Barter System 6/11
anonymous
January 11 2011, 11:43:26 UTC
Instead, she distracts him with swapping stories of their worst patients ever (names changed to protect the not-so-innocent, of course).
“-and then, not too long after the ‘I won’t stop going to work even with a broken arm’ incident, he calls me while I’m with another patient to demand I see him immediately, because he’s dying. He shows up with a head cold and asks my stance on mercy killings,” John says.
“Oh, God, absolutely no way,” Sarah says through her giggles. “I refuse to believe that - hang on, was this patient Sherlock?”
“Can’t tell you,” John says. “Violates doctor patient con - confidential-”
“Wait, I’ve just thought of something,” Sarah interrupts. “If he’s wearing your shirt, wouldn’t it be way too short? It doesn’t look it.”
“That one’s a bit long on me. And he’s wearing his own jacket and trousers; with those, no one’s going to notice if they can’t see his shirt sleeves under his jacket ones,” John says.
“Mmm, true,” Sarah agrees. “Thank God for expensive tailoring, just look at that arse.”
“Oh, God, I know,” John says. “You can’t even imagine what it’s like to-”
Sarah’s grinning at him again, and John snaps his mouth shut.
“You are an evil, evil woman, Sarah Sawyer,” John tells her.
“And you are so busted,” she says cheerfully.
“I’m doomed, aren’t I?” he asks.
“Yeah. But at least you know it?” she offers.
He goes to down the rest of his eggnog, but finds his cup full. “You have been filling this!”
Sarah laughs and clinks their cups together. “Cheers, John.”
John tries to be annoyed, but really he’s just entertained. “Cheers.” He drains his cup. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go collect my - Sherlock, before we both drink so much eggnog we forget our address.”
“You think he’s had that much?” Sarah asks, peering over at Sherlock. “His gesturing has gotten a bit more flaily.”
“I think he doesn’t realize how much he’s had,” John says. “These are way too sweet for all the alcohol that’s in them.”
“How do you know what’s in them?” Sarah asks.
John grins. “I helped make them.” He kisses her on the cheek. “Happy Christmas, Sarah.”
“Happy Christmas, John,” she calls after him as he heads over to where Sherlock’s still talking with the other two doctors (Gary and Robert, if John remembers correctly).
John stands beside him for a moment, then wraps an arm around Sherlock’s waist when one of his gestures causes him to tip a little.
Sherlock beams at him. “John!”
“Hullo, John,” Gary greets. “Come to take your partner away?”
“I think it’s time for both of us to head home,” John says.
“That’s a shame,” Robert says. “I hope you bring him back next year.”
“He’s lying,” Sherlock mutters in John’s ear. “He never wants to see me again.”
“Yes, he’s definitely made this year’s party interesting,” Gary says.
“Not lying,” Sherlock whispers. “He’s reasonably intelligent.”
“I’m sure he’d love to come back,” John says.
“Wrong,” Sherlock murmurs, lips so close to John’s ear that his breath tickles John’s skin.
John tries to stifle a giggle, and judging by the looks the other two doctors give him, fails.
“Well, we’ll just be off, then,” John says, pulling Sherlock away. “Enjoy your holidays, gentlemen.”
Sherlock drapes his arm over John’s shoulders as they head towards the door. There’s a cup of eggnog in his other hand, and John takes it from him after he takes a long drink.
“That’s mine,” Sherlock protests.
“You’ve had enough to drink,” John says, setting the cup down on the table as they pass. He almost misses. “And so’ve I. Come on, let’s get home.”
Barter System 7/11
anonymous
January 11 2011, 11:44:16 UTC
The next morning, John’s definitely hung over. Not enough that he feels sick or regrets drinking as much as he had, but enough that he doesn’t feel like doing anything besides lounging on the sofa and watching bad telly. He doesn’t even feel like getting dressed after he showers, and thinks about spending the day in just his boxers. He reconsiders when he finds Sherlock’s purple shirt still over the back of his chair. John runs his fingers over the silk, then slips it on. It won’t button properly, of course, but that doesn’t bother him.
When he heads downstairs, he sees Sherlock’s had a similar idea, as he’s sprawled limply on the sofa in pyjama bottoms and John’s stripy jumper, one arm dangling over the side and his other covering his eyes. His dark hair’s a mess, tufted and ruffled as though he hadn’t even bothered to comb it after he’d showered and had let it dry that way.
“No product today?” John teases as he heads into the kitchen to put the kettle on.
Sherlock lowers his arm and lifts his head briefly to glare at him before letting it flop back onto the sofa. “Tea?”
“Already making you some,” John replies.
After the tea’s done, he brings two mugs to the living room, nudging Sherlock’s shoulder slightly with his knee. “Budge up,” John says.
Sherlock does, grabbing the pillow under his head and sitting up just long enough for John to sit down. Then he drops the pillow in John’s lap and rests his head back on it.
John chuckles and sets Sherlock’s mug on the coffee table. “Told you that you’d had enough to drink.”
Sherlock groans. “Yes, well, if your colleagues weren’t so frightfully dull, I wouldn’t have had to resort to sipping eggnog politely to look interested.”
John takes a gulp of his own tea, then sets it down as well. “Thank you,” he tells Sherlock.
“For what?” Sherlock asks.
“I know you didn’t really want to go, but you went because I asked you to. So, thank you. I appreciate it,” John says.
“Does your appreciation extend to doing something to rid me of this headache?” Sherlock asks.
