Fic: Sherlock (BBC), Sherlock/John, Overlooked the Inevitable
Title: Overlooked the Inevitable
Author: Nakeno
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: I own nothing and this certainly isn't meant to disrespect anyone.
Summary: A streak of something, a streak of something decidedly green, goes racing down Sherlock’s spine and that… that is quite alarming in and of itself. He’s never really felt it before to this degree. Not like this. Ever.
A/N: This is a direct sequel to Evidence Enough, however I feel the first bit fits more accurately in the in-between bits of canon, but I couldn’t help myself, I need them to be together.
The point of view changes completely to John’s near the end, and though it is marked with a time-jump, I hope it doesn’t jar too hard. One would think it would be far easier to stick to John’s voice all the way but Sherlock just keeps butting in and taking over. …But he would, I suppose.
Oh, also, this is pretty much just a bit of possessive Sherlock and sex with a bit of window dressing. …Ahem, yes, I’ll try for more character study in the future.
It takes a while, quite a while actually, after the pleasant anomaly of Sherlock’s birthday for it to happen. But it does happen. And, when it does, it’s almost a slap in the face because, really, somehow, it hadn’t occurred to Sherlock that it might and, looking back on that, he finds that he’s rather irritated at himself for not considering it. Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid…
He has an array of beakers and Petri dishes arranged just so across the kitchen table, currently bent over a dish containing a rust covered nail with his eyedropper in hand, his eyebrows shooting up toward his hairline under his safety glasses.
The time is fifteen toward eight in the evening precisely and he’s frozen there, mid-movement, his head turned toward the main room.
John Watson is there. He’s there and his button-up, the nice blue checkered one that brings out his eyes, is ironed and he’s wearing his good jeans. John’s black jacket, the fairly decent one, is draped over the back of the armchair and, after checking his wristwatch, John picks it up and begins to tug it on. There’s the scent of cologne on the air, the cologne that’s barely used, the high-dollar stuff that Harry had gifted John with last Christmas. The cologne John only wears if he has a-
“Date. You’re going on a date.” His voice is flat, even. Because he hadn’t thought about it. Not for one second. And that irritated him.
Funnily, a voice that sounds an awful lot like John’s goes traipsing through his head at that moment, ‘Can’t have it both ways, can you, Sherlock? Either you can have it this way or…’
John’s actual voice is heard then and John is looking at him: “Hm? Oh, yeah. Dinner. Won’t be long. Just around the corner, actually, at that little Italian place that you… hate. Ahem, yeah. Mike introduced us. She seems nice enough.”
A streak of something, a streak of something decidedly green, goes racing down Sherlock’s spine and that… that is quite alarming in and of itself. He’s never really felt it before to this degree. Not like this. Ever.
John frowns slightly, staring back at Sherlock staring at him as he’s straightening the collar on his jacket.
Sherlock schools his features, refusing to let emotion, that oh-so rare happening, have its full say. He shoves it down, shoves it away. Keep himself divorced and detached. Aloof.
He turns his face back downward again and forces his hand to lower until the eyedropper is hovering above the pointed tip of the nail.
John stares for a moment, watching him, tilting his head to the side just a bit.
“Do you need me for something?”
He presses out a tiny bit of the chemical compound he’d been mixing together most of the evening and because of John he squeezes out more than he intends. How annoying.
“No.” Blank. Curt.
John moves closer, grasping at the edge of the framed glass doors that they hardly ever use to divide the kitchen from the main room.
“Anything you need me to pick up?”
“No.”
Those doctor’s fingers tap out a quick rhythm on the wood as John turns his head away, nodding once.
“Right, then. I’ll be back.”
John vanishes past the wall. One step, two step, three step, pause. Back-tracking, the sound of those shoes coming back over the floor.
Sherlock doesn’t look up when John pokes back around the corner, gripping the glass door again, his other hand moving up to rub at the back of his neck.
“I… I can cancel.” He clears his throat. “If… if you want me to.”
Sherlock settles the eyedropper down, straightening, brow furrowed, not sparing John a look.
“Why would I want you to do that?” He knows he sounds tetchy. Yes, why?
John drops his head, a dry smile pulling up his lips, fingers tapping at the wood again.
“No… reason. No reason at all. Right. Back in a bit.”
This time, when John disappears past the wall, Sherlock does look up, glancing at where John was just standing. Then downward to where his own hands are gripping the edge of the table, gripping tightly enough to drain blood from his knuckles.
A second of thought. Just a second. Then he’s wrenching off his safety glasses to the table and whirling away, yanking open the kitchen’s door to the stairs.
John is there on his way to the steps and at the sight of Sherlock he blinks, slowing and stopping in puzzlement.
He doesn’t give him a second, just moves, advances on him fast and fluid. Pale hands to those black-coated shoulders and pushing backward until John finds the wall.
“Sherlock-“
Sherlock ducks his head and slants his mouth over John’s before he can even finish voicing his confusion. Warm, fast, firm. He drinks the soft sound of surprise John gives, the tip of his tongue slipping against the seam of John’s lips, lips that part open almost immediately, granting entrance, and Sherlock presses the advantage, sliding his tongue in fully and giving the most hedonistic hum of approval.
Toothpaste and salt and John.
His hands slide up those shoulders and his slim white fingers splay along either side of that jaw.
He presses, licks, tasting over enamel and supple tongue and probing into sweet, wet, undiscovered corners. It’s hurried and hot and… possessive. A claim driven by that spike of jealousy he’d felt at the thought of anyone else, anyone at all, doing this with John Watson.
John’s hands are up and fisted into Sherlock’s white button-up at his sides, blazer-less.
His head tilts more at the feel of those fingers twisting into the material at his flanks, he presses that kiss harder. Presses for more. He writes his claim there with his tongue until he absolutely must break for air, breaking that kiss with a gasp.
When he blinks his eyes open, John looks practically dazed. His mouth is open, red and wet from the pressure and his fingers uncurl and his hands slide up Sherlock’s back, pressing in flatly at those shoulderblades and drawing him back in.
Their mouths meet again with slightly less violence and John’s tongue curls and licks against Sherlock’s own for a few long, delicious seconds before they break for breath again.
John’s head thumps lightly back against the wall, color up in those cheeks, eyes closed and tongue wetting at his lips.
Again John looks at him, nodding once, then once more.
“Right…” Rough in tone, just as rough little pushes of his mouth on Sherlock’s between words. “I’ll… I’ll cancel, I’ll cancel, it’s cancelled, consider it done.”
Damn right he would. Sherlock wasn’t giving this nameless, faceless woman a chance. Not a single chance.
No way in hell.
Sherlock’s clever, elegant fingers slip down from John’s face, rubbing palms down over his chest and slipping about his waist, both arms pulling John against him as he takes his mouth again. Oh, and the pleased, muffled moan John gives because of it…
John steps right into it, right into him. Magnetic and transfixing.
He pulls him from the wall and John moves with him, fisting at Sherlock’s shirt again at the shoulders, mouth open and moving and working against Sherlock’s own eagerly.
A stuttering step or two and their kiss breaks again.
John sucks in a quick breath, “Right, upstairs. My room. Upstairs. Now.”
He doesn’t question it, though he knows what the meaning of moving this to a bedroom will actually mean, just drops his arms from around John’s middle and grips his hand instead-registering calluses, finger lengths, the fit of palms, the underlying strength in the way that hand squeezes around his own-before turning and pulling him along with him.
As if he’s ever had to pull John along for anything which is a marvelous, marvelous thing about his one and only friend but not the only marvelous, marvelous thing which makes it all the better.
They make a quick job of the steps and John’s bedside lamp is on, which is good, saves them time as Sherlock yanks John in and turns on him, pushing him up against the door as it slaps shut.
He’s pleased with the way John’s mouth opens for him so readily, utterly pleased with the way John’s spine arches off the door trying to get nearer even as Sherlock’s hands are roughly rucking up under that jacket and working it down and off him with something decidedly like impatience.
On their way back up his hands yank that tucked shirt free of the jeans, starting at the buttons blindly as his mouth finds the tap-tap-tap of pulse under John’s jaw, sucking there. John gasps at the sensation and the sound of it fills Sherlock with pinpoint sized bursts of heat that pop like fireworks, expanding and growing in rapid order. Heat like before. Want like before. Happening again-oh, Jesus, don’t let it stop.
John grips at his hair, drags his hands down to dig fingertips into the back of Sherlock’s neck. His own head is tilted up and to the side, eyes closed as Sherlock’s tongue paints a wet path down from his jaw and along his throat. He jerks, shivers, pressing into the contact and gasping harshly.
“Sherlock…” Shaky and moaned.
The shirt parts open and John has to lower his arms as Sherlock jerk-tugs it off him, tossing it aside heedlessly and letting his long-fingered detective’s hands pet and grip over the newly exposed skin. Fluttering over shoulders, fingering over biceps, feathering over ribs and feeling each struggled breath drawn in and released from that warm chest, eagerly drinking in all the new data.
John arches into the sensation and Sherlock tests his teeth in the swooping wing of the collarbone, reveling in the hard-drawn breath and tremble that results.
John’s warm, solid, strong, lovely, his… In this moment, John Watson is his. And, God, the unexpected thrill that gives him. It’s dizzying and exhilarating, makes his heart thump harder thus his blood pump faster.
Sherlock’s hair is finger-mussed and his eyelids are heavy, pupils dilated, mouth colored a deeper shade of red when he pulls up and lets his hands stroke down John’s bare stomach, thumb circling the navel, and fingers lowering to the buckle of that belt.
He traces it, paws at it.
Then lower, palm cupping upward as he strokes up between John’s thighs, feeling him hot and hard and ready even through the denim.
John breathes in sharply, stomach muscles tensing, head going back. He nods jerkily, hips canting into the contact and his hands smooth down the length of Sherlock’s arms, squeezing at the wrists.
