fic: Just Got Lucky 2/2
Title: Just Got Lucky
Pairing: John/ Sherlock
Rating: very soft R
Warnings: Non-explicit sex and discussions of sexuality
Genre: Romance, fluff, smattering of angst
Word Count: ~7k
Summary: If you were to ask Sherlock how he ended up at the final table in a high-stakes, no-limit Texas Hold 'em tournament being filmed for broadcast on American television, he would simply wave you off and tell you it was for a case. If you were to ask John, he'd tell you it was because his flatmate was an ego-maniacal twat that would go to almost any length to prove a point.
Disclaimer: ACD canon is in the public domain, BBC owns this incarnation, I'm not making a dime.
Continued from Part 1
Gameplay resumed and, as predicted, the short stack was knocked out on the first hand. The game progressed quickly from there, the third player going bust within half an hour. It was down to Roylott and Sherlock. Four hands later, Sherlock was dealt another pair of pocket jacks on the big blind. Roylott raised, holding the three and six of hearts.
Sherlock checked and the flop was laid down - two of hearts, two of clubs, five of hearts. Roylott only needed one more heart to make a flush and beat Sherlock's two pair, but Sherlock still had marginally better odds.
Sherlock went all-in before the turn card, causing a low murmur to flow through the crowd. Since their chips had been fairly evenly matched when the hand was dealt, Roylott would have to go all-in as well to call or be forced to fold, which would put Sherlock well ahead in chips.
"C'mon, C'mon," John chanted under his breath, hoping Roylott would fold.
Roylott called. That was it, the final hand.
Please be a jack or a deuce, John thought as the turn card was flipped. Anything but a heart.
It was the king of hearts, and just like that, Sherlock had lost.
John frowned. He'd wanted Sherlock to win, even if he'd have been an insufferable git for being proved right (in his own mind at least, John had yet to be convinced that one could win by simply reading the other players while disregarding the cards you held) and the prize money would have been forfeited back to the casino. So much for luck.
Sherlock shook hands with Roylott - who was already out of his chair and jumping around like a football hooligan - and made his way through the swarming crowd to John, a smile on his face.
"Shame you didn't win," John said.
"I should have folded," Sherlock replied, practically beaming.
"So your luck didn't just run out?"
"John, as much as I enjoy the use of 'luck' as an extended metaphor, I'd rather we just went back to our room so you can properly console me after my crushing defeat."
John nodded. "Alright then." They dodged cameramen and tournament officials and ducked out through one of the staff exits, manned by one of the security guards who'd known of Sherlock's involvement with the casino.
In the service lift, Sherlock pulled John in for deep kiss. John felt something vibrate against his hip. "Your phone," he mumbled against Sherlock's lips. It was probably the casino manager or the head of security calling about the case.
"Don't care," Sherlock responded, changing the angle and sealing their mouths tight together. John felt him reach into his pocket and shut the phone off.
The lift stopped unexpectedly on the twelfth floor. They broke apart when the doors opened to see a tired-looking maid waiting with her cart.
She didn't even blink. "I'll get the next one," she said flatly.
Sherlock pressed the button to close the doors, then exchanged looks with John. They burst into a fit of laughter as the doors slid closed. Their giggles lasted until the lift stopped on the correct floor. Sherlock pulled John through the maze of corridors, keycard already in hand. They stumbled into the room, John kicking the door closed behind him (something he would never, ever do at home for fear of leaving a mark and Mrs. Hudson having his head on a platter). He pulled Sherlock back against him, using the door for support. He may have idly fantasized about a similar scenario once or twice, not that he was ready to admit it.
Sherlock must have known, or his skills of deduction hadn't been dulled by lust, because he shifted his mouth to the sensitive spot below John's ear and rumbled, "You've thought about this."
John grunted his assent as his hands bunched in the fabric of Sherlock's shirt. He pulled the smooth, fine cotton free from the back of Sherlock's trousers, needing to get to more skin. Sherlock nipped his earlobe and asked, "How long?"
