Rosemary
Title: Rosemary
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Word Count: 5,000+
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Explicit m/m sex; mention of drug use; language; bastardization of poetry
Summary: Written for this prompt on the kinkmeme: Sherlock and John had a random one night stand years ago. Neither of them remembers the other. Bonus points if one of them says/does something that causes the other to remember.
A/N: Rosemary is for remembrance, and it does grow by the headlands - however, anything else I say about it is pretty much made up. Random bits of poetry are from Beachy Head by Charlotte Turner Smith. It’s a lovely poem, is rather long, has the flimsiest of connections to our story and was really only added for my own amusement. Enjoy!
It began - at least, as far as John is concerned - with Lestrade.
The Detective Inspector showed up unexpectedly at half past eight. Granted, it had been unexpected for John; thirty seconds prior, Sherlock had laid down his violin and hoisted his legs onto the chair beneath him, crouching in what John recognized as anticipation.
“Amazing how dog-like you are,” John had joked when he went to open the door. “We ought to get Lestrade a postman’s uniform.”
Sherlock merely hummed as John flung open the door. “Help the good inspector with the crate, John,” he drawled.
“You could lend a hand too, you know,” the DI panted, nodding his head at John in thanks as the doctor grasped a corner of the heavy wooden box.
“I could, yes.”
With John’s help, Lestrade was able to heave the box onto the table. It landed with a bang, a worrisome creak echoing from within the woodwork.
John fetched the crowbar from the coat closet. (He had insisted on having the tool in the flat at all times, as a result of that last case with the combine.) Latching a forked end under the lid, he heaved, grunting. “What’s in this thing, bricks?”
“Chemicals,” Lestrade responded. John immediately released the crowbar, letting it clang to the floor. Thankfully, it only just missed his toe. Grasping the edge, Lestrade pulled, and the lid scraped off. Dozens of glass bottles gleamed up at them, and suddenly Sherlock was at his side, eyeing them in a way that almost resembled hunger.
“Thank you, Lestrade. I’ll text the results as soon as possible.”
“Right.” Lestrade wiped his hands in his jacket and stuck them in his pockets. “Be careful, Sherlock. Some of those look dangerous.” He screwed up his face at the predictably deprecating look the detective gave him. “Don’t be a prat. Just watch yourself.”
“He means well,” John sighed helplessly as the door slammed shut behind them.
“Yes, well, insulting my intelligence is quite an interesting way to show it." Sherlock stuck his hand rather carelessly among the flasks." Benzene, six-molar copper sulfate…wait…" A few hesitant clinks. "There should be hydrochloric acid in here. Where is it?”
“Why do you think it’d be in there?”
“Please, John. Any collection of chemicals must include hydrochloric acid. That’s just common sense.”
John rolled his eyes. “Evidently. Why don’t we unpack these? You might just be skipping over it.”
Despite the muttered “unlikely,” Sherlock reached in and grasped the handle of the largest bottle. With a bored look on his face, he pulled it out - then paused. He shrugged, a sly smirk on his face, and tossed the bottle into the air.
John felt his mouth open, the shout beginning to materialize in his throat. But the words withered in his mouth, his eyes glued to the gleaming bottle, rotating , flipping in midair, end upon end, before landing gracefully in agile hands, the brown liquid sloshing only minutely as the bottle was uncapped and placed on the kitchen counter…wait, what just happened?
John blinked. He was once again in 221B, the liquid in the bottle was once again a faded olive green, and his flatmate was still unpacking, albeit now with a more amused expression on his face.
“Did you just…” John shook his head, reflexively. “How did you do that?”
Sherlock continued unpacking, a smile playing along his lips.
“Just a little trick I picked up.”
----------
It began - at least, as far as Sherlock is concerned - with Mrs Turner. More specifically, with Mrs. Turner’s tiny garden.
"Mrs. Turner's spice garden is doing nicely this year," Mrs. Hudson remarked gleefully as she burst into the kitchen, arms overflowing with greenery. "Marie gave me extra for you boys, though what you'll use it for heaven knows. I tried to tell her you're not really the cooking type, but I guess she suspects you'd be like her tenants, a pair of gourmet chefs from how she talks about them." She spread her arms over the kitchen table, the green sprigs piling gracefully upon each other. "Now Sherlock, no dillweed in the toilet like last time - you know what it does to the plumbing. Ta!" she crowed brightly, frittering out.
"What's that smell?" A yawning John Watson stumbled in, scratching behind his ear. There was a small pop as the doctor stretched out a kink in his shoulder, and he wandered blearily toward the refrigerator.
Sherlock made a pleased sound, combing his fingers through the pile. "Herbs, from the garden next door. Coffee?"
"Water first. Someone,” John glared back at him pointedly, “replaced my toothpaste with arnica cream."
"Right, yes, I nearly forgot. You left some in the tube, right?" Sherlock couldn't prevent grinning at the growled affirmation.
Suddenly, John materialized in his periphery. A glass of water was in his right hand, and with his left, he began fingering the softness of the foliage on the table. Selecting a small sprig of needle-like leaves, he regarded it thoughtfully.
"Rosemary," Sherlock supplied helpfully.
"Yeah, I know." Smiling, John rotated the sprig by its truncated stem. Running his fingers along the stalk, he detached several leaves and placed them into his glass, swirling the water around a bit to let the flavour diffuse. Sherlock watched as John lifted the glass to his lips, gullet rising and dropping steadily, a drop of condensation languidly sledding down the side of the glass, mirroring the bead of sweat rolling down his neck, hypnotizing him, tantalizing him, slipping along smooth, smooth planes until resting at the crook of his throat, hidden by the long-sleeved jumper, gaze traveling up to the cocked eyebrow of his flatmate.
"You all right?"
Sherlock felt his head instinctively nod, though mentally, he was miles off. "Fine, yes, fine," he mumbled. "Forgot you were from the headlands."
The brief puzzled look was quickly replaced with amusement. "Right, yeah, the rosemary. I suppose it is sort of a provincial thing. Not too big a leap."
Sherlock could feel a genuine smile curving his lips. "You're learning from me after all."
Barking out a laugh, John sipped at his glass. But the nagging twinge in the back of Sherlock's mind wouldn't go away.
----------
Sounds of the bubbling city streaked and bubbled against the windowpane, and John thought.
He had no clue what he was thinking about, or what exactly this itchy feeling was that kept him from sleep. Nevertheless, he could feel the unknown distraction dancing around in his head, spinning, twirling around itself.
“This must be what Sherlock goes through on a nightly basis,” he mumbled aloud. With thoughts of his flatmate, the distraction began to ripple and bulge.
Biting his lip in concentration, he turned toward the wall. The building was quit but for the clamour from outside, sifting through the windows and bouncing in his ears, thudding with every beat. He was never a fan of the strange synth music they played in clubs. Hell, we wasn’t a fan of clubs at all, but his mates had insisted. “One last hurrah,” they’d urged, “Before we’re back to the Giant Sandbox.”
The “last hurrah” was proving elusive - it was a Sunday night, and the place was half-empty. His head began thudding with the beat - the beginnings of a migraine. Wonderful. He moved to put his palm on his forehead, but the movement was arrested by his pal Tim.
“You gotta see this!” Tim roared, dragging John to the other end of the room. Everyone else was crowded up against the bar, laughing and jibing. Despite himself, John felt a twinge of envy at how comfortable they all were with each other.