“God, yeah… yes, Sherlock, yes. …Please.”
That sweetly given permission is all it takes. The buckle comes undone under anxious tugs and jerks and he’s pulling the leather free as John himself is undoing the buttons on Sherlock’s white shirt.
He takes a moment, breathing heavily, reaching up and helping with the shedding of his button-up. Shrug it off, yank it free of his slacks, toss it aside. Bare from the waist up.
The glint of the button as it pops free, the metallic grit of the zipper, his mouth capturing John’s in hectic, needy heat, a hum of pleasure vibrating through the kiss.
Press open the V of those jeans, get his hands down there, working one beneath an elastic band and it’s hot silky velvet over steel the feel of John’s erection under his touch. He strokes, grips and John jerk-surges into him like a livewire, whimpering heated and helpless where he’s got his face hidden away against Sherlock’s shoulder.
“Sherlock-Sherlock…” John’s brow tips down to rest against that same bare shoulder, head tilting back and forth, eyes closed tight, writhing and desperate and, “Please, oh, please-Sherlock, please, yes, yes, oh, God… don’t… d-don’t stop, don’t stop; I want you, fuck, Jesus, I do. Please…” Babbled breathlessly.
It propels Sherlock into action, the blinding stab of desire John’s helpless pleading drives straight through his core. His body thrums, his nerves singing with sensation and alertness, every sense heightened and sharpened.
Arm circling around the other’s waist, jerking John from the wall and against him, somehow having become the commander in a situation where he doesn’t know the battlefield quite as well as the soldier in his arms. The soldier who is stalwart and loyal and giving and hishishis… He’s riding on pure instinct and it seems to be serving him well.
John trembles and groans in his embrace, his other hand still buried inside rumpled clothing, still clasping the heat of John’s want and stroking, those slender fingers sure and encompassing. He can feel him throb in his grasp and John whines against Sherlock’s throat and thrusts into the feel of the friction.
‘I want you…’ Those words twist all kinds of interesting tangles inside Sherlock, some of which he’s not even sure how to go about sorting out, which is new. They bring a flush to his face and push a shudder through his body.
It’s good. Bloody good. He expects it’ll go on this way, that John will come apart for him right here on his feet, still halfway in his clothes, but then there’s a hand around his wrist. That steady stroking arrested and for a heartbeat Sherlock worries he’s done something wrong. John has drawn his head back, panting, wetting his lips, his eyelids heavy but fighting open.
“Bed.” Breathlessly uttered. A clearing of his throat. “On the bed. With me. C’mon.”
John pulls away some and his hands grasp at the loosened material of his jeans, holding them up and toeing out of his shoes and Sherlock hesitates for a moment then he fights open his own belt, his own slacks.
They jerk and pull and disrobe, though, for a moment there Sherlock thought to stop John, to tell him ‘no’ and ‘let me’ because undressing John would be like opening the perfect present you never knew you’d asked for even when Sherlock knows he doesn’t much care for presents. At all, really, as they’re mostly useless, but if that present were John… Seeing all the clothing fall away under his own ministrations would be wonderful-the wrapping falling away to reveal the thing that steals the breath-but right now, this moment, it’s the feeling that’s got him aching, it’s the feeling he wants more of so undressing separately is more expedient. Sherlock is naked before John, but just after John strips off his last sock he’s against Sherlock, his arms around him, his bare body a hot brand, strong and solid, and Sherlock gets a glimpse of the bullet-shaped scar on the left shoulder, dangerously close to the clavicle and sternum. He has the brief thought of bludgeoning a shooter’s face in until it’s bloody chunks of bone and mashed brain matter with the smooth side of a large rock.
John’s hands splay greedily over the small of his back, thrusting up on the fronts of his feet, their erections sliding together, trapped within the smooth slip of their tightened stomachs and it shoots blinding beams through Sherlock’s thought processes like white noise on a radio or snowy static on a television set.
They make it to the bed somehow. Somehow. Everything seems to be in snapshots currently: atop John; John’s dull nails into the skin on either side of his spine; hungry mess of a kiss, heated naked form surging beneath him, a taut line of tension and need; naked limbs entangled and moving.
John with his thighs parted, Sherlock’s weight settled between them, those same thighs pressing into the hitch of smooth hips, cradling him and encouraging him.
Fingers in his hair, mussing and tangling in the soft, dark brown locks. John’s tongue in his mouth, licking the taste of him out. Those hands squeeze over his nape and smooth down his back as they writhe and move, sliding down over the dip of his vertebrae and passing over the curve of his ass. John seems to like petting over Sherlock’s back. Sherlock likes letting him.
Sherlock shivers at the feel of those warm, strong hands exploring him so liberally.
There’s a hitched moan when John’s mouth slides from his, gulping in a breath and pressing the side of his face against Sherlock’s own, more or less nuzzling it seems.
“D-drawer…” John stutters. “My drawer, the… t-the bottle, get it. Please.”
Sherlock draws his head back, blinking in bland surprise at John’s contorted expression. Hands to the bed, hefting up, hesitating only a moment before leaning over and pulling open the bedside drawer, the slide of wood on wood. A small white bottle there, rolling. Sherlock picks it up in a bit of a stunned state and John seems to sense it, wriggling beneath his weight, flushing harder.
“I… I bought it. After your birthday. I… God, I want… Never tried it before, but I want you to… You. I want to do this with you.” Now that is telling. Those are the words that didn’t getting uttered on his birthday, though John had been a hair’s breadth close to doing so when he’d admitted to thinking of Sherlock in an ‘off-hand’ way. There’s hope embroidered in John’s voice now and a touch of nervousness as if Sherlock might deny the idea.
God. Oh, God. Oh, fucking God. John. John. To be inside John. To fuck John. His best friend. His only friend.
Sherlock rubs his thumb along the plastic of the bottle, thumbing at the cap. It hasn’t been used. Brand new. Bought with intention. Intentions on him. Bought for this.
…John wants him to fuck him.
OhbloodyJesusChrist.
He shifts against John’s body, pressing his elbow into the bedding and sliding over, off of John and settling next to him.
It’s an easy decision with the pleasure and the high that roils through his body.
The pop of the plastic cap sounds loud in the room along with their ragged breathing.
“Guide us through it.” There’s a quaver in the words and he can see the nervousness that causes it reflected in John’s Adam’s apple bobbing around a hard swallow.
“There’s condoms, as well, in the back of that drawer. I’m clean, and I assume you are too, considering, but if you want-“
“Guide us through it.”
“Right…” John sits up a bit, pauses, then leans in to kiss Sherlock’s mouth before twisting about, settling on his stomach and folding his arms beneath him. “We start with fingers. Apply it to your fingers and… a-and, well…”
As John’s body is stretched out and bare Sherlock gives into the urge to press up against his side, cock and stomach pressing into a hip as he ducks his head and parts his mouth against the silken skin of that nape. He sucks firmly and John wriggles against the bedding, giving a drawn out, urgent little moan as his head tilts forward to accommodate. It’s nearly submissive, that. Sherlock finds he approves of that reaction. Immensely, in fact.
Slippery, cool, slick that lubrication on his fingers. The bottle set aside and his mouth does back to attending to John’s neck as those supple fingers seek lower, moving down then… sliding up, between, slicking as they go and Sherlock is humming around a mouthful of skin and delicately rubbing against a tight ring of muscle.
John gasps, hiding his face in the pillow, an arm stretching out and finding a handful of sheet to grasp and squeeze.
Those fingers are elegant and firm, flexing there against that heat and tightness-rubbing, rubbing, rubbing until some instinct inside guides Sherlock to press his index finger there and slide it in…
John makes a broken, haggard little sound, shoulders hunching and body shivering. Sherlock pauses a moment, entranced with the heat and tightness around his finger, but unwilling to cause any pain. This doesn’t have to hurt. He’s never done this before, in any form, but he knows if he’s careful there’d be no pain involved. He wants John but he doesn’t want to hurt him. Never hurt him. And it’s a sweet thought, somehow, the idea of them venturing into this new ground together.
That body shifts, those thighs part a little more and John groans, shaking his head, eyes closed, face half hidden in the pillow.
“Ke-keep going, Sherlock… keep on…”
Keep on. Sherlock huffs softly then tests his teeth just under the hairline as his finger flexes forward-in, all the way in, as far as he can. Rub, slide, curl his finger inside the sweet snugness of that body.
Shifting, moving, John cants his hips back against that penetration, a shaky moan emitted when he strokes up inside him just so.
Draw back near fully, slip it in again, start up a slow rhythm and John’s hips follow suit, curve-pushing in time with him.
It’s magnetic and mesmerizing the primal instinct of the action and Sherlock is smearing his mouth down a bare shoulder as he pulls his hand back and adds another finger just to feel John shudder so desperately against him.
Yes. Oh, God, yes. Long, pale fingers pressing deeper, rubbing fluidly, gracefully pushing. Just up against the bundled knot of nerves inside that makes John tense up then jerk, a sharp little cry of surprise and pleasure. There we are. Just there.
John rubs his face into the pillow, pressing his hips back where he’s stretched around Sherlock’s fingers. Sherlock’s wonderful, beautiful, absolutely fabulous fingers that are petting up against that hot-sensitive button inside him and driving him blind with want.
Keep up the rhythm-press and rub, twisting his wrist just so, feeling his fingers sliding against each other in that slickened heat and tightness, the silken inside of John’s body. Back and forth, easy and steady and Sherlock is transfixed by how John responds to his touch; moaning, writhing, stuttering curses from time to time. It’s flattering and arousing and so many other words that tick fast through his brain like the fluttering of pages, scarcely forming.
Ease his fingers nearly free before adding another, feeling the stretch of the muscles when he presses back in again. Teasing, stretching, readying: stroke just so up inside against that spot-the prostate, of course-and feel John surge and groan and curse.
