5 and 1
Title: 5 and 1
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Pairing: ostensibly John/Sherlock
Rating: NC-17 with warnings for dubious consent
Word Count: 4324
Prompt: 5 times someone walked away from John Watson and 1 time someone never would
One.
"Harry? What are you doing here?"
John's sister was clinging to the doorjamb, eyes bleary and grinning the grin of the extremely intoxicated. It was 7pm on a Tuesday.
"Can't a girl drop by to see her only brother?" Harry slurred, tottering dangerously despite her white-knuckled grip on the frame of the door. John grimaced at her breath - the smell alone was practically enough to get him drunk.
"Dammit - get in here before anyone sees you like this." John hissed. Especially Sherlock or Mrs Hudson. Getting his sister up 17 stairs and into the flat was no mean feat, but at last, Harry was in his armchair with a cup of tea in her trembling hands. He'd surmised enough from her muttering and half-sentences that she's attempted a reunion with Clara and it had not gone well at all.
John was glad his flatmate was on a case; anything to keep this from him. Of course Sherlock knew about the drinking - he'd deduced it moments after he and John had met, after all - but knowing about it and having it in your flat are two very different things. The only reason John wasn't with him was the bout of food poisoning John had caught the day before. After spending 6 hours in the loo, he felt fine but was definitely too weak for a case. Sherlock had been texting him all day with musings, rhetorical questions and quick stories about how incompetent Anderson was.
"Harry, listen." John began gently. She'd just finished a very amusing - to her - story about one of her coworkers and now she was contemplating the ceiling. When John spoke, she slowly turned her head to him, clearly trying to focus just on him. "I know a couple of good detox places in and around London. I know you're not keen on the idea - " he rushed on when Harry's eyes narrowed mutinously, "but I really think it could help." He locked onto her gaze, trying to put all of his feelings in that one look.
"Don't you fucking pity me, John Watson." Harry hissed, incensed at the suggestion that she had a problem that needed dealing with. "Having a couple of drinks now and then isn't a big deal, especially when you've been through what I have. My sodding wife left me, my boss knows fuck-all about anything and now my brother PITIES me!" Standing unsteadily, she threw the teacup against the wall, where it shattered spectacularly. John simply stared at the pieces, transfixed. Harry began to cry. "Don't pretend to understand, John. You can't relate, no matter how hard you try. You've never been in love and you've never had a job you hate so just sod off and leave me alone!"
John was entirely unable to speak. He watched, wide-eyed, as his normally - well, when sober - retiring sister stormed out of his flat. He heard her stumble on the stairs, swear, then bluster out the door.
He didn't see her for four years.
Two.
The first time John has a sexual encounter with a man is at uni.
They have biology together, and while John is rather the stellar student, his lab partner, Arthur, is decidedly not. John shyly suggests a study session before a test worth a good portion of their grade, and Arthur is embarrassingly grateful. They stand outside the door to the lab, and John says, "Well, I'll see you tonight, then." and Arthur grips his shoulder in gratitude.
"Thank you, John." Arthur stares into his eyes a heartbeat too long, and John feels his own heart flutter in response. Ducking his head, he hurries to his next lecture.
That evening, precisely on time, Arthur knocks on John's dormitory door. John takes a few moments to prepare himself - he's been careful not to think about Arthur in his room, but now it's actually happening! - so as not to go all to pieces, and opens the door. Arthur is easily handsome in his blue jumper and dark gray jeans.
They settle in for a night of hard study. Arthur actually is very bright and a quick learner, but they both agree that their professor's teaching style leaves much to be desired. Under John's tutelage, they fly through the chapters. Arthur is euphoric that he won't be failing and John is high on the sensation of helping someone, guiding them. Arthur is also constantly praising John for his brains and for being such a help even though they don't know each other that well.
After a while, the conversation becomes decidedly less about biology and more about each other. They discuss their home lives, siblings, future goals, and are just venturing in to past relationships when John, a slightly panicked look in his eye, jumps up, realizing only then how closely they'd been sitting.
"I'll just go make tea, shall I?" John blurts out, retreating to the door. Arthur is already there, gently refusing to let John leave. He cups John's face in one hand, tips up to his, brushes a gentle thumb over a cheekbone. John sighs at the contact and Arthur moves closer, leaving only inches between their bodies. John's blue eyes search Arthur's green ones, and he seems to find what he's looking for. He gives in to the contact, relaxing against the door as Arthur crowds further into his space. Finally, Arthur kisses him, really not much more than a brush of lips across lips. John responds, a little timidly at first, but with more vigor as Arthur grabs his head in both hands and gives him a proper snog.
John's hands find their way under Arthur's jumper, feeling warm skin and smooth muscle and lets his fingers map out all the hollows and planes he can find. Arthur tugs off John's tshirt then his own jumper and takes one of John's trembling hands to take him to bed.
Arthur lays on his back, settling John on top of him. John can feel both erections under him and groans at the new sensation. Arthur pushes his hips up roughly and John gasps "More" into the dark. At this, Arthur grins and pushes John off of him so he can divest himself of jeans and underwear. John does the same, watching Arthur's cock the whole time. It is stiff and thick with want, the head large and red.
