Fill: Bound in Gold 23 (Final)
Story Type: Prompt Fill
Fandom: Sherlock
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/John
Rating: I'm told it's NC-17, but I actually consider it more a hard R.
Spoilers: All of ASiP
Warnings: If you object to arranged marriage, you probably won't like this
WTF is This?: Written for this prompt on the Kink Meme. Condensed summary: Arranged marriage AU. The first time John and Sherlock meet is on their wedding day.
Sexual content in this chapter.
23.
“Did you mean it?” Sherlock asked suddenly, and John’s attention snapped up from his dim sum to fix onto Sherlock.
“Did I mean what?” He knew. Of course he knew, but it seemed like a good idea to play down his little display of machismo as much as possible.
Sherlock frowned irritably. “Don’t be obtuse, John. You loudly and pointedly informed my older brother that you and I would be having sex tonight. Did you mean it?”
“I wasn’t that loud.” John muttered into his lo mein.
“John,” Sherlock sounded impatient. “This does have something of an impact on me, I’d like to know one way or the other.”
John slumped. “Okay, Sherlock. If you want to discuss this, then let’s discuss this.”
“I don’t want a discussion, John. I want a yes or a no.”
John cradled his head in his hands. “It’s not that simple! I just wanted to piss him off. Make him squirm. He’s...he gets under my skin. I didn’t think, I just--”
“So you didn’t mean it.” Sherlock interrupted. “You’re not interested in having sex with me.”
“Of course I am!” John practically shouted. “Were you there for the car? The front hall? The bloody crime scene? And here I thought you were clever.”
“Kissing and sex aren’t the same thing.” Sherlock protested. “You could spend the rest of our lives just kissing me and it’d never amount to having sex. If you want it, why do you keep hesitating like this?”
“Sherlock, we don’t have to. It’s not a requirement like it used to be. I’m okay with just...us.”
“But I told you, I’m perfectly willing. Why won’t you--”
“Because I don’t want to fuck you Sherlock!” This time John did shout. He couldn’t help it.
Sherlock went quiet, and still. Then, after a pause, “But...you said...”
“I don’t want to fuck you. I don’t want you to just lie back and think of England while I--” John looked away. “I want,” he licked his lips. “I want to make love to you. Christ, I know that sounds so stupid, but that’s how...that’s what I want. I want you to need it just as much as me. I want you to...” he sighed. “I want a partner, Sherlock. Not just a willing body.”
Sherlock tilted his head, then brought his hands together below his chin. He was quiet for a long while, then, “If I had said yes on our wedding night. Would you have done it then?”
John shook his head. “I was exhausted, and I’d only just met you. To be honest, I was terrified you’d try to seduce me.”
“Why?” And it wasn’t a question, it was a demand.
John couldn’t look at him. “Because if you had, I would’ve let you. And it would’ve been horrible. Christ, I was so nervous. I still couldn’t believe it was all real.” He huffed a weak laugh. “I’m not sure I really believe it now.”
Sherlock considered again, his head tilting in the opposite direction. “Tonight, well, this morning anyway, will be the third time you and I share a bed. I understand it is conventional for couples to have sex on the third date.”
“That is a gross and probably wildly inaccurate oversimplification.” John chuckled. “And if this is your attempt at seduction, you’re complete shit at it.”
A narrowing of the eyes, and John could already tell he’d grow to both love and hate that expression. It fairly screamed out “challenge accepted”.
“All right.” Sherlock said easily, then there was a sort of slither of motion, a rush of disturbed air, and suddenly Sherlock was kneeling on the floor, his hands on either side of John’s legs and braced against the sofa cushions, and he was leaning very, very close.
“Then how’s this? I nearly died tonight. Probably I chose the right pill, but I’ll never know one way or the other. I just witnessed the death of my would-be murderer at the hands of my new husband. I’ve been stripped and laid bare before you, John. You’ve seen what I was, you’ve seen what I am. The best and the worst of me. Lestrade saw to that, the cabbie as well. You and I have lived more in this one night than most people will in a year. Now, after all that, I am randy as hell and I demand that you take me to bed and pleasure me into oblivion. After which we will sleep, naked and wrapped in each other, then wake up in each other’s arms and go at it again. We will repeat this process until I am satisfied. Was that seductive enough for you?”
John would have responded, were he capable of drawing breath. His lungs had been stunned into paralysis even as his heart beat double-time. He sat still as a manequin and stared, gaped really, at his suddenly unbearably sexy husband.
“John, I do require verbal confirmation here. I want this, need it in fact. Now all that remains is you.”
John managed to let out the shuddering breath that had barricaded itself in his chest. His head began to nod of it’s own accord, and his voice finally caught up with his lust and he all but gasped, “Oh, God yes!”
