent the second night inspecting the paintings, and doing a little tedious but necessary investigation into Dodson's family background. I assumed he'd be as interested in this as he had been the day before, but he seemed content to wander around downstairs this time, while I did most of my research. I can't say I objected, since he'd already established himself as a distracting individual. This way, at least, I knew where he was all night and could rule him out as a suspect, should I hear anything."

Sherlock stretches his legs out, clears his throat.

"The next morning I came downstairs and I found Mr Dodson hanging from one of the support beams."

The empty mug John's holding hits the cushion.

"What?"

Sherlock frowns. "There was no ladder, no system at all that would explain how he'd found his way up there. The doors and windows were all locked and no one had interfered with them."

John shakes his head. "He was just -"

"Hanging," Sherlock says again with a flick of his hand. "Very irritating. I've never been able to work out how he ended up fourteen feet in the air without assistance. The police suspected me, obviously, since I was the only one in the house at the time. When they managed to get him down they concluded that he'd been dead at least twelve hours. Which I protested, obviously. Though the rope had seemed unnaturally worn, I was surprised it had managed to hold out that long under the weight of him. Clearly there was a very important and glaring point of contention. Exactly how I'd managed to walk through that room any number of times without noticing his corpse. Which I would consider an absolute impossibility. I have been known to miss important details. But I like to think that a corpse swinging overhead is not one of them."

He presses his hands together again.

"Which leads me to also wonder exactly who I'd been listening to all night. Someone who was roughly the same height and weight as Mr Dodson, though clearly not Mr Dodson, as he had been dead since not very long after dinner."

Sherlock scowls at the opposite wall, like his inability to unravel the mystery still irritates him.

"Christ Sherlock," John says quietly. "Talk about your very own ghost story."

Sherlock huffs like he disapproves of the insinuation.

John can't help but ask though. He just can't. "Do you think -"

"Do I think ghosts had a hand in putting him there, really, John? Really?"

"What is it you always say, once you've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains -"

"However improbable," Mycroft adds with a half smile.

"Must be the truth," John finishes.

"Oh shut up, both of you," Sherlock tells them, and stares into his empty mug to see if it can somehow provide more tea. "I didn't mean interference from beyond the grave. "

"Was the floor wet, or warped in any way?" Mycroft asks curiously.

"No," Sherlock says flatly. Then raises an eyebrow. "But that would have been very clever, very clever indeed."

"The space above -" Mycroft starts.

"I walked through several times. I would have seen his body if it was hidden anywhere there."

"The curtains -"

"Tapestries," Sherlock corrects.

"How were they hung?"

Sherlock's eyes narrow and then his eyes suddenly widen and he stares at his brother.

"Hmm," Mycroft says simply.

"Stupid," Sherlock says. "I should have looked."

"The rope," Mycroft adds

"I know!" Sherlock throws his hands up. "And the brother."

John's just going to accept the fact that he's completely lost. As is often the case.

"We could probably find out," Sherlock decides suddenly, looking for all the world ready to explode into action

"No,” John says stiffly. "We are not going to Sussex at midnight to explore your theories on a murder in a haunted house."

"Tomorrow," Sherlock insists, looking like a child who's been promised presents.

"Maybe tomorrow," John relents.

"Mycroft can come too."

"Sherlock -" Mycroft starts.

Sherlock waves a hand at him, dismissing whatever he's about to say.

"You're only busy when you want to be and you know it. Besides, you're always protesting that I avoid spending time with you. Here I am, offering to spend time with you. You'll look disingenuous if you refuse."

Mycroft pulls a face and sighs, leading John to believe Sherlock has scored a point. John's tempted to complain about Sherlock planning a day trip without consulting any of them. But he's saving the complaining up for when he thinks it might actually make a difference.

"Three stories and not a single ghost," John says. "I don't know whether to be disappointed or amused."

"Of course, if this were a proper ghost story you would have died somewhere out there in the storm and we'd have been talking to your ghost all evening," Sherlock says.

"I had died out there I think I would have been less irritated by the fact that my sock has only just dried. I don't think ghosts have to worry much about damp socks," John argues.

Mycroft's legs shift, then cross again.

"Or perhaps we're confounding expectations and we would be playing the deceased in this story, and you the only living party unwillingly playing host to us, John," he offers.

