A/N: This is my first attempt at a Sherlock fanfiction so reviews will be appreciated! Rated M for smut and I do not apologise for this! If you don't like Sherlock/John smut then please don't read! Some major spoilers for the three Series 2 episodes so if you don't want to know anything about any of them yet, also don't read! Also my own rather vague theory on how Sherlock pulled everything off in Series 2 Episode 3.
Here goes nothing…
Back From The Dead Because Of You
The world's only consulting detective had a problem. A problem in the shape of a short, sandy blonde ex-army doctor called John Watson.
Sherlock Holmes had never had friends until John Watson had come into his life. He had never had the time, inclination or need for them and he knew that people didn't often want to spend more time with him than necessary. But then along came John, a man who Sherlock hand inexplicably bonded with, a man who had killed for the detective after knowing him mere days, a man who had offered to die for him after only weeks, a man who had refused to lose faith in him even as Sherlock told him he was a fraud.
A man who, Sherlock feared, he cared for as much more than a friend.
It was six months since The Fall. Sherlock had been dead for three-and-a-half months and had been back from the dead for two-and-a-half. When he had "died" he had done so to, in the short-term, protect John, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade from imminent death. He had stayed dead, in the long-term, to protect John, the one he cared for the most. John would always be in danger with Sherlock around, he would always be a target, and Sherlock would never forgive himself if anything happened to that astonishing man. So Sherlock had hatched a plan to get John away from St. Bart's by having Molly call him to say Mrs Hudson had been shot. Molly had then set up one of the corpses from the morgue to stand on another part of the hospital's roof, dressed up as Sherlock. This was who John saw fall. Molly had also paid off a cyclist to knock John over at the crucial moment, giving him a concussion. Sherlock had doused his head in Moriarty's blood and raced to the scene and replaced the body. John – concussed and being manhandled by paramedics and nurses (students, again paid off by Molly) – merely saw what looked like Sherlock's corpse. Molly had then helped Sherlock switch places with the fake Sherlock corpse and certified him as dead, before hiding the real Sherlock at her house.
Sherlock had done all of this because he knew that Moriarty was not really dead. Moriarty's "suicide" had been a very clever illusion involving a stage gun and some blood-filled squibs. Sherlock had only been able to get away with his part of the illusion because Moriarty had knocked himself out when he hit the floor – something the consulting criminal had, no doubt, planned in order to make his death appear more authentic. But Moriarty was very much alive and would have been sure to target John if he had found out that Sherlock was also still breathing.
So it had been to protect John that Sherlock had died and stayed dead for three-and-a-half months. But there was one thing Sherlock hadn't counted on in his carefully thought out plan: that even if John could learn to live his life without Sherlock, Sherlock could not live his life without John.
Sherlock had always assumed that his feelings for John were platonic. Intense, yes, but platonic. But living without John around him every day had forced Sherlock into the realisation that he didn't simply love John, he was in love with John. The detective had never been in love before, but he knew enough to know that when you cared about someone so strongly you were willing to fake your own death to keep them safe, combined that with vivid dreams about that person in an alarming variety of sexual situations, you had made the leap from love to in love. He began to realise that he had probably been in love with John from the moment the doctor had killed the serial killing cabbie for him and began to understand why John's constant insistence that they weren't a couple had always bothered him. He started to realise why he had systematically sabotaged every single one of John's relationships and why he had fished to find out why John would be upset over people turning on Sherlock. He realised exactly why he had felt like he could take on the world when holding hands with John, running through London handcuffed together, and why he had had to force himself not to approach John at the graveside and tell him there and then that it was fine, he was alive and John did not need to hurt anymore.
He was in love. Pure and simple.
Of course, this made it harder and harder to stay "dead". He couldn't stand that he was hurting John. He couldn't stand that they were apart. He especially couldn't stand that John might move on and meet someone else, never knowing how Sherlock felt.
And so the detective had come back from the dead. He had gathered enough evidence to clear his name with Scotland Yard and the press and he convinced himself that he could much better protect John by being by his side. So, one day, two-and-a-half months ago, Sherlock showed up at 221B Baker Street thinking things could just go back to the way they were. And for a moment he thought they could. John had been delighted to see him. He'd smiled and laughed and cried and hugged the detective.
And then he'd punched him in the face. Twice.
On reflection, Sherlock knew that he deserved it. He had put John through the loss of his best friend and no amount of telling him how it had been for the best at the time could make up for over three months of hell. John had been furious with him for weeks and things were only starting to get back to normal now. But getting back to normal was a problem in itself, because now Sherlock was burdened with the knowledge that he was in love with his best friend and wanted nothing more than to rip his clothes off and take him there and then on the Chinese rug.
The thing was, Sherlock had never really thought about sex or his own sexuality. If anything, he had always considered himself as somewhat asexual. He saw sex as a distraction, something lesser beings squandered time on, something that could turn a logical, scientific mind into a disorganised mush if one was not careful. He wasn't even sure if he was gay or bisexual since there had only ever been John. To his knowledge, he had never even been sexually attracted to anyone. Not even The Woman. In her case he was much more interested in her mind than her body.
But with John, it was the full package. Sherlock wanted him mind, body and soul.
