Fic for tetsubinatu: Working Hypothesis
Title: Working Hypothesis
Recipient: tetsubinatu
Author: swissmarg
Beta reader: mycapeisplaid
Verse: BBC
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/John
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 9K
Warnings: Mentions of sexual abuse and murder of minors, and real serial killers.
Summary: There must be rules to this new game Sherlock is playing. Right?
Notes: Dear Giftee: The parts of your sign-up post that I used are: BBC, John/Sherlock, explicit sexual content, sex without condoms/lube, (something that borders on) consensual humiliation (if you squint), John has a skill that surprises Sherlock (v. minor point but still), a bit of case stuff, some Lestrade but no Moriarty or Irene (but also no Mrs Hudson, sorry), and if you wanted Sherlock could be a virgin.
Things you didn't even know you wanted but are getting anyway: semi-public sex, a steampunk jellyfish, abuse of mnemonics, inappropriate Pavlovian responses to text alerts, and unexpected angst. Also: this started out lighthearted but took a pretty serious turn at the end. Please heed the warnings.
Working Hypothesis
This was new, John thought as Sherlock crowded him back against the sink and squeezed his cock through his jeans. Not the cock-squeezing. That was fairly old hat by now. No, it was the fact that they were still in the middle of an investigation, and there was no case-related reason for them to be going at it in the bathroom of a media mogul's mansion. In fact, it was directly contrary to their plan.
John was actually meant to be flirting with the mogul's girlfriend, distracting her so that Sherlock could pick-pocket her phone. John had been doing rather well, he thought, especially given that the girlfriend in question was twenty-three and the reigning Miss Natural Wales. But just as he'd leaned in to confide something in her ear and enjoy a noseful of her scent, Sherlock had - rather than slipping a hand into the beaded handbag dangling from her shoulder - inserted himself between them with some nonsense about John being needed for a medical emergency, and dragged him off.
And now here they were, in blatant violation of rule number two, Sherlock plundering John's mouth and giving every indication that he meant to take this encounter to its logical conclusion. In fact, unless another precedent was about to be set, both of them were going to have a rather damp and uncomfortable ride home. The only circumstance under which they didn't both get off was when they were interrupted by a third party, and it became impossible to continue.
That happened less often than one might think, given that these sorts of things generally occurred immediately following the conclusion of a case, frequently within shouting distance of various Met officers. Sometimes in a cab on the way home, but then they had to be very quiet if they didn't want to be tossed out. (That had only happened once, and they'd had to finish behind a skip in an alley next to a fitness studio. The whole time, the voice of an aerobics instructor had drifted out through an open window somewhere, calling out 'back and forth now' and 'keep it up' and 'faster, faster'. John was gasping with more laughter than arousal by the time he came.)
Once, they'd been interrupted by a technician after Sherlock overrode the electronic steering system and caused a hotel lift to jam. Sherlock insisted they'd have at least half an hour before the repair service arrived; he hadn't reckoned with there already being a crew on the premises for scheduled maintenance. Lestrade was waiting in the lobby to take them to the Yard to complete the paperwork on the case, and John had to go directly to work from there. So that had ended anticlimactically, pun intended.
And now here they were, getting each other off in the middle of an investigation rather than at the end of one, which was unsettlingly new. It might lead to deviations from the regular pattern in other ways as well. John thought that would be a rather disappointing development, so he took his hands off Sherlock's arse and fumbled blindly with his trouser fastenings as an invitation to move things forward. Sherlock's throaty vocalisations of encouragement suggested to John that he was on the right track. He finally got the blasted hook and bar undone (having it tucked inside the waistband was clearly a design flaw) and pulled the zip down far enough to get his hand around the by now thick bulge in Sherlock's pants.
John would have liked to ask if Sherlock wanted his hand or his mouth, but he had learned early on that any attempts at speaking that went beyond mindless encouragement or exclamations of pleasure would be smothered by means of Sherlock's tongue making an even more thorough study of his mouth. Which was nice too, no complaints.
So, making an executive decision based on the fact that the tile floor was unlikely to do his knees any favours, John stroked firmly up and down Sherlock's length and underneath to cup and roll his testicles. He kept his other hand on the back of Sherlock's neck so he could take over control of the kiss, slowing it down and making it more about playing with each other's lips than oral spelunking. Sherlock was admirably distracted, as evidenced by his increasingly less coordinated movements over John's groin.
That didn't bother John in the least; in fact, he was better able to concentrate on Sherlock this way. He still wasn't sure what Sherlock got out of these interludes - other than sexual gratification, but there was no way to tell whether that was even something Sherlock was aiming for. It could just as well be that he was carrying on some long and involved experiment with John either as the test subject or the control group. Or somehow using it to get up Mycroft's nose (which would explain rule number three, for the most part).
But for John, although the sexual release was intensely pleasurable, the more important part was being able to do something for Sherlock, to make him feel good (he clearly enjoyed it, no matter his reasons), to show him how high his regard and how deep his devotion was. He wouldn't go as far as to say 'love' because the way they were didn't really fall into any categories John was used to dealing with, but there were definitely emotions involved. In any case, it was why he'd instituted rule number four.
Once Sherlock was good and hard and his hips were jerking forward automatically and John could almost hear 'please' mixed in between the panting and the kisses, he slipped his hand inside Sherlock's pants. Everything was slightly damp already from sweat, just enough to be sticky but not enough to give a good slide. It probably would have been better if he had something to use as a lubricant, but he didn't want to go rifling through the medicine cabinet at the moment. It occurred to him that one or the other of them should probably carry a couple of sachets of lube from now on, given the semi-regularity with which this seemed to happen. He could go for oral stimulation after all, but quite honestly the idea of putting a sweaty cock into his mouth wasn't all that appealing. He preferred to start with it clean and dry.
John was nothing if not resourceful, however, and he had some experience now with what Sherlock liked. Firmer was better, and stimulating the corona gave especially good results. His nipples were also gratifyingly responsive, although more difficult to access when he was wearing one of his fitted shirts, as was the case tonight. And John didn't want to give up the advantage of keeping one hand at the back of Sherlock's head, stroking the corner of his jaw with his thumb.
Sherlock certainly wasn't finding fault with anything John was doing, so John kept pumping, making sure to give the head plenty of attention and swiping down to tease Sherlock's balls every few seconds. After a couple of minutes, his arm was getting tired and his wrist was in danger of cramping from the angle. The way Sherlock was leaning into him, though, one hand pressed languidly, almost possessively, against John's erection and the other up the back of his jacket, splayed against his back, tapped into a spot inside him that he wasn't sure he wanted to own up to. But it set loose a surge of protective tenderness and fierce determination to make this something that would touch Sherlock - if not in the same way it did John, then at least in some manner that he could appreciate and value.
John whispered some banal but genuinely meant words of encouragement when he sensed that Sherlock was getting close, then held him tight and pressed his cheek against Sherlock's when he went stiff and silent, moving his hand as fast as he could until Sherlock came and he started breathing again. When the aftershocks had passed as well, John pulled his hand out and wiped it perfunctorily on the hand towel hanging next to the sink.
Sherlock had his eyes closed and was breathing hard through his nose, hunched over with his forehead braced against John's temple. John pulled him close with a one-armed embrace and kissed him gently at the corner of the mouth. He wished he knew what Sherlock was thinking or feeling at times like this. It always took him a few moments to come back to himself. John's cock was heavy and insistent, but honestly it would have been okay if they just cleaned up and went back out at this point.
Sherlock, though, had internalised rule number four, and maybe it was as important for him as it was for John, so he didn't say anything when Sherlock finally opened his eyes, gave him a deep kiss that left him breathless, pulled a bath towel down from the shower rack and dropped it, folded, onto the floor, then settled himself on it in front of John. Without looking up, he efficiently opened John's jeans and John helped wriggle them and his pants down to his knees.
John's cock was deep red and the tip was smeared with pre-ejaculate. He almost wanted to offer to give it a quick wipe with a wet flannel, but he felt that would be breaking rule number one, and anyway he was sure that Sherlock would have done it himself if it bothered him. He hadn't had any qualms about using a sanitising towelette on John when he'd cornered him in the loo at Scotland Yard after he'd taken a leak at the end of the Case of the Reverent Patient (or so it ended up being titled on his blog).
John didn't think he'd ever get over the thrill of seeing that dark head with the wickedly clever mouth move forward to engulf his cock. At the first sensation of warm wetness, John groaned and dropped his head back, bracing himself against the sink with both hands. He honestly had no idea how much experience Sherlock had in doing this, or whether he practiced or did research on his own. It had been good the first time, at any rate, and it only seemed to get better. John wasn't really the type of person to worry too much about the hows and wherefores anyway. As long as they were both getting pleasure out of it, Sherlock could stand on his head or get tips from the backs of cereal boxes for all John cared.
Sherlock started out moving his head and mouth and holding John's hips in place, but after a while (maybe he was getting tired) he held still and pressed John's buttocks forward to indicate that John should take over the action, effectively fucking his mouth. They'd done this once before, and honestly, John wasn't entirely comfortable with it; not just because of the anxiety that he'd go too far and choke Sherlock, but because it gave him the feeling he was using or demeaning Sherlock somehow.
This was one of the times he really wished he could say something, but he knew that rule number one was there for a very good reason. He hadn't entirely understood why, but he knew that if he broke it, a good many other things would be broken as well. Not just the mood of the moment, but the fragile alternate dimension that allowed them to interact in this way, and quite possibly their entire friendship.
He would have to make his point another way. As John didn't want Sherlock to feel that he was rejecting him or his offers of physical intimacy in any way, he started thrusting very gently and carefully. At the same time, he laid one hand softly on Sherlock's head, barely petting his hair and giving innocuous praise such as 'that's gorgeous' and 'perfect'.
The slower pace changed the dynamic of the encounter from a frantic scrabble to get each other off to something more intimate and, frankly, overwhelming. Sherlock had his eyes closed, a slight frown on his face that might have come from intense concentration or something more poignant. Inexplicably, John felt an unwelcome tightening in his throat that was accompanied by a surge of desire which caught him off guard and very nearly sent him over the edge without warning.
"Oh God, that's- please, come up here, please," he pleaded breathlessly and stopped moving. He hoped that wasn't too much. He more than half expected Sherlock to dig in his fingers and insist on finishing from where he was, but after two more thorough sucks, Sherlock pulled himself to his feet and leaned against John again, nestling his mouth against John's ear and wrapping his hand around John's straining cock.
"Like this?" he asked, low, and John could have sobbed from relief that they were at least making this much progress on the communication front.
"Yeah, perfect." John nuzzled his face against Sherlock's collar, inundating his nostrils with the complex scent there.