John eyeballs them both. "It does make sense that you two would continue to argue your way through the afterlife. But I think dead people generally require less tea."

"You're always complaining that you never get a day where nothing strange or unexpected happens in the flat," Sherlock points out.

"Oh, I don't know. You've both been sitting here talking almost civilly to each other for four hours, that's both strange and unexpected I should imagine."

Mycroft and Sherlock both look at each other, a curious eyebrow raised on each side. It's much more disturbing when they both look at John though. As if he might have in some way been the cause of that.

"Don't look at me, I just made tea - most of the tea."

"Your tea was superior," Sherlock offers, though John's fairly sure he's just saying that so he doesn’t have to pay Mycroft any sort of compliment. Possibly because the universe might swallow itself.

"One day maybe we'll find out what your tea's like," John says with a pointed look.

Sherlock rolls his eyes.

Mycroft lays his hands on the arms of the chair.

"Interesting as this has been, John has made a good point. I really should be going. November is going to be very busy, very busy indeed."

"Are you alright to get home?" John asks. "It's gone midnight."

Sherlock snorts, like the idea of Mycroft being lost or otherwise stranded is the most entertaining thing he's heard for months.

"I'm fine thank you, John, absolutely fine." Mycroft slides his phone out and sends a very brief text.

"Eight o'clock tomorrow morning, Mycroft."

"Nine," John complains. "It's a Monday and I refuse to get up early on a Monday if I don't have to."

"Nine," Sherlock agrees reluctantly.

Mycroft looks between then with something like a smile on his face. Something like it, but not quite.

"I suppose I can spare one day," he says with a sigh. Then he pushes himself to his feet and this is the first time John has seen creases in his immaculate trousers. It's apparently a night of strange firsts.

"It will give your cowering minions a break, if nothing else," Sherlock tells him.

Mycroft tuts. "My minions don't cower, Sherlock. Since I am not, in fact, a super-villain."

Sherlock glares up at him. "You'd probably be more interesting if you were."

"Perhaps I'll attempt to take over the world for your birthday," Mycroft says tonelessly and John honestly couldn't swear whether he was joking or not.

John gets up as well. "I'll see you out."

Sherlock frowns and drags his legs off the table.

"He knows the way out. He's unlikely to get lost between here and the front door."

John glares at Sherlock over his shoulder and drifts after him anyway.

Mycroft retrieves his umbrella from the stand, and he makes a small noise when his fingers curve round the handle. Like he'd been vaguely lost without it.

"Thank you, John, for the tea and the company."

"No, it was good, it was interesting, thank you for the story. We'll both see you tomorrow, I guess."

"Tomorrow," Mycroft agrees with a smile and then disappears out into the street, where a black car is lurking somewhere in the darkness.

John can hear Sherlock grumbling to himself as he makes his way back upstairs. He steals Mycroft's seat opposite him - no his seat opposite him.

"Look at you, spending a whole Halloween with your brother and not murdering each other, it's just like a horror movie."

"I believe I agreed to spend tomorrow with him as well," Sherlock says darkly. "I think I may be possessed."

"Desperate to be proved right somewhere where he can be a witness to you being smug about it more likely."

Sherlock doesn't dignify that with an answer. He's busy noticing something else pertinent though.

"The powers back on, I need tea."

"You can't live on tea you know," John says with a frown. He hopes the unspoken 'I am not making you tea' comes through as well.

Sherlock pokes at his knees with his toes, like he's investigating new ways to compel John into tea-making.

John catches Sherlock's foot and tightens his fingers.

"Promise you won't behave like a five year old tomorrow. I refuse to sit in a car with the both of you for two hours if you're sniping at each other like small children."

"If he starts it -"

"Then you will be the mature adult for a change and won't let him draw you into world war three."

"Mycroft can be infuriating." Sherlock's voice is a low curl of frustrated honesty.

"You can be infuriating, only in a way that's louder, messier and more obvious than your brother. That's what tends to get you in trouble."

"Do you really find me that obnoxious?" Sherlock says. It's half complaint and half genuine question.

"Oh for heaven's sake, no, do you want me to tell you that I like you best, is that what this is?"

Sherlock says nothing, but there's a petulant tilt to his chin which is particularly incriminating.

