Fic: Cooperative Principle - 5/8 (BBC Sherlock)
Title: Cooperative Principle
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount: 7.7k this part, 56k overall
Betas: vyctori and seijichan
Disclaimer: Do not own.
Summary: As the newest instructor at St. Bart's, John has been explicitly warned to never do Sherlock Holmes any favours. Too bad the sex is so good.
Warnings: explicit sex, dubcon, PTSD, panic attacks
Chapter One -- Chapter Two -- Chapter Three -- Chapter Four -- Chapter Five -- Chapter Six -- Chapter Seven -- Chapter Eight
Exeter is small after London, but everything is small after London. He and Bill spend the morning catching up, which means they spend it talking about nothing in particular. They don’t mention anyone who’s died until the late afternoon. Soon after, Jessica comes home, and John’s ability to keep talking, really talking, vanishes.
She’s nice, though. She would have to be, the way Bill’s always gone on about her. When she speaks, Jessica fills the silence rather than breaking it. The two of them are obvious newlyweds, but it’s endearing. Jessica sets John up peeling potatoes at the kitchen table, and he watches the casual touches of unconscious coordination as they cook dinner. The three of them head out to the pub after, and although Jessica offers to drive them, John insists on walking.
“Why the leg?” Bill asks halfway through his second pint.
“Hm?”
“None of your injuries had anything to do with your leg,” Bill says.
John shrugs a little. “Sometimes, there isn’t a reason. At least, not a clear one.”
“Suppose so.”
“Sorry,” Jessica says, “this might be inappropriate.”
John gestures for her to continue.
“What does it feel like? Does it hurt?”
With every step. “A little. I know it’s all in my head, though.”
“So paracetamol doesn’t help?”
“It helps my shoulder,” John answers. He drains the rest of his pint. “Next round, anyone?”
John may be small, but his liver is mighty. Walking back from the Black Horse, his gait is close to even. Bill and Jessica walk in front where the pavement grows narrow, his arm around her shoulders, her thumb hooked into one of his belt loops. Bill murmurs something, she giggles, and John bites his lip to keep from shouting at them. Maybe he has had too much.
Once back, Bill sets up the fold-out sofa for him in their sitting room. They make it up with hospital corners and flawless coordination. They sit down on it.
Bill ventures, “Do you ever miss...?”
“God, yes.”
“Oh, thank God. It’s not just me.”
John shakes his head. “Not just you.” He laughs a little and it doesn’t sound right. “Trust me, it’s not just you.”
They sit for a bit longer.
“Jess doesn’t get it. She knows she doesn’t get it, none of that ‘I know what you’re going through’ shite. My mum, though. Christ. She keeps comparing me to Dad, like that’s going to be any help.”
“Do you think you’ll go back?” John asks.
“Two years until redeployment, minimum,” Bill says. “We might have a kid on the way by then. I don’t know. Would you go back?”
“Yes.”
They sit a bit longer.
“Right, well,” Bill says and stands.
“Yeah.”
“’Night.”
“’Night.”
Staring at shadows cast by streetlamp, John tells himself it’s a bad idea. He tells himself it’s a terrible idea, but he reaches over the side of the bed and fetches his mobile. Still no new texts.
Are you awake? He watches the screen dim on his message. He thinks it through, then thinks it through again. He presses Send anyway.
Nine agonizing seconds later:
Yes. SH
John dials immediately.
“John.” Sherlock’s voice sounds odd. Deeper, rougher.
“Did I wake you?”
Sherlock clears his throat. “No.”
“Oh. Okay. Good.”
“You’ve been drinking.”
“Not that much,” John answers. “We went out to the pub.”
“And now you’re mellow and lonely.”
“I’m always mellow and lonely.”
“No, sometimes you’re shouting,” Sherlock corrects, fact rather than accusation.
“Yeah,” John acknowledges. Still lonely, though. He thinks it but doesn’t say it. Instead, he listens to Sherlock breathe.
“Mike texted,” Sherlock tells him. He waits for John to respond, then continues, “I didn’t realise touching you would result in a panic attack.”
“It’s fine. I’m fine.”
“Presently, yes.”
“Can we not talk about that please?”
“Possibly. Is there anything else worth talking about?”
“Yes,” John answers immediately. He fails to think of anything.
“Such as?”
“I...” John closes his eyes to the ceiling. “I have a temper.”
“I noticed.”
“Sometimes I say stupid things.”
“Again, I’ve noticed.” The eye-rolling is audible.
“I mean,” John says, “I wasn’t exactly at my rational best.”
“How long are you going to state the obvious?”
“Look, do you want the fucking apology or not?” John harshly whispers.
“The--oh. Oh.” There’s a short pause. “No, it’s fine without.”
“Oh,” John says, abruptly nauseous. He rolls onto his side. It’s the safety position, not the foetal position.
“I’ll avoid triggering you in the future. It’s a non-issue.”
John begins to breathe again. “Just... don’t take it out of my hand again.”
As if making a sacrifice, Sherlock sighs. “I won’t.”
“If you don’t do that, um. You can. If you want. Keep at it.” John cringes as he speaks, but he can’t seem to stop. “If you still wanted to.”
“How many drinks have you had?”
“Four. I’m not drunk.”
“Say it again in the morning,” Sherlock tells him.
“Okay.” He should ask in the morning as well, but he can’t wait. “Can I see you on Monday?”
There is a long silence.
“Sherlock?”
“What time does your train get in tomorrow night?”
“Eleven and a bit,” John replies.
“Paddington is closer to my flat than yours,” Sherlock informs him, sounding for all the world as if this information is of little consequence.
“It is, isn’t it.”
“During daylight hours, it’s walking distance.”
Always with the leg. “Well, in that case. I’ll see you on Sunday.”
“Mm.”
The next silence is much better. Soft. John rolls over and sets his mobile against his other ear, resting it on the side of his head.
“You’re in bed,” Sherlock deduces.
“Yep.”
“Alone, I hope.” Less a warning, more a flirt. The deep sound makes John grin against his pillow.
“Does it still count as alone if I have you on the phone?”
“Only if you have me over the phone,” Sherlock replies.
It takes John two attempts to process that statement, then another to be sure he’s correct on the innuendo. “I need to be quiet,” John whispers.
“Pity.”
“You don’t need to be quiet,” John hurries to tell him. “You can be... not quiet.”
“You’re not going to touch yourself, are you?” The phrasing is a question, but there is absolutely no doubt in that voice. “You’re too polite a guest. You’ll be frustrated.”
“Bit late on that warning, Sherlock.”
“Oh?” Sherlock rumbles. “How late?”
John swallows. He presses the phone harder against his ear. “Very.”
“John, I feel you ought to know. When you texted, I was already occupied.”
Christ. “How occupied would that be?”
“The usual degree. I could specify further, or I could simply show you tomorrow night.”
“Or,” John manages to say, “you could tell me how you’ll show me.”
There is a delicious noise followed by a promising pause. “Are you near the loo?” Sherlock asks.
“What? Why--Sherlock, I’m not going to wank on the toilet,” John whispers into the phone.
The chuckle against John’s ear sounds like something John should put in his mouth and suck on.
“Sherlock, I mean it.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Pity. I’m enjoying the image.”
“What, me on a toilet?” At long last, Sherlock has found one of John’s turn-offs. He hadn’t known it to be a turn-off, but he is immediately turned-off.
“The location is irrelevant. Easier clean-up, a door to close: convenient.”
“Sorry, what part of any image is left if you take that away?”
“First, you,” Sherlock answers. No hesitation, no indication of noticing the giddy squirming heart attack Sherlock gives him. “Second, the... not desperation. Negotiation of priorities. You love risk but would hate to be caught, and it... It, um. Um...”
Very quietly, as quietly as John has ever said anything, he whispers, “And you’re going to keep talking until I do, is that it? You don’t think I can hold out. Too bad.”
“No, you can,” Sherlock is quick to assure him. “You could. If you wanted to. But you obviously don’t.”
“I don’t know. Calling to apologise? I don’t think I get to come.”
“Rubbish. You’re apologising, I’m telling you to come, there we have it.”
“Nope,” John answers. “I’m going to listen to you, and I’m not going to touch myself.”
“Why not?” Sherlock demands.
“Because you want me to.”
The line goes so quiet, John nearly believes he’s misjudged this and Sherlock has hung up. Then, stunned, voice deep and thick, lust-drunk: “John, why... I don’t understand.”
“Yes you do.”
“You... you consent, but you don’t comply. You’re stubborn. You...”
“I won’t do what you tell me to,” John whispers. “You can’t make me.” He’s almost sure of that. “Try and I’ll hang up.”
“Daring, for an apology.” The words are hoarse and low.
“Maybe I know what turns you on,” John counters.
A sharp inhale. A slow, shaking exhale.
“Are you, um.” Keep going, John can keep going. He doesn’t sound that much like a ridiculous porno. “Sherlock?”
“Ngh?”
“Are you touching yourself?”
“John.”
“Are you?”
“...Yes.”
“Okay,” John says. “That’s good. That’s really good. Tell me about it. Because I’m not, y’know. Over here. It’s a bit uncomfortable, and I’m holding onto my phone and my pillow, because otherwise, well.”
“Do it,” Sherlock urges.
“Nope. I’m going to listen to you come.”
“No, I’m... I’m going to... you.”
“Not tonight,” John replies. “Maybe tomorrow.”
“‘Maybe’?” Arousal and indignation combine oddly, beautifully, so much like Sherlock’s face itself.
“I’ll be tired,” John says. “Most people sleep, Sherlock. I might lie down on your bed and fall asleep.”
“Don’t.”
“I might.”
“John.”
“I might not.” In for a penny: “I still won’t have come. That might keep me up.”
A muffled groan rumbles across the connection.
“Please don’t bite your hand?” John asks. “Let me hear you.”
Heavy breathing. Panting. And beneath, such familiar sounds. Flesh on flesh.
“That’s lovely,” John whispers.
“Ah. Ah.” Louder. Again. A long, tight moan that dwindles into a sigh.
Doing everything he can not to move, John listens to him breathe.
“How... was that... ‘lovely’?”
“I know what you look like when you’re about to come,” John answers honestly.
“Oh. Um.”
John actively does not touch himself. They breathe together in the dark until John can risk shifting. They breathe together a bit longer still.
“Are you asleep?” John whispers.
“No.”
John closes his eyes. Distantly, he thinks his mobile plan will be all right with this.
A warm haze of time later, his mobile begins to beep. “...s’ry, what?” He yawns.
