A/N: Plot? What plot? The porn IS the plot! Bwahahaha~
Actually no I just wanted to write more bottom!John. Also Peepingtom!Sherlock. Idk idk
He knows he shouldn't be looking.
Except it's a bit difficult to turn away and walk down the hall when it's so obvious and fascinating and there, almost like an invitation.
Sherlock has never put a label on his sexuality. Why bother? Sex includes relationships, because one-night-stands are pointless and messy. And both happen to be things that don't coincide with Sherlock's line of work, nor his general nature. Sex is science and human behaviour to him, nothing more. He has always been very clinical about it, and never cared to have it.
It has never caught his interest, and whenever arousal has arisen in him for whatever reason – his body's natural erections spurred during puberty for nearly no reason, as well as his usual "morning wood" or "wet dreams" on occasion since puberty as his body regulates its sperm count and other functions to keep him healthy – he simply got it – the tedious act of wanking – over with, to clear his head and help him move on to more important things.
But this is… well, entirely separate. This is genuine intrigue in sex. And this goes without saying that it crosses some sort of boundary, beyond the realm of privacy and libido, because he had not foreseen this, and now that it's happening, Sherlock can't help himself.
He watches, fascinated, through the crack in John's bedroom door – not fully locked or closed, presumably, because he hadn't though Sherlock would be home, and certainly didn't hear him come in. He watches with the spark of interest regular porn addicts must feel: anticipation, sharp twists and churns and jolts of arousal thrumming through him, shooting to his groin; the pooling of heat as blood fill his erectile tissue, his tongue automatically flick out to lick at suddenly parched lips.
John has one hand (his right) braced against his closet door, his trousers in a puddle around his ankles, his knees on the floor and spread wide, his arse cheeks tensely pressed together, and he forehead resting against the cool glass of his full-length mirror screwed into the closet door. His breath is fogging up the glass, and he's watching himself.
He's stroking at intervals of slow and quick, fully fisting his prick on the quick bursts, (left) palm wiping and clenching in a circular motion at the top before sliding down along his shaft. Then he holds himself, thumb tenderly stroking, fingers pulling back his foreskin to thumb over his naked member, and his hands are slicked with a kind of lubricant – lotion? Or something John bothered to buy? Sherlock can't tell from this distance, can't smell anything distinct in the air – and as John touches himself, little breathy moans emit from his mouth, tumbling down and falling against the mirror almost visibly, all by the way his shoulders slack as he makes them.
And this angle is ideal for Sherlock, really, because the mirror enables him to see what John is doing, while he still gets a perfect view of John's back and rear. It's all smooth angles, apart from the scar on his shoulder, but even that is something wonderful to behold. John is moderately fit for his age, given all the running around he does with Sherlock, and it's very challenging not to find him attractive; because while Sherlock has always found something to admire about John's personality and readable, ever-shifting face, he has never been able to see beyond John's tacky jumpers, because John has always been so careful to wear clothes when he's around Sherlock. But without them, Sherlock finally sees what he has been missing, what's been within arms' reach all along. And it's glourious.
John makes a sort of hissing sound as he leaks pre-come and smears it along his length, his pace all fast movements now, the sound of his hand moving along slick skin able to be heard well enough to make Sherlock's entire throat go dry and his hand, without consent, fly to his crotch to palm the erection he bears under his own trousers. He quietly slumps to his knees and palms himself as he watches John near climax.
And it's magnificent, because John is tilting his head back and gasping out louder moans, nails digging into the wood of the door beside his mirror as he spreads his knees as wide as they'll go, feet overlapping at the ankle, his eyes clamped shut in ecstasy.
John's hand falls away from the door and reaches past his testicles, rubbing them for a moment with the meat of his thumb before slipping fingers into his entrance, and that does it: Sherlock bites down on the knuckles of his free hand and comes in his pants, his hand growing damp other the cloth.
Huffing what he hopes isn't too loudly into his own palm, Sherlock blinks to clear the haze of his orgasm as he watches John reach his own climax, his fingers, no doubt, pressing on his prostrate – he would know precisely where to find it, the good doctor he is, and Oh, Sherlock wonders, How would it feel for John to find and rub my prostrate like that, his fingers inside me – and then, with a small cry, John's head drops back down and he comes, the first bout reaching the mirror, the rest spilling over his fingers as he slowly rides out the waves of pleasure.
