Title: Protective and Possessive – Part 3 of 3
Word Count: 3,550
Pairing: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Warnings: Sexual Themes... I tried to keep it toned down, but they are there. M/M Slash
Prompt: From the Sherlock Kink Meme… Nobody's ever gotten really protective or possessive over John. He finds he enjoys it when someone does. (Bottom John)
"Can I just ask, what are we doing?" John asked Sherlock from his position crammed inside a small coat closet with the tall man.
"Shh! John, we're waiting for the suspect."
"I've gotten that much on my own thanks, but why are we in a coat closet?"
Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh. While John was usually inquisitive, he wasn't usually this dense. "We are in a coat closet because if the suspect sees us, he'll run and given that he's more familiar with his surroundings than we are, he'll most likely get away."
"Ah… okay," John settled back against the wall of the closet once more. They'd been waiting for what felt like hours, but was actually only around twenty minutes. The suspect they were after was guilty of a double homicide and the yard had turned to Sherlock once more to help them solve the case. Sherlock had taken it up reluctantly, but became more and more interested as the evidence mounted that the homicides had been preformed by a ghost. Of course, Sherlock had refused to believe that, and as a result had found the one small connection that had led to where they were now, squished inside a miniscule coat closet, waiting for the guilty party to enter the townhouse so that they could jump out and capture him.
John was about to ask another question when Sherlock suddenly placed his hand over John's mouth as the sound of the front door opening could be heard. A pair of heavy boots entered and clomped through the entry hall. Sherlock and John held perfectly still until the boots came to a standstill just past the coat closet. Carefully and slowly, Sherlock peered out through the crack between the door and the frame. "Perfect," he whispered before whipping open the door and jumping out behind the suspect. However the man had already turned and pulled out a gun before Sherlock could skid to a halt.
"Sherlock Holmes, I presume?" he asked in a voice that was entirely too calm in John's opinion.
"I'm sure you already know the answer to that," Sherlock replied, now standing perfectly still with his hands up on either side of his head.
The suspect grinned as he took a step forward, the barrel of his pistol now touching Sherlock's chest. "And Dr. Watson can't be far behind," he said. "Do come out and join us, doctor."
John held still for a moment, wondering if the man would really shoot Sherlock. However the sight of Sherlock at the wrong end of a pistol was too much. They'd only just started a relationship not more than a couple of weeks ago; John wasn't about to have it end just yet, so he lifted his hands and placed them on top of his head before stepping out of the closet. "Ah, yes, there you are," the man said. "Gun on the floor please, and don't bother denying you have one, we all know otherwise."
John frowned as he used one hand to fish his gun out of the back of his trousers. He dropped it on the floor and kicked it over to the man at his prompting. "Wonderful, now we all know why you're here. However from what I've read of Dr. Watson's blog, I highly doubt anyone else does, or for that matter that you're here at all." He grinned again.
"How novel, a criminal who does his homework," Sherlock sneered. "I must applaud you, Mister… what did you say your name was?"
"I didn't, though I'm surprised you don't already know," the man growled.
"Oh I know what your alias is… and your alias' alias. Afraid I couldn't be bothered to find out your actual name though. I'm sure it will all be sorted when you're behind bars in New Scotland Yard."
"Very confident of yourself, Mr. Holmes. You're so sure that you'll be walking out of this building," he smirked. "As to the answer to your question, you can call me Thatcher."
"Of course. Now if you'll both be so kind as to get on your knees."
"Why should we? You're going to shoot us either way."
"True I suppose," Thatcher pondered this for a moment. "I suppose it really doesn't make a difference." He raised the gun so that it was pointing at Sherlock's forehead. "You can go first, Mr. Holmes seeing as your so snarky. That and I'm just dying to know Dr. Watson's facial reaction when he see's your head blown into a fine red mist."
"No!" John took a step forward, but was halted by a glare from Thatcher and the sound of the pistol cocking.
"Ah, ah, ah, Dr. Watson. You'll have your turn."
"John," Sherlock intoned. He didn't turn to look at his flatmate, but his tone conveyed everything. John held still, a glare fixed on his visage.
