Disguise, part 6/6
:: previous part ::
The night is quiet when they walk into John's room. Sherlock's room is closer, but yours is cleaner, Sherlock had whispered, his lips light against the top of John's ear.
He shuts John's door, leans against it for a moment, then steps into the room, deliberately toward John. Moonlight shines in lines around them, painting Sherlock's face into angular shadows. John's breath catches in his throat for a moment. Though Sherlock is still dressed as Brad, his look is all Sherlock. John can see the underlying bone structure, the way he carries himself. His look is eager but shy, and all directed at John.
John steps forward, not breaking eye contact. He wants to touch, touch Sherlock's skin, inches and miles of it, and all for him. He reaches out, touches Sherlock's face with his palm, his thumb brushing his cheek. Sherlock leans into it, only a slight incline of his head, but it makes John's skin heat. A lock of brilliant red hair falls across Sherlock's forehead, into his eyes. He glances up, then a look of recognition passes over his face and he pauses.
Ahh...
Sherlock had forgotten he was wearing a disguise.
"It's alright," John murmurs, "it's fine."
But Sherlock looks determined. He reaches behind his head, his hands moving slightly. John hears a couple of quiet pindrops on the floor, then Sherlock brings his ring fingers to both lower eyelids, pulling them downward as he uses his thumb and index finger to pull out a pair of contact lenses. He drops those to the floor as well, then looks at John with clear, green-grey eyes.
As John watches, Sherlock makes small, subtle changes to his appearance: removing small prosthetics from under his cheekbones and over his chin. He pulls a tissue from the box on John's nightstand and wipes over parts of his face, revealing more and more of himself. Changes to his body are slight: shoulder pads, some extra layers around his middle, some things John can't begin to name, and then Sherlock stands in front of him, his collared shirt unbuttoned and hanging open, his lips parted, his eyes vulnerable and anchored on John.
"Here I am," he whispers. John doesn't think he's ever heard Sherlock's voice so quiet.
"Nearly," John says, gesturing toward the tangled mop of red on Sherlock's head. Sherlock glances upward, then captures John's hand with his, brings it up. He looks intently at John, nods at him, then John carefully pulls off the wig and places it on top of his bureau. There's some netting or something over Sherlock's hair and John takes another step forward, using both hands to remove it carefully, untangling the other hair pins he finds and laying it all down next to the wig.
He runs his fingers through Sherlock's matted curls, untangling them, pressing against Sherlock's skull with his fingertips. Sherlock's eyes fall shut while John caresses his scalp, and John's fingertips burn with sensation. Sherlock's hair is soft, warm, and the scent of it bursts through the air: soapy, chemicals... Sherlock, all filling John's senses. He inhales as deeply as he can.
After a long moment, Sherlock opens his eyes, they're deep and unfocused for a moment before he focuses on John, then smiles. John's heart tightens and tender words fill his mind.
"Here you are," John whispers. "You're here now."
They're in the middle of the room, far from the bed, but John has very little desire to move from this space any time soon, if ever. John slides his hands down, under Sherlock's curls and over his neck, tracing the curves. Sherlock watches him, his eyes slipping from John's eyes to his neck, his lips.
John brings his lips to Sherlock's cheek, traces upward to his brow. Sherlock's skin is soft under his lips, and John can't quite get over the fact that this is Sherlock, Sherlock here in front of him with his shirt open and his eyes full.
"Sherlock," John breathes, pressing their foreheads together. "God, I want you so badly."
Sherlock steps into his space, opens his mouth to speak, but shuts it again. He reaches for John's face, his eyes following every movement.
Sherlock's thumb brushes John's cheekbone, less defined than his own and something John hasn't really paid attention to before. His thumb rubs over the skin, tracing gently, slides over the skin under John's eye, then up to his temple. It's so unbearably intimate that John's throat hurts. Sherlock's eyes are soft, attentive, and John realizes Sherlock isn't learning right now, isn't testing out new data, isn't acting on other observed behaviour; he's doing this because he wants to.
"John." When Sherlock rubs his thumb over John's lower lip, John can see Sherlock's lips part slightly; he shuts his eyes for a moment, then opens them and looks at John.
"John," he says again; his voice is almost pained.
"What is it?"
"John, you..." his voice breaks. "You make me want to - say things."
John's heart warms. "Sherlock, that's--" John doesn't know how to finish the sentence. "That's... good. I want--" he brushes his lips over Sherlock's cheek, his eyelid, slides them to his ear. "I want to hear them. All of them."
Sherlock is quiet for a long moment, pulling back and watching John's eyes. John can't quite read his expression, but he watches Sherlock's face, his eyes. John thinks back to everything over the past few months and he has the beginnings of an idea. Maybe he ought to test it out.
So John reaches for Sherlock's wrist, pulling him gently over toward the bureau. John turns to face the bureau, then pulls Sherlock against him until they're flush together, back against chest. John pulls his tee shirt overhead, then presses back against Sherlock, expelling a sharp breath when he feels the warmth of Sherlock's chest against him.
Sherlock's body goes still for a moment, then melts against John, his hands stroking slowly up John's arms. His fingertips are feather-light against John's skin, brushing his wrists, his forearms, the inner skin of his elbows. John sucks a sharp breath; the feel of Sherlock's fingers is erotically decadent.
Then Sherlock's mouth is on his neck, under his ear, pressing wet lips everywhere.
"John," he murmurs, his breath louder than his voice. "John."
John wonders when, exactly, the sound of his name became such a turn-on.
"I watch you," Sherlock says, mouthing the curve of John's neck. "I watch you all the time. You're fascinating. A study in contrasts, and every one of them a puzzle."
"Puzzles," Sherlock continues. His mouth is on John's ear now. "You are a puzzle with so many layers. The more I learn, the more I don't know... how is that possible?"
Sherlock's hands move from John's elbows up to his shoulders, then down over his sides to his waist. He slides one hand up, one thumb brushing John's nipple, while the other splays flat over John's abdomen, his middle finger dipping into John's navel.
"Christ," John whispers. "Fucking hell, Sherlock."
He arches back against Sherlock, feeling his skin -- damp with a light sweat -- starting to cling to Sherlock's. He rests his head back on Sherlock's shoulder, shutting his eyes and letting his nerves rise to the surface to feel every fucking bit of this. He wishes he had a photograph of this: their bodies pressed together, Sherlock wrapped around him everywhere. He was right: Sherlock needed to say this, needed to say it to John without the pressure of eye contact.
"I put on all of those disguises with you... for you," Sherlock whispers quietly. "All of those disguises, and you saw through every one. I don't know how you do it, how you are, but you're so--" Sherlock's voice breaks off, he presses his mouth to John's neck and sucks hard; it's going to leave a mark, but John can't be arsed to care. Sherlock's hands tighten against John's body, he presses forward against John's back and John can feel Sherlock's erection against the top of his arse.
Sherlock slides one hand upward, tipping John's chin toward him, and then he kisses John roughly, breathing raggedly into the kiss. John kisses back, sucking deeply on Sherlock's upper lip and pressing backward so their bodies are touching everywhere. They kiss and kiss, lips sliding messily in the dark until Sherlock breaks away from the kiss for a moment.
"I don't need - don't want to hide anymore," he gasps.
John's heart skips; the past few minutes seem as if they've existed in slow motion. He kisses the underside of Sherlock's chin then reaches for Sherlock's hands, holding them gently while he turns in his arms. Their bodies have moved apart, just a step.
John looks at Sherlock deliberately, holding his gaze.
"I see you," he says. "All of you."
John releases Sherlock's hands, brings one hand up to trace Sherlock's brow bone, then his jaw.
Sherlock's eyes roam over John's face, down to his lips, then back to his eyes.
"John," he whispers. As though it is the only word that matters. Then he steps forward again, kissing John, but touching only with his lips. John drops his hand to Sherlock's shoulders, to the curve of his collarbone, then shuts his eyes.
Everything is so slow, so deliberately fucking slow, as though they are kissing through molasses. They're barely touching, pressed together at their lips and knees, communicating only with fingertips and lip-skin.
It's the slowest series of kisses John has ever shared, pulling his thoughts out until they puddle on the floor around him.
Everything is so slow, so desperately slow... until it's not.
Because then Sherlock is against him, touching him everywhere, hands in John's hair, on his back, cupping his arse. John grunts, tangling his fingers into those impossible curls and kissing back fiercely.
"God, I want you," Sherlock gasps into his ear. "It's you, it's you... it's always been you. I don't know how I even--" he breaks off, mouthing the curve of John's neck and reaching between them for John's belt.
John rubs his cheek sleekly against Sherlock's, tonguing the corner of his mouth. Sherlock's hands fumble with John's belt and zipper then he slides to the floor, pulling John's trousers down in one motion. John looks down, sees Sherlock on his knees between his legs, with his eyes on the bulge in John's dark briefs, then he leans forward to nuzzle it briefly before glancing up and catching John's gaze.
"Oh Christ," John breathes. It's quite possible he's dreamed something exactly like this before, but it couldn't possibly be half as breathtaking as seeing it in front of him. Sherlock's eyes are wide, exultant; he probably has no idea how beautiful he looks. So John tells him.
Sherlock smiles, and his cheeks pinken. He rises, pulls John against him, then kisses him deeply again. John loses blissful minutes kissing Sherlock until his lips tingle with pressure, and he reaches down, slides his hands over Sherlock's back and squeezes two perfect handfuls of his arse.