What followed was a condensed storm of movement, desperation and hunger. John was only faintly aware of what he was actually doing for brief incriments of time. At one point he was fumbling with the buttons of Sherlock’s snowy shirt, another had him shoved against the wall as Sherlock plundered his mouth, then devoured his jawline and neck. Still another lucid moment took place against the bedroom door, with a bare-chested Sherlock pressed against the wood, whimpering and gasping while John’s teeth and tongue ravaged his collar bone. John’s head ventured lower, and Sherlock let out a sharp cry. John grinned and gently bit down on Sherlock’s nipple again, then ran his tongue over it in a teasing apology.
Time slowed and sharpened when John’s jumper fell from Sherlock’s eager hands to the floor, and those nimble fingers flew to the buttons of the dark blue shirt underneath. John held his breath, Sherlock’s came only in ragged huffs. The buttons came free, one by one in a fluid succession, and then Sherlock’s hands were against his bare skin. He shuddered, and Sherlock froze, his eyes intent and worried.
“No, it’s...fine. Keep going.” John whispered. He couldn’t manage more than that. Sherlock nodded and John turned his head. He couldn’t bring himself to watch.
The hands moved, fabric shifted, cold air bit at his exposed skin and then...stillness. Sherlock wasn’t breathing. He was as motionless as a waxwork. Fingers ghosted over John’s sternum, his pectorals, his clavicle. They slipped over skin and muscle and sinew until they came to rest over something twisted, misshapen and dead.
Sherlock breathed, then. A calm and steadying breath. John finally risked a look at him, and Sherlock’s eyes were rivetted to the scar. He traced gentle, lazy circles around it with his fingertip. John barely felt them, but his skin erupted in gooseflesh all the same.
“Why do you hate it?” Sherlock’s voice was the softest John had heard it since the estate. It was almost vulnerable.
“Not tonight, Sherlock. Please.”
Sherlock only nodded, and with another gentle slide of his hands against John’s chest, the shirt slid from shoulders to elbows to wrists to floor in a near silent hush.
Then there were lips on his neck, hands on his ribs, breath against his throat, a bed behind his legs. It occurred to John, belatedly, that this was his first time entering their shared room. He tried to get a look at the place as Sherlock lowered him onto the duvet, but all he managed to take in was the fact that it was a bit of a wreck after Sherlock’s reclaimation earlier, then Sherlock’s body was covering his own, and the warmth and the weight of it instantly relaxed him. God he’d missed this, just the feel of a warm body draped over his. It was reassuring and tangible and real, and he loved it. He loved that it was Sherlock atop him, pushing him into the mattress. He loved how he could feel every breath either of them took, a gentle push-me-push-you until their breaths synchronised and they were inhaling one another’s exhales, getting drunk of each other.
Sherlock’s lips found his neck again. They seemed happy there, so he just tilted his head a bit to give them more room to roam. If the playful nip at his pulse point was anything to go by, Sherlock had appreciated the gesture. John certainly did.
“I want this, John.” Sherlock mumbled against his skin. The low, rumbling baritone vibrated through John’s throat and damn if his toes didn’t curl involuntarily.
“I’d...I’d rather...gathered that.” John panted.
“Tell me you want this.” There was something...off about that. John couldn’t put his finger on it, and to be honest, it was hard to care.
“I want this! Oh God I want this!”
“Tell me you want me.” He emphasised the “me”, but only slightly.
“You, Sherlock. I want you. Please. Please, I want you!” Okay, this was getting shameless. But dear God, the things that man was doing with his tongue! John’s mind flashed to other places Sherlock’s tongue could explore, and he was suddenly, painfully hard under his jeans. He groaned and tilted his head back further. Sherlock seemed to take this as an invitation to begin moving his attentions downward, and John’s vision began to wobble.
“Just me.” Sherlock said softly against John’s ribs. “Only me.” That perilous tongue darted over a nipple, and John arched into it. “Choose me, John.”
“Yes! Yes, anything!” He honestly didn’t know what he was agreeing to at this point, because Sherlock’s hand had gone just there and...oh...
And then it all stopped. Sherlock’s body lifted away, and that soothing heat and pressure were gone. John didn’t whimper, but it wasn’t exactly a growl either. “What? What’s wrong?”
Sherlock hovered above him, his arms locked. His lower body was tucked between John’s legs, but the elevated position meant that absolutely nothing was touching where John desperately wanted to be touched.
“Why do you want me?”
“Christ, Sherlock, now? You want to do this now?”
“I need to know John! Why do you want me when no one else ever has?”
John froze. “What?”
“I’m not drunk. I’m not high. I’ve been sober for over five years now. I’m not acting. This is really me. Why would you want that?” He paused, then looked away. “No one else did.”
“Shit.” John breathed, and he lifted a hand to stroke Sherlock’s cheek. “They did a number on you, didn’t they?”
“Just tell me, John.” Sherlock said quietly. “Please.”
John thought. He really, really wanted to go back to what they’d been doing, but this moment...it felt Important. He couldn’t screw this up. He took a deep breath, and spoke.
“Because being with you is more dangerous than a war zone.”