“That would be your mobile battery,” Sherlock replies. The sound of typing accompanies his speech. “It’s three eighteen.”
“...oh.” He should plug that in. He drifts away instead, soft and slow and unafraid to dream.
His battery is dead in the morning. Reassuringly so: in the light of day, last night’s conversation takes on a dreamlike quality. Spending Sunday tired and horny doesn’t make the memory any less surreal. There’s not too much to do in Exeter, and Bill has always been excellent at sitting in silence. John wonders if Bill heard any of John’s phone call last night, but if he had, he never mentions. Thank God.
Mrs Hudson saw you’d be coming over. Have persuaded her not to wait up for you. SH
She saw? How?
It’s obvious. SH
Everything’s obvious for you.
So was my change of mood, according to Mrs H. SH
Jessica noticed too. Maybe Bill.
Does she know it’s because you’ll be in my bed tonight? SH
No. She noticed me texting under the table all through dinner. She asked if I have a girlfriend.
Did you correct her? SH
Yes.
I want you to fuck my mouth tonight. I want to feel you sliding between my lips. You wouldn’t choke me. SH
Jesus Christ.
Do you want that? SH
I wouldn’t say no.
But will you say yes? SH
John? SH
This is neither amusing nor clever. SH
Sherlock opens the door.
“Yes,” John says.
“That wasn’t suspenseful at all,” Sherlock replies, practically dragging John into the foyer.
“Wasn’t meant to be.” John shuts the door behind him. “I wanted to say it in person.”
“Sentiment?”
“I was hoping you’d pounce, actually.”
Sherlock smirks. “Come upstairs.”
“No pouncing? In that case.” John reaches for the door.
With a light shove, Sherlock presses him against it. He slides John’s bag off his shoulder. Angular face in shadow, the ceiling light casting a corona around his curls, Sherlock softly tells him, “No.”
John lifts his chin. “No?”
“No.” Sherlock’s curls brush John’s forehead.
John lifts his chin slightly higher.
Eyes gleaming, Sherlock rocks back with John’s bag in hand. Another smirk across his lips, he turns without a word and walks to the stairs. No backwards glance: only a confident climb.
John grins and follows.
Sherlock is gorgeous with a cock in his mouth. Particularly gorgeous, make that. The man is photogenic even when exhausted, but this? Christ.
It’s worth the strain in his leg, kneeling on Sherlock’s bed, knees straddling the man’s torso. It took some arranging, propping Sherlock up against the headboard to the proper level, but the pain is too constant for John to forget it, even now. He can’t simply stand with Sherlock sitting or kneeling, and he’s hardly about to do press-ups down into Sherlock’s mouth, not with a bad leg and a bad shoulder.
Head steady, mouth welcoming, Sherlock lets himself be used. His eyes glaze, half-hooded. He hums around John’s shallow thrusts in a way that threatens to bring them deeper. John’s hands hold tight to the headboard. Sherlock’s hands play with John’s arse.
He’s too close, has been too close since last night, and the naked pleasure on Sherlock’s face is just too much. Sherlock sucks hard at the head, fingers digging into his bum, and John shakes his way through orgasm trying not to choke his bedfellow.
He doesn’t quite collapse afterward, but he’s not entirely sure how he ends up on his back with the condom removed. Finding Sherlock straddling his chest, he doesn’t complain, merely watches Sherlock’s hand on his own cock.
“The usual,” Sherlock explains.
“Uh, what?” John looks up at his eyes, his dark eyes and his bruised mouth. “Usual what?”
“Last night,” Sherlock says. “I said I was occupied to the usual degree.” His words fall into the rhythm of his strokes.
John slides his hands up lean thighs, around a narrow waist, and down. Sherlock fills his hands perfectly. “You, ah, usually wank on top of naked veterans?”
One of Sherlock’s hands falls to the mattress beside John’s head. “I’m, I’m considering it.”
“The chest is fine.”
“What?”
“I said, you can come on my chest. Face is right out, though.”
Eyes shut tight, Sherlock bites his lip, wanking faster.
John swears.
Sherlock’s eyes snap open. More than simply falter, his rhythm disappears entirely.
“Sorry,” John apologizes. God, he’s breathless. Why is John the breathless one? “Can’t sort out where to look.”
No wounded ego has ever flourished so quickly as that of Sherlock Holmes. The moment of hesitance vanishes, so entirely overwritten as to leave John doubting it was ever there.
But John thinks, John realises, John hopes, and he asks, “Let me touch you? Please?” No waiting for an answer. “Sherlock, please. I want to. Please let me. Just a little. Please? I want to touch you. I want, God, I want you. Sherlock, please,” John begs, not stopping until Sherlock groans and come hits John’s chest. “That’s it. That’s it.”
“Fuck,” Sherlock gasps. Looking lost and dazed, he sits on John’s stomach. He stares down at John as if about to collapse. He falls forward a little, one hand on John’s good shoulder.
John strokes the sweat-sleek curl of his spine. “More begging. Got it.”
“John.”
“Yes to the more begging?”
Sherlock nods. “I...” He nods again. “Yes.”
“Right,” John agrees. “Okay.”
They stare at each other a bit longer, unsure of what else to say, and then Sherlock fetches John a damp flannel.
“Have you had your tests done yet?” Sherlock asks over breakfast. Over John’s breakfast, rather. How the man isn’t starving, John will never know.
“Doing that this week,” John replies automatically, not looking up from his plate. Now that it’s said, he’ll have to make an appointment.
“I would have thought a doctor would be quicker about these things.”
John shrugs a bit, cutting his eggs with his fork. Why is morning-after breakfast always eggs? “I was clean before Afghanistan, and I didn’t do anything there.” He chews his eggs. He swallows, still waiting for a reply Sherlock won’t give.
Eventually, Sherlock notices John’s staring. How he does it from the other side of a newspaper is uncertain. “What?”
“Sorry, is that the end of the conversation?” John asks. What about the bit where Sherlock sees through him and rattles off how John is using the latex as a barrier between them in more ways than intended?
“I asked a question, you gave an answer. I cited the reason for my impatience. You cited your reasoning for the delay. Is there anything else that needs to be discussed?”
John thinks it over. “When did you have yours done?”
Sherlock turns the page, then shakes the paper into order with one good snap. “The Wednesday before I first stopped by your office.”
Despite having nothing in his mouth, John chokes a bit.
“Yes?”
“I think that’s the definition of overconfident,” John tells him. “I’m certain, actually.”
Sherlock lowers the newspaper. “How so? It’s common courtesy. Besides, why attempt a seduction without planning for success?”
“We hadn’t spoken yet.”
“Your point?”
How did experimenting on John’s leg translate into shagging John stupid? The first time Sherlock observed him was the instance of the dropped book and John’s hurried response of hiding behind the lecture hall desk. That’s one hell of a first impression to overcome. Or, maybe Sherlock had simply decided to put John in more stress situations and couldn’t arrange anything simulating combat. Potentially triggering John into self-defence would be one hell of a risk. That Sherlock’s mind had leapt from there to sex ought to have been worrying, but Sherlock had been right.
“John. Your point?”
John blinks a bit. “Sorry. Not sure I had one.”
“It was more efficient to be prepared from the outset,” Sherlock explains anyway. “Besides, isn’t confidence considered attractive?”
“And now he’s vain.”
“It’s not vanity. It’s observation.”
John grins a bit and returns to his breakfast.
“It is,” Sherlock insists.
“Oh, I believe you.”
“John.”
“I said I believe you.”
“Don’t lie so blatantly. It’s annoying.”
“Oh?” John asks, grinning wider. “I hadn’t realised. I’m so sorry.”
Sherlock glares.
“You could try and shut me up,” John suggests.
“Your behaviour hardly deserves positive reinforcement.”
“It does a little. Or do you not like me flirting with you? I mean,” John adds more seriously, “do you only like the hard to get bit? And the begging bit.”
“I don’t see how lying qualifies as flirtation,” Sherlock answers. “It’s not clever and is in no way endearing.”
“But the other two? Begging and playing hard to get, you can’t have both. That’s a contradiction. How is that not ‘lying’?”
“Simple,” Sherlock explains. “Each is an exaggeration. You pull back to see if I’m willing to pursue. We’ve already been over this. You want to see what I’m willing to do to have you, and you want it to be obvious that I cannot treat your presence and participation as a given.” His eyes keep scanning across the newspaper as he speaks. “Moreover, the constant negotiation prevents you from feeling trapped.
“The begging is different. The question is not what am I willing to do to have you, but how would I respond to having you. It’s primarily for my benefit but you do enjoy my reaction.”
John thinks about that. “No, I just wanted to talk you off in person.”
Sherlock shrugs.
John finishes his breakfast and busses his plate to the sink. He limps back to the table and kisses the top of Sherlock’s head. “Think I’ll head back to my flat before work.”
“Ugh, why?”
“So I can repack my bag.”
“Don’t bother with pyjamas.”
“No, I was thinking the bathrobe instead.”
Sherlock smiles up at him, eyes crinkled. “Excellent. Don’t forget your DVDs.”
John huffs a laugh against his mouth. “Yes, dear.”
His tests come back clean, and John’s immediate reaction is to worry. His body tenses, his heart pounds, and he has to hold still until the rush of dizziness passes. He successfully does not fall out of his chair. Somehow, he keeps his eyes moving over the piece of paper, some basic pretence of being a functional human being. No point to it: he’s alone in his flat, an empty envelope in one hand, a letter in the other.
The moment he can breathe again, irritation takes over. It’s a better reason for the shaking, though that also needs to stop.
There’s really no reason they can’t keep on using condoms. Just because it can be done doesn’t mean it must be done. Sherlock will bring it up, John will say no, and if that’s not the end of it, then Sherlock is an absolute prat and a wanker. Simple enough.
Well, no, because Sherlock will ask why or, worse, he’ll deduce why. Trust issues, problems with intimacy. He can’t shake the sense he’ll panic the moment Sherlock takes him into his mouth. Christ, John hasn’t always been like this. John used to be better than this. He should be better than this.
He closes his eyes and simply breathes a bit. The sensation of shaking fades.
“It’s only sex,” he reminds himself aloud, which is how he hears the lie in it. It’s fantastic sex with a bloke who makes John laugh harder than he has in ages, and that is terrifying. John can’t shake the sense that he’d roll over on anything Sherlock asked him for. He can’t ignore the feeling that he wants to.
That feeling is confirmed less than two hours later when his mobile chimes.
Rendered flat inhospitable. Coming to yours. SH
Before John can sort out a reply, his mobile chimes again.
