Sherlock has the audacity to say, "I can explain," in that detached, monotone voice of his, and hell if John's going to listen to the explanation of the man who broke his heart then kidnapped him while he was three sheets to the wind only the day after he broke John's heart in order to have a fuck.
John clumsily pushes Sherlock away and tries to scramble out of the bed without issue but, instead, he falls over the edge and hits the ground with a loud thump. He buries his face in his hands, which are sweaty and shaky, and yells into them, "Have you lost your mind?"
The question could probably be posed to himself or Sherlock but its main purpose is for Sherlock.
"John, you need to calm down."
"I need to calm down," John mimics incredulously. Then he starts to laugh. The laughter spirals into something manic and doesn't stop until John feels a body pressing itself next to him. It feels nice, to have the warmth, to feel Sherlock's body, his lovely body, beside him again even if he doesn't know whether to scream at or kiss Sherlock.
Sherlock slings a leg over John's knees and sits in his lap, takes John's face in between his hands, bends down and presses their foreheads together. "Listen to me. You need to listen."
"When do I not listen to you?" John asks blearily. He does not try to push Sherlock away. His hands gravitate to Sherlock's hips. He curses at himself internally for being so weak.
"You can't leave. I don't want you to leave."
"Youmade that pretty clear by fucking kidnapping me like…like…"
Sherlock kisses John's forehead. "Promise you'll stay."
"Um I said I was staying but—"
"Promise you will not go back to Emily's. I'll have someone pick up your things."
"Why? Are you jealous?" John says, his lip curling.
"Don't be absurd," Sherlock answers huffily.
"I…Jesus fuck, Sherlock. I just wanted…I needed just needed some time to clear my head…clear my head of you. Andhere you are…now. Ruining everything."
John hiccups. "Don't what? You like that word. Can you not be so cryptic? I can barely understand myself right now let alone you."
Sherlock pushes John's shirt off his shoulders, helps him be rid of it completely. "Don't clear your head of me." Sherlock runs a finger up John's chest, as light as a feather, toward his bad shoulder. He stops before he's touching the scar. "Because I can't clear my head of you. Do you know how troubling that is for me? I want to be with you too, John. Are you hearing me?"
John doesn't quite understand what's going on here. His heart is pounding and he wishes it would stop getting excited for no reason. "What are you trying to say?"
Sherlock groans. "I'm asking you if you will you have me. Will you have me, John?"
The room spins as John rewinds and replays what Sherlock had just said. It didn't make much sense. Sherlock Holmes did not want to be with him. He doesn't do relationships. Never will.
He had captured John while he was drunk off his arse…to play mind games? John can't believe Sherlock is playing him like this just so he can have sex! John is angry now, gripping the cloth of Sherlock's hips a bit too roughly. An angry drunk Watson is never a good thing, so he'll have to avert a disaster by leaving.
He pushes Sherlock hard, hard enough that the man tumbles off his legs and hits the floor, his hands breaking the fall, his legs askew, his eyes wide and confused. He hadn't expected that one, had he? Good. Conceited bastard.
John grabs his discarded shirt with purpose, stands up and almost trips over his own feet as he stomps out the door and upstairs to his bedroom. He slams the door, falls onto the bed face first and is taken by sleep.
He wakes up with a pounding headache and a bout of nausea. Of course.
"Good morning," a deep voice says and John jumps skittishly and unconsciously reaches for the drawer that contains his Sig Sauer. He calms down when he sees it's only Sherlock (only Sherlock?) sitting on the chair on the other side of the room, knees up to his chest like an overgrown child, an introspective look on his face. Sherlock juts his chin to indicate a location, "Paracetamol and water are there on your side table."
"Christ, I almost shot you." John reaches for the Paracetamol and downs two tablets with a slug of water. "Were you there all night?"
Sherlock considers. "Mm, almost."
"Jeeeesus I feel like someone hit me with an anvil."
"Six lagers will do that."
John closes his eyes, massaging his temples. "…how do you know how much I drank?" The night comes back to him like snippets of a long film, it's not everything, but it gives John the general idea of the plot. He remembers bits of Emily, dinner, the club, a mysterious stranger who turned out to be—
"Sherlock," John begins slowly, drags out the name. He'll need to tread slowly, carefully here. He's not going to get angry. He does not feel up to the task of being angry. "Is it my alcohol addled brain imagining it or did you kidnap me last night?"