"Come 'ere, John." Arthur purrs, and John shivers to hear his name pronounced so sinfully. Clambering between Arthur's thighs, John comes face to face with his first dick and hesitates slightly. Arthur, however, is in no mood for this and seizes his cock in one hand and John's head in the other. He roughly inserts his cock into John's mouth and begins fucking it. John is helpless under the onslaught - Arthur is stronger than him. He tries to relax and find a rhythm of his own, bur Arthur has other ideas.
"Mmm yeah take it... oh you've got a sweet mouth, John... yes you do..." Arthur whispers as tears run down John's face. When John tries to move away, Arthur wrenches his head back down savagely, hissing, "You asked for this, rutting against me on your door - you asked for this to happen you slut!" John's disagreements are lost around Arthur's cock, which is trying to find its way down John's throat. John gags viciously, but Arthur keeps fucking, only telling him to relax his damn throat.
John is in agony. Arthur's thrusting is erratic, so he can't find a good rhythm in which to relax. He doesn't really know what he's doing, and the terse, angry instructions from Arthur only make him more flustered. Finally - finally - Arthur groans that he's coming and spills his semen into John's mouth. He swallows it, intuitively knowing there would be hell to pay if he didn't.
Spent, Arthur shoves John out of the way so he can get up and find his clothes. John watches, silent, wondering when Arthur will come back to bed - he has to reciprocate, right? Isn't that the way this works? I give and then -
"Wait - " John chokes out as Arthur turns the door knob to leave.
Arthur turns to him, astonished. "I'm not gay, mate." Chuckling, he slips out, leaving John in the dark.
Three.
The first time John goes out to a crime scene with Sherlock, he runs into a rather familiar face - Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. Either the older man doesn't remember his conversation with John, or doesn't want to - either way, he avoids John's eyes and John can't help feeling a little smug.
Upon returning from Afghanistan, it only takes John a few days to realize that he will not be at all content sitting in the flat the army provided, watching bad daytime telly and getting old. He spends several days stumping around London with his cane, looking for doctor's office, hospitals - anything that might hire a doctor just home from the war. Most say they're full but will keep his information on file should anything turn up, and John has to be satisfied with that.
Leaving St Bart's, he overhears a conversation an attractive, silver-haired man is having on his cell phone.
"That's another medical examiner gone. Dropping like flies, they are." the man sighs, wiping a hand over his face. John stops and tries not to look like he's eavesdropping. "Didn't like the murders. I know! Unbelievable." The man listens for a few moments more, nods, realizes the person on the other end can't see him, and says, "On it. Bye." and disconnects the call.
Well, can't hurt to try, right? John thinks, and limps over to the (even-more-attractive-up-close) man.
"Excuse me - I couldn't help overhearing your conversation, the one about needing a medical examiner?" John puts out a hand. "Dr John Watson."
"Greg Lestrade. And yeah, we do need one. Can't keep them with us these days." Lestrade gives John a once-over, taking in the cane and the haunted, haggard look in the blue eyes. "What kind of training you got?"
"Trained here at St Bart's, then went into the Army -" John breaks off when Lestrade begins to shake his head.
"Sounds like you know your stuff, but having vets around crime scenes can get... complicated." Lestrade looks extremely ill at ease, and when John doesn't comment, continues. "Flashbacks, PTSD, that kind of thing. Can't have the only medical man on site go to pieces on us, can we?" Lestrade chuckles awkwardly while John attempts a smile. "Anyway, sorry, mate." Lestrade shakes John's hand again and rushes off.
Four.
After the Black Lotus incident, John asks Sarah on another date. She accepts and Sherlock is conspicuously absent (John may or may not have begged Mycroft to fin a way to distract Sherlock for the evening). John does not take her to Angelo's - a part of him rebels at the very thought of taking her to his and Sherlock's place. (He tries not to think about why that part yells so loudly.) Instead, they go to a small French cafe and trade stories about their patients at the surgery over croissants. Meaningful looks begin over their second cup of coffee, and when John invites her to the flat for a nightcap, she happily accepts.
Back at 221B Baker Street, Sarah idly pokes around the living room while John puts away his jacket. She makes more noise than Sherlock, which sets John's teeth a little on edge, but when she comes to him and kisses him, he welcomes her into his arms. John can feel her breasts pressing against his chest and he twines one arm around her waist while the other hand tangles in her hair. She deepens the kiss, touching her tongue to his lips, seeking permission to enter. He opens for her and she breathes a sigh into his mouth. Sarah tugs him toward the couch, and they are falling onto it even as his brain whispers But that's Sherlock's couch...
She settles on top of him, rocking her hips against his crotch and if she feels that he's not getting aroused, she doesn't mention it. John thrusts both hands into her hair and pulls gently, exposing her neck for him to kiss and lick. He tries to pretend that it doesn't matter that her throat isn't long and pale, that he's okay with her being shorter than him with legs that don't go on for days, that her hair is blond, that she is a SHE, that she isn't
"Sherlock..." John breaths.
Sarah freezes. John blinks.
"That was... unexpected." John grits out.
"It was at that." Sarah replies, jumping off of his lap as if scalded.
