I wrote this to fill on prompt on the Sherlock BBC kink meme on LJ. I had fun writing it though. And the lovely silversliver (on LJ) betaed sections for me, especially that last section. (Thank you!) I was REALLY nervous on writing the last one because I wanted it to be good, and she helped that out greatly. ^_^
As always, constructive crit is loved. And if you see a problem, point it out please! Thanky!
1. Sherlock is happy to not be alone anymore.
It wasn't that Sherlock had ever really wanted to have a friend. People were as a rule ignorant of their surroundings and too stupid to know just how ignorant they were. Add in the arrogance that seemed to always follow this tendency and you had the sneering, sniveling majority of the world. Considering how this majority had always regarded Sherlock as a "freak," as Donovan termed it, Sherlock had never really missed having them cling to him for any length of time.
That didn't mean that he hadn't felt lonely, however. He had. He just hadn't realized it until he met John.
John did the shopping. He made tea and talked with Sherlock. He put up with Sherlock's little fits of boredom and manic energy. John got mad at Sherlock too, stomping off to Sarah's or the local pub, but he always came back eventually. He was always there, right beside Sherlock on whatever mad adventure had presented itself for deduction.
Turning where he knelt examining the latest in a string of murder victims, Sherlock spied John blinking at a woman in a police uniform. She was someone new that didn't know them, given the dismissive way she scowled at John. John flushed deeper than he already had and nodded a quick good bye to her before looking over to meet Sherlock's eyes. He gave a small smile and hurried over.
Sherlock stood and grinned at him, knowing John would view it only as Sherlock having caught the scent of yet another murderer. He never did understand that it was mostly the thrill of happiness that John was there, beside him. Sherlock was certain the awe and gratitude of having a constant companion that would and had killed for him would never wear off. John had even proven he'd die for Sherlock, which was a thought that inevitably caused Sherlock's heart to skip a few beats.
"Yes," Sherlock answered him. "Here anyway. And don't worry about her. She prefers the company of other women, though she won't admit to it."
Surprise opened John's expressive eyes wide as he shot a glance back at the oblivious woman.
"What? How do you—" He stopped and looked back at Sherlock. "Wait. Don't tell me. She's too young for me anyway."
Sherlock frowned at John, annoyed that the other man would have such a low opinion of himself, before turning find to find Lestrade pacing back towards them, looking more irritated and impatient than usual. "Let me know if the witnesses remember anything useful!"
Lestrade scowled at him, but nodded. He looked resigned as usual, but at least he was smart enough to value Sherlock's help when he needed it.
Sherlock spun and swept past John. He made sure to catch the woman's eye as he passed her, his smirk turning disdainful. She was an idiot not to see his John's worth, though that did work out in Sherlock's favor.
The woman blinked, her face becoming a mask of confusion. Then he was past her, John at his side as they made their way from the crime scene and back to the main road.
John was loyal and comforting; a grounding force in Sherlock's life and patient enough to be a saint. Sherlock couldn't imagine life without him anymore, and he frankly didn't want to. He was only thankful that John didn't know his own worth and stayed with him. One day, Sherlock would have to do without the other man when someone with half a brain recognized his worth and stole John away, but today Sherlock was content to have the other man beside him.
Today, Sherlock was happy. Today, someone wanted Sherlock Holmes, and that feeling alone made John the most handsome, wonderful man on the planet.
2. Sherlock loves the honesty in John's eyes.
If anyone were to ask Sherlock what he thought was John's one best feature, he'd have to say his eyes. It wasn't that there was nothing else about John that captured Sherlock's attention—his hands did that all the time. Sherlock would even manufacture reasons for John to touch him with those gentle, calloused hands, and he was certain John would break his Hippocratic Oath if he ever found out about it.
John's eyes were a medium blue with some thin brown tendrils that darted here and there, chips of deep blue spread about, and a brownish green that wrapped itself lovingly around his pupils. His eyes were dark where Sherlock's own were light, and they gave Sherlock a clear window to John's soul. All his thoughts and feelings made themselves known in those two little orbs.
