Teach Me: One Shot
Word Count: ~9900 (I know this is incredibly long for a one-shot, but it has a quick pace! Give it a shot!)
Warnings: A little smut in the end, but nothing extreme. It's very fluffy! There is mention of a character getting drunk. It's a long fic, nearly 10000 words, but I tried to keep the pace quick, and it's also separated into six parts. I just couldn't make it a chapter fic, it wouldn't flow right. Do enjoy!
John Watson and Sherlock Holmes sat across from each other in their small shared flat. It was late morning on a Friday, and as their previous case had reached a conclusion the day before, neither man showed much interest in doing anything besides lounging. John has stretched his legs across the couch, a newspaper settled loosely in his hands. Sherlock, on the other hand, had conformed his long, thin body to fit on a chair, with his knees bent in front of him and his laptop settled on his lap.
The men sat silently for nearly an hour, the only noises being Sherlock's fingers typing rapidly at the keyboard or John turning the page of the paper. Suddenly, Sherlock slammed his laptop closed and nearly dropped it on the ground.
"John," he said, unbending his legs. John slowly turned his head to face Sherlock, who had a look of concentration mixed with irritation.
"Something the matter?" asked John, folding the newspaper neatly and setting it at the end of the couch. Sherlock's eyes flickered to John's face.
"I need your help with something," he said slowly. John waited for an elaboration for several seconds, then sighed.
"What's this something?" he asked. Sherlock suddenly shot up from his chair as though it was electrocuting him and began pacing back and forth across the room, his dark blue dressing gown flowing behind him like a cape.
"Mycroft is hosting an overly-elaborate winter party tomorrow evening at some reception hall and has demanded my attendance."
"And you want me to get you out of?" John concluded, throwing his legs off the side of the couch so he was now sitting upwards.
Sherlock stopped and let out a slight chuckle, not out of humor, but to mock John. "I have tried nearly everything. Mycroft even contacted local police stations and told them not to contact me this weekend, not to bother me. He absolutely insisted on my presence at this event."
John sighed again. "Then what on earth do you need help with? Show up, have a drink, make small talk, leave."
Once again, Sherlock stopped his pacing and let out a chuckle, but this time, he turned on his heel to face John, making eye contact. "He has also taken the 'honor' in finding a date for me," he said. John noticed Sherlock's subtle shudder at the word date.
Sherlock presented himself as a sociopath. He was anti-social, he chose not to interact with people, much less women who might possibly have interest in him. John had seen him flirt with women before, but only with a goal in mind, to secretly seduce them into spilling information or granting him permission to access information. Sherlock had no interest in dating or women, or men, for that matter.
"Sherlock," began John, trying to select his words wisely, "just because he found you a date, doesn't mean you have to date this...woman?" Sherlock rolled his eyes and nodded. "It's the exact same thing I said before, show up, have a drink, make small talk, and leave. Just do it all with her arm wrapped around yours. And add in a dance somewhere in that mix."
There was a long, lingering pause. "I don't know how to dance, John."
John rose his eyebrow and leaned back farther onto the couch. "Have you ever danced with a woman before?"
Sherlock shrugged, collapsing back on his chair and pulling his legs tight against him. John noticed the black material of his pyjama bottoms riding up his legs to reveal a shining sliver of skin on his ankle. "No, the opportunity has never presented itself to me."
John nodded slowly, tearing his eyes away from his ankles, which were suddenly oddly appealing. "And have you ever danced at a party, or wedding, or other social event, by yourself? With a group, perhaps?"
Sherlock slowly shook his head. "I don't dance. It's a strange form of moving your body to look like you have some sort of twitch or body spasm. It's distasteful, most of the time, it looks dreadfully boring, and it's pointless."
There was silence for what seemed like a very long period of time before John leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "And you want me to teach you to dance?"
"Yes," answered Sherlock simply, dropping his legs from the chair to the floor and spreading them slightly. "Yes, John, I'm assuming you've danced before, with women, and you could show me some basics."
John focused his attention on his slightly swollen knuckles, bruised from the fight he had the prior evening with a French plumber, who turned out to have committed three homicides in the period of twenty four hours, each in separate time zones. He kept his eyes averted from Sherlock's legs, which were spread open to reveal his crotch, pulled tight behind the bunched up material of his pants, something he desperately wanted to look at.
John wasn't gay. He told himself this several times on a daily basis, or, reminded himself of this. He loved women. They were curvy in all the right places and they smelt nice and they had pretty lips and soft hair and seductive voices, and so much more. John had no interest in men, speaking of the entire general group themselves. Sherlock, on the other hand, was no ordinary man. John still hadn't fully accepted his feelings for his flatmate yet, pushing them aside as raging hormones from a lack of physical affection. But whenever Sherlock did that thing where he grabbed fist fulls of his own hair and groaned, or stripped off his jacket and tossed it on a chair, wafting his scent into the air, or accidentally invaded John's personal space, John felt a strange sensation in the pit of his stomach that he couldn't make go away, no matter how often he denied it.
Of course, John wasn't so shallow of a man to only like Sherlock for his physical quirks and features, although it did contribute to his fondness of it. Sherlock was a genius, the smartest and most foolish man he knew. At times, he had the personality equivalent to that of a sheet of white paper, but when they had rare casual conversations while watching telly or over dinner, he was truly fascinating, intriguing, humorous, marvelous. John knew how to dig deeper, he knew how to break down Sherlock's walls, he knew Sherlock didn't trust many people, but Sherlock trusted John. And vice versa.
Suddenly, John was snapped from his own thoughts by Sherlock near-shouting his name. "John! Will you do it or not?"
"Oh, I-uh, sorry, I-what? Do what?" asked John, refocusing his eyes away from his knuckles to Sherlock, relieved that he had closed his legs and crossed them slightly.
"You dim-witted idiot, open your ears and listen. Teach me. I want you to teach me to dance," mumbled Sherlock, obviously embarrassed that he was asking another full grown man, his flat mate, even, to dance with him. John noted the subtle redness in his very prominent cheek bones.
