Fic: How Sherlock Learned to Love the Dog Tags (Chapter 1/4)
Title: How Sherlock Learned to Love the Dog Tags
Pairing: Sherlock/John, established relationship
Summary: How Sherlock came to have and learned to love John's dog tags.
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: None
Spoilers: None
Author's Notes: Inspired by my gals in our google writers group discussion about the dog tag trope.
John wanted them to wear rings. He felt some antiquated need to exchange baubles of affection and possession. They'd argued on and off about it for months. Well, John argued, Sherlock sneered and lectured about John's antiquated need to exchange baubles of affection and possession. Finally, after a gentle word from Mrs. Hudson, some long-winded pontification from Mycroft, and, finally, a rather pointed text from his brother that went something like, "Stop being such a difficult prat. Gregory says that you would be wise to put a ring on it," he thought it might be time to be a bit less intractable.
It wasn't that he didn't feel affectionate and possessive toward John, too. He just didn't understand how jewelry entered into the equation. Why did he need a ring when he was with John all the time, anyway? He didn't need a reminder, a symbol, when he had the man right by his side. But he had promised at some point, when he must have been either terribly distracted by an experiment or blissfully fucked-out by a doctor, that he would make more of an effort to compromise. He was coming to the conclusion that this might be an issue worth such an effort. Besides, it would make John happy. He very much loved happy-John. And happy-John would be more likely to agree to the deep freeze he wanted to install than regular-John. It would also have the attractive side benefit of making everyone else shut up about it.
But compromise did not equal complete capitulation. He would agree to an exchange of some sort, but not rings. He didn't like rings. They were distracting, and he hated the feel of them on his hand. It felt like they choked his fingers. When he'd finally made his grand announcement that he was going to be mature and accommodating by agreeing to John's request in general but not on rings specifically, John had just nodded and said, "No rings then. We'll think of something else." He felt a bit like thumping the little man for being so annoyingly agreeable. He'd actually hoped to buy himself another few months of bauble-free argument time with his opening salvo. Alas, it was not to be. There were times when he was frankly amazed that he was in a relationship with someone so painfully affable as John Watson. Not when he was over or under or in or surrounded by John, and not when John was steadfast by his side in all manner of dangerous escapades, but there were times.
Fortunately, John immediately redeemed himself by demonstrating his pleasure with Sherlock's concession quite skillfully and forcefully on his person. He was feeling rather pleased with himself as he lay that evening plastered against John's side, sweaty and satiated. The doctor had been very pleased indeed. But now he was curious and apparently knew more than a bit about striking while the iron was hot.
"What else is on the list?"
What? How did the man expect Sherlock to be coherent when he could still feel deliciously warm cum dripping out of his arse? Had he full control of his faculties, he might have been suspicious that some sort of manipulation was afoot. But he didn't, so he wasn't. He just said, "I'm sorry?"
John kissed his shoulder and his chin, "I said 'What else is on the list?' The list of unacceptable baubles of possession. Is it just rings, then? Is everything else fair game?
Sherlock had to think on that for a few minutes. It took a moment for him to pull his mind from enjoying the delectable feeling of his leaking bum and cataloguing the taste of John's skin after he'd had nothing for supper but biscuits and determining the differences between that flavor and John after Chinese, Indian, Mrs. Hudson's pork pie, etc., etc.. Did he object to any other jewelry? Not on principle he didn't think. But, "No piercings. I see no point in mutilating my body or your own."
"No. No, me either. No piercings. Well, that narrows the field quite a bit, then. Bracelets or necklaces are about it. So what'll it be?"
Sherlock had already moved onto testing the viscosity of his own cum that was cooling on John's stomach, but the back burner of his brain managed, "Necklaces then. A bracelet would just be annoying. It would get in my way, or I'd lose it somewhere. A necklace is fine."
"I'm assuming you don't mean a pearl necklace, hmm?" he asked with a bit of a giggle as he watched Sherlock playing in the cum on his stomach, rubbing it between his long fingers.
Sherlock tore his gaze away from cum-tummy and looked up at him, aghast. "Pearls? God, John. Don't be ridiculous. We're gay, not old women. I never should have agreed-"
John cut him off with a kiss. "No, you idiot. I didn't mean a literal pearl necklace. It was just a joke, a bad joke."
Sherlock tried not to be annoyed. He hated it when he was the one who didn't understand. But it happened sometimes with John. Usually when he was making some clumsy attempt at innuendo, which this apparently was based on the giggle and the post-coital timing of the remark. So he just filed it under "crude sex joke" and put it straight in his recycling bin.
"I don't really care what kind of necklace, John. Just get whatever you like. Something strong, though. I don't want to have to worry about breaking the thing."
"All right. What about me?"
"What about you?"
"Don't you want to know what sort of necklace I would like?"
"Not particularly. I just told you that I don't care what you get."
"I think you've got the wrong end of this one, mate. I don't buy both of them. If I just wanted something that I'd picked out for myself, I'd have already done that. The way this works is: I get you a necklace, you get me a necklace, and then we exchange them at a predetermined time, after which we engage in some very vigorous kissing and some very strenuous sex. Got it?"
He did get it. Now. However, he'd had no idea the massive awfulness of what he'd been getting himself into when he'd agreed to this. Dear God, he'd rather have dinner with Anderson than go shopping. For jewelry. He lay there with John's arm around his shoulders, his breath blowing softly into the curls of his hair, and calculated seventy-five different ways to get back at Mycroft for this whole mess. He wasted not one bit of brain power on figuring out how exactly this was Mycroft's fault, he just knew with the absolute certainty of all younger siblings that it was. But number one on the "Fuck You, Mycroft, For This Whole Damn Business" list was this: Sherlock was going to find the most ridiculously, fabulously expensive necklace that John could reasonably be expected to wear, and Mycroft's money was going to pay for it. That decided, he snuggled down into the crook of John's shoulder and slept the sleep of the righteous for his usual three hours.
NEXT CHAPTER: http://lucybun.livejournal.com/8734.html