Author Notes: For those of you who are first timers, welcome! This is one story in a string of others that are jointly written by the amazing Where's My Calabash writing all of the adorable and BAMF John H. Watson M.D. and my very humble self taking on the part of our favourite consulting detective, Mr Sherlock Holmes. We hope that we don't disappoint and that you'll leave us awesome reviews and check out our other stories! And for all of our faithful readers, thank you so much for your continuing support. It means so much to Calabash and myself. Reviews are like crack. We write so much better the more we get. They are our 7 %, so please if you like this then tell us what you think!
Calabash and I love writing first time fics (check out the cute JohnLock one on her account). This one is a little more aggressive and kinky. We have about a million and one things we'd like to express to all of you readers out there, but first and foremost: THANK YOU FOR READING. We love, love, love you all.
Warnings: Delicious slash. Johnlock. Aggressive sexiness. Swearing. Violence (mostly sex related and, no worries, it's not non-con. Dub-con at worst. Bwuahahahaha). Rated M for a reason, folks.
Disclaimers: Owning Sherlock and the actors associated with it would be a great conquest. Someday I'll have to formulate some plan to take over BBC and make Sherlock and John act out all these yummy scenarios…but until that happens neither Calabash nor I actually have anything to do with BBC (besides these stories. MOFFAT, GODTISS. SERIOUSLY. IF YOU ADD THESE STORIES IN THE SERIES YOU WILL BE MY HEROES).
Summary: Whenever John works in the morning he always leaves Sherlock a text: Good morning, Sherlock. Have a good day. – JW
Sherlock and John have very different sleeping habits and waking rituals, therefore the two really never see each other in the mornings, and so they have long conversations via texts.
John has a day full of surgery and rude patients; on top of that he has to miss an interesting case because of the full workload. Sherlock tries to distract him with texts containing anecdotes of the day's events, but ultimately the case he had been so excited for ends up being a bust. What happens when Sherlock gets home from the disappointing case and decides to look through John's secret folder marked S.H.? What will John do when their texts take a turn for the more revealing?
John sat staring at the screen for a full ten minutes before he realized that he was not typing anymore. His breath came slow and heavy, and he exhaled through his nose, his eyes dragging shut. Outside, the rushing sounds of a city just beginning to stir bled through the glass window pane, and he leaned back in his cushioned chair, letting his head fall backwards. His laptop was warm on his thighs, and with a deep sigh, John closed the window and shut it down. Six in the morning was such an ungodly hour. The sky was just now starting to brighten a bit, pink and gold tinging the dark of the previous night. He watched as the sun rose, inch by inch, shimmering in the windows. His throat felt tight. Another day. John rose from the chair, placing his computer delicately on the desk, and he trudged up the staircase to his bedroom, ignoring the soft snores emanating from Sherlock's door. He was glad he was asleep. Sherlock rarely slept, a fact made plain by his violin scratching at all hours, the crashes of experiments gone wrong in the kitchen, late night telly murmuring from the sitting room. Sherlock's snores were a thing to be grateful for.
John dressed quickly, and tiptoed down the stairs, grabbing a coffee and a stale, leftover biscuit as he darted out the door. He had a full day at the surgery today; Sherlock would not be pleased. He'd promised to try and get someone to take at least part of his shift so that they could take a drive over to that fascinating crime scene in Surrey this afternoon. It had the local police stumped, and Sherlock loved nothing more than showing off. John hailed a cab, smirking a bit. He ducked inside, stretching and popping his joints as they drove. He grimaced. He was getting old. That thought brought with it a host of other, unpleasant contemplations, and so he shoved them aside with a scowl and glanced at his mobile. 7:45. Sherlock was still sleeping. John hated to wake him, but... he gathered his brow, and sighed again. If he didn't say it now, he wouldn't have the chance once he got to work. He hesitated for a brief moment before his thumbs began to swiftly tap.
Good morning, Sherlock. Have a good day. – JW
Somewhere in the mist of his dream Sherlock heard a little pip. His mobile. Sherlock opened his eyes and rolled lazily over to glance at the clock by his bed: 7:45 in the morning. He yawned and sat up, stretching his arms, letting the covers fall from his naked body. Sherlock often liked to sleep in naught but his skin; it helped him drift off. Before John began living with him Sherlock had been in the habit of walking around the flat naked or wrapped up in a sheet. Since John, however, Sherlock had become more self-aware. He did not know what it was about that short army doctor, but the thought of John looking at him naked made Sherlock's insides shiver, whether it was with horror or pleasure Sherlock did not know. The consulting detective looked at his mobile and smiled as he read the text. He'd only been sleeping for 3 hours, but this text was worth waking up for. They always were. With another yawn Sherlock stood up and twisted around, popping out all of the stiffness that had accumulated from a night of sleeping half sitting up. He rubbed his eyes and then snatched up a sheet, wrapping it around his angular body before stumbling out of the room half asleep. He needed coffee. He needed to wake up. There was a case today and Sherlock was very excited. He hadn't had a good case in weeks. He took a moment to wonder what was wrong with the criminal class today. They all seemed to be content doing petty little bludgeonings and nicking purses. Sherlock shook his head, picked up his favourite mug - one that John had received from his days at St Bart's - and ambled to the computer desk, flipping up John's laptop and powering it up before taking a sip of his coffee and whipping out the mobile.
Good morning, John. Hurry up with work. I don't want to wait for you too long. Anderson will be there. – SH
The cab was pulling up to John's office when his pocket trilled. He ignored it for the moment, paying the cabbie and yawning as he murmured his hellos to the staff. He had a million and a half things to do today, and Sherlock waiting for him to finish them in record time as well. Damned Sherlock.
John did not look at his phone until 9:37, when he had a chance to use the loo in between patients. He shut the door behind him, flicking his zipper open, and felt the weight of the mobile in his jumper pocket. He groaned. Sherlock had probably texted him to remind him about getting out early at least eight times by now... He pulled it out, and raised his eyebrows. One text. Simple enough, and for Sherlock, downright polite. He couldn't help the smile that crept onto his lips as he replied, texting with one hand which was a skill even Sherlock would envy.
Don't antagonize him, Sherlock. I'll be there as soon as I am able. - JW
He slid it back into his pocket, and moved to wash his hands. He needed to try to focus on his patients, and not the man waiting for him at his flat.
Sherlock eyed his mobile. He'd been looking at it all morning, waiting for John's reply.