The detective admired John's intelligence, his courage, his loyalty. He appreciated the fact that John had remained his friend when anyone else would have left him alone. He liked – not that he would ever admit it – that John could teach him things that he didn't already know. He loved that John had never lost faith in him, that even in the face of all of Moriarty's "evidence" the doctor had still believed in him. And now he found John to be the sexiest creature ever to walk the Earth. All it took was for John to offer him a cup of tea, or snappishly tell him that he was behaving like an absolute tool and Sherlock felt himself growing hard. And if John leaned over him to examine whatever evidence he was working on, it was all Sherlock could do not to come in his perfectly tailored trousers.
And here was the root of Sherlock's problem: he didn't have the foggiest idea of what to do about it.
Years of avoiding sex had now come to bite the detective. He knew the mechanics, of course. He knew what went where and how, but he had no idea how to tell if a) John felt the same – infuriating in itself because Sherlock prided himself on always knowing what John was thinking – and, b) how to tell John how he felt. And now he was frustrated and angry. One move in the wrong direction and he could scare John out of his life forever and he definitely did not want that when he had only just got him back. But if he didn't do anything about it, how would he ever know? It seemed an impossible situation. Especially when Sherlock was just not the type of person to talk about feelings. As John was so fond of pointing out, Sherlock just didn't relate to people, so he couldn't just sit down and talk to John about what was going on in his head. And even though he had now found out he could very much relate to John, he still didn't think he could address this verbally with the older man.
Sherlock realised that he had been staring at the same part of the severed hand he was examining for the past thirty minutes. It was no good. He had been nothing but distracted for the last ten weeks and he couldn't cope. He got up, flung the hand into the fridge and looked around for John before remembering that the doctor had gone out to work.
An image of John spreading those rough, masculine, healing hands across his chest rose unbidden in Sherlock's mind and he felt his cock twitch. Oh well, he thought, I am alone…
Sherlock went through to his bedroom and began unbuttoning his shirt. Asexual as he had always considered himself, Sherlock was no stranger to masturbation. However, in the past it had always been a nuisance, something he needed to do to relieve tension once in a while. Perfunctory, efficient and done without thinking of anything remotely sexual. There was no pleasure in it – just release from a distracting tension. This afternoon, he decided as he stripped off his clothes, removed the bottle of lube from his bedside table (it usually speeded things up but it wasn't going to be used that way now) and lay down naked on the bed, was going to be very different.
His cock was already hard, and Sherlock gave it an experimental stroke with his long, elegant fingers while picturing John's handsome face and let out a low growl. It felt good, but he wanted it to last and that wasn't going to happen if he went straight for his erection. Instead he brought his hands up and tentatively caressed a nipple, stroking it to hardness before pinching it between his finger and thumb.
John rubbing him with those solid, working hands. Sucking a nipple into his mouth, rolling it under his tongue.
Sherlock moaned and pinched harder.
John kissing Sherlock's throat. Biting down, marking him as his. Pinching his nipple hard, tugging it, moving his lips down and biting it gently. Marking Sherlock. Owning him.
"Don't stop, John…" Sherlock groaned, feeling his cock twitching, aching with arousal as in his mind, John continued to worship the detective's body.
John's tongue working its way down Sherlock's body, running gently round his belly button.
Sherlock's finger's copied imaginary John's tongue, tracing circles round his own belly button. It tickled but, God, it was making him even harder.
John's hot, wet mouth making its way down to the detective's rock hard cock. Running the tip of his tongue up the length of it before engulfing it, allowing Sherlock to thrust into him.
Sherlock pumped his erection into his fist. "Oh, God, John! That feels so good…" Sherlock felt any semblance of logic leaving his brain. Control was gone now.
John continuing to suck and lick Sherlock's erection, always looking up at the detective, making eye contact with those gorgeous brown eyes. One hand fondling Sherlock's balls, the other pumping his own impressive erection bringing it up to its full hardness. "I want to fuck you, Sherlock… Will you let me?"
"Oh, yes! Please John! Fuck me!" Sherlock moaned loudly as he let go of his cock briefly in order to squeeze lube onto his fingers. Quickly he resumed his ministrations on his penis before sliding a finger from his other hand into his tight arse.
John preparing Sherlock, sliding a slick finger in and out while sucking gently on the detective's balls. Adding another finger and scissoring. "You're so tight, Sherlock… You feel amazing… I can't wait to put my cock in you… So hot and tight…"
Sherlock had two fingers scissoring in his arse now, his other hand moving fast on his cock. He was close. "Fuck me, John!" He thrust in a third finger, screaming as the sharp pain quickly turned to pleasure.
John shoving his monster cock into Sherlock's tight, virgin arse and fucking him so hard he could see stars. John's fingers tight on Sherlock's hip, leaving light bruises on the pale skin, as his other hand works Sherlock's cock which is twitching uncontrollably. "I'm close, Sherlock. I'm going to come. Come for me, Sherlock."
Sherlock thrashed on the bed and let out a loud moan that quickly became a scream as his fingers brushed his prostate and he saw stars. Rope after rope of hot come shot from his cock and landed on his chest and stomach. It felt like the orgasm would never end but eventually he came down, fingers slipping from his arse and penis slipping from his fist.
The detective had never experienced an orgasm like it. It was so much more intense than his usual perfunctory wank that it left him breathless, speechless and unable to move. He lay there panting, trying to catch his breath, very aware of the sticky come slowly drying on his hand and torso. He really should go wash up but he doubted very much if his legs would work.
Instead, he fell into the first decent sleep he'd had since "dying", a sleep in which he dreamed a short, handsome ex-army doctor lay curled round him in a post-coital glow.
A/N: Hope you like it. Please review – all constructive feedback is appreciated. I might have the next chapter, which will be from John's POV, up later today.