Sherlock grinned his Shiny New Murder grin and descended on John. There were hands stroking the denim of his jeans. There was a sudden snap and a release of pressure, followed by a soft zipping and the circulation of air. There was the slide of fabric, the movement of hips. There was a ghosting of breath over too-sensitive skin, and John bucked uncontrollably.
Then the world narrowed down to a few square inches of wet and hot and that impossible tongue had been holding out on him! Hands pressed down on John’s hips, keeping him still as Sherlock worked and John gradually fell to pieces. Sherlock pushed him just far enough without bringing him over the edge, and John was left panting and shaking and incapable of focussing his eyes.
Sherlock slid up the length of John’s body until his lips were hovering scant millimetres from John’s ear.
“I want you to make love to me John.”
John groaned and his cock jumped. His hands flew to Sherlock’s hair and he tangled his fingers in the black curls. He tugged Sherlock over for a searing kiss and canted his hips so he was grinding his erection against Sherlock’s hip.
“Slow down, John.” Sherlock smiled against John’s lips. “Not yet.”
John let out a low moan, and then Sherlock was stretching over him, reaching to the small table beside the bed. He opened the drawer and pulled out a small bottle. He hesitated, then he pulled out a small foil packet as well.
“We should have talked about this beforehand.” Sherlock said dully, staring at the wrapped condom in his hand. “It seems a bit significant to decide at the last second.”
“We have our blood test results.” John pointed out. “We’re clean, and your blood sugar is low.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know. What do you want?”
Sherlock bit his lower lip. “You. Just you.”
John nodded. “Okay.” There was a tight, frightened clench in his stomach, but he breathed through it. Tomorrow. Tomorrow they would have a long discussion about exclusivity and monogamy and potential case-related risk factors, but tonight they were clean and healthy and aching for each other, and Sherlock needed his trust. His faith.
“Okay.” John breathed again, and he took the condom from Sherlock’s fingers and set it down on the bedside table. Married. He reminded himself. Not just shagging, not dating, we are married. It was hard to subvert all of his relationship expectations. It felt like they were doing everything backward. Oh well, it was working so far.
Sherlock flipped up the lid on the bottle of lube, and then his slick hand was wrapping around John’s slightly faded arousal. John drew in a sharp breath and closed his eyes, tilting his head back and simply letting the sensation wash over him. Sherlock’s hands were deft, his long fingers working sensory magic against John’s flesh, and before long he couldn’t keep his hips from jerking up, into Sherlock’s hand.
“Christ! Sherlock, please!”
Sherlock’s voice was smirking. “How do you want me, John?”
John seized the opportunity to reclaim a little of the control he’d lost. In one swift, efficient motion he hooked his leg around Sherlock’s knee, pivoted his hips, and flipped them over so Sherlock was sprawled beneath him.
“Military man.” Sherlock breathed, his voice and expression both dazed. “Gorgeous...”
John smirked and brought his hands to the waistband of Sherlock’s trousers. They were perfectly, tellingly steady, and he made quick work of the flies. Sherlock let out a low, rumbling noise as his erection was freed from its confines. John made a similar noise at the sight of it. They worked together to get the trousers and pants off of Sherlock, and then they were both naked, poised on the edge of something new and dangerous, and neither one could resist an invitation like that.
John took his time preparing Sherlock. It was incredible to watch, like a time-lapse photograph, as Sherlock’s cool, detached persona fell away, piece by piece. His whole body shifted, loosened and relaxed. He started to tremble, his eyes screwed shut, and he bit down hard on his lower lip. It would, John noted, leave a bruise.
Sherlock wasn’t loud, but soft vocalisations accompanied each exhale, and he was writhing and pushing down on John’s fingers in obvious desperation. John had avoided his prostate so far. He wanted to draw it out, but Sherlock was shifting and twisting under him, struggling to find that perfect angle. Soon, his soft little noises turned into words.
“Please, John! Please, I can’t...oh God!” And John’s fingers had crooked just right and Sherlock’s whole body went rigid.
“I think you’re ready.” John said conversationally. He was so hard by now that it ached, but it was worth it, so worth it to see Sherlock undone, keening and squirming with need.
Sherlock nodded, his sweat-soaked fringe clung to his forehead. “Now, John! Oh, God, now!” He lifted his hips so John could slide a pillow under them, lifting him up just enough.
John took up the lube again and dribbled a bit more of it over his cock. He was determined to make this, their first time, as painless as possible. He suppressed his own impatience and forced himself to remain calm and steady as he lined himself up with Sherlock’s entrance. He was slick and loose, but John still took his time. He carefully, so carefully, pushed past the ring of muscle and then stilled. Sherlock let out a low moan.
“More. John...don’t...don’t stop. Please...”
John pushed deeper, just a little, giving Sherlock plenty of time to adjust to the stretch.
Sherlock thrashed and snarled. “For fuck’s sake, John, I’m not made of glass! Stop torturing me!”
“Bossy little prat, aren’t you?” John chuckled. Sherlock just glared, wrapped his legs around John’s waist and pushed down against him, forcing John’s cock deeper inside. John groaned and closed his eyes, clutching the sheets in his fists until his knuckles went white. When he opened his eyes, Sherlock was smirking up at him, unspeakably smug.