Chris spotted them coming and grinned, turning and waving his hand to get the attention of the bartender. Why he’d bothered, John wasn’t sure - the tall barkeep looked bored, staring off to his left, twirling a beer bottle around nimble fingers. He noticed silver eyes, barely visible under a tangle of black curls, darting from person to person. Without looking, the bartender lobbed the bottle high into the air. It flew, flipping in midair, end upon end, before landing gracefully in agile hands, the brown liquid sloshing only minutely as the bottle was uncapped and poured into a chilled stein.
“Oi! You, the juggler!” Chris shouted directly into his ears, and John winced. “Tell us what this sad old bum wants!” The bartender pushed the stein toward an old timer on their right, then turned, his eyes focusing to set on John’s.
“I think,” John interrupted, gritting his teeth, “He’s meant to ask me that.”
Chris laughed gratingly and leaned over the bar. “Don’t mind Johnny here,” Chris mock-whispered. “He’s a bit of a wet towel!” He turned, and John wrinkled his nose at the indecent amount of alcohol on his breath. “This bloke,” he exclaimed, clapping a hand on the tall bartender’s forearm, “This bloke doesn’t need to ask, he just knows!” The bartender looked away - breaking the stare that John just realized they’d been holding - and scowled, not-so-subtly wrenching his arm back.
Before John could blink, a piece of paper and pencil was thrust into his hand. “Write it down, Johnny!” Tim hooted.
Turning his head back, John was surprised to see the barkeep once again watching him intently. Without shifting his gaze, the man was one-handedly whirling the bottle again, deftly avoiding the long cuff of his garish violet shirt.
Immediately, the words “smug bastard” came unbidden into his mind. Tightening his lip, John lowered his head and scribbled down his drink. He had just folded the paper when there was a small “thump” - a highball glass plunked on a napkin that had, seemingly, materialized out of nowhere.
“Vodka on the rocks,” a low voice said. Someone shoved him in his side, and he frowned as Chris grabbed the slip of paper and unfolded it.
“Vodka on the rocks!” he crowed, holding the paper in the air like a trophy, triggering an off-rhythm drunken cheer. Chris slammed his fist on the table, and the liquor in the glass shook and rippled. “Brilliant trick, that!”
Under the din, John could’ve sworn he heard the words “It’s not a trick” - then again, he could’ve been imagining it. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a battered leather wallet and scrounged inside for bills.
There was an exclamation by the door - a group of uni girls had just walked in. They congregated around the other side of the bar, giggling, and the crowd around John suddenly dematerialized.
A quiet knocking sound distracted him, and he turned his head back. The silver eyes were once again ogling at him. Something about those eyes unnerved him, he had decided. For such a light colour, they seemed entirely too dark.
“What?” he sputtered, nervously. “Something on my face?” He wasn’t usually so short with people who served him alcohol, but Christ, this man was less than a foot away and he felt like a goddamn oil painting.
“Don’t move,” the man ordered, resting his pale hand over the rim of the glass.
John could’ve sworn he’d opened his mouth to say no, but for some reason the word “fine” escaped instead. The bartender nodded and sauntered over to the girls. He was smiling at them, almost leering - but somehow, John could tell that it was utterly faked. Turning back to his glass, John sighed - then did a double-take.
In his glass - propped up innocently against an ice cube, as if it was there the whole time - was a sprig of rosemary.
John huffed. Unbelievable.
Hetilted the glass, and a drop escaped, trickling down the windowpane…it was raining again. The sounds had faded away, the darkness of the room pressing down, and John’s mouth felt painfully, unnaturally dry.
He needed a drink.
----------
Yes, that was definitely the click of a door - he hadn’t imagined this one.
Sherlock sat propped his dresser, head tilted. Through his closed bedroom door, he could hear the second click of the door closing, and felt the vibrations of someone walking across the hardwood floors.
En route to the washroom, there was one board that creaked in a particular way. Sherlock held his breath.
Absolute silence. Then the sound of the fridge door being opened.
Cursing quietly, Sherlock rose to his feet, leaning against the doorframe. This had to happen, sooner or later. He had to see John, to analyze his face, see if there was something in his expression…see if he remembered.
He considered peeping through the keyhole, and immediately rejected the idea - too childish. If there was a time to act adult, it was now.
John turned sharply as Sherlock flung open his bedroom door. The detective almost laughed - John was biting his lip guiltily, like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Or, in this case, the liquor cabinet.
Sherlock’s gaze lifted, from the tiny bottle of Absolut to the crease of John’s jawline to his eyes and…he found himself staring for longer than necessary, drawn in like two wells of water swallowed into the brown puddles dotted across the surface of the bar. With a frown, he wiped with a damp rag.
The man at the end of the bar - the one his mates called “Johnny” - was captivating his sight again. Sherlock measured out a tequila sunrise (the man had a fake tan, just back from holiday, reeking of lemon wood cleaner - far too obvious), then glanced around. Finally, the crowd seemed to have thinned out, and he was free to…discuss.
He shook out the rag, rewetted it, and dragged it along with him as he strolled back to Johnny, who was looking in the opposite direction, bored. Before he could make himself known, Sherlock saw him raise the glass to his lips.
Sherlock stopped in his tracks and stared.
The simple act was oddly erotic - the curve of lips around the brim, gullet rising and dropping steadily, a drop of condensation languidly sledding down the side of the glass, mirroring the bead of sweat rolling down his neck, hypnotizing him, tantalizing him, slipping along smooth, smooth planes until resting at the crook of his throat and disappearing underneath his shirt.
Fuck yes. It would be Johnny tonight. Sherlock curled his fingers fitfully - it had been days since his last lay, and the itch inside him had been growing exponentially. His veins bubbled, the cocaine in his bloodstream thrumming to the tune of lust and greed and want.
He inhaled, fetched the “mysterious grin” expression from his mental library, and closed the distance between them.
“So.” He smirked as Johnny jumped in surprise, nearly choking on his drink. Pitching his voice lower, Sherlock continued. “You want to know how I do it, Johnny?” Wary eyes looked toward him, and Sherlock shivered delightfully. The man was swallowing, and it was obvious that Sherlock’s baritone was having an effect on him.
“John,” the man responded, and Sherlock was surprised at how steady his voice was. “Just John.” John idly traced a finger down the fog that had formed on his glass. “And you are?”
He was ready to respond “Seb,” as was the tendency with his frequent trysts. But something, some unknown feeling, made him hesitate. “…Sherlock.”
“Sherlock.” John smiled, amused. “Unique. You must certainly stand out in a crowd.”
“Oh, that has nothing to do with one’s name. For instance,” he gestured toward John, “You have an intensely boring name, yet manage to stand out just fine on your own.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment, then.” A genuine laugh, and Sherlock felt himself getting warm. He had to seal this deal. “You were going to tell me, then, how you guessed my drink?”
Ah, back on track. “Certainly.”
Sherlock leaned forward, elbows resting on the counter. “It had to be vodka and ice, you see. Your military background was obvious from your and your friends’ postures and mannerisms. You’re not on leave, because otherwise you’d be wearing your uniform. Your mates’ level of celebration indicates imminent deployment. Army buddies, drinking on the eve of their deployment? That’s an occasion of severe testosterone overkill, and you all will be trying to outdo each other in typical alpha male behavior. You’re not that interested, obviously, but you keep up the appearance for your buddies, so you order the drink with the highest level of alcohol, which is almost always going to be vodka. However, you’re not too keen on getting plastered, so you’d attempt to dilute it, but not in a way that’s apparent to your friends - they’d see through your ruse too easily, especially since you are regarded as a - their words, not mine - ‘wet towel.’ So you’d dilute the vodka with the only thing that doesn’t raise suspicion: water, specifically frozen water. Vodka on ice is the only option.”