I never antagonize him. Leaving soon. Hurry up. Surely the patients can wait. This is far more interesting. – SH
John's pocket pinged again as he was in an embarrassing and slightly compromising position with an elderly man with a sharp tongue and a caustic manner. He grunted, irritated and slightly relieved at the distraction, and excused himself from the room, muttering under his breath. Sarah passed him in the hall, giving him a tight smile, and John managed one in return. He closed his eyes as he pushed his office door open and collapsed in the desk chair. He'd fucked that up, royally. Sarah was the one woman he got on with, and she could barely look at him now. John swivelled a bit, resting his head on the back of the seat, and he reluctantly retrieved his phone, blinking at the screen apathetically. He snorted.
You antagonize everyone, Sherlock. And no, my patients can't wait. Go on, if I can get away, I'll meet you there. – JW
Sitting in a cab on the way to the crime scene, the consulting detective heard his phone beep. Flicking it out, Sherlock smiled briefly as he saw John's flippant reply. He must be frustrated.
The patients are boring. This is much more fun. Hurry up. Just skip a few steps, they won't know the difference. – SH
John snorted behind his desk.
Fine, you tell the manky old git in my surgery that his enlarged prostate is due to the fact that I 'skipped a few steps' – JW
I would. – SH
Sherlock stepped out of the car and paid the cabbie. The crime scene waited.
John didn't text him back for a few hours, and with the influx of patients, forgot to wonder why Sherlock didn't pester him throughout the day. He ate a quick lunch on his feet, darting from room to room, and when he found his way back to his desk in the afternoon, he sat there for long moments, letting the stress and weariness of the day seep out of his bones. He dug the heels of his hands into his eyes, and for the first time in hours, thought of Sherlock. John frowned. He pulled out his phone, read the last message. Nothing since. He frowned.
Are you in Surrey? – JW
On my way back. The case was pathetically straight forward. The man was killed by arsenic, the multiple stabbings were post-mortem and his eyeballs were eaten by rats. Tedious. – SH
Eaten by rats? Sounds gruesome. – JW
I told Lestrade it was Anderson. He didn't believe me. – SH
John giggled before he could stop himself. He glanced up from his mobile in time to see Sarah drift past his office door, an odd look on her face. Inside, something sank. Careful, he had to be more careful...
Too bad. He's a rat if I ever saw one. – JW
That's what I said. Lestrade almost laughed. You should have seen Anderson's face. – SH
Wish I could have. Bogged down here. Sorry, Sherlock. – JW
John bit his lip, and took a deep breath.
But it sounds like you didn't need me anyway. – JW
It was boring. You didn't miss anything. After all, your patients are more important. Besides, why would you want to look at a crime scene when you could be peering up an old man's arse? - SH
He giggled again. Dammit. For a moment, all John could see was Anderson's face at the crime scene as Sherlock gave his verdict that the forensics analyst had eaten out the victim's eyeballs. He clapped his hand over his mouth to stifle the laughter, his shoulders shaking. And they called Sherlock a sociopath... Sherlock? He was the most sarcastic, dry, and funny person John knew. He was brilliant, perfect, terrible, wonderful. John's giggles died away. His face fell. He sat for a minute, his throat a bit swollen.
I have more patients, Sherlock. See you in the flat later. – JW
I'll make dinner. – SH
Have a good day. – SH
John wanted to reply. He really did. After all, Sherlock offering to make dinner was a noteworthy event. But... somehow, he just couldn't. He stared at the last text for long moments before swallowing hard and thrusting the mobile into the top drawer of his desk. He stood, straightened his jumper, and stalked out.
The crime scene would have been more fun with you. Take-away sound good? – SH
Back at the flat. – SH
Working hard? – SH
Where is the kettle? – SH
Found it. – SH
We're out of jam. – SH
The last patient of the day was running late. John glanced at the clock behind the nurses' station, his arms folded. He leaned against the wall, exhaustion hanging from his limbs. A cool hand settled on his shoulder, and he hissed, straightening. He'd been nodding off. Sarah stood behind him, her eyes guarded, but kind. "John, why don't you go home?" she said softly, and he flushed a little. 'Why don't you go home to Sherlock?' was what she was actually saying, but she had too much discretion and dignity to say it aloud. He sighed. A part of him would always wish he could have made it work with Sarah... God knew it would have been so much easier. He glanced at her, and suddenly, it was as if Sherlock had commandeered his brain.
New dress. Fresh Makeup. Stilettos. Teased hair. Manicure. Sensual perfume.
She had a date.
John cocked his head, and tried to hide a yawn behind his hand. "No, you go on, I'll wait another ten minutes, then I'll go. Have a nice evening." Sarah made a few protests as she inched for the door, but he smiled, and waved as she left. John wheeled about, making his way to the office. He sat a moment behind his desk before yanking the top drawer open and scrolling through Sherlock's many texts. He laughed quietly.
Crisps? – JW
Yes, we may need those as well. – SH
Can't run down to the Tesco and get them yourself then? Too busy lounging and watching telly? – JW
Sherlock had gotten back to the flat in a sour mood. It was alleviated a little with John's texts; those always did manage to make him feel better. He could tell John was not having the best of days, he tried to be nice. He hoped John cheered up a little. Walking about restlessly he started ripping apart the cabinets, looking for things to make for dinner before deciding on take-away.
He was now sitting at the laptop, looking through John's computer like he always did when he was in a bad mood and John wasn't around. He flipped through all of the obvious files before finding something that caught his eye. An encoded file with a password. Sherlock's eyes glittered and a smile curled his lips. Perfect. As Sherlock looked through the file he saw some documents, one titled Your Eyes. He had to look at that one. Oh John, how quaint.
Reading through it he couldn't help but feel his chest constrict a little. This one had more feeling than most of the ones John wrote. It made Sherlock angry, so when he saw John's text about him being lazy he felt like torturing John a little. Sherlock was jealous. He knew it was irrational, but he didn't care. John shouldn't write these to other people.
No. Busy day looking through your laptop. Interesting poem by the way, "your eyes sparkle like a morning tide." Who is this one to? – SH
John reeled. All of the air rushed from his chest at once in an audible gush, and he sat, stone cold in his rotating chair behind his desk. The temperature felt as if it had dropped twenty degrees. He gaped at his mobile, at the words glowing up at him from the screen, his entire body shaking from head to toe. He tried three times to hit "reply", but it was only after he stopped and deliberately calmed his breathing that he could manage a coherent text.
That…was not something you were supposed to see. Stop reading immediately you bastard. – JW
He fired off another.
