fic: take me out tonight (take me anywhere) (sherlock/john)
Title: take me out tonight (take me anywhere) [on ao3]
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Word Count: ~1,800
Summary: "Would you like to accompany me to the mortuary?" Sherlock asks, a bit formally, for them, looping his scarf around his neck, and John looks up from the paper as he thinks about it.
"Do you actually need my opinion on something? Or is this meant to be a date?"
Sherlock's gaze is inscrutable. "Will it change your answer?" he asks, a little rhetorically, and John's already reaching for his jacket.
(Or: Sherlock wonders if he and John need to actually date; established Sherlock/John).
John pauses beside the sofa, straightening his sleeves.
"Give my best to Lestrade," Sherlock mumbles, staring at the ceiling, "And thank him for inviting me," and John sighs.
"Firstly?" he says, "He's never going to believe you actually said that," and a tiny smile tugs at the corner of Sherlock's mouth, just briefly. "Secondly - how did you know I was having drinks with Greg? Or that you were even invited?" Sherlock glances at him, without moving his head, a slightly amused, Think, John expression that John's got quite used to. "I'm using my normal aftershave, so it's nothing special," he tries to work it out, and Sherlock looks like he's going to indulge him, tonight. "I'm wearing comfy shoes, so I'm probably not catching a cab. I'm leaving at quarter to, which gets me to round about Liverpool Street by seven, which is," he squints, "roughly halfway between here and Greg's."
Sherlock raises his eyebrows at that, fractionally. "Good," he says, and it's not patronizing; his eyes are bright, curious. "What else?"
John rocks up onto the balls of his feet, once, as he thinks. "I'm wearing a decent shirt, but not like I'm not trying to impress someone, like it's a date, or work-related."
Sherlock tilts his head to the side, on the arm of the sofa. "You don't wear anything different when we go out," he says.
John looks at him, affectionate and patient, "When do we go out, exactly?"
Sherlock pauses, lifting his head a little. "Should we? Do you want us to - go out? On - dates?" and the bloody idiot can speak at least a dozen languages fluently, but this, this trips him up.
John smiles, bracing his hand on the back of the sofa, "We're fine," he says, fondly, and he bends down and kisses Sherlock, chaste and soft, only their lips touching. "So," he says, straightening up, "How did you know?"
"Could've just been that he's one of the few friends you can tolerate," Sherlock says.
John hums a little, "No, that's too soft. Guesswork. Could've been - Mike."
Sherlock snorts, softly. "Doubtful. You like me to believe you've never forgiven him for introducing us.
John grins then, fast, genuine, but doesn't deny it. "OK, how'd you know he invited both of us?" he asks, instead, "He usually doesn't bother."
"There's a pattern," Sherlock says, slowly, a little distractedly, "To his invitations."
John looks surprised. "Really?"
Sherlock's face is inscrutable. "No," he finally admits, before gesturing vaguely at the table, "He texted me earlier."
John laughs, at that, shoving at Sherlock's feet, where they rest on the sofa. "You're-" he breaks off, shaking his head. Ridiculous, he supplies, in a way that no-one else gets to see.
(When he lets himself back into the flat, later that night, Sherlock's still lying on the sofa.
He glances up at John, startled. "You're back early," he murmurs, and John smiles, crookedly.
"It's almost midnight," he says, quietly, perching on the edge of the cushion, and Sherlock blinks at him.
"Oh."
John rests his hand on Sherlock's stomach for a moment. "Coming to bed?" he asks.
"In a minute," Sherlock says; it's not a rebuff, and John knows not to take it as one.
"Don't stay up too late," John says, even though he knows it's useless. He leans forward and kisses Sherlock, hand sliding up his chest, mouth moving slowly against his).
*
"I think we should date," Sherlock says, abruptly, glancing up from his microscope.
John considers this for a moment. "OK," he says, with more gravity than he feels, because this looks like it matters to Sherlock, and John might not understand, not yet, but he'll try.
Sherlock nods. "OK," he repeats, looking back down at his slide, and John smiles into his teacup. Three, two, one- "What-" Sherlock looks up again, interrupts himself, "How-"
John grins, then, and Sherlock narrows his eyes, slightly.
"We just," John shrugs, "Go out. Do something fun," and Sherlock frowns a little at that, eyes flicking back down to his microscope, so briefly. "We'll figure it out," he adds.