“God...tight...” John managed.
“Are you going to move, or am I going to have to do that, too?”
John growled and, with one swift push, buried himself completely in Sherlock’s body. His husband threw back his head and moaned, deep and throaty and primal, and arched his back off the bed.
“Satisfied?” John asked. He was going for placid, but his voice came out more breathless and shaken than anything.
“F-fuck you.” Sherlock gasped.
“Next time, darling.” John teased, using the same sarcastic endearment Sherlock had used at the reception.
“Do...do something! Move, for the love of God!”
John moved, and he moved at a very specific angle, and Sherlock howled.
“Shit! Shit, yes! Yes, just there! Oh, God!”
John quickly adjusted his rhythm, and they began rocking together in an easy give-and-take. It was...odd, really, just how easily they fit together. Everything about them had been like that, and now...now it was...John didn’t know what, but it felt brilliant.
The room fell quiet save for the ragged breaths, stifled moans and the slap of skin against skin. Everything fell away, leaving nothing but the two of them, their mingled breathing, their eyes locked on each other, that one perfect point where their two bodies were connected. Sherlock’s hand wrapped around John’s wrist and tugged. John followed where he was led, and Sherlock brought him over and down, to Sherlock’s straining erection.
“Please...so close.” Never once did Sherlock’s gaze move from John’s eyes.
John nodded, and wrapped his fingers around Sherlock’s hand and cock. It was hard and leaking precome, and if the tightness of his testicles was anything to go by, he wouldn’t last much longer. Good thing, too, because John was on the edge himself.
It only took a few strokes, and Sherlock was convulsing beneath him and clenching around him. He came with a cry, gasping and trembling as his release was wrung from him. The tightness around him made John see spots, and his thrust lost their rhythm. Sherlock let out a sob, his oversensitised body shaking under the stimulation.
“I can--”
“Don’t!” Sherlock gasped. “Oh, God don’t pull out!”
“Sherlock, you’re--”
“Please, John! Inside. I want it inside!”
And that pushed John over the edge. He came, and his vision went white. Wave after wave of pleasure and relief washed over him. His elbows gave out, and he collapsed onto Sherlock. His skin burned wherever Sherlock touched him, and he couldn’t bear the thought of pulling away.
Long moments passed, drawn out heartbeats that sounded through both their chests. John waited for the fog of his orgasm to clear before carefully pulling out of Sherlock’s body. Then he nuzzled into the crook of Sherlock’s neck. “You okay?”
“I--I don’t...” Sherlock was still trembling. “It was different.”
“Different?” John managed to prop himself up just enough to see Sherlock’s face. His eyes were shining, and there was a wet trail along one cheek.
“Christ, Sherlock, are you--”
“No, stop it.” Sherlock looked away. “Don’t do that. I’m not fragile. It’s merely a physiological response.”
“Liar. How was it different?”
Sherlock met his eyes. “For one thing, you’re still here.”
John leaned down and kissed him, soft and gentle. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Sherlock closed his eyes. “That’s...that’s making love, is it?”
“More or less.”
“I’ve come harder. This wasn’t the best.”
“I expect not.”
“But I’ve never felt like... this, afterward. It’s...I don’t know.”
John smiled. “You love it when you don’t know.”
Sherlock gave a little chuckle. “You’re right, I do.” He tilted his head, and the motion made his hair fan out on the pillow. “I like this, though. This feels...good.”
John let his head fall back down. It was too much effort to stay up. “I’m glad.” He turned his head so he could lip at Sherlock’s ear, and was rewarded with a tight shiver that travelled the length of Sherlock’s body.
“You told me to choose you.” John said. “Odd thing to say, that.”
“John...”
“So...does that mean you’d choose me?”
“I was a bit compromised at the time.” Sherlock glared at him.
John chuckled. “You are...fantastically insecure.”
“Your pillow talk is rubbish.” Sherlock sniped. “And you’re heavy. Get off!” He shoved ineffectually at John, who simply laughed.
He slid off of Sherlock, but he kept an arm wrapped around his waist and his lips close to Sherlock’s ear. Very, very quietly he whispered, “I, John Watson, take you, Sherlock Holmes, as my lawfully wedded husband. I swear to stand by your side, through the best and the worst of us, to share in your weakness and your strength, your joy and your pain, to hold you through the storms however long they last, until death us do part.”
Sherlock let out a shuddering breath. “John.”
“I meant it then, Sherlock.” John said, stroking a bit of hair out of Sherlock’s eyes. “I mean it now.”
“Do you?” Sherlock asked, turning his head. This close, his eyes were remarkably blue, tinged in green, and they were moving ceaselessly, roaming over every centimetre of John’s face. Droplets of water collected on his lower lashes but didn’t spill over.
And it was right. It was perfect and necessary and John knew, in one of those incredibly rare moments, exactly what to say. He took Sherlock’s hand in his, laced their fingers together, and held Sherlock’s gaze, unblinking.