Then he closed his eyes too, and he could almost imagine they were at home, in their own bathroom on Baker Street, and that afterward they would smile and kiss and help each other clean up and then go into the kitchen and have some tea together; or Sherlock might go sit at his desk and do something of dubious legality on his laptop while John relaxed in his chair just an arm's reach away with a medical journal or some mindless novel. And later still, they might- (John didn't allow himself to complete that thought, because it would never happen and it was stupid anyway).
Sherlock's hand on John felt nearly as good as his mouth, and it was only another couple of minutes before John was grunting quietly against Sherlock's shoulder and feeling like his legs had turned to rubber.
Sherlock took a step back, and John all but collapsed onto the lid of the toilet. He felt like he'd run forty blocks. Sherlock had somehow managed to catch most of John's ejaculate in his hand, so John didn't have to do anything more than wipe himself off with some toilet paper. When Sherlock was done at the sink, John felt enough circulation had returned to his legs that they could bear his weight. He tried to convince his mind and body he'd just stepped into the loo for a moment to freshen up. It was the only way not to slip up and do something stupid like lean in for one more quick kiss.
"So are we going to try for her phone again?" John asked as he washed his hands.
Sherlock dabbed at his semen-stained shirt with the corner of a wet flannel. John averted his eyes. Viewing the evidence of what they'd done somehow seemed too close to acknowledging it after the fact.
"Won't be necessary," Sherlock said. He gave up on the shirt and tossed the flannel into the sink, then buttoned his jacket to cover the worst of it.
"What- Why?" John asked with a stirring of righteous indignation edging out some of the post-orgasmic haze his brain tended to get stuck in. He was starting to suspect that the entire evening was a set-up of some kind.
Sherlock reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a phone that John didn't recognise. He flipped it over and caught it again.
"Is that- When did you pinch that?"
"When I excused us from Miss Unnatural Blonde's presence." He started tapping at the phone, his attention already diverted.
John gave Sherlock a curious look. Was that what this was about? Was Sherlock - somehow, inconceivably - jealous? John hadn't really been interested in the woman. The attention was flattering, but that was it. He wasn't the type of person who could carry on two relationships at the same time. Not that he was exactly sure what it was that he and Sherlock were involved in. He picked up the flannel from the sink between thumb and forefinger, along with the hand towel he'd soiled earlier, and stuffed them into the laundry hamper in the corner.
"All right. Ready?" John asked.
"I just need to email myself these pictures." Sherlock's fingers flew over the surface of the phone. A few more instructions, then he wiped the device thoroughly and dropped it behind the toilet.
"Not going to try and return it?"
"It's easier this way. Someone will find it. She'll think she dropped it when she was in here earlier."
Ah. So maybe the case had actually been over from Sherlock's point of view before they- Right. That made John feel a bit better. At least he wouldn't have to revise the rules again.
"Home then?" John asked hopefully. He could use an early night, as he needed to be at the clinic at eight the following morning.
"God no," Sherlock said, looking at John as if he were the last idiot. (Which, apparently, he was.) "All we have now is the motive. We still need to prove our suspect was at home and not at the club as he says. How's your sign language?"
It was a testament to the continual series of loops that Sherlock threw John for that he didn't even blink, and was able to answer without hesitating, "Not that good, I'm afraid. I can do the alphabet, a few simple phrases, that's it."
Sherlock paused with his hand on the door handle and looked back at John in surprise. "Really? That's more than I expected. We'll have to work on it sometime, but for now we'll make do. Follow me."
He swept out into the hall, ignoring the two women waiting outside for their turn in the toilet. John couldn't quite help catching the raised eyebrows they sent his way, but just shrugged and chased after Sherlock, thinking he never really did anything but.
%%%%%
John had figured out rule number one almost immediately. It didn't really take a genius to take the hint that when every attempt at asking 'What the hell, Sherlock?' or 'What's this in aid of?' or, again, 'What the hell?' was pre-empted by Sherlock's mouth covering his, it meant that he should shut up and go with it.
The very first time of course, he reckoned it was part of a cover (although the killer - 'hit man, boring', was how Sherlock put it - had just been arrested and was in the process of being carted away right outside, so he wasn't quite sure who they were putting on the act for). They had pretended to be boyfriends a couple of times before, and actually had to snog once in a bar in the course of an investigation, so John wasn't completely unfamiliar with the feel of Sherlock's body against his. The hand down his pants was another matter.
John, game as ever, held out stoically as long as he could, mentally reciting the cranial nerves and their functions, followed by the skull foramina associated with each. He was doing well enough with Oh, Oh, Oh, To Touch And Feel Virgin Girl's Vagina And Hymen (which was an excellent distraction from what Sherlock was doing to his foreskin, in more ways than one) and easily breezed through Some Say Marry Money, But My Brother Says Big Breasts Matter Most (words to live by, in his opinion, until he stuttered remembering the alternate version said Big Brains were what counted), but he only got as far as Come Over Soon Soon Soon before the combination of Sherlock's breath in his ear, his thumb in John's mouth, and the incessant build-up of friction on his penis made him do just that. Any thought of Riding On Some Intense Internal vaJJJ dissolved in the warm puddle of semen he'd just deposited in his pants.
And that was that, really. Moments later, Sherlock was charging out the door of the hit man's house and John was scrambling to straighten out his clothing and hope the damp spot didn't soak through before he got home.
Sherlock had absconded by the time John made it out to the main road (he was waylaid by Lestrade to receive instructions on where and and when Sherlock was to appear to fill out his report; John had never been more grateful for the combination of late night raids and poor lighting in London's residential areas). When he got home, Sherlock was already holed up in his room, but this was serious.
John knocked on the door, and entered when there was no answer. Sherlock was standing on his bed, wearing his chemistry goggles and fiddling with what looked like a jellyfish made of plastic tubing and electrical wire hanging from the ceiling.
John put his fists on his hips. "Mind telling me what that was about?"
"Pliers." Sherlock held his hand out peremptorily.
John looked around and spotted some tools scattered across the bedspread at Sherlock's feet. He gave Sherlock the pliers.
"In the house back there. At the end." He was determined not to leave without an explanation.
"I'll need the fuses off for a couple of hours. You might as well go to bed." Sherlock twisted and pulled at the jumble overhead until a blue spark arced across it with a crackle.
"Jesus Christ, Sherlock, I swear to God if you burn me to death in my bed-"
"Fuses, John. On your way up. Take a torch."
John had already turned toward the door before he realised what had just happened. Rule number one.
He tried to broach the subject again the next day, but Sherlock actually did an about-face and walked out of the flat. He didn't come back until six hours later, eyeing John skittishly. John received the message.
%%%%%
Rule number two took a bit longer. First, John had to figure out that this was going to be a recurring thing and not just a bizarre one-off. It wasn't like Sherlock was jumping him at the conclusion of every case. A couple of weeks went by with no repeat performance, and John was ready to file it away with the head in the fridge and the bagpipes at four in the morning as an infuriating but ultimately harmless attempt on Sherlock's part at seeing how far he could push John.
Then came the Case of the Reverent Patient. The killer was a resident of a managed care facility who fancied herself an angel of death and had concealed poison in the beads of her rosary. She used them to dose any other residents she deemed to be suffering, occasionally with but more often without their knowledge. No one was even suspicious yet, until John was called in to cover for the usual staff doctor for two weeks. During that time, two deaths occurred that didn't sit right with him. The killer must have felt he was asking too many pointed questions, and dropped a rosary bead in his tea. He ended up in hospital, but the activated charcoal he was given took care of the problem with no major harm done. Sherlock of course unravelled the entire plot in minutes, and it was when they went to the Yard to give their final statements the next day that the blow job in the loo occurred.
John thought then, as Sherlock manhandled him into a stall and - in a rather endearingly clumsy way - fumbled over his belt, that this might just be his way of saying he was glad John was all right. John hadn't made the connection previously, but he had been held at gunpoint by the hit man during the case a couple of weeks ago. It wasn't as if that was the first time something like that had happened, but maybe this was a phase Sherlock was going through, like the fortnight during which he'd only get into the third cab that stopped for him. John figured it would be easier to just go with it than to make a fuss.
And anyway, holy hell was Sherlock good at giving head.
Later, when John emerged from the fuzz of oxytocin and serotonin, he thought he was really going to have to break rule number one. Although he hadn't ejaculated into Sherlock's mouth (Sherlock had pulled off and stood up to kiss him through completion via manual stimulation), he hadn't been tested since his last girlfriend. He was all ready to give Sherlock a lecture on safe sex practices (maybe the man honestly had no idea), but decided it would be better to get the actual testing done first, both so he had something in hand to shake in Sherlock's face and to calm his own mind. What was done was done, and getting worked up about it wouldn't change anything if he did turn out to be infected with something.
When the results came back negative two days later, John wavered. He still needed to say something, he knew that, but rule number one loomed large. Any conversation on the topic would be awkward at best and open up a huge can of worms at least. In the end, he settled for laying a copy of his test results on Sherlock's laptop along with two condoms and a brochure on STDs. Not another word was said, but three days later, he received an email report from a laboratory with a similar blood work-up, patient name S. Holmes.
John therefore extrapolated his initial version of rule number two from the hit man and the poisoning. Only he should have remembered the adage about the pattern only becoming apparent after the third iteration, because it turned out it wasn't just threats to John's life that triggered Sherlock's amorous side. That became clear when Sherlock cracked a human trafficking case that didn't involve any greater danger to John than a whopping great headache from reading through months of financial transactions. The arrest was a dignified affair that went down in a gentleman's club. The heated exchange of kisses and the hand job in the assistant manager's office was somewhat less so.
That was also where John instituted rule number four, although at the time it was only the third rule he knew of. He simply wasn't comfortable with being on the receiving end without being able to reciprocate any more (not that he ever really had been), and when Sherlock stuck his hand down the front of John's trousers, John responded in kind, giving Sherlock a look that dared him to say anything. Sherlock paused briefly but - rule number one - couldn't exactly protest, and they jerked each other off in an unfamiliar but ultimately satisfactory tangle of arms and elbows.
Later, John thought maybe that was what Sherlock had been aiming for all along; the emailed screening results certainly said that he had at least considered the possibility. Had John been an insensitive clod all this time? On the other hand, Sherlock was the one who always fled immediately after getting John off. He'd never given John the opportunity to return the favour. That was going to change.
Rule number two, though, appeared to be clear now. Maybe Sherlock considered it to be the equivalent of a slap on the back to say 'job well done', or maybe he'd decided to reward John with a bonus incentive package after so and so many months of loyal service. John still felt like he should really, really say something. Maybe along the lines of 'I appreciate the gesture, but a nice bottle of wine would do the trick too'.