"God, you do, don't you? You're an idiot sometimes, you know that."

Sherlock tries to drag his foot away and John holds onto it, digs his fingers into Sherlock's ankle and pins it in his lap.

"I like you best, happy. If only because you're the sort of unpredictable crazy that I have to like as some sort of strategic self-defence." It's true as well, as insane as it sounds. Sherlock is...he's Sherlock and there really is no better explanation than that.

"I should probably be insulted by that but I don't think I am." Sherlock sounds confused about that.

"You're also brilliant and reckless and inventive and insane and - and I'm going to stop saying nice things about you now because your smile is just getting smug," John decides.

The smile doesn't fall either, it stays on Sherlock's face. It's lopsided and real and it suits him.

John abruptly realises he's still holding Sherlock's bare foot, and the skin is impossibly smooth under his fingers. He lets his hands fall away.

"I should go to bed, you should go to bed too, since you roped us into an adventure with your brother tomorrow. Thank you for that by the way."

Sherlock doesn't bother to pull his foot free, he leaves it rocking on John's knee instead. John pushes it until it drops. Then he licks his thumb and finger, reaches forward and pinches the candles out.

"Don't stay up all night. You'll only end up prowling around tomorrow like an irritated leopard - starving for caffeine and talking a mile a minute."

Sherlock snorts at the description and moves his feet so John can get up.

John must be tired, because it's a long way upstairs. He can hear Sherlock clanking about downstairs, probably putting his phone on to charge; since John had failed to do it and Sherlock would probably break out in hives if he had to go without his phone for too long. The clanking sounds move to the kitchen and John hopes he's not going to wake up to some sort of noxious experiment. Because there are better starts to the week than potentially poisonous fumes invading the flat.

His wet clothes are still in the bathroom and he ignores them in favour of getting ready for bed with the least amount of effort possible.

Sherlock catches him coming out of the bathroom, or rather he almost runs straight into him. John's halfway through an exasperated version of his name when Sherlock curls a hand in his jumper and tugs him into his own personal space, tilts down, and kisses him.

John's left hand is still wrapped round the handle of the bathroom door. One of Sherlock's bare feet is pressed down onto his own, and there are fingers tangled in his jumper, knuckles close enough to dig uncomfortably into his chest. It's a confusing mess of sensations, but the most important is definitely the warm and completely unexpected crush of a mouth over his own.

John's muffled noise of surprise doesn't sound as much like an objection as it probably should. It certainly doesn't stop anything. Leaning away would probably stop it. But for some reason he's not doing that.

There are cold fingers on the back of his neck, the ends just pushing into his hair and Sherlock is curved over him, blocking out most of the light. It's dark and it's warm and there's an intimacy to it which feels almost unbearably strange.

"Sherlock." It's all that comes out when John eventually gets a hand up - much too late - gets a breath of space between them.

Sherlock seems to have forgotten his own name, because rather than forming any sort of coherent answer, he kisses him again. It's warmer and softer than it has any right to be. John thinks he could work up some sort of resistance to roughness, to pressure. But this is almost polite, gentle - very un-Sherlock-like. Sherlock is almost certainly taking advantage of the fact that he's surprised him.

"Stop kissing me," John says against his mouth, which is possibly the most ridiculous thing he's ever said. Though he can't quite decide what wouldn't be under the circumstances.

Sherlock's sigh is irritated, and suggests he fully expected John to be difficult about this.

"What are you doing?" John tries instead. It isn't quite as loud or as strident as he expects it to be. It sounds more like an amused chastisement than anything else, and John doesn't mean it to sound like that at all.

"Tell me with absolute certainty that we were never going to end up here," Sherlock says firmly. "That you hadn't thought about it at all." His expression is too focused and too intent and John doesn't like feeling like an experiment at all. Though the has the feeling it's rather too late for that.

"Of course I've thought about it," John manages through a dry throat. He licks his lips and Sherlock watches the movement with a strange sort of fascination. "You do realise you have personal space issues, obvious and distracting personal space issues."

Sherlock ignores that part of the conversation, like it's not important. "It makes sense to confront this before it becomes a problem."

John shakes his head, because...what?

"It wasn't a problem, it wasn't even on the horizon until today -" John stops, scowls and leans back until there's a few inches between them. Because things are starting to make an odd sort of sense in his head. "Are you kissing me because I was nice to your brother?"