“Hmm. Let’s see if this helps,” John says, setting his fingertips against Sherlock’s scalp and massaging in gentle, soothing patterns.
Sherlock’s eyes slip shut.
They’re still sitting that way when a knock comes at their door, Sherlock not-sleeping-but-not-awake and John watching telly while absently running his fingers through Sherlock’s hair.
“It’s open, Mrs. Hudson,” John calls.
The door opens, but it isn’t Mrs. Hudson. Lestrade walks in, Anderson close behind him.
“Lestrade?” John asks. “Do you-”
But Sherlock’s already up and moving with an energy he hasn’t shown all day, darting upstairs.
“Sherlock!” John yells after him, then sighs and gets up.
“Sorry to interrupt your day in, doctor,” Lestrade says.
It’s only then that John remembers that he’s not wearing more than his pants and Sherlock’s purple shirt. He glances down at what he’s got on instinctively, then looks back up. “This isn’t what it looks like.”
“Of course not,” Anderson agrees with a smirk. “Do you two often wear each other’s clothes, then?”
“We have a barter system,” John protests. He grabs the dressing gown hanging over the back of his chair, realizes that it’s Sherlock’s and won’t help his case at all, then gives up and puts it on anyway. “Do you need him for something? This isn’t another drugs bust, is it?”
“No,” Lestrade says. “Or at least, we’re hoping it’s not.”
“Speak for yourself,” Anderson mutters.
Lestrade ignores him. “Depends on how childish he wants to be.”
“Considering he’s currently hiding upstairs, I’d say very,” John says, then yells, “Sherlock! Get down here!”
As if waiting to make his appearance, Sherlock pads down the stairs, carrying a handful of folders. “I was not hiding, John,” he says with a scowl. “I was merely retrieving what the good detective was looking for.”
He shoves the folders at Lestrade, and John’s eyes follow them, trying to get a closer look.
“Are those - unsolved case files?” John asks.
“Yes, and they are the property of the police, Sherlock, I’ve let it go the first few times, but if you do it again, I will arrest you,” Lestrade says.
Barter System 8/11
anonymous
January 11 2011, 11:45:10 UTC
“Consider me suitably chastised and well aware of the future consequences of my actions,” Sherlock says, sounding bored. “Now you lot can be on your way.”
Lestrade sighs. “I want the copies you’ve made of them, too.”
Sherlock’s bored expression fades, turning into something of a pout. “Fine,” he mutters, going over to the coffee table and leaning down to riffle through some of the papers on it.
“I mean it, Sherlock, you can’t-” Lestrade says, but John stops paying attention.
Sherlock’s wearing something around his neck, made obvious when he leaned over and it swung free. It’s metal, light glints off it as it hangs in the air, and, now that John’s noticed it, even when Sherlock straightens and it settles back against Sherlock’s chest.
It’s John’s dog tags.
Anger fills John, sharp and deep. He’d told Sherlock his army things were off-limits, and John hadn’t touched that bloody coat, Sherlock has no right to be wearing them. John should have known Sherlock would have no respect for the rules John’d made, even when they were for a system that’d been Sherlock’s damn idea in the first place.
He leaves without saying anything, because he doesn’t trust himself to say anything, or to remain downstairs and wait until the police have left before shouting at Sherlock. The door to John’s room is open, and there’s a box sitting on his bed. A box that’s normally tucked safely away in the bottom drawer of his desk.
John sits on his bed and pulls the box into his lap. Everything else is still nearly stored in there, pictures, bits of metal and ribbon, other dog tags. The only empty place is where his tags used to be. Should be, as opposed to where they are now, around the neck of a great idiot. Anyone else would see that their flatmate’s got a box stowed away, doesn’t talk about it, hardly ever takes it out, never wears anything inside, and would go, “All right, probably off limits.” But Sherlock, oh, no, Sherlock sees all that and goes, “obviously it’s perfectly acceptable to raid the contents of this and wear whatever I want around the flat when we’ve got company over.”
Which is exactly the kind of thought that had made him leave, because thinking of that makes him want to tell Sherlock that he’s wondering at the way his mind works again, and this time not because he loves it, but because he wants to know how Sherlock can be so hurtfully ignorant. And that’s why John’s upstairs. He’s angry enough that he wants to be cruel, and that means he’s upset at more than just Sherlock disregarding a rule of their ridiculous barter system.
He just doesn’t know what. And even if he suspects, just a little, it’s definitely not something he wants to explore. So he hides upstairs, until vicious anger has faded into just anger, until the thought of Sherlock walking around downstairs with John’s tags around his neck doesn’t cause a confusing, twisted knot in John’s chest.
When he finally goes back downstairs, Lestrade and Anderson are gone. Sherlock is back on the couch, almost exactly as he’d been before they came. Except his head isn’t in John’s lap, and John’s tags are resting against the stripy jumper on Sherlock’s chest.
“We’ve missed the ending to whatever it is you had us watching,” Sherlock says. “I think they timed it that way.”
John doesn’t respond to that. Instead he says, “You’re wearing my tags.”
“Mmm, yes, I thought they would do nicely,” Sherlock says. “You’d already gone the traditional route with my shirt and your pants, that was fortunate, and the dressing gown was a nice touch, well done. I couldn’t merely copy you, obviously, and they’d already seen I was wearing pyjama bottoms.”
John blinks, completely unable to follow that. He ends up saying again, “You’re wearing my tags.”