Sherlock looked over at John sitting quietly beside him in the taxi's back seat, noting how quiet he was. He'd been much more subdued than normal lately, simply following Sherlock rather than helping him. Usually, he was right in there, trying to help find clues and piece them together, but lately he'd been content to watch as Sherlock did the work unless he was asked to do something.
They were on their way back from a double-homicide now. The case itself had been boring. Sherlock had solved it in minutes before proceeding to lecture Lestrade about wasting his time. He'd been too annoyed at the easy solution to notice at first, but John hadn't even reprimanded Sherlock over his lecture to the Detective Inspector, never mind noted Sherlock's brilliance at solving the case so quickly. It was as if John had missed it entirely.
Unacceptable. Absolutely unacceptable.
But why would John be upset? Had Sherlock done something wrong?
No. John would have yelled at him or simply not gone with him to the crime scene.
It was someone or something very important that was upsetting him though. So then, perhaps his on-again, off-again relationship with Sarah?
"Has Sarah started dating someone?" Sherlock watched John as he asked, hoping to catch sight of his wonderful eyes again. They always told Sherlock the truth, even when John would prefer to hide it.
John blinked several times and turned to stare at Sherlock, his expression one of confusion. "What? No. Not that I know of. Why? Where did that come from?"
Truth. The light in his eyes and their direction had never faltered. He looked slightly nervous though. Hmmmm… This might be trickier than he thought.
"Your sister, Harry, how is she doing?"
John frowned, but nodded. "She's fine. What are you doing? Why all the questions all of a sudden?"
Again, truth. But he was definitely nervous now. Why?
"Then it is me," Sherlock said. "You wouldn't be this upset over someone who wasn't a close acquaintance. So what did I do this time?"
"What makes you think I'm upset? I haven't told you I was," John told him, his frown deepening. His eyes flickered, as though he was making it a point to look at Sherlock.
A little tendril of hurt squeezed at Sherlock's heart, but he ignored it. That could wait.
"Yet you are. Why?"
John pressed his lips together in that way that normally told Sherlock he disapproved, but today his eyes shone with fear and reluctance. And could that be hope?
"It doesn't matter. You'd think it stupid." He paused and took a deep breath before looking away. Sherlock caught a glimpse of resignation as he turned back to the window. "It's not you though. And it's certainly not your fault."
It was his fault. Sherlock knew that without a doubt. He couldn't see his eyes anymore, but John's body language and choice of phrasing said it clearly.
What had Sherlock done? He couldn't remember anything… Surely John was used to body parts in the refrigerator by now? Although, maybe the penis had been a bit much for the good doctor to take.
"I—" Sherlock began, but John started speaking again. Sherlock doubted he'd even been aware Sherlock had started to say anything.
"You did good today," John said suddenly, turning back again to give Sherlock a wry smile. "You could remember that not everyone is the world's most brilliant detective though. What takes you fifteen minutes to work out, takes the rest of us days!"
Truth. John's eyes were shining with his usual good humor and affection now, even if they were slightly dimmed by whatever had been depressing him lately. They also told Sherlock that he didn't want to discuss the matter further today.
Perhaps whatever he'd done had been done indirectly? If so, John wouldn't hold it against him. He'd tell him eventually. Sherlock would just have to be patient and wait.
He hated waiting…
Sherlock settled back with a snort. "You would have figured it out in less time, I'm sure."
Sneaking a peek out the side of his eyes, Sherlock saw John glow under the warmth of his praise. The other man relaxed back into his seat next to Sherlock, seemingly much happier than he'd been in days.
He would be okay. Sherlock would watch him and be sure of it. At least until John was ready to talk about it.
John's eyes were beautiful and colorful. They ran deep with emotion and life. Everyone else's eyes paled in comparison to John's.