Sherlock stands shakily and forces himself to retreat to his own bedroom before John comes to his senses post-orgasm and realises his door was left ajar, and that Sherlock was standing just outside of it. It would be best for both parties if such a realisation never occurs.
In the solace of his room, Sherlock strips of his soiled trousers and underwear and dons another pair of each, hoping John won't notice that these slacks are a different shade of black (brighter; newer) than the ones he left in this morning.
But of course he won't; John isn't nearly observant enough.
John emerges from his room some time later, which is a relief, because it gives Sherlock enough time to dab the sweat from his forehead, clear his eyes of signs of arousal, and calm down with a textbook (on the decomposition of living matter; something furthest from anything remotely sexual to spark his recent memory) in his armchair.
"Oh," John murmurs as he enters the living room, about to turn, no doubt, into the kitchen to make tea. "I… didn't know you were home."
"Just got back," Sherlock lies smoothly, his face perfectly composed. John, to his credit, doesn't look like someone who just had a wank. He's become increasingly better at hiding the evidence since living with Sherlock, at least to grant himself the smallest scraps of privacy from the detective's naturally prying eye. If he hadn't just been watching it happen, he wouldn't have thought a thing about John's possible activity choice during Sherlock's absence. He would have assumed John was reading or anything equally boring. "Are you putting the kettle on? I could go for a cup of tea."
"Um, sure," John shrugs casually, turning to his right to enter the kitchen. Too casually; hmm. Suspicious. But it could be because he knows what he had been doing and is anxious, making sure that Sherlock can't pick up on it. Well, Sherlock won't comment on it, if that's what John is fearful of. It would be like admitted he witnessed it, in a way, considering how well John has covered it up.
Sherlock pretends to read the same passage over again, keeping himself composed even as John enters the room, handing Sherlock a steaming cup. Sherlock takes it, quickly, to avoid making physical contact with the same hand (John's right) that had slipped into John's anus and pressed his prostrate (washed thoroughly, smelling strongly of their hand soap, come to think of it; perhaps too well covered up, then). And he tries, too, not to glance at John's other hand (his left), knowing that, moments ago, it had been firmly gripping his prick.
However, in his haste, Sherlock jostles his cup, making scalding hot liquid spill over his hand as he moves to set it onto the table beside him. He yelps and waves his hand about angrily.
"Dammit, Sherlock; I'm always tell you not to rush everything!" John scolds as he moves to set down his own cup and reach for Sherlock's hand, his fingers tenderly settling themselves on either side of Sherlock's own. "Blast it! Hold still, and let me see."
"I can handle a minor burn myself, thank you!" Sherlock spits in nearly a shriek as tears his hand out of John's grasp. He leaps to his feet and proceeds to the kitchen to run cold water over it.
"What's the matter with you?" John frowns, following his flatmate into the kitchen. "You're touchy today. In one of your moods, are you?"
"Yes," Sherlock retorts. Such an excuse is to the best of his defence, he realises quickly.
John nods shortly, but then seems to rethink it. "We just had a case the other day, though, and you seemed fine a second ago…"
He can't very well say, 'I don't want you touching me because now the very thought of coming into skin-on-skin contact with you makes my pulse jump and filthy images come to mind,' despite how true it is. Sherlock is blunt, and often lacks tact, but he only is when it embarrasses/exposes others, not himself.
"Fine, be in a piss-poor mood and see if I care. I'm going to sip my tea and watch telly." And he turns away from the running sink and Sherlock. He seems utterly unfazed.
Sherlock shuts off the water and drops his hands to the ledge of the kitchen sink, sighing loudly. This is new for him. He can't wrap his mind around this sudden sexual intrigue involving John, and he was foolish to think he could return to normal today after having witnessed such a private, erotic moment.
"I'll be in my room," he announces flatly as he turns away from the living room and dries his hand on his trousers.
Sherlock has always been fantastic at playing cat-and-mouse with criminals, but when it comes to relationships, the concept always seemed pointless. But now, he sees, he has been possibly playing a rather unintentional game of it with John the second he chose to pause by John's door and watch him masturbate.
He had gone up to John's room in the first place because John hadn't been in the kitchen, living room, or bathroom when Sherlock came home. He hadn't bothered to call out because he, frankly, was too lazy to, and figured that if John wasn't home, it would be useless, and if he were, he was easy enough to find if Sherlock simply looked.