Sherlock loved this part - the crinkling of the forehead, the widening of the eyes, the drop in the jaw that left the mouth hanging agape. John glimpsed wonderingly at the glass and muttered, “Jesus.” He chuckled, breathlessly. “And the rosemary?”
“Shot in the dark. Good one, though.” At the raised eyebrows, he continued. “That I got mostly from your wallet.”
“My wallet?”
“In it was a receipt - South Eastern train lines, from earlier today. Additionally, your wallet is simple, yet has the appearance and stitching of a souvenir wallet - so you’re from a place with a small population, yet a decent pull of tourism. I can smell the salt in your hair from across the room, so it’s somewhere on the coast, and you have traces of chalk in your shoes, so I’d venture to say you live near the headlands.” He paused for breath. “A man named Jim used to work here - he was nice enough, if a little odd. He came from that area, close to Beachy Head, and he would put rosemary in everything. Apparently, it was a thing with the locals, because a lot of rosemary grew near the cliffs.”
The gobsmacked look on John’s face almost made Sherlock want to dance with glee. Almost. He was still intent on bedding this man, after all.
“That…” the soldier breathed, “was amazing.”
If he grinned any wider, Sherlock was sure, his cheekbones would snap in half. “Yes, I know.”
He dimmed his smile down somewhat - time to go in for the kill. He poked a long finger into the vodka and swirled it around, pleased at the small gasp it triggered. “Another thing Jim told me about rosemary,” he continued, voice deepening with each word, “was that it was made for ‘lonely hearts,’ so to speak - men with no wives, no girlfriends…no one to go home to. I suppose it’s from the name itself - a herb with a woman’s name makes a poor substitute for the actual article, but is a substitute nonetheless.” He brought his finger to his lips, fully aware that John was watching his every move, and darted his tongue out, lapping the bitter vodka from his fingertip.
“A-and you think I’m a ‘lonely heart,’ then. Is that it?” The slighted tone in his voice was marred by shallow, rapid breaths.
Sherlock chuckled slowly, hooking his still-wet finger under John’s chin and stroking lightly at the shaking flesh. “My dear John,” he whispered. “If you weren’t, would you be here?”
John emitted a quiet, strangled whimper, his hands shaking, fingers gripping the edge of the kitchen chair, pulling it out and flopping down with a sigh. The bottle of vodka was on the table, and John set down a glass of water beside it, a lone needle of rosemary floating lazily on top. Sherlock couldn’t stop himself from staring at it. John followed his gaze, then turned back to look at Sherlock, warm eyes uncharacteristically solemn.
“We should probably have a talk, yes?”
----------
The fluorescent fixture was too bright. Had it been any other time, Sherlock would’ve fretted on how the light would throw off the rate of photosynthetic dark reactions in his cultures. But right now, the harsh luminosity only served to remind him of an interrogation room.
And in front of him sat his interrogator, eyes locked on his, gaze brimming with questions.
Not that there seemed to be any questions forthcoming. Twelve minutes had already passed between them, and there had been nothing but silence. The glass of water remained untouched, the trial-sized bottle of vodka positioned on the middle of the empty table like a sacrifice on the alter.
“How long have you known?”
Sherlock had expected this question, but the quiet roughness of the tone threw him. While scouring his brain for an appropriate response, Sherlock became aware of a tightness in his chest and a pressure between his ears.
Ah. Of course. He’d forgotten to breathe.
He steadied himself, then exhaled a warm breath to the side of John’s head, watching a tuft of hair flutter against him. The other man moaned softly, shifting his left knee until it was between Sherlock’s own. With a growl, hands were latched onto John’s shoulders, pinning him more firmly against Sherlock’s front door. A billow of hot air swirled into John’s eardrum, and he whimpered as Sherlock rasped hotly into his ear.
“How frequently…”
Dipping his head to the side, nuzzling the skin of a cheek.
“…the child of Luxury, enjoying nothing…”
Nipping delicately along the jut of a mandible.
“…flies from place to place, in chase of pleasure that eludes his grasp.”
Viciously biting right over the carotid artery, and John howled, hands gripping Sherlock’s hips in a vice, his fingers snapping harshly in front of Sherlock’s face. “Oi! Listen to me when I’m talking to you!”
The gaze was no longer questioning - it was angry. John was standing, towering over him. The bottle had tipped, its contents dripping through the cracks on the table, but John gave no sign of noticing. His glare never left Sherlock’s face.
What had John asked him again?
Oh, right. How long he’d been aware of this…of this.
“I don’t get why you’re so angry,” he tried to huff. “It’s practically inconsequential. And to answer your question, I haven’t known long. A few days, at the most.”
“Bullshit.”
“You didn’t know either,” Sherlock pointed out defensively.
“Oh well, maybe that’s due to the liquor you kept plying me with! In case you’ve forgotten, which, sorry, I find highly unlikely.” John’s face twisted up unattractively, and Sherlock turned his head away. The angry barrage continued. “You really expect me to believe that Sherlock Holmes, the man with a bloody particle collider for a brain, has forgotten. Don’t even try that, you can probably remember everything you’ve…ever…”
The doctor’s litany trailed off slowly. Eyes roaming up the table leg, Sherlock focused on a crack in the wood, trying to ignore his own laboured swallowing and John’s laboured breathing.
“You…” John sighed, and rubbed the corners of his eyes. “You deleted it, didn’t you.”
Sherlock closed his eyes, partly from nervousness, mostly from relief. Not such a complete idiot, then. “I…of course I did.” He could feel himself clutching at the legs of his chair. “I was out of control. I was desperate. I was high. Of all the brain cells I’ve purged and recorded over, don’t you think these were the most deserving?”
Tilting his head back up, the detective watched his flatmate sink back into his chair. “Right…right,” John mumbled, his voice hoarse. “Your eyes…I thought…”
And then it was silent again. Sherlock’s brain cursed and banged itself in his head to relieve the tedium.
“Inconsequential, then.”
Sherlock winced; John’s voice was antagonizing his migraine into widening. “Yes. Past events shouldn’t affect the future status of our association. It is the most efficient tenet for relationships, and frankly, the United Nations would be greater improved to remember it.”
“I don’t think it’s inconsequential.”
“I believe we’ve already established the difference between the merits of your thinking as opposed to mine.” Sherlock could feel the tired strain in his voice. He hunched over in his chair, elbows on his knees, the heels of his hands rubbing over his eyes, trying to massage the headache out.
“You clearly didn’t think it was inconsequential. And you clearly didn’t delete it.”
“Right, sorry,” Sherlock snapped testily. “I’ll get on that right away.” Burying his face in his hands, Sherlock resolutely focused on the pain in his skull, trying to force it out, trying to ignore all the distractions and triggers around him, like the humming of the refrigerator, the drip of the washroom faucet…the scraping of the chair against the floor, the loud footsteps, the grip on his wrist.
Sherlock jolted his head up. John was in front of him - crouched on the balls of his feet, his hands softly and slowly prying his wrists away from his face, studying his eyes systematically, thumb instinctively stroking Sherlock’s pulse point.
Oh.
Sherlock knew he should try to stop it, try to resist, try to recover and reassemble the splinters of their normalcy.
But instead, he sat there, letting John guide his hand up to the doctor’s lips, letting himself hear the impossible words.
“Please don’t delete it.”
And John tilted his head and drew Sherlock’s fingers into his mouth.