After a few minutes, Sherlock walks them deliberately backward, pressing John down on the bed until he's lying flat. Sherlock pulls off John's socks, kisses the inside of his knees, and beams at him.
"You're here," he says quietly.
"I'm here," John echoes. "I'm not going anywhere."
Sherlock stands, letting his shirt fall from his shoulders and drop to the floor. He pulls off his socks first, one at a time, then pauses a minute, rising to his full height and unfastening his belt. He pulls off his trousers and briefs slowly, stepping out one foot at a time, his eyes watching John's reaction hungrily. He kneels on the foot of the bed and starts forward.
John's heart is in his throat. He almost can't believe this is happening. Sherlock. Sherlock is in his bed, crawling over him with darkened eyes and a swollen mouth. John's eyes rake over Sherlock's body, taking in the long lines, the tapered waist, the line of hair under his navel that curls down between his thighs. Sherlock's cock juts out from his body with a slight curve. John could look at him for hours.
"Christ, you're beautiful... so beautiful," he breathes.
Then Sherlock kneels between John's legs, lowering his body slowly against John's, skin against glorious skin, and oh so warm.
John presses one of his feet flat against the bed, curling his arms around Sherlock's back and pulling him down for another kiss. As they kiss and kiss, John's breath becomes less and less important.
Sherlock is light on top of him, resting his weight on one elbow while the other hand roams John's body and settles on his hip. John doesn't let these moments go to waste: questing fingertips slide over the full expanse of Sherlock's back, his neck, his arse. John has long wanted to feel every inch of Sherlock's skin, to commit it to memory. He has half a mind that something as perfect as this might well push all of the nightmares right out of his brain.
The window next to the bed is cracked open, letting the sounds of the London night wash over them. John thinks that someone deliberately listening on the street would have no doubt of exactly what is going on in the darkened room on the third floor and he grins to himself.
Sherlock pulls back for a moment, looks at John, his eyes flitting quickly over John's face.
"I'm not going to muffle any sounds you cause, Doctor," he says with a smile: a crooked, mischievous grin that John could look at for decades.
"Not good for your vocal cords anyway," John says.
"That makes no sense whatsoever."
"Nothing said in the heat of passion ever makes much sense out of context."
Sherlock looks affronted. "I always make sense."
John kisses him once, twice. "Then I shall endeavour to be the first to drive you into full-on nonsense."
"I look forward to the experience."
Sherlock kisses his neck, his collarbone, moves toward the gnarled skin of John's shoulder and brushes it carefully with his lips. John lets out an involuntary moan.
"I think I'll take my own turn first, though." Sherlock kisses the corner of his mouth and nuzzles his jaw playfully. "That is, if it's all the same to you."
"Sherlock, you're in my bed, naked, and we haven't stopped kissing for the past hour. There is nothing about this that is all the same to me."
Sherlock laughs, a full throaty laugh that wracks his abdomen; it rumbles against John's chest. John watches him, can feel his eyes crinkle fondly, and he feels himself falling just a little deeper.
He kisses John full on the mouth, which leads to John kissing back, to lips parting and tongues pressing in, to shared breath, and to John realising that he could lie here and snog Sherlock for days and be perfectly content. He's warm, comfortable, and more than a little aware of every inch of Sherlock's body that's pressed against his.
Eventually, Sherlock pulls back a little, smiles again, and leans over John's shoulder. He presses his lips into the very centre of John's scar and kisses it deliberately. John's stomach tenses, then flips completely over. He's never-- god, that feels...
"Sherlock," he gasps, shutting his eyes and tangling his fingers into Sherlock's hair as Sherlock explores every dip and ridge with his lips, with his tongue.
John's body is on fire as Sherlock finishes his exploration and moves down to his chest, taking his time on each of John's nipples until John can't tell if his eyes are still closed or simply fogged with sensation.
The minutes pass in ways John can barely fathom; it's as though time is being controlled by Sherlock himself. By the time Sherlock reaches his navel, actually pressing his tongue inside and licking the outer edge, John's mind is so overcome he couldn't answer a coherent question about any simple medical procedure if his life were on the line.
Then Sherlock nuzzles his way down the trail of hair under John's navel and stops at the elastic of John's briefs.
Stops.
It takes John a moment to realise it, but when he opens his eyes and looks down he sees Sherlock gazing up at him with darkened eyes. Sherlock nods in approval, then hooks his thumbs under the elastic and coaxes John's hips off the bed. He slides John's briefs down and off, tossing them overhead in a navy blue blur, then settles his body between John's thighs and nudges one leg open with his shoulder.
He examines for long moments, which might be disconcerting in someone else, but this is Sherlock. It makes John feel... fascinating, to be the subject of such intense scrutiny.
"You're beautiful," Sherlock breathes, and John's cheeks go warm. He presses his lips to the hair on John's inner thigh, drawing inward to the junction of his hip and thigh and inhaling deeply. Sherlock's thumbs caress the skin beside his scrotum, then one hand lifts and tugs it gently.
Meanwhile, Sherlock has propped himself up on one of his forearms and is doing a slow, careful study of every inch of John's cock. John gasps in surprise when Sherlock, seeming to find everything to his liking, presses the tip of his tongue to John's fraenulum. Shifting to the flat of his tongue, Sherlock moves upward over the glans, then takes the entire head in his mouth.
"Christ, oh Christ," John can hear himself babbling. "Please keep doing that."
Whether Sherlock likes following directions, or is simply content to keep John's cock in his mouth for long periods of time, John has no idea, but Sherlock doesn't stop. His right hand curves itself at the bottom of John's cock, squeezing and sliding upward to meet every downward thrust of his mouth.
It is always a good thing when someone has their mouth on John's cock... and this is Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock Holmes, who makes delicious little grunting sounds as he moves, and holy fucking Christ, John could do this forever.
"Sherlock, god oh god, Sherlock," John gasps out, completely incapable of shutting his eyes even for a moment and losing the unreal sight in front of him. God, his eyelids are going to dry out and he won't have any eyeballs left, but it is a small price to pay, really, and probably Sherlock could do interesting experiments on them anyway. So it wouldn't be the greatest loss.
After a moment, though, it goes from being everything, to just short of too much and John is damned if he's going to come this soon when they've only just got out of their clothes.
"Sherlock," he gasps again, pulling his hips away and tugging gently at Sherlock's head.
Sherlock slides up his body, his eyes dark and hungry. He kisses fire over John's skin as he slides. Glancing down, John can see Sherlock is still fully erect; the past minutes spent on John's cock clearly did nothing to diminish his arousal, which is quite amazing, really.
When Sherlock makes it up to his neck, John shifts under him, aligns their cocks until they're pressed together and arches upward while wrapping his arms around Sherlock's back.
"You feel so good," Sherlock breathes into his ear, sliding his thumb over John's temple and massaging it gently.
John doesn't say anything, just kisses Sherlock's temple, then his eyelid, then down to his mouth. Sherlock kisses him deeply, tongue pressing into every corner of John's mouth and sucking on his tongue. The line of Sherlock's jaw is mesmerising: long and slow, and moving with every kiss. This feels so different, so different than it was in 1992, yet as John's mind takes in every second, every whisper... he finds that it's still so much the same.
He can almost hear the twenty-two year old version of himself sigh in relief, step back, and let go.
Let go.
Let...
John realises what he wants at the same moment the rest of his body does; he can feel his cock twitch. He reaches out for the drawer of his bedside table, pulling out a bottle of lube (well used) and a condom (optimistic purchase). When John presses them into his hand Sherlock blinks rapidly at him, pulls back.
"John?"
John leans up and kisses him lightly. "I want you to fuck me."
Sherlock looks directly at him for a long moment, his eyes boring right into John's. He looks hungry, so clearly turned on, but he's obviously searching John's face for something. They'd done all of this together more than seventeen years ago: naked and sweating and mouths all over each other, but what John has just suggested... well, they never quite made it that far. John pushes himself up to a sitting position, curls his body around Sherlock's and presses their lips together fiercely. John looks right back at Sherlock; he wills Sherlock to see him, to see this, to see how fucking desperate he is. He wills him to look inside his mind, to pull his heart out of his chest if he needs to, see it beat Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock...
John wants; he wants so badly.
"Sherlock," he whispers, holding Sherlock's face between his hands and pressing their lips together gently. "Sherlock... I want this... want you."
And then Sherlock is all over him, kissing every inch of skin he can reach. He falls to the bed and pulls John down with him. They lie on their sides, rocking their bodies together, legs intertwined and kissing wetly. John is drowning in Sherlock; the air around him is so full. Sherlock gasps out half-words and syllables and John swallows every one.
John reaches out, sliding his hand over Sherlock's side, then moves slowly back and forth across his chest, his lower abdomen. Sherlock shuts his eyes and rocks his head back in the pillows. It occurs to John that his bed is going to smell like Sherlock when he wakes up, and part of him can't wait to wake up for that.
"God, look at you..." he whispers, "I could look at you for hours."
Sherlock's hand is on John's back, pulling him closer until he's pressed against Sherlock's chest. His hand cups John's arse and then pulls John's leg up over his hip. He fumbles behind John's back for a moment, then John can feel the slick slip of Sherlock's finger tracing between his buttocks, pressing gently inside his anus.