The thing was, he secretly (all right, not so secretly) was starting to look forward to it. So much so that he caught himself looking up eagerly whenever the trumpet fanfare of Lestrade's text alert sounded on Sherlock's phone. And, yes, his cock might have tingled too. He was a bit disgusted at how Pavlovian it was. But when he went so far as to call Mycroft to ask if his contacts at Interpol mightn't have something for them when they'd gone five days without a case, he knew he had to stop kidding himself. This thing with Sherlock, it was fun. It was risky and dirty and completely insane. He still wasn't gay. They still weren't boyfriends. Being in official denial about it was freeing.
And, he found out on their next case (three days after calling Mycroft, so he'd gone just over a week without sex and he was feeling the itch), he could also initiate. It was a rather pedestrian domestic spat gone sour and staged to look like an accidental beheading by the garage door. Sherlock saw through the ruse within minutes, based on the man's shoes: 'He would never have walked through that patch of oil in those, they're bespoke from Foster and Son'. The husband was arrested on the spot, and John was hopeful for a bit of say-no-more, but even he saw that it really wasn't practical what with it being the middle of a bright, sunny day and the house swarming with forensics.
They were already in the cab and he was resigned to a long, hard ride back from Harrow when he caught sight of Sherlock's fingers curling and uncurling on his thigh. John thought of those fingers around his cock. He looked up. Sherlock was in perfect profile, watching the road through the plexiglas divider. His lips were slightly parted, and as John watched, Sherlock curved his lower lip in briefly to wet it. John thought of that lip between his teeth. He discovered that his body was already tilting to the right like a flower toward the sun. He fancied he could smell Sherlock's cologne. No, he could. Definitely.
He glanced at the front seat. The radio was playing a Middle Eastern pop song and the driver was on his mobile, chatting away in Urdu. All John knew how to say in Urdu was 'Drop your weapon' and 'I don't need another goat' (it was a long story). The driver didn't seem to be talking about either firearms or livestock, but he was distracted well enough.
John inched closer until he could reach Sherlock's lap. It was his right hand, but it would have to do. He kept his eyes forward, ready to freeze should the driver check the rear-view mirror. John was prepared for Sherlock to turn away, but at the first graze of his knuckles over Sherlock's crotch, Sherlock slid down lower in the seat and spread his knees. John struggled to keep his expression absolutely neutral. He rubbed and squeezed over the material until he felt Sherlock thickening. Sherlock, meanwhile, pulled the hanging tail of his long coat up to cover his lap and John's hand. John had to adjust his own position by this time to give himself more room to expand as well. He somehow managed to get Sherlock's zip opened enough to get his fingers through the gap.
That was the time they ended up behind the fitness studio.
So, again, no danger, yet sex. John wondered whether this were actually a general thing now and had nothing to do with the cases after all. Perhaps it was the thrill of possible discovery. So far it had only ever happened outside the flat. But an awkward attempt at another grope during a screening of a documentary about the American serial murderer, H. H. Holmes, put an end to that theory. No, it really seemed to be related to solving a case. Rule number two.
At least until the medial mogul case. At which point lines became very blurry and subsequent events led to a complete paradigm shift. But that was later.
The codification in John's mind of rule number three (the real one) followed soon after he thought he'd settled rule number two, causing an internal renumbering as it actually preceded the one he'd imposed. The flat was apparently off-limits, even after a case, as became clear following the ill-fated kitchen encounter.
It started out well enough. They had just arrived home after getting checked over at the hospital following the apprehension of a man who had killed his business partner, then impersonated him for several months. The final confrontation was on a boat, and somehow John got hit on the head and knocked overboard. Sherlock dove in after him. They were both fine aside from a whopping headache on John's part, but he had a handful of pills and was just going to make himself some warm milk and head to bed.
He was standing at the stove, watching the saucepan, when he heard Sherlock come into the kitchen behind him. He didn't really pay much attention until he realised there were no further footsteps, cupboards or drawers being opened, or furniture being shifted. He turned around, only to find Sherlock so close behind him that John's shoulder brushed Sherlock's chest as he turned. He didn't know whether Sherlock was standing that close on purpose, or whether he'd been on his way to get something from the counter and John had just caught him at an unlucky angle. Either way, they ended up with John's nose in Sherlock's shoulder and Sherlock's arm around John's back, and then they were hugging and John could have sworn he felt Sherlock kiss his ear.
For the briefest, briefest moment John's heart did a kind of twisty thing and he slipped into that zone of absolute calm and thunderous call to action that only came over him in life-or-death situations. The next moment, there was a hissing from the stove and John jerked around to see the milk frothing over. He shoved the pan back and turned the burner off, but when he looked up again, Sherlock was gone, leaving him alone with the scent of burnt milk in his nostrils and rule number three.
%%%%%%
Several weeks went by. There were cases, and there were lulls. They took a private case in Bath that ended disappointingly (for Sherlock, at least) when the supposed kidnapping victim came back of her own accord to deliver divorce papers to her husband. John got Sherlock to join him in the train loo on the way back to London to cheer him up. They discovered that oral sex and jostling trains don't mix well. They indulged in mutual hand jobs on a Ferris wheel while investigating the disappearance of a Chinese bicycle acrobat. The mysterious death of an archivist at the British Library saw John rubbing Sherlock to climax with his foot under a reading table. The media mogul escaped to Singapore before he could be arrested. And all of the rules remained in effect.
Then came the Rose Street case. It had been all over the news for weeks already, a series of horrific, sexually motivated killings perpetrated by a man and his wife over the course of several years. At least one of the victims was their own daughter. Sherlock and John weren't involved in the investigation and didn't expect to be; the couple had confessed, and nearly every evening there were reports of more remains having been discovered on one or other of the various properties they'd inhabited over the years.
John was surprised, therefore, when Lestrade sent a text requesting they go to the prison in Birmingham for a consultation. He wasn't on the case, but he'd been asked to arrange for Sherlock to review the tapes of some interviews with the husband, who was claiming to have buried up to a dozen victims in a remote field early in his 'career' but was either refusing or unable to disclose the exact location.
John didn't feel that this was a particularly good case for them, especially when he saw the spark of interest Sherlock evinced at the prospect of unravelling the killer's psyche.
They ended up being present when the police backhoe drove onto the field Sherlock deduced was most likely to be the right one.
John had to leave when the first skull appeared, several clumps of blond hair still attached and fastened with what had once been a glittery pink hair clip.
%%%%%
When John came out of the bathroom, Sherlock was standing at the window in the darkened living room, looking down at the street. His violin hung from one hand. John had heard him playing while he was in the shower, but it obviously hadn't helped. They had both changed as soon as they'd arrived back home. It had started to rain while they were there, and they both had mud from the burial field splashed on their trousers and shoes. John got as far as the kitchen in his bare feet and stopped, indecisive. There wasn't really anything he could say or do. Sherlock was probably doing better than he was. Which wasn't saying much. He should go up to his room. Read, or something. Maybe write. He wouldn't be sleeping anyway.
Sherlock stirred, perhaps in response to John's presence. He glanced over his shoulder and laid his violin quietly on the desk. As if he wasn't sure what to do with his hands anymore, he slung them around his middle and turned back to the street.
That was as much of a request as John was probably going to get. He padded over, navigating the cluttered room blindly in the dim light of the streetlights outside. He took up a position on the opposite side of the window from Sherlock. A car drove by below, slowly, as if the driver were looking for an address. John watched until it moved out of his field of vision.
Several minutes passed in silence, neither of them looking at the other.
"It was a bad one." John's voice came out rough. He cleared his throat.
Sherlock didn't respond.
"We've had bad ones before," John went on. "Look, you won't-" He sighed, frustrated. He forgot that he wanted to comfort Sherlock and gave voice to his own fears. "It's cases like this that make me wonder if any of it matters at all. If what we do makes any difference at all."
Sherlock frowned, still not moving. "Of course not. It's not about making a difference."
"I know it's not, for you. It's about the challenge and the stimulation." He said it without a trace of bitterness, maybe even with a touch of fondness.
Sherlock turned his head now. When he spoke, it was with undisguised impatience. "Does it matter? There will always be criminals, bad seeds, evil - if you believe in that kind of thing. People will always hurt each other. What we do, what Lestrade and the rest of the police do... Justice is an illusion," he said harshly. "It's not useful to think in those terms. That's one reason for their incompetence. They're looking for some way to restore an imaginary balance to the universe. They're only interested in finding what they want to find. They're blind to the truth."
John considered that for a bit before admitting, "There's something to that. But I can't think that way. I have to... " He shrugged and looked back down into the street. It was still raining and the street lights were reflected and refracted into thousands of shimmering dots. "I have to feel like it makes a difference."
"And if it doesn't?" Sherlock asked quietly. "Will you stop?"
John's chest tightened. He knew what Sherlock was asking. All the oddness between them lately... and now this case. John raised his eyes to meet Sherlock's. "No," he said finally. "Because I know it does make a difference." His heart was racing. He wasn't technically going to break any of the rules, but it didn't really seem to matter any more. He lifted his hand to brush Sherlock's. "For you. And for me. It makes a difference."
Sherlock shifted so that he was facing John. He caught John's fingers and held them there loosely. The rain on the windowpane cast speckled shadows on his face. He was in full observation mode, searching John's face for something, his eyes flicking back and forth like a laser pointer. John felt as if he were standing on an unprotected rock promontory overlooking an inhospitable and hostile desert, without a helmet or gear. Yet none of his instincts were telling him to pull back and seek cover. He let Sherlock's deductive powers blow through him and bleach him to the bone.
And then he stepped off the precipice. He stepped forward and put his arms around Sherlock, pulling him close. His body was warm and solid, and John could feel his heart thundering in his chest. Sherlock's arms wrapped around John's back, and the whole world narrowed down to the circle they created. Sherlock squeezed John tentatively at first, then harder, hard enough that John couldn't expand his lungs all the way. John squeezed back, so hard his muscles started to ache.
They stood like that for a long time, long enough for John's heart to slow again and for his feet to get cold in the draft seeping in around the old window frame. Sherlock inhaled deeply; a long sniffle. He rubbed his nose into John's hair (John hoped he was just rubbing it and not wiping it). His lips passed over the top of John's ear: not quite a kiss. John unclenched his hands - he hadn't realised he was holding them in fists against Sherlock's back - and spread his palms up Sherlock's shoulder blades. He turned his face into Sherlock's neck so that his mouth was against Sherlock's skin. Sherlock needed a shower. He smelled slightly sour. John didn't care. It was a good smell. It meant Sherlock was here and alive and didn't need to hide behind twenty-pound deodorant and two-thousand-pound suits.
