Sherlock Fanfic: Juxtapose
Title: Juxtapose
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Rating: M for the boys unable to keep dressed.
Warnings: Uh, lying? Self esteem issues. Nothing much, really.
Summary: John makes full use of how he looks to deal with people he doesn’t like, who never see it coming because John makes it so easy to categorize him as a teddy bear. Sherlock, of course, sees through all that. He doesn’t care, making John wonder why sometimes, he puts up with Sherlock.
*~*
Dr. John Watson is by no means an unintelligent man. He was a doctor before he met Sherlock, and contrary to the collective opinions of people who shoot him pitying looks for being shamelessly used by ‘the Freak’, it is not a meaningless suffix. It takes a measure of brilliance to speed ones way through medical school at Barts after graduating early, and almost unparalleled street smarts to survive a war (relatively) unscathed.
But all the people he knows now, see him juxtaposed to one Sherlock Holmes, and comparing the two is like holding up a light-bulb to the blazing glory of the sun; awesome, almost silly, and blinding. Relativity though, does not mean much in the real world of absolutes. They (ie. everyone) constantly assume (and you know what they say about assuming) that John Watson deserves pity for his foolishness and his naivety, and his belief that Sherlock Holmes is a good man. No one, not even Sherlock, believes him on that one. He’s sure he’ll make his point someday, and is willing to wait.
He was cursed (blessed?) with big innocent fudge brown eyes, and hair that refused to look sharp, and has been compared to a teddy bear his entire life. It didn’t take him long to understand why people were rather more protective of him than normal. It’s a good thing he likes being underestimated as much as Sherlock is an attention (dare he say it) whore. This is a lot, just in case anyone didn’t get it.
It’s probably because he has this temper problem, and has always thought that revenge is best served perfectly dressed, after simmering on the stove a couple of years. Also, he’s not good at metaphors and parallels, but that’s a different story.
His temper problem and almost-vengefulness mean that he loves the looks on their faces when he proves them wrong regarding their theories on his intelligence, and his ability to defend himself. It’s probably the reason Sherlock never speaks up when John is being insulted, but always watches quietly, reverently, waiting for the moment he will unleash the full force of his vengeance. He thinks Sherlock too, enjoys the looks on their faces when they realize just how wrong they’ve been all this while; almost as much as him. Both of them have been put down entirely too much, their whole lives.
He also puts up with Sherlock’s never ending snarkiness because he can defend himself against that cutting intellect with common sense and experience, and when he makes a cut it’ll leave Sherlock stunned for a good bit, ash grey eyes wide in shock. Also because he knows Sherlock doesn’t actually think he’s stupid anymore, and is permanently aware of his quieter, simmering intelligence in contrast to his own, blinding, explosive one.
Sherlock is too damned intelligent to have underestimated him for long. They have their Game (which deserves it’s capital ‘G’ for being the best thing that’s ever happened to either of them) and fuck if he can imagine how he survived without Sherlock as his foil. They’ll never admit it about their Game though, because their egos couldn’t take the beating. Doesn’t matter, though. Because they don’t need to; they’ll play the game anyway, and solve cases because they’re hopeless adrenaline junkies, and because they need each other more than they’d care to admit.
John loves the opportunities Sherlock represents, and the ever-present source of humour and free food. Sherlock loves John’s whispered conclusions about motivations and human nature which still, despite his brilliance, elude him. He can still solve cases, of course. Just, sometimes, he doesn't understand why the crimes were committed in the first place. He loves that John will signal them to Sherlock in any way possible, and he just has to keep his eyes and ears peeled, and John will watch with no expression as he grins like a child and weaves together facts and motives to come up with a complete story for the police and steals all the credit.
It works because John covers a critical hole in Sherlock’s battle shield; he deals with people who would kill Sherlock for his behaviour at the risk of everything they own. John really doesn’t mind being unaccredited. He is confident in his abilities, and suspects deep down, that Sherlock isn’t.
Despite everything that’s been said about the man, Sherlock is not a sociopath.