“Your tags for my dressing gown,” Sherlock says absently. “They’ve been gone almost ten minutes; you needn’t have stayed up there so long.”
“I wasn’t up there because of them,” John snaps.
Sherlock rolls on his side so he’s facing John. “You’re angry at me.” He actually seems surprised. “Why?”
Of course. Of course Sherlock has absolutely no idea, and yes, John’s ignoring that he doesn’t - or doesn’t want to - either.
Barter System 9/11
anonymous
January 11 2011, 11:46:03 UTC
“You’re wearing my tags, Sherlock,” John says, like if he just keeps saying it, Sherlock will get it. Which he knows is ridiculous, but-
“You’ve said that three times. I find it unnecessary and irritating when someone repeats himself so often,” Sherlock says, eyes narrowed.
Yup. Ridiculous. “Yeah, well, I find it unnecessary and irritating when someone breaks the one rule of his own bloody idea.”
Sherlock frowns. “I haven’t done anything wrong,” he says defensively.
“My tags, Sherlock,” John says. “Yes, I know, I’m repeating myself, but as you’re refusing to get it, it seems to be my only option. I haven’t touched your damn coat, so why are you wearing my tags?”
Sherlock reaches up, closing his fingers loosely around the tags. “You said it was your uniform and camouflage that were off limits,” he says quietly.
“No, you said that. I said, ‘my army things.’ I would’ve thought a genius could figure out that dog tags are part of army things. Then again, I would’ve thought a genius would be able to discern that a box at the bottom of my desk drawers is off limits, but apparently not,” John says.
Sherlock’s grip tightens, blocking the metal entirely from view. “You never wear them. I thought that meant you wouldn’t mind if I did.”
“I don’t wear them because-” he cuts off, not entirely sure what he was going to say, but knowing it wouldn’t have been anything he wanted to come out. “Just because I don’t wear them doesn’t mean it’s okay for you to.”
But Sherlock notices his aborted sentence and the emotion behind it (of course he does, it’s Sherlock), and he sits up, eyes focused on John intensely. “You aren’t just angry with me for wearing your off-limits item.”
“Shut up,” John says.
“Because what, John?” Sherlock asks.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” John replies.
Sherlock leans forward slightly. “Why not?”
“Because - because we’re not talking about me, Sherlock, we’re talking about you and your rule-breaking,” John tells him. “I want to know why you’re wearing my tags.”
“You were trying to throw me off, weren’t you?” John pauses, then asks quietly, “Why?”
“As I’ve said before, you’d already gone the traditional route,” Sherlock says stiffly, not meeting his eyes. “I didn’t have that option. I had to choose another method of demonstration.”
“Demonstration of what?” John asks, frustrated. “What does that mean?”
“It means we belong together, to each other, John, that’s what it, what all of it means.” Sherlock tugs on the jumper and makes a gesture than includes all of John. Then his voice turns quiet, almost hurt. “I thought you knew that.”
John stares at him, frustration and anger fading away to something that’s not quite sadness and something that’s much more than affection. “Sherlock,” he says softly, then clears his throat. “We’re not dating.”
“I know that,” Sherlock snaps.
But he’d flinched, just a tiny bit, and John regrets saying it, even if it is true.
“Can’t we belong to each other without being in a relationship?” Sherlock asks hesitantly.
“Well, yeah, but-” John pauses. He remembers Sherlock’s shy smile yesterday, when John’d said “let them talk,” and he takes the plunge. “But it’s more fun if we are.”
Sherlock’s eyes snap to his face, lock on to his. “John,” he whispers.
“We don’t have to be, if you don’t want to,” John says. “But I’d like to give it a try.”
There’s a brief pause, then Sherlock smiles at him. “Come here.”
John obeys, sitting next to Sherlock, and then Sherlock’s lips are pressed against his.
They kiss lazily on the sofa, not as a precursor to anything, just because they can. When they stop, Sherlock curls up on the sofa, head in John’s lap, and John realizes that almost nothing has changed, except now Sherlock’s hand is on his knee and John’s lips are kiss-swollen.
Barter System 10/11
anonymous
January 11 2011, 11:46:51 UTC
“You realize this means I get to wear your coat now, right?” John asks as he runs his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. “If you get to break the rules, I get to as well.”
Sherlock considers that, then nods. “That’s acceptable now.”
John blinks. “Why now?”
“You’ve worn it once before, do you remember?” Sherlock asks, twisting to look at him.
This is news to John. He shakes his head.
“I didn’t think so; you were only half aware at the time. It was after you’d been pushed into the Thames. It was freezing, you needed dry clothes, I gave you my coat until the paramedics arrived. You looked - well, if you hadn’t been so dazed, I would have jumped you on the spot. I set the coat off limits because I suspected if you wore it again with your senses intact, I might not be able to restrain myself.” Sherlock smiles. “I assume, based on our activities during the past fifteen minutes, that I no longer need to worry about you being opposed to that.”
John swallows. “No, that’s really not a worry.”
In fact, it gives him an idea. And later that night, when Sherlock’s gone into the kitchen to check on some experiment he’s got going in the fridge, John takes off the dressing gown and hangs it up. After a moment’s consideration, he hangs up the purple shirt as well and slips on Sherlock’s coat. It’s ridiculously long and tight in the shoulders, but actually quite comfortable.
He waits silently, and it’s well worth it when Sherlock walks back into the living room and stops, mid-stride, at seeing him.
“You’re wearing my coat,” Sherlock says.
“Looks like,” John agrees.
