Fic for beenghosting: Thumbprint - Part 1
Title: Thumbprint
Recipient: beenghosting (teahigh)
Author: pandoras_chaos
Beta/Brit Pick: aki_hoshi and thesmallhobbit
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Word count: ~23,500
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: unhealthy relationships, emotional masochism, explicit sex, anal sex, rimming, unsafe sex, angst
Summary: It seems he’s just around these days out of sheer familiarity. Sherlock doesn’t need him for money, he doesn’t need him on cases (if he ever really did in the first place), he doesn’t listen when John tries to tell him to eat or sleep or take care of himself in any way whatsoever and he certainly doesn’t seem to need him for sentimentality. In fact, the only thing John seems to be good for these days is sex, and that is just not good enough.
Author’s Note: Dear beenghosting, I’m really hoping this is up to snuff. I’m not going to lie, I was a little intimidated when I got your name in my prompt, but I’m hoping I did your ideas justice. It kind of turned into a monster of a story and John and I have gotten rather close because of it. Enjoy, love :D
Epic thanks to my lovely betas for their lightnight-fast work and for putting up with my constant demands for attention and opinions. Title borrowed from the wonderful and talented Jason Mraz.
Thumbprint
The first time it happens, it’s been one of those adrenaline-fueled, testosterone-pumping, outlandishly brilliant cases ending in a spectacular chase that has the two of them sweating and panting against the wall for a solid five minutes when they finally stumble, red-faced and glowing with life, through the door of Baker Street. John huffs out a laugh, blood pumping so hard through his veins he can hardly hear anything over the sound rushing in his ears. Their eyes catch and they break into fresh giggles, Sherlock’s deep chuckle rumbling through John’s high-pitched cackle--the one he can’t help, no matter how hard he tries to suppress it.
Before he can grasp what’s happening, John finds himself pressed further into the wall, shoulder blades scraping painfully against the plaster as Sherlock captures his lips with his own. John blinks hard, neurons short-circuiting when Sherlock’s tongue slips into his mouth and traces the edges of his teeth before biting down on his lower lip and growling. Whether it’s the adrenaline or the rush of endorphins or the fact that John hasn’t gotten laid in ages, the reality is this feels bloody brilliant and John momentarily forgets that he’s straight, forgets that snogging his flatmate in the middle of the hallway is probably not the best plan, forgets everything except the taste and feel of Sherlock’s mouth against his.
John surges forward, plunging his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth and pushing at him with all his weight, but Sherlock is apparently stronger than he looks because he just curls his long hands around John’s hips and shoves him harder against the garish wallpaper. John’s head thunks back against the plaster and he groans when Sherlock’s teeth nip along his pulse point. John’s hands somehow find their way tangled through dark curls and he’s barely aware of anything except the slow grind of their hips, inexplicably harder than he’s ever been in his life. The feeling of Sherlock’s erection against his thigh is what finally snaps him out of his lust-induced haze.
“Sherlock” he pants, absurdly aware of how breathy his voice sounds. “What,” he gasps, “What are you doing?”
“Obvious,” Sherlock purrs into his ear, rolling his hips against John’s in an increasingly mind-numbing tempo. John feels helpless, overwhelming desire crashing through him and making his breath catch. It’s all happening so fast and before he can even think, Sherlock’s tugging at his zip, long pale fingers closing around his cock and pulling and John is lost.
“Shhhhit,” he hisses, head banging again against the wall. He’ll have a lump there in the morning if he keeps this up, but it’s hard to worry about that when Sherlock’s hand is twisting and sliding and grasping and pumping. He’s panting into John’s open mouth now, not touching, but humid air gathering between their lips. John’s fingers tighten around the fabric at Sherlock’s biceps. He’s so ridiculously close, worked up and shivering like a sixth former, teetering on the edge of what is sure to be an incredible orgasm when Sherlock licks a trail up his neck and then sinks his teeth into the hinge at John’s jaw.
“Oh god,” is all he manages and he is coming, slick and hard, cock pumping and jerking in Sherlock’s hand. He melts backwards into the wall, knees buckling and legs failing. Gravity takes over and he slides down until he’s sitting on the floor, knees and feet akimbo. He’s only vaguely aware of the vision before him: Sherlock tugging at the front of his trousers with his clean hand. He’s uncomfortably close to Sherlock’s groin here, eye level with the activity as Sherlock finally frees himself of his trousers and plunges his semen-covered hand into his pants.
John’s brain feels sluggish and sated, but he can’t tear his eyes away from the sight of Sherlock’s forearm flexing rhythmically as he tosses himself off, using John’s come as a lubricant. It’s quite possibly the dirtiest, most arousing sight John’s ever witnessed and before he can think about it, he finds his fingers tugging at the black cotton of Sherlock’s boxer briefs, desperate to see Sherlock’s cock.
It’s surprisingly normal looking; perhaps a tad longer than John’s, but definitely slimmer and currently flushed and slick with John’s own semen. John’s mesmerized by the sight of the purple head peeking over the top of Sherlock’s thumb on every stroke, foreskin pulled back and positively leaking pre-come.
John makes the disastrous mistake of looking up. Sherlock’s eyes are focused entirely on him and the intensity of his gaze takes John’s breath away. He looks absolutely sinful: a high color along his impossible cheekbones, eyes bright and pupils blown wide, full bottom lip trapped tightly between his teeth, chest heaving with exertion.
“John,”he rumbles, a full octave lower than his normal speaking voice and John feels it all the way down his spine, sinking beneath his skin and wrapping tightly around his ribs. “John, open your mouth.”
Not even stopping to think, John licks his lower lip and lets his jaw relax, not taking his eyes from Sherlock’s piercing gaze. Suddenly, Sherlock’s whole body jerks and John feels hot, wet come splash along his cheek, dripping onto his open mouth and down his chin. Without conscious thought, John licks his lips, startling at the bitter, salty taste. It’s not exactly pleasant and the realization of what he’s doing abruptly crashes over him.
Fuck. Oh, fuck.
The reality of the situation douses through him like ice water. They are barely inside the building, just on the other side of the (thankfully closed) door at the bottom of the stairs. Any second now, Mrs Hudson might come out of her flat and find them, cocks out and covered in come. Sherlock looks completely wrecked: face flushed and sweaty, forearms braced against the wall, prick soft and dangling out of his pants, usually crisp trousers bunched around his knees. John is uncomfortably aware that his own pants are sticky and cold, congealing semen practically cementing his bollocks to his inner thigh. His face is still dripping, Sherlock’s come running down his chin and onto his jumper. Christ, they hadn’t even taken off their coats.
Feeling admittedly spiteful, John reaches up and tugs at Sherlock’s ridiculous scarf, using the no doubt obscenely expensive fabric to wipe the mess off his face. Sherlock snorts and straightens, tucking himself back together and looking remarkably calm considering the fact that John’s whole world seems to have shifted without his knowledge.
He’s just so frustratingly collected that when he extends an imperious hand down to help heft John to his feet, John uses the momentum to pull him in close, mashing their lips together in an unmistakably awkward kiss. John’s suddenly unsure what to do with his hands, so he settles for tugging at Sherlock’s shoulders. Sherlock is completely unresponsive, eyebrows climbing towards his hairline and eyes boring unblinkingly into John’s. After a tense few seconds, John gives up and backs away, more confused than he’s ever felt before. He feebly goes to hand Sherlock his scarf, but Sherlock just quirks a haughty eyebrow at him and smirks, turning on his heel and taking the stairs two at a time.
John is left in the middle of the hallway, zipping his denims and wondering what the fuck just happened.
: :
They never talk about it. It only happens occasionally, and if John’s honest, not nearly as much as he’d like. He’s never been able to initiate their little trysts and on some level, he supposes he resents that, but it’s frankly hard to think when Sherlock is in his space, dominating his senses and bending John to his will. The one time John tried to shove Sherlock back against the sitting room wall, the reaction had been... less than favorable.
“What are you doing, John?” Sherlock had asked, brows furrowed with a look of startled concern in his pale eyes.
“I need you. Now,” John growled into his neck, nipping the skin before Sherlock roughly shoved him away.