Bloody hell, Sherlock don't read that please. – JW
Really? Shame. I thought it was much better than your other attempts. Especially the part with the hands. You must really like this girl. – SH
John's fingers were shaking so badly he could barely type with them. This was... this was the worst thing that had ever happened to him, and that was saying something. His mind began to rapidly shoot flashes of his worst memories at him, so fast he could barely process them. Harry railing on him in a drunken tirade... Holding his friends' dead bodies on the battlefield... Being shot... The fall. He fell forward, smacking his head on the desktop. But... a flush rose in his cheeks, and before he could stop himself, his thumbs were texting for him.
Really? You like it? - JW
This was followed by a surge of white hot anger, and John cursed loudly, nearly throwing his phone at the wall.
What am I saying? Get off my laptop! And… Sherlock, that was in a hidden folder. Shit, please get out of there. And it's none of your business who it's to. – JW
No, I hate it. Who is this woman? I want to meet her. – SH
Sherlock shook his head and deleted the text before sending. That was too…too obvious. John mustn't know how it made Sherlock want to throw the bloody laptop across the room in a jealous rage. Sherlock took a deep breath and read the other texts that followed before replying.
It wasn't hidden very well. Next time you want to keep something private I suggest you don't make it so obvious. Labelling it S.H.? Please, I've been watching that telly show too, you know. Secret House, honestly, John. – SH
His heart skipped. Secret House. Secret House? John wracked his brain, blinking, and he sat back, letting out a guttural groan. Sherlock. Didn't. Know. He didn't know because he hadn't seen, he hadn't seen the rest of the files, and of course, to that delicious sociopathic mind, a hidden file labelled S.H. would need some sort of covert, clever name. It would never occur to Sherlock that in this particular case, the simplest explanation was, indeed, the correct one. John shook his head, relief beginning to settle on his soul. All he had to do now was get Sherlock out of the bloody thing before he saw too much. And surely after all these years, John Watson was capable of a little Holmesian manipulation.
Secret house. Right then. Just stop poking about in there. – JW
He smiled. That out to do the trick. Short, concise, to the point. Sherlock would listen. Sherlock would respect his wishes. He felt his face drain of all color. Who the hell was he kidding?
Sherlock flicked his finger on the touchpad, scrolling down, clicking on more of the poetry. It wasn't helping. The consulting detective let out a small, sad sigh and clicked on another document labelled My Love for You. He knew he was only making it worse, he knew it was only going to hurt more. His mobile blipped and he looked down at it with disinterest.
Naming it after a
Sherlock clicked send without meaning to; his fingers were trembling so badly.
Oh. – SH
His head reeled, his heart thudded in his chest. His name. His name was in the poem. His NAME was in a poem entitled My Love for You by John Watson. By John fucking WATSON. Sherlock's name.
John's chest was going to explode. He swore it was. He wished Sarah had not gone home... when his insides detonated and his guts were all over the office from the force of the blast, it would have been helpful to have another doctor around to pronounce him dead of an exploded chest. One had to be precise about these things... He choked, fingers clutching the mobile, his blood rushing through his veins at an extraordinary rate. Oh? OH? He couldn't be here, he couldn't do this... every single thing he'd ever written was laid bare before Sherlock now, and it could have been any one of a hundred things that sparked that OH. John was gagging.
Oh? Oh what? GET OFF MY LAPTOP – JW
He was so angry. So fucking angry.
Sherlock's heart was stuttering as he read the two other poems. John loved his hands? They were beautiful? His skin glowed? Sherlock took a deep shuddering breath and closed his eyes for a moment before replying.
I, don't worry. Got off. I just, well, I put the kettle on. When are you coming home? – SH
Sherlock wanted to distract John; he didn't want him to know that he knew.
Why did you say that "oh", Sherlock? – JW
John fidgeted. Fuck. Fuck this was bad. How bad was it? He needed to know exactly how bad it was.
Why did you get off the laptop? Why are you putting on the kettle? – JW
Sherlock never got off the laptop just because John told him to.
No reason. I say "oh" all the time. I didn't see anything in your folder, I stopped looking. It's your private property. I have no business to be on it. – SH
"Bloody hell." John spoke to the empty space. The nurses had gone home. The door was locked. He was alone. He laid his head in his hands, not sure whether to cry, or be furious, or to sob in relief. Sherlock would probably just delete this entire conversation from his mind palace as useless and common, but John never could. He began to sob dryly, opting for rage.
You bloody bastard. You read them all, didn't you? – JW
Is my skin really comparable to snow? – SH
Sherlock bit his lip and hit send. This could go well or blow up in his face, either way, Sherlock was taking the gamble.
I am never going back to the flat. – JW
He meant it.
Oh fuck. Oh FUCK. 'No no no no no no no no' Sherlock shouted. This was bad.
No! John! You're a brilliant writer! Besides, who will pick up the jam? Come back. Where are you? – SH
He waited for a few seconds before typing up the next text.
I think your skin is very nice, too. – SH
Come back home. – SH
John stared. Pick up jam? Fuck jam! Tears, real, wet ones surfaced, pricking at his eyes and threatening to spill over. He could never go back to the flat, ever, ever. Then... his mobile pinged again. He blanched. Sherlock... was poking fun at him. John knew he did not have porcelain skin like Sherlock; his was worn, and weathered. He snuffled into his sleeve, the anger building. The last text came through, and John snatched it angrily.
No I'm not, I'm a sodding idiot. Get your own jam. – JW
Fuck. He needed to find a place to stay. He didn't want to stay with Harry again...
He sat there waiting for a reply from Sherlock for several long minutes. Nothing came through. At last, John angrily pushed the tears away, grabbing the phone and staring at Sherlock's texts. He called him... brilliant. His eyes drifted to his comment about his skin. A wicked, insipid, evil thought came snaking into John's brain, and it lodged there. What if... Sherlock meant it? He blushed immediately at the thought, and slowly, tentatively, he typed two words out, and clicked Send.
You do? - JW
Oh God, Sherlock had really messed up this time. He knew it. He shouldn't have said it. Of course John wouldn't understand. He didn't realise. Not yet.
John, you're fantastic! You're amazing! I don't care if you have short legs; I am very fond of them. Jam is on the way. – SH
Sherlock knew the text didn't make much sense, but he didn't care. He had to tell John, he had to make John see.
John laughed. He actually laughed through the frightened tears. It was so... Sherlock. Manic, passionate, awkward... Fuck. All the things he loved about him. And John Watson did so very much love Sherlock Holmes.
Wait. I have short legs? You like them? You bought jam? Sherlock, are you using again? – JW
I'd be lost without my poet. – SH
Sherlock meant it. He would be. John couldn't leave. He couldn't.
