Fic: We Were Never Forever: Chapter Four
Title: We Were Never Forever
Story Type: Fanfiction Crossover
Fandoms: Sherlock (BBC)/White Collar
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Neal Caffrey, Peter Burke, Mozzie, Elizabeth, White Collar Task Force, Seb, young!Sherlock/young!Neal
Genre(s): Casefic, Romance, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Humour
Warnings: Drugs, Sex, Language, A really nasty break-up, Copious use of flashbacks.
Spoilers: None intentional, but best to be up on both shows, just in case.
Summary: When Sherlock Holmes agreed to take a case in New York for his brother, he never expected he'd be forced to work with his infuriating ex-boyfriend, a former con artist turned FBI consultant named Neal Caffrey.
Summary: When Peter brought him in on an international smuggling operation, Neal Caffrey never expected the British consultant would turn out to be the man who long-ago stole his heart, then broke it: a consulting detective from London named Sherlock Holmes.
Now Beta'd by slashfairy , lovely to the point of disbelief.
We Were Never Forever
Four
New York City: April 17, 2011
“You’re distracted.” John’s words sent a spike straight through Sherlock’s brain.
“Say that again.” Sherlock’s voice was low and menacing, a dare.
“You are. And don’t get like that, you know I’m right. He’s distracting you. Neal. I saw it in the conference room, and so did most of the task force. Deny it, and you’re an idiot. You need to deal with him.”
“I need to deal with Mycroft.” Sherlock corrected. “I think dropping his stupid umbrella in a vat of sulphuric acid might be a start.”
“Sherlock.” John’s voice had that teaching-Sherlock-to-be-human quality to it. Sherlock rolled his eyes and rounded on him. They were more than halfway to the hotel by now, and he just wanted to be inside with his violin, not thinking about Neal Caffrey.
“John, please, don’t turn this into one of your lessons. It’s over. It happened. You can’t change it. Just let it die!”
“You’ve held onto it. All these years. What happened back there? You and Neal? That’s not over, Sherlock. That’s the very opposite of over. You still have feelings for him.”
“All negative, I assure you.”
John shook his head. “Are you still in love with him?”
Sherlock glared. Why did John have to keep pushing like this? “I loved him once. I was young, I didn’t know any better.”
“That’s bollocks, Sherlock. As much as you want to pretend it’s all just transport, the fact remains that you’re a man.” John let out a long breath. “And you’re hurting. And I hate that. Talk to him. Deal with it, together. Whatever happened between you two...it’s still there. And it’s going to get in the way of this case if you let it fester like this.”
Sherlock groaned and let himself fall back against the glittering stone wall of the nearest building. John was right, damn him. Sherlock was losing control just being near Neal. Just thinking about Neal. “I don’t want to talk about this here. Let’s go to the hotel.”
John nodded and started walking again, and Sherlock pushed himself upright so they were side-by-side all the way to reception. Sherlock still thrilled at that, at having someone who didn’t want to lead or follow, but who kept in-step the whole way. People, usually soon-to-be-arrested people, sometimes called John Sherlock’s dog, or his pet. Idiots. John Watson stood in no man’s shadow, but he was glad to cast his own and let them mingle until they were indistinguishable from each other.
And that, more than anything, was what led Sherlock to this decision, and what gave him the strength to speak after he’d closed the door to their suite, knowing even before he looked that John was standing patiently, watching and waiting, ready to listen but not demanding a thing.
“He used to paint me.” Sherlock said softly. John made no move, no sound, he just listened. “I think that was how it started. I’d never felt so...” he blushed, unable to meet John’s eyes. “Beautiful. Before Neal painted me for the first time. After that,” and he smiled ruefully. “I doubt I stood a chance in hell of resisting him.”
::
Elizabeth swung the tray with practiced ease, the tiny canapés coming to rest inches from Neal’s face. He selected one, popped it into his mouth, and his eyes rolled back of their own accord.
“Well?” She prompted.
“I saw heaven.” He replied. Peter groaned, but he greedily snatched three of the hors d’oeuvres for himself and all but inhaled them. Neal smirked. Philistine.
“Unbelievable, honey.” He mumbled around a mouthful. Elizabeth shook her head fondly and patted Peter’s arm with warm affection. The woman had the patience of a saint.
Elizabeth set the tray down on an end table and slipped onto the arm of Peter’s chair so she was almost in his lap, and his arm went around her automatically. As far as Neal could tell, the man hadn’t even realized he was doing it. Neal spared a moment to mourn that he would never know that easy adoration with Kate, then another to mourn the loss of that same affection that he’d had with Sherlock. Speaking of...
“So, Neal, Peter tells me you’re working with an old flame.” She bobbed her eyebrows and popped one of her own samples into her mouth. She chewed it critically, then pulled out a small notepad and wrote something down. “Is it him? The...what did Mozzie say? The Automaton?”
Neal smirked. “I only ever dated one guy, so yes. And where does Mozzie get off calling Sherlock a machine? He never met him.”
She arched her eyebrows, incredulous. “Neal, since when did Mozzie have to meet someone to know everything about them?” She paused. “Well, except for this guy. Mozzie called him a blank ledger and then grumbled for ten minutes about Darwin.”
Peter looked up at her. “Honey, how much time have you been spending with him, exactly?”
She patted his shoulder reassuringly. “If you’d bother to learn how to play scopa I could spend my Tuesday lunches with you instead.”
Peter mouthed the word “scopa?” and crinkled his forehead.
“Italian card game.” Neal translated. Peter nodded.
“He did show me his website.” Elizabeth added. “It’s...interesting. Actually, honey, you might like it. It’s all about crime solving and science.” She addressed that last part to Peter.
“Sherlock has a website?” Neal asked, feeling strangely behind in the conversation. It was a novel experience, and not one he enjoyed so far.
“You didn’t know?” Peter demanded. “How did you not know?” Elizabeth swatted him on the arm and he made a big show of rubbing it and glaring at her.
Neal looked away, struggling to hide a blush just barely creeping over his skin. “I tried not to think about him too much. I stopped trying to get in touch with him not long after I met Kate. It just seemed better that way.” He sighed. “He probably knew all about her from the start. That damn brother of his.”
“Brother?” Peter asked. “Wait...you mean our contact. That Myles guy.”
“Mycroft.” Neal said, and the name tasted bitter and oily on his tongue. “His name, is Mycroft.”
Peter grimaced. “Mycroft. Sherlock. What kind of parent names their kid something like that?”
Neal smirked. “An aristocratic British family with a long history. Sherlock is named for a great-uncle, I think, and Mycroft is named for their grandfather. It’s really not all that unusual, in their social circle. Well, Mycroft’s social circle anyway. I think Sherlock severed all ties outside of his brother and his mom years ago.”
“Why would he do that?” Peter asked.
Neal cocked an eyebrow. “Remember the Wilkes creep I told you about?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s why.”