“John,” Sherlock had said, firmly keeping him at arm’s length and leaving it at that. He’d straightened his lapels, cracked his elegant neck and sidestepped John smoothly before extracting his mobile from his pocket and tapping out a rapid text.
John had been left frustrated and hard, one hand braced and shaking against the absurd wallpaper and a hard knot of resentment burning in his gut. He’d suddenly felt incredibly used, and not in a good way.
It takes two solid days before John finally calms himself down enough to talk to Sherlock. Sherlock, on the other hand, is completely oblivious for once. He’s knee-deep in a case (almost literally) and it takes every ounce of self-control John has not to scream himself hoarse when he comes back from his shift at the surgery to find himself mired in soot from apparently every single fireplace in the greater London area. All over the floor.
“Jesus...” he starts, fingers pinching hard on the bridge of his nose, takes a deep breath and begins again. “Sherlock? What the actual fuck?”
“Ah, John. Excellent,” Sherlock says and his face brightens for a split second before he’s immersed himself back amongst the bins and bags full of presumably more bloody soot. He has a smear of dark powder across his nose and John tries hard not to think the word adorable, but fails miserably. His rage gets the better of him, however, and just as it looks like Sherlock is about to dump another load of the foul stuff onto the rug, John’s hand shoots out and grabs hold of the deceptively innocent bag.
“John?” Sherlock actually looks startled for a moment before his eyes narrow and John steels himself for the inevitable feeling of Sherlock’s laser-beam irises taking rapid stock of him. With a small oh, Sherlock lets his hand drop. “You’re angry.”
John is incredulous for all of two seconds. “Angry? Oh no, Sherlock. I’m fucking furious.”
This is evidently either completely obvious or utterly ignorable because Sherlock is distracted again, toeing at one pile of ashes and producing a great black smear across the floorboards. His calm state of aloofness pushes John over the edge and before he can think about it, he shoves hard into Sherlock’s shoulder, nearly knocking the man backwards into a pile of soot.
“What the bloody hell is wrong with you?” John shouts, hands balled into fists at his side, pure rage and outright frustration pounding through his skull and making everything sound fuzzy. Sherlock seems to have the unique ability of causing John’s blood pressure to shoot sky high in a mere matter of seconds, regardless of the reason. Right now, that reason is an absolute toxic mess of a sitting room and an infuriatingly calm consulting detective.
“It’s for a case, John,” Sherlock states, as though that is reason enough for piles and piles of black ash trodden into their flooring.
“Well I’d sure as hell hope so!” John explodes, hands sailing through the air in exasperation. He tries to take another calming breath, counts to twenty this time and rubs that spot between his eyes again like it’s the only thing left keeping him sane. “Right,” he finally says, huffing the word out with considerable effort. “Right. You’re hoovering this insanity up right this minute and so help me god, Sherlock, if I find one speck of soot anywhere near this flat when you’re done, I’m out of here.”
“John,” Sherlock says again placatory, condescending and almost amused, but whatever he was about to say is cut off when John’s hand shoots towards his face, fending off the tirade of speech no doubt making its way forward.
“I don’t want to hear it. Clean it up. Now.“ John stomps up the stairs to his room, noting with disgust that his shoes are tracking little cakes of soot in their wake.
If John is honest with himself, it’s not just the disaster of their sitting room that’s rubbing him raw at the moment. It’s Sherlock’s complete lack of regard for him in every aspect of their lives. Sometimes, when John is as frustrated as he is now, he wonders what would happen if he actually did make good on his threats, pack up one day and finally leave. It’s not as though Sherlock actually needs help paying the rent if his designer suits and bespoke trousers are anything to go on. What is he even still doing here, really?
And isn’t that just the crux of the problem. The thing is, John isn’t even sure what his role is in Sherlock’s life anymore, nor what his flatmate-cum-lover is doing in his own life either. It seems he’s just around these days out of sheer familiarity. Sherlock doesn’t need him for money, he doesn’t need him on cases (if he ever really did in the first place), he doesn’t listen when John tries to tell him to eat or sleep or take care of himself in any way whatsoever and he certainly doesn’t seem to need him for sentimentality. In fact, the only thing John seems to be good for these days is sex, and that is just not good enough.
Sighing, John tugs off his jumper and settles in to bed. Hopefully the mess will be cleared up in the morning, both the one in the sitting room and the one cluttering his consciousness.
: :
The sitting room is relatively clean again the following evening, just the usual detritus of knick-knacks and books littering the thankfully soot-free floor. Sherlock is nowhere to be found, presumably in his room either sulking or sleeping. Hopefully the latter, John thinks a little spitefully, recalling the most recent bout of insomnia and the resulting mess of a living space.
The tension when he’d left in the morning was nearly palpable and John could feel it from the very moment he’d opened his bedroom door. Tactical retreat seemed the best route, and though John had tried to justify his Speedy’s breakfast and Starbucks coffee with convenience, he’d felt the cowardice follow him through the whole day like a lost puppy. Guilt and anger had warred heavily on the edges of his consciousness, making him short and unusually abrasive with his patients.
John sighs and tries not to think about the ache that seemed to settle along his ribs every time he thought about the nearly wounded look on Sherlock’s face when he’d shouted at him. He knows Sherlock. Knows he can be hurt far more easily than he lets on, knows the way his shoulders tense every time Sally Donovan calls him a freak, knows how hard he tries to suppress his need for his brother’s approval, knows how his features soften when he thinks nobody can see him. John’s seen it all and he’s fairly appalled at himself for turning on Sherlock the way everyone else seems to. John should know better. He does know better, and that’s what bothers him the most.
The flat is too quiet with Sherlock’s door closed tight and Mrs Hudson at her sister’s for the weekend. Nights like this used to nearly break John after he’d been discharged from the RAMC with honors. When the silence in his bedsit became too much and the lure of his illegal Sig used to weigh heavily on the back of his mind, he used to go walking. He’d wander the streets of London, disgusted with his own body’s betrayal, trying to recall what it had been like to be happy here where life went on without the smells and sounds of someone else’s war.
It’s difficult to remember what he’d been like before deployment. Before he’d been broken. Before he knew the taste of blood and panic tainted with smoke and sand. Before one bad decision had led to a small piece of metal tearing through flesh and bone and the rest of his patrol being shipped home in boxes. War changes a man and John’s honestly not sure if he’s changed for the better or much, much worse.
He’s trying with Sherlock, he really is. Ever since Afghanistan it’s been difficult to let anyone get close. All of his old mates from Uni and the weekend rugby club seem to have drifted away. Or, more appropriately, John drifted and they stayed exactly the same: stationary in life with houses and families and steady jobs and nightmare-free sleep cycles. Even Harry had mentioned it, though how she’d even noticed he’d been gone with her blood-alcohol content reaching critical mass was anyone’s guess. Sherlock is different, though.
Somehow, Sherlock always manages to worm his way past John’s defenses, tearing his carefully constructed walls to shreds without even seeming to care. It’s been that way since their very first night together, haring off through London’s back alleys in pursuit of that mad cabbie and his sycophantic death wish.
John sighs again and rubs at his eyes with his palms. Sherlock is a perfect enigma and John has no illusions about his own deductive prowess to even think he stands a chance at figuring him out. That he’s beginning to see chips in the supposedly flawless veneer is nothing but close proximity and begrudging familiarity. He’s beginning to suspect that Sherlock would eventually crack around anyone he was forced to be near with such alarming frequency.
John is not, and never has been, anything special.
The sound of the bathroom door closing breaks John of his reverie. He takes note of the street lamps and his stone-cold tea and realizes he’s been sitting on the sofa, wallowing in self-deprecation for the better part of an hour. His maudlin mood breaks a little at Sherlock’s complete lack of tact when he waltzes into the sitting room and plops down on the worn leather cushions, immediately swinging his feet onto John’s lap as though he’s not even there.
The move is at once so utterly thoughtless and so characteristically Sherlock that John almost laughs. Trust this man to be the most complicated and overly analytical human being in the world and yet make absolutely nothing of the spectacular row they’d had not twenty-four hours ago. John hears the small huff of exasperation and affection escape his throat without clear effort and Sherlock shifts a bit, peering over his steepled fingers through his fringe.