Come home. – SH
He began to breathe faster.
I can't come back, Sherlock. I can't bear the way you'll look at me. Why couldn't you have just used your laptop for once? – JW
John was confused. Why wasn't Sherlock angry, or at the very least, apathetic? Why did he sound... eager for John's return?
Come back. Please. - SH
Why? So you can laugh and take the piss out of me, like you always do? John Watson's poetry, now even funnier when he's writing about his flat mate. – JW
He was too familiar with the jabs. He couldn't stand to hear them about these poems, not from Sherlock, not when they were written expressly for him.
No! Idiot! Idiot John Watson! Sherlock would have to spell it out. He had wanted to do this face to face, but...
I love you. - SH
Not funny, Sherlock. Stick to ice, remember. – JW
Sherlock slapped his forehead and groaned. Why was John being so obtuse? 'Bloody hell!' He growled.
I love you. - SH
That's bloody cruel now that you know. – JW
Tears caught in the back of Sherlock's throat, making their way up to his eyes. Why couldn't John see?
I never wanted you to write poetry for anyone else. Promise me you won't. I love you. – SH
No, no no no no... John willed his fingers to obey, to hold still, to clamp down on the desk. They would not listen.
They were all for you, Sherlock. Step 1 – Write poem for you. Step 2 – Insert woman's name. Step 3 – Click send. Step 4 – Sink deeper into despair. – JW
He blinked at his own words, having already sent them to his flat mate, unable to ever retrieve them again. "Oh, bugger," he muttered.
Sherlock's heart nearly stopped.
Come home. Now. – SH
He wants me. The knowledge nearly bowled him over, but suddenly, John was half way to the door without realizing he'd even stood up. He halted, blood pumping furiously. He wavered, then texted the truth.
Scared to – JW
Now. – SH
Oh... John's cheeks were crimson. He slumped against the door to his office, gasping for air. Sherlock wanted him. Demanded him. Fuck. Sherlock Holmes... was demanding him. His presence. His body. He was hard already.
Want me to pick up crisps? Or milk? Or... you know. Anything else we might need tonight? – JW
Sherlock read the text and smirked. He knew John would probably splutter with embarrassment when he saw Sherlock's reply, but he didn't care.
We may need lube. You're mostly out. You'll be sleeping in my bed tonight. – SH
I love you. – SH
He added as an afterthought.
Hurry Home. – SH
If you make me wait I'll write a poem for you. You won't like it. – SH
His mobile was singing, one text after another after another. John wanted to check them, but oh, he wanted to get on the road first. He was on the street, hailing a cab, desperately climbing inside, shouting out "221 Baker Street!" and panting in the back seat before he grabbed the phone and started scrolling. A low moan escaped his lips, and he glanced at the cabbie, waiting for him to look away briefly before rubbing a palm roughly against his erection, just a quick touch, just enough to make him grit his teeth and imagine what he was about to do to Sherlock. Oh, he was going to make him pay for this. John was furious, and more turned on than he'd ever been in his life.
How do you know I am almost out of lube? – JW
John grinned ferally at the phone. He knew full well how.
Sherlock toyed with the idea of sending 'I know everything', but decided against it.
I checked. - SH
How do you know where I keep it? Sod it, never mind, taking a cab home now. – JW
He rolled his eyes. He'd make him admit to rooting about in his private things later. Right now... "Hurry!" he called to the cabbie
I'm in my room. Waiting. - SH
Sherlock jumped out of the chair he'd been reclining in and dashed to John's room, grabbing the bottle of lube before leaping down the stairs three at a time and barrelling into his room. He paused for a few moments to adjust his clothes, clearing away all the evidence of how excited he was. Then he sat on the bed, legs stretched out languidly, leaning against the headboard, lazily twiddling with the bottle. Waiting.
"hhuuhh..." John swallowed a groan, and he fought the urge to continue palming his cock through his trousers in the back seat. The picture of Sherlock... waiting for him in bed... He closed his eyes to better imagine it, and bloody hell, it was gorgeous.
You'd better not undress till I get there. Been dreaming of doing that myself for too long. – JW
Sherlock smiled and let out a low chuckle.
Wouldn't think of it. – SH
I've been waiting too long to do that. Don't want to have all the fun by myself. – SH
Baker Street. Blessed, noisy, dull, grey Baker Street! John shot off one last text as the cabbie slowed, his heart hammering, his body at attention, the blood rushing in his ears.
I am home. - JW
He bolted for the door of 221B.
I'm waiting. - SH
As long as he lived, John would never know how he managed to make it up the stairs to the flat. He was stumbling, his feet slipping beneath him, the steps creaking, and he made so much noise that Mrs. Hudson poked her head out of her door and called out to him, asking if he were all right. John managed an assenting grunt, but it was all he could put together. Every spare drop of blood was rushing to his groin, and every electric nerve in his body was firing off at once. His hands grasped at the railing, and then at the stairs in front until he was clamoring up nearly on all fours in his eagerness. The noise was ridiculous. He knew he was making an utter fool of himself, but the knowledge that Sherlock was currently waiting for him in the flat, waiting... for him... John whimpered as his knee gave way and jammed into a sharp corner, and he thrust himself up, hurling himself at the door of their flat. It resisted him for a moment, and he cursed loudly. Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock was waiting... The door swung open, John Watson propelled himself inside, slamming it behind him, panting. His eyes darted about. The sitting room was empty. His laptop sat innocently on the desk by the window. John's throat was dry. In his pocket, he could feel the weight of the fresh bottle of lube he'd purchased on the way. Blue eyes wandered to Sherlock's bedroom door. It was ajar. He closed his fingers on the bottle in his pocket, and a surge of lust and victory washed over him, rolling in waves, triumphant. "Here I come," he whispered, and took five long strides to the bedroom.
Sherlock could hear John's frantic stumbling, and he smirked, stretching lazily. John wanted him so badly. That was good. Sherlock regulated his breathing, trying very hard to keep a composed face, wondering for a moment whether or not he should try to act "alluring", but disposing of that idea at once. No, Sherlock would just paint a self-satisfied smile on his face, he would... John was at the door. Sherlock could hear his panting. The younger man's heart raced and he gulped. He wasn't quite sure what was going to happen now, but whatever came he was going to fuck John Watson. He'd been waiting too damn long not to. The door opened and John stood there, staring at him, his chest heaving slightly. Sherlock raised an eyebrow. 'No knocking? Manners, John.'