When John opens his eyes, Sherlock's sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at John with a look of complacency. John hadn't even heard him move. "I did."
John inhales sharply and clenches the sheets. Maybe he should have taken out his gun after all. "…and you thought that was okay."
"How else would you have come back to me?" He says it like it's the most obvious thing in the world.
Maybe he should call Lestrade now and turn himself in for the murder of Sherlock Holmes? It would be the polite thing to do. "Oh, I don't know! Maybe if you phoned me. Had a civil chat over the phone. Said 'sorry John, I was an idiot and had no regard for your feelings whatsoever. Please forgive me.' Maybe that would've bloody worked, you twat!" He shouldn't yell, but he couldn't help it. His head is throbbing.
"You wouldn't have wanted to speak to me."
Right, he had a point. John calms down marginally. "All I wanted was space. Was that so much to ask?" John feels he's missing something here. Something important. Something that happened that night that he can't remember.
"You don't need space you need me."
John scoffs loudly. "You think you're the solution to my problem? You're the problem to my problem!"
"Sherlock!" John's trying not to yell. Really trying.
Sherlock looks at the wall behind John. "You never answered my question."
"What damn question?" John grits out.
Sherlock looks at John. "Will you have me?"
John takes a huge breath. It's not something that he needs to reflect on so he says, "Yes" with a gust of exhale. "Wait. What?"
Sherlock grimaces but he doesn't make a snide remark. John's impressed by his restraint. "I had time to think about it and I came to the conclusion that I was running from something important. I don't want to end what we have."
John groans. Sherlock's absolutely unbelievable! "You mean you don't want to end our little agreement of having sex without the petty emotional attachment. Jesus Christ, Sher—"
"No," Sherlock cuts in forcefully, "Ever since you let me fuck you I was wary of the, um, developments. I was shutting down everything I felt for you. I didn't want to believe it." Sherlock's eyes have lost that unreadable barrier and glisten with sincerity. He's open and John can read him too well.
John's not still drunk is he? "God. This is for real. We're actually having a conversation about your feelings. For me."
"John," Sherlock warns. He's serious.
He's actually serious.
John feels infinitely calmer. Did he just have a headache? He feels fantastic.
"Right. Wow. This is, um." John shakes his head in disbelief. "Wow. This almost makes up for the kidnapping stint. I mean, who the hell does that?"
Sherlock smirks and climbs onto the bed so that he's sitting at John's hip. "You accept me, then."
"Accept you?" John repeats hysterically, reaching out to brush a curl of hair away from Sherlock's forehead. That was almost involuntary. "I want to engulf you."
Sherlock says, practically growling, "Show me."
"Gladly." John throws the duvet onto the floor and collides with Sherlock's mouth bruisingly. He licks at Sherlock's bottom lip and Sherlock opens his mouth, lets John in, and their tongues entwine in a desperate dance. John's hands slide up Sherlock's neck and rake through his hair as their mouths continue to mesh together. Sherlock's started removing his shirt so John joins in to help and together it's removed in record time. John pulls his shirt over his head and Sherlock pushes him backwards and kisses up from the trail of light hair by his groin to his collarbone.
"C'mere," John says, reaching up to pull the zip down Sherlock's trousers and his hard cock springs free. He hadn't worn any pants. He was prepared for this to happen. "I'm surprised you can get through doors with that massive ego."
Sherlock smirks and wiggles out of the trousers and sits right on John's thinly clothed pyjama bottoms, slides John's cock between his spread arsecheeks and rides it. The friction probably feels incredible if Sherlock's slack and blissful face is anything to go by. It sure feels incredible on John's end.
"God," John says, watching Sherlock through hooded lids, "Look at you. Could watch you do that all day."
Sherlock leans down and kisses and sucks John's lips for a full minute, then pulls away breathlessly. "I cannot stop kissing you."