"Nothing to be embarrassed or ashamed of, Sherlock, honestly," reassured John, arising from the couch and stretching the muscles in his arms, then leaning back and stretching his back. "You've never danced before, and you want to learn. It would be worse if you were the only one at this event stumbling over his feet and not sure where to put his hands." Sherlock made a low groan of displeasure at the phrase 'put his hands'.
John chuckled and extended a hand to Sherlock. "Come on, no better time then the present. I don't imagine this party will be requiring you to do anything overly complicated, and at events like these, people will only really dance during the slow songs."
Sherlock seemed to find relief in this, placing his hand in John's and standing up. John lead him to the center of the room and moved so he was directly across from Sherlock, but about a foot apart.
"First of all, the hands," said John. He reached his right hand out and settled it on Sherlock's upper arm, enclosing his hand lightly around the muscle, which sent him nearly flying backwards.
"What are you doing?" he near-screeched. John put both hands up innocently.
"You have to touch a person to dance with them. She'll only put one hand on your body if you initiate the dance and control it. Of course, you can only do that if you have a clue what you are doing. Now, back to what I was getting at..." John repositioned his hand, only a few millimeters lower than where he had it before. Sherlock still flinched at the touch. John looked up at him.
"Relax, I'm not going to hurt you or anything. I'm not going to put any more hands on your arms, okay?" Sherlock nodded after a moment and John felt him relax against his hand. "Good. Now, for your arm, put it on my mid back. With this, you can control how close you want her to get to you."
Sherlock didn't move for several moments, but finally settled by tangling his arm between John's arm, which was bent slightly at the elbow to hold on to Sherlock's arm, and torso. He had incredibly long arms; John felt his hand spread out a little over half way across his mid back.
The sensation of Sherlock touching John in such an innocent, yet intimate place sent shivers down his spine, which he wondered if Sherlock noticed. He gave Sherlock a moment to adjust, but it didn't take long, the man looked bored after a few seconds. "Is this good?" he questioned.
John made eye contact with Sherlock and swallowed, despite his dry mouth. Should I? "You can move your hand a little lower, actually. I'm much shorter than you, and you have larger hands, it would make it less awkward." Somehow, Sherlock believed this pile of nonsense and ran his hand slowly down John's back.
John had to compress a moan, and then a gasp of shock as Sherlock's hand settled about an inch higher than the waistband of his pants, painfully close to his arse. John tore his eyes away from Sherlock and blinked quickly a few times, trying to calm his own body down, which was reacting much like a fifteen year would during his first slow dance with a girl.
"Good?" Sherlock asked calmly. John nodded without looking back up at Sherlock, but simply focusing on a fascinating speck of dirt on the wall.
John quickly continued his 'lesson'. "You can control the intimacy of the dance by moving your hand or urging her closer, or farther, from you. With your other hand," John extended his free hand outwards slightly, bending it upwards, "you simply hold her hand within yours."
"Like this?" asked Sherlock, sliding his fingers within John's and pulling their inclosed hands against his chest. John cleared his throat for what had to be the hundredth time in the past ten minutes.
"I suppose, if you want to be that close to her. If not, you can, like with your hand on my...," he paused, remembering Sherlock's warm hand pressed against his back, "back, move the position of your intertwined hands to control how close you get or how intimate the dance is."
"This isn't terrible, John," remarked Sherlock, and John could hear the light smile in his voice, along with a tone of surprise. He looked up and smiled back slightly.
"Well, yes, but I'm your flat mate, your friend, this is in the privacy of our own flat, we aren't actually dancing, just holding a position, and we're a good distance apart."
Sherlock paused for a minute, his eyes going out of focus, then back in. "Well, I can fix some of that, and test out this hand-on-the-back theory," he murmured. John felt a pressure on his lower back where Sherlock's hand was and stumbled inwards, nearly falling on the man, but instead just coming in very, very closely.
John tried his best to conceal his shallow breathing and avoid his crotch coming in contact with any part of Sherlock, which was difficult, since every other part of their body was touching.
"Well, what about the footing?" Sherlock asked, becoming inpatient. "While you do smell very nice, I'd rather not stand here in the arms of a man for the rest of the day"
Reluctantly, John began showing Sherlock how to move his feet gracefully and with confidence, but in the back of his mind, he thought, I would gladly stand here with you for the rest of the day, just holding this embrace.
Sunday, 11:30 am
John was sitting in front of the telly, swirling his finger around in the dregs of a cup of tea that he had make several hours ago. He had gone to bed early the previous evening, exhausted from spending nearly all of Friday and most of Saturday working on Sherlock's footing. He still managed to step on John's toes a good three times an hour, even after Sherlock insisted on increasing the space between them, claiming John was too close to comfortably move around with.
John checked the clock and frowned. Nearly noon and Sherlock wasn't awake? There was no case, sure, and they had no plans, but it wasn't like Sherlock to sleep so late. He could only wonder how crazy of a night Sherlock had. He vaguely remembered waking up to someone cussing lightly as they entered the flat, tripping over something, but it was dark and he didn't bother to check the clock.
Several minutes later, the door to Sherlock's room burst open and he came walking, no, skipping out? Was he smiling? His eyes were...sparkling?
"Good morning, John!" exclaimed Sherlock, putting emphasis on the 'good'. "Tea?" John nodded slowly, wondering what drugs Sherlock had accepted the previous night to put him in such a mood.
Minutes later, Sherlock glided back into the room and set a fresh mug of tea beside John, who was carefully watching Sherlock. Sherlock set his own mug down and flung himself onto the chair across from John, his elbows on the edges of his knees.
"So, have you figured it all out yet?" Sherlock asked several minutes later after John had observed Sherlock and taken several sips of his tea. John looked away from his mug and to Sherlock.
"You're high," he concluded. Sherlock sighed, his smile fading away.