"On a tight leash, your doctor is, Mr. Holmes," Thatcher said smirking.
"Yes, you should see him with a gun."
"I think not, and I think this conversation has gone on for too long."
"I agree," Sherlock said, a wide grin on his face.
Thatcher hesitated for a moment at the grin, but that was all Sherlock needed. Both of his hands came together to form a fist above Thatcher before slamming down on his skull. Thatcher stumbled, the gun dropping from his now loose fingers. John jumped forward and caught it, gripping it tightly as it was turned on its original owner. He kicked his own pistol over to Sherlock who picked it up and had it pointing at Thatcher before the man could gain any semblance of normalcy. Thatcher stumbled to one knee, his balance compromised. However John's anxiousness rose when he heard a low chuckle issuing from the man's mouth. "And now what, boys?" Thatcher raised his head to look up at them both. "You have no evidence connecting me to those murders, and now you're both pointing a gun at an unarmed man in his own house." He grinned. "What will the police think when they get here?"
At that moment, they heard sirens approaching from a distance. Thatcher's smile grew larger. "The police trust me, Thatcher," Sherlock growled. "If I kill you here and now and tell them it was in self-defence, they'll believe me."
A worried gleam shone in Thatcher's eye as his grin faded. With nothing to lose, the man launched himself at the consulting detective, hitting him in the gut with his shoulder, and both went tumbling to the ground. Sherlock grunted from the impact, John's gun falling from his hand. John watched all of this happen as if in slow motion. He made to move forward, but it felt like his feet were mired down in thick mud. "Sherlock!" he yelled as Thatcher grabbed at John's gun and swung it around.
What happened next, John wasn't quite sure. It was all so fast and with instinct and adrenaline guiding his actions, it was a little fuzzy. What he did know was that there were two sharp cracks… two gun shots. One caused Thatcher to jerk forward, blood spurting from the new wound in his chest. The other… John didn't know about the other, but Sherlock was lying very still. So very still…
Before John knew it, he was kneeling next to Sherlock pushing Thatcher's limp form off of his… how did he define his relationship with Sherlock? Boyfriend just didn't seem right, even if that was what all of the lads at the Yard called them. Mrs. Hudson's photo of them from that first night had spread like wildfire and soon it seemed that everyone knew of them.
"Sherlock," John whimpered. His hands fluttered over the consulting detective, looking for wounds. A low groan met his hears as one hand brushed over Sherlock's side. John's fingers met something warm, wet, and sticky. "Sherlock, hang on," he muttered as he bent over the man who'd only that very morning told him for the first time that he loved him.
The blood was seeping forth from a wound along Sherlock's left side about halfway down his torso. John ripped open Sherlock's coat, suit jacket, and silk shirt. His hands smoothed along the pale skin until they found the wound. After a couple of seconds' assessment, John let out a long exhale. It was just a graze. A deep graze, that would most likely need stitches, but a graze nonetheless. John's body went limp with relief and he pressed quick kisses along Sherlock's lips. "You stupid, stupid man!" he whispered against Sherlock's jaw. "Never ever do that to me again."
Before Sherlock could answer, the front door burst open and a flood of police officers came rushing in, Detective Inspector Lestrade foremost among them. John pulled away from Sherlock's lips and put his attention back to putting pressure on the wound. "Get a medic team in here," Lestrade called out, and one of the officers disappeared immediately to do his bidding. He turned back to John, still hovering over a grimacing Sherlock on the floor. "How is he?"
"It's just a flesh wound, but he," he gestured to Thatcher on the floor next to them. "He's dead."
Lestrade nodded grimly. He would have preferred to take Thatcher in still alive for questioning, but obviously that wasn't going to happen now. "When you're done with Sherlock, we're going to have a talk about you shooting my suspects," Lestrade said seriously to John.
John gave him a weak grin. Lestrade still didn't know about his involvement in shooting the cabbie in his and Sherlock's first case. "Whatever you say, Lestrade."