And Sherlock does jump him, but it’s John that pushes them both onto the sofa.
John pulls Sherlock’s pyjamas down to his knees, freeing his half-hard cock, and pauses just long enough to meet Sherlock’s eyes before he takes it into his mouth. John licks and sucks, teasing it quickly to full arousal. But then Sherlock’s pulling his head away, and his cock slides out of John’s mouth with a soft, wet plop. Sherlock kisses him again, his hands tugging at the waistband of John’s boxers, and John shifts a bit to get them off.
Sherlock kicks free of his pyjama bottoms, slides his hands down John’s sides, rests them on his hips.
John slips his own hands under the jumper Sherlock’s wearing. He pushes it up, fingers touching every inch of skin as it’s revealed to him. John gets the front of the jumper over Sherlock’s head, bunched up behind his neck, but then Sherlock wraps his fingers around John’s cock and strokes, and getting the jumper removed is forgotten.
John pants against Sherlock’s mouth, hips thrusting slightly no matter how he tries to still them. He pulls back a bit to look at Sherlock, and sees his tags.
Sherlock’s still wearing them.
John touches Sherlock’s chest, right next to where the tags are resting against more bare skin, and right now, John doesn’t mind.
He kisses his way down Sherlock’s chest, his stomach, then slides his lips over Sherlock’s cock once more. John goes slowly this time, tracing veins with his tongue, teasing at the foreskin, alternating between barely there friction and hard, wet suction.
John watches Sherlock the whole time, the way his eyes squeeze shut for brief periods of time before he opens them again, watching John watching him, the way he tosses his head back when John does something particularly wicked with his tongue, the way his chest hitches and his breath comes in short, quiet gasps.
When Sherlock comes, he silently, completely falls apart. John swallows and pulls off him, running his hand across Sherlock’s sweat-soaked chest while he watches Sherlock put himself back together again. He considers trying not to feel utterly grateful and absolutely brilliant that he’s the one who got to see- who was the cause of - Sherlock undone, but writes it off as a failure before even trying.
Instead, John wraps his fingers around his own cock, but he only gets a few strokes in before Sherlock bats his hand away and takes John in hand himself.
John’s own climax is louder than Sherlock’s, but not much more controlled.
Barter System 11/11
anonymous
January 11 2011, 11:47:37 UTC
He collapses half on top of Sherlock when he’s done. It’s too warm, considering John’s still wearing Sherlock’s coat and Sherlock himself is over-heated underneath him, but John doesn’t care.
John strokes his hand over Sherlock’s arm, smoothing across the fabric, before he slips his fingers under the bunched up stripy jumper to rest on Sherlock’s shoulder.
“Do you know why I really said it was fine when you first wore my jumper?” John asks.
“Why?” Sherlock says.
“Because I liked you in it. You’re right, it does say we belong to each other.” John shakes his head. “Only you could make my jumpers look sexy.”
Sherlock slides his hand under his coat, fingers playing over John’s hip. “I disagree. You quite frequently make your jumpers look ‘sexy.’”
John laughs, and falls silent.
They stay like that for awhile, until Sherlock breaks the silence by asking, “Why don’t you wear your tags?”
John tenses. “I said I don’t want to talk about it, and I meant it. I especially don’t want to talk about it now.”
“I deserve to know,” Sherlock insists. “Why you were so angry at me. How can I avoid your anger if I don’t know the cause of it?”
“I don’t even know the cause of it,” John tells him. “It doesn’t matter, I’m not angry any more. Just let it go, Sherlock, please.”
“It’s not just because they’re part of your army things, that much is obvious,” Sherlock says. “You were angry because I was wearing them, because you never do, but you don’t want to tell me the reason you don’t. It’s not just you not wearing them, it’s when someone else wears them, or is it just when I-”
“It’s because you just took them, Sherlock! You just walked around wearing them like they belong around your neck, when they don’t even belong around mine.” John realizes what he’s said a second after he blurts it out. He closes his eyes and admits softly, “They don’t. Not anymore.”
There’s silence for a moment, then the soft clink of metal, and then a slight weight against John’s chest.
John opens his eyes, startled. Sherlock’s taken his tags off and put them around John’s own neck.
“You are a soldier, and a hero. There is absolutely nothing that can or ever will change that, John, not even you,” Sherlock says. “I suggest you get used to the idea.”
John just stares, because he doesn’t know what to say to that. Finally he murmurs, “I thought you didn’t believe heroes existed.”
“That was before I got to know you,” Sherlock replies.
John reaches up, slowly curling his fingers around his tags. After awhile, he says, “Suppose this means I should give you your coat back.”
“I’m still wearing your jumper,” Sherlock says, adjusting it so that it’s on properly. “I’ll consider that an acceptable trade.”
“Our barter system’s still on, then?” John asks.
Sherlock grins at him. “Absolutely.” He rolls off the sofa, picking up John’s boxers and pulling them on. “Coffee?”
“Hmm,” John says, too busy staring to register what Sherlock’s asked. “Oh, yes, sure.”
“Excellent,” Sherlock says. “Make enough for several cups, I’m sure we’ll both be up quite late tonight.”
He saunters into the kitchen, leaving John to scramble into Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms. John does take off the coat, because between it and the too-long pyjamas, he’d have a hell of a time manoeuvring. It’s still slightly awkward making coffee, even with the pyjama legs rolled up a bit, but John couldn’t care less.