"Truly, John, I thought your deduction skills were sharpening. I gave you a fifteen minutes since I emerged from my bedroom to figure out why I'm in this mood. Fifteen minutes! Come on, John, think, think, think!" he said, his smile lightly returning to his face.
"Uh, well, you slept late, you arrived home late, and you're awfully happy this morning, despite the hangover you're battling," he said after a few moments. Sherlock rose an eyebrow.
"Why would you think that? I'm happy, wide awake, and cheerful," he said slowly. John nodded his head in the direction on the mug that was sitting in Sherlock's hand.
"You've been holding that mug tightly for five minutes now, not adjusting your hand, not moving. If it were tea, your hand would be burnt. I can hear the liquid fizzing. What would one drink that fizzes, in the morning? Ginger ale, to calm the stomach, that's what." Sherlock looked genuinely impressed for a moment, but his face returned to curiousity.
"Okay, so I'm dealing with a hangover, not the conclusion." John smiled mischievously.
"I'm doing your job now, deducing? Solving mysteries? Did you kill a man, Sherlock?" he asked lightly, still smiling.
"No, no, and no," Sherlock reassured. "Get on with it. I'm hungover, now what?"
"Well, you don't drink often, I know that, so you either got piss-wasted because you were bored as hell and couldn't find anything else to do, or you were having fun. A wise man like yourself would have drove himself home before he could get wasted from boredom, so you were having fun. Who was there that you knew? Mycroft? No, you wouldn't get wasted with Mycroft, the host of the whole party. Sherlock, you yourself said you were anti social, so who else did you have social interactions with?" John paused his ramble for a minute, his mind running a thousand miles per hour.
"Ah," he said after a short pause. "Your date. You must have hit it off with your date. You got wasted, and she drove you home. You wouldn't drive drunk. Well that's nice and all, you're still happy. So, you really hit it off with her, but you could dismiss that as a drunken haze if you had no plans to see this woman ever again. No, you're seeing her again. And soon.."
Sherlock remained silent for a minute after John was finished, but then smiled and gave him a round of applause. "Very nice, John. But you aren't done." John frowned, cocking his head slightly. "We're meeting Tuesday at noon for lunch. Keep going."
John got the hint very quickly, his mind tied two and two together and he groaned. "You wouldn't have told me that unless I needed to know. It's a deadline. You can't dance, so why would you be able to date? You need my help, again."
Sherlock walked briskly down the street, John right beside him, who was talking the entire way down to the local restaurant they were heading to.
"To recap, Sherlock, you pick her up at her house on time, you make sure you've made reservations for the best seat in the house, you kindly suggest your favourites from the menu before she orders, you compliment her often, even over little things, you offer to buy dessert, you wipe food off her face if she gets it on the corner of his mouth, you pay the bill, you leave, and you pull the car up to the doors of the restaurant to her pick her up, and you walk her up to her front door. You've got the basics, right?" Sherlock nodded briefly before stopping, causing John to nearly slam into it.
"This is it."
Both men went in and were seated. It was much more casual then where Sherlock had claimed to be taking his unnamed date Tuesday afternoon. Sherlock sat opposite of John, both men picking up the menu. Before John could even open it, Sherlock spoke up.
"The salmon here is very good, most of the sea food is, actually. The salads are a little soggy, but the soups are very thick and tasty. I would suggest the french onion." John looked up and met Sherlock's curious eyes, surprised to know that he actually remembered one of his tips.
"Very good. That was very good," John paused, a smile creeping at the corner of his mouth. Just how far can I push this? he wondered.
"You'll want to hold her hand before you get your food," he commented casually, as though it was second nature. Sherlock laid his hand out gently and John rested his own hand it it, relaxing once Sherlock's grip was comfortably tight around him. I wonder how his hand feels on different places of the body...
Roughly a half hour later, the lesson, or practice date, was going well. Sherlock was keeping up casual small talk between bites of some flaky white fish, while John nodded him on in approval, twirling spaghetti and scraping it off his fork.
Suddenly, Sherlock stopped talking and set his fork down on the plate, studying John's face. He carefully reached across the table and pressed his thumb on the outer edge of John's lips where a piece of pasta sauce had smeared. He wiped it off and gently began tracing the outline of John's lips, focusing on them intently.
John was too shocked to move or protest or congratulate him for remembering a part of the lesson, excepting tracing their lips wasn't part of the lesson. This went on for several minutes, John frozen in place while Sherlock moved his finger around John's lips.
"You have very, very nice lips, John," he whispered finally, pulling away and dropping his hands in his lap. John did the same, only to hide the fact that the waiter was coming around to collect their dirty dishes and he would prefer him not to see the raging erection he was hiding.
The conversation continued as normal afterwords, Sherlock occasionally complimenting something trivial, like his hair or his jumper, as John has instructed him to do with his date. Sherlock picked up the bill and the two left, walking back in the direction of their flat.
"Do you suppose, if we, say, come back to our flat, or head down to a bar, and we walk together...do you suppose I hold her hand? Or wrap my arm around her?" Sherlock asked when they were about twenty steps away from the bar.
John paused for a minute. If he answered this correctly, he could have Sherlock holding him in a loving embrace until they got back to the flat. His response needed to be realistic, though.
"Holding her hand wouldn't be bad, but girls like to be held, it makes them feel safe, especially if the streets are busy. You could hold her low around the hips, lightly grab her far hip with your hand. Of course, you don't want to seem possessive, either..."
John felt Sherlock snake his arm around his waist, holding his hip with his hand and pulling him against his body. John had to bite his lip and look away to compress the moan on the tip of his tongue. Sherlock's hands were so warm and he genuinely felt safe with Sherlock's hand on his hip.