Sherlock peppers kisses just behind the ear on that soft, soft skin.
Patience, patience, don’t force it, the more time he takes to let John’s body adjust, the easier this will be.
“Oh, dear God, Sherlock, please…”
So much for that plan.
He pulls his fingers back fluidly, the lubrication easing the way. As he does so he feels a spear of anxiety-can’t be helped, really, considering his inexperience.
His fingers are shaking now, he’s shaking, he notes, as he gathers up the bottle again and deposits more of that clear, slippery substance onto his already slick fingers and palm. The bottle clicked shut again, tossed aside onto the nightstand, and Sherlock closes his eyes and breathes deep before committing to action.
He lets his mouth smear down John’s spine, feeling, no tasting, the shift of each vertebrae of the ladder of the spine as he pushes away some and sits up on his knees.
Hand around himself, a slight shiver from the coolness, fingers gripping and palm smearing the length of his erection. And, oh God, what comes next… The next step, the final step, and, at the thought, he can feel himself throb with the want of it.
What the hell has John Watson done to him without even trying?
John is breathing heavily and shallowly and Sherlock adjusts himself on his knees between the spread of pale thighs.
A hand to the bed near John’s shoulder, John’s own fingers wrenching into the bed sheet and Sherlock’s other hand to the base of himself to guide the movement-the slick-hot head of himself against that ring of muscle.
It’s hot. Jesus, it’s hot, just rubbing himself there, and as he does so, John shivers in the most alluring manner.
He watches, intently, the shift and tensing of muscles in those shoulders, the way that head lolls and turns, any indication whatsoever for a halt on the events. It’d be far easier to gauge reaction if he were able to see John’s face. He wants that, really. He wants to be able to see John’s reaction as he pushes into him, takes him, wants to be able to read every heated expression. However, considering, this way is easier. For the both of them. Perhaps next time.
Next time? Next time?
’Getting ahead of yourself, mm, Sherlock?’
’...Shut up.’
But, realistically, it’s not much of an implausibility, this happening again. John letting him do this again. Wanting to do this again. Unless it doesn’t turn out well, which is a possibility as well, seeing he hasn’t much-any-skill in this area. Though, really, John being John would probably allow it anyway even if this goes terribly because John is polite in that way and that’s really the last thing Sherlock wants. And how high in standard does John hold his lovers? Lover? Is that what you are now? Is there a marked level of skill and anything below it warrants ‘not worth the effort?’
He’s thinking too much, he realizes suddenly. Thinking it right into the ground.
Wait, thinking too much? Since when?
John Watson is driving him mad.
Okay…madder.
Focus, register, bring himself back to the moment.
This moment.
A deep inhale and Sherlock moves, lets gravity have its way in a gradual manner and presses…
Those muscles give in a fractional way, and it must burn some, taking in John’s hiss as Sherlock breaches that resistance there slowly but steadily. Easy, easy, easy does it. Hot. Fuck, hot, in a literal way, the molten burn of John’s body temperature-is it supposed to be this hot? Is it supposed to be this tight?
No, no, John’s temperature was fine; well within the range of normal. It’s merely the fact that he himself has never experienced body heat in this manner compared to his own. And the snugness, perfectly normal for these muscles of the body it’s merely the fact John has never accommodated this kind of sexual activity before, according to John, and he, of course, has never committed it. It’s just the sensations, that what it is, throwing him off, mussing him up, this feel. God, the feel...
He’s gasping, can’t help it, not under the overwhelming nature of these sensations that are so new to him.
The head of himself halfway in and he pauses, relents, he has to hear it, has to be certain.
“…John?” Spoken near that flushed ear.
Erratic nodding, John twisting his face to the side, teeth in his bottom lip, face contorted in an expression that is dangerously akin to pain in Sherlock’s opinion but John is gritting out the words all the same.
“Yes, s’all right, m’all right, more, Sherlock… ke-keep… don’t s-stop, don’t stop now…”
S’all it takes.
Roll his hips downward, gasping against John’s shoulderblade as he feels the head of himself slide inside. Hardest part over with, it seems, because it only takes another fluid push and he’s… buried. Inside. All the way. Encased inside that blindingly wonderful heat. And the clasp of that body, John is tight silk around his cock.
His hips are settled completely against John’s and Sherlock is frozen there above him and against him, the naked heat of skin on his own, the sensation of being settled inside another body burning indelibly across his nerves. Etched into his memory, this moment, despite all the unexpected and unpredictable bouncing of flare-flashing synapses in his brain.
John wriggles beneath him and Sherlock draws back on instinct and the feel of doing so eradicates all coherent thought. God, the hot clamp of those muscles along the length of him. It’s far, far, far more pleasurable than John’s hand. Though John’s hand is a thick bit of good, too. He’s barely, in this moment, able to put words to it.
The head of his cock catches inside that body, and Sherlock is shaking and panting over John, a tremble through every limb and he unthinkingly rolls his hips forward again.
The feel, Jesus, the feel of John around him… He gasps in hot surprise against John’s nape, exhaling a shaky, broken sound of pleasure there.
Duck his head just a bit, hips drawing back, John’s moan echoing in his ears and head, and he can see himself slide into that body when he moves forward again. Fuck. Fuck. Holy fuck.
John writhes, John strains, and John’s hips rise back to meet him, to encourage him, avidly driving the rhythm of the movements on in this way.
Sherlock’s fingers dig and flex into the bedding, supporting him, his other hand reaches up and runs splayed fingers across the back of John’s nape and down between the shoulderblades before pulling away and pressing into the bed as well because his other arm is tremulous beneath his weight. John arches into the pet of that hand, face pressing more feverishly into the pillow as if to smother the hot, needy sounds that are escaping him.
Again Sherlock’s hand pulls from the bed, finding, instead, the lovely shape of a hip, fingers and palm molding there as if sculpted for it. The fit is perfect and Sherlock is breathless. The fit of them is perfect and it is so very, very unexpected.
John squirms, working his knees up beneath him more so.
Hands and knees, John moves up onto his hands and knees and it takes some of the pressure of balancing himself off of Sherlock. Able to settle back a bit more on his own knees. And with the gripping of that hip it’s the easiest thing in the world to guide John back against him when he withdraws and thrusts forward again.
John’s head ducks and he gives a half muffled moan, apparently approving of this action.
Repeat: pull back, thrust forward whilst pulling John against him. Again and again and each motion makes him want to press a bit harder, move a bit faster, some internal dial aching to be turned up.
Again, Sherlock is sure this motion will continue until they reach that beautifully wonderful climax, but, again, somehow, as always, John surprises him.
John moves forward on his knees, a hand searching back to grasp awkwardly at Sherlock’s hip, urging him forward as well. John shifts up, shifts up and grasps the headboard in both unsteady hands.
Oh. Oh, quite nice, this, being able to flex up on his knees fully and press to John’s back, one of his own hands laying over John’s own, grasping there at the headboard as well and his other slides across John’s chest, feeling the halting expanding and deflating of urgent breaths. In this position he’s able to grasp John’s jaw and turn his head, kiss him. It’s hurried and messy, this kiss and it makes a harder job of trying to breathe when so much is going on.
Draw his hips back and he thrusts forward again, sliding smoothly and slickly inside and, at this angle, it’s just right because he ends up pushing in and rubbing against that sensitive knot of nerves. John jerks, John cries out, and his head falls back to rest on Sherlock’s shoulder, those dark blue eyes screwed shut.
Yes. Yes. God, yes. John losing control for him. John flat-out just losing it for him.
Find that rhythm, find it and stick to it and let it drive them home.
Sherlock’s mouth smearing wet and hot along the side of John’s throat and he’s thrusting in again and the result is blistering and transfixing.
John’s body tenses, clamps around him harder, and with a hard shudder John’s head lolls on Sherlock’s shoulder.
“Oh-oh, God, oh, God, Sherlock… Sherlock, please-pleaseharder-please!“
Harder. Harder. And he does, he grips that hand gripping the headboard and his strong, supple-muscled arm snakes diagonally across that chest to dig his fingers into John’s shoulder, gracing scar tissue, bracing him back against his own body as he gives into the request, to the pleading.
John is an amalgamation of sweat, desperate sounds, desire and brilliant want.
John. Falling apart.
It happens quickly, which is expected, seeing as how neither of them are actually experienced in doing this, though John is certainly more familiar with the activity of sex than Sherlock. Though not this sort.
Not that that matters. Not that that matters at all when Sherlock’s hand drops away from John’s shoulder and that clever, knowing hand grips that precome slick cock and works his stroking in time with the press-push of their hips-harder, quicker, more. Concentrated and lost in the whirl and pitch of each sweet-hot sensation.
It’s an avalanche somehow-bodies and emotions and intents all rushing downhill to the inevitable slam of the end.
John goes alive with tension, his body tightening into a bright-hot coil and releasing in a crazed, shuddering snap as Sherlock’s cock rubs quick and hard up inside him, rubbing insistently right there, grinding, right fucking there. Breaking him apart with a hoarse, broken holler that folds around one name-Sherlock-and one name only. And it’s glorious.
Sherlock feels it, feels everything, feels the convulsive clamping of that body as John loses himself so completely, falling apart in vivid, magnificent shards, the vicious shiver and release, feels the hot, wet pulsing of come over his pale, gripping fingers.
His name. His name. His John. His name echoing in the air and in his ears and Sherlock gasps and whines as his own orgasm flashes over him a moment later, through him, obliterating him, driving white behind his eyes and shattering his thought processes as his teeth dig down into the resilient salty skin of John’s neck, just near the shoulder.
Sherlock bites as he comes, his hips shoved forward against John, muffling the hard-hot sound of pleasure that rushes up his throat.
John whimpers appreciatively, shuddering at the sweet spike of unexpected pain contrasting with the still lingering pleasure running through his blood.
Viciously possessive, that mouth, that biting, and John considers it absolutely, utterly perfect.