John pressed a kiss to his neck there, then another, then another. He meant them as little reassurances, not as a prelude, and he was going to stop there. This wasn't really the time for sex, even aside from rule number three. But Sherlock responded by moving one hand up the back of John's neck into his hair and kissing him sloppily across his face until he reached his mouth. John let him, and kissed him back, but it was all a bit halfhearted. He couldn't tell whether Sherlock really wanted this right now, or if he was just trying to do what he thought John wanted. It was nice, though, the first time they'd kissed in a private space, no worry of being interrupted or caught. John was warming to it now, enjoying the novelty of feeling Sherlock's body through the thin layers of his dressing gown and t-shirt, unencumbered by the thick, stiff, formal layers of his usual going-out attire. When Sherlock brought one hand down, though, and insinuated it between them to cup John through his pyjama bottoms, John knew he had to stop. There was no way he- He couldn't, not tonight, not after what they'd seen.
John put a hand over Sherlock's and stilled it. "I can't, Sherlock. I'm sorry," he whispered.
Sherlock let go and took a step back. He ran a hand through his hair, looking anywhere but at John. "No, of course. Stupid of me."
John reached out to grab his hand before he could move away any further. "You're not stupid. And this isn't stupid." He squeezed Sherlock's hand for emphasis. "Just not tonight." He was afraid, though - no, he knew for a fact - that if he went up to bed now and left Sherlock to his usual devices down here, that by tomorrow the past twenty minutes would be packed away in a black box, never to be referred to again. Well, hell, he decided; they'd already broken almost every rule. Why not go for the hat trick?
John took a step toward the kitchen, still holding Sherlock's hand. "Come on," he said, tugging gently.
Slowly, as if in a dream - although John wasn't sure if it was his dream or Sherlock's - Sherlock went with him. John went through the kitchen, down the short hall, and opened the door to Sherlock's bedroom. It was closer and not as fraught with symbolism as going upstairs. John expected Sherlock to balk or at least hesitate anyway at this point, but he followed him straight in. John let go of his hand. He didn't turn the light on. He was probably making the worst mistake by doing this. His heart was pounding but he didn't turn around. Sherlock had to do the rest himself.
John went to Sherlock's bed and crawled across to the far side, pulled the covers back, and lay down under them. He put one arm behind his head and kept his gaze fixed on the ceiling. He heard the door close. For a moment, his stomach sank, but then he saw Sherlock's shadowy figure moving in the dark. The mattress dipped and then Sherlock was under the covers beside him. John rolled onto his side. He could just barely make out Sherlock's pale profile as he lay on his back. John reached down to grasp Sherlock's hand where it was resting at his side. He kissed his shoulder, then closed his eyes.
%%%%%%
A trumpet fanfare was playing. Even mostly asleep, John recognised it as Lestrade's text alert. John cracked an eye open. It was barely light out. He was momentarily disoriented by the unfamiliar curtains. The dark head on the pillow next to him brought everything back into focus. Sherlock was sprawled out on his stomach, his face turned away from John. Judging by the nearly complete lack of sound or movement, he was asleep.
John rubbed his eyes to clear them. They were sticky and dry; he hadn't slept well, although not, he didn't think, because of Sherlock. He sat up and looked around for Sherlock's phone. It must be in the room.
Sherlock's arm on the far side of the bed lifted up limply as if gesturing at something, then flopped back down. "Jacket," Sherlock mumbled.
John smiled to himself and slid out of bed to retrieve Sherlock's suit jacket from the day before from the back of the door. The phone was in the inside breast pocket. He got back into bed and settled himself against the headboard, his leg pressing against Sherlock's side.
"Code?" he asked. Sherlock told him, and he unlocked the phone and pulled up Lestrade's message. "'Have some news. Call me'," he read out.
Sherlock grunted. John took that as an order to do so. He poked the Call button.
"Sherlock?" Lestrade answered. He sounded both surprised and tired.
"John," John corrected him.
"Is himself there?"
"Yeah, he's right here, but he's still asleep. So if you have something new, give us a couple of hours."
Sherlock grunted, slightly louder than before. This time, John interpreted it as an affronted protest. He smiled and rested his free hand on Sherlock's back.
"Nothing new, sorry," Lestrade said. "I just wanted you to hear it from me before you turned on the news. That sick fuck offed himself last night."
A hollow opened up in the pit of John's stomach. "How-"
"Hung himself in his cell. They think he bribed one of the guards. Must have figured there wasn't any point any more once they found the rest of his victims. Makes me fucking sick."
"And the wife?"
"Still kicking. She's under suicide watch as well of course, but she was only ever charged as an accomplice. She's looking to be out by the end of the decade. Let him know he did good, though. At least those families will have some closure." John didn't have anything to say to that. Maybe, in a twisted way, a higher justice had been served after all.
"Thanks for letting us know, Greg," John said finally.
"Yeah. And take some time, John. I heard it was bad out there."
"It was. We'll be fine though."
John hung up and tossed the phone onto the night stand. Sherlock rotated his head to face him. John opened his mouth to speak, but Sherlock interrupted him.
"I heard."
John nodded. There wasn't really anything else to say. Sherlock moved closer until his forehead was pressed against John's hip, and put his arm over John's legs. John rested his hand on Sherlock's back and rubbed it gently. Was this part of their thing now? Was this a new thing? Was rule number one still in effect? Or any of the rules?
"You let Lestrade know we were in bed together," Sherlock said into the mattress.
John was nonplussed. "No, I didn't."
"You called him from my phone at six-thirty in the morning and told him I was sleeping next to you."
"I'm an early riser, you always make me send texts from your phone, and you could have been sleeping on the couch."
"He'll assume we were in bed together."
John sighed and kept his hand circling on Sherlock's back. "Yeah, you're probably right."
"That doesn't bother you." It was somewhere between a statement and a question.
"Everyone thinks we've been sleeping together for months," John pointed out.
"We have," Sherlock said after a beat.
John snorted, then burst out laughing. Halfway through, he realised that rule number one was officially off the table. He hoped the rest were on its heels.
Sherlock lifted his head to look intently at John. "No, I mean it really doesn't bother you. And this-" He lifted his arm briefly and dropped it again. "It's fine with you."
John smiled at him fondly, if a bit bewildered. "Yeah, it is. And no, it doesn't."
Sherlock sat up in a flurry of bedclothes. "What about not wanting anyone to see us together?"
John huffed incredulously. "I'm not exactly keen to be arrested for public indecency. You're the one who only wanted to do it in public."
Sherlock looked at him as if John had told him Anderson had been nominated for Met Employee of the Year. "What? No, I didn't!"
"Tell me one time you let me touch you inside the flat, aside from last night. That one time in the kitchen, you acted as if I were a hot coal, you were so quick to leave off."
"When-" Sherlock creased his forehead in thought. "You mean when you had concussion?"
"I didn't have concussion."
"You had concussion, and you needed rest, not engaging in activities that would raise your blood pressure. And, I was under the apparently false impression that you were only amenable when there was a risk factor present."
"Oh my God! I am not the one with the public sex kink. I thought you were. Or you were trying to give Mycroft a stroke, or something. What about in the theatre, during that serial killer film?"
"The Chicago one? It was interesting, John! I went to learn something, not to indulge in some..." Sherlock's face took on an expression of distaste. "...teenage groping session."
"So let me get this straight. You don't actually have any rules about not doing - you know -"
"Having sex, for God's sake, you can say it."
That gave John a bit of a turn, because he'd thought for the longest time that he really couldn't, that if he did talk about it, the whole thing would evaporate in a puff of violin rosin and gunpowder. "So there wasn't any rule about only having sex after a case, or outside the flat?"
"No!" Sherlock cried.
They stared at each other, then started to giggle.
"So it also wasn't some bizarre bonus package as remuneration for shooting people for you?" John asked, grinning madly.
"No," Sherlock said, still laughing and shaking his head.
John became more serious. Maybe he should let it go at that, but given the fantastic number of misunderstandings they'd been bumbling along with, it was probably best to get it all out now. "And why didn't... Why wouldn't you ever let me talk about it? That first night, I thought I was going insane. Or did I imagine that too?"
Sherlock's smile faded too. He looked down at his hands, picking at the bedsheet. "No, that was me being..." He exhaled slowly. "I thought you wanted to say you weren't gay and I should fuck off."
"Sherlock-"
"I know you would have said it more kindly, but …" He trailed off.
"Well, this is me now, being absolutely, brutally honest." John caught Sherlock's wandering hand between his and waited until Sherlock was looking at him. "I'm not gay, and you should fuck off if you think that's going to stop you and me from having the best, most incredible sex I've ever had in my life. Or yours, either."
"That's hardly going to be difficult, given that my entire sexual experience has taken place over the last two months."
John felt like someone had simultaneously socked him in the gut and told him he'd won the lottery. "Sherlock, fuck, you're kidding! Why didn't you say anything?" He frantically reviewed all of their encounters. There wasn't anything outstandingly terrible, but there were many times when he hadn't taken much care, when he'd been more focused on the outcome than on the process. The first two times especially, before he'd insisted on rule number four, made him cringe inwardly.
"I already told you why," Sherlock said. "And anyway, would you have acted any differently?"
"Of course I would have!"
"Then I'm glad I didn't. Because I wouldn't have wanted anything else."
John could tell that Sherlock was sincere. But that didn't mean he couldn't take the time and the care now to show Sherlock how special and important he was. "You may change your tune in a couple of hours." John leaned in to kiss him thoroughly. After a bit, a thought occurred to him: "We're keeping rule number four though."
"Rule number four?" Sherlock's mouth was red and just beginning to plump up. His hair was a mess, and he looked endearingly confused.
"Don't worry," John said with a smile as he leaned in again, "you're going to like it."
%%%%%%
End notes:
So, actually I made Sherlock a virgin but I didn't want to completely give that away at the beginning. Little white lie. Neener.
You can see the mnemonics for the cranial nerves, etc. here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_mnemonics_for_the_cranial_nerves.
The documentary about H. H. Holmes that I had in mind is H. H. Holmes: America's First Serial Killer. The official web page is here: www.hhholmesthefilm.com. I have never seen it but it won awards and it looked like the kind of thing Sherlock might enjoy.
I patterned the last case on the Fred and Rosemary West case, which is truly one of the most horrific things I ever heard of and is the basis of the excellent docudrama, Appropriate Adult, for which Dominic West won the 2012 Best Actor BAFTA, beating out Martin Freeman, who was nominated against him for his work in Sherlock. Fred West was being held in Winston Green prison in Birmingham when he hanged himself while under suicide watch. However, I do not mean for the perpetrators in this fic to be the Wests. I just used the idea, and Rose Street came from the name of Rosemary West. The actual killings were called the Cromwell Street murders.