"Good? You think she'll like that?" Sherlock asked softly. For the first time all afternoon, John felt a spike of jealousy zip through him. If an asexual man was attracted to someone, they had to be near soul mates. Plus, he didn't believe Sherlock would settle for anything less than perfect. He bit his lip harder, drawing blood, at the thought of Sherlock taking this path home Tuesday, but with someone else, holding her and bringing her to their flat and taking her inside and kissing her and-
"John, you're bleeding." John was ripped from his thoughts and suddenly realized he was on the porch of 221B, and his lips were thoroughly soaked in wet blood. Sherlock no longer had his arm wrapped around John's waist, which saddened him, but instead, was dabbing his mouth with a tissue. He paused and stared at John's lips for a second more before looking up, slight sadness in his eyes, which confused John .
"You really do have fantastic lips, John."
John was sitting beside the window in his flat, head buried in the latest case file. It was a double homicide, something Watson usually dreamed of or wished for on Christmas, and so it had arrived to them on Monday evening.
He looked up and checked the clock. 2:00 pm. He wasn't expecting Sherlock home anytime in the near future, he had left late, for his mind was still racing, trying to piece together the puzzle. Their lunch was scheduled for noon, but, after a little research on the restaurant Sherlock was meeting this woman, who he had identified as Emma, he discovered it was an upscale place with an actual waiting list and light dress code.
A few minutes came and went, and John was still struggling with the case, when the door to the flat flew open and in stumbled Sherlock. He wasn't drunk, or even tipsy, but just looked confused and bewildered. He shut the door behind him and slid down the length of it, until he was sitting on the ground with his back against the door.
"Hello," John said slowly, closing the file with the case details and setting it on the ground beside the window. Sherlock threw his head between his knees, groaning loudly.
"She tried to kiss me, John," he said in a muffled voice, "she tried to kiss me and I ducked and ran up here."
An emotional war was being fought inside John. He wanted to feel happy for his friend for meeting a woman. But the jealousy was burning a hole in him, making his vision blurry. This woman had tried to kiss him? Was she mad? He could barely handle the concept of dancing, much less kissing! The only thing that kept John from lashing out was that Sherlock had ran, and they didn't kiss.
"Oh. Why?" John asked, rising from his chair and walking towards Sherlock. He already knew the answer before he settled down on the floor across from him.
"You had to teach me how to dance, you had to teach me what a proper date is, do you honestly think I know how to kiss?"
"You've never kissed anyone then?" asked John, not surprised when Sherlock lifted his head out of his legs and shook it.
"No, I don't understand it. Lips are filthy. The human mouth is filthy. You eat and drink and it's filled with germs. I have no urge to gather more germs and become ill or taste whatever a person has last consumed by having them slobber all over me."
John laughed loudly. "Sherlock, you don't have to open your mouth. The first kiss in a relationship is usually just very light. Just a touch of the lips, I suppose. It's supposed to be cute and adorable, not intense."
Sherlock sighed loudly and leaned his head back against the door, closing his eyes tightly. "Teach me, John," he said suddenly, his eyes still closed, head pointed towards the ceiling. "Teach me what a first kiss is supposed to be like."
John paused, trying to grasp what Sherlock was saying. "Sherlock, do you want me to kiss you?" he asked bluntly.
There was an incredibly awkward silence, where John continued staring at Sherlock (his lips, specifically) and Sherlock kept his eyes closed. Eventually, he opened them and looked down to face John.
"Yes, yes I do. I want to be able to kiss this woman and not have her turn away in disgust or anything. I don't really see a problem, there is no romantic connection between us, and it's just like me touching your hand, except it's lips. I find it less romantic then hand holding or hugging." Sherlock explained, as though his logic were common sense, and John's hesitancy towards kissing him was foolish.
John turned his head slightly, considering the possibilities. He could say no and leave the room, but he'd be passing up on one of his dreams, his fantasies. He could ask for some time to think, but Sherlock might change his mind and decide to seek for assistance else where. Or he could say yes, and kiss Sherlock, taste his lips and feel his breath, but he wasn't sure he could control himself (or certain areas of his body) once their lips were touching.
"One kiss, just to teach you," decided John, pushing himself off his feet and standing up, his legs slightly wobbly. Sherlock pushed himself up from the ground as well and stood almost as close to him as he could, closer then when they were dancing.
"Hands, where do I put them?" Sherlock asked casually, putting his hands out in front of John. As much as John would have loved to slide both of the hands on his arse and tell Sherlock to squeeze firmly, he knew Sherlock was wiser than that, and first kisses usually didn't involve groping.
John took both hands and settled them on either one of his hips, not too low, but not too high. "Just make sure your hands are comfortable, not too intimate though, it's only a first kiss. She'll probably put her hands somewhere behind your neck, like this." John locked both of his shaking hands behind Sherlock's neck. He was aware of the awkwardness of the position, as first kisses usually weren't choreographed or planned out, but it felt nice to be holding Sherlock closely.
"Is this what she did earlier, Sherlock?" John asked, snapping Sherlock out of a far off gaze.
"No, not quite. She just got on her toes and leaned in, but then I turned away, said goodbye, and went inside. When I see her again, I want to be able to initiate a proper kiss with her."
John felt a stab of jealousy in his stomach. "I'm sure you'll be fine, Sherlock. Just one quick kiss, okay? You can probably figure it out from there. Tilt your head either way." Sherlock cocked his head slightly to the left, so John did the same.
"I'll lead it this time, so you know what to do. Close your eyes, Sherlock, don't make it more awkward then it needs to be." Sherlock frowned, about to open his mouth to protest, probably something about needing to see what John was doing, but John scowled, and Sherlock pressed his eyelids closed.
"You're tense, Sherlock. Relax, this will take three seconds at the most. Then you can go rinse your mouth with bleach and scrub your lips off." He felt Sherlock relax and chuckle quietly, but then the room went painfully silent.
Now or never, John thought, slightly raising the heels of his feet to reach Sherlock's lips and hesitating for a mere second before pressing his own lips against Sherlock's mouth.