Mrs Hudson has found alternate shelter. SH
How worried should I be? John asks.
Not very. Mycroft is sorting it. SH
John frowns at his mobile screen, but he doesn’t ask the obvious question until after Sherlock arrives at his flat. Until well after, actually, as Sherlock is immediately put into John’s shower by unanimous decision.
“It’s not actually toxic!” Sherlock calls through the loo door over the spray.
“You smell like sulphur!” John shouts back. “Put the fan on!”
Once Sherlock is out of the shower, John’s bathrobe riding high on his thighs, John asks the obvious question:
“You said Mycroft is sorting it?”
“Hm?” Sherlock pauses in towel-drying his hair. “Yes. Shouldn’t take too long.”
“And Mycroft is...?”
Sherlock frowns at him, pulling the towel down around his shoulders.
John frowns up at him, craning his neck where he sits at his desk chair. “What?”
“You’ve met him,” Sherlock answers. His eyes flick back to the letter on the desk, left out for his benefit. For John’s as well, if it means they don’t have to talk about it.
“Have I? Think I’d remember a name that distinctive.”
Sherlock’s expression escalates from “why are you being an idiot?” to “you are mentally deficient beyond my most pessimistic expectations.”
“What?” John asks.
“You texted me after you met him,” Sherlock says.
John stares at him blankly.
“The man in the parking garage,” Sherlock prompts.
“Oh! Wait, no, that makes no sense.”
“Of course it makes sense.”
“Um, no.” Not to John’s mind, it doesn’t. “Why is a Bond villain knockoff taking care of your flat?”
“He’s overprotective. It’s annoying. Convenient in this case, but typically very annoying,” Sherlock tells him, and there’s something in his tone, some vague hint of an impression that catches in John’s ear. No, not an impression. A resemblance.
“Wait,” John says. “Are you two related?”
Sherlock rolls his eyes, an unspoken “obviously” condescending its way through the air. “Unfortunately. If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not discuss my brother.”
John stares at him. “So when he asked my intentions, he actually meant... intentions.”
“Mm, yes. Out of curiosity, what did you say?”
“Said I didn’t have any,” John replies.
Sherlock raises his eyebrows.
“It was that, or talk my way into charges for sexual harassment.”
Sherlock’s expression immediately takes a turn for the better. “You’re not harassing me.”
“No, but there’s only so much about exhibitionist gay sex one bloke can say to another before-mrph.” John manages to avoid biting Sherlock’s tongue. He tastes of John’s toothpaste. The damp towel about Sherlock’s shoulders falls against John’s chest, and John takes it by either end. Secured, Sherlock attempts to climb into John’s lap, John’s bathrobe opening wide with the motion. Which is possibly one of the best things John has ever seen, but the point remains: “My leg. Need you off it.”
Sherlock pouts against John’s mouth with an accompanying petulant sound. “Fine. Bed.”
John wraps his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders, and Sherlock hauls him up. Regardless of the hands cupping John’s bum, there’s no actual lifting, only staggering the short distance to John’s small bed. Once close, Sherlock practically flings him onto it, and, laughing, John catches himself before he can hit his head against the radiator.
“Naked,” Sherlock commands, pouncing on top of him. “You should have stripped while I was in the shower.”
“Right, because you smelling like rotten eggs was such a turn-on.” They strip John with alacrity and fumbling coordination before fighting the epic struggle of kicking the duvet off the bed while still on it. Victorious, Sherlock flings John’s bathrobe onto the floor to join it. John pulls at him, and Sherlock pushes him down. His forearms bracket John’s head, his knees press in between John’s, and, oh.
Sherlock lies against him, fully against him, hard heat and the curl of hair, their balls heavy and overlapping. Between their stomachs, a twitch of blood flow moves Sherlock against him. Pressed together, all of them pressed together, chests and stomachs, cocks and thighs, the inside of one leg to the outside of another. Forehead to forehead, both of them panting rather than kissing.
“Oh my god,” John gasps.
“Can you feel it?” Sherlock nuzzles at his face, an extension of the motions of his body. Light rocking, tense and restrained. Desperate to make it last. “I’m leaking on you.”
John can. John can feel it. The mingling damp. The pressure of Sherlock’s body, the lingering mint on his breath. John wraps his arms around Sherlock’s neck, his shoulders, his back, his waist. For such a thin man, there’s too much of him to hold at once.
The sharp bones of Sherlock’s hips press into John’s own, and John presses back. A proper rhythm begins, builds, and Sherlock drops his face against John’s neck. Damp curls stick to John’s cheek. Sherlock’s chest presses down hard as Sherlock reaches back, reaches down, his hand curving beneath John’s thigh.
Swearing, John wraps his legs about Sherlock’s thighs, his hips. He clutches, clenches, and Sherlock gasps out a string of garbled noises.
“Come on me,” John begs. “Sherlock, please.” That’s all it takes, Sherlock’s body snapping tense and taut, Sherlock groaning into John’s neck as his hips buck, shove, thrust John hard against the mattress. Wet heat spurts between their stomachs. Sherlock grunts, still rocking against him, again and again, before collapsing limply onto John.
So hard, so close, trapped beneath Sherlock’s stomach and unable to gain leverage, John struggles toward orgasm. There’s not enough space to roll over without falling onto the floor. Sherlock paws at him, clumsy. Only once John does a bit more begging-frightfully honest, this time-does Sherlock flop his way down John’s body. His mouth closes about the head of John’s cock before working lower, tongue seeking, toying with his foreskin.
John swears, and swears, and swears. He bites his hand. He runs out of air. His other hand taps a fluttering warning against Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock does not pull off. Everything trembles.
When John can breathe again, he swears a bit more, but only weakly. Sherlock chuckles against his chest, now burrowed under John’s arm. John’s not sure when that happened. His heart won’t stop pounding, but he’s not sure he minds. His entire body is thrumming. He sinks his hand into Sherlock’s curls and closes his eyes.
He wakes an untold time later, the lights off, the night dark. Sherlock, climbing back into bed. Waking John first, because he always wakes John first. John has a vague sense of having been cleaned up.
“Hm?” John hums.
“Needed water.”
“Mm. Me too.” By which John means, bring a glass.
“Ask nicely.”
“Mm, okay.” John scoots down, none too coordinated. He noses at Sherlock’s stomach.
“Oh.” Sherlock lies back.
John hums and pulls Sherlock into his mouth. He has a lovely time of it, warm, languid. His jaw aches a bit by the end, more than a bit, but it aches well. Too lazy to find something to spit into, he swallows, gagging a little at the texture.
“Water,” he prompts, crawling back up to the pillow.
“Exhausted,” Sherlock counters.
John means to kick him in the shin, but it comes off as more of a nudge. “Water.”
Well into an attempted cuddle, Sherlock groans, but, eventually, he complies.
Beyond shagging him and having a psychosomatic limp, John’s not entirely sure how to entertain Sherlock for longer than a few hours at a time. Somehow, that becomes a nonissue. He’s still busy, but his workload is significantly lighter. Even better, they learn how to ignore each other. Occasionally, Sherlock rants at John while John’s checking his emails, and it doesn’t matter in the slightest that John isn’t paying attention. John makes idle talk and Sherlock replies flawlessly, but if asked, Sherlock has no idea what John is going on about.
John learns that if he brings back some shopping and cooks, Sherlock will eat. Moreover, he learns that doing this will make Mrs. Hudson extremely happy and much less annoyed about all the noise. If all of the noise were from sex, John might be a bit more embarrassed. Unfortunately, it’s not.
“That’s not realistic!” Sherlock bellows at the telly. Incidentally, his mouth is right next to John’s ear.
“Ow!”
“John, these began ridiculous. This is imbecilic.”
“Could you maybe stop shouting it?” John asks.
Sherlock makes a sulking noise and cuddles John against his chest. Sprawled on his sofa rather than a bed, the position is somewhat slanted. “I don’t see the point,” he grumbles into John’s shoulder. “This is convoluted and formulaic. The only question is which unfortunate woman will be trapped in a life raft with him at the end.”
“‘Unfortunate’? Sherlock, that’s Sean Connery!”
“He has a toupee.”
“Considering the number of helicopters involved, that’s actually impressive when you think about it.” It is to John, at least. There are certain things his teenaged self hadn’t picked up on, too busy discovering other bits of excitement.
“What?” Sherlock asks abruptly.
“What what?”
“You grinned.”
“I do that,” John agrees.
“No, that was your dirty thought grin.” Sherlock noses against John’s ear. “Tell me. I’ll jerk you off during the next fight scene. Unless you have a better idea.”
“You could start now,” John suggests.
Sherlock hums. His hand strokes down John’s chest, his stomach, and cups his crotch. “Tell me what you were thinking.”
John tilts his head to give Sherlock better access, but Sherlock only hovers, his lips above John’s skin. “I, um,” John says. “Well, James Bond was how I realised I was bi.”
There are very few instances when John can hear Sherlock’s mind stall.
This is one of them.
Sherlock relocates his hand to John’s thigh, a cool distance. “...You’re attracted to Sean Connery?”
“Not since I was sixteen, no,” John says with a bit of an awkward laugh. “Figured that one out after Harry stole my porn mags. Wound up staring at my poster a few too many times.”
Sherlock makes a disgusted noise.
John cranes around, his arm pinned between his side and Sherlock’s chest. “What?”
“You mean, we’ve effectively been watching porn this entire time.”
“You’re against porn?”
Sherlock rolls his eyes. “I don’t see the need for it.”
“Oh. Anti-porn industry or do you keep deducing everyone involved?”
“Neither. Eidetic memory.” He looks at John significantly.
John’s mouth goes dry. “You... remember every time you’ve ever had sex?”
“Vividly,” Sherlock confirms. “For example, three days ago, your oral technique changed drastically from what it had been four days ago. A marked improvement, well done.”
“You mean you like coming in my mouth without a condom.”
“Exactly,” Sherlock murmurs, tilting in. The kiss is much too light, no matter how John presses into it. Sherlock breaks it to complain, “Oh, god, he’s doing it again. This makes absolutely no sense.”
John glances at the screen expecting improbable physics and only sees James Bond enjoying a snog of his own. “What?”
“One man having sex with that many women.”
“Sherlock, it’s James Bond. That’s what he does.”
“It’s not realistic.”
“Of course it’s not realistic. It’s James Bond. Anyone who actually treats women like that is mental.” John goes back in for the kiss, but Sherlock’s frown won’t be appeased.
“You don’t find it strange?”