Recipient: tetsubinatu
Author: swissmarg
Beta reader: mycapeisplaid
Verse: BBC
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/John
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 9K
Warnings: Mentions of sexual abuse and murder of minors, and real serial killers.
Summary: There must be rules to this new game Sherlock is playing. Right?
Notes: Dear Giftee: The parts of your sign-up post that I used are: BBC, John/Sherlock, explicit sexual content, sex without condoms/lube, (something that borders on) consensual humiliation (if you squint), John has a skill that surprises Sherlock (v. minor point but still), a bit of case stuff, some Lestrade but no Moriarty or Irene (but also no Mrs Hudson, sorry), and if you wanted Sherlock could be a virgin.
Things you didn't even know you wanted but are getting anyway: semi-public sex, a steampunk jellyfish, abuse of mnemonics, inappropriate Pavlovian responses to text alerts, and unexpected angst. Also: this started out lighthearted but took a pretty serious turn at the end. Please heed the warnings.
Working Hypothesis
This was new, John thought as Sherlock crowded him back against the sink and squeezed his cock through his jeans. Not the cock-squeezing. That was fairly old hat by now. No, it was the fact that they were still in the middle of an investigation, and there was no case-related reason for them to be going at it in the bathroom of a media mogul's mansion. In fact, it was directly contrary to their plan.
John was actually meant to be flirting with the mogul's girlfriend, distracting her so that Sherlock could pick-pocket her phone. John had been doing rather well, he thought, especially given that the girlfriend in question was twenty-three and the reigning Miss Natural Wales. But just as he'd leaned in to confide something in her ear and enjoy a noseful of her scent, Sherlock had - rather than slipping a hand into the beaded handbag dangling from her shoulder - inserted himself between them with some nonsense about John being needed for a medical emergency, and dragged him off.
And now here they were, in blatant violation of rule number two, Sherlock plundering John's mouth and giving every indication that he meant to take this encounter to its logical conclusion. In fact, unless another precedent was about to be set, both of them were going to have a rather damp and uncomfortable ride home. The only circumstance under which they didn't both get off was when they were interrupted by a third party, and it became impossible to continue.
That happened less often than one might think, given that these sorts of things generally occurred immediately following the conclusion of a case, frequently within shouting distance of various Met officers. Sometimes in a cab on the way home, but then they had to be very quiet if they didn't want to be tossed out. (That had only happened once, and they'd had to finish behind a skip in an alley next to a fitness studio. The whole time, the voice of an aerobics instructor had drifted out through an open window somewhere, calling out 'back and forth now' and 'keep it up' and 'faster, faster'. John was gasping with more laughter than arousal by the time he came.)
Once, they'd been interrupted by a technician after Sherlock overrode the electronic steering system and caused a hotel lift to jam. Sherlock insisted they'd have at least half an hour before the repair service arrived; he hadn't reckoned with there already being a crew on the premises for scheduled maintenance. Lestrade was waiting in the lobby to take them to the Yard to complete the paperwork on the case, and John had to go directly to work from there. So that had ended anticlimactically, pun intended.
And now here they were, getting each other off in the middle of an investigation rather than at the end of one, which was unsettlingly new. It might lead to deviations from the regular pattern in other ways as well. John thought that would be a rather disappointing development, so he took his hands off Sherlock's arse and fumbled blindly with his trouser fastenings as an invitation to move things forward. Sherlock's throaty vocalisations of encouragement suggested to John that he was on the right track. He finally got the blasted hook and bar undone (having it tucked inside the waistband was clearly a design flaw) and pulled the zip down far enough to get his hand around the by now thick bulge in Sherlock's pants.
John would have liked to ask if Sherlock wanted his hand or his mouth, but he had learned early on that any attempts at speaking that went beyond mindless encouragement or exclamations of pleasure would be smothered by means of Sherlock's tongue making an even more thorough study of his mouth. Which was nice too, no complaints.
So, making an executive decision based on the fact that the tile floor was unlikely to do his knees any favours, John stroked firmly up and down Sherlock's length and underneath to cup and roll his testicles. He kept his other hand on the back of Sherlock's neck so he could take over control of the kiss, slowing it down and making it more about playing with each other's lips than oral spelunking. Sherlock was admirably distracted, as evidenced by his increasingly less coordinated movements over John's groin.
That didn't bother John in the least; in fact, he was better able to concentrate on Sherlock this way. He still wasn't sure what Sherlock got out of these interludes - other than sexual gratification, but there was no way to tell whether that was even something Sherlock was aiming for. It could just as well be that he was carrying on some long and involved experiment with John either as the test subject or the control group. Or somehow using it to get up Mycroft's nose (which would explain rule number three, for the most part).
But for John, although the sexual release was intensely pleasurable, the more important part was being able to do something for Sherlock, to make him feel good (he clearly enjoyed it, no matter his reasons), to show him how high his regard and how deep his devotion was. He wouldn't go as far as to say 'love' because the way they were didn't really fall into any categories John was used to dealing with, but there were definitely emotions involved. In any case, it was why he'd instituted rule number four.
Once Sherlock was good and hard and his hips were jerking forward automatically and John could almost hear 'please' mixed in between the panting and the kisses, he slipped his hand inside Sherlock's pants. Everything was slightly damp already from sweat, just enough to be sticky but not enough to give a good slide. It probably would have been better if he had something to use as a lubricant, but he didn't want to go rifling through the medicine cabinet at the moment. It occurred to him that one or the other of them should probably carry a couple of sachets of lube from now on, given the semi-regularity with which this seemed to happen. He could go for oral stimulation after all, but quite honestly the idea of putting a sweaty cock into his mouth wasn't all that appealing. He preferred to start with it clean and dry.
John was nothing if not resourceful, however, and he had some experience now with what Sherlock liked. Firmer was better, and stimulating the corona gave especially good results. His nipples were also gratifyingly responsive, although more difficult to access when he was wearing one of his fitted shirts, as was the case tonight. And John didn't want to give up the advantage of keeping one hand at the back of Sherlock's head, stroking the corner of his jaw with his thumb.
Sherlock certainly wasn't finding fault with anything John was doing, so John kept pumping, making sure to give the head plenty of attention and swiping down to tease Sherlock's balls every few seconds. After a couple of minutes, his arm was getting tired and his wrist was in danger of cramping from the angle. The way Sherlock was leaning into him, though, one hand pressed languidly, almost possessively, against John's erection and the other up the back of his jacket, splayed against his back, tapped into a spot inside him that he wasn't sure he wanted to own up to. But it set loose a surge of protective tenderness and fierce determination to make this something that would touch Sherlock - if not in the same way it did John, then at least in some manner that he could appreciate and value.
John whispered some banal but genuinely meant words of encouragement when he sensed that Sherlock was getting close, then held him tight and pressed his cheek against Sherlock's when he went stiff and silent, moving his hand as fast as he could until Sherlock came and he started breathing again. When the aftershocks had passed as well, John pulled his hand out and wiped it perfunctorily on the hand towel hanging next to the sink.
Sherlock had his eyes closed and was breathing hard through his nose, hunched over with his forehead braced against John's temple. John pulled him close with a one-armed embrace and kissed him gently at the corner of the mouth. He wished he knew what Sherlock was thinking or feeling at times like this. It always took him a few moments to come back to himself. John's cock was heavy and insistent, but honestly it would have been okay if they just cleaned up and went back out at this point.
Sherlock, though, had internalised rule number four, and maybe it was as important for him as it was for John, so he didn't say anything when Sherlock finally opened his eyes, gave him a deep kiss that left him breathless, pulled a bath towel down from the shower rack and dropped it, folded, onto the floor, then settled himself on it in front of John. Without looking up, he efficiently opened John's jeans and John helped wriggle them and his pants down to his knees.
John's cock was deep red and the tip was smeared with pre-ejaculate. He almost wanted to offer to give it a quick wipe with a wet flannel, but he felt that would be breaking rule number one, and anyway he was sure that Sherlock would have done it himself if it bothered him. He hadn't had any qualms about using a sanitising towelette on John when he'd cornered him in the loo at Scotland Yard after he'd taken a leak at the end of the Case of the Reverent Patient (or so it ended up being titled on his blog).
John didn't think he'd ever get over the thrill of seeing that dark head with the wickedly clever mouth move forward to engulf his cock. At the first sensation of warm wetness, John groaned and dropped his head back, bracing himself against the sink with both hands. He honestly had no idea how much experience Sherlock had in doing this, or whether he practiced or did research on his own. It had been good the first time, at any rate, and it only seemed to get better. John wasn't really the type of person to worry too much about the hows and wherefores anyway. As long as they were both getting pleasure out of it, Sherlock could stand on his head or get tips from the backs of cereal boxes for all John cared.
Sherlock started out moving his head and mouth and holding John's hips in place, but after a while (maybe he was getting tired) he held still and pressed John's buttocks forward to indicate that John should take over the action, effectively fucking his mouth. They'd done this once before, and honestly, John wasn't entirely comfortable with it; not just because of the anxiety that he'd go too far and choke Sherlock, but because it gave him the feeling he was using or demeaning Sherlock somehow.
This was one of the times he really wished he could say something, but he knew that rule number one was there for a very good reason. He hadn't entirely understood why, but he knew that if he broke it, a good many other things would be broken as well. Not just the mood of the moment, but the fragile alternate dimension that allowed them to interact in this way, and quite possibly their entire friendship.
He would have to make his point another way. As John didn't want Sherlock to feel that he was rejecting him or his offers of physical intimacy in any way, he started thrusting very gently and carefully. At the same time, he laid one hand softly on Sherlock's head, barely petting his hair and giving innocuous praise such as 'that's gorgeous' and 'perfect'.
The slower pace changed the dynamic of the encounter from a frantic scrabble to get each other off to something more intimate and, frankly, overwhelming. Sherlock had his eyes closed, a slight frown on his face that might have come from intense concentration or something more poignant. Inexplicably, John felt an unwelcome tightening in his throat that was accompanied by a surge of desire which caught him off guard and very nearly sent him over the edge without warning.
"Oh God, that's- please, come up here, please," he pleaded breathlessly and stopped moving. He hoped that wasn't too much. He more than half expected Sherlock to dig in his fingers and insist on finishing from where he was, but after two more thorough sucks, Sherlock pulled himself to his feet and leaned against John again, nestling his mouth against John's ear and wrapping his hand around John's straining cock.
"Like this?" he asked, low, and John could have sobbed from relief that they were at least making this much progress on the communication front.
"Yeah, perfect." John nuzzled his face against Sherlock's collar, inundating his nostrils with the complex scent there.