"I need to get out of these," John says, his mind zoning in on one thing—his hard and insistent cock. Sherlock gets on his knees to give John space to remove the trousers, then his pants. Sherlock rolls over onto his side and John follows, slotting himself behind. He takes his cock in hand and drags it up the crescent dip of Sherlock's lower back. Sherlock moans, raises his leg and clamps down on John's cock so it's caught between his taut thighs. Sherlock squeezes lightly and it's John's turn to moan.
"Oh my god," John says helplessly, as Sherlock rubs his thighs together. John bites down on his lip hard and lets Sherlock roll his cock between his strong thighs. He reaches over to grab Sherlock's cock, and strokes his gratitude. Sherlock makes a strangled noise at the touch. "God, Sherlock. Yes."
"Lube's underneath the pillow." Sherlock opens his thigh and waits. John reluctantly reaches for the pillow.
"Of course it is." John retrieves the tube and slicks himself quickly, then traces the curve of Sherlock's behind, teasingly avoiding his entrance. "Beautiful. You're beautiful. Have I ever told you that?"
"I certainly don't mind you saying it," Sherlock says and John can just hear his smile. John presses a chaste kiss to his bony shoulder.
"You wouldn't, would you," John says amicably.
"I can't kiss you from this position. It's unfortunate."
John pulls Sherlock's thigh up with the crook of his arm, then traces the pink ring of Sherlock's hole with his free hand. Sherlock shudders. He presses a finger inside and Sherlock pushes back.
"Yes," Sherlock hisses. John circles slowly in the tight heat with his finger and gives Sherlock's arm a kiss. He's never been this slow with Sherlock and it's refreshing. "More."
John presses another finger and toys with the prostate. Sherlock moans so deeply, John feels it in his toes. "You now. I need you now. John."
John removes his fingers and touches the head of his cock by Sherlock's highly exposed hole. He's already leaking with pre-cum. Sherlock's arm is moving steadily, he's stroking himself. John presses in slowly, languorously, until he's connected with Sherlock completely.
"Fuck," John pants.
"Yes, exactly. Fuck. Now!"
John begins to move and it feels like heaven not just because of the incredible sensation, but it feels right to be doing this and doing it with purpose. Sherlock is his now. He is Sherlock's.
"You're mine now," John articulates as he snaps his hips forward and Sherlock cries out and moves his hand frantically on his cock.
Sherlock's head lolls back and he says, guttural and very much caught in the moment, "Yours now. Always." Sherlock pushes back as John thrusts forward hard so that his balls are slapping against the cushion of Sherlock's arse.
They continue like that for awhile until John is being pushed from the brink of his orgasm. He basks in every moment. This makes up for all the meaningless shags, the unspoken words.
They will make up for all that had been lost.
"John," Sherlock cries as he comes. John follows quickly after and they just remain, slumped together. John pulls out, cringing, and tries to wipes away the cum that trickles down Sherlock and onto the sheets. He'll just put it in the laundry later. He pushes himself up and Sherlock turns onto his back, pulls John down and kisses him.
"You didn't bruise my skin with your iron grip this time," John comments amusedly.
"You didn't curse like a sailor. Soldier."
John laughs. "Well. Uh. Things are different now."
John gives Sherlock a light smack on the arm. Sherlock looks gorgeous from above, his curls fanned out in a halo, his cheeks flushed, his expression soft and relaxed. "We were idiots to think this wouldn't have happened. "
Sherlock shrugs and pets John's waist gently. "I truly believed it wouldn't happen. This doesn't happen. It's never happened. To me."
John leans on his one arm and holds out his other, offering a handshake. "Congratulations, Sherlock Holmes. You've been chosen for a relationship. You need to shake my hand or we can't seal this relationship. Don't worry, this is the hand that wasn't in your arse just a moment ago."
Sherlock chuckles. It's a wonderful, rare sound. Sherlock amuses John and takes John's hand, grips it tightly and gives it a satisfying pump. "It's sealed then."
John's heart soars. "Welcome to the John Watson organisation. I am quite happy to have you."
"And I you," Sherlock says with a smile. He pulls John down, and they kiss.
Thank you to everyone who reviewed! It was great motivation.
This was supposed to be a one-chapter story but morphed into a lovely six chapters of angst and (really, only at the end) fluff. I hope you've enjoyed the ride.