Sherlock never had to wonder if John really did like him, if he really did like living with him in 221B. His eyes told Sherlock that when John said he was brilliant, he really thought Sherlock was brilliant. Looking into John's eyes, Sherlock knew someone gave a damn about him no matter what happened and he knew he'd give anything for one more look into those magical, honest, blue eyes.
3. Sherlock wants to see John in his uniform.
There was a picture of John that Sherlock had found on the internet which he kept in his bedside table. It couldn't have been taken that long before John had been invalided home. John didn't look much younger than he did now, and what difference there was could be easily explained by the two years and extreme events that he had since endured.
In the picture, John was smiling, a big, bright grin that lit up his features, and had arm slung around another man as they both posed together. They were obviously friends as well as colleagues, their insignias showing them to be equals in the army, but that wasn't what caught Sherlock's eye when he first saw the photograph.
That smile that John wore, it was the same smile he always wore for Sherlock when they'd done something particularly fun or had solved an especially exhilarating case together. Sherlock loved that smile, and not the least because it was one meant for him to share in. Although that was nice too. That smile told Sherlock that John really did enjoy being with him. It was a special smile that Sherlock loved seeing again and again.
Sherlock would be lying, however, if he said seeing John in uniform wasn't at least part of the reason he'd downloaded and printed out the photo. John looked handsome in the brown fatigues under the harsh Afghan sun.
There wasn't any reason John should look so handsome in them, though. They were absolutely shapeless, as they were meant to be. At most, John had a definite waist in the picture, shown by both his belt and the other man's hand slung around his back, but that was about all that could be said for the fashion. It was a mystery to Sherlock why John looked so good in the photograph. Yet he did.
He looked strong and proud, like a brave warrior at ease amongst his comrades. Even if it hadn't been for John's smile, Sherlock knew he would have kept this picture for that quality alone. Yet the smile somehow added to the effect and stole Sherlock's breath away whenever he glanced at it. Which was often if he was to be honest. And the more he glanced at it, the more he wanted to see John in uniform in person.
Would he still look as handsome and brave in it today as he did back then?
Sherlock glanced over at the door to his room, scowling at the interruption to his thoughts. John was many things, but only rarely a master of timing in Sherlock's opinion.
"Sherlock! You here?"
Standing, he slipped the picture under his pillow and made his way quickly to the kitchen, where John was scowling at the foot Sherlock had set up upside down in the refrigerator. It took a moment for the other man to realize Sherlock was there, so Sherlock cleared his throat.
"I can't always be in the sitting room awaiting your return," he said, leaning against the wall beside him in the entry way.
John spun around, his eyes wide with surprise, and Sherlock fought down the urge to smile. It really was a lot of fun to startle his flatmate. Usually, he could only manage it with his experiments.
"Sherlock! Why is there an upside down foot hanging from the top of the refrigerator?"
"An experiment. Don't worry though; I'll need to move it into the bathroom before long."
Sighing, John rubbed at his temples. Another headache? He'd been having quite a few of those lately. Perhaps Sherlock should suggest he see a doctor soon.
"I don't want to know. But I refuse to share the shower with a dead foot."
"I'll hang it over the sink," Sherlock said with a shrug. "Let's go out to eat tonight. Angelo's again?"
John gave another gusty sigh. "Fine. Do you think we could actually finish eating tonight before we chase off after…whoever's unfortunate enough to have caught your attention?"
"Of course," Sherlock told him, frowning in annoyance. Did John think he only wanted his company when he was on a case? He wasn't that bad a friend, was he? "The only thing I'm chasing tonight is a meal with a friend and colleague."
It was almost as if Sherlock's words had hit John as hard as a train at full speed. He went still, frozen between one moment and the next. Then a small smile pulled at his lips as his eyes brightened with…Was that happiness? Hope? Or simply relief?
"Alright. Let's go now, before the dinner rush or Lestrade can text you with another case."