Then he closed his eyes too, and he could almost imagine they were at home, in their own bathroom on Baker Street, and that afterward they would smile and kiss and help each other clean up and then go into the kitchen and have some tea together; or Sherlock might go sit at his desk and do something of dubious legality on his laptop while John relaxed in his chair just an arm's reach away with a medical journal or some mindless novel. And later still, they might- (John didn't allow himself to complete that thought, because it would never happen and it was stupid anyway).
Sherlock's hand on John felt nearly as good as his mouth, and it was only another couple of minutes before John was grunting quietly against Sherlock's shoulder and feeling like his legs had turned to rubber.
Sherlock took a step back, and John all but collapsed onto the lid of the toilet. He felt like he'd run forty blocks. Sherlock had somehow managed to catch most of John's ejaculate in his hand, so John didn't have to do anything more than wipe himself off with some toilet paper. When Sherlock was done at the sink, John felt enough circulation had returned to his legs that they could bear his weight. He tried to convince his mind and body he'd just stepped into the loo for a moment to freshen up. It was the only way not to slip up and do something stupid like lean in for one more quick kiss.
"So are we going to try for her phone again?" John asked as he washed his hands.
Sherlock dabbed at his semen-stained shirt with the corner of a wet flannel. John averted his eyes. Viewing the evidence of what they'd done somehow seemed too close to acknowledging it after the fact.
"Won't be necessary," Sherlock said. He gave up on the shirt and tossed the flannel into the sink, then buttoned his jacket to cover the worst of it.
"What- Why?" John asked with a stirring of righteous indignation edging out some of the post-orgasmic haze his brain tended to get stuck in. He was starting to suspect that the entire evening was a set-up of some kind.
Sherlock reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a phone that John didn't recognise. He flipped it over and caught it again.
"Is that- When did you pinch that?"
"When I excused us from Miss Unnatural Blonde's presence." He started tapping at the phone, his attention already diverted.
John gave Sherlock a curious look. Was that what this was about? Was Sherlock - somehow, inconceivably - jealous? John hadn't really been interested in the woman. The attention was flattering, but that was it. He wasn't the type of person who could carry on two relationships at the same time. Not that he was exactly sure what it was that he and Sherlock were involved in. He picked up the flannel from the sink between thumb and forefinger, along with the hand towel he'd soiled earlier, and stuffed them into the laundry hamper in the corner.
"All right. Ready?" John asked.
"I just need to email myself these pictures." Sherlock's fingers flew over the surface of the phone. A few more instructions, then he wiped the device thoroughly and dropped it behind the toilet.
"Not going to try and return it?"
"It's easier this way. Someone will find it. She'll think she dropped it when she was in here earlier."
Ah. So maybe the case had actually been over from Sherlock's point of view before they- Right. That made John feel a bit better. At least he wouldn't have to revise the rules again.
"Home then?" John asked hopefully. He could use an early night, as he needed to be at the clinic at eight the following morning.
"God no," Sherlock said, looking at John as if he were the last idiot. (Which, apparently, he was.) "All we have now is the motive. We still need to prove our suspect was at home and not at the club as he says. How's your sign language?"
It was a testament to the continual series of loops that Sherlock threw John for that he didn't even blink, and was able to answer without hesitating, "Not that good, I'm afraid. I can do the alphabet, a few simple phrases, that's it."
Sherlock paused with his hand on the door handle and looked back at John in surprise. "Really? That's more than I expected. We'll have to work on it sometime, but for now we'll make do. Follow me."
He swept out into the hall, ignoring the two women waiting outside for their turn in the toilet. John couldn't quite help catching the raised eyebrows they sent his way, but just shrugged and chased after Sherlock, thinking he never really did anything but.
%%%%%
John had figured out rule number one almost immediately. It didn't really take a genius to take the hint that when every attempt at asking 'What the hell, Sherlock?' or 'What's this in aid of?' or, again, 'What the hell?' was pre-empted by Sherlock's mouth covering his, it meant that he should shut up and go with it.
The very first time of course, he reckoned it was part of a cover (although the killer - 'hit man, boring', was how Sherlock put it - had just been arrested and was in the process of being carted away right outside, so he wasn't quite sure who they were putting on the act for). They had pretended to be boyfriends a couple of times before, and actually had to snog once in a bar in the course of an investigation, so John wasn't completely unfamiliar with the feel of Sherlock's body against his. The hand down his pants was another matter.
John, game as ever, held out stoically as long as he could, mentally reciting the cranial nerves and their functions, followed by the skull foramina associated with each. He was doing well enough with Oh, Oh, Oh, To Touch And Feel Virgin Girl's Vagina And Hymen (which was an excellent distraction from what Sherlock was doing to his foreskin, in more ways than one) and easily breezed through Some Say Marry Money, But My Brother Says Big Breasts Matter Most (words to live by, in his opinion, until he stuttered remembering the alternate version said Big Brains were what counted), but he only got as far as Come Over Soon Soon Soon before the combination of Sherlock's breath in his ear, his thumb in John's mouth, and the incessant build-up of friction on his penis made him do just that. Any thought of Riding On Some Intense Internal vaJJJ dissolved in the warm puddle of semen he'd just deposited in his pants.
And that was that, really. Moments later, Sherlock was charging out the door of the hit man's house and John was scrambling to straighten out his clothing and hope the damp spot didn't soak through before he got home.
Sherlock had absconded by the time John made it out to the main road (he was waylaid by Lestrade to receive instructions on where and and when Sherlock was to appear to fill out his report; John had never been more grateful for the combination of late night raids and poor lighting in London's residential areas). When he got home, Sherlock was already holed up in his room, but this was serious.
John knocked on the door, and entered when there was no answer. Sherlock was standing on his bed, wearing his chemistry goggles and fiddling with what looked like a jellyfish made of plastic tubing and electrical wire hanging from the ceiling.
John put his fists on his hips. "Mind telling me what that was about?"
"Pliers." Sherlock held his hand out peremptorily.
John looked around and spotted some tools scattered across the bedspread at Sherlock's feet. He gave Sherlock the pliers.
"In the house back there. At the end." He was determined not to leave without an explanation.
"I'll need the fuses off for a couple of hours. You might as well go to bed." Sherlock twisted and pulled at the jumble overhead until a blue spark arced across it with a crackle.
"Jesus Christ, Sherlock, I swear to God if you burn me to death in my bed-"
"Fuses, John. On your way up. Take a torch."
John had already turned toward the door before he realised what had just happened. Rule number one.
He tried to broach the subject again the next day, but Sherlock actually did an about-face and walked out of the flat. He didn't come back until six hours later, eyeing John skittishly. John received the message.
%%%%%
Rule number two took a bit longer. First, John had to figure out that this was going to be a recurring thing and not just a bizarre one-off. It wasn't like Sherlock was jumping him at the conclusion of every case. A couple of weeks went by with no repeat performance, and John was ready to file it away with the head in the fridge and the bagpipes at four in the morning as an infuriating but ultimately harmless attempt on Sherlock's part at seeing how far he could push John.
Then came the Case of the Reverent Patient. The killer was a resident of a managed care facility who fancied herself an angel of death and had concealed poison in the beads of her rosary. She used them to dose any other residents she deemed to be suffering, occasionally with but more often without their knowledge. No one was even suspicious yet, until John was called in to cover for the usual staff doctor for two weeks. During that time, two deaths occurred that didn't sit right with him. The killer must have felt he was asking too many pointed questions, and dropped a rosary bead in his tea. He ended up in hospital, but the activated charcoal he was given took care of the problem with no major harm done. Sherlock of course unravelled the entire plot in minutes, and it was when they went to the Yard to give their final statements the next day that the blow job in the loo occurred.
John thought then, as Sherlock manhandled him into a stall and - in a rather endearingly clumsy way - fumbled over his belt, that this might just be his way of saying he was glad John was all right. John hadn't made the connection previously, but he had been held at gunpoint by the hit man during the case a couple of weeks ago. It wasn't as if that was the first time something like that had happened, but maybe this was a phase Sherlock was going through, like the fortnight during which he'd only get into the third cab that stopped for him. John figured it would be easier to just go with it than to make a fuss.
And anyway, holy hell was Sherlock good at giving head.
Later, when John emerged from the fuzz of oxytocin and serotonin, he thought he was really going to have to break rule number one. Although he hadn't ejaculated into Sherlock's mouth (Sherlock had pulled off and stood up to kiss him through completion via manual stimulation), he hadn't been tested since his last girlfriend. He was all ready to give Sherlock a lecture on safe sex practices (maybe the man honestly had no idea), but decided it would be better to get the actual testing done first, both so he had something in hand to shake in Sherlock's face and to calm his own mind. What was done was done, and getting worked up about it wouldn't change anything if he did turn out to be infected with something.
When the results came back negative two days later, John wavered. He still needed to say something, he knew that, but rule number one loomed large. Any conversation on the topic would be awkward at best and open up a huge can of worms at least. In the end, he settled for laying a copy of his test results on Sherlock's laptop along with two condoms and a brochure on STDs. Not another word was said, but three days later, he received an email report from a laboratory with a similar blood work-up, patient name S. Holmes.
John therefore extrapolated his initial version of rule number two from the hit man and the poisoning. Only he should have remembered the adage about the pattern only becoming apparent after the third iteration, because it turned out it wasn't just threats to John's life that triggered Sherlock's amorous side. That became clear when Sherlock cracked a human trafficking case that didn't involve any greater danger to John than a whopping great headache from reading through months of financial transactions. The arrest was a dignified affair that went down in a gentleman's club. The heated exchange of kisses and the hand job in the assistant manager's office was somewhat less so.
That was also where John instituted rule number four, although at the time it was only the third rule he knew of. He simply wasn't comfortable with being on the receiving end without being able to reciprocate any more (not that he ever really had been), and when Sherlock stuck his hand down the front of John's trousers, John responded in kind, giving Sherlock a look that dared him to say anything. Sherlock paused briefly but - rule number one - couldn't exactly protest, and they jerked each other off in an unfamiliar but ultimately satisfactory tangle of arms and elbows.
Later, John thought maybe that was what Sherlock had been aiming for all along; the emailed screening results certainly said that he had at least considered the possibility. Had John been an insensitive clod all this time? On the other hand, Sherlock was the one who always fled immediately after getting John off. He'd never given John the opportunity to return the favour. That was going to change.
Rule number two, though, appeared to be clear now. Maybe Sherlock considered it to be the equivalent of a slap on the back to say 'job well done', or maybe he'd decided to reward John with a bonus incentive package after so and so many months of loyal service. John still felt like he should really, really say something. Maybe along the lines of 'I appreciate the gesture, but a nice bottle of wine would do the trick too'.