He’s brilliant in a way that words fail to describe, and driven in a way that’s slightly disturbing, and sensitive in a way that would imply agony if Sherlock did not wall himself away from the world, which is almost reasonable given the way he behaves. Key word: almost. It’s understandable, but doesn’t completely make up for the agony he causes through his careless words, not even with his heartbreaking ‘not good?’
All things said and done, Sherlock is an arse. Only, he’s a little bit less of an arse when he’s around John, which is good enough for John. And the only reason it’s good enough for John is because John understands how unbelievably hard it is for Sherlock to let down his walls and be nice and interested, even for just a bit, because of the aftermath he knows it’ll cause.
He even empathizes.
There’s nothing he hates more than pity for his limp on bad days, for his past which he knows they read like a tragedy, for his naivety which makes him oh-so-adorable, and it’s really just easier to feign innocence than to deal with all that head on. He’s a coward when it comes to personal issues; so sue him.
So is Sherlock, and somehow that makes it okay.
Their home-life is nowhere near as exciting as people imagine it. Body parts are a part of their daily routine, as are explosives, robberies, acid burns, food that’s gone really very off and interfering landladies, and John isn’t remotely as bothered as he pretends to be in front of others. He makes sure Sherlock knows this on a regular basis.
Sherlock claims that of course he knew that, and John had said the same thing three weeks prior thanks, and John shrugs, amused at the visible loosening of Sherlock’s shoulder muscles and his suddenly relaxed posture, knowing it means more than the words coming out of his mouth.
Because, both god and John know that Sherlock’s vulnerable like that in a way he’d never care to admit, for whatever reason. John also takes every opportunity to compliment and praise Sherlock, because he takes it like parched soil absorbs water.
John thinks that despite the amazing gift Sherlock possesses, despite his miraculous abilities and shocking intellect, he hasn’t been praised enough, or reaffirmed of his own worth enough as a child. He can imagine that, in a household consisting of Mycroft Holmes, and Mummy and Daddy Holmes, whom he imagine had impossibly high standards.
Sometimes Sherlock tells him to stop thinking what he’s thinking.
John ignores him. Sherlock’s not the boss of him anyway. He makes sure to tell Sherlock that his next deduction is particularly brilliant, or that the solution to the case was presented spectacularly, and takes pride in the way Sherlock’s shoulders straighten by a miniscule degree.
Theirs is a bizarre relationship, to say the least.
Sometimes, John doesn’t understand why he puts up with Sherlock. He knows he’s not a victim, really, but it doesn’t make sense. Sherlock is mean, and cruel and so cutting, even to John. He knows that Sherlock doesn’t mind what’s under his jovial exterior, but a lot of people actually like that John. He’s so used to the nice-John, that it’s effortless to put him on like a shield made of niceness. It would almost be easier to find someone who doesn’t look as deep as Sherlock, who likes nice-John and doesn’t care about anything else. Because sometimes John doesn’t like not-nice-John himself, and he can understand hiding him away. Sherlock… keeps reminding him that nice-John isn’t real. It’s… upsetting.
John knows that Sherlock is… aesthetically pleasing. Gorgeous, even, and feels no shame in appreciative glances when Sherlock lets his guard down, confident that no one can out-observe him. It takes a while until they’re comfortable enough together to let their collective walls down just a bit, and one day Sherlock says one of those things which can be more easily interpreted as flirtation than anything else.
Before John knows what he’s saying, he’s flirted back; some tiny, suggestive, almost-lewd comment. Before it’s even left his lips, he’s praying that Sherlock hadn’t heard it. It’s not possible, though.
Sherlock keeps typing.
But John knows he’s heard. He’s just considering his moves now. The ball’s in Sherlock’s court, and John can do nothing but hope (and when the fuck did that happen? When did he start hoping for a reciprocated interest in Sherlock? When did he even get ‘interested’ in Sherlock? There was Sarah and suddenly there wasn’t, and there was only Sherlock like there had only ever been Sherlock…)
Sherlock stops typing.
They pointedly avoid eye-contact, because how the heck do they do this now? Neither of them particularly care that the other has a penis and more flaws than have ever been documented and is honest to the point of brutality. This wasn’t intentional. They’re both cowards, remember? And no matter how John aches for Sherlock’s body under his, they’re almost-content to leave things be. But not now. He can’t let it go, now that Sherlock’s made the first move. God no.