"Manners?" John's eyes blazed. He stared down at the tall, lean man, lying casually on his back, those soft black curls nestled comfortably on a mound of pillows. Sherlock's bedroom was cluttered, but the bed was made, the blankets fresh, and… John felt his heart thud erratically as he allowed his eyes to rake over the slender lines of Sherlock's young body. He was poured into that damned black suit, a skin tight burgundy shirt stretched over his pale chest, and... oh, shit, his feet were bare. John inhaled quickly. He loved those feet. He wanted them, wanted to touch them, caress them while watching telly, he wanted to feel them against his own in the mornings, he wanted to watch them flex and strain as Sherlock got pounded into the mattress... John cleared his throat, trying to maintain control for just a few moments longer before he taught this petulant, snooping, childish man a lesson. "Manners, really, Sherlock? You've invaded my privacy." He smiled with narrow eyes, and advanced one step. "And now, I'm REALLY about to invade yours."
Sherlock's smile turned feline. 'Oh, I'm counting on that, Doctor Watson. But just think,' he sat up and arched his back slightly, 'if I hadn't looked through your laptop...well, we wouldn't be here now.'
"True.." John stepped closer again, now only a foot away from the man. He reached out, threading his fingers through the dark hair atop Sherlock's head, and caught his breath as his companion shifted into his hand. "I suppose I should thank you for that." He should be gentle... he should be patient... he should...
John grabbed a handful of curls, and pulled, hard, yanking Sherlock's head back, and he pushed forward, attacking his mouth with his lips, his teeth, his tongue. He knew somewhere in the back of his mind that this was probably Sherlock's first kiss, but he couldnt bring himself to give a bloody shit. He wanted him. John held that head back forcefully, thrusting his tongue inside the hot cavern of his mouth, and he bit Sherlock's lower lip. He tasted... fucking amazing. Like tea and vanilla pastry cream. "You shouldn't play with other people's things," John breathed into his mouth, his right hand beginning to wander Sherlock's chest.
Sherlock gasped as John yanked his hair, the force of the action causing tears to prick at his eyes. Fuck. His mind raced for a second. This wasn't right. It wasn't supposed to-fuck it all. Sherlock's mind went momentarily blank as John kissed him; Sherlock's first kiss. He tasted blood, he felt John biting his lip, forcing his tongue inside Sherlock's mouth, and it felt so fucking good. The consulting detective's body moved forward, into John's aggressive hand. 'But John,' he looked up at John's aroused face, 'what's the fun in that?' Sherlock grabbed John's arm, the one that was attached to the hand that was raking his shirt, and pulled, hard. John fell onto the bed beside Sherlock with a loud thunk. With a triumphant smile, Sherlock straddled John's hips and ground down violently reveling in the shudder it caused. 'Don't disappoint me, John.' He hissed, grabbing John's wrists and holding him hostage. Sherlock licked his lips hungrily, gazing down at John's struggling body before leaning in and biting the exposed neck, wanting to draw blood.
John's eyes flew open. He had the wind knocked out of him when Sherlock pulled him down on the bed, his head barely missing the headboard, but the moment Sherlock's hips began grinding down on his own, merciless and aggressive, John found his lungs full of air once more, and he let it out in loud, guttural moans. His wrists were trapped in a pair of thin, surprisingly strong hands, and he bucked up, crying out as Sherlock sank his teeth into the juncture of his neck and shoulder. "FUCK! Sherlock!" John curved up, half-heartedly trying to toss him from his body, but all he achieved was the creation of more friction between their erections, hidden beneath trousers. Great shivers wracked both of them, and John struggled against Sherlock's grip, gasping as the bite deepened, and he realized... oh... fuck... He's giving me a hickey, he's biting me and sucking me and he's giving me a bloody hickey. Sherlock. The virgin. John groaned, angry and turned on and confused. How did he end up on his back? He snarled, bringing his knee up and wedging it between them, using the leverage to shove Sherlock off of him at last. They stared at one another for several seconds from opposite sides of the bed. John could feel his neck throbbing.
Sherlock wiped his lip as he eyed John. He was panting slightly, his cock was straining against the khaki trousers. Sherlock noticed blood on his hand and he smirked, lifting it up and licking it, making sure John could see his tongue flick across the pale skin. 'Ohhh, John. You taste so good.' He moaned, letting his other hand move down the length of his torso, his long fingers splayed out. Sherlock was not a fool, he knew what John liked, he'd seen what the man had reacted to when he was around women, he'd read his poems. Sherlock knew what turned John on and he was not above using that information to his advantage. Somewhere in the back of his head a little voice asked him if he really knew what he was doing, warning him that John Watson was not a force to be fucked with lightly, reminding Sherlock that he had virtually no sex appeal compared to the women John dated.
John's gaze followed the languid movement of that white hand, and he shuddered, his entire body jolting as he saw the smudge of crimson on the skin by Sherlock's thumb. The sight of Sherlock, flicking his tongue out and tasting John's blood nearly drove him mad. He could feel the wetness on his neck, a hot throb swiftly cooling in the crisp air of the flat. John's breath came faster, harder, his pulse racing. "Sherlock," he growled softly, his eyes narrow and his jaw twitching as he began to crawl, very slowly, very deliberately, across the bed. He reached his friend, his dearest and best friend, and John stayed on his knees, for once looking down at the detective as Sherlock sat next to him, icy eyes wide. John's hands drifted lazily up his arms, sliding into the black jacket, easing it off his shoulders. Sherlock was entranced, meeting John's gaze steadily. John moaned a little as the jacket fell on the floor, revealing the tightness of Sherlock's shirt. It hugged him, tugging, pulling, puckering in lovely places, and John memorized them all with his hands. They probed, firm and intrusive, pinching at his nipples, grazing beneath the hemline, and thumbing buttons open. "Sherlock, you're in such... fucking... trouble..."
Sherlock pushed against John's hands, letting out little noises as John's fingers tweaked his nipples. Sherlock had never known they could be so sensitive. 'That's' he moved a hand up John's back, pushing under his jumper, touching the golden skin, 'kind of what I was hoping for.' Sherlock breathed into John's ear before biting the lobe, rolling it between his teeth. Without warning he slammed his leg into John's erection, grinding against the smaller man, raking his hands up and down that muscular body, brutally yanking off the damn jumper and tossing it at the wall. 'There, that's better.' He licked John's neck as his nails bit into John's sides, ripping up the skin. Sherlock thrust into John, forcing him down on the bed again. Sherlock's eyes glittered as he looked down at John. 'Oh God, John, you've no idea how long I've waited for this.' He sat down hard on John's cock, grinding again, wrapping a hand in John's sandy hair and yanking with all his strength.