"I'm sorry, Sarah. I thought - I think I'm - "
"Gay." Sarah nods. "I wondered, with all the talk of your ruddy flatmate and the running around and catering to his every whim." She stops, closes her eyes, pulls herself together. "Does he know?"
"No."
"Does he make you happy?"
"Yes."
Sarah manages a small smile, gets her jacket, and leaves quietly.
Five.
"John."
Mycroft Holmes has a terrifying way of sneaking up on a man. Even after living with Sherlock for going on four years, John can't get a handle on Mycroft's appearances. This time, however, John does not slosh boiling water all over his hands when he hears the dulcet tones of his partner's older brother. The teacup in his hand only trembles a little bit, and that, he feels, is a victory.
"Mycroft. To what do I owe the pleasure? Sherlock's not here, as you know…" John spares the man a brief glance. Dressed as usual in an impeccable three piece suit, Mycroft gives off the air of a Victorian aristocrat. His umbrella is nowhere to be seen, instead he's holding a small box, about the size of a greeting card.
"Yes, John I am aware of that fact. It's not my brother I came to see, it's you. I'd rather him not know that I was here at all, actually. He prefers I don't dabble in his affairs and this, I'm afraid, constitutes dabbling." Mycroft holds out the box. It's from an expensive stationer's in London - Smythson of Bond Street. Puzzled, John gingerly opens the box (always a good idea around the Holmes brothers).
Inside are several beautiful white cards, printed with dark brown ink on heavy paper. John lifts one out, reverently, an idea of what this is beginning to spark in his mind.
Across the front, in flowing script, "We request the pleasure of your company." Inside, in the same print, "Mssr Sherlock Holmes and Dr John Watson cordially request that you join them on 24 August to celebrate their joining together in civil union." An RSVP card is enclosed, along with a save-the-date. A lump forms in John's throat as he runs his fingers over the words. He doesn't ask how Mycroft knows what date they'd chosen, or that Sherlock had even proposed. Instead, he looks at the enigmatic, aloof man with tears in his eyes. Mycroft is standing awkwardly in the kitchen doorway, watching John anxiously. John is at an utter loss for words. He'd never been sure the elder Holmes had quite accepted John into Sherlock's world but this… this is a welcome with open arms.
John crosses the kitchen in a few short strides and envelopes Mycroft into what may be the first hug the taller man has received in many years. Bemused, Mycroft pats John's shoulder when the shorter man pulls away.
"Thank you, Mycroft. This is… thank you." John says gruffly, attempting to blink away tears.
"Think nothing of it, John. I knew Sherlock would not accept a gift from me and I wanted to make a gesture." Mycroft waves an airy hand, but John had heard him clear his throat before speaking. "As for Sherlock, tell him you purchased them with a gift from the surgery. I'll see to it that your bank account reflects the same. I know my brother's propensity for snooping. Good day, then, John."
Mycroft retrieves his umbrella from the coat rack and slips out of the flat as quietly as he'd entered.
Plus One.
Snow is falling gently past the windows of 221B Baker Street. John has laid a fire in the grate, and it's crackling merrily. He's sitting cross-legged in front of it, contemplating deep thoughts.
This is how Sherlock finds him when he bustles in, having spent the day with Lestrade on a case and doing some experiments at St Bart's. That morning, John asked, for the first time, to stay home while Sherlock was on a case. Noticing the look in his eyes, the slightly heightened heartbeat and the shaking of his left hand, Sherlock had not pressed the issue. He'd even kept his texting to a minimum, only breaking his self-imposed silence when he truly needed John's help. Which, if he is honest with himself, is always.
Now Sherlock studies his flatmate, flames shadowing and lighting his face at random. He wonders how he ever survived without this man in his life and knows that he would not be able to live a life without him. Moriarty was right - John is his heart, and as much as Sherlock wants to hide him from the world, from harm, he knows that John would never allow it. He's brave, his John. No matter the danger, he wants to always be beside Sherlock, not cowering behind.
John looks at him and smiles the smile he seems to reserve just for Sherlock.
"Tea? I see it's snowing."
"Excellent deduction, John." Sherlock smiles softly and John pulls a face at him. While John fills the kettle, Sherlock puts his coat on the rack to dry along with his scarf. He's suddenly nervous and takes a deep breath to steady himself. You're Sherlock bloody Holmes, he thinks. Get a grip! He moves into the kitchen with customary panther-like grace, and his heart hitches in his chest at the domesticity of the scene in front of him. Their mugs - one stripey, the other plain - sit on the table, handles almost touching while John impatiently watches the kettle, waiting for it to boil. The tea bags are prepared, sugar and milk on the table, ready and waiting.
Steeling himself for possible rejection, Sherlock goes to John and slips his arms around the doctor's waist. He waits for John to jerk away from him, to sputter about how that's not what he wants, but neither happens. Instead, John relaxes into the embrace, leaning slightly against Sherlock's taller frame. Sherlock drops his head to breathe in against John's hair.
John twists in his arms and looks up at Sherlock wonderingly. "I never imagined - I thought that you'd never consider me…"
Sherlock chuckles. "You're the only one I'd ever consider, love." John's arms tighten around Sherlock's hips, pulling him closer until they are flush against each other. When John's tongue flicks out to wet his lower lip, Sherlock places one hand against his face and kisses him.