Sherlock’s leaning up against the kitchen table, hair mussed from sex rather than sleep, wearing John’s jumper and pants. They both smile every time they catch each other looking, which is every few seconds or so.
Re: Barter System 11/11margi_lynnJanuary 12 2011, 10:58:55 UTC
I just want to cuddle up with this fic it is just that wonderful.
I love both of them so very much in this, wearing clothes that don't actually fit half the time. Something about that cues my warm fuzzies on, so kudos to you anon for striking a chord like that. :)
Re: Barter System 11/11
anonymous
January 15 2011, 05:06:20 UTC
This is wonderful! It is well thought out and I especially like it when Sherlock tells him that it was because he'd never met anyone like John before. LOVED THAT! <3
“-and then, not too long after the ‘I won’t stop going to work even with a broken arm’ incident, he calls me while I’m with another patient to demand I see him immediately, because he’s dying. He shows up with a head cold and asks my stance on mercy killings,” John says.
“Oh, God, absolutely no way,” Sarah says through her giggles. “I refuse to believe that - hang on, was this patient Sherlock?”
“Can’t tell you,” John says. “Violates doctor patient con - confidential-”
“Wait, I’ve just thought of something,” Sarah interrupts. “If he’s wearing your shirt, wouldn’t it be way too short? It doesn’t look it.”
“That one’s a bit long on me. And he’s wearing his own jacket and trousers; with those, no one’s going to notice if they can’t see his shirt sleeves under his jacket ones,” John says.
“Mmm, true,” Sarah agrees. “Thank God for expensive tailoring, just look at that arse.”
“Oh, God, I know,” John says. “You can’t even imagine what it’s like to-”
Sarah’s grinning at him again, and John snaps his mouth shut.
“You are an evil, evil woman, Sarah Sawyer,” John tells her.
“And you are so busted,” she says cheerfully.
“I’m doomed, aren’t I?” he asks.
“Yeah. But at least you know it?” she offers.
He goes to down the rest of his eggnog, but finds his cup full. “You have been filling this!”
Sarah laughs and clinks their cups together. “Cheers, John.”
John tries to be annoyed, but really he’s just entertained. “Cheers.” He drains his cup. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go collect my - Sherlock, before we both drink so much eggnog we forget our address.”
“You think he’s had that much?” Sarah asks, peering over at Sherlock. “His gesturing has gotten a bit more flaily.”
“I think he doesn’t realize how much he’s had,” John says. “These are way too sweet for all the alcohol that’s in them.”
“How do you know what’s in them?” Sarah asks.
John grins. “I helped make them.” He kisses her on the cheek. “Happy Christmas, Sarah.”
“Happy Christmas, John,” she calls after him as he heads over to where Sherlock’s still talking with the other two doctors (Gary and Robert, if John remembers correctly).
John stands beside him for a moment, then wraps an arm around Sherlock’s waist when one of his gestures causes him to tip a little.
Sherlock beams at him. “John!”
“Hullo, John,” Gary greets. “Come to take your partner away?”
“I think it’s time for both of us to head home,” John says.
“That’s a shame,” Robert says. “I hope you bring him back next year.”
“He’s lying,” Sherlock mutters in John’s ear. “He never wants to see me again.”
“Yes, he’s definitely made this year’s party interesting,” Gary says.
“Not lying,” Sherlock whispers. “He’s reasonably intelligent.”
“I’m sure he’d love to come back,” John says.
“Wrong,” Sherlock murmurs, lips so close to John’s ear that his breath tickles John’s skin.
John tries to stifle a giggle, and judging by the looks the other two doctors give him, fails.
“Well, we’ll just be off, then,” John says, pulling Sherlock away. “Enjoy your holidays, gentlemen.”
Sherlock drapes his arm over John’s shoulders as they head towards the door. There’s a cup of eggnog in his other hand, and John takes it from him after he takes a long drink.
“That’s mine,” Sherlock protests.
“You’ve had enough to drink,” John says, setting the cup down on the table as they pass. He almost misses. “And so’ve I. Come on, let’s get home.”
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When he heads downstairs, he sees Sherlock’s had a similar idea, as he’s sprawled limply on the sofa in pyjama bottoms and John’s stripy jumper, one arm dangling over the side and his other covering his eyes. His dark hair’s a mess, tufted and ruffled as though he hadn’t even bothered to comb it after he’d showered and had let it dry that way.
“No product today?” John teases as he heads into the kitchen to put the kettle on.
Sherlock lowers his arm and lifts his head briefly to glare at him before letting it flop back onto the sofa. “Tea?”
“Already making you some,” John replies.
After the tea’s done, he brings two mugs to the living room, nudging Sherlock’s shoulder slightly with his knee. “Budge up,” John says.
Sherlock does, grabbing the pillow under his head and sitting up just long enough for John to sit down. Then he drops the pillow in John’s lap and rests his head back on it.
John chuckles and sets Sherlock’s mug on the coffee table. “Told you that you’d had enough to drink.”
Sherlock groans. “Yes, well, if your colleagues weren’t so frightfully dull, I wouldn’t have had to resort to sipping eggnog politely to look interested.”
John takes a gulp of his own tea, then sets it down as well. “Thank you,” he tells Sherlock.
“For what?” Sherlock asks.
“I know you didn’t really want to go, but you went because I asked you to. So, thank you. I appreciate it,” John says.
“Does your appreciation extend to doing something to rid me of this headache?” Sherlock asks.
“Hmm. Let’s see if this helps,” John says, setting his fingertips against Sherlock’s scalp and massaging in gentle, soothing patterns.