He’s biting, he realizes, when his thinking returns in jittery, sketchy flashes. And he releases the pressure immediately, tongue soothing over the evident teeth marks, sucking firm and apologetically. He rarely ever apologizes and even now he’s not doing so with words.
Sherlock’s hand is still gripped over John’s own, fingers entangling, his mouth smearing up the side of that throat and drinking in deep, unsteady lungfuls of air before he finds John’s lips and sinks into a long, searching kiss. A kiss that somehow explains his gratitude and affection and contentment all without a word.
Stop for breath, his brow against John’s, letting it rest there a good long moment before pulling his head back and opening his eyes, feeling and probably looking quite, quite dazed.
John’s eyes are open as well, regarding him with warmth and apparent pleasure, and that mouth quirks in a shaky, exerted, lopsided smile.
He’s flushed, touched with sweat, limp with satisfaction and that look suits John better than any other Sherlock has witnessed before.
John’s head lolls forward some, loose-hinged, and a deep breath is exhaled. The words, when spoken, are slightly slurred.
“I… need to stretch out. Yes, I… yes.”
Sherlock takes just a moment longer to savor the feel of John against him in this way before drawing back, slowly, feeling the slickness of his own come facilitating the slide of his softening cock out of that body.
John hisses just a bit and Sherlock knows that the other will be feeling this for the rest of the next day at least. He feels oddly proud of the fact, though he knows he probably shouldn’t. John with the constant reminder of him.
They move, stretch out, resting the exhausted tremble of over-worked bodies.
John takes a moment to grab tissues from the box on the nightstand, wiping at his stomach some and, then, somehow flushing darker Sherlock thinks, his inner thighs before those tissues are balled and erringly tossed toward the trash bin.
The action of cleaning up brings Sherlock to draw his own hand up, laying there on his back, studying the pearlized evidence of John’s orgasm glistening on his fingers. He draws his hand to his nose, sniffing lightly, and the smell is as expected, but then, as always, he has to take it a step further and flick his tongue out for a taste. Chemically, as in the smell, but salty and bitter, too. A bit like the taste of sucking on a copper piece drawn from the seashore, like metal encrusted with salt only a little something more, too. He suspects that that little something more is John and John alone, so naturally he licks his fingers more purposefully. That salt-metal chemical taste increases, along with that little something more, that little something John, so Sherlock ends up licking every bit of it clean of himself, swallowing all those bits of John he can manage. Because if it’s a bit of John Watson it’s not to be wasted. The thought doesn’t even surprise him when he thinks it, not here, not now.
Pity John had wiped down his stomach, Sherlock would have liked to lick that clean as well.
John is watching him with his mouth parted and color still in his cheeks, looking quite riveted.
Then Sherlock heedlessly slides his saliva-sticky hand across the bedsheet, cleaning his fingers as efficiently as possible and apparently ruining the moment as John’s expression turns exasperated.
“Yes, thank you for that. A washcloth being too far off and the tissues on my nightstand being too much effort, mm?”
“Shut up, it was quicker.”
“Oh, pillow talk now? Didn’t take you for the type.” John’s tone is dry but amused.
Sherlock twists, settling on his stomach, then squirms closer to that bared, stretched form, his hand sneaking over John’s abdomen and settling on his hip.
John seems pleased despite his whinging. Would, in fact, be purring Sherlock suspects, if he were capable of such.
“I don’t know what type I am.” Sherlock murmurs with all seriousness as he pillows his cheek against John’s bare shoulder, fascinated with the feel of that body heat against his own, and the contrast of his own pale skin tone against John’s slightly-less-pale one.
John turns his head, watching him, studying him. Sherlock can’t know what he’s observing but whatever John sees it seems to meet his approval as John presses a quick almost embarrassed kiss to Sherlock’s brow.
“Mm. My type. Apparently.”
A pause. Sherlock considers this very seriously.
“It seems I am.”
And John is smiling and it’s ocean breezes and shafts of sunlight through thunderheads and the appealing pull of a well-played violin.
It’s perfection the way John smiles and he wonders how in the hell he’d never noticed it before, how John had somehow hid it from him.
“I’d figured you’d at least thought about it.” John sounds downright happy when he says it.
“Mm?”
“Me. And you. What happened on your birthday. The kissing. The kissing of me, actually, and everything else that happened that night.”
“Oh.” Sherlock briefly entertains the memory of sitting on his bed in his socks with the birthday card John had given him, running his thumb over John’s signature. “Yes.”
Maybe a half a beat of silence, then-
“Good.”
They’re exhausted and sated and lax with comfort and John runs his hand over the back of Sherlock’s forearm and down to his hand there on his hip, letting it rest there as he shifts onto his side, pressing back until Sherlock is settled along his body comfortably as the sweat cools. Somehow the sheet gets pulled over them with a few jerky efforts.
John is lulling partway somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, feeling Sherlock’s steady breathing near the back of his ear and he’s surprised by a sleepy murmur there against his skin.
“We should do this again… it wasn’t boring.”
Which is about the biggest compliment that ever slips past Sherlock Holmes’ lips.
John smiles, his eyes closed, and his hand squeezes over Sherlock’s own briefly.
He knows he shouldn’t encourage the bloom of hope in his chest at those words, but he waters it anyway even as he slips into unconsciousness.
Tomorrow would be the deciding factor.
**
When John wakes in the morning Sherlock is not there but the sheet has been tucked around him. It takes just a second for uncertainty and disappointment to settle on him. Almost able to believe it never happened at all, save for his clothes are scattered over the floor and there’s… aches… in his body he’s not used to.
Like before, they won’t address this, he’s almost sure. They’ll go back to routine. Back to normalcy despite the half-asleep words Sherlock had slurred the night before.
He pulls on his jeans from the floor, doing them up. He needs to shower but he supposes that can wait long enough for a few things to get sorted out, so he wanders barefoot to his dresser for a shirt. A button-up is found and he slips his arms in, turning, reaching for the buttons but his own image in the mirror arrests him.
There. On the curve of his neck. Just there where it slopes to join his shoulder a dark, red, slightly rounded mark is visible.
John studies the sight of it, biting into his bottom lip and reaching up to let his fingertips flutter over the color of it.
Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock’s teeth.
A shiver runs through him.
Fuck.
He examines it just a few seconds longer before buttoning up his shirt and letting the material hide the evidence of it. Not seen but there’s no way he’s not going to be able to feel it there. With every turn of his head, with every tensing of his jaw, with every damn bloody movement…
Barefooted he wanders downstairs. There’s the smell of bacon and the sound of Mrs. Hudson humming.
The table is set with plates that bear toast and bacon and there’s cups of coffee. Still steaming, actually, so she hasn’t been at it long.
Sherlock is not seated, though. He’s nowhere in the main room and when he moves over for a peek in the kitchen he finds Mrs. Hudson alone.
He presses his lips in a brief, tense line then clears his throat, smiling out of habit.
“Morning, Mrs. Hudson.”
She glances up from where she’s apparently overseeing the cooking of the eggs and smiles brightly.
“Oh! Morning, John. Gave me a little fright. Have a seat, have a seat!”
He does sit, gingerly, considering the other plate for a moment before glancing back to the kitchen as Mrs. Hudson comes bustling out, a soft-boiled egg in its eggcup that’s placed on the plate before John.
“Sherlock…” He begins and Mrs. Hudson smiles and nods.
“Oh, yes, he just stepped out. Told me you’d be down soon as well. Said he wouldn’t be long.”
“I wasn’t.” Says the disembodied voice. John glances over immediately. Sherlock looks vaguely amused as he’s shrugging out of his jacket and hanging it on the back of the green door, all elegant, unnatural grace. “Morning, Mrs. Hudson.” His mere voice puts a streak of heat through John.
“Good morning, good morning. There you are, dear. Right, have a seat.”
Mrs. Hudson is moving back into the kitchen when Sherlock steps over, his hand going to John’s shoulder, squeezing lightly as the taller man leans in and secrets a kiss there behind John’s ear before muttering directly into it.
“And good morning to you, John.”
Sherlock’s hand slides down some and, even through the material, that thumb finds that tender mark just there on John’s neck, rubbing it lightly. That mark of claim purposefully attended to.
Fuck. Oh, fuck. And the pleasure that suddenly rushes through him, heavy and overwhelming.
It leaves him smiling directly at his plate as Sherlock steps away from him, off into the kitchen as Mrs. Hudson comes back in from that very same location and setting a small platter of butter down between the plates and another soft-boiled egg on the plate set for Sherlock.
She pauses after straightening, cocking her head to the side.
“John, dear, are you all right?”
He blinks, looking up.
“…What?”
“Your face. It’s a bit…” She waves a vague hand over her own face. “Flushed is all.”
Sherlock wanders back into the room, settling into the seat to the right of John and shaking out the newspaper.
“Oh… I…”
“He had a date last night, Mrs. Hudson. It apparently turned out well. He’s still recuperating.” Sherlock supplies, face behind the paper. Ah, and he’d forgotten to cancel, but John is fairly sure she’ll get over it as he has far more important matters to attend to.
Like darting out his foot in a swift barefooted kick, catching the side of Sherlock’s shin a bit roughly even as his smile widens at Mrs. Hudson and he nods in agreement.
She pats his shoulder, tutting lightly before moving away.
John turns his head to glare at the paper hiding Sherlock’s face.
“Bastard,” he accuses softly to an advertisement on furniture.
Sherlock drops the newspaper down a bit and offers him a smirk.
“It’s more or less the truth, isn’t it? I suppose I could fill in the details…” In that low timbre, drawled.
“You’ll keep your mouth shut.”
Sherlock’s smirk stretches as he draws the paper up again.
“I’m sure you’ll have fun trying to find a way to make me.”
John’s not sure, exactly, what he’s signing himself up for, but he knows he likes it. And, really, he’s always up for a challenge.