It is the first kiss everyone dreams of but no one seems to achieve. Their lips move as one, neither taking dominance this early. Sherlock, bold with his success so far, touches his tongue to John's lips and everything changes. The kiss deepens and John's hands are in Sherlock's curls while one of Sherlock's hands spans across John's lower back, his other arm canted down diagonally just above his arse. They can't get close enough and suddenly the kettle is whistling and the break apart, panting. John peels away and Sherlock glares at the kettle as if it is deliberately ruining his evening.
Tea is prepared and they ensconce themselves on the couch under a blanket, Sherlock's arm curled around John's shoulders. John seems content to simply sit and bask in the glow of the fire, but Sherlock has questions that need answering. Even now he can't bear not to know how things came about. John flumps back onto the couch, a melodramatic hand over his eyes.
"Okay. Get it over with." he says, peeking through his fingers at Sherlock.
Sherlock steeples his fingers under his chin. "What happened with Sarah?"
John groans. "I said your name while we were kissing. On this very couch, in fact. She said she'd known for a while it was you and not her I wanted." Sherlock nods sagely, but inside he's doing a very undignified, very un-Holmes-like jig. John leans forward. "How long?"
Sherlock blinks. "I beg your pardon?"
"Don't be coy with me. How long have you… you know, been interested in me?" John tries to play it off casually, but his heart is thumping something fierce.
"You did very fine work on the case with the eggplant and the doorknob. I knew then that you were invaluable to me as a partner. My regard for your talents grew with each case, but also for how you treated me around everyone else. Friends are not my area." Sherlock looks at John, who twines his fingers around Sherlock's urging him to continue. "From there, I found myself always wanting to be in your company. At first I thought it was because I simply worked better with you around. While that is true, I also enjoy you as a person and wish to explore these feelings with you." Sherlock kisses their joined hands and smiles nervously at John.
Clearing his throat, John tugs Sherlock's face to his own and kisses him for all he's worth. He tries to put everything he feels for this brilliant, mad detective into the kiss and it seems to work, because John soon finds that Sherlock's hands have burrowed under his jumper and are mapping out every bit of skin they can reach. John moans when the long fingers find a nipple and pinch ever so slightly. Sherlock freezes at the noise, and John's afraid he's scared him off, but he shouldn't have been worried - Sherlock has collected his data, analyzed it, and deduced the cause and effect.
They retire to the bedroom, where Sherlock tosses John onto the bed, tugs off his jumper and tshirt, and proceeds to thoroughly examine each inch of skin above the line of his jeans. He spends an extra moment on the scar on John's left shoulder, and several extra moments at the spot behind John's right ear, which, it turns out, is highly erogenous. John shivers as Sherlock brushes a lazy palm down his torso, then pulls him down.
The shivers have not gone away.
Sherlock can tell something isn't quite right. Even after such a short time being this intimate with John's person, he's quite knowledgeable about how John's feelings manifest themselves in his body. This is not pleasurable shivering. A knot begins to form in the pit of Sherlock's stomach.
"John?" Sherlock murmurs, brushing a stray lock of hair off of John's forehead. In response, John burrows his head further into Sherlock's shoulder. The trembling gets worse. Sherlock closes his eyes, tightening his grip on John. "Sweetness, look at me." John reluctantly raises his eyes to Sherlock's and there is such raw fear and anxiety there that Sherlock gasps and raises a gentle hand to John's cheek, cradling it. "Who?"
"College." John mutters. "Arthur."
Hot, scalding hatred races behind Sherlock's eyes and the expression "seeing red" makes sense to him for the first time. "He was bad to you." A nod from John. "Hurt you." Another confirmation. "Tell me?"
The way John's breath hitches at that makes Sherlock's stomach clutch. He's just about to say that he didn't have to if it would hurt too much, but his fine, brave man starts speaking. "He forced me to suck him off and he wouldn't let me get my bloody bearings and then he just left." The words sound as though they've been ripped from John's chest. "Fucked my face until he came then walked out my door." John keeps his eyes averted and voice low, trying to stave off tears of humiliation. He flinches when Sherlock touches him.
"Bastard. That utter bastard." Sherlock grates out. He's already made a mental note to speak to Mycroft about this. John is staring at him blankly. Sherlock swears he will do anything in his power - and his older brother's - that John will never again wear the look he's wearing now. "You are not at fault, love. He is."
"Said I asked for it." John mumbles and Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut. Oh my poor John. Sherlock gathers John into his arms and holds him close.
"Listen to me. Whatever happened, it was not your fault. Please believe me. I love you, John Watson, and I will never let anyone hurt you like that again."
John shoots up out of Sherlock's arms. "Say that again."
"I'm in love with you, John." Sherlock stays utterly still as John searches his face, his eyes, for some hint that he's being lied to or used again. When he finds no such thing, when he realizes that Sherlock Holmes is in love with him, his face breaks out into a grin so large he feels like his face will crack.
"Bloody hell, Sherlock. I though I'd never hear you say those words to me." John whispers. Sherlock smiles his slow, cheeky grin and tackles John to the bed. With John underneath him, Sherlock leans down to whisper,
"I love you I love you I love you I love you..."