*
In retrospect, he probably should've been a little clearer.
Sherlock crouches over the body and John stands behind him, waiting, for direction or deduction, and Sherlock glances up at him, and he knows, instantly, what he's going to say, embarrassingly large Scotland Yard contingent be damned-
"Is this-"
"Absolutely not," John says, firmly, and Sherlock nods, slightly. Turns back to the body. Back to John.
"I didn't think so. I just wanted to - check," Sherlock says, distractedly, attention already back on the body in front of him, and John stuffs his hands in his pockets so he doesn't do something stupid, like scratch the back of Sherlock's neck affectionately. He watches, instead, as Lestrade debates asking, weighs up the likelihood that it has something to do with the case, that he actually wants to hear the answer, and decides to let it go, in the space of a few seconds, and, Christ, John needs a new hobby.
*
"Would you like to accompany me to the mortuary?" Sherlock asks, a bit formally, for them, looping his scarf around his neck, and John looks up from the paper as he thinks about it.
"Do you actually need my opinion on something? Or is this meant to be a date?"
Sherlock's gaze is inscrutable. "Will it change your answer?" he asks, a little rhetorically, and John's already reaching for his jacket.
("I should clarify," John says, later that night, staring at the ceiling, "Dates are usually dinner or something."
Sherlock huffs impatiently against John's bare stomach. "Stop talking," he murmurs, dragging his lips lower, and John twitches.
"Make me," he teases, and Sherlock smiles against his hip for a moment.
"If you insist," he says, mildly, lifting his head up a bit to wrap his mouth around the head of John's cock, and John presses down hard into the mattress. Sherlock bobs his head, a shock of dark hair between John's thighs, and there's a tingling building at the base of John's spine, as Sherlock strokes him, cupping his balls with his free hand, and Sherlock's everywhere, wet heat and nimble fingers and-
"I'm - yeah," John gasps, "I'm there," a little unnecessarily, really, because Sherlock knows, and he flicks his tongue over the head of John's cock, the pace of his hand unchanging (unrelenting) until John's jerking against him, into him, legs tightening around Sherlock for a long moment).
*
"This isn't a date," John says, matter of fact, after their menus are collected, and Sherlock's brow furrows.
"Of course it is," he says.
"It really isn't," John says, pausing, to take a sip of his water.
"But-" Sherlock gestures between them, then at the candle.
"This is a stakeout," John corrects.
"Are the two really mutually exclusive?" Sherlock asks, a little peevishly, and John stares at him for a beat.
"Wh - yes. Very much so."
(He fingers Sherlock - the stakeout's a bust, even Sherlock allows - two fingers, harder than he'd dared, in the beginning, his right hand stroking Sherlock's cock in time (in, as Sherlock observed, an impressing show of dexterity). He crooks his fingers a little, rubbing Sherlock's prostate lightly, and Sherlock's leaking pre-come on his stomach, over John's hand, hips rocking in time with John's hands, and there's a part of him that still marvels - will always marvel, he suspects - at Sherlock Holmes and his brilliant mind coming apart so completely in John's hands).
*
Sherlock reaches over, slowly, and rests his fingertips on the inseam of John's trousers, sometime in the second act of Rigoletto (and it's nothing so indecent it'd get them thrown out, but it's breathtakingly intimate, and something's coiling, low in John's stomach).
"You're bored," Sherlock breathes, into his ear, and John stays very still, eyes on the stage.
"I'm fine," he whispers back, which placates Sherlock a little, until-
"Let's go," Sherlock says, decisively, at intermission.
"Look, it's good to try something different every now and then," John protests, and Sherlock rolls his eyes.
"You're bored," he repeats, "I can tell."
"Sherlock, if that were true, you wouldn't talk half as much as you do," but there's no heat behind it, and Sherlock smiles at him, briefly, and waits. "Yeah, OK," he relents. "Let's go."
(Sherlock presses John's hands into the mattress, above his head, and there are no restraints tonight, but his intention is clear: leave them there; he rides John, slowly, until they're both sweaty and trembling and close.
"Still bored?" Sherlock asks, voice and face bland, but there's a catch in his breath.