John blinks a little. “It’s fiction.”
Sherlock absently strokes John’s thigh. “Objectively, I understand that there are those who are attracted to anyone they consider good-looking.”
“But not you.” For a man as turned-off by idiots as Sherlock is, that attitude makes a good amount of sense.
“No. I don’t see the appeal of being attracted to that many people.”
“I don’t know,” John says. “It’s not really optional.”
Sherlock looks at him.
“What?” John asks. He goes over what he just said. “That’s not, no. Let me rephrase.”
They watch the film a bit longer.
“When I came back from Afghanistan, my libido had dried up,” John says eventually. “It didn’t want anything to do with anyone.” Not even with his own hand, half the time. “Then it turned itself back on, and here we are. The switch wasn’t optional.”
“When was that?”
“What, when I came back?”
Sherlock shakes his head, smirking. He leans in. His hand adjusts higher, hotter. “When your libido was turned on.”
John shifts in his arms, between his legs, the easiest target he can fashion himself into. He lowers his zip and guides Sherlock’s hand inside. “Like it is right now?”
Drawing John out, Sherlock chuckles against his ear. “By me, you mean.”
“Yeah...” John moans softly.
“Was it startling?”
“Ah... ah. Not, um. In hindsight, no.”
“No?” Sherlock echoes. “Why not?”
“Told you.” Oh, Christ. He tries to curl his back, pressing against the heat behind him, but the urge to thrust is strong. He stays where he is, anchored by Sherlock’s arm around his middle, the lips on his neck. “Figuring out I was bi.”
“How is this about Sean Connery?”
“It’s not. S’ about really fucking deep voices.” He tilts his head a bit more, palms stroking Sherlock’s thighs. Fuck. “And, um. Wanting, um.”
Sherlock hums, dark and low. “Wanting to hear me as you come.”
John melts.
“It must have been so difficult, John, listening to me wank over the phone.” Impossibly, Sherlock’s voice reaches new depths. Sherlock’s chest rumbles against his back as his lips buzz against John’s ear. “I did want you to come, John. I do want you to come. I want to keep you like this. When you squirm for contact, you begin with your upper body. Then your back, if I’m behind you. You still find this position unusual. You’re not sure you like it, but you enjoy my mouth on your neck. You enjoy looking down and seeing my hands on you. Only my hands.”
They’re lovely hands. They’re, fuck. Sherlock won’t stop talking.
John comes. Sooner than ought to have been possible, John comes and groans and Sherlock sucks hard on his neck for an extra jolt of hip-bucking pleasure. He goes a bit limp, after, and there’s something delicious about watching the rest of the film with Sherlock hard against his back.
The moment the credits roll, Sherlock scrambles off the sofa and pulls the drawstring bow of his pyjama bottoms. Hard and bare and destined for John’s mouth, Sherlock’s cock bounces as John reaches for him. Eyes closed, mouth full, John groans. No more latex. Only them, and skin, and the absolute torture that comes of a beautiful man saying beautiful things to a man who sorely wants to believe them.
By the last week of holiday, John has effectively moved in. He returns to his flat only one night out of every three. Sherlock tends to assume John will be staying the night anyway. On one memorable occasion, John wakes to a three am text asking where he’s gone.
What do you mean?
You’re not here. SH
I went home after work.
Why? SH
I wanted to sleep, you arse.
Why not here? You should sleep here. SH
Because you keep me awake. Right now, for instance. Good night.
As if to prove Sherlock right, John’s subconscious calls up all the nightmares John hadn’t realised he’d stopped having. He wakes twitching, sweating, and terrified. The tears stop eventually. He drinks some water. He realises, standing in the kitchenette, that he is standing in the kitchenette. Heart pounding, he finishes his glass of water. He nearly manages to walk back to his cane before his leg tries to give out.
He doesn’t tell Sherlock about that morning, and Sherlock never broaches the subject of John’s limp. By an unspoken mutual decision, they keep on shagging anyway. John ought to be thrilled. John wants to be thrilled. Or perhaps John ought to be cautious. He is cautious. Sherlock won’t stop looking at him as if John’s presence in his flat is an accomplishment, and John can’t suss out what for.
The final Friday of holiday, it suddenly becomes clear.
At a stake-out. May require assistance. SH
Where and what with?
Sherlock texts him the address and detailed instructions on where to find him there. Then he adds, Bring your gun. SH
John’s heart stops. It must do. It ought to be pounding but he can’t feel it, can’t hear it through the roaring in his ears. I think you have an auto correct typo, he answers.
Sherlock responds with the exact specifications of John’s gun. It was in your desk drawer. SH
It’s still in John’s desk drawer. He checks, just to be certain. His hands are steady. They shouldn’t be. His phone chimes yet again.
Not asking you to shoot anyone. Simply prefer backup. SH
John sits down and waits for the shaking to come. It doesn’t. He waits for something, anything, some physical sign of panic.
Nothing.
Give me half an hour.
Of course. SH
John sits in the cab with his gun at the small of his back, pressed between his shirt and his jumper, a bump in his waistband.
This is a bad idea.
This is a bad idea growing so much worse.
They sit in a warehouse behind a stack of crates, neither making a sound. The wait is calm. Either something will happen or it won’t. Stiff and aching, they take turns watching and resting long past the small hours of the morning. Toward the end, they sit shoulder to shoulder, or as close to it as John will ever manage with someone as long as Sherlock.
Long after John has given himself over to the numb stretching of time, there’s a noise. Movement. Something far bigger than a rat and too far away to be Sherlock shifting. John puts his hand on Sherlock’s arm, Sherlock puts his hand on John’s, and they squeeze tight before releasing.
Footsteps, two sets. They move along the next row over and Sherlock begins to rise. John catches his arm. Sherlock touches John’s shoulder before pulling away. He’s off to take a picture, nothing more, and though Sherlock explained it wouldn’t use or need flash, the thought of the sound in the stillness is worrying.
Sherlock’s gone before John can stop him and certainly before John can follow. John is meant to wait in ambush should anything go wrong. The tap of his cane would be far too obvious. Ears straining, John tries to hear any sound over his own heart and breathing.
There’s some hushed talk. Sounds like a man and a woman. Smugglers, John knows, hiding hay in haystacks. What kind of hay, Sherlock didn’t mention. It feels like the sort of thing John ought to have asked. How much danger is Sherlock in?
The talking stops.
John leans forward, listening.
The silence drags on.
John is meant to stay where he is. For very good reasons, at that. John cannot run. John is noisy. John is an ambush and Sherlock needs to know where he is at any given moment.
The reverse is not true. John has no real compulsion to know where Sherlock is. As such, he does not need to follow. As such, following would be incredibly stupid. Quietly, hands on the crate before him, John climbs to his feet. He’s a better shot, standing. The lighting is too poor for him to be anything other than his best. In the dark, he could hit Sherlock.
No, better to be certain. The gun is an absolute last resort, one that could easily send John to jail. His cane, on the other hand, is blunt and solid. He picks it up. Not as good as a cricket bat, but it’s a bit late to go fetch one. He holds it ready to swing.
He waits.
After an agonizing pause, the sounds of movement resume. Some shuffling. Something being opened. If they thought Sherlock was near, they’ve dismissed him.
More whispers. More movement.
Then, distinct and sharp: “What was that?”
John does not hold his breath. He breathes very quietly, a conscious rhythm, not about to make himself noticeable through noise or sudden silence.
The pair walk away. John hears the outer door open and close, and then he hears Sherlock walking back to him. He sees a tall shape in the dark before a familiar rush of scent and heat presses itself against his front. He expects a kiss that he does not receive.
Instead, an abrupt light: Sherlock’s mobile aimed at the floor. Sherlock sweeps the light in a quick scanning pattern before turning to John. The light falls on the cane in John’s hand. It stays there.
Holding his cane as he would any other blunt object, John doesn’t move. If he moves, it might return. The pain, the limp, everything.
Sherlock shines the light into his face, and John lifts his hand from the crate to cover his eyes. He mouths an angry “What the hell?”
“Is it the gun?” Sherlock whispers. “Or the situation?”
“What is?”
“You’re standing.”
“I know I’m standing. I do that.” Of course that’s what this is about. He’d thought-it doesn’t matter what he’d thought. The moment Sherlock has no further use for it, John’s gun is no longer the focus of attention. It’s almost reassuring that all of this is still about his leg. It’s always going to be about his leg, and there’s nothing John can do to change that.
Hand clenched around the middle of his cane, John turns around and walks toward the exit. Sherlock follows close by his side, his grin visible even through the dark.
They take a cab. John squirms in his seat, wide awake against his body’s heavy pull. Sherlock’s gaze presses against the side of his face, the length of his leg, his hip.
John wants to yell and scream and stand. He does none of these things.
The cab stops at 221B. Sherlock climbs out. John does not.
“John,” Sherlock prompts, holding the back door open.
“What?”
Sherlock’s eyes are blue when he condescends. Or maybe it’s the early morning light. “We’re here.”
“You’re here,” John corrects. “I’m going home.”
“More sleep to be had here.”
“I’m going home.” He rubs at one eye. “Close the door.”
Sherlock doesn’t move.
“Would you mind deciding?” the cabbie gripes.
“Here is fine,” Sherlock tells the cabbie. “John, I’ve already paid. Get out.”
“I’m going home.”
“You have to climb out of the cab eventually,” Sherlock says. “It might as well be here.”
“No. I’m going home.”
“John-”
“Will you shut the damn door!”
Sherlock slams it.
Terse, John gives the cabbie his address. For a moment, he thinks the cabbie might kick him out instead, but the man drives.
“Sorry about that,” John says shortly thereafter. “Five in the morning without coffee, you know how it is.”
He’s let off at his flat, pays the cabbie, and heads up the stairs without any trace of pain. His cane is warm where his hand has been closed around it, for once on the shaft of the cane rather than the handle. He leans his cane against his desk. He walks around in tight little circles. He paces.
Lightheaded, he risks it. He sits down. He stands up again.
He keeps walking.
Next, he lies down. Exhaustion pulls at him beyond the adrenaline and he nearly doesn’t get up. The thought that it might fade, that it must fade drags him back to his feet.
Still no problem.
He sits on the floor. He squats. He stretches. A hand on the wall for balance, he stands on one leg. Remembering Sherlock’s question-gun or adrenaline?-John puts his gun back in its drawer. He experiences absolutely no change.
He’s fine.
His leg is fine.
After a bit of a nap, his limp is still gone, and there are no new texts on his mobile.