"Christ," John pants, "oh, Christ." It's been a good while since anyone else has had their fingers inside him, and his body shudders with the sensation. Sherlock is slow, deliberate. He obviously knows anatomy: can tell when to push in further, when to pause, when to pull out and push back in. He works his finger, then another, into John for a good while, breathing into his ear the whole time. John isn't sure he's going to be able to hear Sherlock's breathing ever again without becoming absurdly aroused.
When Sherlock crooks his fingers, John can feel them press lightly against his prostate gland and he swears under his breath, his vision blurred.
He loses all track of time, can't stop concentrating on the sensations flooding through him: Sherlock's breath in his ear, Sherlock's fingers shallow, then deeply inside him, the light cool breeze of the night. If John shuts his eyes, things are timeless: this could be seventeen years ago, tangled in the mottled sheets of Brad's bed, taking steps that John had never taken before.
But when he hears a grunted, "John," he opens his eyes to someone that can only be Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock's eyes are unmistakeable: grey-green and focused solely on John. The look on his face is something like... god, it looks like reverence. As though this was something so much more for him as well.
John smiles and breathes and his heart nearly explodes with possibility.
He reaches for the condom and presses it into Sherlock's other hand, kissing him eagerly.
"I'm - god, I'm ready, Sherlock."
The breeze picks up, washing across John's fevered skin and ruffling Sherlock's hair. John reaches out to touch it, to slide his fingers through the brilliant mess of curls. Sherlock gently pushes John down on the bed, lies down on top of him and kisses him languidly.
The next few moments are a blur: Sherlock kneeling between his legs, tearing open the condom packet and sucking a sharp breath when John sits up to roll it on for him with a steady hand. He can hear the click of the bottle cap, sees Sherlock slicking himself. Then Sherlock's hands are back between his buttocks and John lies back, spreading his thighs and drawing them back toward his chest. The tips of two fingers trace the rim, then press just inside his anus.
Sherlock's eyes are on his face, watching every subtle change of expression, waiting. John locks his gaze on Sherlock and nods at him, his mouth open.
"Yes," he whispers as Sherlock removes his fingers and walks forward on his knees. "Please... yes."
John is so profoundly aroused when Sherlock sinks into him, moving slowly, as though every inch were something new to experience. Sherlock's eyes watch him hungrily, taking in every one of John's breaths, every single twitch of muscle.
Sherlock lowers himself down over John, slides his hands and forearms under John's shoulder blades; their faces are a whisper apart. John feels surrounded in every way: Sherlock over him, around him, inside him. Sherlock moves slowly, deeply in and out; his breath is shallow, his eyes heavy and dark.
John has always liked sex -- he can think of very few men who don't -- but this... this is altogether different. God, it's everything... the closeness, the raw, bare intimacy of their bodies together, of Sherlock so deeply inside him... it's a wonder he can still breathe.
"John," Sherlock whispers, "John."
John looks up at him, almost blind with lust, his heart beating desperately. "Yes... yes, my god, Sherlock, I want you so badly."
Then Sherlock's mouth is on his, an inelegant press of lips and teeth, kissing John furiously.
"I need you," he breathes, tearing his mouth away and speaking right into John's ear. "Need you around, need you with me..."
John arches his hips off the bed, curling his arms tightly around Sherlock's back and kisses his temple, the line of his hair. He's not going anywhere.
"I... it's just..." Sherlock's breath is ragged. "With you... everything finally makes sense with you. You make... you make the things in my mind tolerable. You connect things in my head, make the pathways clear."
Sherlock's movements had grown erratic while he was speaking, but now he finds a rhythm. The pressure of him angled deep inside John is maddening; a burst of longing flows through him, which is ridiculous. Ridiculous because Sherlock is right here, here inside him, whispering devotions to John like he's in a confessional.
And John... there's so much he wants to say, so much he can feel here between them. John doesn't want to be afraid to say things, hopes this delicate balance they've finally achieved won't go anywhere. Sherlock presses their foreheads together, breathes John's heavy breath, and watches him.
"Tell me," Sherlock says quietly. "Tell me, please."
John's heart is in his throat. Sherlock can read him so well, always seems to be able to read his mind. And yet... now he can't put any of it into words - are there even words for this?
"All of that," John says, "everything you said, Sherlock. With you, I--" he shuts his eyes, "with you, I don't feel broken anymore..."
Sherlock stills completely, fully seated inside him. John opens his eyes, looks up with a question in his eyes. Sherlock's face is quiet, thinking, but then he breaks into a wide, brilliant smile that nearly stops John's heart.
"And to think," Sherlock says quietly, "all it took was a bottle of lubricant and some prophylactics to get us here."
"Well," John grins back as he corrects him, "four months of crazy disguises, a bottle of lubricant, and some prophylactics..."
Sherlock looks down for a moment, then back to John. "If you're going to get technical: seventeen years, four months of disguises, a bottle of lubricant, and some prophylactics."
Understanding and warmth flows through John; he feels lighter than he has in years.
"Worth it, though."
"You think so?"
"Definitely."
Sherlock seals their lips together, kissing John lightly; his eyes are open and honest.
"Maybe we ought to get back to it, then?"
"Excellent deduction."
"Well, I am the world's only consulting detective."
"You are certainly the wordiest."
"So, what does that say about you, then?"
"That your voice turns me on?"
A smile spreads across Sherlock's face. "Does it?"
John slides one hand over the back of Sherlock's neck, tangles his fingers in the hair at the base of Sherlock's skull, and kisses him lightly. "Why don't you experiment and find out?"
Sherlock grins at him, then starts moving his hips again, moving shallowly inside John and leaning down to whisper into John's ear. After a full minute of this, John can barely pay attention to anything: every sensation blurs until he's overwhelmed and gasping, clinging to Sherlock and sliding his thumb over Sherlock's sweaty brow.
His cock is trapped between them; the feel of it rubbing against Sherlock's abdomen is slowly doing him in.
"God," he pants, "why haven't we done this before?"
Sherlock stops kissing his neck, pulls his head up until he can look into John's eyes. His eyes are dark, pupils dilated, and his lower lip hangs low. "Can you - fuck, John, can you come like this?"
The sound of that curse from Sherlock's lips sets his stomach aflame and John leans up to lick that perfect lower lip.
"I think so... yeah. Are you close?"
"Getting there, yeah."
Sherlock slides his hands further under John's shoulder blades, drops his head to John's shoulder and starts thrusting in earnest. John is on edge; everything starts coiling low in his abdomen and he presses up against every movement Sherlock makes. Every push of Sherlock inside him, every hard press against his cock, the sound of Sherlock's breath next to his ear... oh god, it's...
It's fucking exquisite.
John's not going to last, not going to - he's going to... god, oh god...
"Sherlock," he gasps out. "I--"
Everything goes white, then sparks of brilliant colours flash behind his eyes and everything pours out of him at once. He clings to Sherlock, digging his fingertips into the skin of his back and letting go of his breath.
After a moment John returns to reality, finds Sherlock watching him fondly.
"Christ," he breathes. "That was... god, that just--"
Then John realises something. "You haven't come. Can you, like this? Do you need me to move, to--"
Sherlock grunts, "Nearly there, I just need..." his voice is ragged. "Is it okay, like this... if we keep going?"
"God yes, Sherlock, please."
When Sherlock starts moving again John realises that he'd stopped, let John ride out his own orgasm, and his throat tightens.
His body is over sensitised; he can feel every pull and drag of Sherlock inside him. "God," he whispers. "That feels -- you feel -- amazing."
"John. John, John..." Sherlock's voice is in his ear, quieter than a whisper, but John can hear every syllable. "John, my god, I... I, I--"
John curls around him, pressing his knees against Sherlock's back and pulling Sherlock as close as they can possibly get. Sherlock is silent for a long moment, then John's name tears out of his throat with a low moan and John feels him shudder above him. The shudder wracks his body and John holds him close, kissing the side of his neck reverently.
They lie there quietly for a long moment before Sherlock shifts away, one hand sliding between them to grasp the base of the condom before he pulls carefully out of John. He reaches for the box of tissues on John's bedside cabinet and disposes of the condom, then flumps down on the bed next to John with a sigh.
"That was amazing."
John grins at him. "It was pretty bloody amazing, wasn't it?"
Sherlock slides over, curls his body around John and takes a deep breath. "Please tell me we don't have to wait another seventeen years to do that again."
John laughs. "My recovery time isn't what it used to be, but I think I can safely say we've got nothing to worry about in that area."
"Good." Sherlock's eyes blink sleepily. "I've got plans for you, Doctor."
"I would expect nothing less."
John reaches for the duvet and pulls it up over both of them, then settles back down and shuts his eyes, utterly content.
~*~
John wakes, oddly at ease and glances automatically toward the window. It's still dark, only the barest of light coming in from the streetlights below. He's been asleep for a while, but still quite groggy, and he has a good number of hours left until morning.
He yawns, then realises he's not at all alone in his bed.
Sherlock.
Sherlock's body is wrapped around his, his arm thrown over John's waist and his head on John's chest. Their legs are tangled together; John can feel the top of Sherlock's right foot pressed against the base of his left.
Slowly John tests his muscles as he does every morning, shifting briefly. His legs are fine, no residual (psychosomatic) discomfort in his right leg. His shoulder... fine, too. No pain there. When John shifts his hips, a twinge of discomfort in his arse sends memories rippling through his mind: Sherlock standing in front of him, deliberately removing his disguise... the feel of Sherlock's chest pressed against his back, his breath on his ear... Sherlock crawling toward him, fully nude, erect and gorgeous... pressing upward, his arms tangled around Sherlock's back as Sherlock moves inside him...