Everything disappeared - his migraine, his reluctance, any sense of reserve - into the wet heat of John’s mouth. Sherlock could hear himself moan unabashedly, and John echoed it, the sound vibrating around Sherlock fingers and resonating into the depths of his gut. He felt himself getting heady, and leaned his forehead against the bare shoulder below him, blending his sweat into the perspiration on John’s back.
Sherlock leaned back up and watched, committing this sight, this exact one, to memory. The wrinkling of the sheets, as John reflexively kneaded into the bedspread. The subtle, unconscious thrusting into the rough cotton. The bend of his back, as John pushed his thighs upwards, like he was presenting, pleading gasps escaping his mouth.
Briefly pausing to caress John’s cheek with his thumb, Sherlock his fingers, glossy with saliva, out of John’s mouth. In a single movement, he brought them down and shoved one digit inside, roughly - then another, then a third. John’s experience with men wasobviously limited, if not nonexistent - but the ardor more than made up for it, as John degraded into needy whimpers and fervent panting. And with a flick of his index finger, John swore, spine almost jackknifing backward.
Perfect.
Settling himself in front of John’s entrance, Sherlock pushed himself in, carefully, painstakingly. He drew his chest parallel above John’s back, inching forward, scraping his fingernails up John’s side at the same maddeningly slow, maddeningly steady rate.
And then he was completely inside, as deep as he could go. Sherlock exhaled lightly, warm breath billowing into the sweat-soaked hair below him.
Weaving his fingers into the short tresses, he yanked John’s head back and violently collided their lips together. Groans were blown into his throat, and he could feel John’s magnificent tongue, searching, licking every crevice it could find, under his lip, behind his molars. The grip on his wrists had tightened, to the point of being almost uncomfortable.
As though he could read his mind, John loosened his hold slightly, instead pulling gently at Sherlock’s hands, forcing him up from the chair. Sherlock blindly followed, refusing to open his eyes or move his focus away from the heated kiss that threatened to overtake his mind.
He vaguely sensed being pushed onto the hard surface of the table. Vodka spilled everywhere, soaking through the seat of his trousers. John broke away briefly to move the glass of water, which miraculously had not toppled, onto the now-vacant chair. And before Sherlock could take in another breath, John was back, and his lips were back, and his hands were pulling both their shirts off, and Sherlock found this all amazing because he couldn’t seem to make his body do much of anything at the moment. He could only twitch his knuckles a bit, whilst John was able to trace his fingers against Sherlock’s collarbone, leaving the skin prickling in their wake.
As his head fell back to rest on the tabletop, he felt the fingers delve lower, sweeping gently across his nipples. Sherlock gasped as his skin was stroked expertly, fingertips massaging deep into the muscle, the dot of wetness on the tip of his nose jarring him back into reality. He opened his eyes to see John smiling at him, indulgently. “No, no more of that. Stay with me,” he said softly.
Sherlock found himself smiling back. “Did you just lick my nose?” he asked, amused.
“Maybe.” The doctor tilted his head, studying him, the smile growing wider and infinitely more wicked. “You keep drifting off. We’ll have to fix that.”
John shifted back, his bare knee pressed against the table. (Had John removed his trousers? Sherlock found it hard to think…and he apparently, his own trousers were gone too.) Confident that Sherlock was watching, John pressed his tongue against the table and dragged it up roughly, tracing the grain of the wood, lapping up a line of vodka in one firm stroke.
The muscles in his abdomen wringed around themselves, and Sherlock got agonizingly hard.
Gripping the nape of John’s neck, Sherlock yanked those lips back to his mouth, running his tongue over the doctor’s palate, tasting the sharp sting of the alcohol. A hand brutally fisted the bottom of his member, and Sherlock pulled away, gasping, as the hand jerked rhythmically, up and down the shaft, dragging its fingernails across the top. Leaning up to nestle his head in the crook of the doctor’s neck, Sherlock panted raggedly as he was brought closer and closer.
The shout he had been prepping in his throat turned into a whine as the hand withdrew, and despite his frantic thrusts upward, he was plucked back from the edge of climax. “John,” his voice strained. The hand returned, and he was unprepared, quivering violently as it pulled him to and back from orgasm numerous more times.
It was too much, and he felt like ripping John apart and ripping himself apart and just fucking screaming.
“Didn’t…realize,” Sherlock choked out.
“Hmm?” John’s voice was playful - as was his grip, which hardened into a sharp tweak. Sherlock hissed. “Didn’t realize what?”
“Didn’t realize…you were, in fact…evil incarnate,” he gasped out.
The beautiful man above him chuckled. “Really. Evil incarnate? That’s a bit harsh.” And he pulled everything away, leaving nothing but a desperate, lunging man below him.
Sherlock snarled, watching the infuriating beast above him lean to the side and pick up the abandoned glass of water. “You’re utterly wicked and awful and-“His voice broke off in a gasp at the freezing touch on his ribs.
John smirked at him, and continued to rub the ice cube up the side of Sherlock’s torso. “Do you remember what you said then?” Leaning forward, John stretched warm mass above him, covering him, matching every piece of his body symmetrically. “Well, not ‘said.’ More ‘recited.’ It was a poem.” The biting cube was drawn up the side of Sherlock’s thin face, painted along the shell of his left ear, and Sherlock had given up trying to suppress his shivering. “Thought you were a bit of a ponce - who the hell recites poetry during sex?” .John’s lips hovered over the ear, ghosting a whisper through the chilled flesh.
“Oh, Sherlock. ‘Yet they are happy, who have never ask’d what good or evil means.’”
Jesus Christ. Sherlock would’ve laughed if he wasn’t so far gone.
Something was pressed against his entrance in an almost burning pain. Sherlock yelped and pulled his knees back.
“Sorry, sorry,” John whispered, nuzzling his cheek gently. “I know it’s cold.” Sherlock inhaled, then steeled himself, nodding to John. John brought his hand back down, rubbing the ice up his perineum, but Sherlock was prepared, and it wasn’t as painful. Dropping the ice cube, John lined himself up and pushed in, as slowly and methodically as Sherlock had, all those years ago.
As soon as they got a rhythm going, however, the sluggish pace was long forgotten - and when John slanted himself, pounding hard enough for Sherlock to feel flares against his prostate, he pinched his fingers into John’s shoulders and came, the overwhelming whiteness replacing all semblance of thought rattling in his brain.
By the time Sherlock became aware of his own existence again, John was slumped against him, the tremors shaking his body growing less violent as they were absorbed into Sherlock’s chest.
When Sherlock was finally able to find his tongue, he spoke.
“Can’t believe we got off to poetry.”
The body above him shook again, but now it was from giggling. “I can’t either. Well, first time for everything. Or…second time, I guess.”
John lifted his head, and the deep brownness that had transfixed Sherlock so many years ago drew him in once more. With a shy, gentle smile, John leaned forward and tenderly touched his lips to Sherlock’s own. They relaxed, supporting each other, trying to ignore the ominous creaking of the table.
Sherlock sighed - he felt more rested than he had in years. “We should clean up the vodka,” he murmured.
“Yeah, we should,” John murmured, but his eyes were already beginning to close.
“We should at least get off the table.”
“Mmhmm.” John snuggled against him, his rhythmic breath slowing.
Sherlock smiled, dipping his head to inhale the scent of John’s hair. “The table can take it,” he sighed.
Sherlock drifted off to sleep, certain that, by the time he awoke, this whole incident will have been deleted from his mental archive.
But, as his one-night stand slumbered next to him, he had a nagging feeling that this memory might be more difficult to delete than the others.
And surprisingly, he felt - as he breathed in the scent of vodka and rosemary and John’s sweet sweat - that he didn’t really care.