At that moment, the medic team arrived. One faction split off to tend to Thatcher's body while the majority moved forward to take care of Sherlock. "I don't need a medic," Sherlock grumbled, but seeing as he was having a difficult time even sitting up without causing serious pain, he didn't put up too much of a fight when they moved him onto a stretcher. John moved with them, letting them know about Sherlock's wound as they loaded him into an ambulance.
The rest of the day was rather long and arduous, for Sherlock that is. After they'd stitched him up at the hospital, John had taken him home to 221B and insisted that he rest in bed for the remainder of the day. John had even gone so far as to bring him tea. However he hadn't been very pleased when he got back to see Sherlock out of bed and trying to locate his laptop. "Back in bed, Sherlock. I'm serious. You need to recuperate."
Sherlock had merely continued searching for his laptop, determined that if he had to be stuck in bed, then he might as well have something interesting to do. There was a new paper recently published on that he really wanted to read. He was just picking up a pair of trousers to look underneath when he felt a strong arm wrap around his waist and pull backwards insistently. "John!" he cried out as the strong arm continued to pull him back towards the bed.
"You need rest. I'll get whatever you want."
"But rest is boring!" Sherlock complained.
"Yes, but it's very healthy for someone in your condition I hear," John replied, tucking Sherlock under the covers.
"What condition? I have a scratch, John!"
"A scratch that had it gone three inches to the left would've killed you almost instantly!" John glared at him, his breathing heavier than usual and his fists clenching the duvet tightly.
Sherlock took all of this in and came to the conclusion that John was angry. He was surprised by John's reaction, when he asked why. John frowned, and the duvet dropped from his hands. He didn't speak as he sat down on the bed next to Sherlock; nor did he look at his flatmate. "I'm not angry with you, Sherlock," he replied looking down at his feet.
"That's not what I asked, John. I asked why you're angry."
John gave Sherlock a hesitant glance before taking a deep breath and moving closer to him. One hand came up to rest on Sherlock's thigh. "I'm angry because I almost lost you today. I'm angry because I should've acted sooner. I'm angry because it's my fault you got hurt."
Silence filled the room for a few long minutes and Sherlock took the opportunity to study his… boyfriend? partner? He still wasn't sure what to call John, and they hadn't really talked about it. It was very rare that John Watson was unsure of himself, but it appeared that right now was one of those times. "John," Sherlock intoned quietly. John looked up and Sherlock could see that there were unshed tears in his eyes. "John, there was no part of what happened today that was your fault. You couldn't have predicted what Thatcher did."
"But I should've known!" He squeezed Sherlock's thigh.
"How could you have possibly known if even I didn't," Sherlock replied calmly.
John looked up at Sherlock, the build-up of tears now sliding down his cheeks. "I don't know," he mumbled.
"I'm here now, John. I had a close call, but I'm here. Stop worrying about what might have been."
John nodded and lay down beside Sherlock, wrapping both arms around the taller man's middle, his face pressed into Sherlock's good side. Sherlock gently ran his fingers through John's short blond hair, soothing both John and himself. Suddenly rest didn't seem so boring.
o O o O o O o
It was very early the next morning that Sherlock woke up to a still sleeping John completely wrapped around him. He smiled at the smaller man and tried to extricate himself gently. With much grumbling from John, he managed to get free and vanished into the bathroom for a minute. When he got back, John was sitting up, blinking blearily. "Sherlock?" he muttered in a voice thick with sleep.
"Just had to use the loo," Sherlock replied, sitting down on the edge of the bed.
John yawned and sat up a bit straighter. "How're the stitches?"
John scooted closer to Sherlock and gently raised his nightshirt. "Mind if I check for myself?"
"Check away," Sherlock said indulgently.
John smiled as Sherlock lay back on the bed, making access to the wound easier. John's cool fingers skimmed over Sherlock's skin, leaving tingling trails of heat. Sherlock closed his eyes, enjoying the feel of John's hands as they brushed along his stitches. The graze was healing nicely and John suspected the stitches could probably be removed within the week.