SHIT... John felt his skin flush red hot, and he lay in the mattress, his arms wide, his legs spread, Sherlock's lanky form rutting down on his cock... And he cried out as Sherlock pulled his hair, those full, sweet lips finding his again. They crushed against him with a bruising force, and John's eyes fluttered closed as their tongues tangled. He was... confused. This was not the way it was supposed to happen. He was supposed to come home, find a nervous, somewhat eager virginal detective in bed waiting to be shown the pleasures of making love, and yes, all right, so John was eager, so John was going to be a bit rough, but... He gasped and shouted as Sherlock's other hand found the front of his trousers, and began palming him swiftly, violently. John frowned even as they devoured one another's mouths. Yes, he was confused... because he wasn't fighting. He'd let Sherlock bite him. He'd let Sherlock pin him, twice now. John had enough military training to be in perfect control of his own body, and somewhere inside, he knew he could throw Sherlock off if he wanted to. He could probably even flip him around, push him down, and take him by force. He could. He knew he could. But... Sherlock's hips rotated on him again, and the rake of his fingernails in his flesh burned, and John's cock throbbed between his legs. The hand worrying his erection slowly inched to his trouser zipper, and John began to wriggle and whimper.
Sherlock flicked open John's fly with a seemingly expert hand. He did not really know how he was managing all of this, he could barely hold himself back, his heart was pounding, his mind was racing. Sherlock was pretty sure this was not normally how people had sex for the first time, but he really couldn't bring himself to give a shit. John looked like he was enjoying himself, and God only knows Sherlock was. More than he would like to admit. Moving his head down, Sherlock trailed his tongue down John's chest, pausing at each nipple, scraping his teeth against them, making John bring a hand up to his mouth and whimper. That whimper was just about the sexiest sound Sherlock had ever heard. 'John, do you want me?' Sherlock bit the spot right underneath the doctor's right nipple. Fuck, Sherlock wanted him so badly. He pulled down the trousers, discarding them on the floor before teasing the boxers off, making John writhe with anticipation. The sleuth kept one eye on John; who knew what he'd try. John obviously wanted top, but there was no way Sherlock was going to let that happen. Oh no, not this time. Finally, John's boxers had fallen to the wayside and Sherlock had in his hand John's throbbing member, its head glistening with precum. Sherlock licked his lips and sat up. His eye twitched. What to do next. What was he supposed to do? No. No. Sherlock would not let himself second guess this. Two callused hands scrabbled at his shirt, pulling at the buttons, causing a few of them to pop off from the immense pressure. Sherlock looked into John's eyes, those gorgeous blue eyes. Oh fuck. John was too much. Too much.
Sherlock's hand on his shaft was more sensation than John could process. He lay in the bed, whining and bucking into those thin fingers, and when he had the wherewithal to rouse himself from the thick haze of arousal, he looked down at the young man kneeling between his legs, stroking him slowly. "Oh.. Sh..Sherlock... fuck..." John's hands shot out, and he was ripping and tearing at the burgundy shirt, pulling it from slender, white shoulders. His chest rose and fell rapidly as he drank in the beauty of this man, this anomaly of the human race. And Sherlock wanted him. John bit his lip, unable to stifle the whimpers and moans, and he grasped any surface of flesh he could find, rolling into Sherlock's strokes, his toes curling in his socks. As Sherlock bent to suck a nipple into his mouth, John's eyes widened, and he gasped. He was naked. He was naked but for his socks, and he was in bed with Sherlock. A startled laugh ripped from his throat. "Fuck me," he muttered under his breath. Sherlock froze, and John felt the blush in his cheeks intensify as he realized instantly what he'd said. Shit.
His heart was so loud, Sherlock was sure John would be able to hear it, sure it reverberated throughout the room. Fuck him. He wants me to. He's giving me permission. Sherlock hesitated for a minute, suddenly a little scared. Lube, where the fuck was that bottle? He spotted it lying on the floor near the bed. Sherlock groaned. He did not want to move, he liked where he was at. But... 'John,' he began, his eyes twinkling, 'get me that bottle and I'll fuck you so hard you won't be able to sit for days.' Sherlock smirked at the deep, violent red John's face turned. All Sherlock wanted to see was that tight arse bent down over the bed. Sherlock had wicked designs on that arse. John protested, moving against him, 'What? Don't you want me? Don't you want my cock inside you? Were you lying? Are you a liar, John Watson?' Sherlock menaced, digging his nails into the base of John's erection, making his other hand swirl two fingers on his own hard-on, currently pushing painfully against his tight black trousers.
"Not... a liar.." John huffed, barely able to speak, barely able to think. He wanted to not be so turned on by the pain that was coursing through him as Sherlock squeezed his cock ruthlessly. He wanted to be forceful, to use Sherlock's weight against him, throw him off balance, shove that pretty, sculpted face into the bed, and ram his cock up Sherlock's gorgeous arse... But at the moment, all John's body seemed to be willing to do was thrash and arch and keen for more. More pain... more pleasure... more of Sherlock, around him, atop him... inside of him. "Not... that wasn't what I meant.." John stopped short. His eyes met Sherlock's, and held. Those silver orbs gazed back at him, questioning, hungry, full of desire and hope, and suddenly, it did not matter that John had not REALLY been asking him to fuck him. It did not matter that he'd only been expressing incredulity at his situation. All that mattered was Sherlock wanted him. And John... Well, fuck. John wanted Sherlock. He twisted and writhed again, and the fight was over.
Sherlock grabbed John's face so hard he was sure it would leave marks, 'What do you mean, then, John?' Sherlock kissed him hard, mangling those firm lips with his teeth, forcing his tongue in John's mouth, just as John had done for Sherlock's very first kiss only a few minutes earlier. 'Don't you want me?' He ground the palm of his hand into the head of John's cock, making the shorter man squirm. Was Sherlock not...but John's erection was more than enough proof that he wanted Sherlock. Sherlock removed his hand and thrust against John with every ounce of strength he had, pounding his own erection against John's. 'Get. The. Lube.' He growled against John's lips.
"Fuck.. yeah, all right then," John stammered frantically, his fingers scrambling for the edge of the bed. "Bloody hell, Sherlock, let me up a moment." He turned to look up at his lover, and hesitated. Sherlock was frowning, his body pinning him down, hard, against the mattress. John blinked. "Oh." Understanding dawned in his eyes. "Sherlock..." John managed to sit up, his body quivering, and he leaned in, forehead to forehead. His breath washed over Sherlock's face as he whispered, "Yes, Sherlock. Yes, that's exactly what I meant. Now let go of my legs so I can get the lube, and you can fuck me as hard as you want, shag me 'til I pass out, shove that cock in my arse and make me scream and beg and whimper and moan like a fucking virgin schoolgirl. But you have to let me go so I can get the lube, all right?"