“Problem?” he asks, left eyebrow climbing up his forehead like a restless caterpillar.
John’s lips stretch into a surprisingly easy smile. “Not at all.”
He flips on the telly and finds something suitably mind-numbing for the duration of the evening. He knows he should try and talk to Sherlock about their relationship, the undercurrent of tension from their spat the night before, or even the state of their kitchen, but he’s honestly not even sure what it is he wants and he’s loathe to enter into any conversation lightly.
An hour later and three quarters of the way through the latest episode of Top Gear, and Sherlock’s stomach grumbles loud enough to be heard over Clarkson’s review of the newest BMW. He looks genuinely startled at the noise and John can’t help a small chuckle.
“When was the last time you ate?” John asks.
“Irrelevant,” Sherlock replies, eyes closed and fingers still steepled beneath his chin like a bloody nun.
“Sherlock.”
Sherlock sighs and fixes John with a petulant stare. “Not sure. When did you make beans on toast?”
John’s brow creases involuntarily. “Christ, Sherlock. You haven’t eaten since Monday?“ At his pointed stare, John digs in his denims for his mobile. “Right then. I’m ordering take-away. You will eat it and there will be no more discussion on the matter.”
Sherlock sighs deeply and stares back up at the ceiling, for all the world a put-upon child with an unfair punishment. “Yes, mother,” he grouses and John throws a cushion at him.
“Sod off, you adolescent tosser.”
“Kinky,” Sherlock retorts, lips quirking up at the corners and John feels his lingering tension fade. God he’s missed this: the easy friendship and constant jibing at each other like a pair of old grans. It’s something John has grown to crave with Sherlock and ever since that first time in the hallway, he’s felt it markedly missing in their lives.
John orders curry while Sherlock toes at his side, trying to make him laugh while on the phone by tickling him of all things and John can’t help the muffled giggles as he gives the address for delivery. As soon as he rings off, he dives for Sherlock, secretly loving the way he yelps and tries to shove away despite the clear lack of space. John gets an elbow to the diaphragm for his troubles, but it’s worth it to see Sherlock squirm and laugh helplessly when John gets his fingers up around his ribs.
John is merciless, having spent a lot of his time as a child fending off similar attacks from his physically larger sister. For some reason, he sincerely doubts that was a common occurrence in the Holmes household. John’s momentary pause at the mental image of Mycroft doing anything so ordinary as tickle his younger brother is all the leverage Sherlock needs to flip them over, pinning John down into the cushions and trapping his hands at his sides.
He’s clearly pleased with himself as he tosses his hair out of his face and grins widely down at John. It’s incredible to see Sherlock’s expression split into something as free and easy as a playful tickling match on the sofa. They’re both still giggling, tiny helpless huffs of laughter escaping as they attempt to catch their breath. John doesn’t even have to think about it as he leans up and brushes his lips lightly across Sherlock’s.
Sherlock freezes above him and John silently curses his own lack of thought. For most people, this would have been the natural progression of the evening: quiet cuddling on the couch, playful banter and foreplay disguised innocently as a tickle fight, followed by dinner filled with increasingly asinine innuendo and falling into bed after for mind-blowing sex. But Sherlock is not most people and this is not exactly a date.
“John,” Sherlock rumbles, and it almost sounds uncertain. John closes his eyes and tries to check his libido, unaware apparently of the difference between a willingly pliant date and this impossible man.
He’s spared having to respond by the sound of the buzzer going at the door. Sherlock stares intensely at him for a few more seconds, an unreadable expression clouding his usually sharp gaze, before he shifts off and allows John to collect their dinner.
John scratches the back of his neck as he remounts the stairs, wondering when this whole thing had gone so extraordinarily pear-shaped. If this were a normal situation, he’d have his date eating out of the palm of his hand by now. John’s not an arrogant man, especially next to the likes of Sherlock bloody Holmes, but he’s pretty confident in his pulling capabilities and he’s slept with a fair enough share of the populace to wager he knows a thing or two about getting a leg over. Sherlock just doesn’t follow any social rules as far as John can see, so he feels like he’s navigating without a compass most of the time.
Sighing, he reaches the sitting room and drops back onto the sofa. To his great surprise, there are two plates and cutlery already laid out on the coffee table, and Sherlock is headed towards him with two wine glasses and a bottle. He must have a look of utter incredulity on his face, because Sherlock halts halfway through the sitting room door and his brow furrows in attention.
“Did you not want a drink?” he asks, sounding impossibly uncertain.
John’s eyebrows shoot up and he swallows hard. “Erm, no. No, that’s... fine. Great, actually. Thanks.” It’s all a bit awkward, but John resolutely unpacks the curry, extracting the small containers of rice and plastic boxes that smell positively divine.
For all his earlier grumbling, Sherlock attacks his food with an indecent amount of vigor usually confined to teenage boys and American tourists, and John can’t help but smile. At least he’s doing this much good in Sherlock’s life: feeding him up when he would normally have let himself starve. The curry is spicy and John is happy for the cool chardonnay that slides down his throat with probably too much ease for comfort.
They’re relatively quiet through dinner, limiting their small talk to fairly innocuous topics. John talks about his incredibly crap day at the surgery and Sherlock attempts to explain his newest kitchen experiment. It almost feels like normal; well, their version of normal anyway, and John finds himself wistfully pleased with the evening.
Apparently his earlier stolen kiss is not to be spoken of, since Sherlock seems to have forgotten the incident entirely in favor of waxing poetic over the growth rate of mould cultures in petri dishes. John finds himself smiling at Sherlock’s obvious enthusiasm, an expression that is returned whenever Sherlock catches his eye mid-sentence. Eventually, their conversation wanes on its own and they fall into a comfortable silence, sipping idly at their wine and picking at stray pieces of rice.
John stretches back into the cushions, full and remarkably happy. Sherlock looks drowsy and satisfied, actually bringing the plates into the kitchen and dumping them into the sink before snatching up his wine glass and flopping down next to John. He stretches his absurdly long legs out and rests his feet on the coffee table, bare toes wiggling in the air like a child. The aura of utter contentment is seeping through the room like smoke, and John finds himself vaguely reluctant to break whatever spell seems to have fallen over their flat. Without actually thinking about it, he drops his head onto Sherlock’s pointed shoulder and sighs into his own glass.
To his amazement, Sherlock just chuckles lightly and maneuvers them both so he’s reclining slightly into the sofa, pulling John’s head to rest against his chest instead. He begins trailing lazy patterns on the back of John’s neck with two incredibly long fingers. John feels the tension of the past few days draining from him entirely and he can feel the slow tendrils of sleep creeping in along his consciousness.
Sherlock sips at the last of his wine before shifting over and dropping the glass onto the rug. He reaches forward and tugs John’s glass out of his fingers as well before kissing him lightly on the top of the head. John is so startled by the easy affection that he blinks up at Sherlock in something like shock. Things have been so complicated lately that he almost forgot what it felt like to simply be around his best friend.
It’s so easy. Sherlock leans forward and presses his mouth to John’s, slow and sweet. It’s just a brush of lips, meant as simple affection and John feels his heart clench tightly around this new feeling. Sherlock makes a small humming noise in the back of his throat and pushes forward a little more, allowing his tongue to trace delicately at the seam of John’s lips, dipping inside and sliding along John’s slowly and deliberately. It feels like an apology, like a benediction and like a promise all at once.
It’s suddenly not enough and John allows his arms to slide up Sherlock’s shoulders, turning in his lap to straddle the man and bring their bodies into full contact. Sherlock groans, low and deep and John feels his control slip just a little bit more.
His lips graze across the long expanse of pale neck and feels Sherlock shudder beneath him, large hands sliding up John’s thighs to encircle his waist and pull him closer. John takes it as an invitation and buries his fingers into thick, dark curls, tilting Sherlock’s head back and sucking a light bruise into the side of his neck.
“Yes,” Sherlock sighs into his mouth, tongue a bit more insistent now, but no less tender. “Yes, John. Yes.”
It’s slow this time, passion and heat building between them with every gentle caress of flesh, every reverent kiss. Sherlock is languid and pliant beneath John, mouth soft and hushed against John’s skin. John can feel himself falling, spiraling out of control as the moments stretch and grow between them. When Sherlock finally begins easing John out of his clothing, it’s careful and worshipful, brushing his lips along every new stretch of naked skin until John is a quivering mess of sensation and emotion.