Grinning, Sherlock turned and headed for his coat and scarf. He paused halfway there, the memory of the picture under his pillow surfacing again.
"John? I've been wondering…"
"Yes?" John passed him, stopping at the door to the flat to turn and stare back at Sherlock.
"Do you still have your old army uniform?"
"Yes, why?" He frowned, no doubt confused at the line of questioning.
"Oh, just wondering," Sherlock said, shrugging off both the topic and the glee at possibly being able to one day see John in uniform again. He eyed John's coat-free figure. "It's warm out then?"
"Yes," John said with a smile. "It's beautiful out."
Perhaps Sherlock would get to see John in uniform one day, but right then he knew without a doubt that he would look just as good in it as he had before. The warrior may be retired, but he hadn't lost an ounce of his strength.
4. Sherlock likes that John's short.
Sherlock really wasn't sure what the fuss was all about. John wasn't the tallest man alive, but he wasn't that short in his opinion. Just enough that he could comfortably rest his head on Sherlock's shoulder—if he ever cared to that was. Yet people still somehow looked at John—strong, loyal John—and saw something less than wonderful. Were they all blind with stupidity?
The murderous blackmailer that had managed to somehow corner Sherlock in the storage cupboard sneered out at John now, his eyes raking over the smaller man dismissively. He shook his head at Sherlock, his sneer turning patronizing. Unfortunately, the gun he held never wavered from Sherlock's heart.
"He is cute, but a handsome man like you can do better, eh? You've gotten quite a name for yourself, Mr. Holmes," he said, pulling the curtain closed to block the entrance into the storage room. Sherlock caught a last glimpse of John turning to look their way as it swished into place. "Surely there's someone out there just dying to work for you that could pull their own weight?"
"Their own weight," Sherlock repeated, feigning incomprehension. He needed to stall for time. Even if John hadn't noticed something wrong, which he probably had being John, Sherlock could think of a way out of this. Perhaps even get a confession while he was at it. "Why would I need that? John's quite reliable, and he doesn't come with much weight to pull."
The man snickered, seeming truly amused. "Yes, my point exactly! When you get caught up in situations like this, how much good could he be? Scrawny, conservative…He looks like a librarian who can't find his library! He'd probably see a gun and faint."
Sherlock's frown deepened in sudden anger. Was this man truly so stupid not to see just how powerful…how dangerous John truly was? Maybe it was the jumpers. John made them look good—very, very good—but before Sherlock had met him, he'd considered John's style to belong to older men and snobs of Mycroft's ilk. Yet, even at first glance, Sherlock had known there was something different, something special about John. And it wasn't simply because he could tell he'd been fighting in Afghanistan.
"Small and cute obviously does it for you…" then blackmailer growled incredulously. His eyes held a furious light that wasn't entirely sane. "Why is it the good ones always pick such pathetic partners? You probably get a crick in your neck every time you kiss him!"
Sherlock blinked, processing the new information quickly. The man was becoming agitated. Not just agitated. He was becoming angry! Because Sherlock's colleague and supposed lover was smaller than him and appeared weaker. Which meant…
"This was all revenge, wasn't it?" Sherlock smiled as the joy of revelation washed over him. He loved this part. "You hoped Kyle Banning, the victim's lover, would be your lover, but he preferred the victim, a man who was both shorter and plainer than you."
The man snarled, the light in his eyes taking on a dangerous quality. His hand steadied on the gun, his finger twitching over the trigger.
"You really are as annoying as they say. I doubt anyone will mind…"
Then everything seemed to slow down.
The blackmailer pulled the trigger. Sherlock, even as he dodged to the right, saw the curtain flap open to admit a beige blur. Horror gripped his insides as he watched the blur connect with the blackmailer. It resolved into John, his hand flashing out to knock the gun from the blackmailer's hand. The pair of them went down, hitting the floor hard enough to send shock waves through the wood. Bits of wood and plaster rained down over Sherlock from where the bullet lodged in the wall.