Sherlock had not realised he was pinning John down quite so vehemently. His chest had been constricted but as soon as John's head touched his, he knew it was alright. Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment before popping them open and swallowing hard as John's words hit his ears. Oh FUCK yes. Sherlock groaned and sat back, freeing John up before scrabbling with the fly on his too-small trousers. Those words made Sherlock want to rip into John right then and there, not let him move, just continue to pound him until he couldn't formulate such wicked sentences. Oh, John Watson was an evil, evil man and he did bad things to Sherlock. Sherlock manically palmed himself, not bothering to remove the trousers or even his navy blue boxer briefs. The sight of John bending down over the bed, straining to reach the innocent bottle lying on the floor, coupled with those words that were still ringing around inside Sherlock's skull made Sherlock want to cum right there. He was amazed that he didn't. 'Oh fuuuuuck,' he moaned.
John straightened up on the bed, bottle in hand, eyes wide. He peered over at his flat mate, and his breath hitched. Sherlock was stroking himself outside of his trousers, those eyes lidded and lusty, and he was staring at John like a starving man eyeing a tasty morsel. John swallowed hard. Fuck, this was going to hurt. He felt panic beginning to rise, but with it came another sensation: excitement. Adrenalin blasted through him, and he found himself dizzy with it. He crawled over to Sherlock, batting his hand away and touching the tented crotch of his trousers curiously. Sherlock hissed, choking and letting his head fall back, and John pushed his hands into the waistband of his pants, pushing them down, snagging the briefs along the way. "Can't plow me with these on then, can you?" he murmured into his ear, licking the shell, nipping at it. He chuckled as Sherlock groaned deeply. John took one of his cool hands, and slid the lube into it shakily. "You... know what to do?"
Sherlock looked at the lube and gulped. His blood had turned to ice despite all the heat emanating from his groin. John looked down at him and Sherlock could see he was nervous, too. Of course, this is first for the both of us. Sherlock took a deep breath and nodded. 'I...I think so.' He pressed a kiss to John's clavicle and cracked open the bottle cap. Here goes nothing. Sherlock poured a little on his fingers and rubbed them together. 'John,' he kissed John's red cheek, 'it...it is alright, right? It's not just because...' Sherlock didn't know how to finish the sentence. Now that they were finally here, Sherlock wasn't quite sure how to act, was a little scrambled. He moved the dry hand to John's arse and flattened his palm against it, rubbing it roughly, memorising the soft feeling.
John sighed softly, sliding his fingers through the dark, curly fringe on Sherlock's head, and he turned his face into those light, butterfly kisses. "Yes, Sherlock" he whispered, sidling closer, seeking contact on every bit of his flesh. Sherlock's naked body knelt before him, and oh, oh he was so very beautiful. John stole a glance at his cock, and hummed, his thighs weakening. It was a lovely shade of pink, and the head was rosy, flushed, and wet. John licked his lips, rocking back into Sherlock's hand, his heart hammering. He placed steady hands on those slim shoulders, clenching down, resting his head in Sherlock's neck, and John sprread his legs. "Do it, please," he breathed.
Sherlock nodded silently and with a great economy of movement thrust a finger deep inside John, eating up the sounds of pain and plesure that pushed from John's lungs. The confidence was back and Sherlock began to push the finger in and out, crooking it every time. Soon another finger was added, and Sherlock scissored them viciously, stretching John. It occured to him that he should probably be taking it slower, allow John to ease up a little, but dammit all if he wasn't asking for it. Those moans and whines John made had to be illegal. The way he bucked down on Sherlock's digits, the way his arse hole clenched around them...it was sinful, it was wrong, it was... Sherlock slammed a third finger in and finger banged John forcefully.
"Oh, yessss, please, oh, please please more, Sherlock, more more more..." John was humiliated. He was more embarrassed right now than he had been the first time he'd had sex, and it had been over in about thirty seven seconds and the next day it was all over the school. John was utterly mortified by the sounds currently pouring from his mouth, but he was completely powerless to stop them. He had even less control over his body, which was rebelling against him, and enjoying the finger fuck FAR too much for John's comfort. It arched and bucked and rolled, and with each additional digit added, John could feel his muscles stretching, easing, welcoming Sherlock's long, wicked fingers. "Fuck... oh fuck, Sherlock, that's fucking goooood..." John sucked in his breath, letting out a shrill shout against his shoulder, and he bit down, very very hard. Sherlock jerked, growled, and fucked him harder, and John pushed his legs apart as far as they would go. "Oh fuck yes, get them in there... Shit... oh... go on then, give me another,Sherlock, fuck, give them all to me..." What the FUCK was he saying? He wailed, grinding down on them, looking for more.
Sherlock needed no more urging, he willingly slid the fourth finger in, curving his hand, thrusting his fingers as far as they'd go inside that velvety hole. The taller man was panting uncontrollably, he was so hard it hurt, he wanted to be inside John, but this was...'Oh fuck, John, I'm going to do it.' He hissed between his teeth, removing his fingers and steadying himself for a moment, lining his cock with John's twitching hole before ramming inside John, ripping him open without so much as a please and thank you. Sherlock threw his head back and howled, thrusting into John, taking him with every bit of strength he could muster. He felt John move against him, scream, desperately begin to wank. John was so much more than Sherlock had ever imagined, so much more than Sherlock had ever thought possible. He was so tight, so hot, so...good. 'Oh FUCK! SHIT! GOD! JOHN!'
"Sherlooock..." John's groan was drawn out and long and trembling, and as he rode that long shaft, John Watson realized for the first time in his life what a fucking pathetic excuse for a sex life he'd had. John had always been slightly proud of his conquests... for a slender, short army doctor, he'd seen his fair share of action with the ladies. But... "OH FUCK, SHERLOCK, MOOORE!" John twisted on him, feeling that thick, virginal cock split him open, shove inside of him with a violent aggression that would not be denied, and he loved it, he loved it, he would never ever again be satisfied with any less than this euphoric combination of sharp pain and mind blowing pleasure. His fist pumped his own dick swiftly, angrily, and he could feel the tension in Sherlock's stomach muscles as the stoic detective unraveled before his eyes. Sherlock's hair was wild, his eyes glowing, his teeth bared, his arms flexing as he gripped John's hips, and they shouted together, driven completely mad with the fury of the coupling. John yanked on his hair again, bringing their mouths together briefly before he lost control and his body went somewhat slack, and he fell backwards. Sherlock loomed over him, lifting his thighs to his shoulders and pounding into him mercilessly. John began to sob. "More... more... more... don't stop don't stop, Sherlock, oh shit, oh yes... harder..."