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Pairing: ostensibly John/Sherlock
Rating: NC-17 with warnings for dubious consent
Word Count: 4324
Prompt: 5 times someone walked away from John Watson and 1 time someone never would
One.
"Harry? What are you doing here?"
John's sister was clinging to the doorjamb, eyes bleary and grinning the grin of the extremely intoxicated. It was 7pm on a Tuesday.
"Can't a girl drop by to see her only brother?" Harry slurred, tottering dangerously despite her white-knuckled grip on the frame of the door. John grimaced at her breath - the smell alone was practically enough to get him drunk.
"Dammit - get in here before anyone sees you like this." John hissed. Especially Sherlock or Mrs Hudson. Getting his sister up 17 stairs and into the flat was no mean feat, but at last, Harry was in his armchair with a cup of tea in her trembling hands. He'd surmised enough from her muttering and half-sentences that she's attempted a reunion with Clara and it had not gone well at all.
John was glad his flatmate was on a case; anything to keep this from him. Of course Sherlock knew about the drinking - he'd deduced it moments after he and John had met, after all - but knowing about it and having it in your flat are two very different things. The only reason John wasn't with him was the bout of food poisoning John had caught the day before. After spending 6 hours in the loo, he felt fine but was definitely too weak for a case. Sherlock had been texting him all day with musings, rhetorical questions and quick stories about how incompetent Anderson was.
"Harry, listen." John began gently. She'd just finished a very amusing - to her - story about one of her coworkers and now she was contemplating the ceiling. When John spoke, she slowly turned her head to him, clearly trying to focus just on him. "I know a couple of good detox places in and around London. I know you're not keen on the idea - " he rushed on when Harry's eyes narrowed mutinously, "but I really think it could help." He locked onto her gaze, trying to put all of his feelings in that one look.
"Don't you fucking pity me, John Watson." Harry hissed, incensed at the suggestion that she had a problem that needed dealing with. "Having a couple of drinks now and then isn't a big deal, especially when you've been through what I have. My sodding wife left me, my boss knows fuck-all about anything and now my brother PITIES me!" Standing unsteadily, she threw the teacup against the wall, where it shattered spectacularly. John simply stared at the pieces, transfixed. Harry began to cry. "Don't pretend to understand, John. You can't relate, no matter how hard you try. You've never been in love and you've never had a job you hate so just sod off and leave me alone!"
John was entirely unable to speak. He watched, wide-eyed, as his normally - well, when sober - retiring sister stormed out of his flat. He heard her stumble on the stairs, swear, then bluster out the door.
He didn't see her for four years.
Two.
The first time John has a sexual encounter with a man is at uni.
They have biology together, and while John is rather the stellar student, his lab partner, Arthur, is decidedly not. John shyly suggests a study session before a test worth a good portion of their grade, and Arthur is embarrassingly grateful. They stand outside the door to the lab, and John says, "Well, I'll see you tonight, then." and Arthur grips his shoulder in gratitude.
"Thank you, John." Arthur stares into his eyes a heartbeat too long, and John feels his own heart flutter in response. Ducking his head, he hurries to his next lecture.
That evening, precisely on time, Arthur knocks on John's dormitory door. John takes a few moments to prepare himself - he's been careful not to think about Arthur in his room, but now it's actually happening! - so as not to go all to pieces, and opens the door. Arthur is easily handsome in his blue jumper and dark gray jeans.
They settle in for a night of hard study. Arthur actually is very bright and a quick learner, but they both agree that their professor's teaching style leaves much to be desired. Under John's tutelage, they fly through the chapters. Arthur is euphoric that he won't be failing and John is high on the sensation of helping someone, guiding them. Arthur is also constantly praising John for his brains and for being such a help even though they don't know each other that well.
After a while, the conversation becomes decidedly less about biology and more about each other. They discuss their home lives, siblings, future goals, and are just venturing in to past relationships when John, a slightly panicked look in his eye, jumps up, realizing only then how closely they'd been sitting.
"I'll just go make tea, shall I?" John blurts out, retreating to the door. Arthur is already there, gently refusing to let John leave. He cups John's face in one hand, tips up to his, brushes a gentle thumb over a cheekbone. John sighs at the contact and Arthur moves closer, leaving only inches between their bodies. John's blue eyes search Arthur's green ones, and he seems to find what he's looking for. He gives in to the contact, relaxing against the door as Arthur crowds further into his space. Finally, Arthur kisses him, really not much more than a brush of lips across lips. John responds, a little timidly at first, but with more vigor as Arthur grabs his head in both hands and gives him a proper snog.
John's hands find their way under Arthur's jumper, feeling warm skin and smooth muscle and lets his fingers map out all the hollows and planes he can find. Arthur tugs off John's tshirt then his own jumper and takes one of John's trembling hands to take him to bed.
Arthur lays on his back, settling John on top of him. John can feel both erections under him and groans at the new sensation. Arthur pushes his hips up roughly and John gasps "More" into the dark. At this, Arthur grins and pushes John off of him so he can divest himself of jeans and underwear. John does the same, watching Arthur's cock the whole time. It is stiff and thick with want, the head large and red.