A day later, the same.
And the next.
He’s cured.
previous | next
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount: 7.7k this part, 56k overall
Betas: vyctori and seijichan
Disclaimer: Do not own.
Summary: As the newest instructor at St. Bart's, John has been explicitly warned to never do Sherlock Holmes any favours. Too bad the sex is so good.
Warnings: explicit sex, dubcon, PTSD, panic attacks
Chapter One -- Chapter Two -- Chapter Three -- Chapter Four -- Chapter Five -- Chapter Six -- Chapter Seven -- Chapter Eight
Exeter is small after London, but everything is small after London. He and Bill spend the morning catching up, which means they spend it talking about nothing in particular. They don’t mention anyone who’s died until the late afternoon. Soon after, Jessica comes home, and John’s ability to keep talking, really talking, vanishes.
She’s nice, though. She would have to be, the way Bill’s always gone on about her. When she speaks, Jessica fills the silence rather than breaking it. The two of them are obvious newlyweds, but it’s endearing. Jessica sets John up peeling potatoes at the kitchen table, and he watches the casual touches of unconscious coordination as they cook dinner. The three of them head out to the pub after, and although Jessica offers to drive them, John insists on walking.
“Why the leg?” Bill asks halfway through his second pint.
“Hm?”
“None of your injuries had anything to do with your leg,” Bill says.
John shrugs a little. “Sometimes, there isn’t a reason. At least, not a clear one.”
“Suppose so.”
“Sorry,” Jessica says, “this might be inappropriate.”
John gestures for her to continue.
“What does it feel like? Does it hurt?”
With every step. “A little. I know it’s all in my head, though.”
“So paracetamol doesn’t help?”
“It helps my shoulder,” John answers. He drains the rest of his pint. “Next round, anyone?”
John may be small, but his liver is mighty. Walking back from the Black Horse, his gait is close to even. Bill and Jessica walk in front where the pavement grows narrow, his arm around her shoulders, her thumb hooked into one of his belt loops. Bill murmurs something, she giggles, and John bites his lip to keep from shouting at them. Maybe he has had too much.
Once back, Bill sets up the fold-out sofa for him in their sitting room. They make it up with hospital corners and flawless coordination. They sit down on it.
Bill ventures, “Do you ever miss...?”
“God, yes.”
“Oh, thank God. It’s not just me.”
John shakes his head. “Not just you.” He laughs a little and it doesn’t sound right. “Trust me, it’s not just you.”
They sit for a bit longer.
“Jess doesn’t get it. She knows she doesn’t get it, none of that ‘I know what you’re going through’ shite. My mum, though. Christ. She keeps comparing me to Dad, like that’s going to be any help.”
“Do you think you’ll go back?” John asks.
“Two years until redeployment, minimum,” Bill says. “We might have a kid on the way by then. I don’t know. Would you go back?”
“Yes.”
They sit a bit longer.
“Right, well,” Bill says and stands.
“Yeah.”
“’Night.”
“’Night.”
Staring at shadows cast by streetlamp, John tells himself it’s a bad idea. He tells himself it’s a terrible idea, but he reaches over the side of the bed and fetches his mobile. Still no new texts.
Are you awake? He watches the screen dim on his message. He thinks it through, then thinks it through again. He presses Send anyway.
Nine agonizing seconds later:
Yes. SH
John dials immediately.
“John.” Sherlock’s voice sounds odd. Deeper, rougher.
“Did I wake you?”
Sherlock clears his throat. “No.”
“Oh. Okay. Good.”
“You’ve been drinking.”
“Not that much,” John answers. “We went out to the pub.”
“And now you’re mellow and lonely.”
“I’m always mellow and lonely.”
“No, sometimes you’re shouting,” Sherlock corrects, fact rather than accusation.
“Yeah,” John acknowledges. Still lonely, though. He thinks it but doesn’t say it. Instead, he listens to Sherlock breathe.
“Mike texted,” Sherlock tells him. He waits for John to respond, then continues, “I didn’t realise touching you would result in a panic attack.”
“It’s fine. I’m fine.”
“Presently, yes.”
“Can we not talk about that please?”
“Possibly. Is there anything else worth talking about?”
“Yes,” John answers immediately. He fails to think of anything.
“Such as?”
“I...” John closes his eyes to the ceiling. “I have a temper.”
“I noticed.”
“Sometimes I say stupid things.”
“Again, I’ve noticed.” The eye-rolling is audible.
“I mean,” John says, “I wasn’t exactly at my rational best.”
“How long are you going to state the obvious?”
“Look, do you want the fucking apology or not?” John harshly whispers.
“The--oh. Oh.” There’s a short pause. “No, it’s fine without.”
“Oh,” John says, abruptly nauseous. He rolls onto his side. It’s the safety position, not the foetal position.
“I’ll avoid triggering you in the future. It’s a non-issue.”
John begins to breathe again. “Just... don’t take it out of my hand again.”
As if making a sacrifice, Sherlock sighs. “I won’t.”
“If you don’t do that, um. You can. If you want. Keep at it.” John cringes as he speaks, but he can’t seem to stop. “If you still wanted to.”
“How many drinks have you had?”
“Four. I’m not drunk.”
“Say it again in the morning,” Sherlock tells him.
“Okay.” He should ask in the morning as well, but he can’t wait. “Can I see you on Monday?”
There is a long silence.
“Sherlock?”
“What time does your train get in tomorrow night?”
“Eleven and a bit,” John replies.
“Paddington is closer to my flat than yours,” Sherlock informs him, sounding for all the world as if this information is of little consequence.
“It is, isn’t it.”
“During daylight hours, it’s walking distance.”
Always with the leg. “Well, in that case. I’ll see you on Sunday.”
“Mm.”
The next silence is much better. Soft. John rolls over and sets his mobile against his other ear, resting it on the side of his head.
“You’re in bed,” Sherlock deduces.
“Yep.”
“Alone, I hope.” Less a warning, more a flirt. The deep sound makes John grin against his pillow.
“Does it still count as alone if I have you on the phone?”
“Only if you have me over the phone,” Sherlock replies.
It takes John two attempts to process that statement, then another to be sure he’s correct on the innuendo. “I need to be quiet,” John whispers.
“Pity.”
“You don’t need to be quiet,” John hurries to tell him. “You can be... not quiet.”
“You’re not going to touch yourself, are you?” The phrasing is a question, but there is absolutely no doubt in that voice. “You’re too polite a guest. You’ll be frustrated.”
“Bit late on that warning, Sherlock.”
“Oh?” Sherlock rumbles. “How late?”
John swallows. He presses the phone harder against his ear. “Very.”
“John, I feel you ought to know. When you texted, I was already occupied.”
Christ. “How occupied would that be?”
“The usual degree. I could specify further, or I could simply show you tomorrow night.”
“Or,” John manages to say, “you could tell me how you’ll show me.”
There is a delicious noise followed by a promising pause. “Are you near the loo?” Sherlock asks.
“What? Why--Sherlock, I’m not going to wank on the toilet,” John whispers into the phone.
The chuckle against John’s ear sounds like something John should put in his mouth and suck on.
“Sherlock, I mean it.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Pity. I’m enjoying the image.”
“What, me on a toilet?” At long last, Sherlock has found one of John’s turn-offs. He hadn’t known it to be a turn-off, but he is immediately turned-off.
“The location is irrelevant. Easier clean-up, a door to close: convenient.”
“Sorry, what part of any image is left if you take that away?”
“First, you,” Sherlock answers. No hesitation, no indication of noticing the giddy squirming heart attack Sherlock gives him. “Second, the... not desperation. Negotiation of priorities. You love risk but would hate to be caught, and it... It, um. Um...”
Very quietly, as quietly as John has ever said anything, he whispers, “And you’re going to keep talking until I do, is that it? You don’t think I can hold out. Too bad.”
“No, you can,” Sherlock is quick to assure him. “You could. If you wanted to. But you obviously don’t.”
“I don’t know. Calling to apologise? I don’t think I get to come.”
“Rubbish. You’re apologising, I’m telling you to come, there we have it.”
“Nope,” John answers. “I’m going to listen to you, and I’m not going to touch myself.”
“Why not?” Sherlock demands.
“Because you want me to.”
The line goes so quiet, John nearly believes he’s misjudged this and Sherlock has hung up. Then, stunned, voice deep and thick, lust-drunk: “John, why... I don’t understand.”
“Yes you do.”
“You... you consent, but you don’t comply. You’re stubborn. You...”
“I won’t do what you tell me to,” John whispers. “You can’t make me.” He’s almost sure of that. “Try and I’ll hang up.”
“Daring, for an apology.” The words are hoarse and low.
“Maybe I know what turns you on,” John counters.
A sharp inhale. A slow, shaking exhale.
“Are you, um.” Keep going, John can keep going. He doesn’t sound that much like a ridiculous porno. “Sherlock?”
“Ngh?”
“Are you touching yourself?”
“John.”
“Are you?”
“...Yes.”
“Okay,” John says. “That’s good. That’s really good. Tell me about it. Because I’m not, y’know. Over here. It’s a bit uncomfortable, and I’m holding onto my phone and my pillow, because otherwise, well.”
“Do it,” Sherlock urges.
“Nope. I’m going to listen to you come.”
“No, I’m... I’m going to... you.”
“Not tonight,” John replies. “Maybe tomorrow.”
“‘Maybe’?” Arousal and indignation combine oddly, beautifully, so much like Sherlock’s face itself.
“I’ll be tired,” John says. “Most people sleep, Sherlock. I might lie down on your bed and fall asleep.”
“Don’t.”
“I might.”
“John.”
“I might not.” In for a penny: “I still won’t have come. That might keep me up.”
A muffled groan rumbles across the connection.
“Please don’t bite your hand?” John asks. “Let me hear you.”
Heavy breathing. Panting. And beneath, such familiar sounds. Flesh on flesh.
“That’s lovely,” John whispers.
“Ah. Ah.” Louder. Again. A long, tight moan that dwindles into a sigh.
Doing everything he can not to move, John listens to him breathe.
“How... was that... ‘lovely’?”
“I know what you look like when you’re about to come,” John answers honestly.
“Oh. Um.”
John actively does not touch himself. They breathe together in the dark until John can risk shifting. They breathe together a bit longer still.
“Are you asleep?” John whispers.
“No.”
John closes his eyes. Distantly, he thinks his mobile plan will be all right with this.
A warm haze of time later, his mobile begins to beep. “...s’ry, what?” He yawns.