John huffs out a laugh. "Oh, sod this," he grunts, grabbing Sherlock's hips and fucking into him, the slap of skin against skin the only noise in the flat. Sherlock's hand tugs quickly at his own cock, until they're both breathless and spent, and Sherlock rolls onto his back beside John).
*
"This is dull," Sherlock says, flatly.
"Just - enjoy your meal."
"I'm not hungry," Sherlock mutters, and, Christ, it's like living with a child, sometimes.
"Right," is all John says, reaching for his beer.
"Is this all people do on dates?" Sherlock demands, and John shrugs. "Is this all you do on dates?" Sherlock amends.
John doesn't bristle, like he might've, a year ago, but he pauses. "Well," he says, "I'm usually trying to get a leg over."
"Next time, can we just skip to that?" Sherlock suggests, and his eyes narrow slightly, so slightly, like he's not sure that that's not an appallingly rude thing to say.
John just jerks his head in agreement, doesn't try to hide his smile. "Definitely be cheaper."
"More time-efficient," Sherlock adds, as their phones go off, simultaneously.
"Both of us," John says, as Sherlock reaches into his jacket.
"On a Tuesday night," Sherlock adds, as John grabs his from his jeans.
"Lestrade," they conclude, in unison, and Sherlock's lips twitch, their thumbs hovering, ready to unlock their phones.
"Should we-" Sherlock glances at his phone, then back up at John.
"This is how my dates usually go," John says, mock-ruefully, and Sherlock huffs out a quick, soft laugh.
(Sherlock's panting a little, the thrill of being right, of being first, and John's heart's about to burst out of his chest, because chasing criminals down London alleys never gets old, and when John unlocks the flat door, Sherlock grabs his face and kisses him, hands covering John's cheeks so completely.
"Not too bad a night," Sherlock mumbles, barely pulling back, and John tries to catch his breath.
"All in all," he agrees. Because, well. Someone did still die.
Sherlock reads it, in John's level tone, and stiffens. "Bit mad?" he asks, a little hesitantly.
"A bit," John concedes. But - honestly. All things considered. It's not even the maddest thing Sherlock's said today.
Sherlock's watching John, carefully. "Good mad, or-"
"Oh, good," John murmurs, tugging Sherlock down for another kiss (and it's not their best, he'll admit, because he's bloody smiling too much), "Definitely good.")
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Word Count: ~1,800
Summary: "Would you like to accompany me to the mortuary?" Sherlock asks, a bit formally, for them, looping his scarf around his neck, and John looks up from the paper as he thinks about it.
"Do you actually need my opinion on something? Or is this meant to be a date?"
Sherlock's gaze is inscrutable. "Will it change your answer?" he asks, a little rhetorically, and John's already reaching for his jacket.
(Or: Sherlock wonders if he and John need to actually date; established Sherlock/John).
John pauses beside the sofa, straightening his sleeves.
"Give my best to Lestrade," Sherlock mumbles, staring at the ceiling, "And thank him for inviting me," and John sighs.
"Firstly?" he says, "He's never going to believe you actually said that," and a tiny smile tugs at the corner of Sherlock's mouth, just briefly. "Secondly - how did you know I was having drinks with Greg? Or that you were even invited?" Sherlock glances at him, without moving his head, a slightly amused, Think, John expression that John's got quite used to. "I'm using my normal aftershave, so it's nothing special," he tries to work it out, and Sherlock looks like he's going to indulge him, tonight. "I'm wearing comfy shoes, so I'm probably not catching a cab. I'm leaving at quarter to, which gets me to round about Liverpool Street by seven, which is," he squints, "roughly halfway between here and Greg's."
Sherlock raises his eyebrows at that, fractionally. "Good," he says, and it's not patronizing; his eyes are bright, curious. "What else?"
John rocks up onto the balls of his feet, once, as he thinks. "I'm wearing a decent shirt, but not like I'm not trying to impress someone, like it's a date, or work-related."
Sherlock tilts his head to the side, on the arm of the sofa. "You don't wear anything different when we go out," he says.
John looks at him, affectionate and patient, "When do we go out, exactly?"
Sherlock pauses, lifting his head a little. "Should we? Do you want us to - go out? On - dates?" and the bloody idiot can speak at least a dozen languages fluently, but this, this trips him up.
John smiles, bracing his hand on the back of the sofa, "We're fine," he says, fondly, and he bends down and kisses Sherlock, chaste and soft, only their lips touching. "So," he says, straightening up, "How did you know?"