And, naturally, it won’t be boring.
-The End-
Author: Nakeno
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: I own nothing and this certainly isn't meant to disrespect anyone.
Summary: A streak of something, a streak of something decidedly green, goes racing down Sherlock’s spine and that… that is quite alarming in and of itself. He’s never really felt it before to this degree. Not like this. Ever.
A/N: This is a direct sequel to Evidence Enough, however I feel the first bit fits more accurately in the in-between bits of canon, but I couldn’t help myself, I need them to be together.
The point of view changes completely to John’s near the end, and though it is marked with a time-jump, I hope it doesn’t jar too hard. One would think it would be far easier to stick to John’s voice all the way but Sherlock just keeps butting in and taking over. …But he would, I suppose.
Oh, also, this is pretty much just a bit of possessive Sherlock and sex with a bit of window dressing. …Ahem, yes, I’ll try for more character study in the future.
It takes a while, quite a while actually, after the pleasant anomaly of Sherlock’s birthday for it to happen. But it does happen. And, when it does, it’s almost a slap in the face because, really, somehow, it hadn’t occurred to Sherlock that it might and, looking back on that, he finds that he’s rather irritated at himself for not considering it. Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid…
He has an array of beakers and Petri dishes arranged just so across the kitchen table, currently bent over a dish containing a rust covered nail with his eyedropper in hand, his eyebrows shooting up toward his hairline under his safety glasses.
The time is fifteen toward eight in the evening precisely and he’s frozen there, mid-movement, his head turned toward the main room.
John Watson is there. He’s there and his button-up, the nice blue checkered one that brings out his eyes, is ironed and he’s wearing his good jeans. John’s black jacket, the fairly decent one, is draped over the back of the armchair and, after checking his wristwatch, John picks it up and begins to tug it on. There’s the scent of cologne on the air, the cologne that’s barely used, the high-dollar stuff that Harry had gifted John with last Christmas. The cologne John only wears if he has a-
“Date. You’re going on a date.” His voice is flat, even. Because he hadn’t thought about it. Not for one second. And that irritated him.
Funnily, a voice that sounds an awful lot like John’s goes traipsing through his head at that moment, ‘Can’t have it both ways, can you, Sherlock? Either you can have it this way or…’
John’s actual voice is heard then and John is looking at him: “Hm? Oh, yeah. Dinner. Won’t be long. Just around the corner, actually, at that little Italian place that you… hate. Ahem, yeah. Mike introduced us. She seems nice enough.”
A streak of something, a streak of something decidedly green, goes racing down Sherlock’s spine and that… that is quite alarming in and of itself. He’s never really felt it before to this degree. Not like this. Ever.
John frowns slightly, staring back at Sherlock staring at him as he’s straightening the collar on his jacket.
Sherlock schools his features, refusing to let emotion, that oh-so rare happening, have its full say. He shoves it down, shoves it away. Keep himself divorced and detached. Aloof.
He turns his face back downward again and forces his hand to lower until the eyedropper is hovering above the pointed tip of the nail.
John stares for a moment, watching him, tilting his head to the side just a bit.
“Do you need me for something?”
He presses out a tiny bit of the chemical compound he’d been mixing together most of the evening and because of John he squeezes out more than he intends. How annoying.
“No.” Blank. Curt.
John moves closer, grasping at the edge of the framed glass doors that they hardly ever use to divide the kitchen from the main room.
“Anything you need me to pick up?”
“No.”
Those doctor’s fingers tap out a quick rhythm on the wood as John turns his head away, nodding once.
“Right, then. I’ll be back.”
John vanishes past the wall. One step, two step, three step, pause. Back-tracking, the sound of those shoes coming back over the floor.
Sherlock doesn’t look up when John pokes back around the corner, gripping the glass door again, his other hand moving up to rub at the back of his neck.
“I… I can cancel.” He clears his throat. “If… if you want me to.”
Sherlock settles the eyedropper down, straightening, brow furrowed, not sparing John a look.
“Why would I want you to do that?” He knows he sounds tetchy. Yes, why?
John drops his head, a dry smile pulling up his lips, fingers tapping at the wood again.
“No… reason. No reason at all. Right. Back in a bit.”
This time, when John disappears past the wall, Sherlock does look up, glancing at where John was just standing. Then downward to where his own hands are gripping the edge of the table, gripping tightly enough to drain blood from his knuckles.
A second of thought. Just a second. Then he’s wrenching off his safety glasses to the table and whirling away, yanking open the kitchen’s door to the stairs.
John is there on his way to the steps and at the sight of Sherlock he blinks, slowing and stopping in puzzlement.
He doesn’t give him a second, just moves, advances on him fast and fluid. Pale hands to those black-coated shoulders and pushing backward until John finds the wall.
“Sherlock-“
Sherlock ducks his head and slants his mouth over John’s before he can even finish voicing his confusion. Warm, fast, firm. He drinks the soft sound of surprise John gives, the tip of his tongue slipping against the seam of John’s lips, lips that part open almost immediately, granting entrance, and Sherlock presses the advantage, sliding his tongue in fully and giving the most hedonistic hum of approval.
Toothpaste and salt and John.
His hands slide up those shoulders and his slim white fingers splay along either side of that jaw.
He presses, licks, tasting over enamel and supple tongue and probing into sweet, wet, undiscovered corners. It’s hurried and hot and… possessive. A claim driven by that spike of jealousy he’d felt at the thought of anyone else, anyone at all, doing this with John Watson.
John’s hands are up and fisted into Sherlock’s white button-up at his sides, blazer-less.
His head tilts more at the feel of those fingers twisting into the material at his flanks, he presses that kiss harder. Presses for more. He writes his claim there with his tongue until he absolutely must break for air, breaking that kiss with a gasp.
When he blinks his eyes open, John looks practically dazed. His mouth is open, red and wet from the pressure and his fingers uncurl and his hands slide up Sherlock’s back, pressing in flatly at those shoulderblades and drawing him back in.
Their mouths meet again with slightly less violence and John’s tongue curls and licks against Sherlock’s own for a few long, delicious seconds before they break for breath again.
John’s head thumps lightly back against the wall, color up in those cheeks, eyes closed and tongue wetting at his lips.
Again John looks at him, nodding once, then once more.
“Right…” Rough in tone, just as rough little pushes of his mouth on Sherlock’s between words. “I’ll… I’ll cancel, I’ll cancel, it’s cancelled, consider it done.”
Damn right he would. Sherlock wasn’t giving this nameless, faceless woman a chance. Not a single chance.
No way in hell.
Sherlock’s clever, elegant fingers slip down from John’s face, rubbing palms down over his chest and slipping about his waist, both arms pulling John against him as he takes his mouth again. Oh, and the pleased, muffled moan John gives because of it…
John steps right into it, right into him. Magnetic and transfixing.
He pulls him from the wall and John moves with him, fisting at Sherlock’s shirt again at the shoulders, mouth open and moving and working against Sherlock’s own eagerly.
A stuttering step or two and their kiss breaks again.
John sucks in a quick breath, “Right, upstairs. My room. Upstairs. Now.”
He doesn’t question it, though he knows what the meaning of moving this to a bedroom will actually mean, just drops his arms from around John’s middle and grips his hand instead-registering calluses, finger lengths, the fit of palms, the underlying strength in the way that hand squeezes around his own-before turning and pulling him along with him.
As if he’s ever had to pull John along for anything which is a marvelous, marvelous thing about his one and only friend but not the only marvelous, marvelous thing which makes it all the better.
They make a quick job of the steps and John’s bedside lamp is on, which is good, saves them time as Sherlock yanks John in and turns on him, pushing him up against the door as it slaps shut.
He’s pleased with the way John’s mouth opens for him so readily, utterly pleased with the way John’s spine arches off the door trying to get nearer even as Sherlock’s hands are roughly rucking up under that jacket and working it down and off him with something decidedly like impatience.
On their way back up his hands yank that tucked shirt free of the jeans, starting at the buttons blindly as his mouth finds the tap-tap-tap of pulse under John’s jaw, sucking there. John gasps at the sensation and the sound of it fills Sherlock with pinpoint sized bursts of heat that pop like fireworks, expanding and growing in rapid order. Heat like before. Want like before. Happening again-oh, Jesus, don’t let it stop.
John grips at his hair, drags his hands down to dig fingertips into the back of Sherlock’s neck. His own head is tilted up and to the side, eyes closed as Sherlock’s tongue paints a wet path down from his jaw and along his throat. He jerks, shivers, pressing into the contact and gasping harshly.
“Sherlock…” Shaky and moaned.
The shirt parts open and John has to lower his arms as Sherlock jerk-tugs it off him, tossing it aside heedlessly and letting his long-fingered detective’s hands pet and grip over the newly exposed skin. Fluttering over shoulders, fingering over biceps, feathering over ribs and feeling each struggled breath drawn in and released from that warm chest, eagerly drinking in all the new data.
John arches into the sensation and Sherlock tests his teeth in the swooping wing of the collarbone, reveling in the hard-drawn breath and tremble that results.
John’s warm, solid, strong, lovely, his… In this moment, John Watson is his. And, God, the unexpected thrill that gives him. It’s dizzying and exhilarating, makes his heart thump harder thus his blood pump faster.
Sherlock’s hair is finger-mussed and his eyelids are heavy, pupils dilated, mouth colored a deeper shade of red when he pulls up and lets his hands stroke down John’s bare stomach, thumb circling the navel, and fingers lowering to the buckle of that belt.
He traces it, paws at it.
Then lower, palm cupping upward as he strokes up between John’s thighs, feeling him hot and hard and ready even through the denim.
John breathes in sharply, stomach muscles tensing, head going back. He nods jerkily, hips canting into the contact and his hands smooth down the length of Sherlock’s arms, squeezing at the wrists.
“God, yeah… yes, Sherlock, yes. …Please.”