Reality took hold again just in time for a bit of wood to slice across Sherlock's cheekbone, the pain propelling Sherlock back to his senses. He scrambled up to see John push himself up over the blackmailer. The other man rolled, trying to knock John free, but John moved with him, using the momentum to help him gain his own balance. And then he landed a hard punch to the blackmailer's face that slammed his head back against the floorboards. The blackmailer didn't move again.
Panting, John stayed where he was, obviously gathering his wits back about him. Sherlock made his way slowly over, keeping in mind John's PTSD. He didn't want to startle the man if he was having a flashback.
John swallowed hard and looked over at Sherlock, his dark eyes sweeping over him in assessment. They paused on Sherlock's face and John's mouth twisted down into a frown.
Not waiting for an answer, John pushed himself up and stumbled over to Sherlock. It looked painful, the movements stiff and ungainly.
"Fine. You?" Sherlock swept his own assessing gaze over the other man as he spoke, reassuring himself that it was just the awkward position that had John moving so oddly.
John chuckled and nodded, reaching up to turn Sherlock's head so he could see the cut on his cheek. Gentle fingers moved over the unbroken skin around the wound, clearing away the blood and determining the damage. For some reason, tingles were going off in their wake like fireworks on Bonfire Night. It was disconcerting but not unpleasant, and it distracted him from the pain in his cheek, so Sherlock let John continue.
"You're not that short," Sherlock said suddenly. He wasn't sure where the words had come from, but they seemed to have brought friends. "You're the best assistant and partner I could have asked for."
John stilled, his eyes flying up to meet Sherlock's. Sherlock felt a light, embarrassed flush creep over him. Had he said the wrong thing?
A smile moved over John's features, lighting them up with a happy glow. "Thank you. I—um…I heard the two of you talking. I know what people think of me." He paused, tilting his head to the side a little. "But thank you…"
He seemed to stumble to a stop there, unsure of how to articulate his feelings. Sherlock nodded to let him know he understood and then looked over to the unconscious man behind him. John followed his gaze.
"Lestrade's not going to be happy with me…"
Shrugging, Sherlock grinned. "He's just jealous."
5. Sherlock thinks John's brilliant in his own way.
John was acting weird again.
It was different this time, though. He didn't seem at all depressed. Rather, John seemed nervous, jumpy. It was as though John thought Sherlock was suddenly going to turn into a vampire and suck his blood.
Just that morning, Sherlock had come up behind John making tea in the kitchen. The sugar was on the top self, though Sherlock wasn't sure why since John couldn't reach it there, so Sherlock had reached up for the box only to have John scream and jump back into him. The smaller man had immediately jerked forward and stumbled away five feet before looking back at Sherlock, his expressive blue eyes wide with startled surprise. He'd laughed it off in the end, but the whole thing had totally unnerved Sherlock. That wasn't like John to be so easily snuck up on.
Now it was after dinner, and John hadn't gotten better at all. If anything, he'd gotten worse. By now he was obviously restless, pacing about the flat and tidying it before sitting down and leafing restlessly through the paper, never settling on any one article. This had repeated several times, varying only slightly each time.
Sherlock was almost ready to scream. Was this what he was like when he was bored? It was a wonder John had never shot him!
Then again, John was beyond patient. He would put a saint to shame with his patience, so Sherlock's continued existence was not totally unbelievable. He had a sneaking suspicion most of the Yard would agree with him, at least in relation to John's putting up with him.
"Sherlock," John said, coming back from the kitchen for the twenty-seventh time that evening. This time he was carrying two cups of tea with him. He plunked one down on the table in front of Sherlock and sat in his arm chair before continuing. "Um… Can I ask you something? Or—well—maybe ask is the wrong word… Talk with you about something? Something important. Important to me, that is. You've never—"
John broke off, shaking his head.