"Come 'ere, John." Arthur purrs, and John shivers to hear his name pronounced so sinfully. Clambering between Arthur's thighs, John comes face to face with his first dick and hesitates slightly. Arthur, however, is in no mood for this and seizes his cock in one hand and John's head in the other. He roughly inserts his cock into John's mouth and begins fucking it. John is helpless under the onslaught - Arthur is stronger than him. He tries to relax and find a rhythm of his own, bur Arthur has other ideas.
"Mmm yeah take it... oh you've got a sweet mouth, John... yes you do..." Arthur whispers as tears run down John's face. When John tries to move away, Arthur wrenches his head back down savagely, hissing, "You asked for this, rutting against me on your door - you asked for this to happen you slut!" John's disagreements are lost around Arthur's cock, which is trying to find its way down John's throat. John gags viciously, but Arthur keeps fucking, only telling him to relax his damn throat.
John is in agony. Arthur's thrusting is erratic, so he can't find a good rhythm in which to relax. He doesn't really know what he's doing, and the terse, angry instructions from Arthur only make him more flustered. Finally - finally - Arthur groans that he's coming and spills his semen into John's mouth. He swallows it, intuitively knowing there would be hell to pay if he didn't.
Spent, Arthur shoves John out of the way so he can get up and find his clothes. John watches, silent, wondering when Arthur will come back to bed - he has to reciprocate, right? Isn't that the way this works? I give and then -
"Wait - " John chokes out as Arthur turns the door knob to leave.
Arthur turns to him, astonished. "I'm not gay, mate." Chuckling, he slips out, leaving John in the dark.
Three.
The first time John goes out to a crime scene with Sherlock, he runs into a rather familiar face - Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. Either the older man doesn't remember his conversation with John, or doesn't want to - either way, he avoids John's eyes and John can't help feeling a little smug.
Upon returning from Afghanistan, it only takes John a few days to realize that he will not be at all content sitting in the flat the army provided, watching bad daytime telly and getting old. He spends several days stumping around London with his cane, looking for doctor's office, hospitals - anything that might hire a doctor just home from the war. Most say they're full but will keep his information on file should anything turn up, and John has to be satisfied with that.
Leaving St Bart's, he overhears a conversation an attractive, silver-haired man is having on his cell phone.
"That's another medical examiner gone. Dropping like flies, they are." the man sighs, wiping a hand over his face. John stops and tries not to look like he's eavesdropping. "Didn't like the murders. I know! Unbelievable." The man listens for a few moments more, nods, realizes the person on the other end can't see him, and says, "On it. Bye." and disconnects the call.
Well, can't hurt to try, right? John thinks, and limps over to the (even-more-attractive-up-close) man.
"Excuse me - I couldn't help overhearing your conversation, the one about needing a medical examiner?" John puts out a hand. "Dr John Watson."
"Greg Lestrade. And yeah, we do need one. Can't keep them with us these days." Lestrade gives John a once-over, taking in the cane and the haunted, haggard look in the blue eyes. "What kind of training you got?"
"Trained here at St Bart's, then went into the Army -" John breaks off when Lestrade begins to shake his head.
"Sounds like you know your stuff, but having vets around crime scenes can get... complicated." Lestrade looks extremely ill at ease, and when John doesn't comment, continues. "Flashbacks, PTSD, that kind of thing. Can't have the only medical man on site go to pieces on us, can we?" Lestrade chuckles awkwardly while John attempts a smile. "Anyway, sorry, mate." Lestrade shakes John's hand again and rushes off.
Four.
After the Black Lotus incident, John asks Sarah on another date. She accepts and Sherlock is conspicuously absent (John may or may not have begged Mycroft to fin a way to distract Sherlock for the evening). John does not take her to Angelo's - a part of him rebels at the very thought of taking her to his and Sherlock's place. (He tries not to think about why that part yells so loudly.) Instead, they go to a small French cafe and trade stories about their patients at the surgery over croissants. Meaningful looks begin over their second cup of coffee, and when John invites her to the flat for a nightcap, she happily accepts.
Back at 221B Baker Street, Sarah idly pokes around the living room while John puts away his jacket. She makes more noise than Sherlock, which sets John's teeth a little on edge, but when she comes to him and kisses him, he welcomes her into his arms. John can feel her breasts pressing against his chest and he twines one arm around her waist while the other hand tangles in her hair. She deepens the kiss, touching her tongue to his lips, seeking permission to enter. He opens for her and she breathes a sigh into his mouth. Sarah tugs him toward the couch, and they are falling onto it even as his brain whispers But that's Sherlock's couch...
She settles on top of him, rocking her hips against his crotch and if she feels that he's not getting aroused, she doesn't mention it. John thrusts both hands into her hair and pulls gently, exposing her neck for him to kiss and lick. He tries to pretend that it doesn't matter that her throat isn't long and pale, that he's okay with her being shorter than him with legs that don't go on for days, that her hair is blond, that she is a SHE, that she isn't
"Sherlock..." John breaths.
Sarah freezes. John blinks.
"That was... unexpected." John grits out.
"It was at that." Sarah replies, jumping off of his lap as if scalded.