The thing was, he secretly (all right, not so secretly) was starting to look forward to it. So much so that he caught himself looking up eagerly whenever the trumpet fanfare of Lestrade's text alert sounded on Sherlock's phone. And, yes, his cock might have tingled too. He was a bit disgusted at how Pavlovian it was. But when he went so far as to call Mycroft to ask if his contacts at Interpol mightn't have something for them when they'd gone five days without a case, he knew he had to stop kidding himself. This thing with Sherlock, it was fun. It was risky and dirty and completely insane. He still wasn't gay. They still weren't boyfriends. Being in official denial about it was freeing.
And, he found out on their next case (three days after calling Mycroft, so he'd gone just over a week without sex and he was feeling the itch), he could also initiate. It was a rather pedestrian domestic spat gone sour and staged to look like an accidental beheading by the garage door. Sherlock saw through the ruse within minutes, based on the man's shoes: 'He would never have walked through that patch of oil in those, they're bespoke from Foster and Son'. The husband was arrested on the spot, and John was hopeful for a bit of say-no-more, but even he saw that it really wasn't practical what with it being the middle of a bright, sunny day and the house swarming with forensics.
They were already in the cab and he was resigned to a long, hard ride back from Harrow when he caught sight of Sherlock's fingers curling and uncurling on his thigh. John thought of those fingers around his cock. He looked up. Sherlock was in perfect profile, watching the road through the plexiglas divider. His lips were slightly parted, and as John watched, Sherlock curved his lower lip in briefly to wet it. John thought of that lip between his teeth. He discovered that his body was already tilting to the right like a flower toward the sun. He fancied he could smell Sherlock's cologne. No, he could. Definitely.
He glanced at the front seat. The radio was playing a Middle Eastern pop song and the driver was on his mobile, chatting away in Urdu. All John knew how to say in Urdu was 'Drop your weapon' and 'I don't need another goat' (it was a long story). The driver didn't seem to be talking about either firearms or livestock, but he was distracted well enough.
John inched closer until he could reach Sherlock's lap. It was his right hand, but it would have to do. He kept his eyes forward, ready to freeze should the driver check the rear-view mirror. John was prepared for Sherlock to turn away, but at the first graze of his knuckles over Sherlock's crotch, Sherlock slid down lower in the seat and spread his knees. John struggled to keep his expression absolutely neutral. He rubbed and squeezed over the material until he felt Sherlock thickening. Sherlock, meanwhile, pulled the hanging tail of his long coat up to cover his lap and John's hand. John had to adjust his own position by this time to give himself more room to expand as well. He somehow managed to get Sherlock's zip opened enough to get his fingers through the gap.
That was the time they ended up behind the fitness studio.
So, again, no danger, yet sex. John wondered whether this were actually a general thing now and had nothing to do with the cases after all. Perhaps it was the thrill of possible discovery. So far it had only ever happened outside the flat. But an awkward attempt at another grope during a screening of a documentary about the American serial murderer, H. H. Holmes, put an end to that theory. No, it really seemed to be related to solving a case. Rule number two.
At least until the medial mogul case. At which point lines became very blurry and subsequent events led to a complete paradigm shift. But that was later.
The codification in John's mind of rule number three (the real one) followed soon after he thought he'd settled rule number two, causing an internal renumbering as it actually preceded the one he'd imposed. The flat was apparently off-limits, even after a case, as became clear following the ill-fated kitchen encounter.
It started out well enough. They had just arrived home after getting checked over at the hospital following the apprehension of a man who had killed his business partner, then impersonated him for several months. The final confrontation was on a boat, and somehow John got hit on the head and knocked overboard. Sherlock dove in after him. They were both fine aside from a whopping headache on John's part, but he had a handful of pills and was just going to make himself some warm milk and head to bed.
He was standing at the stove, watching the saucepan, when he heard Sherlock come into the kitchen behind him. He didn't really pay much attention until he realised there were no further footsteps, cupboards or drawers being opened, or furniture being shifted. He turned around, only to find Sherlock so close behind him that John's shoulder brushed Sherlock's chest as he turned. He didn't know whether Sherlock was standing that close on purpose, or whether he'd been on his way to get something from the counter and John had just caught him at an unlucky angle. Either way, they ended up with John's nose in Sherlock's shoulder and Sherlock's arm around John's back, and then they were hugging and John could have sworn he felt Sherlock kiss his ear.
For the briefest, briefest moment John's heart did a kind of twisty thing and he slipped into that zone of absolute calm and thunderous call to action that only came over him in life-or-death situations. The next moment, there was a hissing from the stove and John jerked around to see the milk frothing over. He shoved the pan back and turned the burner off, but when he looked up again, Sherlock was gone, leaving him alone with the scent of burnt milk in his nostrils and rule number three.
%%%%%%
Several weeks went by. There were cases, and there were lulls. They took a private case in Bath that ended disappointingly (for Sherlock, at least) when the supposed kidnapping victim came back of her own accord to deliver divorce papers to her husband. John got Sherlock to join him in the train loo on the way back to London to cheer him up. They discovered that oral sex and jostling trains don't mix well. They indulged in mutual hand jobs on a Ferris wheel while investigating the disappearance of a Chinese bicycle acrobat. The mysterious death of an archivist at the British Library saw John rubbing Sherlock to climax with his foot under a reading table. The media mogul escaped to Singapore before he could be arrested. And all of the rules remained in effect.
Then came the Rose Street case. It had been all over the news for weeks already, a series of horrific, sexually motivated killings perpetrated by a man and his wife over the course of several years. At least one of the victims was their own daughter. Sherlock and John weren't involved in the investigation and didn't expect to be; the couple had confessed, and nearly every evening there were reports of more remains having been discovered on one or other of the various properties they'd inhabited over the years.
John was surprised, therefore, when Lestrade sent a text requesting they go to the prison in Birmingham for a consultation. He wasn't on the case, but he'd been asked to arrange for Sherlock to review the tapes of some interviews with the husband, who was claiming to have buried up to a dozen victims in a remote field early in his 'career' but was either refusing or unable to disclose the exact location.
John didn't feel that this was a particularly good case for them, especially when he saw the spark of interest Sherlock evinced at the prospect of unravelling the killer's psyche.
They ended up being present when the police backhoe drove onto the field Sherlock deduced was most likely to be the right one.
John had to leave when the first skull appeared, several clumps of blond hair still attached and fastened with what had once been a glittery pink hair clip.
%%%%%
When John came out of the bathroom, Sherlock was standing at the window in the darkened living room, looking down at the street. His violin hung from one hand. John had heard him playing while he was in the shower, but it obviously hadn't helped. They had both changed as soon as they'd arrived back home. It had started to rain while they were there, and they both had mud from the burial field splashed on their trousers and shoes. John got as far as the kitchen in his bare feet and stopped, indecisive. There wasn't really anything he could say or do. Sherlock was probably doing better than he was. Which wasn't saying much. He should go up to his room. Read, or something. Maybe write. He wouldn't be sleeping anyway.
Sherlock stirred, perhaps in response to John's presence. He glanced over his shoulder and laid his violin quietly on the desk. As if he wasn't sure what to do with his hands anymore, he slung them around his middle and turned back to the street.
That was as much of a request as John was probably going to get. He padded over, navigating the cluttered room blindly in the dim light of the streetlights outside. He took up a position on the opposite side of the window from Sherlock. A car drove by below, slowly, as if the driver were looking for an address. John watched until it moved out of his field of vision.
Several minutes passed in silence, neither of them looking at the other.
"It was a bad one." John's voice came out rough. He cleared his throat.
Sherlock didn't respond.
"We've had bad ones before," John went on. "Look, you won't-" He sighed, frustrated. He forgot that he wanted to comfort Sherlock and gave voice to his own fears. "It's cases like this that make me wonder if any of it matters at all. If what we do makes any difference at all."
Sherlock frowned, still not moving. "Of course not. It's not about making a difference."
"I know it's not, for you. It's about the challenge and the stimulation." He said it without a trace of bitterness, maybe even with a touch of fondness.
Sherlock turned his head now. When he spoke, it was with undisguised impatience. "Does it matter? There will always be criminals, bad seeds, evil - if you believe in that kind of thing. People will always hurt each other. What we do, what Lestrade and the rest of the police do... Justice is an illusion," he said harshly. "It's not useful to think in those terms. That's one reason for their incompetence. They're looking for some way to restore an imaginary balance to the universe. They're only interested in finding what they want to find. They're blind to the truth."
John considered that for a bit before admitting, "There's something to that. But I can't think that way. I have to... " He shrugged and looked back down into the street. It was still raining and the street lights were reflected and refracted into thousands of shimmering dots. "I have to feel like it makes a difference."
"And if it doesn't?" Sherlock asked quietly. "Will you stop?"
John's chest tightened. He knew what Sherlock was asking. All the oddness between them lately... and now this case. John raised his eyes to meet Sherlock's. "No," he said finally. "Because I know it does make a difference." His heart was racing. He wasn't technically going to break any of the rules, but it didn't really seem to matter any more. He lifted his hand to brush Sherlock's. "For you. And for me. It makes a difference."
Sherlock shifted so that he was facing John. He caught John's fingers and held them there loosely. The rain on the windowpane cast speckled shadows on his face. He was in full observation mode, searching John's face for something, his eyes flicking back and forth like a laser pointer. John felt as if he were standing on an unprotected rock promontory overlooking an inhospitable and hostile desert, without a helmet or gear. Yet none of his instincts were telling him to pull back and seek cover. He let Sherlock's deductive powers blow through him and bleach him to the bone.
And then he stepped off the precipice. He stepped forward and put his arms around Sherlock, pulling him close. His body was warm and solid, and John could feel his heart thundering in his chest. Sherlock's arms wrapped around John's back, and the whole world narrowed down to the circle they created. Sherlock squeezed John tentatively at first, then harder, hard enough that John couldn't expand his lungs all the way. John squeezed back, so hard his muscles started to ache.
They stood like that for a long time, long enough for John's heart to slow again and for his feet to get cold in the draft seeping in around the old window frame. Sherlock inhaled deeply; a long sniffle. He rubbed his nose into John's hair (John hoped he was just rubbing it and not wiping it). His lips passed over the top of John's ear: not quite a kiss. John unclenched his hands - he hadn't realised he was holding them in fists against Sherlock's back - and spread his palms up Sherlock's shoulder blades. He turned his face into Sherlock's neck so that his mouth was against Sherlock's skin. Sherlock needed a shower. He smelled slightly sour. John didn't care. It was a good smell. It meant Sherlock was here and alive and didn't need to hide behind twenty-pound deodorant and two-thousand-pound suits.