"Could've just been that he's one of the few friends you can tolerate," Sherlock says.
John hums a little, "No, that's too soft. Guesswork. Could've been - Mike."
Sherlock snorts, softly. "Doubtful. You like me to believe you've never forgiven him for introducing us.
John grins then, fast, genuine, but doesn't deny it. "OK, how'd you know he invited both of us?" he asks, instead, "He usually doesn't bother."
"There's a pattern," Sherlock says, slowly, a little distractedly, "To his invitations."
John looks surprised. "Really?"
Sherlock's face is inscrutable. "No," he finally admits, before gesturing vaguely at the table, "He texted me earlier."
John laughs, at that, shoving at Sherlock's feet, where they rest on the sofa. "You're-" he breaks off, shaking his head. Ridiculous, he supplies, in a way that no-one else gets to see.
(When he lets himself back into the flat, later that night, Sherlock's still lying on the sofa.
He glances up at John, startled. "You're back early," he murmurs, and John smiles, crookedly.
"It's almost midnight," he says, quietly, perching on the edge of the cushion, and Sherlock blinks at him.
"Oh."
John rests his hand on Sherlock's stomach for a moment. "Coming to bed?" he asks.
"In a minute," Sherlock says; it's not a rebuff, and John knows not to take it as one.
"Don't stay up too late," John says, even though he knows it's useless. He leans forward and kisses Sherlock, hand sliding up his chest, mouth moving slowly against his).
*
"I think we should date," Sherlock says, abruptly, glancing up from his microscope.
John considers this for a moment. "OK," he says, with more gravity than he feels, because this looks like it matters to Sherlock, and John might not understand, not yet, but he'll try.
Sherlock nods. "OK," he repeats, looking back down at his slide, and John smiles into his teacup. Three, two, one- "What-" Sherlock looks up again, interrupts himself, "How-"
John grins, then, and Sherlock narrows his eyes, slightly.
"We just," John shrugs, "Go out. Do something fun," and Sherlock frowns a little at that, eyes flicking back down to his microscope, so briefly. "We'll figure it out," he adds.
*
In retrospect, he probably should've been a little clearer.
Sherlock crouches over the body and John stands behind him, waiting, for direction or deduction, and Sherlock glances up at him, and he knows, instantly, what he's going to say, embarrassingly large Scotland Yard contingent be damned-
"Is this-"
"Absolutely not," John says, firmly, and Sherlock nods, slightly. Turns back to the body. Back to John.
"I didn't think so. I just wanted to - check," Sherlock says, distractedly, attention already back on the body in front of him, and John stuffs his hands in his pockets so he doesn't do something stupid, like scratch the back of Sherlock's neck affectionately. He watches, instead, as Lestrade debates asking, weighs up the likelihood that it has something to do with the case, that he actually wants to hear the answer, and decides to let it go, in the space of a few seconds, and, Christ, John needs a new hobby.
*
"Would you like to accompany me to the mortuary?" Sherlock asks, a bit formally, for them, looping his scarf around his neck, and John looks up from the paper as he thinks about it.
"Do you actually need my opinion on something? Or is this meant to be a date?"
Sherlock's gaze is inscrutable. "Will it change your answer?" he asks, a little rhetorically, and John's already reaching for his jacket.
("I should clarify," John says, later that night, staring at the ceiling, "Dates are usually dinner or something."
Sherlock huffs impatiently against John's bare stomach. "Stop talking," he murmurs, dragging his lips lower, and John twitches.
"Make me," he teases, and Sherlock smiles against his hip for a moment.
"If you insist," he says, mildly, lifting his head up a bit to wrap his mouth around the head of John's cock, and John presses down hard into the mattress. Sherlock bobs his head, a shock of dark hair between John's thighs, and there's a tingling building at the base of John's spine, as Sherlock strokes him, cupping his balls with his free hand, and Sherlock's everywhere, wet heat and nimble fingers and-
"I'm - yeah," John gasps, "I'm there," a little unnecessarily, really, because Sherlock knows, and he flicks his tongue over the head of John's cock, the pace of his hand unchanging (unrelenting) until John's jerking against him, into him, legs tightening around Sherlock for a long moment).
*
"This isn't a date," John says, matter of fact, after their menus are collected, and Sherlock's brow furrows.