::
Cambridge: January 28, 2000
Sherlock fidgeted, plucking at a loose thread in his sleeve. What was he doing here? This was a mistake, it had all the indicators of a massive, catastrophic mistake. He didn’t belong here, he wasn’t that sort of bloke.
Well, he wasn’t any sort of bloke, when it came down to it. He was the anti-bloke. He defied “sorts” in their entirety. He was type-less. And he was sitting awkwardly on Neal’s minimalist sofa, trying very hard not to think about what was going to happen. He’d have had better luck trying to mop up the Atlantic with a bog roll.
Neal’s flat was...well it wasn’t posh exactly but it was sleek. It was all shining surfaces and clean lines, and everything about it said “cool”. Sherlock was utterly foreign to the concept of “cool”, yet Neal seemed to embody and radiate it. So, it turned out, did his furniture.
At least he still had some of his good clothes from back home. He was wearing a blue cashmere sweater that clung to his chest and hips, emphasising the lean, slender line of his torso without calling attention to the skinniness of his arms. He’d also managed to find very nearly pressed trousers that gripped just tightly enough to his arse and complemented the hard lines of his gangly legs. He was still a gawky bean pole, but at least he looked presentable enough. Of course, all the designer togs Mycroft’s money could buy still couldn’t make him look half as effortlessly handsome as Neal did with nothing more than a pair of jeans, a cotton shirt and unseasonably warm weather.
As though bidden by Sherlock’s thoughts, Neal came into the lounge from the kitchen, a steaming mug in his hands. “Here.” He said.
“What is it?” Sherlock asked, eyeing the mug. It was brown and looked hand-crafted, but skillfully so, with a warm glaze over the thick clay. Artisan work.
Neal rolled his eyes. “It’s spiced cider. I don’t have any hot chocolate and I’m ‘rubbish’ at making tea, but I always drank this back home when it was cold.” The Britishism sat indolently on Neal’s tongue, and yet he hadn’t seemed the least bit awkward using it. Usually American accents sounded jarring to Sherlock, but Neal’s voice seemed to gentle every word he spoke. It was dizzying.
Sherlock took the mug, it was incredibly hot and he had to surreptitiously slide the sleeves of his shirt over his palms to hold it. Neal wandered over to the window, where a fresh snow was falling. “It’s finally acting like January out there.” He said with a shake of his head. “Man, and I thought New York weather was unpredictable.”
“You’re from New York?” Sherlock asked. So much for his midwest theory. “Which borough?”
Neal smirked and huffed a short laugh. “Classic mistake, rookie. Upstate New York, and I’m not from there.” He walked over to the sofa, and Sherlock felt himself tense, though he wasn’t sure if it was in apprehension or anticipation. Probably both.
“So.” Neal said. “You ready?”
Sherlock hunched over his mug and bought a few moments by taking a sip. It was scalding hot and far sweeter than he liked. He swallowed it down and tried to hide his grimace. Unable to meet Neal’s eyes he said, “What do I do?”
Neal took the mug with a soft smile. “Whatever you want. Find a comfortable position and I’ll see if I can work with it.” His eyes flickered to the window, the lighting fixtures, and Sherlock. “Winter light is perfect for you.”
Sherlock curled in on himself a little more, missing the mug for the convenient excuse it provided. He looked around at the sofa, the chairs, the fireplace, the artwork-studded walls. “Where?” He asked.
Neal shrugged. “Sofa’s fine. Lie down if you like.”
Sherlock did, and as he moved he realized to his horror that the was shaking. Christ, was this how other people felt when he looked at them? He’d never before felt so scrutinized as he did under Neal’s gaze.
“Why am I doing this?” He whispered, staring up at Neal’s ceiling.
Neal snorted, moving to pull a metal framed easel from the corner. “Because you’ve got nothing better to do while the inks set, and because it’s been over a week since Seb stopped protecting you, but you haven’t been accosted by anyone.”
“How did you do that?” Sherlock asked. “You never told me.”
Neal shrugged. “I have my methods. Let’s just say the rugby crowd has other things on its mind these days.”
“You said you’d use their girlfriends.” Sherlock pointed out, his eyes tracking Neal as he hefted a medium sized canvas onto the easel. “Did you seduce them?”
Another smirk. He seemed to use them as regularly as other people blinked. “Would it matter to you if I did?”
“No.” Sherlock answered immediately, then cursed himself. Too quick, idiot!
Neal laughed. “I didn’t. I just talked to them. It’s not my fault if I’m more charming and romantic than the guys they’re dating. I’m certainly not responsible for any raised standards they might have acquired, or any newfound reluctance they might have about taking their boyfriends to bed.”
And Sherlock laughed, genuinely laughed, loud and deep and real. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed like that.
“Like that!” Neal breathed, his face flushed, and Sherlock froze. “Just like that, Sherlock! Oh, God, your eyes.”
Sherlock wrinkled his forehead, confused, and Neal was upon him, his hands positioning Sherlock’s shoulders, his arms, and then his legs and suddenly Sherlock had trouble breathing.
“No, no, don’t lose it!” Neal was almost frantic. “Think about what just happened. Think about what made you laugh. I want to paint you when you look like that. God, you’re so beautiful.”
Sherlock’s heart stuttered. Oh, Christ he was gonna die if Neal didn’t stop. Beautiful, beautiful, he called me beautiful. On and on in an endless loop inside his mind and Neal’s hands were still on him, touching and pushing and oh God.
He drew a ragged breath, and tried to focus on the conversation, on the laughter, but all he could think about was Neal and Neal’s hands and Neal’s gaze and Neal’s body so fucking close!
“Damn it.” Neal said softly. “You’re impossible. It can’t be done. I can’t pose you.”
“What? Why?”
Neal smiled. “You always look so good. Everything I try looks perfect, and I can’t decide.”
Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. “You’re lying. You’re conning me.”
Neal shook his head. “I’d never con you, Sherlock. Just relax, find a position that’s comfortable, and think about how I made you laugh.” And with that he moved away. Sherlock was briefly disoriented by the sudden shock of cold when Neal’s body heat was gone, but he composed himself.
He let himself relax, rest, drift. He slid inside his mind, accessing the file that held their conversation, scrolling through words, inflections, body language, emotional responses, visual cues. The girlfriends. Neal and his endless charm and sophistication. An entire team of blue-balled rugby morons, and Sherlock was smiling. His body went lax, and he felt himself falling into familiar habits. He shifted himself back on the sofa so that his head was resting on the soft throw pillow propped against the arm, his legs straight out. He thought about the frustrated thugs, and about the young, beautiful women with a newly dawning awareness, and about Neal, smiling and talking with that voice so like a caress, and those eyes that looked so cold but shone with warmth and humour.
His arms moved of their own accord, elbows bending and tucking against his ribs, fingers unfurling, palms pressed together, fingertips lightly pressing against his chin as he sank deeper and deeper into his thoughts. Beneath the pleasure and the delight of Neal’s handywork, a steady buzz of knowledge, ideas, inferences and facts filled his head. The viscocity of the inks he’d made, the changes in pigmentation based on the acidic properties of the solvents, the way Neal’s eyes crinkled when he smiled, and he tilted his head back slightly, fixing his eyes on the ceiling and letting his vision fall out of focus, the better to exist internally.