He smiles, shutting his eyes for a moment to savour the images, to let them all replay in his mind for a moment. Sherlock shifts in sleep, nuzzles John's chest and mumbles something incomprehensible, then settles down. John smiles fondly at him, reaching upward to push the tangled curls out of his eyes, trace his brow bone.
John wonders if he's still processing last night: finally coming together, finally breaking through the walls between them. And what a breakthrough it had been. John smirks. God, it had been fucking incredible. He could live a lifetime's worth of wank fantasies on last night alone.
It feels like it's been so long, so long since that night a few weeks ago when everything fell into place and John had realised that the first man he'd ever kissed, the first man he'd ever been with -- the only person he'd ever really felt desperate for -- had been Sherlock in disguise. God, that night. John doesn't think he's ever felt that angry before. The thought that Sherlock had planned the entire thing, had been planning it, had felt like such a complete betrayal.
He remembers Sherlock's earnest confession in the kitchen, hours later: the betrayal he had felt when John had walked out of the changing stalls at the pool, with a bomb strapped under his jacket and a microphone in his ear.
Both of their assumptions about each other had been so far off the mark. John thinks about that for a moment: betrayal that wasn't really betrayal. Is there even such a thing? Or, are he and Sherlock (as always) making everything up as they go along?
All of that misunderstanding, the mismatched expectations, misplaced desire... and yet... John glances down. Here they are now: tangled together, even in sleep.
John presses his lips gently against Sherlock's forehead, his thoughts suddenly fierce. God, how far they've come.
Sherlock stirs, slides his cheek against John's chest (god, that feels good), then opens his eyes sleepily. John grins at him then touches the hair falling over his forehead. Sherlock glances around: at the setting, the time showing on the clock, at their limbs completely intertwined and his eyes widen briefly.
John can't help the moment of panic he feels. It's nearly exactly what happened all those years ago, with Brad. He looks away, bracing himself emotionally. He takes a deep breath. When he looks back, Sherlock is watching him, his eyes no longer heavy with sleep. Sherlock doesn't shift at all, doesn't say a word, doesn't look away. He simply looks back at John, his eyes clear.
His silence says more to John than any words, and John feels warmth diffuse through him. Sherlock's not going anywhere. John tightens his arm around Sherlock's back, strokes the top of Sherlock's foot with his own, and kisses the ridge of his brow.
Sherlock's not going anywhere... neither is John.
~*~
epilogue:
The make up weighs heavily on him as he walks into the coffee shop. John glances around nervously, avoiding the hidden east corner from where he knows he's being watched. He wonders if someone will notice right away, or if it's as inconspicuous as he's hoping.
At the counter, John orders a ridiculously complicated coffee concoction. The cashier blinks at him the first time, and he has to repeat his order three times before she gets it right.
Make it memorable. First objective: complete.
The first two times his goal had been to be as unobtrusive as possible, but now it's time for a little less subtlety.
As he steps over to wait for his order, John rests his arm on the counter, looking around unselfconsciously: a few mothers with toddlers, three smartly dressed business people huddled around a computer, and several students, obviously in need of a liquid stimulant.
After the barista passes him the warm cup, John wraps his hands around it and walks over to sit in one of the empty barstools. He purposely scrapes the chair loudly over the tiled floor, sits deliberately, and arranges his posture into an "I'm available" pose.
He feels slightly ridiculous.
But it works.
A few of the patrons in line eye him appreciatively. After a few minutes, one comes over to sit down next to him. After a moment, he starts making small talk, which John returns. He resists the urge to look at his watch, but instead glances at the clock behind the bloke chatting him up. Five minutes. He needs to keep this up for five minutes. He can do that.
John slips into wild flirtation mode and smiles widely.
"So, David," he says charmingly, resisting the urge to glance across the shop at the dark haired man watching his every move. "What do you do?"
~*~
After nearly four minutes of this, John is glad he has a job that doesn't require disguises. While he doesn't think David suspects anything, John can feel his heart is still beating heavily. It's a wonder he's not sweating through the make up.
After exactly five minutes, Sherlock rises from his perch in the back of the shop and looks significantly at John. John beams at him, his heartbeat speeding up. John makes an absurd excuse to David -- in fact, he thinks he might have said 'sorry, I have to... basket, candle, Scotland' -- and is out the door of the shop before David can return his goodbye.
He turns into the alleyway next to the shop and is immediately swept into a rough embrace, his breath cut off by two perfectly warm lips. John sighs and leans into the kiss, his body immediately responding to the familiarity.
Perhaps ludicrous disguises are worth it if this is what he gets for his trouble.
They kiss for long minutes -- it's as if they hadn't just had enthusiastic sex three hours ago -- until John pulls away and smiles.
"So," he asks. "How did I do?"
"Full marks for the disguise," Sherlock says. "No one gave you a second glance that wasn't a typical one. You had four appreciative glances, and six people looked for far longer than necessary at your arse."
He squeezes it appreciatively as if to emphasise his point.
John is surprised. "That good?"
"Well, the disguise notwithstanding: your stance was all wrong, and you broke character three and a half times."
"A half? How does that even--"
"You also glanced at the clock more than once, but you did do it when the mark wasn't looking, so there's that."
"So, not as good as the great Sherlock Holmes," John says, "but passable."
"More than passable."
John goes warm under Sherlock's heated look. They both move forward at the same time. Sherlock leans down, his eyes roaming over John's changed appearance.
"I like you ginger." Sherlock says, his lips close and brushing the base of John's neck with his fingers. "But I miss the patches of grey."
John rolls his eyes. "Ahh, yes. That delightful reminder of exactly how many years I have on you." He shakes his head, glances up at Sherlock's shock of dark hair. "You'll probably never go grey except all at once, on your seventieth birthday, and everyone will remark on how ridiculously dignified it looks."
"And then I'll tell them all how I've been coveting your grey since not long after we met and that I'm delighted to finally match the man that I've spent most of my life with."
John cocks his head. "You sure you're not just saying that to get me into bed tonight?"
"As if I needed such an excuse."
"Not for a good several months now, no."
The gist of Sherlock's previous words sink in; John lets them turn over in his head for a moment. He grins slowly. Sherlock is watching his eyes carefully; his eyes widen a fraction when he sees John's recognition.
Given what has transpired between them over the past few months, neither of them -- particularly Sherlock -- has been all that vocal about where things are going, so just that simple admission feels like something... big.
John leans up and kisses Sherlock's lower lip softly. I love you, he thinks. I love you; I love this... I love us.
Sherlock closes his eyes for longer than a blink, then smiles crookedly at John. The warmth of his glance nearly cancels out the early winter wind swirling around them.
His thumbs are on the joints of John's jaw and he rubs gently over the beard John's let grow for two weeks now. "You should keep this a while," he murmurs. One of his fingers caresses the bald patch under John's lower lip, then traces both of his lips.
John wrinkles his nose. "Don't see that happening. Itchy as hell, and a pain to take care of. Give me a good shave every day or two over this..." he gestures to it, "this... bloody thing."
"I like it."
"You like smacking corpses with your riding crop and keeping body parts in the refrigerator, Sherlock. Pardon me if I don't take your word on this as a particularly useful one to heed."
Sherlock's eyelids lower a fraction and he leans down to John's ear. "What if I told you I'd make it worth your while?"
Sharp tremors shiver down John's spine and he can't help but lean into Sherlock's warmth.
"Well." John is having trouble getting words out. "I'd probably tell you to piss off, but I imagine I'd keep it anyway."
Sherlock presses their lips together, backing John further up against the wall as he kisses him. John shuts his eyes, letting Sherlock's tongue brush over the top of his before pressing back, before curling his arms tightly around Sherlock and pulling him flush against John's body, before sealing their mouths together and breathing Sherlock in, better than the sweetest air.
The rough brick scrapes his jacket, but the weight of it holds him up, lets him focus only on what matters: soft wet lips, dark tangled curls, and eyes that look at John as though he were nothing short of a miracle.
John moans as he kisses back, wanting nothing more than to kiss Sherlock until every neuronal pathway echoes his name. Sherlock breaks off, kissing the skin under his ear, the cord of his neck, whispering non-words into his skin until every nerve on John's skin is on edge and quivering with sensation.
Tangling his fingers into Sherlock's hair, John lets his mind slide into nonsense. He's forty-one years old, snogging his boyfriend desperately in an alleyway at the end of the day, and completely incapable of caring about anything else.
God, he could do this forever.
After a small eternity, Sherlock's phone rings. They both pull away immediately, but their legs are still intertwined. Sherlock glances down and John sees his eyes light up at the sight of the phone number. It must be Lestrade.
"Sherlock Holmes."
Sherlock has a brief conversation, from which John can deduce nothing, then hangs up and stuffs his phone into his pocket triumphantly.
"A case?"
"Of course."
"Right now?"
"Yes."
"So why are you still standing here, then?"
Sherlock glances down between them, at the blatancy of their arousal, then back up to John sheepishly.
"Lestrade can wait."
"But can you?"
Sherlock looks at him, his eyes wide and open, more honest than John has seen them.
"I can wait for you," he says quietly.
They breathe together for a moment, grinning. At once, they take off running down the street, swerving around pedestrians and keeping pace with each other, stride for stride, as they run in the waning light of the afternoon: two formerly broken men, having the time of their lives.
