Sherlock and John living as a couple – and domestic life turns out to be far from boring! This can be read separately or as a sequel to my story Denial
John was walking up dark and deserted Baker Street. He had spent the last two and a half days at a medical conference in Manchester refreshing his knowledge on childhood diseases.
An interesting conference from a professional point of view and besides, he had used the opportunity to meet some colleagues he knew from way back at university. Admittedly, last night had been short, but it had offered him more than a glimpse of that unique black sense of humour prevailing within the medical profession. Quite a change from his life in London.
The train journey back from Manchester had been tiresome, a chatty old lady divulging all her ailments, from her hips and elbows to various other, better left unmentioned, intimacies – Nothing new, it always happened when people found out he was a doctor.
Usually he didn't mind, but the hours on the train had been dragging on and the old dear had been chatting away in a rather screechy, nerve-wrecking voice – being hard of hearing had been one of her minor ailments - and now he was very much looking forward to a quiet evening at home, his body and mind filled with longing for Sherlock.
All he wanted to do was to kiss Sherlock senseless, make sweet and lazy love to him, grab a bite and then drift off to sleep. In precisely that order.
Opening the front door his senses were immediately attacked by a pungent smell. He sniffed - Lacquer? He sniffed again, quickly mounting the stairs, a strange mixture of impatience, curiousity and desire driving him on. Enamel paint? He dropped his overnight bag and his black jacket on the landing. Wall paint? Another bloody experiment, is it? John quietly chuckled as he imagined Sherlock catalogueing one hundred and twenty two different types of pale blue enamel paint.
John shivered, the flat was cold and looked rather deserted, only a small lamp on the desk was switched on. From what he could make out in the dim light the kitchen was a mess. And contrary to what he had expected Sherlock was not to be found perched on his usual stool at the counter experimenting away.
'Sherlock? John peered around the corner into the living room, 'Sherlock, where are you?'
'Up here, John. In your room!'
John frowned – What was he doing in his bedroom? And if not for an experiment why that strong smell of paint? Bloody hell! That could only mean – He took two steps at a time and yanked the door of his bedroom open. He froze. Former bedroom - judging by what he now saw in front of him, 'Jesus, Sherlock! What are you doing?'
Sherlock half turned and looked up at him, a smile fairly lighting up his feline features. He was kneeling on the floor which he had covered with old newspapers and something else. John couldn't quite make out what it was, but it looked like –'Are these my medical textbooks?'
Sherlock turned his gaze back to the floor and squinted, 'Um – yes - I've run out of newspapers, so I took what I could find on your desk. You don't need those anymore.' Not a question, but a statement.
He got up and aimed one of those disarming lopsided smiles at John, 'John, how I missed you!' Oh, hell, Sherlock knew exactly how to disarm him – completely.
John, who was marvelling about how quickly after coming home to this impossible madman he had been bordering on exasperation, fury even, couldn't help but grin when he took in Sherlock in the light of the naked light bulb dangling from the ceiling.
What he saw was very appealing – delectable was the word that sprang to John's mind, actually: Sherlock had white paint in his dark, dishevelled curls and on the tip of his nose. His eyes were glittering with amusement and genuine joy and his cheeks were sprinkled with paint. He wore an old pair of torn tight jeans – Where did those come from? – teamed up with a plain white T-shirt. His feet were bare and also splattered with paint.
'For God's sakes, Sherlock, what are you doing?' John repeated, feeling a bit calmer now. 'Where is all my stuff? What have you done with it?' He stepped into the room, carefully avoiding the large puddles of paint on the floor.
Two walls of the room had already been painted in a blinding, clinical white showing off all the better the rather dark, stained, shabby rest of the room. John looked around and what he saw rendered him speechless - his bedroom had been stripped completely bare. Everything was gone. His bed, his wardrobe, his desk, his chest of drawers, his little bedside table, his books – everything.
Sherlock noticed John's flabbergasted expression and hastened to say, 'Don't worry, John. Everything's still here. I figured out you wouldn't need this room anymore since you always sleep with me. I've been thinking, John, we can really find a better use for it now.'
John heard something in Sherlock's voice that he didn't hear very often – in fact almost only when he was talking about a particularly gruesome triple murder or when he set out to rant about all those imbeciles at the Yard – but there it was: undisguised, childlike enthusiasm.
'Right. I hear what you're saying, I just don't understand it!' And he didn't, honestly.
'John, it's obvious, isn't it!' Sherlock waved his arms about indicating the vastness of the now empty room, splattering paint from the paint brush he was still holding.
John pinched the bridge of his nose, he felt very tired all of a sudden, 'It's not obvious to me, Sherlock. Seriously, it isn't!'
'John, I'm going to have my own lab in here. There's plenty of space and there are enough sockets – no tap and no sink, that's a bit of a downfall, but it can't be helped at the moment, maybe we can arrange something later. And I can vacate the kitchen, at least partially.'
'But what about my stuff?' John said through gritted teeth, he was incredulous.
'Well, some of your things are going to my room – our room – and the rest will go to the dump.'
'What do you mean, the rest will go to the dump? I have got absolutely nothing that needs throwing out!' John was really getting irritated now, he didn't like to be ordered, didn't like it when things concerning his personal space were decided above his head. No, he wanted to be asked - nicely!
And if he really had to give up his own room, his refuge, he felt he had every right to be a bit touchy about it. He frowned and dipped his chin in his customary fashion, puckering his lips. This gesture, as Sherlock knew very well, expressed annoyance and exasperation.