“My God...” The breathy whisper drifted into Sherlock’s awareness, but he was too far gone now. He was surrounded by his intellect, embraced by it, swimming in it but not drowning. No, he was safe here. He belonged here. It was good. For now at least, it was so good.
There was a light shushing noise of pencil against canvas. There was the trickling sound of liquid, turpentine or linseed oil at a guess, swirling in a container. There was the distinct odour of oil paint, and the hush, hush, hush of brush strokes. And there was Neal’s breathing, just this side of heavy, just barely approaching laboured, and Sherlock was absolutely still.
Time passed, light changed, the world beyond the window gently went from bright to dark. The flat was warm, the work was quiet, and the two men were lost inside their own vocations. Sherlock didn’t sleep, didn’t even doze, but he had closed his eyes at some point so he could be completely inside his head.
Then, “Open your eyes for me, Sherlock.” There was something thick and dark in Neal’s voice. “I need to see them.” It was the only direction he’d given since Sherlock had gone into his pose, though it didn’t feel like posing.
He opened his eyes, and Neal drew a sharp intake of breath. “Yes.” He whispered. “Yes, like that. Just like that. You’re so beautiful, Sherlock. God I wish you could see you the way I can.”
It was warmer, now, and Sherlock’s grip on his thoughts was faltering. He was being pushed and pulled toward the surface, his body fighting to overcome his mind, to wrest Sherlock’s attention from the swirl and hum inside his head, to focus it on sensation, stimulation, desire.
There was a sudden clatter, and Sherlock slid his gaze over to see Neal, slumped against the wall behind him, his palate on the floor, smears of paint staining the dropcloth below the canvas. Neal’s shirt was gone, how had Sherlock missed that? He was wearing a thin white vest, the fabric clinging to every beautifully defined muscle in his chest and abdomen, hugging to the contours of his shoulders, framing the lean, smooth sinew of his bare arms. Sherlock’s lips parted, his breath quickened along with his pulse. Neal was in much the same condition, his eyes half-lidded and obscuring pupils that Sherlock knew must have been dialated, despite the ample lighting.
Neal stepped forward, and Sherlock tensed, his arms moving down, out of their prayer-like position. Neal kept moving, coming closer, and Sherlock’s heart hammered behind his ribcage. Oh God. Oh God!
Neal was close enough now that Sherlock could feel the heat coming off his skin. He didn’t move, he couldn’t move. And now Neal was kneeling, falling to his knees so that his head was nearly level with Sherlock’s. Please. Please, oh please, Neal, please! And he didn’t even know what he was pleading for. His body was burning with want, and he hadn’t the faintest idea what.
“Sherlock...” And yes, it was exactly like a caress, that voice that ghosted over his ear and slipped under his skin and into his blood. A hand slid into his hair, tangling in the dark curls.
“Tell me this is okay, Sherlock.” There was a touch of pleading in Neal’s voice now, a hint of desperation.
“Yes.” He breathed. Yes. Yes. Oh, God yes! His blood was singing, his mind was racing, faster even than usual, the world was spinning and he didn’t want it to stop.
Neal didn’t speak, didn’t smile or smirk, he just used the hand buried in Sherlock’s hair to angle his head a bit, and leaned down, and down, and his mouth closed over Sherlock’s, their lips connecting, their breath mingling and...
This. Oh this, yes, exactly this! The fire in Sherlock’s skin blazed hotter, his body screamed a chorus of YES, his hands groped blindly until they found Neal’s arm and his neck. And when had he closed his eyes? No, he wanted to see. He opened them, and Neal was so close. His vision, his world was filled with Neal.
It was simple, to begin with, just pressure and movement of Neal’s lips against his. But it was inexplicably difficult to draw a breath, despite his nose being unobstructed, and so he parted his lips, hoping to gasp in a breath between the sliding and slipping, but then Neal’s tongue darted out and ran along the inside of his bottom lip, and he gasped and jerked back, eyes wide.
They froze, the pair of them, their eyes locked, and the only movement came from their heaving chests. Neal looked scared, almost terrified, but Sherlock, Sherlock was lost in his own body, desperate and frightened and still he was burning. It had been warm, bracing, invigorating when Neal was kissing him, but once they’d parted it just burned, and it was painful, and he wanted Neal to come back if only to quell the heat and make it warm again.
“Are--are you...did I...” Neal’s eyes darted this way and that, studying Sherlock’s face. He took in the wide eyes, the ragged breath, the raised eyebrows, and his face shifted into a bizarre mixture of horror and fascination, tinged in yearning. “Shit.” He hissed. “This was your first kiss.”
Sherlock nodded. He was impatient now, desperate to ease the heat devouring his body, with his eyes still locked on Neal’s he reached out, curled a hand around the back of Neal’s neck and brought him back. He all but slammed their mouths together, and there was a flash of pain from lips crushing against teeth, but Neal was responding, his hands came up to frame Sherlock’s face, and once more that clever tongue was darting, and this time Sherlock opened up to it, let it plunge past his lips and teeth, felt it slip over his own, flickering over his palette, dancing around his mouth until it had thoroughly and completely tasted him, then doing it all again.
He felt something surging up inside of him, he was getting dizzy, he couldn’t breathe. He forced himself to pull back, but kept his hand where it was, holding Neal in place.
“Second.” He panted, then pressed his lips to Neal’s again. That marvelous tongue returned, and this time it coaxed Sherlock’s own tongue out and into Neal, and the shock of the heat and the wet and the idea that he was inside Neal in any capacity made his world catch fire, and suddenly he wasn’t burning anymore but blazing. He was the fire, part of it, one with it, and God it was good!
He mapped the inside of Neal’s mouth, committed every millimetre to memory. Then backed it up, creating an entirely new file folder marked “Neal” where he would keep all of this and everything that followed. Years later, he would try to delete that folder, and fail, and the resulting sulk would keep him still and silent for nearly two weeks. Nobody would notice.
But now, in the glorious, blinding light of now, Sherlock was experiencing bliss for the first time, and he wanted more. Always more. Once he had charted the new territory of Neal’s mouth, he pulled away again, keeping their lips pressed together until the very last second.
“Third.” He managed, but the word was difficult to form, and his voice was tight and strained. That didn’t stop him, though, from rising up again and pulling Neal forward for number four.
::
Fourth. This was the fourth. Yes, right, numbers and...and words and breathing, breathing getting kind of difficult here. Oh God, so soft! He wanted so much, Neal could feel it in the desperation, the eagerness of Sherlock’s kisses. Oh God he was kissing Sherlock! Could he give it? Did he have enough? Was he ready? Was Sherlock ready?