"I'm sorry, Sarah. I thought - I think I'm - "
"Gay." Sarah nods. "I wondered, with all the talk of your ruddy flatmate and the running around and catering to his every whim." She stops, closes her eyes, pulls herself together. "Does he know?"
"No."
"Does he make you happy?"
"Yes."
Sarah manages a small smile, gets her jacket, and leaves quietly.
Five.
"John."
Mycroft Holmes has a terrifying way of sneaking up on a man. Even after living with Sherlock for going on four years, John can't get a handle on Mycroft's appearances. This time, however, John does not slosh boiling water all over his hands when he hears the dulcet tones of his partner's older brother. The teacup in his hand only trembles a little bit, and that, he feels, is a victory.
"Mycroft. To what do I owe the pleasure? Sherlock's not here, as you know…" John spares the man a brief glance. Dressed as usual in an impeccable three piece suit, Mycroft gives off the air of a Victorian aristocrat. His umbrella is nowhere to be seen, instead he's holding a small box, about the size of a greeting card.
"Yes, John I am aware of that fact. It's not my brother I came to see, it's you. I'd rather him not know that I was here at all, actually. He prefers I don't dabble in his affairs and this, I'm afraid, constitutes dabbling." Mycroft holds out the box. It's from an expensive stationer's in London - Smythson of Bond Street. Puzzled, John gingerly opens the box (always a good idea around the Holmes brothers).
Inside are several beautiful white cards, printed with dark brown ink on heavy paper. John lifts one out, reverently, an idea of what this is beginning to spark in his mind.
Across the front, in flowing script, "We request the pleasure of your company." Inside, in the same print, "Mssr Sherlock Holmes and Dr John Watson cordially request that you join them on 24 August to celebrate their joining together in civil union." An RSVP card is enclosed, along with a save-the-date. A lump forms in John's throat as he runs his fingers over the words. He doesn't ask how Mycroft knows what date they'd chosen, or that Sherlock had even proposed. Instead, he looks at the enigmatic, aloof man with tears in his eyes. Mycroft is standing awkwardly in the kitchen doorway, watching John anxiously. John is at an utter loss for words. He'd never been sure the elder Holmes had quite accepted John into Sherlock's world but this… this is a welcome with open arms.
John crosses the kitchen in a few short strides and envelopes Mycroft into what may be the first hug the taller man has received in many years. Bemused, Mycroft pats John's shoulder when the shorter man pulls away.
"Thank you, Mycroft. This is… thank you." John says gruffly, attempting to blink away tears.
"Think nothing of it, John. I knew Sherlock would not accept a gift from me and I wanted to make a gesture." Mycroft waves an airy hand, but John had heard him clear his throat before speaking. "As for Sherlock, tell him you purchased them with a gift from the surgery. I'll see to it that your bank account reflects the same. I know my brother's propensity for snooping. Good day, then, John."
Mycroft retrieves his umbrella from the coat rack and slips out of the flat as quietly as he'd entered.
Plus One.
Snow is falling gently past the windows of 221B Baker Street. John has laid a fire in the grate, and it's crackling merrily. He's sitting cross-legged in front of it, contemplating deep thoughts.
This is how Sherlock finds him when he bustles in, having spent the day with Lestrade on a case and doing some experiments at St Bart's. That morning, John asked, for the first time, to stay home while Sherlock was on a case. Noticing the look in his eyes, the slightly heightened heartbeat and the shaking of his left hand, Sherlock had not pressed the issue. He'd even kept his texting to a minimum, only breaking his self-imposed silence when he truly needed John's help. Which, if he is honest with himself, is always.
Now Sherlock studies his flatmate, flames shadowing and lighting his face at random. He wonders how he ever survived without this man in his life and knows that he would not be able to live a life without him. Moriarty was right - John is his heart, and as much as Sherlock wants to hide him from the world, from harm, he knows that John would never allow it. He's brave, his John. No matter the danger, he wants to always be beside Sherlock, not cowering behind.
John looks at him and smiles the smile he seems to reserve just for Sherlock.
"Tea? I see it's snowing."
"Excellent deduction, John." Sherlock smiles softly and John pulls a face at him. While John fills the kettle, Sherlock puts his coat on the rack to dry along with his scarf. He's suddenly nervous and takes a deep breath to steady himself. You're Sherlock bloody Holmes, he thinks. Get a grip! He moves into the kitchen with customary panther-like grace, and his heart hitches in his chest at the domesticity of the scene in front of him. Their mugs - one stripey, the other plain - sit on the table, handles almost touching while John impatiently watches the kettle, waiting for it to boil. The tea bags are prepared, sugar and milk on the table, ready and waiting.
Steeling himself for possible rejection, Sherlock goes to John and slips his arms around the doctor's waist. He waits for John to jerk away from him, to sputter about how that's not what he wants, but neither happens. Instead, John relaxes into the embrace, leaning slightly against Sherlock's taller frame. Sherlock drops his head to breathe in against John's hair.
John twists in his arms and looks up at Sherlock wonderingly. "I never imagined - I thought that you'd never consider me…"
Sherlock chuckles. "You're the only one I'd ever consider, love." John's arms tighten around Sherlock's hips, pulling him closer until they are flush against each other. When John's tongue flicks out to wet his lower lip, Sherlock places one hand against his face and kisses him.