"What's wrong?" Fear was clenching Sherlock's stomach and catching at his breath with greedy fingers. This could go one of several ways, and Sherlock highly doubted it would be a path he found…highly favorable. But John couldn't stop now. It was the first time he'd shown any sign of wanting to tell Sherlock what was going on with him, and somehow Sherlock instinctively knew that everything in their future hinged on this conversation. "Spit it out already, John."
Putting his tea untouched to the side, John put his arms down on the arms of the chair, gripping the ends hard enough to turn his knuckles white. He took a deep breath and leaned forward slightly, his mouth opening and closing again on unsaid words. Finally, he ran a hand through his hair and heaved a frustrated sigh.
Sherlock felt the knot in his belly tighten. It was the least favorable then. Was John going to move? He was going to leave Sherlock? But why? What had he done to push John that far? Had he—Had he met a woman? Was he going to go live with her and leave Sherlock behind?
It hadn't happened yet. John was still sitting there, licking his lips and struggling for words, but Sherlock could already feel the loneliness crushing him. He'd never find another John Watson. Sherlock didn't even want to try.
"I don't know how else to say this," John finally growled out. "So I'm just going to say it. I'm in love. I've fallen in love with someone so absolutely infuriating it must be a crime, but there you have it. And it's not changing soon. I doubt it ever will."
Sherlock felt his heart stop along with his breath. He stared at John for a moment, lost in the agony of knowing he'd lost the only man, the only person, he'd ever loved. It was an incontrovertible fact that Sherlock had never stood a chance of keeping John by his side forever—it had only been a matter of time before someone turned up who could recognize the glory that was John Watson—but now that it had happened…
He didn't know what to do.
"Sherlock?" John's voice sounded very far away, but the concern in it seemed to pull Sherlock back to himself. "Sherlock? Are you alright? Did I…misread it?"
A tense strain was infiltrating John's voice, this time accompanied by a deep humiliated flush over his cheeks. That didn't make sense, though. Why would John feel so distressed over telling Sherlock what must be happy news for him? Was he really that much of a bastard even to John?
"Misread—" Sherlock cleared his throat, finding it hard to speak around the lump in it. "Misread what? You're in love. I'm…happy for you. Who is the lucky girl?"
"He's not a girl, Sherlock," John told him, looking anything but reassured. "Unless you've been keeping things from me."
If anyone were to ask Sherlock, he'd tell them it was possible to stop the Earth from turning. He stared at John for a moment, every thought in his head cleared out to make room for what John had just said.
Only John couldn't have said that, could he? Not about him surely.
The word came out breathless and entirely too hopeful in Sherlock's opinion.
John gave him a small, hopeless smile. "I love you, I said."
Sherlock stared at John in stunned amazement for a moment before he reached over and pulled a couple of his own hairs from his arm.
"Sherlock! What—" John exclaimed, concern and confusion now warring for control of his voice.
"It hurt…" he said, not bothering to suppress the delighted wonder in his voice. "It actually hurt!"
"Of course it actually hurt! You pulled the hairs out your arm!"
"But it's not a dream!" Sherlock grinned over at John, watched as his beautiful eyes widened and his breath caught. "You said you love me…"
"I did. I do," John repeated, hope beginning to finally creep into his voice. "I love you, you idiot. Is that… Is that alright?"
"Don't be obtuse, John," Sherlock scoffed. "I wouldn't be grinning if it wasn't."
A split second of hurt crossed John's face, but it was quickly replaced by beaming happiness with a grin to match Sherlock's own. John closed his eyes and breathed a deep sigh of relief, "Thank God."
And then he was leaning forward, reaching out to Sherlock. Unable to resist, Sherlock met him in the middle, his arms encircling John's waist as John's hands cupped his face. Lightning raced down Sherlock's spine, melting it with delightful heat.
But that was alright. He was safe with John. He would always be safe with John.