He’s never felt like this about anyone in his entire life. He’d never found someone who’d see through the bumbling exterior and like what they saw within (vicious and sharp and capable of causing pain). Sherlock carefully closes John’s laptop, places it on the table with his impossibly long fingers, and stands up. He’s still not looking at John, but John cannot resist anymore. He’s watching Sherlock’s face for a sign, for emotion, for anything. Sherlock is biting his full lower lip, eyes shadowed by impossibly thick lashes.
Sherlock looks up, uncertain, uncertain, and it’s both invitation and explanation enough. He’s terrified because he’s never done this before, but is willing anyway because it’s John. To John the fear means less than the trust, which is the net emotion making Sherlock take one step around their ugly coffee table, and one step closer to him.
Before either one can make any conscious decision to do anything, John’s relatively stubby fingers are tangled in Sherlock’s thick, silky, messy hair, pulling the shockingly small body as close as they can get with their clothes on. The electric contact between their lips and every other inch of exposed skin blows the ‘first kiss’ out the water.
It’s like nothing they’d ever felt.
Both are attractive, intelligent men. They never had to wait to kiss girls, or boys. This was all the more delicious because of the wait, which John had thought would never ever end. Thank god. It felt like water after the drought, and he wanted to drink so deep from Sherlock; he never wanted to forget that taste.
Their kiss is sloppy and aggressive. Teeth bite down on swollen lips, and tongues explore sensitive, ticklish parts of mouths, and it’s gloriously slick with saliva, leaving them scrabbling for control as the kiss develops a life of it’s own. John steers Sherlock against a wall, and when the man is thankfully flat against something solid, and thank god for the fact, he can have his wicked way with Sherlock. Christ, even the image is erotic.
Sherlock’s hands are behind him, fumbling to pull his shirt un-tucked, long lean fingers meeting bare skin, making John hiss into the kiss at the concept. His eyes are closed, squeezed shut like opening his eyes will ruin this, and his long dark lashes tickle John’s face. His breathing is irregular and hitching, and it fills John with such unbelievable satisfaction like a balloon swelling up inside of him, threatening to explode.
John shifts slightly, and gets a thigh between Sherlock’s legs, and Sherlock lets out a moan like he’d never planned to let it out; biting and flustered, throwing his head back and hitting the wall. It doesn’t seem to dampen the pleasure, and John’s glad for that.
He suddenly has the desperate urge to take Sherlock to pieces. John wants to shatter him, so Sherlock can’t remember his own name, so that he’s left shuddery and breathless and spoiled for any other man, or woman, because he’ll always be there, waiting for Sherlock. He knows this thought is more than a bit not good, but he can’t bring himself to care, and he’s already undoing Sherlock’s belt deftly, with one steady hand, unreflective of his inner state.
Sherlock lets his head fall aside, leaving John with an untarnished expanse of long neck and collar bone, and an irresistible opportunity. He swoops down and sucks hard, just above the jut of Sherlock’s collar bone, to bring blood to the surface and to mark mine. Sherlock keens softly, and John realises he’s been relentlessly pressing against Sherlock’s cock with his thigh, and moves away as fast as he can. This has to last. Sherlock’s head snaps up, and his eyes snap open as if he can’t tell whether to be relieved or disappointed, and John can’t help but kissing him, because god he loves this man.
He loves Sherlock. John’s loved him for a while now.
The realisation takes all the breath away from him, like a punch to the stomach. He breathes in like a huff and a laugh and a sob and he’s not sure about anything anymore except that it suddenly makes so much sense and he’s just kissing Sherlock, because that’s all he can do. John knows that if Sherlock doesn’t return his feelings and this is just a night of drunken groping or an experiment, this will give him power over John forever, and he can’t bring himself to care, because this one night would have been worth it.
He’s never done anything like this before. Never in his life leapt before looking, never considered following anyone off a cliff blindly, and still, here he is. And he still wants Sherlock in pieces in front of him, so the epiphany hasn’t changed anything. That’s good, because John has amazing self control, but no man is that good.