John tried to focus on the question. "How long what?"
Sherlock moved back to John's neck, sucking gently on the pulse point. "How long have you been thinking about this? Me?"
With Sherlock's clarification, John's ardour dampened slightly. He didn't want to admit that he'd been half-infatuated with the man from the moment he'd realized Sherlock had cured his limp, especially when he'd been under the impression the feeling wasn't reciprocated. Hell, it might not have been until a few hours ago, which raised a whole other set of questions and possible complications that John didn't want to dwell on. Being secretly in love with his flatmate for the last year seemed like some kind of betrayal of trust, and also quite pathetic.
Sherlock pulled back, his focus razor-sharp even with his pupils blown wide. "You're uncomfortable. Why?"
John swallowed. "You really didn't know?"
Sherlock gave him a hard look. "John, when have you ever known me to draw a conclusion and not act upon it immediately? So again, how long?"
"A while," John hedged, breaking eye contact. The mood had been sufficiently ruined.
"Be specific," Sherlock countered, using his brook-no-arguments tone.
"You're clever, figure it out." The words came out as more of a challenge, albeit a quiet one, than he'd intended. John wished he could take a step back. Instead, he let his hands drop from Sherlock's waist and turned his head far enough to the side so that he didn't have to look directly at Sherlock's face.
Sherlock pulled away from him and turned, stalking farther into the room. He scrubbed a hand through his hair and paced as he thought out loud. "You're being defensive. You'd only be defensive if it had been for a longer amount of time than you think I would find acceptable. You haven't had more than two dates with the same woman in at least six months, so longer than that. Before that was Sarah, who you'd dated for a total of seven months on and off. You hadn't had sex with her until two months into the relationship and broke up for the first time shortly afterwards. So, sometime before the sex." He turned to John, drawing slightly closer and canting his shoulder toward John's body in a familiar, imploring gesture. "The pool. It was from then, wasn't it?"
John hesitated. Sherlock had already traced it back that far, there was no sense in lying to him now. He opened his mouth to contradict Sherlock, but didn't have the chance to say anything before Sherlock's brow furrowed and he resumed his pacing.
John started again, then cleared his throat. "Longer, actually."
Sherlock buried one hand in his hair and rested the other on his hip, elbow akimbo. He stalked to one wall, then turned sharply, thinking out loud. "So sometime after you'd consummated the relationship with Sarah, but before-"
"Sherlock!" John shouted. Sherlock's head whipped around to face him. "When Angelo showed up at the door with my cane."
He could see Sherlock mentally flipping through files until he hit upon the right date. He made a face like he'd just bit into a lemon, and John's stomach clenched. He waited for the incredulous expression and the derision that would follow, but instead, Sherlock's face went slack and unreadable.
"I'm an idiot," He said softly, a hint of wonder in his tone. Sherlock strode over to John and stopped directly in front of him. "Why didn't you say anything?"
"You'd made it quite clear that you weren't interested."
Sherlock's face melted into a grin. "You're an idiot," he said, sounding entirely too cheerful.
"Why's that, then?"
"Dim sum," Sherlock answered.
It took John a moment to process that. They'd had dim sum quite a few times, it having become sort of a ritual post-case meal since.... Oh.
"You're kidding me."
"You had just killed a man to save me. It was... eye-opening."
John was sure he would spend a lot of time reviewing Sherlock's past behaviour for any possible indicators of interest later. "We're idiots," John agreed. He leaned forward and Sherlock met him halfway for the kiss.
They both seemed to agree that wasting any more time wasn't an option. They walked-kissed-stumbled to the nearest bed (John's, always closer to the door) and Sherlock pulled John down on top of him.