He didn't dare dart out his tongue, or open his mouth, but he could nearly taste Sherlock from the sweet smell of vanilla and mint and cinnamon drifting off of him. John couldn't tell if it was new cologne or breath mints or after-shave, but it was heavenly. He felt Sherlock's hands flex against him, what John took as a cue to back off, but before he could release him, Sherlock's hands tightened on his hips, holding him firmly in place.
Three seconds came and went, both men still holding their ground, lips still pressed against each other. John tested his boundaries slowly, taking one of his hands and slowly moving it to Sherlock's face, cupping the side of his chin. He ran his other hand through the hair at the nape of Sherlock's neck, pulling lightly.
John felt Sherlock's hands release his hips and move around his back, completely wrapping around him and drawing him in closer, if that was possible. He rested on hand on his mid back, the other dangerously close to his arse, right where his jeans met his shirt. A light moan escaped John's mouth as he tangled both hands in Sherlock's hair, pulling a little rougher.
And then it was over. Sherlock twisted his head away, his lips brushing over John's cheek. His breathing was heavier, more shallow, and when John looked up at him, his pupils took up most of his eyes. Was he aroused? John knew his own body was, backing away from Sherlock before he could register the pushing against his crotch was probably not John's belt buckle.
John wasn't surprised if Sherlock did become slightly aroused, it was his first kiss, and going thirty some years without kissing or any physical contact probably made him extra sensitive, everywhere. The thought branched off to various scenarios, most involving Sherlock tied up or Sherlock begging John for release, and sent shivers down John's spine.
"That was good, right?" Sherlock finally asked, his voice deep and husky. John swallowed, nodding and averting his eyes from Sherlock's.
"Yes, that was good. Very good. Are you...uh, meeting her again soon?"
There was a pause. "We're meeting for coffee tomorrow morning," said Sherlock, his hand drifting up to the back of his hair and lightly touching where John had previously placed his hand.
"Well, I, uh, yeah, I'm sure if you apologize for avoiding her kiss earlier, and then just kiss her when the date is over, you'll be on good soil," replied John, his voice shaky. He was battling off the sharp stab of jealousy in his stomach, the wonderful tingling below his waist, and the immense happiness rushing through his veins.
"You're an excellent kisser, John. I mean, obviously I've never had previous experience, but I don't regret that as my first kiss, even if it was just a lesson," Sherlock said casually, finally meeting John's eyes.
"You don't have to consider that a first kiss, Sherlock. It was just an experiment, really. And, uh, you aren't too bad yourself, for never doing it before. Kissing, I mean," he quickly clarified at Sherlock's curious glance.
They stood for about a minute, neither quite sure what to do or where to go or what to say. Finally, John spoke up. "I'll go, uh, take a shower, you want to order food in?"
"Sure, yeah, I'm starving." Sherlock said, turning away to find the phone. John turned the other way and headed towards the bathroom. He wondered briefly why Sherlock was hungry if he had just gotten back from lunch, but quickly dismissed the thought. He needed a very cold shower, as soon as possible.
Wednesday, 10:00 am
John had just awoken, he was lying in bed and contemplating the day ahead. He had to run down to the police station and verify a few things with the chief about some evidence from the case which didn't match up. He'd probably grab a coffee and take a walk around the park, then he'd go back home and him and Sherlock would probably drive down to the house of one of the murder victims.
Sherlock. His entire body shivered as he remembered the previous morning, Sherlock's hands wrapped around him and holding him close, their lips pressed together hard enough to feel a slight throbbing, that wonderful smell of vanilla and mint and cinnamon. John sighed, tossing over in his bed to see none other than Sherlock standing across the room, pressing buttons on his phone violently.
"The hell, Sherlock? What are you doing?" he nearly shouted, sitting up in bed and grabbing the duvet to cover his chest. Sherlock frowned.
"I'm going out to leave in fifteen minutes, I want to practice kissing again before I see her. I don't want to mess it up," Sherlock explained slowly, as though he didn't understand John's outburst of surprise. John pulled the duvet up higher, groaning.
"I just woke up, I'm not getting out of bed to kiss you, Sherlock. Go, you'll be fine," he grumbled, "Plus, I have morning breath," he added.
Sherlock rolled his eyes and set his phone down on the nightstand, hesitating for a moment before leaping on to the bed, sitting on his knees near John's feet.
"Get off my bed, Sherlock!" John exclaimed, inching away from Sherlock. He was only wearing a pair of shorts and felt entirely uncomfortable, as Sherlock was fully dressed in one of his usual skin-tight purple shirts and dark jeans that look tattooed on.
"You won't get out of bed to kiss me, I'll come to you. And since you won't be opening your mouth, I don't see a problem with morning breath," said Sherlock, crawling up the bed until he was settled right beside beside Sherlock's torso on his knees.
"Sherlock, no, I'm not kissing you like this, it's not the same when you're standing and lying down, and it's too early. Go, you'll be fine and I'm sure she-" he was cut off by Sherlock leaning in and smashing his lips against John.
John made a sound of surprise at first, somewhere between a squeak and a grunt, but relaxed almost instantly once their lips were touching. John sat up straighter and leaned in, resting his hands on Sherlock's shoulders to support himself. The smell of vanilla and mint and cinnamon infected him again, making him feel almost dizzy. He desperately wanted to open his mouth, even just a millimeter, to test it, but he knew Sherlock had limits and strong boundaries.
Sherlock's hands found the back of John's neck, and like John had done yesterday, twisted one of his hands in his hair and began pulling lightly. He kept his other hand cupped around the back of his neck, occasionally squeezing lightly. John moaned against Sherlock's lips, leaning in slightly and pushing his lips harder against Sherlock's, who didn't seem to mind.
This went on for several more seconds until Sherlock dropped his hands from John's neck and pulled away, his breathing labored, slightly more than the previous day. He still looked incredibly under control. John, on the other hand, was trying to control his heavy panting, embarrassed that such little physical contact could excite him in such a way.
"The hell was that for?" John finally managed, staring at Sherlock wide-eyed, who just shrugged.