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Word Count: 5,000+
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Explicit m/m sex; mention of drug use; language; bastardization of poetry
Summary: Written for this prompt on the kinkmeme: Sherlock and John had a random one night stand years ago. Neither of them remembers the other. Bonus points if one of them says/does something that causes the other to remember.
A/N: Rosemary is for remembrance, and it does grow by the headlands - however, anything else I say about it is pretty much made up. Random bits of poetry are from Beachy Head by Charlotte Turner Smith. It’s a lovely poem, is rather long, has the flimsiest of connections to our story and was really only added for my own amusement. Enjoy!
It began - at least, as far as John is concerned - with Lestrade.
The Detective Inspector showed up unexpectedly at half past eight. Granted, it had been unexpected for John; thirty seconds prior, Sherlock had laid down his violin and hoisted his legs onto the chair beneath him, crouching in what John recognized as anticipation.
“Amazing how dog-like you are,” John had joked when he went to open the door. “We ought to get Lestrade a postman’s uniform.”
Sherlock merely hummed as John flung open the door. “Help the good inspector with the crate, John,” he drawled.
“You could lend a hand too, you know,” the DI panted, nodding his head at John in thanks as the doctor grasped a corner of the heavy wooden box.
“I could, yes.”
With John’s help, Lestrade was able to heave the box onto the table. It landed with a bang, a worrisome creak echoing from within the woodwork.
John fetched the crowbar from the coat closet. (He had insisted on having the tool in the flat at all times, as a result of that last case with the combine.) Latching a forked end under the lid, he heaved, grunting. “What’s in this thing, bricks?”
“Chemicals,” Lestrade responded. John immediately released the crowbar, letting it clang to the floor. Thankfully, it only just missed his toe. Grasping the edge, Lestrade pulled, and the lid scraped off. Dozens of glass bottles gleamed up at them, and suddenly Sherlock was at his side, eyeing them in a way that almost resembled hunger.
“Thank you, Lestrade. I’ll text the results as soon as possible.”
“Right.” Lestrade wiped his hands in his jacket and stuck them in his pockets. “Be careful, Sherlock. Some of those look dangerous.” He screwed up his face at the predictably deprecating look the detective gave him. “Don’t be a prat. Just watch yourself.”
“He means well,” John sighed helplessly as the door slammed shut behind them.
“Yes, well, insulting my intelligence is quite an interesting way to show it." Sherlock stuck his hand rather carelessly among the flasks." Benzene, six-molar copper sulfate…wait…" A few hesitant clinks. "There should be hydrochloric acid in here. Where is it?”
“Why do you think it’d be in there?”
“Please, John. Any collection of chemicals must include hydrochloric acid. That’s just common sense.”
John rolled his eyes. “Evidently. Why don’t we unpack these? You might just be skipping over it.”
Despite the muttered “unlikely,” Sherlock reached in and grasped the handle of the largest bottle. With a bored look on his face, he pulled it out - then paused. He shrugged, a sly smirk on his face, and tossed the bottle into the air.
John felt his mouth open, the shout beginning to materialize in his throat. But the words withered in his mouth, his eyes glued to the gleaming bottle, rotating , flipping in midair, end upon end, before landing gracefully in agile hands, the brown liquid sloshing only minutely as the bottle was uncapped and placed on the kitchen counter…wait, what just happened?
John blinked. He was once again in 221B, the liquid in the bottle was once again a faded olive green, and his flatmate was still unpacking, albeit now with a more amused expression on his face.
“Did you just…” John shook his head, reflexively. “How did you do that?”
Sherlock continued unpacking, a smile playing along his lips.
“Just a little trick I picked up.”
----------
It began - at least, as far as Sherlock is concerned - with Mrs Turner. More specifically, with Mrs. Turner’s tiny garden.
"Mrs. Turner's spice garden is doing nicely this year," Mrs. Hudson remarked gleefully as she burst into the kitchen, arms overflowing with greenery. "Marie gave me extra for you boys, though what you'll use it for heaven knows. I tried to tell her you're not really the cooking type, but I guess she suspects you'd be like her tenants, a pair of gourmet chefs from how she talks about them." She spread her arms over the kitchen table, the green sprigs piling gracefully upon each other. "Now Sherlock, no dillweed in the toilet like last time - you know what it does to the plumbing. Ta!" she crowed brightly, frittering out.
"What's that smell?" A yawning John Watson stumbled in, scratching behind his ear. There was a small pop as the doctor stretched out a kink in his shoulder, and he wandered blearily toward the refrigerator.
Sherlock made a pleased sound, combing his fingers through the pile. "Herbs, from the garden next door. Coffee?"
"Water first. Someone,” John glared back at him pointedly, “replaced my toothpaste with arnica cream."
"Right, yes, I nearly forgot. You left some in the tube, right?" Sherlock couldn't prevent grinning at the growled affirmation.
Suddenly, John materialized in his periphery. A glass of water was in his right hand, and with his left, he began fingering the softness of the foliage on the table. Selecting a small sprig of needle-like leaves, he regarded it thoughtfully.
"Rosemary," Sherlock supplied helpfully.
"Yeah, I know." Smiling, John rotated the sprig by its truncated stem. Running his fingers along the stalk, he detached several leaves and placed them into his glass, swirling the water around a bit to let the flavour diffuse. Sherlock watched as John lifted the glass to his lips, gullet rising and dropping steadily, a drop of condensation languidly sledding down the side of the glass, mirroring the bead of sweat rolling down his neck, hypnotizing him, tantalizing him, slipping along smooth, smooth planes until resting at the crook of his throat, hidden by the long-sleeved jumper, gaze traveling up to the cocked eyebrow of his flatmate.
"You all right?"
Sherlock felt his head instinctively nod, though mentally, he was miles off. "Fine, yes, fine," he mumbled. "Forgot you were from the headlands."
The brief puzzled look was quickly replaced with amusement. "Right, yeah, the rosemary. I suppose it is sort of a provincial thing. Not too big a leap."
Sherlock could feel a genuine smile curving his lips. "You're learning from me after all."
Barking out a laugh, John sipped at his glass. But the nagging twinge in the back of Sherlock's mind wouldn't go away.
----------
Sounds of the bubbling city streaked and bubbled against the windowpane, and John thought.
He had no clue what he was thinking about, or what exactly this itchy feeling was that kept him from sleep. Nevertheless, he could feel the unknown distraction dancing around in his head, spinning, twirling around itself.
“This must be what Sherlock goes through on a nightly basis,” he mumbled aloud. With thoughts of his flatmate, the distraction began to ripple and bulge.
Biting his lip in concentration, he turned toward the wall. The building was quit but for the clamour from outside, sifting through the windows and bouncing in his ears, thudding with every beat. He was never a fan of the strange synth music they played in clubs. Hell, we wasn’t a fan of clubs at all, but his mates had insisted. “One last hurrah,” they’d urged, “Before we’re back to the Giant Sandbox.”
The “last hurrah” was proving elusive - it was a Sunday night, and the place was half-empty. His head began thudding with the beat - the beginnings of a migraine. Wonderful. He moved to put his palm on his forehead, but the movement was arrested by his pal Tim.
“You gotta see this!” Tim roared, dragging John to the other end of the room. Everyone else was crowded up against the bar, laughing and jibing. Despite himself, John felt a twinge of envy at how comfortable they all were with each other.