“That would be your mobile battery,” Sherlock replies. The sound of typing accompanies his speech. “It’s three eighteen.”
“...oh.” He should plug that in. He drifts away instead, soft and slow and unafraid to dream.
His battery is dead in the morning. Reassuringly so: in the light of day, last night’s conversation takes on a dreamlike quality. Spending Sunday tired and horny doesn’t make the memory any less surreal. There’s not too much to do in Exeter, and Bill has always been excellent at sitting in silence. John wonders if Bill heard any of John’s phone call last night, but if he had, he never mentions. Thank God.
Mrs Hudson saw you’d be coming over. Have persuaded her not to wait up for you. SH
She saw? How?
It’s obvious. SH
Everything’s obvious for you.
So was my change of mood, according to Mrs H. SH
Jessica noticed too. Maybe Bill.
Does she know it’s because you’ll be in my bed tonight? SH
No. She noticed me texting under the table all through dinner. She asked if I have a girlfriend.
Did you correct her? SH
Yes.
I want you to fuck my mouth tonight. I want to feel you sliding between my lips. You wouldn’t choke me. SH
Jesus Christ.
Do you want that? SH
I wouldn’t say no.
But will you say yes? SH
John? SH
This is neither amusing nor clever. SH
Sherlock opens the door.
“Yes,” John says.
“That wasn’t suspenseful at all,” Sherlock replies, practically dragging John into the foyer.
“Wasn’t meant to be.” John shuts the door behind him. “I wanted to say it in person.”
“Sentiment?”
“I was hoping you’d pounce, actually.”
Sherlock smirks. “Come upstairs.”
“No pouncing? In that case.” John reaches for the door.
With a light shove, Sherlock presses him against it. He slides John’s bag off his shoulder. Angular face in shadow, the ceiling light casting a corona around his curls, Sherlock softly tells him, “No.”
John lifts his chin. “No?”
“No.” Sherlock’s curls brush John’s forehead.
John lifts his chin slightly higher.
Eyes gleaming, Sherlock rocks back with John’s bag in hand. Another smirk across his lips, he turns without a word and walks to the stairs. No backwards glance: only a confident climb.
John grins and follows.
Sherlock is gorgeous with a cock in his mouth. Particularly gorgeous, make that. The man is photogenic even when exhausted, but this? Christ.
It’s worth the strain in his leg, kneeling on Sherlock’s bed, knees straddling the man’s torso. It took some arranging, propping Sherlock up against the headboard to the proper level, but the pain is too constant for John to forget it, even now. He can’t simply stand with Sherlock sitting or kneeling, and he’s hardly about to do press-ups down into Sherlock’s mouth, not with a bad leg and a bad shoulder.
Head steady, mouth welcoming, Sherlock lets himself be used. His eyes glaze, half-hooded. He hums around John’s shallow thrusts in a way that threatens to bring them deeper. John’s hands hold tight to the headboard. Sherlock’s hands play with John’s arse.
He’s too close, has been too close since last night, and the naked pleasure on Sherlock’s face is just too much. Sherlock sucks hard at the head, fingers digging into his bum, and John shakes his way through orgasm trying not to choke his bedfellow.
He doesn’t quite collapse afterward, but he’s not entirely sure how he ends up on his back with the condom removed. Finding Sherlock straddling his chest, he doesn’t complain, merely watches Sherlock’s hand on his own cock.
“The usual,” Sherlock explains.
“Uh, what?” John looks up at his eyes, his dark eyes and his bruised mouth. “Usual what?”
“Last night,” Sherlock says. “I said I was occupied to the usual degree.” His words fall into the rhythm of his strokes.
John slides his hands up lean thighs, around a narrow waist, and down. Sherlock fills his hands perfectly. “You, ah, usually wank on top of naked veterans?”
One of Sherlock’s hands falls to the mattress beside John’s head. “I’m, I’m considering it.”
“The chest is fine.”
“What?”
“I said, you can come on my chest. Face is right out, though.”
Eyes shut tight, Sherlock bites his lip, wanking faster.
John swears.
Sherlock’s eyes snap open. More than simply falter, his rhythm disappears entirely.
“Sorry,” John apologizes. God, he’s breathless. Why is John the breathless one? “Can’t sort out where to look.”
No wounded ego has ever flourished so quickly as that of Sherlock Holmes. The moment of hesitance vanishes, so entirely overwritten as to leave John doubting it was ever there.
But John thinks, John realises, John hopes, and he asks, “Let me touch you? Please?” No waiting for an answer. “Sherlock, please. I want to. Please let me. Just a little. Please? I want to touch you. I want, God, I want you. Sherlock, please,” John begs, not stopping until Sherlock groans and come hits John’s chest. “That’s it. That’s it.”
“Fuck,” Sherlock gasps. Looking lost and dazed, he sits on John’s stomach. He stares down at John as if about to collapse. He falls forward a little, one hand on John’s good shoulder.
John strokes the sweat-sleek curl of his spine. “More begging. Got it.”
“John.”
“Yes to the more begging?”
Sherlock nods. “I...” He nods again. “Yes.”
“Right,” John agrees. “Okay.”
They stare at each other a bit longer, unsure of what else to say, and then Sherlock fetches John a damp flannel.
“Have you had your tests done yet?” Sherlock asks over breakfast. Over John’s breakfast, rather. How the man isn’t starving, John will never know.
“Doing that this week,” John replies automatically, not looking up from his plate. Now that it’s said, he’ll have to make an appointment.
“I would have thought a doctor would be quicker about these things.”
John shrugs a bit, cutting his eggs with his fork. Why is morning-after breakfast always eggs? “I was clean before Afghanistan, and I didn’t do anything there.” He chews his eggs. He swallows, still waiting for a reply Sherlock won’t give.
Eventually, Sherlock notices John’s staring. How he does it from the other side of a newspaper is uncertain. “What?”
“Sorry, is that the end of the conversation?” John asks. What about the bit where Sherlock sees through him and rattles off how John is using the latex as a barrier between them in more ways than intended?
“I asked a question, you gave an answer. I cited the reason for my impatience. You cited your reasoning for the delay. Is there anything else that needs to be discussed?”
John thinks it over. “When did you have yours done?”
Sherlock turns the page, then shakes the paper into order with one good snap. “The Wednesday before I first stopped by your office.”
Despite having nothing in his mouth, John chokes a bit.
“Yes?”
“I think that’s the definition of overconfident,” John tells him. “I’m certain, actually.”
Sherlock lowers the newspaper. “How so? It’s common courtesy. Besides, why attempt a seduction without planning for success?”
“We hadn’t spoken yet.”
“Your point?”
How did experimenting on John’s leg translate into shagging John stupid? The first time Sherlock observed him was the instance of the dropped book and John’s hurried response of hiding behind the lecture hall desk. That’s one hell of a first impression to overcome. Or, maybe Sherlock had simply decided to put John in more stress situations and couldn’t arrange anything simulating combat. Potentially triggering John into self-defence would be one hell of a risk. That Sherlock’s mind had leapt from there to sex ought to have been worrying, but Sherlock had been right.
“John. Your point?”
John blinks a bit. “Sorry. Not sure I had one.”
“It was more efficient to be prepared from the outset,” Sherlock explains anyway. “Besides, isn’t confidence considered attractive?”
“And now he’s vain.”
“It’s not vanity. It’s observation.”
John grins a bit and returns to his breakfast.
“It is,” Sherlock insists.
“Oh, I believe you.”
“John.”
“I said I believe you.”
“Don’t lie so blatantly. It’s annoying.”
“Oh?” John asks, grinning wider. “I hadn’t realised. I’m so sorry.”
Sherlock glares.
“You could try and shut me up,” John suggests.
“Your behaviour hardly deserves positive reinforcement.”
“It does a little. Or do you not like me flirting with you? I mean,” John adds more seriously, “do you only like the hard to get bit? And the begging bit.”
“I don’t see how lying qualifies as flirtation,” Sherlock answers. “It’s not clever and is in no way endearing.”
“But the other two? Begging and playing hard to get, you can’t have both. That’s a contradiction. How is that not ‘lying’?”
“Simple,” Sherlock explains. “Each is an exaggeration. You pull back to see if I’m willing to pursue. We’ve already been over this. You want to see what I’m willing to do to have you, and you want it to be obvious that I cannot treat your presence and participation as a given.” His eyes keep scanning across the newspaper as he speaks. “Moreover, the constant negotiation prevents you from feeling trapped.
“The begging is different. The question is not what am I willing to do to have you, but how would I respond to having you. It’s primarily for my benefit but you do enjoy my reaction.”
John thinks about that. “No, I just wanted to talk you off in person.”
Sherlock shrugs.
John finishes his breakfast and busses his plate to the sink. He limps back to the table and kisses the top of Sherlock’s head. “Think I’ll head back to my flat before work.”
“Ugh, why?”
“So I can repack my bag.”
“Don’t bother with pyjamas.”
“No, I was thinking the bathrobe instead.”
Sherlock smiles up at him, eyes crinkled. “Excellent. Don’t forget your DVDs.”
John huffs a laugh against his mouth. “Yes, dear.”
His tests come back clean, and John’s immediate reaction is to worry. His body tenses, his heart pounds, and he has to hold still until the rush of dizziness passes. He successfully does not fall out of his chair. Somehow, he keeps his eyes moving over the piece of paper, some basic pretence of being a functional human being. No point to it: he’s alone in his flat, an empty envelope in one hand, a letter in the other.
The moment he can breathe again, irritation takes over. It’s a better reason for the shaking, though that also needs to stop.
There’s really no reason they can’t keep on using condoms. Just because it can be done doesn’t mean it must be done. Sherlock will bring it up, John will say no, and if that’s not the end of it, then Sherlock is an absolute prat and a wanker. Simple enough.
Well, no, because Sherlock will ask why or, worse, he’ll deduce why. Trust issues, problems with intimacy. He can’t shake the sense he’ll panic the moment Sherlock takes him into his mouth. Christ, John hasn’t always been like this. John used to be better than this. He should be better than this.
He closes his eyes and simply breathes a bit. The sensation of shaking fades.
“It’s only sex,” he reminds himself aloud, which is how he hears the lie in it. It’s fantastic sex with a bloke who makes John laugh harder than he has in ages, and that is terrifying. John can’t shake the sense that he’d roll over on anything Sherlock asked him for. He can’t ignore the feeling that he wants to.
That feeling is confirmed less than two hours later when his mobile chimes.
Rendered flat inhospitable. Coming to yours. SH
Before John can sort out a reply, his mobile chimes again.