Sherlock seemed to think so. His hands drifted down to the waistband of Neal’s slacks and tugged up, forcing Neal up and onto the couch, onto Sherlock. Sherlock smiled into the kiss and let out a contented breath. It ghosted over Neal’s lips.
Sherlock was a completely new experience. His kiss was harder, more demanding than any Neal had ever known. He felt somewhat as though Sherlock were devouring him, though he couldn’t bring himself to dislike it. Sherlock tasted different, too. Toothpaste and spiced cider mixed with something metallic and chemical, as though his long hours in the lab had caused his experiments to absorb into his skin, his lungs, his blood. Even so, it tasted good. Sherlock tasted so...good.
They pressed closer, their bodies flush, the heat of their chests burning through their clothes. It was nice, Neal thought, not like with women. There was no softness here, none of that pillowing, welcoming curviture he loved so much. No, this was hard, and lean. There was no distance here, no in-between, just pressure and contact and not enough.
Breathing was becoming increasingly problematic, though, so Neal decided it was finally his turn to break a kiss, and he pulled himself back, ending kiss number four. Sherlock made a soft sound of protest, very nearly a whimper, but it cut off the moment Neal pressed his lips to the corner of Sherlock’s jaw, and then to the join of his jaw and his neck, and then to the thick blue vein which stood starkly against Sherlock’s very pale skin. Neal kissed down Sherlock’s neck, occasionally lapping his tongue over salty skin, or scraping his teeth lightly over the places he’d just kissed. Sherlock writhed and panted beneath him, arching his head back, baring his throat, begging wordlessly for more.
Neal gave him more, he kissed and licked and bit ever so gently until he found the place where Sherlock’s pulse fluttered madly just under his skin. Once he found it, he gave a quick smirk, lowered his head, and sucked.
Sherlock jerked and gave a yelp, his fingers flew to Neal’s hair, tangling and tugging and pressing him close. Neal sucked again, and Sherlock made a sound deep in his throat, a low rumble like the purr of a cadillac, dark and smooth as Italian leather, sinful and sexy and debauched, and the noise went straight to Neal’s groin, and he felt himself stirring, filling with heat and blood and desperate need, and he longed to thrust his hips against the firm, hot thigh beneath him.
Sherlock drew a sharp breath, and his eyes flew open. His body tensed and froze, even his breathing ceased.
“Sherlock?” Neal lifted his head, scanning Sherlock’s face for some sign of pain or discomfort.
“You...” Sherlock’s voice was barely more than an exhale of air. “You want me.” His eyes were wide with shock.
Neal smiled. “No shit, Sherlock.” He said. “What was your first clue?”
“I...I can feel...” He looked...scared. Neal felt a flutter of panic, and shifted his hips so his erection wouldn’t press against Sherlock’s body. Sherlock’s hand flew out to stop him, to hold him where he was. The pressure felt good, but Neal didn’t let himself get lost in it. He kept his eyes firmly on Sherlock’s face, searching, waiting.
And Sherlock shifted himself, slipping down until they lined up, and Neal felt Sherlock’s own arousal against his. He groaned and had to close his eyes. Nothing, nothing at all could have prepared him for that. “Sh-Sherlock!” He gasped. Beneath him, Sherlock rocked his hips, and something exploded behind Neal’s eyes, filling his head with white and hot and hard until there was nothing else. He extended his arm and frantically felt for the arm of the couch and gripped it tight.
Sherlock rocked his hips again and Neal cried out, his head falling forward until his forehead was pressed against Sherlock’s. “Oh my God.” He panted. “Oh my God.” This was getting away from him. He was losing control, and it was too much, far too much.
Sherlock shifted under him, and the intense heat and friction vanished. Neal whimpered and rocked forward, trying to find it again. He opened his eyes, his gaze pleading, but Sherlock shook his head and took Neal’s hand. Silently, his eyes locked on Neal’s, his body trembling, he guided Neal’s hand down, between their chests, and down again, between their abdomens, and still down, between their--
“No.” Neal said, keeping his voice soft but definite. He twisted his hand so he could lace his fingers through Sherlock’s. “Not yet.”
Emotions flickered across Sherlock’s expression. Relief, confusion, doubt, worry, fear, shame. Neal’s heart splintered and cracked, and he pressed a reassuring kiss to Sherlock’s lips.
“I don’t understand.” Sherlock whispered. “Don’t you want to?”
Neal nodded. “Yes. More than you could possibly know.”
“Then why? You want me, I can feel it.” He canted his hips up, grinding the two of them together, and Neal groaned. “I want you, too. See?” Again, that flash of pleasure and pain as their erections met, crushed between their bodies and their clothes. “Why stop?”
Neal had to wait a moment for Sherlock’s words to reach his addled brain, and another for them to actually make sense. He took a deep breath, and his lungs filled with Sherlock, and he was dizzy again. Even so, he forced himself to speak.
“You’re not ready.” He said, and Sherlock opened his mouth to protest but Neal silenced him with a chaste kiss. “You’d never even kissed before tonight. Trust me when I say you’re not ready. And,” he bit his lip, feeling his face flush. “To be honest, I don’t think I’m ready either. I’ve never been with a man, Sherlock. This is too fast, and it’s too much, and I couldn’t live with myself if tomorrow morning you regretted me.”
Sherlock sighed. “Yes. Right. Thank you.” But he didn’t look grateful. He looked frustrated and ashamed. He turned his head away, and his eyes were too bright.
“Sherlock, look at me.” Neal said. Sherlock ignored him, fixing his eyes on the back of the easel. “Sherlock, please.” He pressed his index finger to Sherlock’s jaw and moved his head to face him. Reluctantly, Sherlock’s eyes slid over to Neal as well.
“What?”
Neal took a breath. “I want you. I really, desperately want you. It’s killing me to stop.” He lowered his head and brought Sherlock into another kiss, and he made it hard and hungry, desperate to convey all of his longing, all of his aching want in the pressure of his lips, the bite of his teeth and the frenzy of his tongue. Pulling away was like cutting off a limb. “But it’s better this way. We need time. We need to go slow.”
“I don’t want slow!” Sherlock whined, threading his hands through Neal’s hair and trying to pull him down. Neal resisted, though it was like tearing out his own lungs.
“I know.” He said. “But I don’t want cheap. Or painful. And trust me, if we go any further, that’s what it’s gonna be. I’ll kiss you, God I doubt I could stop, but we’re not ready to do the rest.”
“Why not?!” Sherlock snarled, and he thrust his head forward to bite Neal’s lower lip. It hurt, and Neal wanted him to do it again.
“Because if I start, I won’t be able to stop.” He lowered his head to kiss Sherlock again, proving his point. “If I just kiss you, I can hold back, but if you let me in...”
“Then kiss me.” Sherlock snapped, and Neal wondered how he could ever have thought of Sherlock as anybody’s lackey, much less Sebastian’s.
“As you wish.” He smirked, and he dipped his head, his mouth seeking Sherlock's until they were once again lost in the haze of each other, cradled in the warmth of two bodies held close, two hearts beating fast, and two breaths blending into one.
