Everything was quiet when Doctor Watson arrived home on a cold London evening. He unlocked the front door to his flat with a hint of trepidation, knowing his eccentric flatmate had often left unwelcome surprises for him when he went out. The memory of finding that head in the refrigerator still left him with shivers crawling up his back.
To the Doctor's surprise, everything looked normal. There were no more bullet holes in the walls, the skull was still back on the mantle and the windows were covered in grime. Watson gave a small sigh and relaxed, glad to be home after a long day in the office, healing the sick.
Looking back, John wondered why he allowed himself to relax in such an obviously tranquil room. His years in Afghanistan should have clued him in that this wasn't right. Especially when one is living with the great, the mysterious, the sycophantic, cunning, wonderful Sherlock Holmes.
As John made the winding track to the kitchen, avoiding the many stacks of books, his foot hit a small but strong wire floating inches above the ground, nearly invisible to the untrained eye. John felt himself lose his balance and tumble forward. He tried to straighten himself up mid-fall, but failed spectacularly, crashing face first into the side of the sofa, winded by the arm hitting his gut. Immediately two strong hands were holding him down, one between the Doctor's shoulder blades and the other on his lower back. Jumping slightly at the unexpected touch, John twisted his head around to get a good look at his captor.
He should have known. Oh god, why didn't he guess. John looked up into his flatmate's eyes and did a double take, they weren't smirking in amusement like he had assumed they would be, self satisfied at tricking the doctor, probably to prove some point they had argued about weeks ago. Instead they were watching him intently, much the way they examined a piece of evidence. John felt his breath catch as he watched Sherlock watching him. He was quite astonishingly beautiful, John thought, with his dark curly hair and intense eyes. Sherlock's face was ethereal with it's pointed cheekbones and porcelain skin - the most gorgeous face that John had ever seen.
"Sherlock?" John tried a question to break the silence "Sherlock, why are you holding me down?"
The gaze of the great Consulting Detective didn't change, but he swallowed before answering in his usual deep voice.
"I'm working on a case where a man died during intercourse." His tone was almost amused. Only Sherlock could put such a light tone on such a personal topic, especially when he was pressed against his flatmate.
"Oh, well, that's nice I suppose. But what's up with the trip wire and-" John had to stop and swallow, Sherlock's hands had started moving, drawing lazy circles on his back.
"And the touching?" He finally managed to squeak out.
The detective did have nice hands, the long fingers were digging into the doctors back in the most pleasant of ways, executing enough pressure to ensure that John felt every flex of those powerful appendages as they swiped across his back. It wasn't a soothing, friendly massage, John felt like his back was being evaluated, like those powerful hands were cataloguing every dip and muscle in his back for future use, as well as every twitch he made in reaction. It was bliss.
"Well, it all has to do with sweat, with the amount of sweat a body produces during intercourse. I want to have data to compare with the corpse so I can tell exactly how far the man was along before he died. Many alibis rest on this John"
John stiffened as what Sherlock had said penetrated his mind.
"Sherlock, you do know there is no standard to sweating, don't you? It's so... individual, there's no way to tell how... how far along a bloke was just by comparing his sweat to..."
The Doctor's eyes went wide. God there must've been something in his coffee this morning, how could he be so slow? But the hands were still moving, and they felt so good. He decided would push Sherlock off him as soon as this conversation was over.
When it became clear that John wasn't going to coherently finish his statement, Sherlock answered. He pushed himself further against the doctor, enjoying John's hitch in his breathing as he did so. Sherlock draped himself over the doctor so he could speak into Watson's ear, giving it a nibble as he did so.
"You provide the data John, I'll make the conclusions" the Detective's voice was low and John tried not to gasp as he could feel it in his back through Sherlock's chest. The doctor was starting to tremble, had he not wanted this since the first time he had clapped eyes on the man?
i I'm married to my work /i
This was just a part of Sherlock's work. The detective didn't care who was hurt, it was what he had to do, as long as it lead him to the end of a case, as long as it didn't result in that great mind not being bored. This was all this was, this whole set up, just part of figuring out a case.
Of course Sherlock knew John fancied him, Sherlock noticed everything. He noticed the way John's breath hitched whenever he took off that flowing black coat. He noticed how John followed him around like a lost puppy, how his eyes lit up whenever he saw the consulting detective. Sherlock iknew /i and he was willing to use that knowledge to solve a case.
John felt betrayed. How could Sherlock abuse his trust like this? John tried to escape, to push Sherlock away but the detective was too hard against him to let him move. He tried again and they both toppled to the floor. Unhindered by an injured shoulder, Sherlock gained the upper hand again, straddling the doctor, who was on his back. The greatest mind in the world had that stubborn look on his face, the one that warned the doctor how adamant he was about this. It was a look Doctor Watson found extraordinarily endearing and more than a little bit erotic. There was just something about the set if his jaw and the gleam in the defectives eyes that make him unresistable to the doctor.
He saw the flash of a grin on his flatmate's face and John's traitorous body responded to that look. Damn himself, but he was getting turned on by a massage, a face and the close proximity to the man he desired. It was almost unbearable. John sought to flee again, but the smirking Sherlock rolled his hips and the thought fled. The Doctor had to hold back a moan as he did it again. And again. And again, pushing his own erection against John's. The doctor thrashed on the floor, Sherlock's arms, still on his hips. He gasped when soft lips touched his own.
It wasn't a soft, steady kiss. It was demanding and stubborn. John gave in and opened his mouth. He let out a groan when tongues entered the mix, unable to help himself. Sherlock tasted exquisite, like mystery and adventure. The Doctor let himself forget that this was just one of Sherlock's experiments and let himself get lost in the sensations. When the mouth finally moved away, John was covered in sweat and aching with need. The detective's eyes were darker than ever but his hands didn't shake when they slipped off John's shirt and trousers, followed by his own.
If he thought that kissing was terrific, the feeling on skin on skin was heaven. He panted and writhed as hands explored all over his body, questing for those spots that would draw deep moans from his throat. When they reached the place that John desperately needed touched he couldn't help himself from choking out a strangled version of the detective's name. He fumbled about, reaching down until he could repay the favour. The whispered sound of his name almost brought him to the edge and dredged up some unnamed emotion from the doctor's chest. He felt like he would do anything for Sherlock, that Sherlock could do anything to him and he wouldn't complain, as long as he kept up this wonderful touching and stoking.
John wordlessly lifted his hips when Sherlock tugged his pants down. He just lay there gasping and panting as he allowed the detective to breach him. They moved together, John's blonde head not quite hitting the floor with every thrust, Sherlock not quite making all of his name with every breath. There was kissing and moaning and the sweat glistened off the two bodies as they moved. There was no rose petals, no sweet nothings, not even a promise. Just the sound of two men. One who loved his work and one who loved him for it.