-end-
Thank you so much for reading! ♥
:: master post ::
The night is quiet when they walk into John's room. Sherlock's room is closer, but yours is cleaner, Sherlock had whispered, his lips light against the top of John's ear.
He shuts John's door, leans against it for a moment, then steps into the room, deliberately toward John. Moonlight shines in lines around them, painting Sherlock's face into angular shadows. John's breath catches in his throat for a moment. Though Sherlock is still dressed as Brad, his look is all Sherlock. John can see the underlying bone structure, the way he carries himself. His look is eager but shy, and all directed at John.
John steps forward, not breaking eye contact. He wants to touch, touch Sherlock's skin, inches and miles of it, and all for him. He reaches out, touches Sherlock's face with his palm, his thumb brushing his cheek. Sherlock leans into it, only a slight incline of his head, but it makes John's skin heat. A lock of brilliant red hair falls across Sherlock's forehead, into his eyes. He glances up, then a look of recognition passes over his face and he pauses.
Ahh...
Sherlock had forgotten he was wearing a disguise.
"It's alright," John murmurs, "it's fine."
But Sherlock looks determined. He reaches behind his head, his hands moving slightly. John hears a couple of quiet pindrops on the floor, then Sherlock brings his ring fingers to both lower eyelids, pulling them downward as he uses his thumb and index finger to pull out a pair of contact lenses. He drops those to the floor as well, then looks at John with clear, green-grey eyes.
As John watches, Sherlock makes small, subtle changes to his appearance: removing small prosthetics from under his cheekbones and over his chin. He pulls a tissue from the box on John's nightstand and wipes over parts of his face, revealing more and more of himself. Changes to his body are slight: shoulder pads, some extra layers around his middle, some things John can't begin to name, and then Sherlock stands in front of him, his collared shirt unbuttoned and hanging open, his lips parted, his eyes vulnerable and anchored on John.
"Here I am," he whispers. John doesn't think he's ever heard Sherlock's voice so quiet.
"Nearly," John says, gesturing toward the tangled mop of red on Sherlock's head. Sherlock glances upward, then captures John's hand with his, brings it up. He looks intently at John, nods at him, then John carefully pulls off the wig and places it on top of his bureau. There's some netting or something over Sherlock's hair and John takes another step forward, using both hands to remove it carefully, untangling the other hair pins he finds and laying it all down next to the wig.
He runs his fingers through Sherlock's matted curls, untangling them, pressing against Sherlock's skull with his fingertips. Sherlock's eyes fall shut while John caresses his scalp, and John's fingertips burn with sensation. Sherlock's hair is soft, warm, and the scent of it bursts through the air: soapy, chemicals... Sherlock, all filling John's senses. He inhales as deeply as he can.
After a long moment, Sherlock opens his eyes, they're deep and unfocused for a moment before he focuses on John, then smiles. John's heart tightens and tender words fill his mind.
"Here you are," John whispers. "You're here now."
They're in the middle of the room, far from the bed, but John has very little desire to move from this space any time soon, if ever. John slides his hands down, under Sherlock's curls and over his neck, tracing the curves. Sherlock watches him, his eyes slipping from John's eyes to his neck, his lips.
John brings his lips to Sherlock's cheek, traces upward to his brow. Sherlock's skin is soft under his lips, and John can't quite get over the fact that this is Sherlock, Sherlock here in front of him with his shirt open and his eyes full.
"Sherlock," John breathes, pressing their foreheads together. "God, I want you so badly."
Sherlock steps into his space, opens his mouth to speak, but shuts it again. He reaches for John's face, his eyes following every movement.
Sherlock's thumb brushes John's cheekbone, less defined than his own and something John hasn't really paid attention to before. His thumb rubs over the skin, tracing gently, slides over the skin under John's eye, then up to his temple. It's so unbearably intimate that John's throat hurts. Sherlock's eyes are soft, attentive, and John realizes Sherlock isn't learning right now, isn't testing out new data, isn't acting on other observed behaviour; he's doing this because he wants to.
"John." When Sherlock rubs his thumb over John's lower lip, John can see Sherlock's lips part slightly; he shuts his eyes for a moment, then opens them and looks at John.
"John," he says again; his voice is almost pained.
"What is it?"
"John, you..." his voice breaks. "You make me want to - say things."
John's heart warms. "Sherlock, that's--" John doesn't know how to finish the sentence. "That's... good. I want--" he brushes his lips over Sherlock's cheek, his eyelid, slides them to his ear. "I want to hear them. All of them."
Sherlock is quiet for a long moment, pulling back and watching John's eyes. John can't quite read his expression, but he watches Sherlock's face, his eyes. John thinks back to everything over the past few months and he has the beginnings of an idea. Maybe he ought to test it out.
So John reaches for Sherlock's wrist, pulling him gently over toward the bureau. John turns to face the bureau, then pulls Sherlock against him until they're flush together, back against chest. John pulls his tee shirt overhead, then presses back against Sherlock, expelling a sharp breath when he feels the warmth of Sherlock's chest against him.
Sherlock's body goes still for a moment, then melts against John, his hands stroking slowly up John's arms. His fingertips are feather-light against John's skin, brushing his wrists, his forearms, the inner skin of his elbows. John sucks a sharp breath; the feel of Sherlock's fingers is erotically decadent.
Then Sherlock's mouth is on his neck, under his ear, pressing wet lips everywhere.
"John," he murmurs, his breath louder than his voice. "John."
John wonders when, exactly, the sound of his name became such a turn-on.
"I watch you," Sherlock says, mouthing the curve of John's neck. "I watch you all the time. You're fascinating. A study in contrasts, and every one of them a puzzle."
"Puzzles," Sherlock continues. His mouth is on John's ear now. "You are a puzzle with so many layers. The more I learn, the more I don't know... how is that possible?"
Sherlock's hands move from John's elbows up to his shoulders, then down over his sides to his waist. He slides one hand up, one thumb brushing John's nipple, while the other splays flat over John's abdomen, his middle finger dipping into John's navel.
"Christ," John whispers. "Fucking hell, Sherlock."
He arches back against Sherlock, feeling his skin -- damp with a light sweat -- starting to cling to Sherlock's. He rests his head back on Sherlock's shoulder, shutting his eyes and letting his nerves rise to the surface to feel every fucking bit of this. He wishes he had a photograph of this: their bodies pressed together, Sherlock wrapped around him everywhere. He was right: Sherlock needed to say this, needed to say it to John without the pressure of eye contact.
"I put on all of those disguises with you... for you," Sherlock whispers quietly. "All of those disguises, and you saw through every one. I don't know how you do it, how you are, but you're so--" Sherlock's voice breaks off, he presses his mouth to John's neck and sucks hard; it's going to leave a mark, but John can't be arsed to care. Sherlock's hands tighten against John's body, he presses forward against John's back and John can feel Sherlock's erection against the top of his arse.
Sherlock slides one hand upward, tipping John's chin toward him, and then he kisses John roughly, breathing raggedly into the kiss. John kisses back, sucking deeply on Sherlock's upper lip and pressing backward so their bodies are touching everywhere. They kiss and kiss, lips sliding messily in the dark until Sherlock breaks away from the kiss for a moment.
"I don't need - don't want to hide anymore," he gasps.
John's heart skips; the past few minutes seem as if they've existed in slow motion. He kisses the underside of Sherlock's chin then reaches for Sherlock's hands, holding them gently while he turns in his arms. Their bodies have moved apart, just a step.
John looks at Sherlock deliberately, holding his gaze.
"I see you," he says. "All of you."
John releases Sherlock's hands, brings one hand up to trace Sherlock's brow bone, then his jaw.
Sherlock's eyes roam over John's face, down to his lips, then back to his eyes.
"John," he whispers. As though it is the only word that matters. Then he steps forward again, kissing John, but touching only with his lips. John drops his hand to Sherlock's shoulders, to the curve of his collarbone, then shuts his eyes.
Everything is so slow, so deliberately fucking slow, as though they are kissing through molasses. They're barely touching, pressed together at their lips and knees, communicating only with fingertips and lip-skin.
It's the slowest series of kisses John has ever shared, pulling his thoughts out until they puddle on the floor around him.
Everything is so slow, so desperately slow... until it's not.
Because then Sherlock is against him, touching him everywhere, hands in John's hair, on his back, cupping his arse. John grunts, tangling his fingers into those impossible curls and kissing back fiercely.
"God, I want you," Sherlock gasps into his ear. "It's you, it's you... it's always been you. I don't know how I even--" he breaks off, mouthing the curve of John's neck and reaching between them for John's belt.
John rubs his cheek sleekly against Sherlock's, tonguing the corner of his mouth. Sherlock's hands fumble with John's belt and zipper then he slides to the floor, pulling John's trousers down in one motion. John looks down, sees Sherlock on his knees between his legs, with his eyes on the bulge in John's dark briefs, then he leans forward to nuzzle it briefly before glancing up and catching John's gaze.
"Oh Christ," John breathes. It's quite possible he's dreamed something exactly like this before, but it couldn't possibly be half as breathtaking as seeing it in front of him. Sherlock's eyes are wide, exultant; he probably has no idea how beautiful he looks. So John tells him.
Sherlock smiles, and his cheeks pinken. He rises, pulls John against him, then kisses him deeply again. John loses blissful minutes kissing Sherlock until his lips tingle with pressure, and he reaches down, slides his hands over Sherlock's back and squeezes two perfect handfuls of his arse.