"I needed to be sure that I could initiate a kiss and control it. I'll be off now, thank you, John," he said quickly, leaping off the bed and taking long strides to the door, not stopping to say good bye.
After he had walked over, John buried his face in his pillow and screamed. Sherlock Holmes was driving him insane.
Friday, 2:00 am
Sherlock and John sat beside each other on the couch, wide awake at two in the morning after one too many cups of coffee. The case they had been presented with hadn't been solved yet, and they were reaching a dangerously close deadline before the police station moved on to a more 'reliable' private detective, as they had described over the phone.
John sat against the arm of the couch, resting his feet on the table across from him, while Sherlock sat directly beside him, his legs crossed so his right knee was resting against John's left. The physical contact was nothing new, the two men often sat close when reviewing case files, it was easier to trade papers or point out specifics.
Suddenly, Sherlock let out a groan of frustration and threw the papers he was currently holding across the couch to a pile of other loose papers. "Nothing! We've looked through everything, there is nothing! No solution!"
John squinted in frustration, lifting a hand to rub the bridge of his nose. Whenever Sherlock became frustrated like this, it usually made for a rough evening. "Calm down, we don't need to contact the station until Sunday morning. We have time tomorrow, we can run back over the evidence and visit the crime scene and-"
Sherlock cut him off, standing up and pressing a finger to his lips firmly, then turning away. He began pacing the perimeter of the room and pulling on his curls roughly.
"Distract me, John, my brain hurts," he muttered, rubbing his temples with two fingers. John was used to the request of distraction, it usually implied turning on crap telly or starting up a conversation on a pointless topic. Sometimes Sherlock's brain worked too fast for his own well being.
"How's, uh, Emma doing? I know the date went well, but have you made other plans with her?" he asked slowly, keeping his eyes down to the paper on his lap, although he was in no way focusing. He heard Sherlock sigh.
"Not yet, not yet, she said something about going to her apartment this weekend, but that seems a little out of the question, unless we get this case done...," murmured Sherlock.
John snorted lightly. "A bit soon, don't you think?"
Sherlock stopped his pacing and looked at John, who kept his head down despite feeling Sherlock's glare on him. "A bit soon for what?"
John laughed a little louder this time, wondering if Sherlock was playing ignorant or if he truly didn't understand. "Back to her apartment. You do realize what she's implying, Sherlock?"
There was a long pause. "Crap telly and tea?"
John sighed and looked up. "No. She's not implying crap telly and tea. That's something you do when a mate invites you over for the weekend. She's not a proper mate. She's implying snogging and shagging, I would assume."
Sherlock rolled his eyes and pulled tighter on his hair, squeezing his eyes together when it became a bit too rough. "I would have deduced that on the spot, John."
John shrugged and looked back at his work. "If you say so. Don't come crying to me when she's trying to snog you properly and you have no clue what you're doing."
John realized what he said only seconds after it slipped his mouth, and quickly regretted the words. When Sherlock didn't know, he wanted to learn, even if it meant deleting the information later. He wanted to be aware and utilize his ability to gain knowledge and experience. So, obviously, he would want to know to snog.
"You think she'll try to snog me, then?" asked Sherlock hesitantly. John nodded and swallowed roughly, his throat and mouth suddenly try in anticipation and nervousness.
"I, John, I, I don't know how to snog. I mean, our kiss last week," he paused, his eyes flickering to John before looking away, "Emma and I, it was nice. But snogging? Like...mouth opened? Hands touching? Groping? Squeezing? Moaning?" Sherlock's voice was deep and seductive, not even purposefully. It drove John insane, making his heart rate increase dramatically and breathing quicken.
"Yes, that's snogging," John answered simply. He was aware of Sherlock's footsteps nearing him, and then the man sitting down beside him on the couch. He felt the warm, no, blazing hot glare on the side of his, and he reluctantly looked up to meet Sherlock's eyes.
"Teach me to snog, John."
John knew the question was coming before he even asked, but he was still shocked enough to drop his feet from the table and the paper from his lap. "What?" he stuttered, his voice no higher than a whisper.
"I need to be distracted. Teach me how to snog. Making out. Whatever you want to call it."
John's mind felt as though it was going to explode. He was trying to run through every possible scenario quickly. Rejecting Sherlock would lead to an awkward evening, with Sherlock probably blowing up the microwave from trying to distract himself. Asking for time would make for an even more awkward evening. He could just grab him right here and start snogging, but Sherlock might suddenly realize what he was asking for and back out. Saying yes immediately would be a dead give-away to his attraction for Sherlock. He needed to handle it carefully, say the right words, avoid certain movements, if he wanted to properly snog Sherlock without revealing his insane attraction for him.
"Sherlock," began John, his speech already prepared in his head, "snogging is usually something saved for proper couples. The kiss we had before, that wasn't anything. Just lips touching. Making out is more intimate. It's a lot of touching and squeezing and...arousal, and...you're just very close to the person."
Sherlock didn't skip a beat in his rebuttal. "Making out is usually saved for proper couples, normally. We aren't exactly two normal men, are we, John?" John promptly agreed.
Sherlock continued on. "I see no problem with it, once more. We're just flatmates. There would be no feelings of attraction being transferred. It's better than snogging a perfect stranger or someone you barely know and have only met. At least you know me. You can trust me, John."
There was a long, awkward silence. Sherlock had a point which John couldn't deny. He could trust Sherlock. He knew Sherlock would be hesitant, not slobbering all over him immediately. He knew Sherlock would stop if he so wanted, or needed, him to stop. He knew Sherlock would be a gentleman about it.
Sherlock sighed. "I can set a timer, if you'd like. After five minutes, we stop. And you don't have to...go all out. With the groping and touching. If that will make you feel better."
John felt his heart skip a couple beats. This was actually happening. He was getting the opportunity to snog Sherlock bloody Holmes. "Yes, ok, yes. I'll teach you."
"The best form of teaching would be a direct demonstration, don't you think?" Sherlock asked, his voice almost...teasing? John suddenly realized he hadn't broken eye contact for several minutes.