Sherlock stills, not long, it's just a second of tension, but it's more than long enough to be incriminating.

"Oh my god, you are, aren't you?" John's irritated noise of refusal doesn't quite manage not to sound hurt, and he's trying to get out from the brace of Sherlock's arms without actually pushing him off.

"This isn't some sort of contest," Sherlock rushes out all in one go. "I'm not competing with him."

John stops trying to extricate himself. He folds his arms and glares at him.

"Well good, because let me tell you right now that neither of you are winning that one."

"Mycroft has nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that I wanted to kiss you," Sherlock insists.

John swallows at the admission, even if the tone of it doesn't betray anything.

"Well forgive me for thinking it's out of character. This is you after all. People and their emotions, getting in the way of important things like facts and details and -"

"You're misquoting me again," Sherlock accuses.

John nods. "But I think I got the general gist of it."

Sherlock's eyes are still sharp enough and close enough to be disturbing. "You're the exception, it seems."

John frowns. "You don't like exceptions, they make things difficult, unpredictable."

"Yes," Sherlock agrees, and he doesn't look happy about it. He looks irritated and confused and not happy at all. John doesn't have a clue why that makes it better.

"I thought you didn't do relationships?"

"We seem compelled to have one, whether we like it or not."

John's not sure how Sherlock manages to make it all sound so sensible. Though it's hard to protest when you've thought the same thing a time or two. But John still wants to complain, especially after Sherlock's just admitted the reason he started this in the first place.

"That's not a good reason - look you don't kiss people because it's expected, or because you think it'll happen eventually anyway," John tries, and that sounds sensible enough. "It's not like buying bread, or tomatoes."

"You told me I couldn't be trusted to buy tomatoes."

There's a second of confused silence.

"I think you just derailed my metaphor," John accuses finally and exhales.

He pinches the bridge of his nose.

"Look I've done this before, obviously, because you know everything and you've probably read that already in my sleeves or my ears, or the way I part my hair or something equally ridiculous. I've done this -" he waves a hand to indicate, in some awkward way, how close they're standing and the kissing and everything else " - but I've never actually had a relationship. I've never wanted a relationship with another -"

Sherlock's staring at him, one eyebrow raised.

"Christ," John decides on finally.

Sherlock's bare feet look so naked and John wishes, for once, that he could read something helpful in them.

Sherlock mutters something about 'finally being on the same page.' John is confused, but not quite confused enough to miss the way Sherlock tugs his jaw up again. John knows he should be protesting, knows why he should be protesting, but Sherlock's kissing him again before he can decide how to go about that. He's walking him back into the wall with a thump, and now there's leverage, and balance and somewhere to brace and all of John's arguments are derailed. Because he'd never actually given serious thought to what kissing Sherlock would be like, really kissing him. And contrary to what he might have thought Sherlock is really very good at it. He's really, stupidly, incredibly good at it. Even though it's immensely irritating having to tip his head back so far, because Sherlock is so blastedly tall. John thinks Sherlock quite likes it and he knows he should be annoyed about that. But Sherlock has very rarely, obviously liked anything, so he lets him do it.

It's dangerous thinking about the things John might let Sherlock do if he just shows that he wants them. He manages to pull away, to stop Sherlock's fingers from derailing his train of thought where they're moving restlessly on the skin of his arm and the back of his neck.

"I don't want to be an experiment," John says stiffly.

"Everything is an experiment," Sherlock protests.

"Then can I at least be an important one," John says huffily, before he thinks about it, then wonders if that sounds a little too needy and ridiculous. Because he didn't mean it like that at all. Probably.

"Yes," Sherlock says simply, as if it's that easy. "If you like."

John can't help the way his hand strays up inside the purple shirt, and Sherlock is warm and smooth and slender under his fingers in a way he's not used to. But it's still good, more than good, in a way he's fairly sure he shouldn't be allowed.

"I think you enjoy turning my entire world upside down." It sounds like an accusation because it is, because that's exactly what Sherlock's been doing since they first met, carefully overturning his preconceived ideas about almost everything.

Sherlock snorts. "I think it's only fair considering."