His hands are quickly unzipping Sherlock’s pants, still not shaking like the rest of his body is, in anticipation. Sherlock’s hips are impossibly small, and missing the familiar swill of a female body. But that’s okay. Just because John hasn’t done this in a while doesn’t mean he still isn’t damn good at it. And Sherlock’s phone rings in John’s pocket.
John presses against Sherlock’s side to read it, even as Sherlock filches it from John’s pocket in a stunning role reversal, making John think of all the things Sherlock’s hands could be doing in that area. It’s Lestrade. They had a case, and needed Sherlock’s help.
John figures that something like this could happen, and he’s just a little bit disappointed, but not devastated, because in the life he’s chosen to lead, cases will always come before sex, and Sherlock will always come before cases, and he had to fit himself in wherever he could. He didn’t have much of a choice even if he’d wanted one. He would fit nowhere in the world like he fits into the corners of Sherlock’s life, and under his chin like this.
He sighs, and Sherlock shoots him a sharp glance even as he presses the reply button. Then types a word which has never before struck John as particularly beautiful, but is now stunning and gorgeous and breathtaking; busy. The phone goes flying and lands on the union jack pillow. Sherlock sends him a very real, very sweet smile and kisses him sideways, from John’s position beside Sherlock. It’s awkward, and they’re all tangled up but that’s alright because they’ve always been tangled up in their lives, and it’s probably how they’ll spend the rest of their lives.
It occurs to John, as Sherlock tries the dominant role, pushing him delightfully against the wall (which hasn’t yet crumbled beneath their force), that the sex doesn’t matter. Not like that, he wouldn’t stop this for anything in the world right now, but the sex is only a logical progression of their… relationship. Or whatever it was between them. It had been building up for some time, he knew, when he looked back at the time they spent together.
He should have known that Sherlock would reciprocate his interest, if he’d recognised his own interest in the first place. He should have known that sitting too close together in cabs and feeling awkward in his own skin when Sherlock was not around was not exactly normal flat-mate behaviour. Mutual appreciation and compromise were one thing, but wanting the other to be happy was another. And Sherlock did want him to be happy, it was really clear. God, sometimes he felt so blind. Sherlock would do anything to make him happy, and this realisation is more breathtaking than the idea that he’s in love with Sherlock, because he’d actually already known that.
Sherlock is kissing along his jaw line and under his ear and biting down his neck and it’s really all John can to do stop thinking, and fist Sherlock’s shirt. His eyelids are fluttering and he can’t do anything to stop it, because this is Sherlock loving him.
He uses his desperate grip on the purple shirt to manhandle Sherlock’s back against the wall, and before Sherlock can protest, John breaks the kiss and sinks to his knees, taking Sherlock’s pants with him. Sherlock stops breathing. Thin, silk shorts are the only thing keeping John from Sherlock, and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t take that opportunity. He licks his lips, inhaling that musk, then in an almost open-mouthed kiss, licks the damp spot on Sherlock’s shorts.
Sherlock moans out loud, without abandon this time, a clenched fist landing on the wall beside John’s head. Sherlock tastes like courage and falling, and so many things he can’t identify, and something he knows without a doubt is pure Sherlock. He traces the outline of Sherlock’s straining cock with his tongue, and Sherlock is mouthing something with his eyes still squeezed shut. John’s on the right path.
John would, if he could, prolong this for another ten minutes, but he’s going to cut himself some slack because he can’t take one more second of not having Sherlock in his mouth, not when Sherlock is making those noises and driving him insane, and his fevered heart won’t quiet down.
Sherlock clearly isn’t expecting him to move so fast, as evidenced by the tiny gasp he makes when John expertly rolls down his boxers, avoiding snagging on anything important, which is louder than anything John has ever heard in his life.
Sherlock’s cock is magnificent, long and thick, dark in shocking contrast to the paleness of the rest of his body, fully erect and beaded with precum. John takes him into his mouth, and Sherlock’s hands are suddenly gripping John’s shoulders, grounding him when he thinks he could float off any second.