That sweetly given permission is all it takes. The buckle comes undone under anxious tugs and jerks and he’s pulling the leather free as John himself is undoing the buttons on Sherlock’s white shirt.
He takes a moment, breathing heavily, reaching up and helping with the shedding of his button-up. Shrug it off, yank it free of his slacks, toss it aside. Bare from the waist up.
The glint of the button as it pops free, the metallic grit of the zipper, his mouth capturing John’s in hectic, needy heat, a hum of pleasure vibrating through the kiss.
Press open the V of those jeans, get his hands down there, working one beneath an elastic band and it’s hot silky velvet over steel the feel of John’s erection under his touch. He strokes, grips and John jerk-surges into him like a livewire, whimpering heated and helpless where he’s got his face hidden away against Sherlock’s shoulder.
“Sherlock-Sherlock…” John’s brow tips down to rest against that same bare shoulder, head tilting back and forth, eyes closed tight, writhing and desperate and, “Please, oh, please-Sherlock, please, yes, yes, oh, God… don’t… d-don’t stop, don’t stop; I want you, fuck, Jesus, I do. Please…” Babbled breathlessly.
It propels Sherlock into action, the blinding stab of desire John’s helpless pleading drives straight through his core. His body thrums, his nerves singing with sensation and alertness, every sense heightened and sharpened.
Arm circling around the other’s waist, jerking John from the wall and against him, somehow having become the commander in a situation where he doesn’t know the battlefield quite as well as the soldier in his arms. The soldier who is stalwart and loyal and giving and hishishis… He’s riding on pure instinct and it seems to be serving him well.
John trembles and groans in his embrace, his other hand still buried inside rumpled clothing, still clasping the heat of John’s want and stroking, those slender fingers sure and encompassing. He can feel him throb in his grasp and John whines against Sherlock’s throat and thrusts into the feel of the friction.
‘I want you…’ Those words twist all kinds of interesting tangles inside Sherlock, some of which he’s not even sure how to go about sorting out, which is new. They bring a flush to his face and push a shudder through his body.
It’s good. Bloody good. He expects it’ll go on this way, that John will come apart for him right here on his feet, still halfway in his clothes, but then there’s a hand around his wrist. That steady stroking arrested and for a heartbeat Sherlock worries he’s done something wrong. John has drawn his head back, panting, wetting his lips, his eyelids heavy but fighting open.
“Bed.” Breathlessly uttered. A clearing of his throat. “On the bed. With me. C’mon.”
John pulls away some and his hands grasp at the loosened material of his jeans, holding them up and toeing out of his shoes and Sherlock hesitates for a moment then he fights open his own belt, his own slacks.
They jerk and pull and disrobe, though, for a moment there Sherlock thought to stop John, to tell him ‘no’ and ‘let me’ because undressing John would be like opening the perfect present you never knew you’d asked for even when Sherlock knows he doesn’t much care for presents. At all, really, as they’re mostly useless, but if that present were John… Seeing all the clothing fall away under his own ministrations would be wonderful-the wrapping falling away to reveal the thing that steals the breath-but right now, this moment, it’s the feeling that’s got him aching, it’s the feeling he wants more of so undressing separately is more expedient. Sherlock is naked before John, but just after John strips off his last sock he’s against Sherlock, his arms around him, his bare body a hot brand, strong and solid, and Sherlock gets a glimpse of the bullet-shaped scar on the left shoulder, dangerously close to the clavicle and sternum. He has the brief thought of bludgeoning a shooter’s face in until it’s bloody chunks of bone and mashed brain matter with the smooth side of a large rock.
John’s hands splay greedily over the small of his back, thrusting up on the fronts of his feet, their erections sliding together, trapped within the smooth slip of their tightened stomachs and it shoots blinding beams through Sherlock’s thought processes like white noise on a radio or snowy static on a television set.
They make it to the bed somehow. Somehow. Everything seems to be in snapshots currently: atop John; John’s dull nails into the skin on either side of his spine; hungry mess of a kiss, heated naked form surging beneath him, a taut line of tension and need; naked limbs entangled and moving.
John with his thighs parted, Sherlock’s weight settled between them, those same thighs pressing into the hitch of smooth hips, cradling him and encouraging him.
Fingers in his hair, mussing and tangling in the soft, dark brown locks. John’s tongue in his mouth, licking the taste of him out. Those hands squeeze over his nape and smooth down his back as they writhe and move, sliding down over the dip of his vertebrae and passing over the curve of his ass. John seems to like petting over Sherlock’s back. Sherlock likes letting him.
Sherlock shivers at the feel of those warm, strong hands exploring him so liberally.
There’s a hitched moan when John’s mouth slides from his, gulping in a breath and pressing the side of his face against Sherlock’s own, more or less nuzzling it seems.
“D-drawer…” John stutters. “My drawer, the… t-the bottle, get it. Please.”
Sherlock draws his head back, blinking in bland surprise at John’s contorted expression. Hands to the bed, hefting up, hesitating only a moment before leaning over and pulling open the bedside drawer, the slide of wood on wood. A small white bottle there, rolling. Sherlock picks it up in a bit of a stunned state and John seems to sense it, wriggling beneath his weight, flushing harder.
“I… I bought it. After your birthday. I… God, I want… Never tried it before, but I want you to… You. I want to do this with you.” Now that is telling. Those are the words that didn’t getting uttered on his birthday, though John had been a hair’s breadth close to doing so when he’d admitted to thinking of Sherlock in an ‘off-hand’ way. There’s hope embroidered in John’s voice now and a touch of nervousness as if Sherlock might deny the idea.
God. Oh, God. Oh, fucking God. John. John. To be inside John. To fuck John. His best friend. His only friend.
Sherlock rubs his thumb along the plastic of the bottle, thumbing at the cap. It hasn’t been used. Brand new. Bought with intention. Intentions on him. Bought for this.
…John wants him to fuck him.
OhbloodyJesusChrist.
He shifts against John’s body, pressing his elbow into the bedding and sliding over, off of John and settling next to him.
It’s an easy decision with the pleasure and the high that roils through his body.
The pop of the plastic cap sounds loud in the room along with their ragged breathing.
“Guide us through it.” There’s a quaver in the words and he can see the nervousness that causes it reflected in John’s Adam’s apple bobbing around a hard swallow.
“There’s condoms, as well, in the back of that drawer. I’m clean, and I assume you are too, considering, but if you want-“
“Guide us through it.”
“Right…” John sits up a bit, pauses, then leans in to kiss Sherlock’s mouth before twisting about, settling on his stomach and folding his arms beneath him. “We start with fingers. Apply it to your fingers and… a-and, well…”
As John’s body is stretched out and bare Sherlock gives into the urge to press up against his side, cock and stomach pressing into a hip as he ducks his head and parts his mouth against the silken skin of that nape. He sucks firmly and John wriggles against the bedding, giving a drawn out, urgent little moan as his head tilts forward to accommodate. It’s nearly submissive, that. Sherlock finds he approves of that reaction. Immensely, in fact.
Slippery, cool, slick that lubrication on his fingers. The bottle set aside and his mouth does back to attending to John’s neck as those supple fingers seek lower, moving down then… sliding up, between, slicking as they go and Sherlock is humming around a mouthful of skin and delicately rubbing against a tight ring of muscle.
John gasps, hiding his face in the pillow, an arm stretching out and finding a handful of sheet to grasp and squeeze.
Those fingers are elegant and firm, flexing there against that heat and tightness-rubbing, rubbing, rubbing until some instinct inside guides Sherlock to press his index finger there and slide it in…
John makes a broken, haggard little sound, shoulders hunching and body shivering. Sherlock pauses a moment, entranced with the heat and tightness around his finger, but unwilling to cause any pain. This doesn’t have to hurt. He’s never done this before, in any form, but he knows if he’s careful there’d be no pain involved. He wants John but he doesn’t want to hurt him. Never hurt him. And it’s a sweet thought, somehow, the idea of them venturing into this new ground together.
That body shifts, those thighs part a little more and John groans, shaking his head, eyes closed, face half hidden in the pillow.
“Ke-keep going, Sherlock… keep on…”
Keep on. Sherlock huffs softly then tests his teeth just under the hairline as his finger flexes forward-in, all the way in, as far as he can. Rub, slide, curl his finger inside the sweet snugness of that body.
Shifting, moving, John cants his hips back against that penetration, a shaky moan emitted when he strokes up inside him just so.
Draw back near fully, slip it in again, start up a slow rhythm and John’s hips follow suit, curve-pushing in time with him.
It’s magnetic and mesmerizing the primal instinct of the action and Sherlock is smearing his mouth down a bare shoulder as he pulls his hand back and adds another finger just to feel John shudder so desperately against him.
Yes. Oh, God, yes. Long, pale fingers pressing deeper, rubbing fluidly, gracefully pushing. Just up against the bundled knot of nerves inside that makes John tense up then jerk, a sharp little cry of surprise and pleasure. There we are. Just there.
John rubs his face into the pillow, pressing his hips back where he’s stretched around Sherlock’s fingers. Sherlock’s wonderful, beautiful, absolutely fabulous fingers that are petting up against that hot-sensitive button inside him and driving him blind with want.
Keep up the rhythm-press and rub, twisting his wrist just so, feeling his fingers sliding against each other in that slickened heat and tightness, the silken inside of John’s body. Back and forth, easy and steady and Sherlock is transfixed by how John responds to his touch; moaning, writhing, stuttering curses from time to time. It’s flattering and arousing and so many other words that tick fast through his brain like the fluttering of pages, scarcely forming.
Ease his fingers nearly free before adding another, feeling the stretch of the muscles when he presses back in again. Teasing, stretching, readying: stroke just so up inside against that spot-the prostate, of course-and feel John surge and groan and curse.
Sherlock peppers kisses just behind the ear on that soft, soft skin.