Chris spotted them coming and grinned, turning and waving his hand to get the attention of the bartender. Why he’d bothered, John wasn’t sure - the tall barkeep looked bored, staring off to his left, twirling a beer bottle around nimble fingers. He noticed silver eyes, barely visible under a tangle of black curls, darting from person to person. Without looking, the bartender lobbed the bottle high into the air. It flew, flipping in midair, end upon end, before landing gracefully in agile hands, the brown liquid sloshing only minutely as the bottle was uncapped and poured into a chilled stein.
“Oi! You, the juggler!” Chris shouted directly into his ears, and John winced. “Tell us what this sad old bum wants!” The bartender pushed the stein toward an old timer on their right, then turned, his eyes focusing to set on John’s.
“I think,” John interrupted, gritting his teeth, “He’s meant to ask me that.”
Chris laughed gratingly and leaned over the bar. “Don’t mind Johnny here,” Chris mock-whispered. “He’s a bit of a wet towel!” He turned, and John wrinkled his nose at the indecent amount of alcohol on his breath. “This bloke,” he exclaimed, clapping a hand on the tall bartender’s forearm, “This bloke doesn’t need to ask, he just knows!” The bartender looked away - breaking the stare that John just realized they’d been holding - and scowled, not-so-subtly wrenching his arm back.
Before John could blink, a piece of paper and pencil was thrust into his hand. “Write it down, Johnny!” Tim hooted.
Turning his head back, John was surprised to see the barkeep once again watching him intently. Without shifting his gaze, the man was one-handedly whirling the bottle again, deftly avoiding the long cuff of his garish violet shirt.
Immediately, the words “smug bastard” came unbidden into his mind. Tightening his lip, John lowered his head and scribbled down his drink. He had just folded the paper when there was a small “thump” - a highball glass plunked on a napkin that had, seemingly, materialized out of nowhere.
“Vodka on the rocks,” a low voice said. Someone shoved him in his side, and he frowned as Chris grabbed the slip of paper and unfolded it.
“Vodka on the rocks!” he crowed, holding the paper in the air like a trophy, triggering an off-rhythm drunken cheer. Chris slammed his fist on the table, and the liquor in the glass shook and rippled. “Brilliant trick, that!”
Under the din, John could’ve sworn he heard the words “It’s not a trick” - then again, he could’ve been imagining it. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a battered leather wallet and scrounged inside for bills.
There was an exclamation by the door - a group of uni girls had just walked in. They congregated around the other side of the bar, giggling, and the crowd around John suddenly dematerialized.
A quiet knocking sound distracted him, and he turned his head back. The silver eyes were once again ogling at him. Something about those eyes unnerved him, he had decided. For such a light colour, they seemed entirely too dark.
“What?” he sputtered, nervously. “Something on my face?” He wasn’t usually so short with people who served him alcohol, but Christ, this man was less than a foot away and he felt like a goddamn oil painting.
“Don’t move,” the man ordered, resting his pale hand over the rim of the glass.
John could’ve sworn he’d opened his mouth to say no, but for some reason the word “fine” escaped instead. The bartender nodded and sauntered over to the girls. He was smiling at them, almost leering - but somehow, John could tell that it was utterly faked. Turning back to his glass, John sighed - then did a double-take.
In his glass - propped up innocently against an ice cube, as if it was there the whole time - was a sprig of rosemary.
John huffed. Unbelievable.
Hetilted the glass, and a drop escaped, trickling down the windowpane…it was raining again. The sounds had faded away, the darkness of the room pressing down, and John’s mouth felt painfully, unnaturally dry.
He needed a drink.
----------
Yes, that was definitely the click of a door - he hadn’t imagined this one.
Sherlock sat propped his dresser, head tilted. Through his closed bedroom door, he could hear the second click of the door closing, and felt the vibrations of someone walking across the hardwood floors.
En route to the washroom, there was one board that creaked in a particular way. Sherlock held his breath.
Absolute silence. Then the sound of the fridge door being opened.
Cursing quietly, Sherlock rose to his feet, leaning against the doorframe. This had to happen, sooner or later. He had to see John, to analyze his face, see if there was something in his expression…see if he remembered.
He considered peeping through the keyhole, and immediately rejected the idea - too childish. If there was a time to act adult, it was now.
John turned sharply as Sherlock flung open his bedroom door. The detective almost laughed - John was biting his lip guiltily, like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Or, in this case, the liquor cabinet.
Sherlock’s gaze lifted, from the tiny bottle of Absolut to the crease of John’s jawline to his eyes and…he found himself staring for longer than necessary, drawn in like two wells of water swallowed into the brown puddles dotted across the surface of the bar. With a frown, he wiped with a damp rag.
The man at the end of the bar - the one his mates called “Johnny” - was captivating his sight again. Sherlock measured out a tequila sunrise (the man had a fake tan, just back from holiday, reeking of lemon wood cleaner - far too obvious), then glanced around. Finally, the crowd seemed to have thinned out, and he was free to…discuss.
He shook out the rag, rewetted it, and dragged it along with him as he strolled back to Johnny, who was looking in the opposite direction, bored. Before he could make himself known, Sherlock saw him raise the glass to his lips.
Sherlock stopped in his tracks and stared.
The simple act was oddly erotic - the curve of lips around the brim, gullet rising and dropping steadily, a drop of condensation languidly sledding down the side of the glass, mirroring the bead of sweat rolling down his neck, hypnotizing him, tantalizing him, slipping along smooth, smooth planes until resting at the crook of his throat and disappearing underneath his shirt.
Fuck yes. It would be Johnny tonight. Sherlock curled his fingers fitfully - it had been days since his last lay, and the itch inside him had been growing exponentially. His veins bubbled, the cocaine in his bloodstream thrumming to the tune of lust and greed and want.
He inhaled, fetched the “mysterious grin” expression from his mental library, and closed the distance between them.
“So.” He smirked as Johnny jumped in surprise, nearly choking on his drink. Pitching his voice lower, Sherlock continued. “You want to know how I do it, Johnny?” Wary eyes looked toward him, and Sherlock shivered delightfully. The man was swallowing, and it was obvious that Sherlock’s baritone was having an effect on him.
“John,” the man responded, and Sherlock was surprised at how steady his voice was. “Just John.” John idly traced a finger down the fog that had formed on his glass. “And you are?”
He was ready to respond “Seb,” as was the tendency with his frequent trysts. But something, some unknown feeling, made him hesitate. “…Sherlock.”
“Sherlock.” John smiled, amused. “Unique. You must certainly stand out in a crowd.”
“Oh, that has nothing to do with one’s name. For instance,” he gestured toward John, “You have an intensely boring name, yet manage to stand out just fine on your own.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment, then.” A genuine laugh, and Sherlock felt himself getting warm. He had to seal this deal. “You were going to tell me, then, how you guessed my drink?”
Ah, back on track. “Certainly.”
Sherlock leaned forward, elbows resting on the counter. “It had to be vodka and ice, you see. Your military background was obvious from your and your friends’ postures and mannerisms. You’re not on leave, because otherwise you’d be wearing your uniform. Your mates’ level of celebration indicates imminent deployment. Army buddies, drinking on the eve of their deployment? That’s an occasion of severe testosterone overkill, and you all will be trying to outdo each other in typical alpha male behavior. You’re not that interested, obviously, but you keep up the appearance for your buddies, so you order the drink with the highest level of alcohol, which is almost always going to be vodka. However, you’re not too keen on getting plastered, so you’d attempt to dilute it, but not in a way that’s apparent to your friends - they’d see through your ruse too easily, especially since you are regarded as a - their words, not mine - ‘wet towel.’ So you’d dilute the vodka with the only thing that doesn’t raise suspicion: water, specifically frozen water. Vodka on ice is the only option.”