“I do.”
Fandom: Sherlock
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/John
Rating: I'm told it's NC-17, but I actually consider it more a hard R.
Spoilers: All of ASiP
Warnings: If you object to arranged marriage, you probably won't like this
WTF is This?: Written for this prompt on the Kink Meme. Condensed summary: Arranged marriage AU. The first time John and Sherlock meet is on their wedding day.
Sexual content in this chapter.
23.
“Did you mean it?” Sherlock asked suddenly, and John’s attention snapped up from his dim sum to fix onto Sherlock.
“Did I mean what?” He knew. Of course he knew, but it seemed like a good idea to play down his little display of machismo as much as possible.
Sherlock frowned irritably. “Don’t be obtuse, John. You loudly and pointedly informed my older brother that you and I would be having sex tonight. Did you mean it?”
“I wasn’t that loud.” John muttered into his lo mein.
“John,” Sherlock sounded impatient. “This does have something of an impact on me, I’d like to know one way or the other.”
John slumped. “Okay, Sherlock. If you want to discuss this, then let’s discuss this.”
“I don’t want a discussion, John. I want a yes or a no.”
John cradled his head in his hands. “It’s not that simple! I just wanted to piss him off. Make him squirm. He’s...he gets under my skin. I didn’t think, I just--”
“So you didn’t mean it.” Sherlock interrupted. “You’re not interested in having sex with me.”
“Of course I am!” John practically shouted. “Were you there for the car? The front hall? The bloody crime scene? And here I thought you were clever.”
“Kissing and sex aren’t the same thing.” Sherlock protested. “You could spend the rest of our lives just kissing me and it’d never amount to having sex. If you want it, why do you keep hesitating like this?”
“Sherlock, we don’t have to. It’s not a requirement like it used to be. I’m okay with just...us.”
“But I told you, I’m perfectly willing. Why won’t you--”
“Because I don’t want to fuck you Sherlock!” This time John did shout. He couldn’t help it.
Sherlock went quiet, and still. Then, after a pause, “But...you said...”
“I don’t want to fuck you. I don’t want you to just lie back and think of England while I--” John looked away. “I want,” he licked his lips. “I want to make love to you. Christ, I know that sounds so stupid, but that’s how...that’s what I want. I want you to need it just as much as me. I want you to...” he sighed. “I want a partner, Sherlock. Not just a willing body.”
Sherlock tilted his head, then brought his hands together below his chin. He was quiet for a long while, then, “If I had said yes on our wedding night. Would you have done it then?”
John shook his head. “I was exhausted, and I’d only just met you. To be honest, I was terrified you’d try to seduce me.”
“Why?” And it wasn’t a question, it was a demand.
John couldn’t look at him. “Because if you had, I would’ve let you. And it would’ve been horrible. Christ, I was so nervous. I still couldn’t believe it was all real.” He huffed a weak laugh. “I’m not sure I really believe it now.”
Sherlock considered again, his head tilting in the opposite direction. “Tonight, well, this morning anyway, will be the third time you and I share a bed. I understand it is conventional for couples to have sex on the third date.”
“That is a gross and probably wildly inaccurate oversimplification.” John chuckled. “And if this is your attempt at seduction, you’re complete shit at it.”
A narrowing of the eyes, and John could already tell he’d grow to both love and hate that expression. It fairly screamed out “challenge accepted”.
“All right.” Sherlock said easily, then there was a sort of slither of motion, a rush of disturbed air, and suddenly Sherlock was kneeling on the floor, his hands on either side of John’s legs and braced against the sofa cushions, and he was leaning very, very close.
“Then how’s this? I nearly died tonight. Probably I chose the right pill, but I’ll never know one way or the other. I just witnessed the death of my would-be murderer at the hands of my new husband. I’ve been stripped and laid bare before you, John. You’ve seen what I was, you’ve seen what I am. The best and the worst of me. Lestrade saw to that, the cabbie as well. You and I have lived more in this one night than most people will in a year. Now, after all that, I am randy as hell and I demand that you take me to bed and pleasure me into oblivion. After which we will sleep, naked and wrapped in each other, then wake up in each other’s arms and go at it again. We will repeat this process until I am satisfied. Was that seductive enough for you?”
John would have responded, were he capable of drawing breath. His lungs had been stunned into paralysis even as his heart beat double-time. He sat still as a manequin and stared, gaped really, at his suddenly unbearably sexy husband.
“John, I do require verbal confirmation here. I want this, need it in fact. Now all that remains is you.”
John managed to let out the shuddering breath that had barricaded itself in his chest. His head began to nod of it’s own accord, and his voice finally caught up with his lust and he all but gasped, “Oh, God yes!”