Patience, patience, don’t force it, the more time he takes to let John’s body adjust, the easier this will be.
“Oh, dear God, Sherlock, please…”
So much for that plan.
He pulls his fingers back fluidly, the lubrication easing the way. As he does so he feels a spear of anxiety-can’t be helped, really, considering his inexperience.
His fingers are shaking now, he’s shaking, he notes, as he gathers up the bottle again and deposits more of that clear, slippery substance onto his already slick fingers and palm. The bottle clicked shut again, tossed aside onto the nightstand, and Sherlock closes his eyes and breathes deep before committing to action.
He lets his mouth smear down John’s spine, feeling, no tasting, the shift of each vertebrae of the ladder of the spine as he pushes away some and sits up on his knees.
Hand around himself, a slight shiver from the coolness, fingers gripping and palm smearing the length of his erection. And, oh God, what comes next… The next step, the final step, and, at the thought, he can feel himself throb with the want of it.
What the hell has John Watson done to him without even trying?
John is breathing heavily and shallowly and Sherlock adjusts himself on his knees between the spread of pale thighs.
A hand to the bed near John’s shoulder, John’s own fingers wrenching into the bed sheet and Sherlock’s other hand to the base of himself to guide the movement-the slick-hot head of himself against that ring of muscle.
It’s hot. Jesus, it’s hot, just rubbing himself there, and as he does so, John shivers in the most alluring manner.
He watches, intently, the shift and tensing of muscles in those shoulders, the way that head lolls and turns, any indication whatsoever for a halt on the events. It’d be far easier to gauge reaction if he were able to see John’s face. He wants that, really. He wants to be able to see John’s reaction as he pushes into him, takes him, wants to be able to read every heated expression. However, considering, this way is easier. For the both of them. Perhaps next time.
Next time? Next time?
’Getting ahead of yourself, mm, Sherlock?’
’...Shut up.’
But, realistically, it’s not much of an implausibility, this happening again. John letting him do this again. Wanting to do this again. Unless it doesn’t turn out well, which is a possibility as well, seeing he hasn’t much-any-skill in this area. Though, really, John being John would probably allow it anyway even if this goes terribly because John is polite in that way and that’s really the last thing Sherlock wants. And how high in standard does John hold his lovers? Lover? Is that what you are now? Is there a marked level of skill and anything below it warrants ‘not worth the effort?’
He’s thinking too much, he realizes suddenly. Thinking it right into the ground.
Wait, thinking too much? Since when?
John Watson is driving him mad.
Okay…madder.
Focus, register, bring himself back to the moment.
This moment.
A deep inhale and Sherlock moves, lets gravity have its way in a gradual manner and presses…
Those muscles give in a fractional way, and it must burn some, taking in John’s hiss as Sherlock breaches that resistance there slowly but steadily. Easy, easy, easy does it. Hot. Fuck, hot, in a literal way, the molten burn of John’s body temperature-is it supposed to be this hot? Is it supposed to be this tight?
No, no, John’s temperature was fine; well within the range of normal. It’s merely the fact that he himself has never experienced body heat in this manner compared to his own. And the snugness, perfectly normal for these muscles of the body it’s merely the fact John has never accommodated this kind of sexual activity before, according to John, and he, of course, has never committed it. It’s just the sensations, that what it is, throwing him off, mussing him up, this feel. God, the feel...
He’s gasping, can’t help it, not under the overwhelming nature of these sensations that are so new to him.
The head of himself halfway in and he pauses, relents, he has to hear it, has to be certain.
“…John?” Spoken near that flushed ear.
Erratic nodding, John twisting his face to the side, teeth in his bottom lip, face contorted in an expression that is dangerously akin to pain in Sherlock’s opinion but John is gritting out the words all the same.
“Yes, s’all right, m’all right, more, Sherlock… ke-keep… don’t s-stop, don’t stop now…”
S’all it takes.
Roll his hips downward, gasping against John’s shoulderblade as he feels the head of himself slide inside. Hardest part over with, it seems, because it only takes another fluid push and he’s… buried. Inside. All the way. Encased inside that blindingly wonderful heat. And the clasp of that body, John is tight silk around his cock.
His hips are settled completely against John’s and Sherlock is frozen there above him and against him, the naked heat of skin on his own, the sensation of being settled inside another body burning indelibly across his nerves. Etched into his memory, this moment, despite all the unexpected and unpredictable bouncing of flare-flashing synapses in his brain.
John wriggles beneath him and Sherlock draws back on instinct and the feel of doing so eradicates all coherent thought. God, the hot clamp of those muscles along the length of him. It’s far, far, far more pleasurable than John’s hand. Though John’s hand is a thick bit of good, too. He’s barely, in this moment, able to put words to it.
The head of his cock catches inside that body, and Sherlock is shaking and panting over John, a tremble through every limb and he unthinkingly rolls his hips forward again.
The feel, Jesus, the feel of John around him… He gasps in hot surprise against John’s nape, exhaling a shaky, broken sound of pleasure there.
Duck his head just a bit, hips drawing back, John’s moan echoing in his ears and head, and he can see himself slide into that body when he moves forward again. Fuck. Fuck. Holy fuck.
John writhes, John strains, and John’s hips rise back to meet him, to encourage him, avidly driving the rhythm of the movements on in this way.
Sherlock’s fingers dig and flex into the bedding, supporting him, his other hand reaches up and runs splayed fingers across the back of John’s nape and down between the shoulderblades before pulling away and pressing into the bed as well because his other arm is tremulous beneath his weight. John arches into the pet of that hand, face pressing more feverishly into the pillow as if to smother the hot, needy sounds that are escaping him.
Again Sherlock’s hand pulls from the bed, finding, instead, the lovely shape of a hip, fingers and palm molding there as if sculpted for it. The fit is perfect and Sherlock is breathless. The fit of them is perfect and it is so very, very unexpected.
John squirms, working his knees up beneath him more so.
Hands and knees, John moves up onto his hands and knees and it takes some of the pressure of balancing himself off of Sherlock. Able to settle back a bit more on his own knees. And with the gripping of that hip it’s the easiest thing in the world to guide John back against him when he withdraws and thrusts forward again.
John’s head ducks and he gives a half muffled moan, apparently approving of this action.
Repeat: pull back, thrust forward whilst pulling John against him. Again and again and each motion makes him want to press a bit harder, move a bit faster, some internal dial aching to be turned up.
Again, Sherlock is sure this motion will continue until they reach that beautifully wonderful climax, but, again, somehow, as always, John surprises him.
John moves forward on his knees, a hand searching back to grasp awkwardly at Sherlock’s hip, urging him forward as well. John shifts up, shifts up and grasps the headboard in both unsteady hands.
Oh. Oh, quite nice, this, being able to flex up on his knees fully and press to John’s back, one of his own hands laying over John’s own, grasping there at the headboard as well and his other slides across John’s chest, feeling the halting expanding and deflating of urgent breaths. In this position he’s able to grasp John’s jaw and turn his head, kiss him. It’s hurried and messy, this kiss and it makes a harder job of trying to breathe when so much is going on.
Draw his hips back and he thrusts forward again, sliding smoothly and slickly inside and, at this angle, it’s just right because he ends up pushing in and rubbing against that sensitive knot of nerves. John jerks, John cries out, and his head falls back to rest on Sherlock’s shoulder, those dark blue eyes screwed shut.
Yes. Yes. God, yes. John losing control for him. John flat-out just losing it for him.
Find that rhythm, find it and stick to it and let it drive them home.
Sherlock’s mouth smearing wet and hot along the side of John’s throat and he’s thrusting in again and the result is blistering and transfixing.
John’s body tenses, clamps around him harder, and with a hard shudder John’s head lolls on Sherlock’s shoulder.
“Oh-oh, God, oh, God, Sherlock… Sherlock, please-pleaseharder-please!“
Harder. Harder. And he does, he grips that hand gripping the headboard and his strong, supple-muscled arm snakes diagonally across that chest to dig his fingers into John’s shoulder, gracing scar tissue, bracing him back against his own body as he gives into the request, to the pleading.
John is an amalgamation of sweat, desperate sounds, desire and brilliant want.
John. Falling apart.
It happens quickly, which is expected, seeing as how neither of them are actually experienced in doing this, though John is certainly more familiar with the activity of sex than Sherlock. Though not this sort.
Not that that matters. Not that that matters at all when Sherlock’s hand drops away from John’s shoulder and that clever, knowing hand grips that precome slick cock and works his stroking in time with the press-push of their hips-harder, quicker, more. Concentrated and lost in the whirl and pitch of each sweet-hot sensation.
It’s an avalanche somehow-bodies and emotions and intents all rushing downhill to the inevitable slam of the end.
John goes alive with tension, his body tightening into a bright-hot coil and releasing in a crazed, shuddering snap as Sherlock’s cock rubs quick and hard up inside him, rubbing insistently right there, grinding, right fucking there. Breaking him apart with a hoarse, broken holler that folds around one name-Sherlock-and one name only. And it’s glorious.
Sherlock feels it, feels everything, feels the convulsive clamping of that body as John loses himself so completely, falling apart in vivid, magnificent shards, the vicious shiver and release, feels the hot, wet pulsing of come over his pale, gripping fingers.
His name. His name. His John. His name echoing in the air and in his ears and Sherlock gasps and whines as his own orgasm flashes over him a moment later, through him, obliterating him, driving white behind his eyes and shattering his thought processes as his teeth dig down into the resilient salty skin of John’s neck, just near the shoulder.
Sherlock bites as he comes, his hips shoved forward against John, muffling the hard-hot sound of pleasure that rushes up his throat.
John whimpers appreciatively, shuddering at the sweet spike of unexpected pain contrasting with the still lingering pleasure running through his blood.
Viciously possessive, that mouth, that biting, and John considers it absolutely, utterly perfect.