"Just get the bloody timer."
Several minutes later, Sherlock had a timer on the coffee table across from them, set to five minutes. John had advised he lean with his back against the arm of the couch so he had enough room to comfortably spread his legs. Sherlock caught on quickly, one leg dangling off the couch at his mid-thigh and the other arched very slightly at the knee, giving just enough room for John to comfortably position himself on top of the man.
Of course, this also meant Sherlock was expecting John to lay nearly on top of him, straddling the slightly bent leg with John's legs on either side. John's crotch would be pressed very high on Sherlock's thigh, and he could already feel his arousal hardening him from the mere thoughts of snogging the man lying in front of him. To hell with it, John thought, by the time this is over I'll probably have come in my pants, so let's just get this over with.
"Are we ready, then?" John asked awkwardly. The entire situation was awkward. A timer, an already positioned Sherlock who had, oh god, who had unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt and rolled up his sleeves, and a couch much too small for two grown men.
"I think so," replied Sherlock. He could hear the hesitancy in his voice.
"I'll go slow, I promise. If you want me to stop, just say so, okay?" Sherlock nodded.
John cleared his throat one last time and moved his body from the left side of the couch to the right, carefully straddling Sherlock's upper thigh and lowering his torso against him. He put one hand on the right of Sherlock's shoulder, which was pressed somewhat awkwardly between the arm of the couch and the cushions. He put his other hand behind Sherlock's neck, cupping it lightly and carefully. After a little shifting, he found a mostly comfortable position.
"Good?" Sherlock asked after a moment. John brought his eyes to meet Sherlock.
"I'm going to kiss you now, just follow my lead, okay?"
"Get on with it, then."
Before second thoughts and worries could overtake his actions, John lowered his head slightly and closed his eyes; his lips hitting Sherlock's.
For a moment, it was much like the previous kiss, no, kisses, they had. Controlled, choreographed, scripted. Both heads were turned at the precisely right angles. Lips were firmly closed for fear of pushing the others boundaries too far. Surprisingly, Sherlock moved first, bringing his hands up to hold John's hips against him.
John sighed at the contact of Sherlock's hands against him and felt his own body press harder against Sherlock, suddenly very aware of how pleasantly warm Sherlock was under him. He opened his own mouth slightly, adjusting to take Sherlock's upper lip barely between his own. He sucked it gently, never drawing it into his mouth, just kneading it gently with his own lips, waiting for some kind of approval from Sherlock.
And it came. Sherlock's mouth moved in sync with John, pressing back against him and imitating the movements on John's bottom lip. John adjusted his head at slightly more of an angle, opening his mouth just fractions of a millimeter to draw Sherlock's lip in farther. Once again, Sherlock slowly imitated the action, opening his mouth and kissing deeper. John pulled back slightly, then moved in again, opening and closing his mouth against Sherlock.
Sherlock did the same, except his hands moved from John's hips to his back, then down and little farther, and even farther so, until they were resting high on John's arse. He didn't squeeze or push down, but slightly cupped John's behind and continued the kissing. It drove John insane.
John took the risk of flicking Sherlock's bottom lip with his tongue, hoping more than anything that Sherlock would open his mouth for John's tongue. He did so immediately.
John's hand squeezed the back of Sherlock's neck, as there wasn't much else he can do, and flooded the man's mouth with his tongue, tasting every square inch of his mouth that he could. It was confirmed, the vanilla and mint and cinnamon was some sort of breath mint Sherlock used. It was heavenly.
Another minute of kissing went on, with John tasting Sherlock and Sherlock occasionally flicking his tongue into John's mouth or lowering his hands on his arse, which were now no longer cupping, but squeezing. The other contact lost was when either men pulled away for a brief gasp of air before assaulting the other's lips once more.
The kiss quickly turned from questioning and controlled to passionate and unrestrained in a flash. Sherlock's hands were squeezing and releasing John's arse, and John was yanking the short hairs at the nape of Sherlock's neck. Their tongues battled for control. Sherlock won.
John couldn't and didn't try to suppress the moans that were escaping his mouth. Sherlock's tongue felt so incredibly good in his mouth, his hands warm and rough on his arse, the heat radiating off of him making John feel safe and protected. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he remembered that he hadn't started the timer, but couldn't be bothered to now.
In the heat of the moment, John felt Sherlock's hips suddenly thrust him against him in a swift, demanding motion. He thrust back, the sexual frustration becoming too much to ignore. To his surprise, Sherlock repeated his motion, as did John, until they had developed a demanding pace of grinding their crotches against the others hip.
John could feel Sherlock's boner press against him and he was sure Sherlock could feel the same. Sherlock had an excuse for his arousal. He was highly sensitive, sexually deprived, lonely. John, on the other hand, had plenty of opportunities to get laid, and had taken them in stride in the past. For some reason, he still felt confident around Sherlock, not embarrassed.
He even felt so when one of Sherlock's hands moved from John's arse to between his leg and John's humping crotch, grabbing his bulge and squeezing tightly.
A deep groan erupted from within John as he pressed himself against Sherlock's hand, ignoring the regret he'd probably feel later. He desperately wanted, no, needed, Sherlock's hand underneath the layers of clothing, directly on his throbbing cock, stroking and sucking and doing whatever the hell else he wanted to do.
John quickly adjusted his weight distribution, dropping his hand from Sherlock's neck and supporting most of his weight on it, and using his other hand to reach down and mirror Sherlock's actions, grabbing the hard lump driving against his hip and squeezing firmly.
He felt and heard Sherlock groan against him as their kissing slowed and the touching and groping became more important. John cocked his head off Sherlock's lips, despite the adorably sexy moan that escaped at the loss of contact, and began licking his prominent chin.
John could feel Sherlock's cock throbbing against his hand, even through his pants, and his thrusting against Sherlock's hand was becoming more and more erratic and desperate. He began to work on sucking the soft spots of Sherlock's neck and trying to find the most sensitive place to distract himself from coming in his pants like a teenager.