Sherlock’s eyes slip shut.
They’re still sitting that way when a knock comes at their door, Sherlock not-sleeping-but-not-awake and John watching telly while absently running his fingers through Sherlock’s hair.
“It’s open, Mrs. Hudson,” John calls.
The door opens, but it isn’t Mrs. Hudson. Lestrade walks in, Anderson close behind him.
“Lestrade?” John asks. “Do you-”
But Sherlock’s already up and moving with an energy he hasn’t shown all day, darting upstairs.
“Sherlock!” John yells after him, then sighs and gets up.
“Sorry to interrupt your day in, doctor,” Lestrade says.
It’s only then that John remembers that he’s not wearing more than his pants and Sherlock’s purple shirt. He glances down at what he’s got on instinctively, then looks back up. “This isn’t what it looks like.”
“Of course not,” Anderson agrees with a smirk. “Do you two often wear each other’s clothes, then?”
“We have a barter system,” John protests. He grabs the dressing gown hanging over the back of his chair, realizes that it’s Sherlock’s and won’t help his case at all, then gives up and puts it on anyway. “Do you need him for something? This isn’t another drugs bust, is it?”
“No,” Lestrade says. “Or at least, we’re hoping it’s not.”
“Speak for yourself,” Anderson mutters.
Lestrade ignores him. “Depends on how childish he wants to be.”
“Considering he’s currently hiding upstairs, I’d say very,” John says, then yells, “Sherlock! Get down here!”
As if waiting to make his appearance, Sherlock pads down the stairs, carrying a handful of folders. “I was not hiding, John,” he says with a scowl. “I was merely retrieving what the good detective was looking for.”
He shoves the folders at Lestrade, and John’s eyes follow them, trying to get a closer look.
“Are those - unsolved case files?” John asks.
“Yes, and they are the property of the police, Sherlock, I’ve let it go the first few times, but if you do it again, I will arrest you,” Lestrade says.
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Lestrade sighs. “I want the copies you’ve made of them, too.”
Sherlock’s bored expression fades, turning into something of a pout. “Fine,” he mutters, going over to the coffee table and leaning down to riffle through some of the papers on it.
“I mean it, Sherlock, you can’t-” Lestrade says, but John stops paying attention.
Sherlock’s wearing something around his neck, made obvious when he leaned over and it swung free. It’s metal, light glints off it as it hangs in the air, and, now that John’s noticed it, even when Sherlock straightens and it settles back against Sherlock’s chest.
It’s John’s dog tags.
Anger fills John, sharp and deep. He’d told Sherlock his army things were off-limits, and John hadn’t touched that bloody coat, Sherlock has no right to be wearing them. John should have known Sherlock would have no respect for the rules John’d made, even when they were for a system that’d been Sherlock’s damn idea in the first place.
He leaves without saying anything, because he doesn’t trust himself to say anything, or to remain downstairs and wait until the police have left before shouting at Sherlock. The door to John’s room is open, and there’s a box sitting on his bed. A box that’s normally tucked safely away in the bottom drawer of his desk.
John sits on his bed and pulls the box into his lap. Everything else is still nearly stored in there, pictures, bits of metal and ribbon, other dog tags. The only empty place is where his tags used to be. Should be, as opposed to where they are now, around the neck of a great idiot. Anyone else would see that their flatmate’s got a box stowed away, doesn’t talk about it, hardly ever takes it out, never wears anything inside, and would go, “All right, probably off limits.” But Sherlock, oh, no, Sherlock sees all that and goes, “obviously it’s perfectly acceptable to raid the contents of this and wear whatever I want around the flat when we’ve got company over.”
Which is exactly the kind of thought that had made him leave, because thinking of that makes him want to tell Sherlock that he’s wondering at the way his mind works again, and this time not because he loves it, but because he wants to know how Sherlock can be so hurtfully ignorant. And that’s why John’s upstairs. He’s angry enough that he wants to be cruel, and that means he’s upset at more than just Sherlock disregarding a rule of their ridiculous barter system.
He just doesn’t know what. And even if he suspects, just a little, it’s definitely not something he wants to explore. So he hides upstairs, until vicious anger has faded into just anger, until the thought of Sherlock walking around downstairs with John’s tags around his neck doesn’t cause a confusing, twisted knot in John’s chest.
When he finally goes back downstairs, Lestrade and Anderson are gone. Sherlock is back on the couch, almost exactly as he’d been before they came. Except his head isn’t in John’s lap, and John’s tags are resting against the stripy jumper on Sherlock’s chest.
“We’ve missed the ending to whatever it is you had us watching,” Sherlock says. “I think they timed it that way.”
John doesn’t respond to that. Instead he says, “You’re wearing my tags.”
“Mmm, yes, I thought they would do nicely,” Sherlock says. “You’d already gone the traditional route with my shirt and your pants, that was fortunate, and the dressing gown was a nice touch, well done. I couldn’t merely copy you, obviously, and they’d already seen I was wearing pyjama bottoms.”
John blinks, completely unable to follow that. He ends up saying again, “You’re wearing my tags.”
“Your tags for my dressing gown,” Sherlock says absently. “They’ve been gone almost ten minutes; you needn’t have stayed up there so long.”
“I wasn’t up there because of them,” John snaps.
Sherlock rolls on his side so he’s facing John. “You’re angry at me.” He actually seems surprised. “Why?”