There was a red haze around Sherlock's vision, all he could see was the violently shaking John, his head bobbing, his throat moving, making those delirious noises. Sherlock slammed into John with everything he had, with all of his might. The sounds were loud and crass and completely, mind-blowingly sexy. Sherlock felt an odd feeling of ultimate pleasure winding its way up from his toes to his stomach, pushing out, and Sherlock shuddered into John, cumming in thick, white spurts, over and over and over until he was completely spent, until he felt like collapsing onto John and lying there for the rest of the evening. Sherlock slowly pulled out of John and sat there for a few moments, panting and watching with great curiosity and arousal as John continued to stroke himself to completion.
John felt a rush of irritation as Sherlock pulled out of him, but the orgasm was impending, so close, so very, very close... He turned his face and gazed deeply into those silver eyes as he climaxed, shouting hoarsely, his body melting back into the mattress, messy and sticky. He took several moments to remember how to breathe, and to process what had just happened. "Sherlock?"
Sherlock reclined against the clean pillows, his breath was still coming in great puffs, his mind still reeling a little, he was still riding on the waves of his first orgasm. 'Hmmmm?' he did not even have the energy to speak.
John opened his mouth, and shut it again with a sharp click of the teeth. He'd been going to say... Next time, keep going til I've finished off... but as the words hung in his throat, he realized two things. The first was that it was Sherlock's very first sexual experience, and bloody hell, he'd made it a long longer than thirty seven seconds. Secondly, John was completely flabbergasted that he was already thinking about the next time. The next time Sherlock shagged him. The next time Sherlock fucked him until he screamed. The next time... John blushed dark, feeling suddenly very self-conscious. "Nothing. That was, um... That was good, that was… very, very good." He looked away, embarrassed.
Sherlock sat up, still feeling a little like rubber. '...was it? Oh, good. I'm, I'm glad.' Sherlock blinked a few times. Good? He'd thought it'd been the best fucking thing he'd ever felt, but...well, John did have much more experience in this area. Sherlock crossed his legs and peered at John in the dim light. John wasn't looking at him. 'Well, I...enjoyed it. Thank you. It was a new experience, one I won't forget.' Sherlock looked down at his hands, twisting themselves around each other. Of course Sherlock had no hopes John would want to continue it, it had been amazing for Sherlock, but he completely understood John not wanting to recreate the experience. Well, not really, but he would lie and tell John he did.
John scowled at the wall. A new experience? His mind wandered back to the start of this day, to the simple, friendly texts they'd shared, to Sherlock's invasion of his laptop, and the thought occurred to him. Sherlock had never shown interest in him, not once, never before today. He whipped his head about, brow lined, and propped himself up on his elbows, staring at the uncomfortable man.
"A new experience?" John said pointedly, tilting his head. "What... the bloody hell happened to 'I love you'? Was..." his eyes widened in horror. "Oh... Sherlock. Sherlock TELL ME this wasn't some... sick experiment.. something to do with a case... Tell me you didn't just shag me to get a new experience to box up and put in some dusty corner of your mind palace. Tell me that, Sherlock." He would die. He would pack up and move to Bali and crawl into a cave somewhere and die.
'What?' Sherlock yelped, surging to his feet and nearly bumping his head on the ceiling. 'Fuck! No! What the hell gave you that idea? I just,' Sherlock frowned as he looked into John's horrified, terrified face. 'I just meant that if you didn't want to continue on with this, well, I'd understand. I would.' Sherlock knelt down and looked into John's eyes, 'I would never, never do that...well, ahem, not with something like this.' Sherlock shifted uncomfortably, well aware of how many times he had pulled this sort of thing on John. Oh fuck, he hid his face in his hands in dispair. Of course John had thought that. Sherlock was such an idiot! 'I just meant... Oh what the hell am I saying?' He moaned, 'No, John, no. It's not an experiment. It's nothing like that. Nothing at all like that.' Sherlock shook his head, still hiding his face in his hands, his shoulders bowed over, shaking a little from humourless, silent laughter. Really, Sherlock was such a fucker, he knew he was.
John watched him laugh, watched him tremble, and he sighed. Damn. He'd fucked it all up. He sat up, reaching an arm out to grab onto his shoulder, and John pulled him into his arms, wrapping Sherlock in a warm, gentle embrace. It was like holding a child, a nervous, excited, sleepy child. Sherlock was yawning against his chest. "I'm sorry," John muttered, raining kisses on the crown of his head. "Don't listen to me, Sherlock. I'm sorry. You're... you were brilliant. Come on then. It's all right." He lifted his chin to brush his lips across Sherlock's full, swollen mouth. "Want some take away, then, eh?"
Sherlock grumbled against John's lips. 'Not your fault. I'm the bastard here.' Still, Sherlock felt a little better. Really, it was no wonder John had jumped to that conclusion. Sherlock had sounded like a real prick. 'Sorry.' He mumbled, ducking his head and hiding in the crook of John's neck. 'Take away sounds great. Starving.'
"You are a bastard," John chuckled, shivering as Sherlock's nose probed his neck. "Reading my private poems. What the hell were you thinking?"
Sherlock chuckled, he couldn't help himself. 'I was provoked. You really are terrible at hiding those. Plus,' the consulting detective flushed crimson 'I was jealous.' he mumbled quietly, half not wanting John to hear. 'You writing all those poems to random women, not fair.' he pouted in a low grumble.
John stroked his hair, smiling. It was... incredibly lovely to hear those words come from that tongue. He nestled his cheek in. "They were never for them. You know that."
Sherlock smiled, he was pleased John admitted it. Sure, he'd said something similar in a text earlier, but hearing it was so much more satisfying. 'Love you.'
John blinked. He was sitting naked in Sherlock's room, wrapped around Sherlock's nude body, and they had just copulated. Vigorously. Sherlock had told him several times during the course of the day that he loved him... and John had as of yet to say it back. He was reluctant. It was such a gigantic admission, such a huge commitment, and Sherlock said it like he was ordering Chinese take away. Which sounded very good right now. John pressed his lips together, and took a deep breath. What the hell. He'd said it in poems often enough. He leaned down to kiss Sherlock's cheekbone, his nose, his temple. "Ta," he whispered softly. "I love you, too."