Sherlock loved this part - the crinkling of the forehead, the widening of the eyes, the drop in the jaw that left the mouth hanging agape. John glimpsed wonderingly at the glass and muttered, “Jesus.” He chuckled, breathlessly. “And the rosemary?”
“Shot in the dark. Good one, though.” At the raised eyebrows, he continued. “That I got mostly from your wallet.”
“My wallet?”
“In it was a receipt - South Eastern train lines, from earlier today. Additionally, your wallet is simple, yet has the appearance and stitching of a souvenir wallet - so you’re from a place with a small population, yet a decent pull of tourism. I can smell the salt in your hair from across the room, so it’s somewhere on the coast, and you have traces of chalk in your shoes, so I’d venture to say you live near the headlands.” He paused for breath. “A man named Jim used to work here - he was nice enough, if a little odd. He came from that area, close to Beachy Head, and he would put rosemary in everything. Apparently, it was a thing with the locals, because a lot of rosemary grew near the cliffs.”
The gobsmacked look on John’s face almost made Sherlock want to dance with glee. Almost. He was still intent on bedding this man, after all.
“That…” the soldier breathed, “was amazing.”
If he grinned any wider, Sherlock was sure, his cheekbones would snap in half. “Yes, I know.”
He dimmed his smile down somewhat - time to go in for the kill. He poked a long finger into the vodka and swirled it around, pleased at the small gasp it triggered. “Another thing Jim told me about rosemary,” he continued, voice deepening with each word, “was that it was made for ‘lonely hearts,’ so to speak - men with no wives, no girlfriends…no one to go home to. I suppose it’s from the name itself - a herb with a woman’s name makes a poor substitute for the actual article, but is a substitute nonetheless.” He brought his finger to his lips, fully aware that John was watching his every move, and darted his tongue out, lapping the bitter vodka from his fingertip.
“A-and you think I’m a ‘lonely heart,’ then. Is that it?” The slighted tone in his voice was marred by shallow, rapid breaths.
Sherlock chuckled slowly, hooking his still-wet finger under John’s chin and stroking lightly at the shaking flesh. “My dear John,” he whispered. “If you weren’t, would you be here?”
John emitted a quiet, strangled whimper, his hands shaking, fingers gripping the edge of the kitchen chair, pulling it out and flopping down with a sigh. The bottle of vodka was on the table, and John set down a glass of water beside it, a lone needle of rosemary floating lazily on top. Sherlock couldn’t stop himself from staring at it. John followed his gaze, then turned back to look at Sherlock, warm eyes uncharacteristically solemn.
“We should probably have a talk, yes?”
----------
The fluorescent fixture was too bright. Had it been any other time, Sherlock would’ve fretted on how the light would throw off the rate of photosynthetic dark reactions in his cultures. But right now, the harsh luminosity only served to remind him of an interrogation room.
And in front of him sat his interrogator, eyes locked on his, gaze brimming with questions.
Not that there seemed to be any questions forthcoming. Twelve minutes had already passed between them, and there had been nothing but silence. The glass of water remained untouched, the trial-sized bottle of vodka positioned on the middle of the empty table like a sacrifice on the alter.
“How long have you known?”
Sherlock had expected this question, but the quiet roughness of the tone threw him. While scouring his brain for an appropriate response, Sherlock became aware of a tightness in his chest and a pressure between his ears.
Ah. Of course. He’d forgotten to breathe.
He steadied himself, then exhaled a warm breath to the side of John’s head, watching a tuft of hair flutter against him. The other man moaned softly, shifting his left knee until it was between Sherlock’s own. With a growl, hands were latched onto John’s shoulders, pinning him more firmly against Sherlock’s front door. A billow of hot air swirled into John’s eardrum, and he whimpered as Sherlock rasped hotly into his ear.
“How frequently…”
Dipping his head to the side, nuzzling the skin of a cheek.
“…the child of Luxury, enjoying nothing…”
Nipping delicately along the jut of a mandible.
“…flies from place to place, in chase of pleasure that eludes his grasp.”
Viciously biting right over the carotid artery, and John howled, hands gripping Sherlock’s hips in a vice, his fingers snapping harshly in front of Sherlock’s face. “Oi! Listen to me when I’m talking to you!”
The gaze was no longer questioning - it was angry. John was standing, towering over him. The bottle had tipped, its contents dripping through the cracks on the table, but John gave no sign of noticing. His glare never left Sherlock’s face.
What had John asked him again?
Oh, right. How long he’d been aware of this…of this.
“I don’t get why you’re so angry,” he tried to huff. “It’s practically inconsequential. And to answer your question, I haven’t known long. A few days, at the most.”
“Bullshit.”
“You didn’t know either,” Sherlock pointed out defensively.
“Oh well, maybe that’s due to the liquor you kept plying me with! In case you’ve forgotten, which, sorry, I find highly unlikely.” John’s face twisted up unattractively, and Sherlock turned his head away. The angry barrage continued. “You really expect me to believe that Sherlock Holmes, the man with a bloody particle collider for a brain, has forgotten. Don’t even try that, you can probably remember everything you’ve…ever…”
The doctor’s litany trailed off slowly. Eyes roaming up the table leg, Sherlock focused on a crack in the wood, trying to ignore his own laboured swallowing and John’s laboured breathing.
“You…” John sighed, and rubbed the corners of his eyes. “You deleted it, didn’t you.”
Sherlock closed his eyes, partly from nervousness, mostly from relief. Not such a complete idiot, then. “I…of course I did.” He could feel himself clutching at the legs of his chair. “I was out of control. I was desperate. I was high. Of all the brain cells I’ve purged and recorded over, don’t you think these were the most deserving?”
Tilting his head back up, the detective watched his flatmate sink back into his chair. “Right…right,” John mumbled, his voice hoarse. “Your eyes…I thought…”
And then it was silent again. Sherlock’s brain cursed and banged itself in his head to relieve the tedium.
“Inconsequential, then.”
Sherlock winced; John’s voice was antagonizing his migraine into widening. “Yes. Past events shouldn’t affect the future status of our association. It is the most efficient tenet for relationships, and frankly, the United Nations would be greater improved to remember it.”
“I don’t think it’s inconsequential.”
“I believe we’ve already established the difference between the merits of your thinking as opposed to mine.” Sherlock could feel the tired strain in his voice. He hunched over in his chair, elbows on his knees, the heels of his hands rubbing over his eyes, trying to massage the headache out.
“You clearly didn’t think it was inconsequential. And you clearly didn’t delete it.”
“Right, sorry,” Sherlock snapped testily. “I’ll get on that right away.” Burying his face in his hands, Sherlock resolutely focused on the pain in his skull, trying to force it out, trying to ignore all the distractions and triggers around him, like the humming of the refrigerator, the drip of the washroom faucet…the scraping of the chair against the floor, the loud footsteps, the grip on his wrist.
Sherlock jolted his head up. John was in front of him - crouched on the balls of his feet, his hands softly and slowly prying his wrists away from his face, studying his eyes systematically, thumb instinctively stroking Sherlock’s pulse point.
Oh.
Sherlock knew he should try to stop it, try to resist, try to recover and reassemble the splinters of their normalcy.
But instead, he sat there, letting John guide his hand up to the doctor’s lips, letting himself hear the impossible words.
“Please don’t delete it.”
And John tilted his head and drew Sherlock’s fingers into his mouth.