After a few minutes, Sherlock walks them deliberately backward, pressing John down on the bed until he's lying flat. Sherlock pulls off John's socks, kisses the inside of his knees, and beams at him.
"You're here," he says quietly.
"I'm here," John echoes. "I'm not going anywhere."
Sherlock stands, letting his shirt fall from his shoulders and drop to the floor. He pulls off his socks first, one at a time, then pauses a minute, rising to his full height and unfastening his belt. He pulls off his trousers and briefs slowly, stepping out one foot at a time, his eyes watching John's reaction hungrily. He kneels on the foot of the bed and starts forward.
John's heart is in his throat. He almost can't believe this is happening. Sherlock. Sherlock is in his bed, crawling over him with darkened eyes and a swollen mouth. John's eyes rake over Sherlock's body, taking in the long lines, the tapered waist, the line of hair under his navel that curls down between his thighs. Sherlock's cock juts out from his body with a slight curve. John could look at him for hours.
"Christ, you're beautiful... so beautiful," he breathes.
Then Sherlock kneels between John's legs, lowering his body slowly against John's, skin against glorious skin, and oh so warm.
John presses one of his feet flat against the bed, curling his arms around Sherlock's back and pulling him down for another kiss. As they kiss and kiss, John's breath becomes less and less important.
Sherlock is light on top of him, resting his weight on one elbow while the other hand roams John's body and settles on his hip. John doesn't let these moments go to waste: questing fingertips slide over the full expanse of Sherlock's back, his neck, his arse. John has long wanted to feel every inch of Sherlock's skin, to commit it to memory. He has half a mind that something as perfect as this might well push all of the nightmares right out of his brain.
The window next to the bed is cracked open, letting the sounds of the London night wash over them. John thinks that someone deliberately listening on the street would have no doubt of exactly what is going on in the darkened room on the third floor and he grins to himself.
Sherlock pulls back for a moment, looks at John, his eyes flitting quickly over John's face.
"I'm not going to muffle any sounds you cause, Doctor," he says with a smile: a crooked, mischievous grin that John could look at for decades.
"Not good for your vocal cords anyway," John says.
"That makes no sense whatsoever."
"Nothing said in the heat of passion ever makes much sense out of context."
Sherlock looks affronted. "I always make sense."
John kisses him once, twice. "Then I shall endeavour to be the first to drive you into full-on nonsense."
"I look forward to the experience."
Sherlock kisses his neck, his collarbone, moves toward the gnarled skin of John's shoulder and brushes it carefully with his lips. John lets out an involuntary moan.
"I think I'll take my own turn first, though." Sherlock kisses the corner of his mouth and nuzzles his jaw playfully. "That is, if it's all the same to you."
"Sherlock, you're in my bed, naked, and we haven't stopped kissing for the past hour. There is nothing about this that is all the same to me."
Sherlock laughs, a full throaty laugh that wracks his abdomen; it rumbles against John's chest. John watches him, can feel his eyes crinkle fondly, and he feels himself falling just a little deeper.
He kisses John full on the mouth, which leads to John kissing back, to lips parting and tongues pressing in, to shared breath, and to John realising that he could lie here and snog Sherlock for days and be perfectly content. He's warm, comfortable, and more than a little aware of every inch of Sherlock's body that's pressed against his.
Eventually, Sherlock pulls back a little, smiles again, and leans over John's shoulder. He presses his lips into the very centre of John's scar and kisses it deliberately. John's stomach tenses, then flips completely over. He's never-- god, that feels...
"Sherlock," he gasps, shutting his eyes and tangling his fingers into Sherlock's hair as Sherlock explores every dip and ridge with his lips, with his tongue.
John's body is on fire as Sherlock finishes his exploration and moves down to his chest, taking his time on each of John's nipples until John can't tell if his eyes are still closed or simply fogged with sensation.
The minutes pass in ways John can barely fathom; it's as though time is being controlled by Sherlock himself. By the time Sherlock reaches his navel, actually pressing his tongue inside and licking the outer edge, John's mind is so overcome he couldn't answer a coherent question about any simple medical procedure if his life were on the line.
Then Sherlock nuzzles his way down the trail of hair under John's navel and stops at the elastic of John's briefs.
Stops.
It takes John a moment to realise it, but when he opens his eyes and looks down he sees Sherlock gazing up at him with darkened eyes. Sherlock nods in approval, then hooks his thumbs under the elastic and coaxes John's hips off the bed. He slides John's briefs down and off, tossing them overhead in a navy blue blur, then settles his body between John's thighs and nudges one leg open with his shoulder.
He examines for long moments, which might be disconcerting in someone else, but this is Sherlock. It makes John feel... fascinating, to be the subject of such intense scrutiny.
"You're beautiful," Sherlock breathes, and John's cheeks go warm. He presses his lips to the hair on John's inner thigh, drawing inward to the junction of his hip and thigh and inhaling deeply. Sherlock's thumbs caress the skin beside his scrotum, then one hand lifts and tugs it gently.
Meanwhile, Sherlock has propped himself up on one of his forearms and is doing a slow, careful study of every inch of John's cock. John gasps in surprise when Sherlock, seeming to find everything to his liking, presses the tip of his tongue to John's fraenulum. Shifting to the flat of his tongue, Sherlock moves upward over the glans, then takes the entire head in his mouth.
"Christ, oh Christ," John can hear himself babbling. "Please keep doing that."
Whether Sherlock likes following directions, or is simply content to keep John's cock in his mouth for long periods of time, John has no idea, but Sherlock doesn't stop. His right hand curves itself at the bottom of John's cock, squeezing and sliding upward to meet every downward thrust of his mouth.
It is always a good thing when someone has their mouth on John's cock... and this is Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock Holmes, who makes delicious little grunting sounds as he moves, and holy fucking Christ, John could do this forever.
"Sherlock, god oh god, Sherlock," John gasps out, completely incapable of shutting his eyes even for a moment and losing the unreal sight in front of him. God, his eyelids are going to dry out and he won't have any eyeballs left, but it is a small price to pay, really, and probably Sherlock could do interesting experiments on them anyway. So it wouldn't be the greatest loss.
After a moment, though, it goes from being everything, to just short of too much and John is damned if he's going to come this soon when they've only just got out of their clothes.
"Sherlock," he gasps again, pulling his hips away and tugging gently at Sherlock's head.
Sherlock slides up his body, his eyes dark and hungry. He kisses fire over John's skin as he slides. Glancing down, John can see Sherlock is still fully erect; the past minutes spent on John's cock clearly did nothing to diminish his arousal, which is quite amazing, really.
When Sherlock makes it up to his neck, John shifts under him, aligns their cocks until they're pressed together and arches upward while wrapping his arms around Sherlock's back.
"You feel so good," Sherlock breathes into his ear, sliding his thumb over John's temple and massaging it gently.
John doesn't say anything, just kisses Sherlock's temple, then his eyelid, then down to his mouth. Sherlock kisses him deeply, tongue pressing into every corner of John's mouth and sucking on his tongue. The line of Sherlock's jaw is mesmerising: long and slow, and moving with every kiss. This feels so different, so different than it was in 1992, yet as John's mind takes in every second, every whisper... he finds that it's still so much the same.
He can almost hear the twenty-two year old version of himself sigh in relief, step back, and let go.
Let go.
Let...
John realises what he wants at the same moment the rest of his body does; he can feel his cock twitch. He reaches out for the drawer of his bedside table, pulling out a bottle of lube (well used) and a condom (optimistic purchase). When John presses them into his hand Sherlock blinks rapidly at him, pulls back.
"John?"
John leans up and kisses him lightly. "I want you to fuck me."
Sherlock looks directly at him for a long moment, his eyes boring right into John's. He looks hungry, so clearly turned on, but he's obviously searching John's face for something. They'd done all of this together more than seventeen years ago: naked and sweating and mouths all over each other, but what John has just suggested... well, they never quite made it that far. John pushes himself up to a sitting position, curls his body around Sherlock's and presses their lips together fiercely. John looks right back at Sherlock; he wills Sherlock to see him, to see this, to see how fucking desperate he is. He wills him to look inside his mind, to pull his heart out of his chest if he needs to, see it beat Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock...
John wants; he wants so badly.
"Sherlock," he whispers, holding Sherlock's face between his hands and pressing their lips together gently. "Sherlock... I want this... want you."
And then Sherlock is all over him, kissing every inch of skin he can reach. He falls to the bed and pulls John down with him. They lie on their sides, rocking their bodies together, legs intertwined and kissing wetly. John is drowning in Sherlock; the air around him is so full. Sherlock gasps out half-words and syllables and John swallows every one.
John reaches out, sliding his hand over Sherlock's side, then moves slowly back and forth across his chest, his lower abdomen. Sherlock shuts his eyes and rocks his head back in the pillows. It occurs to John that his bed is going to smell like Sherlock when he wakes up, and part of him can't wait to wake up for that.
"God, look at you..." he whispers, "I could look at you for hours."
Sherlock's hand is on John's back, pulling him closer until he's pressed against Sherlock's chest. His hand cups John's arse and then pulls John's leg up over his hip. He fumbles behind John's back for a moment, then John can feel the slick slip of Sherlock's finger tracing between his buttocks, pressing gently inside his anus.