What followed was a condensed storm of movement, desperation and hunger. John was only faintly aware of what he was actually doing for brief incriments of time. At one point he was fumbling with the buttons of Sherlock’s snowy shirt, another had him shoved against the wall as Sherlock plundered his mouth, then devoured his jawline and neck. Still another lucid moment took place against the bedroom door, with a bare-chested Sherlock pressed against the wood, whimpering and gasping while John’s teeth and tongue ravaged his collar bone. John’s head ventured lower, and Sherlock let out a sharp cry. John grinned and gently bit down on Sherlock’s nipple again, then ran his tongue over it in a teasing apology.
Time slowed and sharpened when John’s jumper fell from Sherlock’s eager hands to the floor, and those nimble fingers flew to the buttons of the dark blue shirt underneath. John held his breath, Sherlock’s came only in ragged huffs. The buttons came free, one by one in a fluid succession, and then Sherlock’s hands were against his bare skin. He shuddered, and Sherlock froze, his eyes intent and worried.
“No, it’s...fine. Keep going.” John whispered. He couldn’t manage more than that. Sherlock nodded and John turned his head. He couldn’t bring himself to watch.
The hands moved, fabric shifted, cold air bit at his exposed skin and then...stillness. Sherlock wasn’t breathing. He was as motionless as a waxwork. Fingers ghosted over John’s sternum, his pectorals, his clavicle. They slipped over skin and muscle and sinew until they came to rest over something twisted, misshapen and dead.
Sherlock breathed, then. A calm and steadying breath. John finally risked a look at him, and Sherlock’s eyes were rivetted to the scar. He traced gentle, lazy circles around it with his fingertip. John barely felt them, but his skin erupted in gooseflesh all the same.
“Why do you hate it?” Sherlock’s voice was the softest John had heard it since the estate. It was almost vulnerable.
“Not tonight, Sherlock. Please.”
Sherlock only nodded, and with another gentle slide of his hands against John’s chest, the shirt slid from shoulders to elbows to wrists to floor in a near silent hush.
Then there were lips on his neck, hands on his ribs, breath against his throat, a bed behind his legs. It occurred to John, belatedly, that this was his first time entering their shared room. He tried to get a look at the place as Sherlock lowered him onto the duvet, but all he managed to take in was the fact that it was a bit of a wreck after Sherlock’s reclaimation earlier, then Sherlock’s body was covering his own, and the warmth and the weight of it instantly relaxed him. God he’d missed this, just the feel of a warm body draped over his. It was reassuring and tangible and real, and he loved it. He loved that it was Sherlock atop him, pushing him into the mattress. He loved how he could feel every breath either of them took, a gentle push-me-push-you until their breaths synchronised and they were inhaling one another’s exhales, getting drunk of each other.
Sherlock’s lips found his neck again. They seemed happy there, so he just tilted his head a bit to give them more room to roam. If the playful nip at his pulse point was anything to go by, Sherlock had appreciated the gesture. John certainly did.
“I want this, John.” Sherlock mumbled against his skin. The low, rumbling baritone vibrated through John’s throat and damn if his toes didn’t curl involuntarily.
“I’d...I’d rather...gathered that.” John panted.
“Tell me you want this.” There was something...off about that. John couldn’t put his finger on it, and to be honest, it was hard to care.
“I want this! Oh God I want this!”
“Tell me you want me.” He emphasised the “me”, but only slightly.
“You, Sherlock. I want you. Please. Please, I want you!” Okay, this was getting shameless. But dear God, the things that man was doing with his tongue! John’s mind flashed to other places Sherlock’s tongue could explore, and he was suddenly, painfully hard under his jeans. He groaned and tilted his head back further. Sherlock seemed to take this as an invitation to begin moving his attentions downward, and John’s vision began to wobble.
“Just me.” Sherlock said softly against John’s ribs. “Only me.” That perilous tongue darted over a nipple, and John arched into it. “Choose me, John.”
“Yes! Yes, anything!” He honestly didn’t know what he was agreeing to at this point, because Sherlock’s hand had gone just there and...oh...
And then it all stopped. Sherlock’s body lifted away, and that soothing heat and pressure were gone. John didn’t whimper, but it wasn’t exactly a growl either. “What? What’s wrong?”
Sherlock hovered above him, his arms locked. His lower body was tucked between John’s legs, but the elevated position meant that absolutely nothing was touching where John desperately wanted to be touched.
“Why do you want me?”
“Christ, Sherlock, now? You want to do this now?”
“I need to know John! Why do you want me when no one else ever has?”
John froze. “What?”
“I’m not drunk. I’m not high. I’ve been sober for over five years now. I’m not acting. This is really me. Why would you want that?” He paused, then looked away. “No one else did.”
“Shit.” John breathed, and he lifted a hand to stroke Sherlock’s cheek. “They did a number on you, didn’t they?”
“Just tell me, John.” Sherlock said quietly. “Please.”
John thought. He really, really wanted to go back to what they’d been doing, but this moment...it felt Important. He couldn’t screw this up. He took a deep breath, and spoke.
“Because being with you is more dangerous than a war zone.”
Sherlock grinned his Shiny New Murder grin and descended on John. There were hands stroking the denim of his jeans. There was a sudden snap and a release of pressure, followed by a soft zipping and the circulation of air. There was the slide of fabric, the movement of hips. There was a ghosting of breath over too-sensitive skin, and John bucked uncontrollably.