Sherlock was brilliant, beyond intelligent, but John had his own brilliance. John was loyal, faithful, and brave. He'd had the foresight to follow an insane, intrusive stranger home. He'd been brave enough to say "I love you" when Sherlock wasn't sure he'd have ever managed to find the courage to take that risk.
And he loved Sherlock.
Sherlock was brilliant, it was true. Yet in Sherlock's not so modest opinion, John was even more brilliant in his own way.
+1. Sherlock can't help himself when it comes to John.
If there was one thing Sherlock knew without a doubt, it was that John was beautiful inside and out. And that hadn't been a phrase he'd even understood before John came into his life. How could you tell if someone had beautiful insides? Did people run around taking and exchanging x-rays? But with John, he finally understood it, because there wasn't any part of his love that wasn't beautiful.
He ran a hand down John's bare chest, drinking in the sight of him arching beneath his fingers with a moan that skittered down Sherlock's spine on its way to his groin. It was dark in the bedroom, the only light coming from the moon framed by the window. But the moonlight glittered and danced over John's flushed, passion-slick skin, making him seem to almost glow. The sight of it combined with the knowledge that Sherlock had been the one to do this to him nearly reduced Sherlock to a pleading mess himself. John trusted and loved him enough to lie there, nude and flushed and making those delicious noises, for Sherlock and no one else; it was a gift that both awed him and humbled him—a state that no one else had ever succeeded at before.
And Sherlock knew John had been with others before him. It was something they'd discussed, but that knowledge couldn't take away the beauty that was John Watson now, or the awe he inspired in Sherlock. Somehow, inconceivably, John's experience actually made what they were doing all the more wonderful for Sherlock.
When Sherlock had informed John that he had very little experience with relationships, John hadn't mocked him. He'd simply said they could take things slowly, which again only made Sherlock want him more. So much more that, despite the decision to take things slowly for the good of their relationship, they had somehow come home from solving yet another case and fallen straight into bed together.
How had Sherlock gotten so—
"Ahh…"John gave a moan that was half whimper as Sherlock's fingers found his left nipple. The sound of his cry pulled at Sherlock, distracting him and nearly dragging out an answering moan.
Another tweak, deliberate this time, of his nipple and the sound repeated, louder and longer this time. John writhed with another moan, his stomach quaking beneath Sherlock's other hand. His hips twisted and lifted between Sherlock's legs, bringing their aching groins into contact with each other.
The moan that tore out of Sherlock couldn't have been stopped even if Sherlock had cared to stop it. And at this point, he didn't. Why should he? He was safe here. Loved and wanted and it was all so good.
"You…" Sherlock murmured, flattening his hand over John's heart before dragging it down and over his hardened nipple. "You're so perfect… And you want me…" Disbelief at his good fortune washed over Sherlock, intensifying the love and desire he felt until they burned inside him like an inferno.
"Sherlock?" John's eyes were cracked open and sat hazily at Sherlock, the blue in his irises nearly over taken by his pupils. "Are you—"
Bending forward with another moan, Sherlock silenced his lover with a kiss. It was a long, passionate kiss that was exceptionally messy since Sherlock's ability to coordinate had long since disappeared. John didn't seem to mind, though. He groaned into it, his body arching and lifting in an attempt to get closer to Sherlock.
Sherlock moaned again, wondering briefly if it was right that he should enjoy the feel of John's hot flesh moving against him so much. Then he decided "right" could go find its own lover, John was his.
"You taste…wonderful," Sherlock said softly, his voice husky with the emotions that tore through him. "You feel like…like what Heaven must feel like."
"You are the most beautiful creature on the planet," Sherlock continued, unable to help himself as was so often the case with John. "Even your supposed flaws," Sherlock paused and shifted so that he could lean down to kiss and lick at the edges of the ugly mass of scar that marred John's perfect shoulder. "Even your supposed flaws just make you…better. More perfect. The most beautiful creature…"
"Sherlock…" John whimpered, a hint of a sob in his voice. "Sherlock…Please!"