"Christ," John pants, "oh, Christ." It's been a good while since anyone else has had their fingers inside him, and his body shudders with the sensation. Sherlock is slow, deliberate. He obviously knows anatomy: can tell when to push in further, when to pause, when to pull out and push back in. He works his finger, then another, into John for a good while, breathing into his ear the whole time. John isn't sure he's going to be able to hear Sherlock's breathing ever again without becoming absurdly aroused.
When Sherlock crooks his fingers, John can feel them press lightly against his prostate gland and he swears under his breath, his vision blurred.
He loses all track of time, can't stop concentrating on the sensations flooding through him: Sherlock's breath in his ear, Sherlock's fingers shallow, then deeply inside him, the light cool breeze of the night. If John shuts his eyes, things are timeless: this could be seventeen years ago, tangled in the mottled sheets of Brad's bed, taking steps that John had never taken before.
But when he hears a grunted, "John," he opens his eyes to someone that can only be Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock's eyes are unmistakeable: grey-green and focused solely on John. The look on his face is something like... god, it looks like reverence. As though this was something so much more for him as well.
John smiles and breathes and his heart nearly explodes with possibility.
He reaches for the condom and presses it into Sherlock's other hand, kissing him eagerly.
"I'm - god, I'm ready, Sherlock."
The breeze picks up, washing across John's fevered skin and ruffling Sherlock's hair. John reaches out to touch it, to slide his fingers through the brilliant mess of curls. Sherlock gently pushes John down on the bed, lies down on top of him and kisses him languidly.
The next few moments are a blur: Sherlock kneeling between his legs, tearing open the condom packet and sucking a sharp breath when John sits up to roll it on for him with a steady hand. He can hear the click of the bottle cap, sees Sherlock slicking himself. Then Sherlock's hands are back between his buttocks and John lies back, spreading his thighs and drawing them back toward his chest. The tips of two fingers trace the rim, then press just inside his anus.
Sherlock's eyes are on his face, watching every subtle change of expression, waiting. John locks his gaze on Sherlock and nods at him, his mouth open.
"Yes," he whispers as Sherlock removes his fingers and walks forward on his knees. "Please... yes."
John is so profoundly aroused when Sherlock sinks into him, moving slowly, as though every inch were something new to experience. Sherlock's eyes watch him hungrily, taking in every one of John's breaths, every single twitch of muscle.
Sherlock lowers himself down over John, slides his hands and forearms under John's shoulder blades; their faces are a whisper apart. John feels surrounded in every way: Sherlock over him, around him, inside him. Sherlock moves slowly, deeply in and out; his breath is shallow, his eyes heavy and dark.
John has always liked sex -- he can think of very few men who don't -- but this... this is altogether different. God, it's everything... the closeness, the raw, bare intimacy of their bodies together, of Sherlock so deeply inside him... it's a wonder he can still breathe.
"John," Sherlock whispers, "John."
John looks up at him, almost blind with lust, his heart beating desperately. "Yes... yes, my god, Sherlock, I want you so badly."
Then Sherlock's mouth is on his, an inelegant press of lips and teeth, kissing John furiously.
"I need you," he breathes, tearing his mouth away and speaking right into John's ear. "Need you around, need you with me..."
John arches his hips off the bed, curling his arms tightly around Sherlock's back and kisses his temple, the line of his hair. He's not going anywhere.
"I... it's just..." Sherlock's breath is ragged. "With you... everything finally makes sense with you. You make... you make the things in my mind tolerable. You connect things in my head, make the pathways clear."
Sherlock's movements had grown erratic while he was speaking, but now he finds a rhythm. The pressure of him angled deep inside John is maddening; a burst of longing flows through him, which is ridiculous. Ridiculous because Sherlock is right here, here inside him, whispering devotions to John like he's in a confessional.
And John... there's so much he wants to say, so much he can feel here between them. John doesn't want to be afraid to say things, hopes this delicate balance they've finally achieved won't go anywhere. Sherlock presses their foreheads together, breathes John's heavy breath, and watches him.
"Tell me," Sherlock says quietly. "Tell me, please."
John's heart is in his throat. Sherlock can read him so well, always seems to be able to read his mind. And yet... now he can't put any of it into words - are there even words for this?
"All of that," John says, "everything you said, Sherlock. With you, I--" he shuts his eyes, "with you, I don't feel broken anymore..."
Sherlock stills completely, fully seated inside him. John opens his eyes, looks up with a question in his eyes. Sherlock's face is quiet, thinking, but then he breaks into a wide, brilliant smile that nearly stops John's heart.
"And to think," Sherlock says quietly, "all it took was a bottle of lubricant and some prophylactics to get us here."
"Well," John grins back as he corrects him, "four months of crazy disguises, a bottle of lubricant, and some prophylactics..."
Sherlock looks down for a moment, then back to John. "If you're going to get technical: seventeen years, four months of disguises, a bottle of lubricant, and some prophylactics."
Understanding and warmth flows through John; he feels lighter than he has in years.
"Worth it, though."
"You think so?"
"Definitely."
Sherlock seals their lips together, kissing John lightly; his eyes are open and honest.
"Maybe we ought to get back to it, then?"
"Excellent deduction."
"Well, I am the world's only consulting detective."
"You are certainly the wordiest."
"So, what does that say about you, then?"
"That your voice turns me on?"
A smile spreads across Sherlock's face. "Does it?"
John slides one hand over the back of Sherlock's neck, tangles his fingers in the hair at the base of Sherlock's skull, and kisses him lightly. "Why don't you experiment and find out?"
Sherlock grins at him, then starts moving his hips again, moving shallowly inside John and leaning down to whisper into John's ear. After a full minute of this, John can barely pay attention to anything: every sensation blurs until he's overwhelmed and gasping, clinging to Sherlock and sliding his thumb over Sherlock's sweaty brow.
His cock is trapped between them; the feel of it rubbing against Sherlock's abdomen is slowly doing him in.
"God," he pants, "why haven't we done this before?"
Sherlock stops kissing his neck, pulls his head up until he can look into John's eyes. His eyes are dark, pupils dilated, and his lower lip hangs low. "Can you - fuck, John, can you come like this?"
The sound of that curse from Sherlock's lips sets his stomach aflame and John leans up to lick that perfect lower lip.
"I think so... yeah. Are you close?"
"Getting there, yeah."
Sherlock slides his hands further under John's shoulder blades, drops his head to John's shoulder and starts thrusting in earnest. John is on edge; everything starts coiling low in his abdomen and he presses up against every movement Sherlock makes. Every push of Sherlock inside him, every hard press against his cock, the sound of Sherlock's breath next to his ear... oh god, it's...
It's fucking exquisite.
John's not going to last, not going to - he's going to... god, oh god...
"Sherlock," he gasps out. "I--"
Everything goes white, then sparks of brilliant colours flash behind his eyes and everything pours out of him at once. He clings to Sherlock, digging his fingertips into the skin of his back and letting go of his breath.
After a moment John returns to reality, finds Sherlock watching him fondly.
"Christ," he breathes. "That was... god, that just--"
Then John realises something. "You haven't come. Can you, like this? Do you need me to move, to--"
Sherlock grunts, "Nearly there, I just need..." his voice is ragged. "Is it okay, like this... if we keep going?"
"God yes, Sherlock, please."
When Sherlock starts moving again John realises that he'd stopped, let John ride out his own orgasm, and his throat tightens.
His body is over sensitised; he can feel every pull and drag of Sherlock inside him. "God," he whispers. "That feels -- you feel -- amazing."
"John. John, John..." Sherlock's voice is in his ear, quieter than a whisper, but John can hear every syllable. "John, my god, I... I, I--"
John curls around him, pressing his knees against Sherlock's back and pulling Sherlock as close as they can possibly get. Sherlock is silent for a long moment, then John's name tears out of his throat with a low moan and John feels him shudder above him. The shudder wracks his body and John holds him close, kissing the side of his neck reverently.
They lie there quietly for a long moment before Sherlock shifts away, one hand sliding between them to grasp the base of the condom before he pulls carefully out of John. He reaches for the box of tissues on John's bedside cabinet and disposes of the condom, then flumps down on the bed next to John with a sigh.
"That was amazing."
John grins at him. "It was pretty bloody amazing, wasn't it?"
Sherlock slides over, curls his body around John and takes a deep breath. "Please tell me we don't have to wait another seventeen years to do that again."
John laughs. "My recovery time isn't what it used to be, but I think I can safely say we've got nothing to worry about in that area."
"Good." Sherlock's eyes blink sleepily. "I've got plans for you, Doctor."
"I would expect nothing less."
John reaches for the duvet and pulls it up over both of them, then settles back down and shuts his eyes, utterly content.
~*~
John wakes, oddly at ease and glances automatically toward the window. It's still dark, only the barest of light coming in from the streetlights below. He's been asleep for a while, but still quite groggy, and he has a good number of hours left until morning.
He yawns, then realises he's not at all alone in his bed.
Sherlock.
Sherlock's body is wrapped around his, his arm thrown over John's waist and his head on John's chest. Their legs are tangled together; John can feel the top of Sherlock's right foot pressed against the base of his left.
Slowly John tests his muscles as he does every morning, shifting briefly. His legs are fine, no residual (psychosomatic) discomfort in his right leg. His shoulder... fine, too. No pain there. When John shifts his hips, a twinge of discomfort in his arse sends memories rippling through his mind: Sherlock standing in front of him, deliberately removing his disguise... the feel of Sherlock's chest pressed against his back, his breath on his ear... Sherlock crawling toward him, fully nude, erect and gorgeous... pressing upward, his arms tangled around Sherlock's back as Sherlock moves inside him...