Mrs Hudson has found alternate shelter. SH
How worried should I be? John asks.
Not very. Mycroft is sorting it. SH
John frowns at his mobile screen, but he doesn’t ask the obvious question until after Sherlock arrives at his flat. Until well after, actually, as Sherlock is immediately put into John’s shower by unanimous decision.
“It’s not actually toxic!” Sherlock calls through the loo door over the spray.
“You smell like sulphur!” John shouts back. “Put the fan on!”
Once Sherlock is out of the shower, John’s bathrobe riding high on his thighs, John asks the obvious question:
“You said Mycroft is sorting it?”
“Hm?” Sherlock pauses in towel-drying his hair. “Yes. Shouldn’t take too long.”
“And Mycroft is...?”
Sherlock frowns at him, pulling the towel down around his shoulders.
John frowns up at him, craning his neck where he sits at his desk chair. “What?”
“You’ve met him,” Sherlock answers. His eyes flick back to the letter on the desk, left out for his benefit. For John’s as well, if it means they don’t have to talk about it.
“Have I? Think I’d remember a name that distinctive.”
Sherlock’s expression escalates from “why are you being an idiot?” to “you are mentally deficient beyond my most pessimistic expectations.”
“What?” John asks.
“You texted me after you met him,” Sherlock says.
John stares at him blankly.
“The man in the parking garage,” Sherlock prompts.
“Oh! Wait, no, that makes no sense.”
“Of course it makes sense.”
“Um, no.” Not to John’s mind, it doesn’t. “Why is a Bond villain knockoff taking care of your flat?”
“He’s overprotective. It’s annoying. Convenient in this case, but typically very annoying,” Sherlock tells him, and there’s something in his tone, some vague hint of an impression that catches in John’s ear. No, not an impression. A resemblance.
“Wait,” John says. “Are you two related?”
Sherlock rolls his eyes, an unspoken “obviously” condescending its way through the air. “Unfortunately. If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not discuss my brother.”
John stares at him. “So when he asked my intentions, he actually meant... intentions.”
“Mm, yes. Out of curiosity, what did you say?”
“Said I didn’t have any,” John replies.
Sherlock raises his eyebrows.
“It was that, or talk my way into charges for sexual harassment.”
Sherlock’s expression immediately takes a turn for the better. “You’re not harassing me.”
“No, but there’s only so much about exhibitionist gay sex one bloke can say to another before-mrph.” John manages to avoid biting Sherlock’s tongue. He tastes of John’s toothpaste. The damp towel about Sherlock’s shoulders falls against John’s chest, and John takes it by either end. Secured, Sherlock attempts to climb into John’s lap, John’s bathrobe opening wide with the motion. Which is possibly one of the best things John has ever seen, but the point remains: “My leg. Need you off it.”
Sherlock pouts against John’s mouth with an accompanying petulant sound. “Fine. Bed.”
John wraps his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders, and Sherlock hauls him up. Regardless of the hands cupping John’s bum, there’s no actual lifting, only staggering the short distance to John’s small bed. Once close, Sherlock practically flings him onto it, and, laughing, John catches himself before he can hit his head against the radiator.
“Naked,” Sherlock commands, pouncing on top of him. “You should have stripped while I was in the shower.”
“Right, because you smelling like rotten eggs was such a turn-on.” They strip John with alacrity and fumbling coordination before fighting the epic struggle of kicking the duvet off the bed while still on it. Victorious, Sherlock flings John’s bathrobe onto the floor to join it. John pulls at him, and Sherlock pushes him down. His forearms bracket John’s head, his knees press in between John’s, and, oh.
Sherlock lies against him, fully against him, hard heat and the curl of hair, their balls heavy and overlapping. Between their stomachs, a twitch of blood flow moves Sherlock against him. Pressed together, all of them pressed together, chests and stomachs, cocks and thighs, the inside of one leg to the outside of another. Forehead to forehead, both of them panting rather than kissing.
“Oh my god,” John gasps.
“Can you feel it?” Sherlock nuzzles at his face, an extension of the motions of his body. Light rocking, tense and restrained. Desperate to make it last. “I’m leaking on you.”
John can. John can feel it. The mingling damp. The pressure of Sherlock’s body, the lingering mint on his breath. John wraps his arms around Sherlock’s neck, his shoulders, his back, his waist. For such a thin man, there’s too much of him to hold at once.
The sharp bones of Sherlock’s hips press into John’s own, and John presses back. A proper rhythm begins, builds, and Sherlock drops his face against John’s neck. Damp curls stick to John’s cheek. Sherlock’s chest presses down hard as Sherlock reaches back, reaches down, his hand curving beneath John’s thigh.
Swearing, John wraps his legs about Sherlock’s thighs, his hips. He clutches, clenches, and Sherlock gasps out a string of garbled noises.
“Come on me,” John begs. “Sherlock, please.” That’s all it takes, Sherlock’s body snapping tense and taut, Sherlock groaning into John’s neck as his hips buck, shove, thrust John hard against the mattress. Wet heat spurts between their stomachs. Sherlock grunts, still rocking against him, again and again, before collapsing limply onto John.
So hard, so close, trapped beneath Sherlock’s stomach and unable to gain leverage, John struggles toward orgasm. There’s not enough space to roll over without falling onto the floor. Sherlock paws at him, clumsy. Only once John does a bit more begging-frightfully honest, this time-does Sherlock flop his way down John’s body. His mouth closes about the head of John’s cock before working lower, tongue seeking, toying with his foreskin.
John swears, and swears, and swears. He bites his hand. He runs out of air. His other hand taps a fluttering warning against Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock does not pull off. Everything trembles.
When John can breathe again, he swears a bit more, but only weakly. Sherlock chuckles against his chest, now burrowed under John’s arm. John’s not sure when that happened. His heart won’t stop pounding, but he’s not sure he minds. His entire body is thrumming. He sinks his hand into Sherlock’s curls and closes his eyes.
He wakes an untold time later, the lights off, the night dark. Sherlock, climbing back into bed. Waking John first, because he always wakes John first. John has a vague sense of having been cleaned up.
“Hm?” John hums.
“Needed water.”
“Mm. Me too.” By which John means, bring a glass.
“Ask nicely.”
“Mm, okay.” John scoots down, none too coordinated. He noses at Sherlock’s stomach.
“Oh.” Sherlock lies back.
John hums and pulls Sherlock into his mouth. He has a lovely time of it, warm, languid. His jaw aches a bit by the end, more than a bit, but it aches well. Too lazy to find something to spit into, he swallows, gagging a little at the texture.
“Water,” he prompts, crawling back up to the pillow.
“Exhausted,” Sherlock counters.
John means to kick him in the shin, but it comes off as more of a nudge. “Water.”
Well into an attempted cuddle, Sherlock groans, but, eventually, he complies.
Beyond shagging him and having a psychosomatic limp, John’s not entirely sure how to entertain Sherlock for longer than a few hours at a time. Somehow, that becomes a nonissue. He’s still busy, but his workload is significantly lighter. Even better, they learn how to ignore each other. Occasionally, Sherlock rants at John while John’s checking his emails, and it doesn’t matter in the slightest that John isn’t paying attention. John makes idle talk and Sherlock replies flawlessly, but if asked, Sherlock has no idea what John is going on about.
John learns that if he brings back some shopping and cooks, Sherlock will eat. Moreover, he learns that doing this will make Mrs. Hudson extremely happy and much less annoyed about all the noise. If all of the noise were from sex, John might be a bit more embarrassed. Unfortunately, it’s not.
“That’s not realistic!” Sherlock bellows at the telly. Incidentally, his mouth is right next to John’s ear.
“Ow!”
“John, these began ridiculous. This is imbecilic.”
“Could you maybe stop shouting it?” John asks.
Sherlock makes a sulking noise and cuddles John against his chest. Sprawled on his sofa rather than a bed, the position is somewhat slanted. “I don’t see the point,” he grumbles into John’s shoulder. “This is convoluted and formulaic. The only question is which unfortunate woman will be trapped in a life raft with him at the end.”
“‘Unfortunate’? Sherlock, that’s Sean Connery!”
“He has a toupee.”
“Considering the number of helicopters involved, that’s actually impressive when you think about it.” It is to John, at least. There are certain things his teenaged self hadn’t picked up on, too busy discovering other bits of excitement.
“What?” Sherlock asks abruptly.
“What what?”
“You grinned.”
“I do that,” John agrees.
“No, that was your dirty thought grin.” Sherlock noses against John’s ear. “Tell me. I’ll jerk you off during the next fight scene. Unless you have a better idea.”
“You could start now,” John suggests.
Sherlock hums. His hand strokes down John’s chest, his stomach, and cups his crotch. “Tell me what you were thinking.”
John tilts his head to give Sherlock better access, but Sherlock only hovers, his lips above John’s skin. “I, um,” John says. “Well, James Bond was how I realised I was bi.”
There are very few instances when John can hear Sherlock’s mind stall.
This is one of them.
Sherlock relocates his hand to John’s thigh, a cool distance. “...You’re attracted to Sean Connery?”
“Not since I was sixteen, no,” John says with a bit of an awkward laugh. “Figured that one out after Harry stole my porn mags. Wound up staring at my poster a few too many times.”
Sherlock makes a disgusted noise.
John cranes around, his arm pinned between his side and Sherlock’s chest. “What?”
“You mean, we’ve effectively been watching porn this entire time.”
“You’re against porn?”
Sherlock rolls his eyes. “I don’t see the need for it.”
“Oh. Anti-porn industry or do you keep deducing everyone involved?”
“Neither. Eidetic memory.” He looks at John significantly.
John’s mouth goes dry. “You... remember every time you’ve ever had sex?”
“Vividly,” Sherlock confirms. “For example, three days ago, your oral technique changed drastically from what it had been four days ago. A marked improvement, well done.”
“You mean you like coming in my mouth without a condom.”
“Exactly,” Sherlock murmurs, tilting in. The kiss is much too light, no matter how John presses into it. Sherlock breaks it to complain, “Oh, god, he’s doing it again. This makes absolutely no sense.”
John glances at the screen expecting improbable physics and only sees James Bond enjoying a snog of his own. “What?”
“One man having sex with that many women.”
“Sherlock, it’s James Bond. That’s what he does.”
“It’s not realistic.”
“Of course it’s not realistic. It’s James Bond. Anyone who actually treats women like that is mental.” John goes back in for the kiss, but Sherlock’s frown won’t be appeased.
“You don’t find it strange?”
John blinks a little. “It’s fiction.”