He was done inspecting the wound, but his hands couldn't stop touching Sherlock. His smooth skin was entrancing to John and he couldn't stop running his fingers along the contours of Sherlock's body. A shiver made its way down Sherlock's body and that seemed to change things, because Sherlock suddenly sat up, cupped the back of John's head, and kissed him. Sherlock's lips were possessive and demanding. John had a difficult time keeping up, but eventually he gave in and allowed Sherlock to lead. A gentle pressure against his shoulder led John to lie down, Sherlock's body half covering his. However John pulled away from Sherlock's mouth when he felt those wonderful lips form a grimace. "What is it? Did you pull a stitch?"
"No, just stretched the skin a bit."
"We should be more careful," John said gently running his hands along Sherlock's torso.
"If I promise not to rip out my stitches, will you shut up and let me kiss you?" Sherlock growled not in the mood to be mollycoddled.
John's eyebrows rose in surprise, and another part of him (much lower than his eyebrows) reacted to the growl. Sherlock smirked, shifted himself so that he wouldn't pull at his stitches, and swooped back down on John's lips. Sherlock's hands captured John's wrists and he pinned them above their heads while he aligned his body with John's so that they were touching from shoulder to toe. "Sherlock," John moaned. "What – what are we doing?"
"I'd think that'd be obvious John," he whispered into the blond man's ear while thrusting his hips forward.
John let out a low moan, his hips thrusting back unconsciously. "Do you remember – ohhh – remember when I said I wanted to go slow?" John asked while Sherlock nibbled at his ear. Sherlock made a noncommittal 'mhmm'. "I take it back, all of it!"
Sherlock paused in his nibbling to raise his head. A slow smile spread across his face and John felt his ears heat up at the implications of what he'd just said. He'd basically just okay'ed Sherlock to ravish him. Not that that sounded so bad at the moment. Within thirty seconds, Sherlock had wiggled his way down so that he was lying between John's legs, one hand still held John's pinned above their heads, the other was skimming along John's skin under his shirt, and John was writhing at the feelings eliciting from the tips of Sherlock's fingers and their hips rubbing together. Low moans and groans filled the room until Sherlock covered John's lips with his own, swallowing down the arousing sounds.
A minute later, John felt something hot and wet cover his erection. He wasn't even aware that Sherlock had moved down, let alone unzipped his pants. A strangled groan left his lips and from there it didn't take long at all before he came completely undone. Sherlock crawled back up John's limp body, lying down on it, and kissing at the underside of his jaw. "That was… wow, Sherlock," John muttered.
Sherlock chuckled. "I'm glad you approve."
"Did you need a hand with anything?" John asked, his eyes traveling down Sherlock's body.
"Now that you mention it," Sherlock grinned.
The rest of the morning was spent in bed until hunger drove them to the kitchen where beans and toast was sufficient enough for the time being… that and tea. John suggested they go for a walk in the park afterwards, but Sherlock had other ideas and the dishes were dropped in the sink rather less carefully than they should have been when John felt Sherlock's arms wrap around him from behind and his lips attacking the side of his neck.
They only made it to the couch this time where they later (much later and after gratuitous amounts of pleasure) fell asleep wrapped in each other's arms once more. Therefore they didn't hear the light knocking on the door, nor the slight squeak it made when it opened to emit Mrs. Hudson, or for that matter, the artificial shutter sound her mobile phone makes when taking a picture. Little did Mrs. Hudson know that this was the last time she would be taking a picture of her two favorite tenants because the next time she tried, there would most definitely be a chain lock on the door courtesy of Mycroft Holmes who strongly believed that elderly women should not be snapping photos of his younger brother and his partner and showing them to whoever wished to look. Mrs. Hudson would take this in stride, but her already tenuous relationship (or lack thereof) with Mycroft would be stretched even thinner… not that Mycroft cared very much. Luckily, Sherlock and John would remain in the dark, for the most part, and wouldn't think too much of it that Mrs. Hudson never came up when Mycroft came to visit.
o O o O o O o
A/N: Well… this was an interesting write… and about two times longer than I originally planned. Oh well, I'm just glad that it's gotten such an awesome response and that all of you, my readers, are so amazing! An especially big thanks to bubbles_karate for writing the prompt on the LiveJournal Sherlock Kink Meme that sparked this.
Sherlock (c) BBC & Arthur Conan Doyle