John pressed a kiss to his neck there, then another, then another. He meant them as little reassurances, not as a prelude, and he was going to stop there. This wasn't really the time for sex, even aside from rule number three. But Sherlock responded by moving one hand up the back of John's neck into his hair and kissing him sloppily across his face until he reached his mouth. John let him, and kissed him back, but it was all a bit halfhearted. He couldn't tell whether Sherlock really wanted this right now, or if he was just trying to do what he thought John wanted. It was nice, though, the first time they'd kissed in a private space, no worry of being interrupted or caught. John was warming to it now, enjoying the novelty of feeling Sherlock's body through the thin layers of his dressing gown and t-shirt, unencumbered by the thick, stiff, formal layers of his usual going-out attire. When Sherlock brought one hand down, though, and insinuated it between them to cup John through his pyjama bottoms, John knew he had to stop. There was no way he- He couldn't, not tonight, not after what they'd seen.
John put a hand over Sherlock's and stilled it. "I can't, Sherlock. I'm sorry," he whispered.
Sherlock let go and took a step back. He ran a hand through his hair, looking anywhere but at John. "No, of course. Stupid of me."
John reached out to grab his hand before he could move away any further. "You're not stupid. And this isn't stupid." He squeezed Sherlock's hand for emphasis. "Just not tonight." He was afraid, though - no, he knew for a fact - that if he went up to bed now and left Sherlock to his usual devices down here, that by tomorrow the past twenty minutes would be packed away in a black box, never to be referred to again. Well, hell, he decided; they'd already broken almost every rule. Why not go for the hat trick?
John took a step toward the kitchen, still holding Sherlock's hand. "Come on," he said, tugging gently.
Slowly, as if in a dream - although John wasn't sure if it was his dream or Sherlock's - Sherlock went with him. John went through the kitchen, down the short hall, and opened the door to Sherlock's bedroom. It was closer and not as fraught with symbolism as going upstairs. John expected Sherlock to balk or at least hesitate anyway at this point, but he followed him straight in. John let go of his hand. He didn't turn the light on. He was probably making the worst mistake by doing this. His heart was pounding but he didn't turn around. Sherlock had to do the rest himself.
John went to Sherlock's bed and crawled across to the far side, pulled the covers back, and lay down under them. He put one arm behind his head and kept his gaze fixed on the ceiling. He heard the door close. For a moment, his stomach sank, but then he saw Sherlock's shadowy figure moving in the dark. The mattress dipped and then Sherlock was under the covers beside him. John rolled onto his side. He could just barely make out Sherlock's pale profile as he lay on his back. John reached down to grasp Sherlock's hand where it was resting at his side. He kissed his shoulder, then closed his eyes.
%%%%%%
A trumpet fanfare was playing. Even mostly asleep, John recognised it as Lestrade's text alert. John cracked an eye open. It was barely light out. He was momentarily disoriented by the unfamiliar curtains. The dark head on the pillow next to him brought everything back into focus. Sherlock was sprawled out on his stomach, his face turned away from John. Judging by the nearly complete lack of sound or movement, he was asleep.
John rubbed his eyes to clear them. They were sticky and dry; he hadn't slept well, although not, he didn't think, because of Sherlock. He sat up and looked around for Sherlock's phone. It must be in the room.
Sherlock's arm on the far side of the bed lifted up limply as if gesturing at something, then flopped back down. "Jacket," Sherlock mumbled.
John smiled to himself and slid out of bed to retrieve Sherlock's suit jacket from the day before from the back of the door. The phone was in the inside breast pocket. He got back into bed and settled himself against the headboard, his leg pressing against Sherlock's side.
"Code?" he asked. Sherlock told him, and he unlocked the phone and pulled up Lestrade's message. "'Have some news. Call me'," he read out.
Sherlock grunted. John took that as an order to do so. He poked the Call button.
"Sherlock?" Lestrade answered. He sounded both surprised and tired.
"John," John corrected him.
"Is himself there?"
"Yeah, he's right here, but he's still asleep. So if you have something new, give us a couple of hours."
Sherlock grunted, slightly louder than before. This time, John interpreted it as an affronted protest. He smiled and rested his free hand on Sherlock's back.
"Nothing new, sorry," Lestrade said. "I just wanted you to hear it from me before you turned on the news. That sick fuck offed himself last night."
A hollow opened up in the pit of John's stomach. "How-"
"Hung himself in his cell. They think he bribed one of the guards. Must have figured there wasn't any point any more once they found the rest of his victims. Makes me fucking sick."
"And the wife?"
"Still kicking. She's under suicide watch as well of course, but she was only ever charged as an accomplice. She's looking to be out by the end of the decade. Let him know he did good, though. At least those families will have some closure." John didn't have anything to say to that. Maybe, in a twisted way, a higher justice had been served after all.
"Thanks for letting us know, Greg," John said finally.
"Yeah. And take some time, John. I heard it was bad out there."
"It was. We'll be fine though."
John hung up and tossed the phone onto the night stand. Sherlock rotated his head to face him. John opened his mouth to speak, but Sherlock interrupted him.
"I heard."
John nodded. There wasn't really anything else to say. Sherlock moved closer until his forehead was pressed against John's hip, and put his arm over John's legs. John rested his hand on Sherlock's back and rubbed it gently. Was this part of their thing now? Was this a new thing? Was rule number one still in effect? Or any of the rules?
"You let Lestrade know we were in bed together," Sherlock said into the mattress.
John was nonplussed. "No, I didn't."
"You called him from my phone at six-thirty in the morning and told him I was sleeping next to you."
"I'm an early riser, you always make me send texts from your phone, and you could have been sleeping on the couch."
"He'll assume we were in bed together."
John sighed and kept his hand circling on Sherlock's back. "Yeah, you're probably right."
"That doesn't bother you." It was somewhere between a statement and a question.
"Everyone thinks we've been sleeping together for months," John pointed out.
"We have," Sherlock said after a beat.
John snorted, then burst out laughing. Halfway through, he realised that rule number one was officially off the table. He hoped the rest were on its heels.
Sherlock lifted his head to look intently at John. "No, I mean it really doesn't bother you. And this-" He lifted his arm briefly and dropped it again. "It's fine with you."
John smiled at him fondly, if a bit bewildered. "Yeah, it is. And no, it doesn't."
Sherlock sat up in a flurry of bedclothes. "What about not wanting anyone to see us together?"
John huffed incredulously. "I'm not exactly keen to be arrested for public indecency. You're the one who only wanted to do it in public."
Sherlock looked at him as if John had told him Anderson had been nominated for Met Employee of the Year. "What? No, I didn't!"
"Tell me one time you let me touch you inside the flat, aside from last night. That one time in the kitchen, you acted as if I were a hot coal, you were so quick to leave off."
"When-" Sherlock creased his forehead in thought. "You mean when you had concussion?"
"I didn't have concussion."
"You had concussion, and you needed rest, not engaging in activities that would raise your blood pressure. And, I was under the apparently false impression that you were only amenable when there was a risk factor present."
"Oh my God! I am not the one with the public sex kink. I thought you were. Or you were trying to give Mycroft a stroke, or something. What about in the theatre, during that serial killer film?"
"The Chicago one? It was interesting, John! I went to learn something, not to indulge in some..." Sherlock's face took on an expression of distaste. "...teenage groping session."
"So let me get this straight. You don't actually have any rules about not doing - you know -"
"Having sex, for God's sake, you can say it."
That gave John a bit of a turn, because he'd thought for the longest time that he really couldn't, that if he did talk about it, the whole thing would evaporate in a puff of violin rosin and gunpowder. "So there wasn't any rule about only having sex after a case, or outside the flat?"
"No!" Sherlock cried.
They stared at each other, then started to giggle.
"So it also wasn't some bizarre bonus package as remuneration for shooting people for you?" John asked, grinning madly.
"No," Sherlock said, still laughing and shaking his head.
John became more serious. Maybe he should let it go at that, but given the fantastic number of misunderstandings they'd been bumbling along with, it was probably best to get it all out now. "And why didn't... Why wouldn't you ever let me talk about it? That first night, I thought I was going insane. Or did I imagine that too?"
Sherlock's smile faded too. He looked down at his hands, picking at the bedsheet. "No, that was me being..." He exhaled slowly. "I thought you wanted to say you weren't gay and I should fuck off."
"Sherlock-"
"I know you would have said it more kindly, but …" He trailed off.
"Well, this is me now, being absolutely, brutally honest." John caught Sherlock's wandering hand between his and waited until Sherlock was looking at him. "I'm not gay, and you should fuck off if you think that's going to stop you and me from having the best, most incredible sex I've ever had in my life. Or yours, either."
"That's hardly going to be difficult, given that my entire sexual experience has taken place over the last two months."
John felt like someone had simultaneously socked him in the gut and told him he'd won the lottery. "Sherlock, fuck, you're kidding! Why didn't you say anything?" He frantically reviewed all of their encounters. There wasn't anything outstandingly terrible, but there were many times when he hadn't taken much care, when he'd been more focused on the outcome than on the process. The first two times especially, before he'd insisted on rule number four, made him cringe inwardly.
"I already told you why," Sherlock said. "And anyway, would you have acted any differently?"
"Of course I would have!"
"Then I'm glad I didn't. Because I wouldn't have wanted anything else."
John could tell that Sherlock was sincere. But that didn't mean he couldn't take the time and the care now to show Sherlock how special and important he was. "You may change your tune in a couple of hours." John leaned in to kiss him thoroughly. After a bit, a thought occurred to him: "We're keeping rule number four though."
"Rule number four?" Sherlock's mouth was red and just beginning to plump up. His hair was a mess, and he looked endearingly confused.
"Don't worry," John said with a smile as he leaned in again, "you're going to like it."
%%%%%%
End notes:
So, actually I made Sherlock a virgin but I didn't want to completely give that away at the beginning. Little white lie. Neener.
You can see the mnemonics for the cranial nerves, etc. here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_mnemonics_for_the_cranial_nerves.
The documentary about H. H. Holmes that I had in mind is H. H. Holmes: America's First Serial Killer. The official web page is here: www.hhholmesthefilm.com. I have never seen it but it won awards and it looked like the kind of thing Sherlock might enjoy.
I patterned the last case on the Fred and Rosemary West case, which is truly one of the most horrific things I ever heard of and is the basis of the excellent docudrama, Appropriate Adult, for which Dominic West won the 2012 Best Actor BAFTA, beating out Martin Freeman, who was nominated against him for his work in Sherlock. Fred West was being held in Winston Green prison in Birmingham when he hanged himself while under suicide watch. However, I do not mean for the perpetrators in this fic to be the Wests. I just used the idea, and Rose Street came from the name of Rosemary West. The actual killings were called the Cromwell Street murders.