It is the first kiss everyone dreams of but no one seems to achieve. Their lips move as one, neither taking dominance this early. Sherlock, bold with his success so far, touches his tongue to John's lips and everything changes. The kiss deepens and John's hands are in Sherlock's curls while one of Sherlock's hands spans across John's lower back, his other arm canted down diagonally just above his arse. They can't get close enough and suddenly the kettle is whistling and the break apart, panting. John peels away and Sherlock glares at the kettle as if it is deliberately ruining his evening.
Tea is prepared and they ensconce themselves on the couch under a blanket, Sherlock's arm curled around John's shoulders. John seems content to simply sit and bask in the glow of the fire, but Sherlock has questions that need answering. Even now he can't bear not to know how things came about. John flumps back onto the couch, a melodramatic hand over his eyes.
"Okay. Get it over with." he says, peeking through his fingers at Sherlock.
Sherlock steeples his fingers under his chin. "What happened with Sarah?"
John groans. "I said your name while we were kissing. On this very couch, in fact. She said she'd known for a while it was you and not her I wanted." Sherlock nods sagely, but inside he's doing a very undignified, very un-Holmes-like jig. John leans forward. "How long?"
Sherlock blinks. "I beg your pardon?"
"Don't be coy with me. How long have you… you know, been interested in me?" John tries to play it off casually, but his heart is thumping something fierce.
"You did very fine work on the case with the eggplant and the doorknob. I knew then that you were invaluable to me as a partner. My regard for your talents grew with each case, but also for how you treated me around everyone else. Friends are not my area." Sherlock looks at John, who twines his fingers around Sherlock's urging him to continue. "From there, I found myself always wanting to be in your company. At first I thought it was because I simply worked better with you around. While that is true, I also enjoy you as a person and wish to explore these feelings with you." Sherlock kisses their joined hands and smiles nervously at John.
Clearing his throat, John tugs Sherlock's face to his own and kisses him for all he's worth. He tries to put everything he feels for this brilliant, mad detective into the kiss and it seems to work, because John soon finds that Sherlock's hands have burrowed under his jumper and are mapping out every bit of skin they can reach. John moans when the long fingers find a nipple and pinch ever so slightly. Sherlock freezes at the noise, and John's afraid he's scared him off, but he shouldn't have been worried - Sherlock has collected his data, analyzed it, and deduced the cause and effect.
They retire to the bedroom, where Sherlock tosses John onto the bed, tugs off his jumper and tshirt, and proceeds to thoroughly examine each inch of skin above the line of his jeans. He spends an extra moment on the scar on John's left shoulder, and several extra moments at the spot behind John's right ear, which, it turns out, is highly erogenous. John shivers as Sherlock brushes a lazy palm down his torso, then pulls him down.
The shivers have not gone away.
Sherlock can tell something isn't quite right. Even after such a short time being this intimate with John's person, he's quite knowledgeable about how John's feelings manifest themselves in his body. This is not pleasurable shivering. A knot begins to form in the pit of Sherlock's stomach.
"John?" Sherlock murmurs, brushing a stray lock of hair off of John's forehead. In response, John burrows his head further into Sherlock's shoulder. The trembling gets worse. Sherlock closes his eyes, tightening his grip on John. "Sweetness, look at me." John reluctantly raises his eyes to Sherlock's and there is such raw fear and anxiety there that Sherlock gasps and raises a gentle hand to John's cheek, cradling it. "Who?"
"College." John mutters. "Arthur."
Hot, scalding hatred races behind Sherlock's eyes and the expression "seeing red" makes sense to him for the first time. "He was bad to you." A nod from John. "Hurt you." Another confirmation. "Tell me?"
The way John's breath hitches at that makes Sherlock's stomach clutch. He's just about to say that he didn't have to if it would hurt too much, but his fine, brave man starts speaking. "He forced me to suck him off and he wouldn't let me get my bloody bearings and then he just left." The words sound as though they've been ripped from John's chest. "Fucked my face until he came then walked out my door." John keeps his eyes averted and voice low, trying to stave off tears of humiliation. He flinches when Sherlock touches him.
"Bastard. That utter bastard." Sherlock grates out. He's already made a mental note to speak to Mycroft about this. John is staring at him blankly. Sherlock swears he will do anything in his power - and his older brother's - that John will never again wear the look he's wearing now. "You are not at fault, love. He is."
"Said I asked for it." John mumbles and Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut. Oh my poor John. Sherlock gathers John into his arms and holds him close.
"Listen to me. Whatever happened, it was not your fault. Please believe me. I love you, John Watson, and I will never let anyone hurt you like that again."
John shoots up out of Sherlock's arms. "Say that again."
"I'm in love with you, John." Sherlock stays utterly still as John searches his face, his eyes, for some hint that he's being lied to or used again. When he finds no such thing, when he realizes that Sherlock Holmes is in love with him, his face breaks out into a grin so large he feels like his face will crack.
"Bloody hell, Sherlock. I though I'd never hear you say those words to me." John whispers. Sherlock smiles his slow, cheeky grin and tackles John to the bed. With John underneath him, Sherlock leans down to whisper,
"I love you I love you I love you I love you..."