Sherlock’s eyes are wide and dark, pupils dilated into large pools of fathomless depths. John imagines himself tumbling into them and never reaching the bottom. Sherlock whispers John’s name against his sweat-slicked skin, quiet and decadent as a prayer.
All the usual frenzy is replaced by slow deliverance, Sherlock’s body cradling John’s as they move together towards climax. When John finally comes, it feels like liberation, pulsing out of him in thick waves that leave him breathless and unburdened. Sherlock follows closely behind, orgasm shaking him to the very core, shuddering and arching beneath John, head thrown back and mouth moving around the shape of John’s name.
They’re quiet afterwards, cocooned and warm in the safe haven of their sitting room. John can feel the shift of their relationship; tectonic plates rearranging their world and creating new chasms in which to fall. He knows how perilous this is: the tentative calm before the storm that is life with Sherlock.
Eventually, the air in the room cools enough to pull them out of their heady embrace. John moves first, gathering his discarded vest and dabbing gently at their mingled ejaculate on their bellies. Sherlock’s abdomen shifts and tenses under John’s hands, muscles flexing at the attention. He pulls John back in for a lingering kiss, mouths sliding together in delicious friction and John melts into him, boneless and sated.
When they do finally stand, it’s on shaking knees and trembling thighs. Sherlock’s hand slides softly into John’s, fingers automatically tangling together as he tugs him gently towards his bedroom. John feels slightly bewildered, caught in between radiant joy and tentative hope. They’ve never spent the night in Sherlock’s bed and the wide span of expensive cotton and fluffy duvet is slightly intimidating.
Sherlock folds John backwards, easing him down amongst the pillows and duvet before smiling down at him with such heartbreaking tenderness that John gasps. Sherlock’s expression sharpens at once, but one corner of his mouth is still upturned with lazy warmth. He quietly reaches for the side table and turns off the light. John feels the mattress dip as Sherlock slides between the sheets, immediately curling around John and wrapping him tightly in miles and miles of long limbs and pale skin.
John can’t keep the shy smile off his own face as he allows himself to sink into Sherlock’s embrace. Whatever switch has been thrown in Sherlock’s brain, John doesn’t want to move it one iota. It feels as though they’re waiting, standing on a tender precipice that can either leave them falling indefinitely, or jumping together willingly. He can just make out the steady beat of Sherlock’s heart beneath his ribs and he allows the regular pulse to lull him into the first decent sleep he’s had in weeks.
: :
John wakes the next morning alone and slightly disoriented. It takes him a moment to remember why he’s feeling quite so content, but when he does, the smile that splits across his face must be absolutely besotted. He’s briefly glad Sherlock is not here to witness his teenaged-girl moment, but the cool slide of cotton against his searching fingers is a bit maddening nonetheless. His limbs feel stretched, but comfortable and he allows himself a moment to simply rub against the expensive thread count, reveling in memories of last night. It had been absolutely beautiful and the hopeless romantic side of John wants nothing more than to luxuriate in the afterglow of feeling loved.
There is no denying that was the permeating feeling wafting around their sitting room last night. John’s heart seems to expand at the thought, pulse skipping beats in its haste to pump oxytocin through his system. John knows he can’t stay here, grinning like six different kinds of fool, and simply waiting for Sherlock to reappear. Sleeping together had been wonderful, but John’s not stupid enough to think Sherlock will change old habits just to make him feel more comfortable. John doesn’t want him to.
With a heartfelt groan of sated satisfaction, John rolls over and searches for his pants, forgetting for the moment that all of his clothes are probably still strewn around the flat, looking like a crime scene. Laughing quietly to himself, John spots a brush of dark blue silk against the stark doors of Sherlock’s wardrobe and, feeling more than a little mischievous, slides the dressing gown over his bare skin. It smells like Sherlock: warm and slightly spicy aftershave mixed with London rain and car exhaust and nicotine and chemicals and John can’t help but bury his face into the collar. It’s overtly luxurious, the slide of elegant silk along his bare skin and he suddenly understands why Sherlock spends so much of his time in the garment. The very idea of Sherlock’s skin rubbing tantalizingly against the fabric is making John’s cock twitch and he marvels at the way his libido seems to think he’s back in secondary school.
Running his fingers through his hair in attempt to smooth some of it down, John opens the door and wanders into the kitchen. Sherlock’s back is to him, bent over the worktop and clearly doing something unspeakable to what looks like some kind of sea slug in a petri dish. John takes a moment to rake his eyes over the way Sherlock’s obscenely tight shirt clings to his shoulders before tapering down elegantly to highlight his slim waist. Sherlock’s trousers are pulled tight across his arse and when he shifts his weight, John finds his mouth salivating without his permission. He swallows audibly before stepping further into the room.
Sherlock still hasn’t noticed him. Or, more likely, he’s noticed and dismissed him as unimportant at present. John doesn’t take offense to this, as it only seems to confirm his hypothesis that Sherlock is entirely comfortable around him. John carefully sidesteps a more ominous looking biohazard box on the floor and comes to stand directly behind Sherlock, sliding his hands around the man’s waist and bringing his lips lightly along the edge of his hairline.
Sherlock stiffens immediately, hands frozen around an Erlenmeyer flask and his protective goggles. John’s fingers rub lazy patterns into Sherlock’s abdomen as he brings his body flush against the man’s taller frame.
“Morning,” he says, smiling quietly against the skin.
“John,” Sherlock grits out stiffly. John rubs his hips against Sherlock’s tantalizing arse and hears the satisfying sound of a bitten off gasp. John is hard already, the silk of the dressing gown rubbing delicately along his skin and contrasting beautifully with the texture of the fine wool of Sherlock’s trousers. John rolls his hips again, trying to produce more of that sound, but Sherlock suddenly turns, grasping both of his wrists in a bruising grip. John sways a bit and is startled by the cold look in Sherlock’s pale eyes, the indifferent mask of cool aloofness firmly back in place.
“I’m working, John,” he says, voice tightly controlled. He releases John’s wrists so quickly that he staggers, thrown off balance by the constant tumult of Sherlock’s emotions. He realizes he’s standing there, gaping at the back of Sherlock’s head as he firmly straps on the goggles and starts up the butane torch.
John’s head is spinning, rejection and anger boiling dangerously in the pit of his gut. The warm, loved feeling that had been happily setting up residence in his solar plexus seems to shrivel and freeze, turning his blood cold and making him shudder with the impact.
“I...” John starts, at a complete loss at how to process what seems to be happening over and over again. He feels completely out of control in a way he hasn’t felt since the war.
“What, John?” Sherlock snaps, tilting an imperious glance over his shoulder.
I thought you loved me flashes dangerously through John’s head, but he knows better. This is such a monumental cock-up he doesn’t even know where to begin the explanations. John shivers and realizes he’s standing in the middle of their kitchen in nothing but a drape of flimsy silk, pride and besotted heart bruised irrevocably.
“Nothing,” he clips out, tugging the dressing gown closed and trying to rein in his temper. He can feel his jaw tensing, can feel the muscles in his arms clenching his hands into fists, can feel the soldier in him slowly taking over. John welcomes the change, sliding into the indifferent skin easily and silently grateful for his body’s coping mechanism to pain. Feeling his shoulders stiffen to attention, he pivots on his heel and marches up the stairs.
And if his leg twinges a bit, well, Sherlock’s not there to see it happen, is he?
: :
John is late for work. His frustration is clear in every movement he makes and unfortunately, his patients bear most of the brunt. He takes several breaks during the day, trying to calm himself with deep breaths and strong cups of coffee, but nothing works. He finds himself distracted and irritable, snapping at a few nurses for not filling out paperwork correctly and immediately feels a surge of guilt at their startled and hurt faces. It’s really not their fault and John absolutely knows better than anyone how it feels to carry the blame for other people’s emotional turmoil. The fact that Sherlock is under his skin, picking away at his carefully constructed walls and making him short and disagreeable with the rest of the world is making John’s irritability ratchet up another notch. Sherlock is just so infuriating.