Everything disappeared - his migraine, his reluctance, any sense of reserve - into the wet heat of John’s mouth. Sherlock could hear himself moan unabashedly, and John echoed it, the sound vibrating around Sherlock fingers and resonating into the depths of his gut. He felt himself getting heady, and leaned his forehead against the bare shoulder below him, blending his sweat into the perspiration on John’s back.
Sherlock leaned back up and watched, committing this sight, this exact one, to memory. The wrinkling of the sheets, as John reflexively kneaded into the bedspread. The subtle, unconscious thrusting into the rough cotton. The bend of his back, as John pushed his thighs upwards, like he was presenting, pleading gasps escaping his mouth.
Briefly pausing to caress John’s cheek with his thumb, Sherlock his fingers, glossy with saliva, out of John’s mouth. In a single movement, he brought them down and shoved one digit inside, roughly - then another, then a third. John’s experience with men wasobviously limited, if not nonexistent - but the ardor more than made up for it, as John degraded into needy whimpers and fervent panting. And with a flick of his index finger, John swore, spine almost jackknifing backward.
Perfect.
Settling himself in front of John’s entrance, Sherlock pushed himself in, carefully, painstakingly. He drew his chest parallel above John’s back, inching forward, scraping his fingernails up John’s side at the same maddeningly slow, maddeningly steady rate.
And then he was completely inside, as deep as he could go. Sherlock exhaled lightly, warm breath billowing into the sweat-soaked hair below him.
Weaving his fingers into the short tresses, he yanked John’s head back and violently collided their lips together. Groans were blown into his throat, and he could feel John’s magnificent tongue, searching, licking every crevice it could find, under his lip, behind his molars. The grip on his wrists had tightened, to the point of being almost uncomfortable.
As though he could read his mind, John loosened his hold slightly, instead pulling gently at Sherlock’s hands, forcing him up from the chair. Sherlock blindly followed, refusing to open his eyes or move his focus away from the heated kiss that threatened to overtake his mind.
He vaguely sensed being pushed onto the hard surface of the table. Vodka spilled everywhere, soaking through the seat of his trousers. John broke away briefly to move the glass of water, which miraculously had not toppled, onto the now-vacant chair. And before Sherlock could take in another breath, John was back, and his lips were back, and his hands were pulling both their shirts off, and Sherlock found this all amazing because he couldn’t seem to make his body do much of anything at the moment. He could only twitch his knuckles a bit, whilst John was able to trace his fingers against Sherlock’s collarbone, leaving the skin prickling in their wake.
As his head fell back to rest on the tabletop, he felt the fingers delve lower, sweeping gently across his nipples. Sherlock gasped as his skin was stroked expertly, fingertips massaging deep into the muscle, the dot of wetness on the tip of his nose jarring him back into reality. He opened his eyes to see John smiling at him, indulgently. “No, no more of that. Stay with me,” he said softly.
Sherlock found himself smiling back. “Did you just lick my nose?” he asked, amused.
“Maybe.” The doctor tilted his head, studying him, the smile growing wider and infinitely more wicked. “You keep drifting off. We’ll have to fix that.”
John shifted back, his bare knee pressed against the table. (Had John removed his trousers? Sherlock found it hard to think…and he apparently, his own trousers were gone too.) Confident that Sherlock was watching, John pressed his tongue against the table and dragged it up roughly, tracing the grain of the wood, lapping up a line of vodka in one firm stroke.
The muscles in his abdomen wringed around themselves, and Sherlock got agonizingly hard.
Gripping the nape of John’s neck, Sherlock yanked those lips back to his mouth, running his tongue over the doctor’s palate, tasting the sharp sting of the alcohol. A hand brutally fisted the bottom of his member, and Sherlock pulled away, gasping, as the hand jerked rhythmically, up and down the shaft, dragging its fingernails across the top. Leaning up to nestle his head in the crook of the doctor’s neck, Sherlock panted raggedly as he was brought closer and closer.
The shout he had been prepping in his throat turned into a whine as the hand withdrew, and despite his frantic thrusts upward, he was plucked back from the edge of climax. “John,” his voice strained. The hand returned, and he was unprepared, quivering violently as it pulled him to and back from orgasm numerous more times.
It was too much, and he felt like ripping John apart and ripping himself apart and just fucking screaming.
“Didn’t…realize,” Sherlock choked out.
“Hmm?” John’s voice was playful - as was his grip, which hardened into a sharp tweak. Sherlock hissed. “Didn’t realize what?”
“Didn’t realize…you were, in fact…evil incarnate,” he gasped out.
The beautiful man above him chuckled. “Really. Evil incarnate? That’s a bit harsh.” And he pulled everything away, leaving nothing but a desperate, lunging man below him.
Sherlock snarled, watching the infuriating beast above him lean to the side and pick up the abandoned glass of water. “You’re utterly wicked and awful and-“His voice broke off in a gasp at the freezing touch on his ribs.
John smirked at him, and continued to rub the ice cube up the side of Sherlock’s torso. “Do you remember what you said then?” Leaning forward, John stretched warm mass above him, covering him, matching every piece of his body symmetrically. “Well, not ‘said.’ More ‘recited.’ It was a poem.” The biting cube was drawn up the side of Sherlock’s thin face, painted along the shell of his left ear, and Sherlock had given up trying to suppress his shivering. “Thought you were a bit of a ponce - who the hell recites poetry during sex?” .John’s lips hovered over the ear, ghosting a whisper through the chilled flesh.
“Oh, Sherlock. ‘Yet they are happy, who have never ask’d what good or evil means.’”
Jesus Christ. Sherlock would’ve laughed if he wasn’t so far gone.
Something was pressed against his entrance in an almost burning pain. Sherlock yelped and pulled his knees back.
“Sorry, sorry,” John whispered, nuzzling his cheek gently. “I know it’s cold.” Sherlock inhaled, then steeled himself, nodding to John. John brought his hand back down, rubbing the ice up his perineum, but Sherlock was prepared, and it wasn’t as painful. Dropping the ice cube, John lined himself up and pushed in, as slowly and methodically as Sherlock had, all those years ago.
As soon as they got a rhythm going, however, the sluggish pace was long forgotten - and when John slanted himself, pounding hard enough for Sherlock to feel flares against his prostate, he pinched his fingers into John’s shoulders and came, the overwhelming whiteness replacing all semblance of thought rattling in his brain.
By the time Sherlock became aware of his own existence again, John was slumped against him, the tremors shaking his body growing less violent as they were absorbed into Sherlock’s chest.
When Sherlock was finally able to find his tongue, he spoke.
“Can’t believe we got off to poetry.”
The body above him shook again, but now it was from giggling. “I can’t either. Well, first time for everything. Or…second time, I guess.”
John lifted his head, and the deep brownness that had transfixed Sherlock so many years ago drew him in once more. With a shy, gentle smile, John leaned forward and tenderly touched his lips to Sherlock’s own. They relaxed, supporting each other, trying to ignore the ominous creaking of the table.
Sherlock sighed - he felt more rested than he had in years. “We should clean up the vodka,” he murmured.
“Yeah, we should,” John murmured, but his eyes were already beginning to close.
“We should at least get off the table.”
“Mmhmm.” John snuggled against him, his rhythmic breath slowing.
Sherlock smiled, dipping his head to inhale the scent of John’s hair. “The table can take it,” he sighed.
Sherlock drifted off to sleep, certain that, by the time he awoke, this whole incident will have been deleted from his mental archive.
But, as his one-night stand slumbered next to him, he had a nagging feeling that this memory might be more difficult to delete than the others.
And surprisingly, he felt - as he breathed in the scent of vodka and rosemary and John’s sweet sweat - that he didn’t really care.