Chapter Five
--
Story Type: Fanfiction Crossover
Fandoms: Sherlock (BBC)/White Collar
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Neal Caffrey, Peter Burke, Mozzie, Elizabeth, White Collar Task Force, Seb, young!Sherlock/young!Neal
Genre(s): Casefic, Romance, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Humour
Warnings: Drugs, Sex, Language, A really nasty break-up, Copious use of flashbacks.
Spoilers: None intentional, but best to be up on both shows, just in case.
Summary: When Sherlock Holmes agreed to take a case in New York for his brother, he never expected he'd be forced to work with his infuriating ex-boyfriend, a former con artist turned FBI consultant named Neal Caffrey.
Summary: When Peter brought him in on an international smuggling operation, Neal Caffrey never expected the British consultant would turn out to be the man who long-ago stole his heart, then broke it: a consulting detective from London named Sherlock Holmes.
Now Beta'd by slashfairy , lovely to the point of disbelief.
We Were Never Forever
Four
New York City: April 17, 2011
“You’re distracted.” John’s words sent a spike straight through Sherlock’s brain.
“Say that again.” Sherlock’s voice was low and menacing, a dare.
“You are. And don’t get like that, you know I’m right. He’s distracting you. Neal. I saw it in the conference room, and so did most of the task force. Deny it, and you’re an idiot. You need to deal with him.”
“I need to deal with Mycroft.” Sherlock corrected. “I think dropping his stupid umbrella in a vat of sulphuric acid might be a start.”
“Sherlock.” John’s voice had that teaching-Sherlock-to-be-human quality to it. Sherlock rolled his eyes and rounded on him. They were more than halfway to the hotel by now, and he just wanted to be inside with his violin, not thinking about Neal Caffrey.
“John, please, don’t turn this into one of your lessons. It’s over. It happened. You can’t change it. Just let it die!”
“You’ve held onto it. All these years. What happened back there? You and Neal? That’s not over, Sherlock. That’s the very opposite of over. You still have feelings for him.”
“All negative, I assure you.”
John shook his head. “Are you still in love with him?”
Sherlock glared. Why did John have to keep pushing like this? “I loved him once. I was young, I didn’t know any better.”
“That’s bollocks, Sherlock. As much as you want to pretend it’s all just transport, the fact remains that you’re a man.” John let out a long breath. “And you’re hurting. And I hate that. Talk to him. Deal with it, together. Whatever happened between you two...it’s still there. And it’s going to get in the way of this case if you let it fester like this.”
Sherlock groaned and let himself fall back against the glittering stone wall of the nearest building. John was right, damn him. Sherlock was losing control just being near Neal. Just thinking about Neal. “I don’t want to talk about this here. Let’s go to the hotel.”
John nodded and started walking again, and Sherlock pushed himself upright so they were side-by-side all the way to reception. Sherlock still thrilled at that, at having someone who didn’t want to lead or follow, but who kept in-step the whole way. People, usually soon-to-be-arrested people, sometimes called John Sherlock’s dog, or his pet. Idiots. John Watson stood in no man’s shadow, but he was glad to cast his own and let them mingle until they were indistinguishable from each other.
And that, more than anything, was what led Sherlock to this decision, and what gave him the strength to speak after he’d closed the door to their suite, knowing even before he looked that John was standing patiently, watching and waiting, ready to listen but not demanding a thing.
“He used to paint me.” Sherlock said softly. John made no move, no sound, he just listened. “I think that was how it started. I’d never felt so...” he blushed, unable to meet John’s eyes. “Beautiful. Before Neal painted me for the first time. After that,” and he smiled ruefully. “I doubt I stood a chance in hell of resisting him.”
::
Elizabeth swung the tray with practiced ease, the tiny canapés coming to rest inches from Neal’s face. He selected one, popped it into his mouth, and his eyes rolled back of their own accord.
“Well?” She prompted.
“I saw heaven.” He replied. Peter groaned, but he greedily snatched three of the hors d’oeuvres for himself and all but inhaled them. Neal smirked. Philistine.
“Unbelievable, honey.” He mumbled around a mouthful. Elizabeth shook her head fondly and patted Peter’s arm with warm affection. The woman had the patience of a saint.
Elizabeth set the tray down on an end table and slipped onto the arm of Peter’s chair so she was almost in his lap, and his arm went around her automatically. As far as Neal could tell, the man hadn’t even realized he was doing it. Neal spared a moment to mourn that he would never know that easy adoration with Kate, then another to mourn the loss of that same affection that he’d had with Sherlock. Speaking of...
“So, Neal, Peter tells me you’re working with an old flame.” She bobbed her eyebrows and popped one of her own samples into her mouth. She chewed it critically, then pulled out a small notepad and wrote something down. “Is it him? The...what did Mozzie say? The Automaton?”
Neal smirked. “I only ever dated one guy, so yes. And where does Mozzie get off calling Sherlock a machine? He never met him.”
She arched her eyebrows, incredulous. “Neal, since when did Mozzie have to meet someone to know everything about them?” She paused. “Well, except for this guy. Mozzie called him a blank ledger and then grumbled for ten minutes about Darwin.”
Peter looked up at her. “Honey, how much time have you been spending with him, exactly?”
She patted his shoulder reassuringly. “If you’d bother to learn how to play scopa I could spend my Tuesday lunches with you instead.”
Peter mouthed the word “scopa?” and crinkled his forehead.
“Italian card game.” Neal translated. Peter nodded.
“He did show me his website.” Elizabeth added. “It’s...interesting. Actually, honey, you might like it. It’s all about crime solving and science.” She addressed that last part to Peter.
“Sherlock has a website?” Neal asked, feeling strangely behind in the conversation. It was a novel experience, and not one he enjoyed so far.
“You didn’t know?” Peter demanded. “How did you not know?” Elizabeth swatted him on the arm and he made a big show of rubbing it and glaring at her.
Neal looked away, struggling to hide a blush just barely creeping over his skin. “I tried not to think about him too much. I stopped trying to get in touch with him not long after I met Kate. It just seemed better that way.” He sighed. “He probably knew all about her from the start. That damn brother of his.”
“Brother?” Peter asked. “Wait...you mean our contact. That Myles guy.”
“Mycroft.” Neal said, and the name tasted bitter and oily on his tongue. “His name, is Mycroft.”
Peter grimaced. “Mycroft. Sherlock. What kind of parent names their kid something like that?”
Neal smirked. “An aristocratic British family with a long history. Sherlock is named for a great-uncle, I think, and Mycroft is named for their grandfather. It’s really not all that unusual, in their social circle. Well, Mycroft’s social circle anyway. I think Sherlock severed all ties outside of his brother and his mom years ago.”
“Why would he do that?” Peter asked.
Neal cocked an eyebrow. “Remember the Wilkes creep I told you about?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s why.”