"Of course it is," he says.
"It really isn't," John says, pausing, to take a sip of his water.
"But-" Sherlock gestures between them, then at the candle.
"This is a stakeout," John corrects.
"Are the two really mutually exclusive?" Sherlock asks, a little peevishly, and John stares at him for a beat.
"Wh - yes. Very much so."
(He fingers Sherlock - the stakeout's a bust, even Sherlock allows - two fingers, harder than he'd dared, in the beginning, his right hand stroking Sherlock's cock in time (in, as Sherlock observed, an impressing show of dexterity). He crooks his fingers a little, rubbing Sherlock's prostate lightly, and Sherlock's leaking pre-come on his stomach, over John's hand, hips rocking in time with John's hands, and there's a part of him that still marvels - will always marvel, he suspects - at Sherlock Holmes and his brilliant mind coming apart so completely in John's hands).
*
Sherlock reaches over, slowly, and rests his fingertips on the inseam of John's trousers, sometime in the second act of Rigoletto (and it's nothing so indecent it'd get them thrown out, but it's breathtakingly intimate, and something's coiling, low in John's stomach).
"You're bored," Sherlock breathes, into his ear, and John stays very still, eyes on the stage.
"I'm fine," he whispers back, which placates Sherlock a little, until-
"Let's go," Sherlock says, decisively, at intermission.
"Look, it's good to try something different every now and then," John protests, and Sherlock rolls his eyes.
"You're bored," he repeats, "I can tell."
"Sherlock, if that were true, you wouldn't talk half as much as you do," but there's no heat behind it, and Sherlock smiles at him, briefly, and waits. "Yeah, OK," he relents. "Let's go."
(Sherlock presses John's hands into the mattress, above his head, and there are no restraints tonight, but his intention is clear: leave them there; he rides John, slowly, until they're both sweaty and trembling and close.
"Still bored?" Sherlock asks, voice and face bland, but there's a catch in his breath.
John huffs out a laugh. "Oh, sod this," he grunts, grabbing Sherlock's hips and fucking into him, the slap of skin against skin the only noise in the flat. Sherlock's hand tugs quickly at his own cock, until they're both breathless and spent, and Sherlock rolls onto his back beside John).
*
"This is dull," Sherlock says, flatly.
"Just - enjoy your meal."
"I'm not hungry," Sherlock mutters, and, Christ, it's like living with a child, sometimes.
"Right," is all John says, reaching for his beer.
"Is this all people do on dates?" Sherlock demands, and John shrugs. "Is this all you do on dates?" Sherlock amends.
John doesn't bristle, like he might've, a year ago, but he pauses. "Well," he says, "I'm usually trying to get a leg over."
"Next time, can we just skip to that?" Sherlock suggests, and his eyes narrow slightly, so slightly, like he's not sure that that's not an appallingly rude thing to say.
John just jerks his head in agreement, doesn't try to hide his smile. "Definitely be cheaper."
"More time-efficient," Sherlock adds, as their phones go off, simultaneously.
"Both of us," John says, as Sherlock reaches into his jacket.
"On a Tuesday night," Sherlock adds, as John grabs his from his jeans.
"Lestrade," they conclude, in unison, and Sherlock's lips twitch, their thumbs hovering, ready to unlock their phones.
"Should we-" Sherlock glances at his phone, then back up at John.
"This is how my dates usually go," John says, mock-ruefully, and Sherlock huffs out a quick, soft laugh.
(Sherlock's panting a little, the thrill of being right, of being first, and John's heart's about to burst out of his chest, because chasing criminals down London alleys never gets old, and when John unlocks the flat door, Sherlock grabs his face and kisses him, hands covering John's cheeks so completely.
"Not too bad a night," Sherlock mumbles, barely pulling back, and John tries to catch his breath.
"All in all," he agrees. Because, well. Someone did still die.
Sherlock reads it, in John's level tone, and stiffens. "Bit mad?" he asks, a little hesitantly.
"A bit," John concedes. But - honestly. All things considered. It's not even the maddest thing Sherlock's said today.
Sherlock's watching John, carefully. "Good mad, or-"
"Oh, good," John murmurs, tugging Sherlock down for another kiss (and it's not their best, he'll admit, because he's bloody smiling too much), "Definitely good.")