Of course. Of course Sherlock has absolutely no idea, and yes, John’s ignoring that he doesn’t - or doesn’t want to - either.
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“You’ve said that three times. I find it unnecessary and irritating when someone repeats himself so often,” Sherlock says, eyes narrowed.
Yup. Ridiculous. “Yeah, well, I find it unnecessary and irritating when someone breaks the one rule of his own bloody idea.”
Sherlock frowns. “I haven’t done anything wrong,” he says defensively.
“My tags, Sherlock,” John says. “Yes, I know, I’m repeating myself, but as you’re refusing to get it, it seems to be my only option. I haven’t touched your damn coat, so why are you wearing my tags?”
Sherlock reaches up, closing his fingers loosely around the tags. “You said it was your uniform and camouflage that were off limits,” he says quietly.
“No, you said that. I said, ‘my army things.’ I would’ve thought a genius could figure out that dog tags are part of army things. Then again, I would’ve thought a genius would be able to discern that a box at the bottom of my desk drawers is off limits, but apparently not,” John says.
Sherlock’s grip tightens, blocking the metal entirely from view. “You never wear them. I thought that meant you wouldn’t mind if I did.”
“I don’t wear them because-” he cuts off, not entirely sure what he was going to say, but knowing it wouldn’t have been anything he wanted to come out. “Just because I don’t wear them doesn’t mean it’s okay for you to.”
But Sherlock notices his aborted sentence and the emotion behind it (of course he does, it’s Sherlock), and he sits up, eyes focused on John intensely. “You aren’t just angry with me for wearing your off-limits item.”
“Shut up,” John says.
“Because what, John?” Sherlock asks.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” John replies.
Sherlock leans forward slightly. “Why not?”
“Because - because we’re not talking about me, Sherlock, we’re talking about you and your rule-breaking,” John tells him. “I want to know why you’re wearing my tags.”
Sherlock’s open, interested expression shuts down.
“You were trying to throw me off, weren’t you?” John pauses, then asks quietly, “Why?”
“As I’ve said before, you’d already gone the traditional route,” Sherlock says stiffly, not meeting his eyes. “I didn’t have that option. I had to choose another method of demonstration.”
“Demonstration of what?” John asks, frustrated. “What does that mean?”
“It means we belong together, to each other, John, that’s what it, what all of it means.” Sherlock tugs on the jumper and makes a gesture than includes all of John. Then his voice turns quiet, almost hurt. “I thought you knew that.”
John stares at him, frustration and anger fading away to something that’s not quite sadness and something that’s much more than affection. “Sherlock,” he says softly, then clears his throat. “We’re not dating.”
“I know that,” Sherlock snaps.
But he’d flinched, just a tiny bit, and John regrets saying it, even if it is true.
“Can’t we belong to each other without being in a relationship?” Sherlock asks hesitantly.
“Well, yeah, but-” John pauses. He remembers Sherlock’s shy smile yesterday, when John’d said “let them talk,” and he takes the plunge. “But it’s more fun if we are.”
Sherlock’s eyes snap to his face, lock on to his. “John,” he whispers.
“We don’t have to be, if you don’t want to,” John says. “But I’d like to give it a try.”
There’s a brief pause, then Sherlock smiles at him. “Come here.”
John obeys, sitting next to Sherlock, and then Sherlock’s lips are pressed against his.
They kiss lazily on the sofa, not as a precursor to anything, just because they can. When they stop, Sherlock curls up on the sofa, head in John’s lap, and John realizes that almost nothing has changed, except now Sherlock’s hand is on his knee and John’s lips are kiss-swollen.
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Sherlock considers that, then nods. “That’s acceptable now.”
John blinks. “Why now?”
“You’ve worn it once before, do you remember?” Sherlock asks, twisting to look at him.
This is news to John. He shakes his head.
“I didn’t think so; you were only half aware at the time. It was after you’d been pushed into the Thames. It was freezing, you needed dry clothes, I gave you my coat until the paramedics arrived. You looked - well, if you hadn’t been so dazed, I would have jumped you on the spot. I set the coat off limits because I suspected if you wore it again with your senses intact, I might not be able to restrain myself.” Sherlock smiles. “I assume, based on our activities during the past fifteen minutes, that I no longer need to worry about you being opposed to that.”
John swallows. “No, that’s really not a worry.”
In fact, it gives him an idea. And later that night, when Sherlock’s gone into the kitchen to check on some experiment he’s got going in the fridge, John takes off the dressing gown and hangs it up. After a moment’s consideration, he hangs up the purple shirt as well and slips on Sherlock’s coat. It’s ridiculously long and tight in the shoulders, but actually quite comfortable.
He waits silently, and it’s well worth it when Sherlock walks back into the living room and stops, mid-stride, at seeing him.
“You’re wearing my coat,” Sherlock says.
“Looks like,” John agrees.
And Sherlock does jump him, but it’s John that pushes them both onto the sofa.
John pulls Sherlock’s pyjamas down to his knees, freeing his half-hard cock, and pauses just long enough to meet Sherlock’s eyes before he takes it into his mouth. John licks and sucks, teasing it quickly to full arousal. But then Sherlock’s pulling his head away, and his cock slides out of John’s mouth with a soft, wet plop. Sherlock kisses him again, his hands tugging at the waistband of John’s boxers, and John shifts a bit to get them off.
Sherlock kicks free of his pyjama bottoms, slides his hands down John’s sides, rests them on his hips.