John set about unbuttoning Sherlock's shirt, kissing a trail from the hollow of Sherlock's throat to just below his sternum. He pulled the shirt fully free of Sherlock's trousers, then slid his hands up over miles of pale skin. He'd seen Sherlock in various states of undress before, but he'd never let himself actually look. He traced defined muscles, dragging his fingers down through sparse chest hair and up again over Sherlock's collarbones, his touch light enough to make the man underneath him shiver.
His eyes focused on a tiny red mark where the lipstick had been the night before, probably from a too-sharp nip of teeth. He felt a tiny spike of jealousy and his jaw involuntarily tightened.
"I didn't sleep with her."
"Would you have?" John fitted his mouth squarely over the mark, biting down and then sucking the skin. He worried the flesh with his teeth and tongue, intent on overwriting the slight discolouration with a livid bruise of his own.
"Possibly, had she not been involved in the case. She was exceptionally bright, even when taking into account her current profession. I knew you were listening, by the way."
John ignored that last bit and focused on the other things he wanted to know, now that he felt he was allowed to ask the questions. He liked carrying on a conversation during foreplay. It was, in some ways, more intimate than the actual sex. He pulled his mouth from Sherlock's collarbone. "So you have before, with women?"
"Had sex? Yes. Is that important?" Sherlock's fingertips traced light circles on the skin of John's lower back.
John shivered. "No, just curious. Men too?" He ran his teeth lightly over Sherlock's shoulder.
Sherlock hummed in assent. "A few. You've never had sex with a man before without a woman being the focus of the encounter." He skimmed his fingernails lightly up John's sides.
"No, sure haven't." John shifted himself upward so his body fit tighter to Sherlock's. He ran the tip of his tongue around the shell of Sherlock's ear, grating his teeth softly against the cartilage before moving lower to suck the lobe into his mouth.
Sherlock made a low noise of pleasure, then asked, "Would you ever?"
"I'm trying to right now," John said lightly. He knew that Sherlock was referring to the abstract - if, in another situation, with another man, John would have considered it. He didn't have to give much thought to his answer. "Honestly, no. You were right, I'm not usually attracted to men." The only you was implied.
"Why me, then?" Sherlock asked with detached curiosity, but underneath was a thin thread of something else.
John propped one elbow next to Sherlock's head and looked down at him, amusement crinkling the corners of his eyes. "Is this where I tell you you're pretty?" He kept his tone playful as he trailed kisses over the light stubble on Sherlock's jaw. He was feeling a bit giddy and had no desire to break that mood. There would be plenty of time for addressing Sherlock's deeply buried insecurities later, but right then John wanted to just stay in the moment.
Sherlock humphed, but John continued. "Because you are. You're a very pretty man." John gave him a smacking kiss on the lips, then pulled back and smiled. "You'd make a terrible girl though."
Sherlock chuckled. "I've dressed up as a woman before, more than once. I didn't lack for attention."
"That's... unexpectedly hot."
"I can show you sometime."
John laughed as he ground down against Sherlock's hip. He bent down and claimed Sherlock's mouth again.
Minutes later, Sherlock broke away, panting. "Shoes."
John's brain was by then fully engaged in all things sexual. "That's fine, I can work with that." For someone John had thought of as asexual just the day before, Sherlock was turning out to be full of surprises.
Sherlock's calf flexed and John felt the tip of Sherlock's shoe tap the sole of his foot. Through his own shoe.
"Oh."
"Yes. Good to know you're amenable to accommodating any proclivities I might have, though," Sherlock said with dry amusement as John levered himself up and away. Sherlock toed of his insanely expensive shoes and they each hit the floor with a thunk.
John, always careful with his things, sat on the edge of the bed and untied his shoes. Sherlock knelt behind him, kissing the back of his neck and running his hands over John's flanks. John lined his shoes up side-by-side, then peeled his socks off and stuffed them into the shoes before sliding them under the bed. He needed that little moment of routine to ground himself. John wondered why it didn't feel more awkward, why he wasn't nervous or over-eager like he thought he should be.