"It's different for you, you're brilliant. I can't always keep up." John hates admitting it, but he's thought it often enough. Being around Sherlock is like being alive all the time and it's not always nice. But John's starting to worry that he couldn't go without it.

"Don't be ridiculous, of course you can." Sherlock forestalls any attempt to reply to that by pushing long hands inside John's jumper and working it up his chest and over his head.

"This is insane," John says when he's free. But then he can't talk at all, because Sherlock's kissing him again, long hands curling round his ribs and pulling them in the direction of his room. A noise escapes his throat at that, something messy and half strangled. It's followed by a low, heavy jerk of arousal, because kissing is one thing - kissing is one thing but going to bed together, having sex is something else entirely. Something that can't be shrugged off so easily.

But he's not stopping, in fact he's fighting with the tiny buttons on the purple shirt until it's open and then abruptly on his bedroom floor. Sherlock's arms are long and smooth and suddenly spread out on John's bed and he really can't remember why this was a bad idea. Why he ever thought this was a bad idea.

The slow sinuous way Sherlock lifts his hips leaves John swearing and tugging open his trousers with more force than strictly necessary. He slides his hands under the material, finds the warmth of Sherlock's bare skin under them and almost gets distracted there. He almost gets tangled up in the awkward, cramped fight to get them closer together rather than get them undressed.

But eventually he has sense enough to grasp and pull at Sherlock's trousers and shorts, he tugs everything down his thighs and off. Which leaves Sherlock naked on his bed, long and pale and fucking breath-taking. Which John thinks is completely unfair. It's completely and totally unfair that Sherlock is all curves and dips and hollows that he just wants to taste. Only Sherlock's a greedy, demanding, infuriating, impossible man. He's already snatching John's wrist and sliding to a sit and pulling him close again, pulling him against all that skin and heat, hands pushing his jeans down at the back with what feels like an aggressive distaste for the material. Long hands and fingers sliding down and grasping and pulling.

John's bed is too small and he has no choice but to cover Sherlock's body with his own. Destroying any hope of this being in any way a sensible and measured exploration. Because Sherlock is all narrow limbs and sharp hipbones and impatience. He's already developed an obsession with tugging John's hair when he wants a kiss, and it's never a request and John can't quite tell him to stop. There's a low, deep shudder of heat in his stomach every time Sherlock's fingers decide to be demonstrative in the short strands. John suspects it's far too late to hope Sherlock hasn't noticed, because he knows he's going to shamelessly take advantage of it.

"You're going to kill me." John already sounds out of breath.

"Ludicrous," Sherlock counters and then his own breath stutters out of him when John presses down, dick sliding warm and hard against the weight of Sherlock's. They fit together so easily, which should be impossible, Sherlock would probably have an explanation for it, something that makes sense.

"Oh." Sherlock sounds lost for a fraction of a second. Though it doesn't last long. "You should let me go on top, I'll have better leverage."

"No," John says and maybe there's a little greed there - or a lot, because now Sherlock's laughing and sliding warm naked thighs against his own in a way that tugs all the air out of him and leaves his hands pressing and catching on every inch of skin they can reach. John wants - he needs to learn how to distract Sherlock, before the man owns him completely.

"Are you going to admit that you wanted this now?" Sherlock says instead.

"Stop talking," John hisses and pulls Sherlock's head back by his hair, fingers tangling and digging and dragging it away from his face. John kisses him until the mumbled noises of affront stop. Then there's just breath and the unsteady pushes up against him, all warmth and quiet aggression that shove John closer and closer to mindlessness. It's good, it's really good, messy and imperfect in a way he didn't expect it to be. It all feels completely and utterly genuine and Sherlock's fingers are sliding over his back and digging in. John can read the demand, the impatience without needing any words. But he can't get enough leverage on the sheets the way they're lying and Sherlock's laughing an 'I told you so,' into his mouth.

But it doesn't matter, it doesn't matter at all.

Sherlock loops a foot round the bottom of his own and presses his hand against the wall behind him - and oh, Christ, it's perfect and he can push as hard as he likes.

Sherlock appreciates the enthusiasm, and John learns that Sherlock Holmes does not object at all to being bitten. He doesn't think he's ever randomly discovered anything so glorious in his life.