::
Cambridge: January 28, 2000
Sherlock fidgeted, plucking at a loose thread in his sleeve. What was he doing here? This was a mistake, it had all the indicators of a massive, catastrophic mistake. He didn’t belong here, he wasn’t that sort of bloke.
Well, he wasn’t any sort of bloke, when it came down to it. He was the anti-bloke. He defied “sorts” in their entirety. He was type-less. And he was sitting awkwardly on Neal’s minimalist sofa, trying very hard not to think about what was going to happen. He’d have had better luck trying to mop up the Atlantic with a bog roll.
Neal’s flat was...well it wasn’t posh exactly but it was sleek. It was all shining surfaces and clean lines, and everything about it said “cool”. Sherlock was utterly foreign to the concept of “cool”, yet Neal seemed to embody and radiate it. So, it turned out, did his furniture.
At least he still had some of his good clothes from back home. He was wearing a blue cashmere sweater that clung to his chest and hips, emphasising the lean, slender line of his torso without calling attention to the skinniness of his arms. He’d also managed to find very nearly pressed trousers that gripped just tightly enough to his arse and complemented the hard lines of his gangly legs. He was still a gawky bean pole, but at least he looked presentable enough. Of course, all the designer togs Mycroft’s money could buy still couldn’t make him look half as effortlessly handsome as Neal did with nothing more than a pair of jeans, a cotton shirt and unseasonably warm weather.
As though bidden by Sherlock’s thoughts, Neal came into the lounge from the kitchen, a steaming mug in his hands. “Here.” He said.
“What is it?” Sherlock asked, eyeing the mug. It was brown and looked hand-crafted, but skillfully so, with a warm glaze over the thick clay. Artisan work.
Neal rolled his eyes. “It’s spiced cider. I don’t have any hot chocolate and I’m ‘rubbish’ at making tea, but I always drank this back home when it was cold.” The Britishism sat indolently on Neal’s tongue, and yet he hadn’t seemed the least bit awkward using it. Usually American accents sounded jarring to Sherlock, but Neal’s voice seemed to gentle every word he spoke. It was dizzying.
Sherlock took the mug, it was incredibly hot and he had to surreptitiously slide the sleeves of his shirt over his palms to hold it. Neal wandered over to the window, where a fresh snow was falling. “It’s finally acting like January out there.” He said with a shake of his head. “Man, and I thought New York weather was unpredictable.”
“You’re from New York?” Sherlock asked. So much for his midwest theory. “Which borough?”
Neal smirked and huffed a short laugh. “Classic mistake, rookie. Upstate New York, and I’m not from there.” He walked over to the sofa, and Sherlock felt himself tense, though he wasn’t sure if it was in apprehension or anticipation. Probably both.
“So.” Neal said. “You ready?”
Sherlock hunched over his mug and bought a few moments by taking a sip. It was scalding hot and far sweeter than he liked. He swallowed it down and tried to hide his grimace. Unable to meet Neal’s eyes he said, “What do I do?”
Neal took the mug with a soft smile. “Whatever you want. Find a comfortable position and I’ll see if I can work with it.” His eyes flickered to the window, the lighting fixtures, and Sherlock. “Winter light is perfect for you.”
Sherlock curled in on himself a little more, missing the mug for the convenient excuse it provided. He looked around at the sofa, the chairs, the fireplace, the artwork-studded walls. “Where?” He asked.
Neal shrugged. “Sofa’s fine. Lie down if you like.”
Sherlock did, and as he moved he realized to his horror that the was shaking. Christ, was this how other people felt when he looked at them? He’d never before felt so scrutinized as he did under Neal’s gaze.
“Why am I doing this?” He whispered, staring up at Neal’s ceiling.
Neal snorted, moving to pull a metal framed easel from the corner. “Because you’ve got nothing better to do while the inks set, and because it’s been over a week since Seb stopped protecting you, but you haven’t been accosted by anyone.”
“How did you do that?” Sherlock asked. “You never told me.”
Neal shrugged. “I have my methods. Let’s just say the rugby crowd has other things on its mind these days.”
“You said you’d use their girlfriends.” Sherlock pointed out, his eyes tracking Neal as he hefted a medium sized canvas onto the easel. “Did you seduce them?”
Another smirk. He seemed to use them as regularly as other people blinked. “Would it matter to you if I did?”
“No.” Sherlock answered immediately, then cursed himself. Too quick, idiot!
Neal laughed. “I didn’t. I just talked to them. It’s not my fault if I’m more charming and romantic than the guys they’re dating. I’m certainly not responsible for any raised standards they might have acquired, or any newfound reluctance they might have about taking their boyfriends to bed.”
And Sherlock laughed, genuinely laughed, loud and deep and real. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed like that.
“Like that!” Neal breathed, his face flushed, and Sherlock froze. “Just like that, Sherlock! Oh, God, your eyes.”
Sherlock wrinkled his forehead, confused, and Neal was upon him, his hands positioning Sherlock’s shoulders, his arms, and then his legs and suddenly Sherlock had trouble breathing.
“No, no, don’t lose it!” Neal was almost frantic. “Think about what just happened. Think about what made you laugh. I want to paint you when you look like that. God, you’re so beautiful.”
Sherlock’s heart stuttered. Oh, Christ he was gonna die if Neal didn’t stop. Beautiful, beautiful, he called me beautiful. On and on in an endless loop inside his mind and Neal’s hands were still on him, touching and pushing and oh God.
He drew a ragged breath, and tried to focus on the conversation, on the laughter, but all he could think about was Neal and Neal’s hands and Neal’s gaze and Neal’s body so fucking close!
“Damn it.” Neal said softly. “You’re impossible. It can’t be done. I can’t pose you.”
“What? Why?”
Neal smiled. “You always look so good. Everything I try looks perfect, and I can’t decide.”
Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. “You’re lying. You’re conning me.”
Neal shook his head. “I’d never con you, Sherlock. Just relax, find a position that’s comfortable, and think about how I made you laugh.” And with that he moved away. Sherlock was briefly disoriented by the sudden shock of cold when Neal’s body heat was gone, but he composed himself.
He let himself relax, rest, drift. He slid inside his mind, accessing the file that held their conversation, scrolling through words, inflections, body language, emotional responses, visual cues. The girlfriends. Neal and his endless charm and sophistication. An entire team of blue-balled rugby morons, and Sherlock was smiling. His body went lax, and he felt himself falling into familiar habits. He shifted himself back on the sofa so that his head was resting on the soft throw pillow propped against the arm, his legs straight out. He thought about the frustrated thugs, and about the young, beautiful women with a newly dawning awareness, and about Neal, smiling and talking with that voice so like a caress, and those eyes that looked so cold but shone with warmth and humour.
His arms moved of their own accord, elbows bending and tucking against his ribs, fingers unfurling, palms pressed together, fingertips lightly pressing against his chin as he sank deeper and deeper into his thoughts. Beneath the pleasure and the delight of Neal’s handywork, a steady buzz of knowledge, ideas, inferences and facts filled his head. The viscocity of the inks he’d made, the changes in pigmentation based on the acidic properties of the solvents, the way Neal’s eyes crinkled when he smiled, and he tilted his head back slightly, fixing his eyes on the ceiling and letting his vision fall out of focus, the better to exist internally.