He leaned back against Sherlock's chest and craned his neck for another kiss. Sherlock's hand cradled his jaw, fingertips caressing the skin below his ear. When John's neck began to ache, he pivoted so that one leg, bent at the knee, sat on the bed and his other foot rested on the floor. Sherlock sat back on his haunches and John chased him forward, leaning on one hand planted on the bed next to Sherlock's knee. He rested the other on Sherlock's thigh, hot through the fine wool of his trousers.
John could feel the mood shift to something headier, more serious. They were doing this. It had been a long time coming and now it was actually happening. Neither had mentioned love, but the intense, reverent look on Sherlock's face said more than any number of declarations could.
The hand on John's jaw migrated to his chest. Sherlock used it to gently push John back, then he shrugged out of his shirt and threw it somewhere in the vicinity of the foot of the bed. He leaned forward and his deft fingers made short work of the buttons on John's shirt. "Cuffs," he said.
John obediently held out one arm, then shifted his weight and offered the other for Sherlock to unbutton. Sherlock's fingertips skated over his wrist, then up his forearm and back down. He removed John's shirt and vest, then guided John to lie on the bed with another light shove to his chest.
Sherlock swung one impossibly long leg over John's, straddling his thighs. John's hands automatically went to rest just above Sherlock's bony knees. Sherlock leaned forward and planted one hand next to John's head, the other smoothed over John's arm. There was a moment when they held eye contact, and then Sherlock finally dipped his head and kissed John.
From there it was just a blur of sensation - sweat-slick skin salty and hot under John's mouth, soft murmurs of encouragement; the fine, silky hair of Sherlock's thigh against his cheek, Sherlock's hands seemingly everywhere all at once; the catch and slide of skin, breath caught in his chest; reaching, straining for the moment when everything fell away; a shaky, moist exhalation against his temple followed by the ghost of lips; Sherlock's body, solid and warm under him as the central air-con kicked in and chilled the skin of his back.
♥ ♦ ♣ ♠
John woke up to an empty bed, the sheets still warm beside him. He scratched idly at his stomach and stretched, enjoying the slight burn in his muscles. The shower was running in the en suite. He wondered if it was too soon in the relationship to use the toilet while Sherlock was in the shower, then laughed because they'd already hit that point a year ago. He thought vaguely that he should be freaking out, but he simply felt comfortable and content.
Objectively, he knew some things would change. There would eventually have to be a renegotiation of acceptable behaviour and new boundaries set. They'd have to decide upon sleeping arrangements. Little things, here and there, but really, they'd been living as a couple (more or less) for over a year, so there wouldn't be any big changes for either of them. They'd been pooling finances from the first month and arguing about money for just as long. The division of labour had already been squared away. There would have to be the exclusivity and relationship history talks, but John was in no rush for them, as the first seemed a bit of a moot point and the second was always a mixed bag of emotion.
Sherlock walked out of the bathroom stark naked, still towel-drying his hair. "You may as well have a lie-in. I've got a few things to wrap up with the head of security, and I've been told they want me to give some god-awful soundbite about losing gracefully for the highlight reel. I'm tempted to tell them I lost on purpose because I was tired of waiting to shag my flatmate." He tossed his wet towel onto the bed and rummaged through his suitcase for clean pants.
John shoved the wet towel onto the floor with his foot before the moisture could leech into the bedding. "But you didn't lose on purpose."
"I did," Sherlock said, beginning to dress. "Roylott tongues the inside of his teeth when he's got risky hand and contemplating a bluff, and his nostrils flare when he's confident the odds are in his favour. I knew before I went all-in that he had the winning hand. I could have dragged the game out for hours, had I wanted to."
"Amazing," John said softly, shaking his head. "But that other hand - you had to have known that you had almost no chance of winning?"
Sherlock grinned, then clambered over the bed to kiss John soundly. "I told you, I was feeling lucky."