He smiles, shutting his eyes for a moment to savour the images, to let them all replay in his mind for a moment. Sherlock shifts in sleep, nuzzles John's chest and mumbles something incomprehensible, then settles down. John smiles fondly at him, reaching upward to push the tangled curls out of his eyes, trace his brow bone.
John wonders if he's still processing last night: finally coming together, finally breaking through the walls between them. And what a breakthrough it had been. John smirks. God, it had been fucking incredible. He could live a lifetime's worth of wank fantasies on last night alone.
It feels like it's been so long, so long since that night a few weeks ago when everything fell into place and John had realised that the first man he'd ever kissed, the first man he'd ever been with -- the only person he'd ever really felt desperate for -- had been Sherlock in disguise. God, that night. John doesn't think he's ever felt that angry before. The thought that Sherlock had planned the entire thing, had been planning it, had felt like such a complete betrayal.
He remembers Sherlock's earnest confession in the kitchen, hours later: the betrayal he had felt when John had walked out of the changing stalls at the pool, with a bomb strapped under his jacket and a microphone in his ear.
Both of their assumptions about each other had been so far off the mark. John thinks about that for a moment: betrayal that wasn't really betrayal. Is there even such a thing? Or, are he and Sherlock (as always) making everything up as they go along?
All of that misunderstanding, the mismatched expectations, misplaced desire... and yet... John glances down. Here they are now: tangled together, even in sleep.
John presses his lips gently against Sherlock's forehead, his thoughts suddenly fierce. God, how far they've come.
Sherlock stirs, slides his cheek against John's chest (god, that feels good), then opens his eyes sleepily. John grins at him then touches the hair falling over his forehead. Sherlock glances around: at the setting, the time showing on the clock, at their limbs completely intertwined and his eyes widen briefly.
John can't help the moment of panic he feels. It's nearly exactly what happened all those years ago, with Brad. He looks away, bracing himself emotionally. He takes a deep breath. When he looks back, Sherlock is watching him, his eyes no longer heavy with sleep. Sherlock doesn't shift at all, doesn't say a word, doesn't look away. He simply looks back at John, his eyes clear.
His silence says more to John than any words, and John feels warmth diffuse through him. Sherlock's not going anywhere. John tightens his arm around Sherlock's back, strokes the top of Sherlock's foot with his own, and kisses the ridge of his brow.
Sherlock's not going anywhere... neither is John.
~*~
epilogue:
The make up weighs heavily on him as he walks into the coffee shop. John glances around nervously, avoiding the hidden east corner from where he knows he's being watched. He wonders if someone will notice right away, or if it's as inconspicuous as he's hoping.
At the counter, John orders a ridiculously complicated coffee concoction. The cashier blinks at him the first time, and he has to repeat his order three times before she gets it right.
Make it memorable. First objective: complete.
The first two times his goal had been to be as unobtrusive as possible, but now it's time for a little less subtlety.
As he steps over to wait for his order, John rests his arm on the counter, looking around unselfconsciously: a few mothers with toddlers, three smartly dressed business people huddled around a computer, and several students, obviously in need of a liquid stimulant.
After the barista passes him the warm cup, John wraps his hands around it and walks over to sit in one of the empty barstools. He purposely scrapes the chair loudly over the tiled floor, sits deliberately, and arranges his posture into an "I'm available" pose.
He feels slightly ridiculous.
But it works.
A few of the patrons in line eye him appreciatively. After a few minutes, one comes over to sit down next to him. After a moment, he starts making small talk, which John returns. He resists the urge to look at his watch, but instead glances at the clock behind the bloke chatting him up. Five minutes. He needs to keep this up for five minutes. He can do that.
John slips into wild flirtation mode and smiles widely.
"So, David," he says charmingly, resisting the urge to glance across the shop at the dark haired man watching his every move. "What do you do?"
~*~
After nearly four minutes of this, John is glad he has a job that doesn't require disguises. While he doesn't think David suspects anything, John can feel his heart is still beating heavily. It's a wonder he's not sweating through the make up.
After exactly five minutes, Sherlock rises from his perch in the back of the shop and looks significantly at John. John beams at him, his heartbeat speeding up. John makes an absurd excuse to David -- in fact, he thinks he might have said 'sorry, I have to... basket, candle, Scotland' -- and is out the door of the shop before David can return his goodbye.
He turns into the alleyway next to the shop and is immediately swept into a rough embrace, his breath cut off by two perfectly warm lips. John sighs and leans into the kiss, his body immediately responding to the familiarity.
Perhaps ludicrous disguises are worth it if this is what he gets for his trouble.
They kiss for long minutes -- it's as if they hadn't just had enthusiastic sex three hours ago -- until John pulls away and smiles.
"So," he asks. "How did I do?"
"Full marks for the disguise," Sherlock says. "No one gave you a second glance that wasn't a typical one. You had four appreciative glances, and six people looked for far longer than necessary at your arse."
He squeezes it appreciatively as if to emphasise his point.
John is surprised. "That good?"
"Well, the disguise notwithstanding: your stance was all wrong, and you broke character three and a half times."
"A half? How does that even--"
"You also glanced at the clock more than once, but you did do it when the mark wasn't looking, so there's that."
"So, not as good as the great Sherlock Holmes," John says, "but passable."
"More than passable."
John goes warm under Sherlock's heated look. They both move forward at the same time. Sherlock leans down, his eyes roaming over John's changed appearance.
"I like you ginger." Sherlock says, his lips close and brushing the base of John's neck with his fingers. "But I miss the patches of grey."
John rolls his eyes. "Ahh, yes. That delightful reminder of exactly how many years I have on you." He shakes his head, glances up at Sherlock's shock of dark hair. "You'll probably never go grey except all at once, on your seventieth birthday, and everyone will remark on how ridiculously dignified it looks."
"And then I'll tell them all how I've been coveting your grey since not long after we met and that I'm delighted to finally match the man that I've spent most of my life with."
John cocks his head. "You sure you're not just saying that to get me into bed tonight?"
"As if I needed such an excuse."
"Not for a good several months now, no."
The gist of Sherlock's previous words sink in; John lets them turn over in his head for a moment. He grins slowly. Sherlock is watching his eyes carefully; his eyes widen a fraction when he sees John's recognition.
Given what has transpired between them over the past few months, neither of them -- particularly Sherlock -- has been all that vocal about where things are going, so just that simple admission feels like something... big.
John leans up and kisses Sherlock's lower lip softly. I love you, he thinks. I love you; I love this... I love us.
Sherlock closes his eyes for longer than a blink, then smiles crookedly at John. The warmth of his glance nearly cancels out the early winter wind swirling around them.
His thumbs are on the joints of John's jaw and he rubs gently over the beard John's let grow for two weeks now. "You should keep this a while," he murmurs. One of his fingers caresses the bald patch under John's lower lip, then traces both of his lips.
John wrinkles his nose. "Don't see that happening. Itchy as hell, and a pain to take care of. Give me a good shave every day or two over this..." he gestures to it, "this... bloody thing."
"I like it."
"You like smacking corpses with your riding crop and keeping body parts in the refrigerator, Sherlock. Pardon me if I don't take your word on this as a particularly useful one to heed."
Sherlock's eyelids lower a fraction and he leans down to John's ear. "What if I told you I'd make it worth your while?"
Sharp tremors shiver down John's spine and he can't help but lean into Sherlock's warmth.
"Well." John is having trouble getting words out. "I'd probably tell you to piss off, but I imagine I'd keep it anyway."
Sherlock presses their lips together, backing John further up against the wall as he kisses him. John shuts his eyes, letting Sherlock's tongue brush over the top of his before pressing back, before curling his arms tightly around Sherlock and pulling him flush against John's body, before sealing their mouths together and breathing Sherlock in, better than the sweetest air.
The rough brick scrapes his jacket, but the weight of it holds him up, lets him focus only on what matters: soft wet lips, dark tangled curls, and eyes that look at John as though he were nothing short of a miracle.
John moans as he kisses back, wanting nothing more than to kiss Sherlock until every neuronal pathway echoes his name. Sherlock breaks off, kissing the skin under his ear, the cord of his neck, whispering non-words into his skin until every nerve on John's skin is on edge and quivering with sensation.
Tangling his fingers into Sherlock's hair, John lets his mind slide into nonsense. He's forty-one years old, snogging his boyfriend desperately in an alleyway at the end of the day, and completely incapable of caring about anything else.
God, he could do this forever.
After a small eternity, Sherlock's phone rings. They both pull away immediately, but their legs are still intertwined. Sherlock glances down and John sees his eyes light up at the sight of the phone number. It must be Lestrade.
"Sherlock Holmes."
Sherlock has a brief conversation, from which John can deduce nothing, then hangs up and stuffs his phone into his pocket triumphantly.
"A case?"
"Of course."
"Right now?"
"Yes."
"So why are you still standing here, then?"
Sherlock glances down between them, at the blatancy of their arousal, then back up to John sheepishly.
"Lestrade can wait."
"But can you?"
Sherlock looks at him, his eyes wide and open, more honest than John has seen them.
"I can wait for you," he says quietly.
They breathe together for a moment, grinning. At once, they take off running down the street, swerving around pedestrians and keeping pace with each other, stride for stride, as they run in the waning light of the afternoon: two formerly broken men, having the time of their lives.
-end-
Thank you so much for reading! ♥
:: master post ::