: :
Find Part 2 of the fic here.
Recipient: beenghosting (teahigh)
Author: pandoras_chaos
Beta/Brit Pick: aki_hoshi and thesmallhobbit
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Word count: ~23,500
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: unhealthy relationships, emotional masochism, explicit sex, anal sex, rimming, unsafe sex, angst
Summary: It seems he’s just around these days out of sheer familiarity. Sherlock doesn’t need him for money, he doesn’t need him on cases (if he ever really did in the first place), he doesn’t listen when John tries to tell him to eat or sleep or take care of himself in any way whatsoever and he certainly doesn’t seem to need him for sentimentality. In fact, the only thing John seems to be good for these days is sex, and that is just not good enough.
Author’s Note: Dear beenghosting, I’m really hoping this is up to snuff. I’m not going to lie, I was a little intimidated when I got your name in my prompt, but I’m hoping I did your ideas justice. It kind of turned into a monster of a story and John and I have gotten rather close because of it. Enjoy, love :D
Epic thanks to my lovely betas for their lightnight-fast work and for putting up with my constant demands for attention and opinions. Title borrowed from the wonderful and talented Jason Mraz.
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The first time it happens, it’s been one of those adrenaline-fueled, testosterone-pumping, outlandishly brilliant cases ending in a spectacular chase that has the two of them sweating and panting against the wall for a solid five minutes when they finally stumble, red-faced and glowing with life, through the door of Baker Street. John huffs out a laugh, blood pumping so hard through his veins he can hardly hear anything over the sound rushing in his ears. Their eyes catch and they break into fresh giggles, Sherlock’s deep chuckle rumbling through John’s high-pitched cackle--the one he can’t help, no matter how hard he tries to suppress it.
Before he can grasp what’s happening, John finds himself pressed further into the wall, shoulder blades scraping painfully against the plaster as Sherlock captures his lips with his own. John blinks hard, neurons short-circuiting when Sherlock’s tongue slips into his mouth and traces the edges of his teeth before biting down on his lower lip and growling. Whether it’s the adrenaline or the rush of endorphins or the fact that John hasn’t gotten laid in ages, the reality is this feels bloody brilliant and John momentarily forgets that he’s straight, forgets that snogging his flatmate in the middle of the hallway is probably not the best plan, forgets everything except the taste and feel of Sherlock’s mouth against his.
John surges forward, plunging his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth and pushing at him with all his weight, but Sherlock is apparently stronger than he looks because he just curls his long hands around John’s hips and shoves him harder against the garish wallpaper. John’s head thunks back against the plaster and he groans when Sherlock’s teeth nip along his pulse point. John’s hands somehow find their way tangled through dark curls and he’s barely aware of anything except the slow grind of their hips, inexplicably harder than he’s ever been in his life. The feeling of Sherlock’s erection against his thigh is what finally snaps him out of his lust-induced haze.
“Sherlock” he pants, absurdly aware of how breathy his voice sounds. “What,” he gasps, “What are you doing?”
“Obvious,” Sherlock purrs into his ear, rolling his hips against John’s in an increasingly mind-numbing tempo. John feels helpless, overwhelming desire crashing through him and making his breath catch. It’s all happening so fast and before he can even think, Sherlock’s tugging at his zip, long pale fingers closing around his cock and pulling and John is lost.
“Shhhhit,” he hisses, head banging again against the wall. He’ll have a lump there in the morning if he keeps this up, but it’s hard to worry about that when Sherlock’s hand is twisting and sliding and grasping and pumping. He’s panting into John’s open mouth now, not touching, but humid air gathering between their lips. John’s fingers tighten around the fabric at Sherlock’s biceps. He’s so ridiculously close, worked up and shivering like a sixth former, teetering on the edge of what is sure to be an incredible orgasm when Sherlock licks a trail up his neck and then sinks his teeth into the hinge at John’s jaw.
“Oh god,” is all he manages and he is coming, slick and hard, cock pumping and jerking in Sherlock’s hand. He melts backwards into the wall, knees buckling and legs failing. Gravity takes over and he slides down until he’s sitting on the floor, knees and feet akimbo. He’s only vaguely aware of the vision before him: Sherlock tugging at the front of his trousers with his clean hand. He’s uncomfortably close to Sherlock’s groin here, eye level with the activity as Sherlock finally frees himself of his trousers and plunges his semen-covered hand into his pants.
John’s brain feels sluggish and sated, but he can’t tear his eyes away from the sight of Sherlock’s forearm flexing rhythmically as he tosses himself off, using John’s come as a lubricant. It’s quite possibly the dirtiest, most arousing sight John’s ever witnessed and before he can think about it, he finds his fingers tugging at the black cotton of Sherlock’s boxer briefs, desperate to see Sherlock’s cock.
It’s surprisingly normal looking; perhaps a tad longer than John’s, but definitely slimmer and currently flushed and slick with John’s own semen. John’s mesmerized by the sight of the purple head peeking over the top of Sherlock’s thumb on every stroke, foreskin pulled back and positively leaking pre-come.
John makes the disastrous mistake of looking up. Sherlock’s eyes are focused entirely on him and the intensity of his gaze takes John’s breath away. He looks absolutely sinful: a high color along his impossible cheekbones, eyes bright and pupils blown wide, full bottom lip trapped tightly between his teeth, chest heaving with exertion.
“John,”he rumbles, a full octave lower than his normal speaking voice and John feels it all the way down his spine, sinking beneath his skin and wrapping tightly around his ribs. “John, open your mouth.”
Not even stopping to think, John licks his lower lip and lets his jaw relax, not taking his eyes from Sherlock’s piercing gaze. Suddenly, Sherlock’s whole body jerks and John feels hot, wet come splash along his cheek, dripping onto his open mouth and down his chin. Without conscious thought, John licks his lips, startling at the bitter, salty taste. It’s not exactly pleasant and the realization of what he’s doing abruptly crashes over him.
Fuck. Oh, fuck.
The reality of the situation douses through him like ice water. They are barely inside the building, just on the other side of the (thankfully closed) door at the bottom of the stairs. Any second now, Mrs Hudson might come out of her flat and find them, cocks out and covered in come. Sherlock looks completely wrecked: face flushed and sweaty, forearms braced against the wall, prick soft and dangling out of his pants, usually crisp trousers bunched around his knees. John is uncomfortably aware that his own pants are sticky and cold, congealing semen practically cementing his bollocks to his inner thigh. His face is still dripping, Sherlock’s come running down his chin and onto his jumper. Christ, they hadn’t even taken off their coats.
Feeling admittedly spiteful, John reaches up and tugs at Sherlock’s ridiculous scarf, using the no doubt obscenely expensive fabric to wipe the mess off his face. Sherlock snorts and straightens, tucking himself back together and looking remarkably calm considering the fact that John’s whole world seems to have shifted without his knowledge.
He’s just so frustratingly collected that when he extends an imperious hand down to help heft John to his feet, John uses the momentum to pull him in close, mashing their lips together in an unmistakably awkward kiss. John’s suddenly unsure what to do with his hands, so he settles for tugging at Sherlock’s shoulders. Sherlock is completely unresponsive, eyebrows climbing towards his hairline and eyes boring unblinkingly into John’s. After a tense few seconds, John gives up and backs away, more confused than he’s ever felt before. He feebly goes to hand Sherlock his scarf, but Sherlock just quirks a haughty eyebrow at him and smirks, turning on his heel and taking the stairs two at a time.
John is left in the middle of the hallway, zipping his denims and wondering what the fuck just happened.
: :
They never talk about it. It only happens occasionally, and if John’s honest, not nearly as much as he’d like. He’s never been able to initiate their little trysts and on some level, he supposes he resents that, but it’s frankly hard to think when Sherlock is in his space, dominating his senses and bending John to his will. The one time John tried to shove Sherlock back against the sitting room wall, the reaction had been... less than favorable.
“What are you doing, John?” Sherlock had asked, brows furrowed with a look of startled concern in his pale eyes.
“I need you. Now,” John growled into his neck, nipping the skin before Sherlock roughly shoved him away.