He’s biting, he realizes, when his thinking returns in jittery, sketchy flashes. And he releases the pressure immediately, tongue soothing over the evident teeth marks, sucking firm and apologetically. He rarely ever apologizes and even now he’s not doing so with words.
Sherlock’s hand is still gripped over John’s own, fingers entangling, his mouth smearing up the side of that throat and drinking in deep, unsteady lungfuls of air before he finds John’s lips and sinks into a long, searching kiss. A kiss that somehow explains his gratitude and affection and contentment all without a word.
Stop for breath, his brow against John’s, letting it rest there a good long moment before pulling his head back and opening his eyes, feeling and probably looking quite, quite dazed.
John’s eyes are open as well, regarding him with warmth and apparent pleasure, and that mouth quirks in a shaky, exerted, lopsided smile.
He’s flushed, touched with sweat, limp with satisfaction and that look suits John better than any other Sherlock has witnessed before.
John’s head lolls forward some, loose-hinged, and a deep breath is exhaled. The words, when spoken, are slightly slurred.
“I… need to stretch out. Yes, I… yes.”
Sherlock takes just a moment longer to savor the feel of John against him in this way before drawing back, slowly, feeling the slickness of his own come facilitating the slide of his softening cock out of that body.
John hisses just a bit and Sherlock knows that the other will be feeling this for the rest of the next day at least. He feels oddly proud of the fact, though he knows he probably shouldn’t. John with the constant reminder of him.
They move, stretch out, resting the exhausted tremble of over-worked bodies.
John takes a moment to grab tissues from the box on the nightstand, wiping at his stomach some and, then, somehow flushing darker Sherlock thinks, his inner thighs before those tissues are balled and erringly tossed toward the trash bin.
The action of cleaning up brings Sherlock to draw his own hand up, laying there on his back, studying the pearlized evidence of John’s orgasm glistening on his fingers. He draws his hand to his nose, sniffing lightly, and the smell is as expected, but then, as always, he has to take it a step further and flick his tongue out for a taste. Chemically, as in the smell, but salty and bitter, too. A bit like the taste of sucking on a copper piece drawn from the seashore, like metal encrusted with salt only a little something more, too. He suspects that that little something more is John and John alone, so naturally he licks his fingers more purposefully. That salt-metal chemical taste increases, along with that little something more, that little something John, so Sherlock ends up licking every bit of it clean of himself, swallowing all those bits of John he can manage. Because if it’s a bit of John Watson it’s not to be wasted. The thought doesn’t even surprise him when he thinks it, not here, not now.
Pity John had wiped down his stomach, Sherlock would have liked to lick that clean as well.
John is watching him with his mouth parted and color still in his cheeks, looking quite riveted.
Then Sherlock heedlessly slides his saliva-sticky hand across the bedsheet, cleaning his fingers as efficiently as possible and apparently ruining the moment as John’s expression turns exasperated.
“Yes, thank you for that. A washcloth being too far off and the tissues on my nightstand being too much effort, mm?”
“Shut up, it was quicker.”
“Oh, pillow talk now? Didn’t take you for the type.” John’s tone is dry but amused.
Sherlock twists, settling on his stomach, then squirms closer to that bared, stretched form, his hand sneaking over John’s abdomen and settling on his hip.
John seems pleased despite his whinging. Would, in fact, be purring Sherlock suspects, if he were capable of such.
“I don’t know what type I am.” Sherlock murmurs with all seriousness as he pillows his cheek against John’s bare shoulder, fascinated with the feel of that body heat against his own, and the contrast of his own pale skin tone against John’s slightly-less-pale one.
John turns his head, watching him, studying him. Sherlock can’t know what he’s observing but whatever John sees it seems to meet his approval as John presses a quick almost embarrassed kiss to Sherlock’s brow.
“Mm. My type. Apparently.”
A pause. Sherlock considers this very seriously.
“It seems I am.”
And John is smiling and it’s ocean breezes and shafts of sunlight through thunderheads and the appealing pull of a well-played violin.
It’s perfection the way John smiles and he wonders how in the hell he’d never noticed it before, how John had somehow hid it from him.
“I’d figured you’d at least thought about it.” John sounds downright happy when he says it.
“Mm?”
“Me. And you. What happened on your birthday. The kissing. The kissing of me, actually, and everything else that happened that night.”
“Oh.” Sherlock briefly entertains the memory of sitting on his bed in his socks with the birthday card John had given him, running his thumb over John’s signature. “Yes.”
Maybe a half a beat of silence, then-
“Good.”
They’re exhausted and sated and lax with comfort and John runs his hand over the back of Sherlock’s forearm and down to his hand there on his hip, letting it rest there as he shifts onto his side, pressing back until Sherlock is settled along his body comfortably as the sweat cools. Somehow the sheet gets pulled over them with a few jerky efforts.
John is lulling partway somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, feeling Sherlock’s steady breathing near the back of his ear and he’s surprised by a sleepy murmur there against his skin.
“We should do this again… it wasn’t boring.”
Which is about the biggest compliment that ever slips past Sherlock Holmes’ lips.
John smiles, his eyes closed, and his hand squeezes over Sherlock’s own briefly.
He knows he shouldn’t encourage the bloom of hope in his chest at those words, but he waters it anyway even as he slips into unconsciousness.
Tomorrow would be the deciding factor.
**
When John wakes in the morning Sherlock is not there but the sheet has been tucked around him. It takes just a second for uncertainty and disappointment to settle on him. Almost able to believe it never happened at all, save for his clothes are scattered over the floor and there’s… aches… in his body he’s not used to.
Like before, they won’t address this, he’s almost sure. They’ll go back to routine. Back to normalcy despite the half-asleep words Sherlock had slurred the night before.
He pulls on his jeans from the floor, doing them up. He needs to shower but he supposes that can wait long enough for a few things to get sorted out, so he wanders barefoot to his dresser for a shirt. A button-up is found and he slips his arms in, turning, reaching for the buttons but his own image in the mirror arrests him.
There. On the curve of his neck. Just there where it slopes to join his shoulder a dark, red, slightly rounded mark is visible.
John studies the sight of it, biting into his bottom lip and reaching up to let his fingertips flutter over the color of it.
Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock’s teeth.
A shiver runs through him.
Fuck.
He examines it just a few seconds longer before buttoning up his shirt and letting the material hide the evidence of it. Not seen but there’s no way he’s not going to be able to feel it there. With every turn of his head, with every tensing of his jaw, with every damn bloody movement…
Barefooted he wanders downstairs. There’s the smell of bacon and the sound of Mrs. Hudson humming.
The table is set with plates that bear toast and bacon and there’s cups of coffee. Still steaming, actually, so she hasn’t been at it long.
Sherlock is not seated, though. He’s nowhere in the main room and when he moves over for a peek in the kitchen he finds Mrs. Hudson alone.
He presses his lips in a brief, tense line then clears his throat, smiling out of habit.
“Morning, Mrs. Hudson.”
She glances up from where she’s apparently overseeing the cooking of the eggs and smiles brightly.
“Oh! Morning, John. Gave me a little fright. Have a seat, have a seat!”
He does sit, gingerly, considering the other plate for a moment before glancing back to the kitchen as Mrs. Hudson comes bustling out, a soft-boiled egg in its eggcup that’s placed on the plate before John.
“Sherlock…” He begins and Mrs. Hudson smiles and nods.
“Oh, yes, he just stepped out. Told me you’d be down soon as well. Said he wouldn’t be long.”
“I wasn’t.” Says the disembodied voice. John glances over immediately. Sherlock looks vaguely amused as he’s shrugging out of his jacket and hanging it on the back of the green door, all elegant, unnatural grace. “Morning, Mrs. Hudson.” His mere voice puts a streak of heat through John.
“Good morning, good morning. There you are, dear. Right, have a seat.”
Mrs. Hudson is moving back into the kitchen when Sherlock steps over, his hand going to John’s shoulder, squeezing lightly as the taller man leans in and secrets a kiss there behind John’s ear before muttering directly into it.
“And good morning to you, John.”
Sherlock’s hand slides down some and, even through the material, that thumb finds that tender mark just there on John’s neck, rubbing it lightly. That mark of claim purposefully attended to.
Fuck. Oh, fuck. And the pleasure that suddenly rushes through him, heavy and overwhelming.
It leaves him smiling directly at his plate as Sherlock steps away from him, off into the kitchen as Mrs. Hudson comes back in from that very same location and setting a small platter of butter down between the plates and another soft-boiled egg on the plate set for Sherlock.
She pauses after straightening, cocking her head to the side.
“John, dear, are you all right?”
He blinks, looking up.
“…What?”
“Your face. It’s a bit…” She waves a vague hand over her own face. “Flushed is all.”
Sherlock wanders back into the room, settling into the seat to the right of John and shaking out the newspaper.
“Oh… I…”
“He had a date last night, Mrs. Hudson. It apparently turned out well. He’s still recuperating.” Sherlock supplies, face behind the paper. Ah, and he’d forgotten to cancel, but John is fairly sure she’ll get over it as he has far more important matters to attend to.
Like darting out his foot in a swift barefooted kick, catching the side of Sherlock’s shin a bit roughly even as his smile widens at Mrs. Hudson and he nods in agreement.
She pats his shoulder, tutting lightly before moving away.
John turns his head to glare at the paper hiding Sherlock’s face.
“Bastard,” he accuses softly to an advertisement on furniture.
Sherlock drops the newspaper down a bit and offers him a smirk.
“It’s more or less the truth, isn’t it? I suppose I could fill in the details…” In that low timbre, drawled.
“You’ll keep your mouth shut.”
Sherlock’s smirk stretches as he draws the paper up again.
“I’m sure you’ll have fun trying to find a way to make me.”
John’s not sure, exactly, what he’s signing himself up for, but he knows he likes it. And, really, he’s always up for a challenge.
And, naturally, it won’t be boring.
-The End-