Sherlock’s knees appear to have gone weak as he trembles when John runs his tongue along the bottom of his cock, feeling a pulsing vein and going harder than he could have imagined possible. This is Sherlock. It only takes him a second to adjust to Sherlock’s size, and pick up rhythm. Sherlock is forcing his fingers to leave their vice-like grip on John’ shoulders and is trailing them into his hair, before clenching them into fists against the wall again. John gets it.
Sherlock wants to hold his hair, but doesn’t want to be rude, the ridiculous tosser. He pauses for a second and guides both of Sherlock’s hands into his own hair, where they grip desperately, but gently all the same. Sherlock is moaning when he starts up again, eyes shut, shaking furiously because John is relentless.
John is doing his best to keep from falling apart where he kneels himself, because this is Sherlock he’s taking to pieces, begging him prettily to please, please, please.
John wants to pause, to be cruel and ask, ‘please what?’, and watch Sherlock tremble helplessly, until he can’t stand the pleasure anymore, but he knows there’s plenty of time for that later. Sherlock is pulling his hips back, even as John hollows his cheeks and sucks hard, making Sherlock whimper and nibble his own teeth, grip in his hair tighter than before.
“John, god, please, John!” Sherlock’s snatched breaths and words are more telling than anything else, as if John couldn’t already tell that Sherlock was clinging to the edge like a man falling off a cliff. John hums a ‘yes?’ while still swallowing Sherlock as deep as he can manage, while Sherlock comes with the true beauty of a shocking orgasm. He had known his control was fraying, but had underestimated John’s persistence. He should keep doing that, so John can keep shocking him.
He is emptying into John, who draws back only to taste the last few dark, bitter drops from Sherlock, tongue exploring the tip of Sherlock’s cock, making him whimper even as he is shuddering and shaking, leaning heavily against the wall behind him. John gets to his feet, wincing as joints crack; his need desperate. Still weak and boneless, Sherlock pulls him in by the waist and kisses him, tasting himself on John’s lips, one hand furiously undoing John’s jeans.
He shoves everything down at once, still kissing John with eyes closed, and without thinking twice, shafts John’s cock, swallowing his gasp, biting John’s lips after. His thumb traces the tip of John’s cock making him want to thrust, but not as much as when Sherlock pumps experimentally, twice. John is quickly losing coherence and it occurs to him that Sherlock is going to find it shockingly easy to shatter him in return.
Sherlock bites John’s lips and pushes his tongue into the confines of his mouth, simultaneously pumping his cock with an expert twist of his wrist. It doesn’t take long after that. John comes with Sherlock’s name on his lips, leaning heavily on Sherlock’s slender frame on the wall.
When he finally manages to open his eyes, Sherlock is watching him with a deep, immeasurable fondness in his eyes, corners of which are crinkling in a deep smile. He absently licks a finger as he supports John to the sofa, and John groans. Sherlock actually, genuinely looks surprised. John stares pointedly at his still-sticky fingers. Sherlock raises an eyebrow and runs his tongue up his palm, all the while looking at John from beneath his eyelashes, then kissing him with that flavour still on his tongue. It’s a quiet kiss, and not desperate like the previous ones, but no less loving.
They collapse onto their abused sofa, and John knows Sherlock is as exhausted as he is, and somehow they end up lying side by side, drifting off with Sherlock’s head beside his heart, John’s chin resting on Sherlock’s dark head. His arms are around Sherlock’s thin body, holding him close.
This is weird in more ways than one, but also the most satisfying thing John had ever done in his entire life, next only to graduating med school and saving his first dying soldier. And he has been spoiled for everyone else, now, the same way he hopes Sherlock is. Nothing else would ever feel like this between them; it isn’t possible to recreate this feeling with anyone else. It is a fact that John knows. Sherlock does trust him, and here is clear evidence.
It makes more sense this way than it did any other way. It makes so much more sense than when they’d just worked and lived together, and respected each other and admired each other and not realised what it meant to the other.
There is so much to talk about, and so much to clarify. But there will be time, and they would wake up like this, and it is good enough for now, because now, John giving everything to Sherlock and putting up with so much nonsense makes sense. Because Sherlock has long ago given everything to John, and John has just realised it.
until I wrap myself in your arms I cannot rest
fin.