“John,” Sherlock had said, firmly keeping him at arm’s length and leaving it at that. He’d straightened his lapels, cracked his elegant neck and sidestepped John smoothly before extracting his mobile from his pocket and tapping out a rapid text.
John had been left frustrated and hard, one hand braced and shaking against the absurd wallpaper and a hard knot of resentment burning in his gut. He’d suddenly felt incredibly used, and not in a good way.
It takes two solid days before John finally calms himself down enough to talk to Sherlock. Sherlock, on the other hand, is completely oblivious for once. He’s knee-deep in a case (almost literally) and it takes every ounce of self-control John has not to scream himself hoarse when he comes back from his shift at the surgery to find himself mired in soot from apparently every single fireplace in the greater London area. All over the floor.
“Jesus...” he starts, fingers pinching hard on the bridge of his nose, takes a deep breath and begins again. “Sherlock? What the actual fuck?”
“Ah, John. Excellent,” Sherlock says and his face brightens for a split second before he’s immersed himself back amongst the bins and bags full of presumably more bloody soot. He has a smear of dark powder across his nose and John tries hard not to think the word adorable, but fails miserably. His rage gets the better of him, however, and just as it looks like Sherlock is about to dump another load of the foul stuff onto the rug, John’s hand shoots out and grabs hold of the deceptively innocent bag.
“John?” Sherlock actually looks startled for a moment before his eyes narrow and John steels himself for the inevitable feeling of Sherlock’s laser-beam irises taking rapid stock of him. With a small oh, Sherlock lets his hand drop. “You’re angry.”
John is incredulous for all of two seconds. “Angry? Oh no, Sherlock. I’m fucking furious.”
This is evidently either completely obvious or utterly ignorable because Sherlock is distracted again, toeing at one pile of ashes and producing a great black smear across the floorboards. His calm state of aloofness pushes John over the edge and before he can think about it, he shoves hard into Sherlock’s shoulder, nearly knocking the man backwards into a pile of soot.
“What the bloody hell is wrong with you?” John shouts, hands balled into fists at his side, pure rage and outright frustration pounding through his skull and making everything sound fuzzy. Sherlock seems to have the unique ability of causing John’s blood pressure to shoot sky high in a mere matter of seconds, regardless of the reason. Right now, that reason is an absolute toxic mess of a sitting room and an infuriatingly calm consulting detective.
“It’s for a case, John,” Sherlock states, as though that is reason enough for piles and piles of black ash trodden into their flooring.
“Well I’d sure as hell hope so!” John explodes, hands sailing through the air in exasperation. He tries to take another calming breath, counts to twenty this time and rubs that spot between his eyes again like it’s the only thing left keeping him sane. “Right,” he finally says, huffing the word out with considerable effort. “Right. You’re hoovering this insanity up right this minute and so help me god, Sherlock, if I find one speck of soot anywhere near this flat when you’re done, I’m out of here.”
“John,” Sherlock says again placatory, condescending and almost amused, but whatever he was about to say is cut off when John’s hand shoots towards his face, fending off the tirade of speech no doubt making its way forward.
“I don’t want to hear it. Clean it up. Now.“ John stomps up the stairs to his room, noting with disgust that his shoes are tracking little cakes of soot in their wake.
If John is honest with himself, it’s not just the disaster of their sitting room that’s rubbing him raw at the moment. It’s Sherlock’s complete lack of regard for him in every aspect of their lives. Sometimes, when John is as frustrated as he is now, he wonders what would happen if he actually did make good on his threats, pack up one day and finally leave. It’s not as though Sherlock actually needs help paying the rent if his designer suits and bespoke trousers are anything to go on. What is he even still doing here, really?
And isn’t that just the crux of the problem. The thing is, John isn’t even sure what his role is in Sherlock’s life anymore, nor what his flatmate-cum-lover is doing in his own life either. It seems he’s just around these days out of sheer familiarity. Sherlock doesn’t need him for money, he doesn’t need him on cases (if he ever really did in the first place), he doesn’t listen when John tries to tell him to eat or sleep or take care of himself in any way whatsoever and he certainly doesn’t seem to need him for sentimentality. In fact, the only thing John seems to be good for these days is sex, and that is just not good enough.
Sighing, John tugs off his jumper and settles in to bed. Hopefully the mess will be cleared up in the morning, both the one in the sitting room and the one cluttering his consciousness.
: :
The sitting room is relatively clean again the following evening, just the usual detritus of knick-knacks and books littering the thankfully soot-free floor. Sherlock is nowhere to be found, presumably in his room either sulking or sleeping. Hopefully the latter, John thinks a little spitefully, recalling the most recent bout of insomnia and the resulting mess of a living space.
The tension when he’d left in the morning was nearly palpable and John could feel it from the very moment he’d opened his bedroom door. Tactical retreat seemed the best route, and though John had tried to justify his Speedy’s breakfast and Starbucks coffee with convenience, he’d felt the cowardice follow him through the whole day like a lost puppy. Guilt and anger had warred heavily on the edges of his consciousness, making him short and unusually abrasive with his patients.
John sighs and tries not to think about the ache that seemed to settle along his ribs every time he thought about the nearly wounded look on Sherlock’s face when he’d shouted at him. He knows Sherlock. Knows he can be hurt far more easily than he lets on, knows the way his shoulders tense every time Sally Donovan calls him a freak, knows how hard he tries to suppress his need for his brother’s approval, knows how his features soften when he thinks nobody can see him. John’s seen it all and he’s fairly appalled at himself for turning on Sherlock the way everyone else seems to. John should know better. He does know better, and that’s what bothers him the most.
The flat is too quiet with Sherlock’s door closed tight and Mrs Hudson at her sister’s for the weekend. Nights like this used to nearly break John after he’d been discharged from the RAMC with honors. When the silence in his bedsit became too much and the lure of his illegal Sig used to weigh heavily on the back of his mind, he used to go walking. He’d wander the streets of London, disgusted with his own body’s betrayal, trying to recall what it had been like to be happy here where life went on without the smells and sounds of someone else’s war.
It’s difficult to remember what he’d been like before deployment. Before he’d been broken. Before he knew the taste of blood and panic tainted with smoke and sand. Before one bad decision had led to a small piece of metal tearing through flesh and bone and the rest of his patrol being shipped home in boxes. War changes a man and John’s honestly not sure if he’s changed for the better or much, much worse.
He’s trying with Sherlock, he really is. Ever since Afghanistan it’s been difficult to let anyone get close. All of his old mates from Uni and the weekend rugby club seem to have drifted away. Or, more appropriately, John drifted and they stayed exactly the same: stationary in life with houses and families and steady jobs and nightmare-free sleep cycles. Even Harry had mentioned it, though how she’d even noticed he’d been gone with her blood-alcohol content reaching critical mass was anyone’s guess. Sherlock is different, though.
Somehow, Sherlock always manages to worm his way past John’s defenses, tearing his carefully constructed walls to shreds without even seeming to care. It’s been that way since their very first night together, haring off through London’s back alleys in pursuit of that mad cabbie and his sycophantic death wish.
John sighs again and rubs at his eyes with his palms. Sherlock is a perfect enigma and John has no illusions about his own deductive prowess to even think he stands a chance at figuring him out. That he’s beginning to see chips in the supposedly flawless veneer is nothing but close proximity and begrudging familiarity. He’s beginning to suspect that Sherlock would eventually crack around anyone he was forced to be near with such alarming frequency.
John is not, and never has been, anything special.
The sound of the bathroom door closing breaks John of his reverie. He takes note of the street lamps and his stone-cold tea and realizes he’s been sitting on the sofa, wallowing in self-deprecation for the better part of an hour. His maudlin mood breaks a little at Sherlock’s complete lack of tact when he waltzes into the sitting room and plops down on the worn leather cushions, immediately swinging his feet onto John’s lap as though he’s not even there.
The move is at once so utterly thoughtless and so characteristically Sherlock that John almost laughs. Trust this man to be the most complicated and overly analytical human being in the world and yet make absolutely nothing of the spectacular row they’d had not twenty-four hours ago. John hears the small huff of exasperation and affection escape his throat without clear effort and Sherlock shifts a bit, peering over his steepled fingers through his fringe.
“Problem?” he asks, left eyebrow climbing up his forehead like a restless caterpillar.