Then the world narrowed down to a few square inches of wet and hot and that impossible tongue had been holding out on him! Hands pressed down on John’s hips, keeping him still as Sherlock worked and John gradually fell to pieces. Sherlock pushed him just far enough without bringing him over the edge, and John was left panting and shaking and incapable of focussing his eyes.
Sherlock slid up the length of John’s body until his lips were hovering scant millimetres from John’s ear.
“I want you to make love to me John.”
John groaned and his cock jumped. His hands flew to Sherlock’s hair and he tangled his fingers in the black curls. He tugged Sherlock over for a searing kiss and canted his hips so he was grinding his erection against Sherlock’s hip.
“Slow down, John.” Sherlock smiled against John’s lips. “Not yet.”
John let out a low moan, and then Sherlock was stretching over him, reaching to the small table beside the bed. He opened the drawer and pulled out a small bottle. He hesitated, then he pulled out a small foil packet as well.
“We should have talked about this beforehand.” Sherlock said dully, staring at the wrapped condom in his hand. “It seems a bit significant to decide at the last second.”
“We have our blood test results.” John pointed out. “We’re clean, and your blood sugar is low.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know. What do you want?”
Sherlock bit his lower lip. “You. Just you.”
John nodded. “Okay.” There was a tight, frightened clench in his stomach, but he breathed through it. Tomorrow. Tomorrow they would have a long discussion about exclusivity and monogamy and potential case-related risk factors, but tonight they were clean and healthy and aching for each other, and Sherlock needed his trust. His faith.
“Okay.” John breathed again, and he took the condom from Sherlock’s fingers and set it down on the bedside table. Married. He reminded himself. Not just shagging, not dating, we are married. It was hard to subvert all of his relationship expectations. It felt like they were doing everything backward. Oh well, it was working so far.
Sherlock flipped up the lid on the bottle of lube, and then his slick hand was wrapping around John’s slightly faded arousal. John drew in a sharp breath and closed his eyes, tilting his head back and simply letting the sensation wash over him. Sherlock’s hands were deft, his long fingers working sensory magic against John’s flesh, and before long he couldn’t keep his hips from jerking up, into Sherlock’s hand.
“Christ! Sherlock, please!”
Sherlock’s voice was smirking. “How do you want me, John?”
John seized the opportunity to reclaim a little of the control he’d lost. In one swift, efficient motion he hooked his leg around Sherlock’s knee, pivoted his hips, and flipped them over so Sherlock was sprawled beneath him.
“Military man.” Sherlock breathed, his voice and expression both dazed. “Gorgeous...”
John smirked and brought his hands to the waistband of Sherlock’s trousers. They were perfectly, tellingly steady, and he made quick work of the flies. Sherlock let out a low, rumbling noise as his erection was freed from its confines. John made a similar noise at the sight of it. They worked together to get the trousers and pants off of Sherlock, and then they were both naked, poised on the edge of something new and dangerous, and neither one could resist an invitation like that.
John took his time preparing Sherlock. It was incredible to watch, like a time-lapse photograph, as Sherlock’s cool, detached persona fell away, piece by piece. His whole body shifted, loosened and relaxed. He started to tremble, his eyes screwed shut, and he bit down hard on his lower lip. It would, John noted, leave a bruise.
Sherlock wasn’t loud, but soft vocalisations accompanied each exhale, and he was writhing and pushing down on John’s fingers in obvious desperation. John had avoided his prostate so far. He wanted to draw it out, but Sherlock was shifting and twisting under him, struggling to find that perfect angle. Soon, his soft little noises turned into words.
“Please, John! Please, I can’t...oh God!” And John’s fingers had crooked just right and Sherlock’s whole body went rigid.
“I think you’re ready.” John said conversationally. He was so hard by now that it ached, but it was worth it, so worth it to see Sherlock undone, keening and squirming with need.
Sherlock nodded, his sweat-soaked fringe clung to his forehead. “Now, John! Oh, God, now!” He lifted his hips so John could slide a pillow under them, lifting him up just enough.
John took up the lube again and dribbled a bit more of it over his cock. He was determined to make this, their first time, as painless as possible. He suppressed his own impatience and forced himself to remain calm and steady as he lined himself up with Sherlock’s entrance. He was slick and loose, but John still took his time. He carefully, so carefully, pushed past the ring of muscle and then stilled. Sherlock let out a low moan.
“More. John...don’t...don’t stop. Please...”
John pushed deeper, just a little, giving Sherlock plenty of time to adjust to the stretch.
Sherlock thrashed and snarled. “For fuck’s sake, John, I’m not made of glass! Stop torturing me!”
“Bossy little prat, aren’t you?” John chuckled. Sherlock just glared, wrapped his legs around John’s waist and pushed down against him, forcing John’s cock deeper inside. John groaned and closed his eyes, clutching the sheets in his fists until his knuckles went white. When he opened his eyes, Sherlock was smirking up at him, unspeakably smug.