Sherlock absently strokes John’s thigh. “Objectively, I understand that there are those who are attracted to anyone they consider good-looking.”
“But not you.” For a man as turned-off by idiots as Sherlock is, that attitude makes a good amount of sense.
“No. I don’t see the appeal of being attracted to that many people.”
“I don’t know,” John says. “It’s not really optional.”
Sherlock looks at him.
“What?” John asks. He goes over what he just said. “That’s not, no. Let me rephrase.”
They watch the film a bit longer.
“When I came back from Afghanistan, my libido had dried up,” John says eventually. “It didn’t want anything to do with anyone.” Not even with his own hand, half the time. “Then it turned itself back on, and here we are. The switch wasn’t optional.”
“When was that?”
“What, when I came back?”
Sherlock shakes his head, smirking. He leans in. His hand adjusts higher, hotter. “When your libido was turned on.”
John shifts in his arms, between his legs, the easiest target he can fashion himself into. He lowers his zip and guides Sherlock’s hand inside. “Like it is right now?”
Drawing John out, Sherlock chuckles against his ear. “By me, you mean.”
“Yeah...” John moans softly.
“Was it startling?”
“Ah... ah. Not, um. In hindsight, no.”
“No?” Sherlock echoes. “Why not?”
“Told you.” Oh, Christ. He tries to curl his back, pressing against the heat behind him, but the urge to thrust is strong. He stays where he is, anchored by Sherlock’s arm around his middle, the lips on his neck. “Figuring out I was bi.”
“How is this about Sean Connery?”
“It’s not. S’ about really fucking deep voices.” He tilts his head a bit more, palms stroking Sherlock’s thighs. Fuck. “And, um. Wanting, um.”
Sherlock hums, dark and low. “Wanting to hear me as you come.”
John melts.
“It must have been so difficult, John, listening to me wank over the phone.” Impossibly, Sherlock’s voice reaches new depths. Sherlock’s chest rumbles against his back as his lips buzz against John’s ear. “I did want you to come, John. I do want you to come. I want to keep you like this. When you squirm for contact, you begin with your upper body. Then your back, if I’m behind you. You still find this position unusual. You’re not sure you like it, but you enjoy my mouth on your neck. You enjoy looking down and seeing my hands on you. Only my hands.”
They’re lovely hands. They’re, fuck. Sherlock won’t stop talking.
John comes. Sooner than ought to have been possible, John comes and groans and Sherlock sucks hard on his neck for an extra jolt of hip-bucking pleasure. He goes a bit limp, after, and there’s something delicious about watching the rest of the film with Sherlock hard against his back.
The moment the credits roll, Sherlock scrambles off the sofa and pulls the drawstring bow of his pyjama bottoms. Hard and bare and destined for John’s mouth, Sherlock’s cock bounces as John reaches for him. Eyes closed, mouth full, John groans. No more latex. Only them, and skin, and the absolute torture that comes of a beautiful man saying beautiful things to a man who sorely wants to believe them.
By the last week of holiday, John has effectively moved in. He returns to his flat only one night out of every three. Sherlock tends to assume John will be staying the night anyway. On one memorable occasion, John wakes to a three am text asking where he’s gone.
What do you mean?
You’re not here. SH
I went home after work.
Why? SH
I wanted to sleep, you arse.
Why not here? You should sleep here. SH
Because you keep me awake. Right now, for instance. Good night.
As if to prove Sherlock right, John’s subconscious calls up all the nightmares John hadn’t realised he’d stopped having. He wakes twitching, sweating, and terrified. The tears stop eventually. He drinks some water. He realises, standing in the kitchenette, that he is standing in the kitchenette. Heart pounding, he finishes his glass of water. He nearly manages to walk back to his cane before his leg tries to give out.
He doesn’t tell Sherlock about that morning, and Sherlock never broaches the subject of John’s limp. By an unspoken mutual decision, they keep on shagging anyway. John ought to be thrilled. John wants to be thrilled. Or perhaps John ought to be cautious. He is cautious. Sherlock won’t stop looking at him as if John’s presence in his flat is an accomplishment, and John can’t suss out what for.
The final Friday of holiday, it suddenly becomes clear.
At a stake-out. May require assistance. SH
Where and what with?
Sherlock texts him the address and detailed instructions on where to find him there. Then he adds, Bring your gun. SH
John’s heart stops. It must do. It ought to be pounding but he can’t feel it, can’t hear it through the roaring in his ears. I think you have an auto correct typo, he answers.
Sherlock responds with the exact specifications of John’s gun. It was in your desk drawer. SH
It’s still in John’s desk drawer. He checks, just to be certain. His hands are steady. They shouldn’t be. His phone chimes yet again.
Not asking you to shoot anyone. Simply prefer backup. SH
John sits down and waits for the shaking to come. It doesn’t. He waits for something, anything, some physical sign of panic.
Nothing.
Give me half an hour.
Of course. SH
John sits in the cab with his gun at the small of his back, pressed between his shirt and his jumper, a bump in his waistband.
This is a bad idea.
This is a bad idea growing so much worse.
They sit in a warehouse behind a stack of crates, neither making a sound. The wait is calm. Either something will happen or it won’t. Stiff and aching, they take turns watching and resting long past the small hours of the morning. Toward the end, they sit shoulder to shoulder, or as close to it as John will ever manage with someone as long as Sherlock.
Long after John has given himself over to the numb stretching of time, there’s a noise. Movement. Something far bigger than a rat and too far away to be Sherlock shifting. John puts his hand on Sherlock’s arm, Sherlock puts his hand on John’s, and they squeeze tight before releasing.
Footsteps, two sets. They move along the next row over and Sherlock begins to rise. John catches his arm. Sherlock touches John’s shoulder before pulling away. He’s off to take a picture, nothing more, and though Sherlock explained it wouldn’t use or need flash, the thought of the sound in the stillness is worrying.
Sherlock’s gone before John can stop him and certainly before John can follow. John is meant to wait in ambush should anything go wrong. The tap of his cane would be far too obvious. Ears straining, John tries to hear any sound over his own heart and breathing.
There’s some hushed talk. Sounds like a man and a woman. Smugglers, John knows, hiding hay in haystacks. What kind of hay, Sherlock didn’t mention. It feels like the sort of thing John ought to have asked. How much danger is Sherlock in?
The talking stops.
John leans forward, listening.
The silence drags on.
John is meant to stay where he is. For very good reasons, at that. John cannot run. John is noisy. John is an ambush and Sherlock needs to know where he is at any given moment.
The reverse is not true. John has no real compulsion to know where Sherlock is. As such, he does not need to follow. As such, following would be incredibly stupid. Quietly, hands on the crate before him, John climbs to his feet. He’s a better shot, standing. The lighting is too poor for him to be anything other than his best. In the dark, he could hit Sherlock.
No, better to be certain. The gun is an absolute last resort, one that could easily send John to jail. His cane, on the other hand, is blunt and solid. He picks it up. Not as good as a cricket bat, but it’s a bit late to go fetch one. He holds it ready to swing.
He waits.
After an agonizing pause, the sounds of movement resume. Some shuffling. Something being opened. If they thought Sherlock was near, they’ve dismissed him.
More whispers. More movement.
Then, distinct and sharp: “What was that?”
John does not hold his breath. He breathes very quietly, a conscious rhythm, not about to make himself noticeable through noise or sudden silence.
The pair walk away. John hears the outer door open and close, and then he hears Sherlock walking back to him. He sees a tall shape in the dark before a familiar rush of scent and heat presses itself against his front. He expects a kiss that he does not receive.
Instead, an abrupt light: Sherlock’s mobile aimed at the floor. Sherlock sweeps the light in a quick scanning pattern before turning to John. The light falls on the cane in John’s hand. It stays there.
Holding his cane as he would any other blunt object, John doesn’t move. If he moves, it might return. The pain, the limp, everything.
Sherlock shines the light into his face, and John lifts his hand from the crate to cover his eyes. He mouths an angry “What the hell?”
“Is it the gun?” Sherlock whispers. “Or the situation?”
“What is?”
“You’re standing.”
“I know I’m standing. I do that.” Of course that’s what this is about. He’d thought-it doesn’t matter what he’d thought. The moment Sherlock has no further use for it, John’s gun is no longer the focus of attention. It’s almost reassuring that all of this is still about his leg. It’s always going to be about his leg, and there’s nothing John can do to change that.
Hand clenched around the middle of his cane, John turns around and walks toward the exit. Sherlock follows close by his side, his grin visible even through the dark.
They take a cab. John squirms in his seat, wide awake against his body’s heavy pull. Sherlock’s gaze presses against the side of his face, the length of his leg, his hip.
John wants to yell and scream and stand. He does none of these things.
The cab stops at 221B. Sherlock climbs out. John does not.
“John,” Sherlock prompts, holding the back door open.
“What?”
Sherlock’s eyes are blue when he condescends. Or maybe it’s the early morning light. “We’re here.”
“You’re here,” John corrects. “I’m going home.”
“More sleep to be had here.”
“I’m going home.” He rubs at one eye. “Close the door.”
Sherlock doesn’t move.
“Would you mind deciding?” the cabbie gripes.
“Here is fine,” Sherlock tells the cabbie. “John, I’ve already paid. Get out.”
“I’m going home.”
“You have to climb out of the cab eventually,” Sherlock says. “It might as well be here.”
“No. I’m going home.”
“John-”
“Will you shut the damn door!”
Sherlock slams it.
Terse, John gives the cabbie his address. For a moment, he thinks the cabbie might kick him out instead, but the man drives.
“Sorry about that,” John says shortly thereafter. “Five in the morning without coffee, you know how it is.”
He’s let off at his flat, pays the cabbie, and heads up the stairs without any trace of pain. His cane is warm where his hand has been closed around it, for once on the shaft of the cane rather than the handle. He leans his cane against his desk. He walks around in tight little circles. He paces.
Lightheaded, he risks it. He sits down. He stands up again.
He keeps walking.
Next, he lies down. Exhaustion pulls at him beyond the adrenaline and he nearly doesn’t get up. The thought that it might fade, that it must fade drags him back to his feet.
Still no problem.
He sits on the floor. He squats. He stretches. A hand on the wall for balance, he stands on one leg. Remembering Sherlock’s question-gun or adrenaline?-John puts his gun back in its drawer. He experiences absolutely no change.
He’s fine.
His leg is fine.
After a bit of a nap, his limp is still gone, and there are no new texts on his mobile.
A day later, the same.
And the next.
He’s cured.
previous | next