John’s lips stretch into a surprisingly easy smile. “Not at all.”
He flips on the telly and finds something suitably mind-numbing for the duration of the evening. He knows he should try and talk to Sherlock about their relationship, the undercurrent of tension from their spat the night before, or even the state of their kitchen, but he’s honestly not even sure what it is he wants and he’s loathe to enter into any conversation lightly.
An hour later and three quarters of the way through the latest episode of Top Gear, and Sherlock’s stomach grumbles loud enough to be heard over Clarkson’s review of the newest BMW. He looks genuinely startled at the noise and John can’t help a small chuckle.
“When was the last time you ate?” John asks.
“Irrelevant,” Sherlock replies, eyes closed and fingers still steepled beneath his chin like a bloody nun.
“Sherlock.”
Sherlock sighs and fixes John with a petulant stare. “Not sure. When did you make beans on toast?”
John’s brow creases involuntarily. “Christ, Sherlock. You haven’t eaten since Monday?“ At his pointed stare, John digs in his denims for his mobile. “Right then. I’m ordering take-away. You will eat it and there will be no more discussion on the matter.”
Sherlock sighs deeply and stares back up at the ceiling, for all the world a put-upon child with an unfair punishment. “Yes, mother,” he grouses and John throws a cushion at him.
“Sod off, you adolescent tosser.”
“Kinky,” Sherlock retorts, lips quirking up at the corners and John feels his lingering tension fade. God he’s missed this: the easy friendship and constant jibing at each other like a pair of old grans. It’s something John has grown to crave with Sherlock and ever since that first time in the hallway, he’s felt it markedly missing in their lives.
John orders curry while Sherlock toes at his side, trying to make him laugh while on the phone by tickling him of all things and John can’t help the muffled giggles as he gives the address for delivery. As soon as he rings off, he dives for Sherlock, secretly loving the way he yelps and tries to shove away despite the clear lack of space. John gets an elbow to the diaphragm for his troubles, but it’s worth it to see Sherlock squirm and laugh helplessly when John gets his fingers up around his ribs.
John is merciless, having spent a lot of his time as a child fending off similar attacks from his physically larger sister. For some reason, he sincerely doubts that was a common occurrence in the Holmes household. John’s momentary pause at the mental image of Mycroft doing anything so ordinary as tickle his younger brother is all the leverage Sherlock needs to flip them over, pinning John down into the cushions and trapping his hands at his sides.
He’s clearly pleased with himself as he tosses his hair out of his face and grins widely down at John. It’s incredible to see Sherlock’s expression split into something as free and easy as a playful tickling match on the sofa. They’re both still giggling, tiny helpless huffs of laughter escaping as they attempt to catch their breath. John doesn’t even have to think about it as he leans up and brushes his lips lightly across Sherlock’s.
Sherlock freezes above him and John silently curses his own lack of thought. For most people, this would have been the natural progression of the evening: quiet cuddling on the couch, playful banter and foreplay disguised innocently as a tickle fight, followed by dinner filled with increasingly asinine innuendo and falling into bed after for mind-blowing sex. But Sherlock is not most people and this is not exactly a date.
“John,” Sherlock rumbles, and it almost sounds uncertain. John closes his eyes and tries to check his libido, unaware apparently of the difference between a willingly pliant date and this impossible man.
He’s spared having to respond by the sound of the buzzer going at the door. Sherlock stares intensely at him for a few more seconds, an unreadable expression clouding his usually sharp gaze, before he shifts off and allows John to collect their dinner.
John scratches the back of his neck as he remounts the stairs, wondering when this whole thing had gone so extraordinarily pear-shaped. If this were a normal situation, he’d have his date eating out of the palm of his hand by now. John’s not an arrogant man, especially next to the likes of Sherlock bloody Holmes, but he’s pretty confident in his pulling capabilities and he’s slept with a fair enough share of the populace to wager he knows a thing or two about getting a leg over. Sherlock just doesn’t follow any social rules as far as John can see, so he feels like he’s navigating without a compass most of the time.
Sighing, he reaches the sitting room and drops back onto the sofa. To his great surprise, there are two plates and cutlery already laid out on the coffee table, and Sherlock is headed towards him with two wine glasses and a bottle. He must have a look of utter incredulity on his face, because Sherlock halts halfway through the sitting room door and his brow furrows in attention.
“Did you not want a drink?” he asks, sounding impossibly uncertain.
John’s eyebrows shoot up and he swallows hard. “Erm, no. No, that’s... fine. Great, actually. Thanks.” It’s all a bit awkward, but John resolutely unpacks the curry, extracting the small containers of rice and plastic boxes that smell positively divine.
For all his earlier grumbling, Sherlock attacks his food with an indecent amount of vigor usually confined to teenage boys and American tourists, and John can’t help but smile. At least he’s doing this much good in Sherlock’s life: feeding him up when he would normally have let himself starve. The curry is spicy and John is happy for the cool chardonnay that slides down his throat with probably too much ease for comfort.
They’re relatively quiet through dinner, limiting their small talk to fairly innocuous topics. John talks about his incredibly crap day at the surgery and Sherlock attempts to explain his newest kitchen experiment. It almost feels like normal; well, their version of normal anyway, and John finds himself wistfully pleased with the evening.
Apparently his earlier stolen kiss is not to be spoken of, since Sherlock seems to have forgotten the incident entirely in favor of waxing poetic over the growth rate of mould cultures in petri dishes. John finds himself smiling at Sherlock’s obvious enthusiasm, an expression that is returned whenever Sherlock catches his eye mid-sentence. Eventually, their conversation wanes on its own and they fall into a comfortable silence, sipping idly at their wine and picking at stray pieces of rice.
John stretches back into the cushions, full and remarkably happy. Sherlock looks drowsy and satisfied, actually bringing the plates into the kitchen and dumping them into the sink before snatching up his wine glass and flopping down next to John. He stretches his absurdly long legs out and rests his feet on the coffee table, bare toes wiggling in the air like a child. The aura of utter contentment is seeping through the room like smoke, and John finds himself vaguely reluctant to break whatever spell seems to have fallen over their flat. Without actually thinking about it, he drops his head onto Sherlock’s pointed shoulder and sighs into his own glass.
To his amazement, Sherlock just chuckles lightly and maneuvers them both so he’s reclining slightly into the sofa, pulling John’s head to rest against his chest instead. He begins trailing lazy patterns on the back of John’s neck with two incredibly long fingers. John feels the tension of the past few days draining from him entirely and he can feel the slow tendrils of sleep creeping in along his consciousness.
Sherlock sips at the last of his wine before shifting over and dropping the glass onto the rug. He reaches forward and tugs John’s glass out of his fingers as well before kissing him lightly on the top of the head. John is so startled by the easy affection that he blinks up at Sherlock in something like shock. Things have been so complicated lately that he almost forgot what it felt like to simply be around his best friend.
It’s so easy. Sherlock leans forward and presses his mouth to John’s, slow and sweet. It’s just a brush of lips, meant as simple affection and John feels his heart clench tightly around this new feeling. Sherlock makes a small humming noise in the back of his throat and pushes forward a little more, allowing his tongue to trace delicately at the seam of John’s lips, dipping inside and sliding along John’s slowly and deliberately. It feels like an apology, like a benediction and like a promise all at once.
It’s suddenly not enough and John allows his arms to slide up Sherlock’s shoulders, turning in his lap to straddle the man and bring their bodies into full contact. Sherlock groans, low and deep and John feels his control slip just a little bit more.
His lips graze across the long expanse of pale neck and feels Sherlock shudder beneath him, large hands sliding up John’s thighs to encircle his waist and pull him closer. John takes it as an invitation and buries his fingers into thick, dark curls, tilting Sherlock’s head back and sucking a light bruise into the side of his neck.
“Yes,” Sherlock sighs into his mouth, tongue a bit more insistent now, but no less tender. “Yes, John. Yes.”
It’s slow this time, passion and heat building between them with every gentle caress of flesh, every reverent kiss. Sherlock is languid and pliant beneath John, mouth soft and hushed against John’s skin. John can feel himself falling, spiraling out of control as the moments stretch and grow between them. When Sherlock finally begins easing John out of his clothing, it’s careful and worshipful, brushing his lips along every new stretch of naked skin until John is a quivering mess of sensation and emotion.