"Oh, god," he heard Sherlock choke as he found as especially sensitive spot on his neck, near the left side of his collar bone. He sucked the skin into his mouth and grazed his teeth over it lightly. After several seconds, he pulled back and observed the red mark with a smirk. Let's see how Emma likes that.
"J-john," Sherlock groaned from above him, his voice somewhere between a plea and a demand. John looked up at made eye contact with Sherlock, who was sweating profoundly and gasping air like it was his last breath. John stopped his hip motions against Sherlock's hand, knowing that he would explode any second from watching Sherlock's slight gasps and moans.
Sherlock moved slightly and captured John's mouth in a kiss once more. This kiss was no longer passionate or gentle or careful, but desperate and rough. It was a kiss of need and lust. John opened his eyes, despite his own rules of never opening your eyes in the heat of the kiss. He found Sherlock's eyes already to be open and pulled away slightly, although their lips still barely brushed at the tips.
"John," whispered Sherlock, his eyes nearly black with desire. "You need—I need you to-," Sherlock stopped short and looked and John, begging him to understand.
And John did. He understood perfectly well what Sherlock needed. He didn't know how often the man got off, although he assumed it wasn't very often. The sensations were driving John mad, the week of built up sexual tension finally hitting him all at once, despite how many times he had gotten off in his own hand. He couldn't imagine what Sherlock must have been feeling. He had always assumed the man was a virgin, and judging by the fact that he couldn't kiss without instruction, he figured he assumed right.
With that thought in mind, John's hand began working quickly on undoing the painfully annoying buttons and zipper holding back Sherlock.
"This will be easier if you sit up straighter," John hissed as he yanked the zipper down Sherlock's pants. Sherlock immediately moved up, his back now aligned with the arm of the couch. His legs were on either side of John, who was on his knees and bent over Sherlock's crotch, hands on either side of him.
"Could you...possibly...wear...looser...pants?" grumbled John in frustration as he tore Sherlock's pants down his thighs and legs, although they seemed to be glued to Sherlock's muscular legs.
Sherlock didn't respond but only moaned, working on peeling off his shorts before John even had his jeans off his legs. He quickly removed the boxers and allowed himself only a second to gaze at Sherlock's masculinity before getting to work.
He took Sherlock in his hand and began thrusting his fist up and down, running his thumb over the head of his cock whenever he could and using the liquids as lube. From above him, he could hear Sherlock grunting and groaning and occasionally, an airy moan that sounded a lot like 'John' would escape his lips.
Sherlock had tangled his hands in John's hair, pulling it roughly, which John didn't really mind. He noticed Sherlock's chest was rising and falling quicker, the hair pulling was becoming rougher, his hips were jerking up into Sherlock's hand; Sherlock was close. It didn't take much, just John's mouth closing around the head and twirling his tongue around it a few times, before Sherlock was digging his finger nails into the back of John's shoulders and chanting his name, "John, John, John, John", like it was some sort of religious chant.
John didn't know what else to do with his mouth full of Sherlock's release except swallow. It didn't taste as terrible as he expected, after all, it was Sherlock, and everything about Sherlock tasted good.
John released his grip on Sherlock's cock, which was slowly softening. Sherlock's breathing was slowing and he removed his hands from John's hair. Instead, he gripped the collar of John's shirt. John looked up. "C'mere."
He inched his body up the couch and lied on his side beside a half naked panting and sweating Sherlock. His own hardness was still present and needed attention, but he couldn't be bothered to distract himself from the gorgeous view beside him. Sherlock was still coming off his orgasm. He turned his head to face John.
There was a long moment where the two did nothing but stare at each other. Then Sherlock smiled. "That was absolutely incredible."
John smirked. "I know."
"Does snogging usually end that way?" Sherlock asked, his voice dropping a little bit.
"No, not usually," replied John, reaching out and smoothing pieces of hair off Sherlock's forehead. He let his thumb brush over Sherlock's cheekbone before retracting immediately.
"Emma," he breathed. Sherlock's eyes flickered for a second before his chest rose quickly and somewhat of a laugh escaped his lips.
"Your logic, or lack of it, never fails to amuse me. Do you really think I would have just let all of that happen if I was committed to someone else, John?"
It took John a good minute before he understood. A mix of emotions rattled his skull. First, relief. No Emma. Then, anger. Sherlock had been lying to him? For an entire week? Wrecking his emotional well-being? Finally, a feeling of hope rushed over him. He didn't know if what he hoped for was even possible, what with their jobs and commitment to work and how much of a complete bastard Sherlock could be, but the hope was there.
"No Emma, then?" John confirmed. Sherlock smiled and nodded, twisting on his side and draping an arm over John.
"There was an Emma. She was my date to that painfully real dance. She was large and boring and puked on my shoes at the end of the night." John couldn't help but laugh, but his lips were quickly captured by Sherlock's.
"Well," Sherlock said after pulling away, sending John back into a haze of pleasure, "I do believe there is still a problem we need to address."
John swallowed. "Which would be?"
He felt a warm, steady hand grip his crotch. His hips jerked against in and Sherlock pushed back, smiling and never breaking eye contact as John moaned and bit his lip firmly. "This."
John snaked his arm behind Sherlock, finally reaching down and firmly squeezing his arse, something he had wanted to do for quite a while. Sherlock let out an airy moan and crashed his lips back again John, the desire back in him.
Everything else could wait, John decided, as he thought about the case files sitting on the floor and his phone buzzing across the room and the tea kettle hissing in the kitchen. He was in the arms of Sherlock Holmes, and that was all that mattered.
A/N: This was my first time writing Sherlock fanfiction, I do hope you all liked it :) Reviews mean the world to me, especially constructive criticism. And I apologize for any minor spelling, grammar, and punctuation errors. I'm usually very good at catching them, but I wrote this over the course of three days in the very, very early morning. Tell me how you liked it!