“My God...” The breathy whisper drifted into Sherlock’s awareness, but he was too far gone now. He was surrounded by his intellect, embraced by it, swimming in it but not drowning. No, he was safe here. He belonged here. It was good. For now at least, it was so good.
There was a light shushing noise of pencil against canvas. There was the trickling sound of liquid, turpentine or linseed oil at a guess, swirling in a container. There was the distinct odour of oil paint, and the hush, hush, hush of brush strokes. And there was Neal’s breathing, just this side of heavy, just barely approaching laboured, and Sherlock was absolutely still.
Time passed, light changed, the world beyond the window gently went from bright to dark. The flat was warm, the work was quiet, and the two men were lost inside their own vocations. Sherlock didn’t sleep, didn’t even doze, but he had closed his eyes at some point so he could be completely inside his head.
Then, “Open your eyes for me, Sherlock.” There was something thick and dark in Neal’s voice. “I need to see them.” It was the only direction he’d given since Sherlock had gone into his pose, though it didn’t feel like posing.
He opened his eyes, and Neal drew a sharp intake of breath. “Yes.” He whispered. “Yes, like that. Just like that. You’re so beautiful, Sherlock. God I wish you could see you the way I can.”
It was warmer, now, and Sherlock’s grip on his thoughts was faltering. He was being pushed and pulled toward the surface, his body fighting to overcome his mind, to wrest Sherlock’s attention from the swirl and hum inside his head, to focus it on sensation, stimulation, desire.
There was a sudden clatter, and Sherlock slid his gaze over to see Neal, slumped against the wall behind him, his palate on the floor, smears of paint staining the dropcloth below the canvas. Neal’s shirt was gone, how had Sherlock missed that? He was wearing a thin white vest, the fabric clinging to every beautifully defined muscle in his chest and abdomen, hugging to the contours of his shoulders, framing the lean, smooth sinew of his bare arms. Sherlock’s lips parted, his breath quickened along with his pulse. Neal was in much the same condition, his eyes half-lidded and obscuring pupils that Sherlock knew must have been dialated, despite the ample lighting.
Neal stepped forward, and Sherlock tensed, his arms moving down, out of their prayer-like position. Neal kept moving, coming closer, and Sherlock’s heart hammered behind his ribcage. Oh God. Oh God!
Neal was close enough now that Sherlock could feel the heat coming off his skin. He didn’t move, he couldn’t move. And now Neal was kneeling, falling to his knees so that his head was nearly level with Sherlock’s. Please. Please, oh please, Neal, please! And he didn’t even know what he was pleading for. His body was burning with want, and he hadn’t the faintest idea what.
“Sherlock...” And yes, it was exactly like a caress, that voice that ghosted over his ear and slipped under his skin and into his blood. A hand slid into his hair, tangling in the dark curls.
“Tell me this is okay, Sherlock.” There was a touch of pleading in Neal’s voice now, a hint of desperation.
“Yes.” He breathed. Yes. Yes. Oh, God yes! His blood was singing, his mind was racing, faster even than usual, the world was spinning and he didn’t want it to stop.
Neal didn’t speak, didn’t smile or smirk, he just used the hand buried in Sherlock’s hair to angle his head a bit, and leaned down, and down, and his mouth closed over Sherlock’s, their lips connecting, their breath mingling and...
This. Oh this, yes, exactly this! The fire in Sherlock’s skin blazed hotter, his body screamed a chorus of YES, his hands groped blindly until they found Neal’s arm and his neck. And when had he closed his eyes? No, he wanted to see. He opened them, and Neal was so close. His vision, his world was filled with Neal.
It was simple, to begin with, just pressure and movement of Neal’s lips against his. But it was inexplicably difficult to draw a breath, despite his nose being unobstructed, and so he parted his lips, hoping to gasp in a breath between the sliding and slipping, but then Neal’s tongue darted out and ran along the inside of his bottom lip, and he gasped and jerked back, eyes wide.
They froze, the pair of them, their eyes locked, and the only movement came from their heaving chests. Neal looked scared, almost terrified, but Sherlock, Sherlock was lost in his own body, desperate and frightened and still he was burning. It had been warm, bracing, invigorating when Neal was kissing him, but once they’d parted it just burned, and it was painful, and he wanted Neal to come back if only to quell the heat and make it warm again.
“Are--are you...did I...” Neal’s eyes darted this way and that, studying Sherlock’s face. He took in the wide eyes, the ragged breath, the raised eyebrows, and his face shifted into a bizarre mixture of horror and fascination, tinged in yearning. “Shit.” He hissed. “This was your first kiss.”
Sherlock nodded. He was impatient now, desperate to ease the heat devouring his body, with his eyes still locked on Neal’s he reached out, curled a hand around the back of Neal’s neck and brought him back. He all but slammed their mouths together, and there was a flash of pain from lips crushing against teeth, but Neal was responding, his hands came up to frame Sherlock’s face, and once more that clever tongue was darting, and this time Sherlock opened up to it, let it plunge past his lips and teeth, felt it slip over his own, flickering over his palette, dancing around his mouth until it had thoroughly and completely tasted him, then doing it all again.
He felt something surging up inside of him, he was getting dizzy, he couldn’t breathe. He forced himself to pull back, but kept his hand where it was, holding Neal in place.
“Second.” He panted, then pressed his lips to Neal’s again. That marvelous tongue returned, and this time it coaxed Sherlock’s own tongue out and into Neal, and the shock of the heat and the wet and the idea that he was inside Neal in any capacity made his world catch fire, and suddenly he wasn’t burning anymore but blazing. He was the fire, part of it, one with it, and God it was good!
He mapped the inside of Neal’s mouth, committed every millimetre to memory. Then backed it up, creating an entirely new file folder marked “Neal” where he would keep all of this and everything that followed. Years later, he would try to delete that folder, and fail, and the resulting sulk would keep him still and silent for nearly two weeks. Nobody would notice.
But now, in the glorious, blinding light of now, Sherlock was experiencing bliss for the first time, and he wanted more. Always more. Once he had charted the new territory of Neal’s mouth, he pulled away again, keeping their lips pressed together until the very last second.
“Third.” He managed, but the word was difficult to form, and his voice was tight and strained. That didn’t stop him, though, from rising up again and pulling Neal forward for number four.
::
Fourth. This was the fourth. Yes, right, numbers and...and words and breathing, breathing getting kind of difficult here. Oh God, so soft! He wanted so much, Neal could feel it in the desperation, the eagerness of Sherlock’s kisses. Oh God he was kissing Sherlock! Could he give it? Did he have enough? Was he ready? Was Sherlock ready?
Sherlock seemed to think so. His hands drifted down to the waistband of Neal’s slacks and tugged up, forcing Neal up and onto the couch, onto Sherlock. Sherlock smiled into the kiss and let out a contented breath. It ghosted over Neal’s lips.