So Sherlock put down the dripping paintbrush which had added nice little splatters to his jeans and the floor when he had expansively waved his arms in his enthusiasm. Apparently he didn't mind, he just roughly wiped his hands clean on his jeans and walked over to John. Looking down on him he cupped his chin, smearing some of the paint on John doing so, and forced him to look up into his eyes.
'John. I'm really sorry this bothers you so much. I honestly thought you wouldn't mind. Frankly, I was bored out of my wits while you were away and this seemed to be a good idea. You must admit that it's by far the better option.' Sherlock spoke softly using his seductive low voice fully to his advantage. His ice blue eyes bore into John's.
But John wasn't quite ready to relent yet, 'Better option than what exactly?'
Sherlock grinned wickedly, 'Answering distracting texts and running to the devil, of course –' John snorted and his thoughts briefly wandered back to the beginnings of their love when Sherlock had played a dangerous game with this maniac Moriarty.
'When you look at it that way, you might have a point, actually,' John finally conceded and leaned in to kiss Sherlock. He tasted of paint and dissolvent. 'You smell like a DIY store,' he said, 'I really can't picture you gracing a store full of muscled, tattoed macho men buying paint and brushes. I'm sure you looked horribly out of place among all those DIY fiends.'
'I perfectly managed to blend in,' Sherlock sounded a bit annoyed as if John was seriously doubting his capacity of dissembling.
'Sure, you did. All I'm saying is that boredom must have been truly overwhelming!'
Sherlock quickly closed the tiny remaining gap between them, 'Quite!' he murmured against John's ear and placed a kiss just below it, right where he knew it would affect John the most. John closed his eyes and placed his hands on Sherlock's jeans-clad hips. The sensation of this rough fabric on those narrow hips felt strangely arousing and he sharply sucked in his breath. He felt Sherlock's knowing smirk. No need to see his smirking face, no need to say anything, John thought, he knows full well what he's doing to me.
Sherlock slowly moved on to John's lips, brushing over them, darting the tip of his tongue out urging John to welcome him. They were making up for the last days of separation, all tongues and lips, warm and wet, and Sherlock groaned from deep within his chest. He put his hands on John's back letting them glide slowly downwards until they cupped his backside. Tilting his hips against John's he started to move against him. Their breathing grew jerky and their kissing more urgent.
John broke off to catch a breath, 'You know, Sherlock,' he said huskily, 'This painting business has been a bit of a cold shower because all I have been dreaming about on this blasted train journey back from Manchester was finding you here, at home, grabbing you, pinning you against the wall and kissing you senseless.'
'Is that all you had in mind, love?' Sherlock muttered, his mouth buried in John's hair. A shiver ran through John's body - Hearing Sherlock use that term of endearment still made his knees go weak.
'No, not quite,' He chuckled and nuzzled Sherlock's long, pale neck before he met his eyes again, 'That was just the boring part of my plans for tonight. There might be a slight problem, though.'
'What could possibly be a problem?' Sherlock murmured lazily against John's lips.
'Where is my bed?'
'In my room. Along with the rest of your - ' Sherlock stopped doing what he was doing and that was kissing and nibbling John's lips, 'Oh! ' he exclaimed and this Oh! sounded distinctly sheepish. John silently prayed that he'd misheard, 'Oh?' he repeated, a frown knitting his brows.
Sherlock looked at him, his beautiful features genuinely distressed, 'Everything is in my room. And when I say everything, I mean everything, all of it. Your furniture, your books, your clothes, every single thing. In fact, I have to admit, it's quite impossible to access my room.'
'Sherlock! Where are we going to … – and where are we going to sleep?' John saw their sweet lazy lovemaking and his peaceful dozing off vanish into thin air.
'Wait here, John! Not to worry. I'll be back in a moment,' Sherlock pecked him on the cheek and bounded down the stairs. John let out a sigh – I'm never bored. He walked over to the window and leaned against the frame, one of the few surfaces not yet covered in paint.
Downstairs he heard a door being yanked open and some muffled shuffling about. Soon afterwards there was some clinking and clanking in the living room. A loud bang was followed by Sherlock's sharp exclamation of pain and a colourful curse. John chuckled.
Next, something heavy was being dragged along the floor along the hall, followed by the swishing sound of an obviously voluminous object. Loud screeching and a thud ensued - then silence.
A moment later soft footsteps treaded up the stairs and a beaming Sherlock opened the door. He walked over to John and kissed him tenderly, 'I've moved things around a bit. Now - Would you like to come down and show me what exactly you had in mind for us tonight?'
'I missed you,' John kissed Sherlock's forehead, smoothing down some of those unruly curls with his thumb. They were lying on their makeshift bed in front of the fireplace in the living room.
'Hmm,' was the only answer, 'I'm sure the pretty blond GP was more than an ample replacement for me –'
'Sherl .. ' John sighed, 'What are you going on about? I was just having a friendly pint and a chat with her. And how on earth can you –' John broke off when he felt the slight heaving of Sherlock's chest. 'Are you laughing? At me?'
'John, I love it when you get all flustered. Besides, I was right,'
'There was a pretty blond GP and -,' but before he could prove his extraordinary deducing skills once more John leaned down and covered his mouth with his own - because those last wonderful weeks with Sherlock had expanded Dr John Watson's knowledge of the only consulting, and frankly maddening, detective in the world quite considerably.
And one particle of this newly acquired intimate knowledge was that kissing was a sure - and sometimes the only - way to make Sherlock Holmes shut up.
A/N Would you like me to continue? This might turn into a collection of domestic scenes, maybe some case related, maybe involving lots of other characters – But basically Sherlock and John as an established couple.
I hope you liked it! – Please tell me what you think ;-D JJ