John slips his own hands under the jumper Sherlock’s wearing. He pushes it up, fingers touching every inch of skin as it’s revealed to him. John gets the front of the jumper over Sherlock’s head, bunched up behind his neck, but then Sherlock wraps his fingers around John’s cock and strokes, and getting the jumper removed is forgotten.
John pants against Sherlock’s mouth, hips thrusting slightly no matter how he tries to still them. He pulls back a bit to look at Sherlock, and sees his tags.
Sherlock’s still wearing them.
John touches Sherlock’s chest, right next to where the tags are resting against more bare skin, and right now, John doesn’t mind.
He kisses his way down Sherlock’s chest, his stomach, then slides his lips over Sherlock’s cock once more. John goes slowly this time, tracing veins with his tongue, teasing at the foreskin, alternating between barely there friction and hard, wet suction.
John watches Sherlock the whole time, the way his eyes squeeze shut for brief periods of time before he opens them again, watching John watching him, the way he tosses his head back when John does something particularly wicked with his tongue, the way his chest hitches and his breath comes in short, quiet gasps.
When Sherlock comes, he silently, completely falls apart. John swallows and pulls off him, running his hand across Sherlock’s sweat-soaked chest while he watches Sherlock put himself back together again. He considers trying not to feel utterly grateful and absolutely brilliant that he’s the one who got to see- who was the cause of - Sherlock undone, but writes it off as a failure before even trying.
Instead, John wraps his fingers around his own cock, but he only gets a few strokes in before Sherlock bats his hand away and takes John in hand himself.
John’s own climax is louder than Sherlock’s, but not much more controlled.
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John strokes his hand over Sherlock’s arm, smoothing across the fabric, before he slips his fingers under the bunched up stripy jumper to rest on Sherlock’s shoulder.
“Do you know why I really said it was fine when you first wore my jumper?” John asks.
“Why?” Sherlock says.
“Because I liked you in it. You’re right, it does say we belong to each other.” John shakes his head. “Only you could make my jumpers look sexy.”
Sherlock slides his hand under his coat, fingers playing over John’s hip. “I disagree. You quite frequently make your jumpers look ‘sexy.’”
John laughs, and falls silent.
They stay like that for awhile, until Sherlock breaks the silence by asking, “Why don’t you wear your tags?”
John tenses. “I said I don’t want to talk about it, and I meant it. I especially don’t want to talk about it now.”
“I deserve to know,” Sherlock insists. “Why you were so angry at me. How can I avoid your anger if I don’t know the cause of it?”
“I don’t even know the cause of it,” John tells him. “It doesn’t matter, I’m not angry any more. Just let it go, Sherlock, please.”
“It’s not just because they’re part of your army things, that much is obvious,” Sherlock says. “You were angry because I was wearing them, because you never do, but you don’t want to tell me the reason you don’t. It’s not just you not wearing them, it’s when someone else wears them, or is it just when I-”
“It’s because you just took them, Sherlock! You just walked around wearing them like they belong around your neck, when they don’t even belong around mine.” John realizes what he’s said a second after he blurts it out. He closes his eyes and admits softly, “They don’t. Not anymore.”
There’s silence for a moment, then the soft clink of metal, and then a slight weight against John’s chest.
John opens his eyes, startled. Sherlock’s taken his tags off and put them around John’s own neck.
“You are a soldier, and a hero. There is absolutely nothing that can or ever will change that, John, not even you,” Sherlock says. “I suggest you get used to the idea.”
John just stares, because he doesn’t know what to say to that. Finally he murmurs, “I thought you didn’t believe heroes existed.”
“That was before I got to know you,” Sherlock replies.
John reaches up, slowly curling his fingers around his tags. After awhile, he says, “Suppose this means I should give you your coat back.”
“I’m still wearing your jumper,” Sherlock says, adjusting it so that it’s on properly. “I’ll consider that an acceptable trade.”
“Our barter system’s still on, then?” John asks.
Sherlock grins at him. “Absolutely.” He rolls off the sofa, picking up John’s boxers and pulling them on. “Coffee?”
“Hmm,” John says, too busy staring to register what Sherlock’s asked. “Oh, yes, sure.”
“Excellent,” Sherlock says. “Make enough for several cups, I’m sure we’ll both be up quite late tonight.”
He saunters into the kitchen, leaving John to scramble into Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms. John does take off the coat, because between it and the too-long pyjamas, he’d have a hell of a time manoeuvring. It’s still slightly awkward making coffee, even with the pyjama legs rolled up a bit, but John couldn’t care less.
Sherlock’s leaning up against the kitchen table, hair mussed from sex rather than sleep, wearing John’s jumper and pants. They both smile every time they catch each other looking, which is every few seconds or so.
John’s happier than he can ever remember being.
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Oh, this is adorable! I love the wonderful details you use. The bit with the army tags was especially sweet. Amazing job!
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Thank you so much! This was PERFECTION!
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I love both of them so very much in this, wearing clothes that don't actually fit half the time. Something about that cues my warm fuzzies on, so kudos to you anon for striking a chord like that. :)
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(Also, I was giggling the whole time picturing them in the clothes, because some months ago I drew this:http://waalkchan.tumblr.com/post/1401535652/soglideaway-and-achildofearth-dears-here-it-is and now I'm all fbgjdkfbgdfsj over this fanfic <3 )
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Everything about this is made of WIN. How I'd love to see them switch clothes on the show for some reason or another. =D
When Sherlock comes, he silently, completely falls apart. And I would love to see this, too. =D
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