“God...tight...” John managed.
“Are you going to move, or am I going to have to do that, too?”
John growled and, with one swift push, buried himself completely in Sherlock’s body. His husband threw back his head and moaned, deep and throaty and primal, and arched his back off the bed.
“Satisfied?” John asked. He was going for placid, but his voice came out more breathless and shaken than anything.
“F-fuck you.” Sherlock gasped.
“Next time, darling.” John teased, using the same sarcastic endearment Sherlock had used at the reception.
“Do...do something! Move, for the love of God!”
John moved, and he moved at a very specific angle, and Sherlock howled.
“Shit! Shit, yes! Yes, just there! Oh, God!”
John quickly adjusted his rhythm, and they began rocking together in an easy give-and-take. It was...odd, really, just how easily they fit together. Everything about them had been like that, and now...now it was...John didn’t know what, but it felt brilliant.
The room fell quiet save for the ragged breaths, stifled moans and the slap of skin against skin. Everything fell away, leaving nothing but the two of them, their mingled breathing, their eyes locked on each other, that one perfect point where their two bodies were connected. Sherlock’s hand wrapped around John’s wrist and tugged. John followed where he was led, and Sherlock brought him over and down, to Sherlock’s straining erection.
“Please...so close.” Never once did Sherlock’s gaze move from John’s eyes.
John nodded, and wrapped his fingers around Sherlock’s hand and cock. It was hard and leaking precome, and if the tightness of his testicles was anything to go by, he wouldn’t last much longer. Good thing, too, because John was on the edge himself.
It only took a few strokes, and Sherlock was convulsing beneath him and clenching around him. He came with a cry, gasping and trembling as his release was wrung from him. The tightness around him made John see spots, and his thrust lost their rhythm. Sherlock let out a sob, his oversensitised body shaking under the stimulation.
“I can--”
“Don’t!” Sherlock gasped. “Oh, God don’t pull out!”
“Sherlock, you’re--”
“Please, John! Inside. I want it inside!”
And that pushed John over the edge. He came, and his vision went white. Wave after wave of pleasure and relief washed over him. His elbows gave out, and he collapsed onto Sherlock. His skin burned wherever Sherlock touched him, and he couldn’t bear the thought of pulling away.
Long moments passed, drawn out heartbeats that sounded through both their chests. John waited for the fog of his orgasm to clear before carefully pulling out of Sherlock’s body. Then he nuzzled into the crook of Sherlock’s neck. “You okay?”
“I--I don’t...” Sherlock was still trembling. “It was different.”
“Different?” John managed to prop himself up just enough to see Sherlock’s face. His eyes were shining, and there was a wet trail along one cheek.
“Christ, Sherlock, are you--”
“No, stop it.” Sherlock looked away. “Don’t do that. I’m not fragile. It’s merely a physiological response.”
“Liar. How was it different?”
Sherlock met his eyes. “For one thing, you’re still here.”
John leaned down and kissed him, soft and gentle. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Sherlock closed his eyes. “That’s...that’s making love, is it?”
“More or less.”
“I’ve come harder. This wasn’t the best.”
“I expect not.”
“But I’ve never felt like... this, afterward. It’s...I don’t know.”
John smiled. “You love it when you don’t know.”
Sherlock gave a little chuckle. “You’re right, I do.” He tilted his head, and the motion made his hair fan out on the pillow. “I like this, though. This feels...good.”
John let his head fall back down. It was too much effort to stay up. “I’m glad.” He turned his head so he could lip at Sherlock’s ear, and was rewarded with a tight shiver that travelled the length of Sherlock’s body.
“You told me to choose you.” John said. “Odd thing to say, that.”
“John...”
“So...does that mean you’d choose me?”
“I was a bit compromised at the time.” Sherlock glared at him.
John chuckled. “You are...fantastically insecure.”
“Your pillow talk is rubbish.” Sherlock sniped. “And you’re heavy. Get off!” He shoved ineffectually at John, who simply laughed.
He slid off of Sherlock, but he kept an arm wrapped around his waist and his lips close to Sherlock’s ear. Very, very quietly he whispered, “I, John Watson, take you, Sherlock Holmes, as my lawfully wedded husband. I swear to stand by your side, through the best and the worst of us, to share in your weakness and your strength, your joy and your pain, to hold you through the storms however long they last, until death us do part.”
Sherlock let out a shuddering breath. “John.”
“I meant it then, Sherlock.” John said, stroking a bit of hair out of Sherlock’s eyes. “I mean it now.”
“Do you?” Sherlock asked, turning his head. This close, his eyes were remarkably blue, tinged in green, and they were moving ceaselessly, roaming over every centimetre of John’s face. Droplets of water collected on his lower lashes but didn’t spill over.
And it was right. It was perfect and necessary and John knew, in one of those incredibly rare moments, exactly what to say. He took Sherlock’s hand in his, laced their fingers together, and held Sherlock’s gaze, unblinking.
“I do.”