Sherlock’s eyes are wide and dark, pupils dilated into large pools of fathomless depths. John imagines himself tumbling into them and never reaching the bottom. Sherlock whispers John’s name against his sweat-slicked skin, quiet and decadent as a prayer.
All the usual frenzy is replaced by slow deliverance, Sherlock’s body cradling John’s as they move together towards climax. When John finally comes, it feels like liberation, pulsing out of him in thick waves that leave him breathless and unburdened. Sherlock follows closely behind, orgasm shaking him to the very core, shuddering and arching beneath John, head thrown back and mouth moving around the shape of John’s name.
They’re quiet afterwards, cocooned and warm in the safe haven of their sitting room. John can feel the shift of their relationship; tectonic plates rearranging their world and creating new chasms in which to fall. He knows how perilous this is: the tentative calm before the storm that is life with Sherlock.
Eventually, the air in the room cools enough to pull them out of their heady embrace. John moves first, gathering his discarded vest and dabbing gently at their mingled ejaculate on their bellies. Sherlock’s abdomen shifts and tenses under John’s hands, muscles flexing at the attention. He pulls John back in for a lingering kiss, mouths sliding together in delicious friction and John melts into him, boneless and sated.
When they do finally stand, it’s on shaking knees and trembling thighs. Sherlock’s hand slides softly into John’s, fingers automatically tangling together as he tugs him gently towards his bedroom. John feels slightly bewildered, caught in between radiant joy and tentative hope. They’ve never spent the night in Sherlock’s bed and the wide span of expensive cotton and fluffy duvet is slightly intimidating.
Sherlock folds John backwards, easing him down amongst the pillows and duvet before smiling down at him with such heartbreaking tenderness that John gasps. Sherlock’s expression sharpens at once, but one corner of his mouth is still upturned with lazy warmth. He quietly reaches for the side table and turns off the light. John feels the mattress dip as Sherlock slides between the sheets, immediately curling around John and wrapping him tightly in miles and miles of long limbs and pale skin.
John can’t keep the shy smile off his own face as he allows himself to sink into Sherlock’s embrace. Whatever switch has been thrown in Sherlock’s brain, John doesn’t want to move it one iota. It feels as though they’re waiting, standing on a tender precipice that can either leave them falling indefinitely, or jumping together willingly. He can just make out the steady beat of Sherlock’s heart beneath his ribs and he allows the regular pulse to lull him into the first decent sleep he’s had in weeks.
: :
John wakes the next morning alone and slightly disoriented. It takes him a moment to remember why he’s feeling quite so content, but when he does, the smile that splits across his face must be absolutely besotted. He’s briefly glad Sherlock is not here to witness his teenaged-girl moment, but the cool slide of cotton against his searching fingers is a bit maddening nonetheless. His limbs feel stretched, but comfortable and he allows himself a moment to simply rub against the expensive thread count, reveling in memories of last night. It had been absolutely beautiful and the hopeless romantic side of John wants nothing more than to luxuriate in the afterglow of feeling loved.
There is no denying that was the permeating feeling wafting around their sitting room last night. John’s heart seems to expand at the thought, pulse skipping beats in its haste to pump oxytocin through his system. John knows he can’t stay here, grinning like six different kinds of fool, and simply waiting for Sherlock to reappear. Sleeping together had been wonderful, but John’s not stupid enough to think Sherlock will change old habits just to make him feel more comfortable. John doesn’t want him to.
With a heartfelt groan of sated satisfaction, John rolls over and searches for his pants, forgetting for the moment that all of his clothes are probably still strewn around the flat, looking like a crime scene. Laughing quietly to himself, John spots a brush of dark blue silk against the stark doors of Sherlock’s wardrobe and, feeling more than a little mischievous, slides the dressing gown over his bare skin. It smells like Sherlock: warm and slightly spicy aftershave mixed with London rain and car exhaust and nicotine and chemicals and John can’t help but bury his face into the collar. It’s overtly luxurious, the slide of elegant silk along his bare skin and he suddenly understands why Sherlock spends so much of his time in the garment. The very idea of Sherlock’s skin rubbing tantalizingly against the fabric is making John’s cock twitch and he marvels at the way his libido seems to think he’s back in secondary school.
Running his fingers through his hair in attempt to smooth some of it down, John opens the door and wanders into the kitchen. Sherlock’s back is to him, bent over the worktop and clearly doing something unspeakable to what looks like some kind of sea slug in a petri dish. John takes a moment to rake his eyes over the way Sherlock’s obscenely tight shirt clings to his shoulders before tapering down elegantly to highlight his slim waist. Sherlock’s trousers are pulled tight across his arse and when he shifts his weight, John finds his mouth salivating without his permission. He swallows audibly before stepping further into the room.
Sherlock still hasn’t noticed him. Or, more likely, he’s noticed and dismissed him as unimportant at present. John doesn’t take offense to this, as it only seems to confirm his hypothesis that Sherlock is entirely comfortable around him. John carefully sidesteps a more ominous looking biohazard box on the floor and comes to stand directly behind Sherlock, sliding his hands around the man’s waist and bringing his lips lightly along the edge of his hairline.
Sherlock stiffens immediately, hands frozen around an Erlenmeyer flask and his protective goggles. John’s fingers rub lazy patterns into Sherlock’s abdomen as he brings his body flush against the man’s taller frame.
“Morning,” he says, smiling quietly against the skin.
“John,” Sherlock grits out stiffly. John rubs his hips against Sherlock’s tantalizing arse and hears the satisfying sound of a bitten off gasp. John is hard already, the silk of the dressing gown rubbing delicately along his skin and contrasting beautifully with the texture of the fine wool of Sherlock’s trousers. John rolls his hips again, trying to produce more of that sound, but Sherlock suddenly turns, grasping both of his wrists in a bruising grip. John sways a bit and is startled by the cold look in Sherlock’s pale eyes, the indifferent mask of cool aloofness firmly back in place.
“I’m working, John,” he says, voice tightly controlled. He releases John’s wrists so quickly that he staggers, thrown off balance by the constant tumult of Sherlock’s emotions. He realizes he’s standing there, gaping at the back of Sherlock’s head as he firmly straps on the goggles and starts up the butane torch.
John’s head is spinning, rejection and anger boiling dangerously in the pit of his gut. The warm, loved feeling that had been happily setting up residence in his solar plexus seems to shrivel and freeze, turning his blood cold and making him shudder with the impact.
“I...” John starts, at a complete loss at how to process what seems to be happening over and over again. He feels completely out of control in a way he hasn’t felt since the war.
“What, John?” Sherlock snaps, tilting an imperious glance over his shoulder.
I thought you loved me flashes dangerously through John’s head, but he knows better. This is such a monumental cock-up he doesn’t even know where to begin the explanations. John shivers and realizes he’s standing in the middle of their kitchen in nothing but a drape of flimsy silk, pride and besotted heart bruised irrevocably.
“Nothing,” he clips out, tugging the dressing gown closed and trying to rein in his temper. He can feel his jaw tensing, can feel the muscles in his arms clenching his hands into fists, can feel the soldier in him slowly taking over. John welcomes the change, sliding into the indifferent skin easily and silently grateful for his body’s coping mechanism to pain. Feeling his shoulders stiffen to attention, he pivots on his heel and marches up the stairs.
And if his leg twinges a bit, well, Sherlock’s not there to see it happen, is he?
: :
John is late for work. His frustration is clear in every movement he makes and unfortunately, his patients bear most of the brunt. He takes several breaks during the day, trying to calm himself with deep breaths and strong cups of coffee, but nothing works. He finds himself distracted and irritable, snapping at a few nurses for not filling out paperwork correctly and immediately feels a surge of guilt at their startled and hurt faces. It’s really not their fault and John absolutely knows better than anyone how it feels to carry the blame for other people’s emotional turmoil. The fact that Sherlock is under his skin, picking away at his carefully constructed walls and making him short and disagreeable with the rest of the world is making John’s irritability ratchet up another notch. Sherlock is just so infuriating.
: :
Find Part 2 of the fic here.