John's mumbling out something about how Sherlock may be the best thing - may in fact kill him. But he thinks it's mostly breath and appreciative noises and nonsense. There's a rough shudder of air and Sherlock's groan is soft and deep and John digs his thumbs into Sherlock's hipbones and pushes up just enough to watch. His hips are still moving but Sherlock has tensed into stillness, fingers tight enough to hurt on his neck and waist. It's impossible to watch Sherlock come and not react to it. Not to abortively thrust and swear and lose it completely and make a mess of both of them.

When John can see straight again he's breathing into the hard jut of Sherlock's collarbone, though there's been no protest against his weight yet. Sherlock's just breathing, body completely limp. One of his hands has slid sideways and is now hanging off the bed.

Sherlock does eventually mumble something unhappy.

John rolls away and feels the prickling drag of cool air across his damp skin.

Sherlock fishes something off of the floor, wipes his stomach off with a faint noise of disgust before dropping whatever it was somewhere near what's left of their clothes.

"Was that my shirt?" John asks.

"Yes." Sherlock's now sprawled haphazardly but artistically across most of the bed, and John feels messy and strangely uneven in comparison. But he's too relaxed to care much right now. One of Sherlock's legs slides over his, a press of weight and muscle that could be an afterthought but feels like something else entirely.

"Well, now we've changed our relationship irrevocably," Sherlock offers, like it was something he intended to cross off his list at some point.

John wouldn't be surprised if Sherlock had a list.

"You started it," he accuses lazily.

"I didn't see you resisting very hard." Sherlock's voice is easy and so deep in his throat it's more vibration than sound.

John shuts his eyes and tries to breathe normally. "All that talk about how it was going to happen eventually. You confused me."

Sherlock's snort of amusement is louder than it has any right to be.

"That's really not that hard." John should be offended by that, but Sherlock rolls over and there's considerably more than the slender length of his leg touching him now. There's a curve of chest and the side of an arm and - oh, now a leg draped carelessly over his own.

He forgets what he was supposed to be offended about.

It's raining again, John can hear it drumming against the window and Sherlock is quiet and it's all strangely surreal and nice. He never expected anything like this at the start of the night. Or an hour ago when he was drinking tea and listening to stories about killer houses and hanged men.

Though it occurs to him that he's going to have to face Mycroft in roughly eight hours and the man's going to know everything.

"Stop thinking about my brother," Sherlock complains, though more with amusement than genuine annoyance this time.

"I wasn't," John protests and then realises that's not entirely true. "I was just thinking about how I certainly didn't expect this when the night started out."

"Still, I'm naked in your bed, it's bad manners."

The admission may or may not provoke a prickle of satisfaction everywhere they touch.

"What do you know about manners?"

"I know about manners," Sherlock says haughtily. "I've read extensively about manners."

John has something to say about that too. That knowing about manners and seeing fit to use them are two different things entirely. But before he can even open his mouth Sherlock's thigh slides between his own, a press of skin and hair and promise. John wonders, for a brief and startling second, if he's going to manage two orgasms in one night. Because he hasn't done that for...a while.

Probably not.

He drops a hand and finds the warmth of Sherlock's skin, slides his hand higher, just because he can and pins it still. John's fingers are drifting, squeezing just a little, though Sherlock doesn't seem to mind. His brain is apparently sufficiently appeased by the endorphins not to try and escape. He wonders if he keeps his hand there whether Sherlock will be forced to stay.

Sherlock's irritated exhale drifts warmly over his ear.

"Of course I'm staying. I really can't be bothered to get up and travel all the way back to my own room. Also, you're pleasantly warm."

John stares at the ceiling.

"Are you going to have sex with me just because it's convenient now?" John can't help but ask.

"Probably," Sherlock admits.

John's fingers still on his thigh, he gets as far as a frown before Sherlock makes a noise in his throat.

"But that won't be the only reason," Sherlock adds.

After a pause Sherlock's arm stretches over him. For a second John thinks Sherlock intends to slide it round his waist, which is a genuine surprise. Though one he doesn't intend to object to.

But then Sherlock's long fingers find John's phone on the table beside his bed and drag it over, fingers casually flipping it open on his chest.

It's chilly against his skin.

"I don't know why I put up with you," John says with a laugh.

"Because I'm brilliant," Sherlock says into his throat, and John thinks he can feel the curve of a smile.

"That you are," John agrees. "That you are."