Sherlock was a completely new experience. His kiss was harder, more demanding than any Neal had ever known. He felt somewhat as though Sherlock were devouring him, though he couldn’t bring himself to dislike it. Sherlock tasted different, too. Toothpaste and spiced cider mixed with something metallic and chemical, as though his long hours in the lab had caused his experiments to absorb into his skin, his lungs, his blood. Even so, it tasted good. Sherlock tasted so...good.
They pressed closer, their bodies flush, the heat of their chests burning through their clothes. It was nice, Neal thought, not like with women. There was no softness here, none of that pillowing, welcoming curviture he loved so much. No, this was hard, and lean. There was no distance here, no in-between, just pressure and contact and not enough.
Breathing was becoming increasingly problematic, though, so Neal decided it was finally his turn to break a kiss, and he pulled himself back, ending kiss number four. Sherlock made a soft sound of protest, very nearly a whimper, but it cut off the moment Neal pressed his lips to the corner of Sherlock’s jaw, and then to the join of his jaw and his neck, and then to the thick blue vein which stood starkly against Sherlock’s very pale skin. Neal kissed down Sherlock’s neck, occasionally lapping his tongue over salty skin, or scraping his teeth lightly over the places he’d just kissed. Sherlock writhed and panted beneath him, arching his head back, baring his throat, begging wordlessly for more.
Neal gave him more, he kissed and licked and bit ever so gently until he found the place where Sherlock’s pulse fluttered madly just under his skin. Once he found it, he gave a quick smirk, lowered his head, and sucked.
Sherlock jerked and gave a yelp, his fingers flew to Neal’s hair, tangling and tugging and pressing him close. Neal sucked again, and Sherlock made a sound deep in his throat, a low rumble like the purr of a cadillac, dark and smooth as Italian leather, sinful and sexy and debauched, and the noise went straight to Neal’s groin, and he felt himself stirring, filling with heat and blood and desperate need, and he longed to thrust his hips against the firm, hot thigh beneath him.
Sherlock drew a sharp breath, and his eyes flew open. His body tensed and froze, even his breathing ceased.
“Sherlock?” Neal lifted his head, scanning Sherlock’s face for some sign of pain or discomfort.
“You...” Sherlock’s voice was barely more than an exhale of air. “You want me.” His eyes were wide with shock.
Neal smiled. “No shit, Sherlock.” He said. “What was your first clue?”
“I...I can feel...” He looked...scared. Neal felt a flutter of panic, and shifted his hips so his erection wouldn’t press against Sherlock’s body. Sherlock’s hand flew out to stop him, to hold him where he was. The pressure felt good, but Neal didn’t let himself get lost in it. He kept his eyes firmly on Sherlock’s face, searching, waiting.
And Sherlock shifted himself, slipping down until they lined up, and Neal felt Sherlock’s own arousal against his. He groaned and had to close his eyes. Nothing, nothing at all could have prepared him for that. “Sh-Sherlock!” He gasped. Beneath him, Sherlock rocked his hips, and something exploded behind Neal’s eyes, filling his head with white and hot and hard until there was nothing else. He extended his arm and frantically felt for the arm of the couch and gripped it tight.
Sherlock rocked his hips again and Neal cried out, his head falling forward until his forehead was pressed against Sherlock’s. “Oh my God.” He panted. “Oh my God.” This was getting away from him. He was losing control, and it was too much, far too much.
Sherlock shifted under him, and the intense heat and friction vanished. Neal whimpered and rocked forward, trying to find it again. He opened his eyes, his gaze pleading, but Sherlock shook his head and took Neal’s hand. Silently, his eyes locked on Neal’s, his body trembling, he guided Neal’s hand down, between their chests, and down again, between their abdomens, and still down, between their--
“No.” Neal said, keeping his voice soft but definite. He twisted his hand so he could lace his fingers through Sherlock’s. “Not yet.”
Emotions flickered across Sherlock’s expression. Relief, confusion, doubt, worry, fear, shame. Neal’s heart splintered and cracked, and he pressed a reassuring kiss to Sherlock’s lips.
“I don’t understand.” Sherlock whispered. “Don’t you want to?”
Neal nodded. “Yes. More than you could possibly know.”
“Then why? You want me, I can feel it.” He canted his hips up, grinding the two of them together, and Neal groaned. “I want you, too. See?” Again, that flash of pleasure and pain as their erections met, crushed between their bodies and their clothes. “Why stop?”
Neal had to wait a moment for Sherlock’s words to reach his addled brain, and another for them to actually make sense. He took a deep breath, and his lungs filled with Sherlock, and he was dizzy again. Even so, he forced himself to speak.
“You’re not ready.” He said, and Sherlock opened his mouth to protest but Neal silenced him with a chaste kiss. “You’d never even kissed before tonight. Trust me when I say you’re not ready. And,” he bit his lip, feeling his face flush. “To be honest, I don’t think I’m ready either. I’ve never been with a man, Sherlock. This is too fast, and it’s too much, and I couldn’t live with myself if tomorrow morning you regretted me.”
Sherlock sighed. “Yes. Right. Thank you.” But he didn’t look grateful. He looked frustrated and ashamed. He turned his head away, and his eyes were too bright.
“Sherlock, look at me.” Neal said. Sherlock ignored him, fixing his eyes on the back of the easel. “Sherlock, please.” He pressed his index finger to Sherlock’s jaw and moved his head to face him. Reluctantly, Sherlock’s eyes slid over to Neal as well.
“What?”
Neal took a breath. “I want you. I really, desperately want you. It’s killing me to stop.” He lowered his head and brought Sherlock into another kiss, and he made it hard and hungry, desperate to convey all of his longing, all of his aching want in the pressure of his lips, the bite of his teeth and the frenzy of his tongue. Pulling away was like cutting off a limb. “But it’s better this way. We need time. We need to go slow.”
“I don’t want slow!” Sherlock whined, threading his hands through Neal’s hair and trying to pull him down. Neal resisted, though it was like tearing out his own lungs.
“I know.” He said. “But I don’t want cheap. Or painful. And trust me, if we go any further, that’s what it’s gonna be. I’ll kiss you, God I doubt I could stop, but we’re not ready to do the rest.”
“Why not?!” Sherlock snarled, and he thrust his head forward to bite Neal’s lower lip. It hurt, and Neal wanted him to do it again.
“Because if I start, I won’t be able to stop.” He lowered his head to kiss Sherlock again, proving his point. “If I just kiss you, I can hold back, but if you let me in...”
“Then kiss me.” Sherlock snapped, and Neal wondered how he could ever have thought of Sherlock as anybody’s lackey, much less Sebastian’s.
“As you wish.” He smirked, and he dipped his head, his mouth seeking Sherlock's until they were once again lost in the haze of each other, cradled in the warmth of two bodies held close, two hearts beating fast, and two breaths blending into one.
Chapter Five
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