"Please?" Sherlock was truly confounded now, unable to comprehend how John could feel the need to beg. "You should never beg, never have to beg. Don't you know how brilliant you are? If others don't see it, it's only because you shine too brightly. Your perfection blinds even me."
Sherlock ran his hands down John's sides now and then in, over his flat, shuddering stomach, brushing against his leaking tip. John gave a harsh, high bark at the touch and pounded his head back against the pillow behind him. Not wanting this to be any shorter than it had to be, Sherlock let his hand wander back over John's hips to grasp at the soft, muscled cheeks of his arse.
"Dammit! Stop teasing me, Sherlock!"
John's voice only barely approached the commanding tone Sherlock knew it could take, instead it was full of desire and desperation for what he offered. And Sherlock intended to give him all he offered, but after he was finished. He had more to say, more to tell the wonderful man beneath him.
"Teasing? That would imply I don't intend to deliver." John gave a despairing cry at this that Sherlock ignored, preferring instead to run his hands down under his strong thighs. "And I do. I fully intend to finish what I've started. You—You are just too beautiful, too tempting not to make me want to touch you, kiss you, make love to you until we are both too tired to move. And even then I will want you.
"I will always want you, John."
"Oh God! What are you doing to me?"
"Making love to you: my beloved. I find that's all I want to do."
For a long moment, John stared at him, his eyes finally thrown wide and his mouth hanging open in stunned amazement. If not for the twitching of John's shaft between them, Sherlock might have been afraid he'd done something wrong. And then John was throwing his head back and keening an equally long cry before bucking up and flipping them both over in a supple, well-timed move that only made Sherlock spiral higher in his desire.
Now Sherlock stared up at John, felt himself pressed back into the pillows even as he managed to admire the view of John, sturdy and ethereally beautiful John, leaning over him. A sense of contentment and satisfaction stole over him, much as it would a cat who had just found a saucer full of cream laid out and waiting for him.
He moaned his lover's name as John growled his back.
"Now you've asked for it," John growled, his soft voice nearly lost to his passion.
A giddy sense of anticipation gripped Sherlock just before John reached between them and grasped them both in one hand. They cried out together this time, their hips moving in tandem towards each other.
Sherlock grasped at John's hips, gripping him hard enough to bruise, and tugged him closer, closer, closer. When John's lips met his in another messy, wild kiss, Sherlock let himself go into the maelstrom of feeling that he was sure only John could produce in him. They moved instinctively together, their lips mirroring the actions of their hips as they strove higher, faster. All that mattered, all that Sherlock knew now was John. John's lips…John's hips under his fingers… John's hand on him…John moving against him…John…John…John!
And then Sherlock's world splintered apart into white-hot heat and electric pleasure. He felt himself falling and let himself go, knowing that John was falling with him.
When he finally came back to himself again, John was still on top of him, but now his arms were wrapped around Sherlock, holding him tightly and shaking as though they'd truly just fallen off a cliff. His own arms felt like they were coated in lead, but Sherlock bullied them into lifting and encircling John, pulling him even tighter against himself.
John snorted at the question and turned his head to chuckle into Sherlock's ear.
"After that performance? What do you think, genius?"
Sherlock smiled and sighed in contentment, his busy, always running mind finally stalled out.
"I don't suppose you're ever going to tell me all that again? Outside of bed, I mean?"
Sherlock frowned and glanced over at John as best he could with their positioning. He tried to bully his brain into understanding what John meant and found it simply wasn't up to the task of operating yet. Apparently, sex with John was better than any drug at bringing him relief from his own genius.
"Never mind," John sighed. He snuggled further into Sherlock. "Just as long as you remember to show me. Though I wouldn't object to an "I love you" or two in front of Anderson. I'd love to see him choke on his own tongue."
Sherlock clutched at John as they both dissolved into tired laughter and resolved to remember to do exactly that. Or at least something close to it. Anything for John. And if they made Anderson faint from shock while they were at it, all the better.