But what he found… he hadn't been expecting it at all. He heard the noises first; the soft panting, the passing gasps and moans and low whines, and he knew what they were as he approached. He knew, goddammit all, but he kept going. His feet led him to the door as soon as he was halfway down the hall and saw that it was cracked open. And he couldn't help it; he had to see for himself. The sounds were enough to trigger a hunger Sherlock didn't realise he was capable of feeling for another person, and that was all it took. That electricity was all he needed to dissolve his resolve.
And now he's buried himself in an odd sort of mess, because Sherlock is picturing it in the emptiness of his room, now. And his prick twitches with interest again as the vivid images – Sherlock damns his own memory sometimes for being so crisp with detail – flood back to him out of chronological order, even filling in imaginary gaps as to how John got into that position, all in clips of visuals and sounds.
He presses a hand to his groin and wills himself not to become aroused again as he lies down for bed. He might as well sleep; he's about due for a few hours of it, given the past eighteen – ah, no, correction: nineteen – hours he's been awake.
Sherlock curls onto his side and tries to keep his mind closed (as that bloody door should have been) as he attempts sleep.
"Sherlock?" John prods as he knocks on Sherlock's bedroom door the following evening. "You've been in here since yesterday afternoon. Do you want something to eat? Are you feel unwell? – Is that why you snapped at me? How is your burn, anyway? Not blistering, is it?"
The questions are not said all at once. There are periods of silence in between each one, apart from the 'unwell' and 'snap' comments, said in a set. Between each question, John allows a full minute before asking another. He's concerned. It's only natural. Sherlock might be silent for a few days at a time, but never cooped up in his room unless it's to sleep after a particularly draining case. This is not one of those times, so John is right in thinking Sherlock might be ill.
"I'm fine, John," Sherlock answers. He forces himself up off his bed and enters the bathroom through his adjoining door. "Don't worry about me. If I want food, I will make it myself later."
"Oh… alright. Whatever you say. Just… if you're sick, tell me, okay? I know how you get: too damn prideful to admit you're weakened at all. So if you are, say so, you hear? I can get you some medicine, since I know you don't have any in there."
Sherlock almost smiles as he flushes the toilet and washes his hands. "I'll be sure to ask if that is ever the case, but I'm not sick. I sound fine, can't you tell?"
There's a pause. "Not congested or raspy, you're right. But you sound… well, more emotionless than usual. Are you sure you're okay?"
"I'm all right, really!" Sherlock barks through the bathroom door, returning to his room. "Leave me be, John!"
"Christ! Fine!" John says in defeat. He laughs a little as he walks away. "I swear, you have worse mood swings than my girlfriends on their periods…"
"That's disgustingly vulgar, John," Sherlock returns through the door, and he hears John stop and shuffle back.
"Well, I wouldn't have to be vulgar if you got your sense of humour back." His voice is directly on the other side of the wood, and nearly right in front of Sherlock's lips. He feels his breath hitch in his throat and heat collect in his lower abdomen at the sound of John's voice (and the knowledge of John's mouth) being right there, all Sherlock knowing all he has to do is open the door and bring their mouths together.
Sherlock stumbles back a few steps. This is why seeing John is still too fresh, too soon, and why he was being foolishly reckless by tossing privacy to the wind and watching John yesterday. It will take at least a week for the memory to fade enough for Sherlock to so much as look at John without picturing him essentially naked and kneeling before a mirror with his hips thrusting shallowly into his stroking hand, his other buried inside himself, his head tilted back as he climbed toward orgasm –
Sherlock halts his thoughts before they have further effect on his body. He remains flaccid, thankfully, but that doesn't stop the pitch in his stomach. He feels icy-hot, suddenly, and has to strip himself of his shirt as he sits down on the edge of his bed.
He's in so deep. He wonders why one incident of being a peeping tom has lead to this so rapidly.
Logically, Sherlock knows it means he must have been harboring something for John that only needed this incident to set it into full motion. But what? What could he have possibly felt – or, rather, still feel, but stronger – to make his lust flare up this hotly?
Sherlock swallows hard. Well, love can do that. People in love desire sex from the ones they love romantically. And Sherlock has always known about his fondness for John; John Watson is, after all, the sole person on this planet Sherlock can stand to be with at all hours and not tire of, even through their arguments, and he does happen to be the only person Sherlock doesn't find repelling in intellect or appearance, and John is charming and lovable in his own ways, according to everyone Sherlock has met, and Sherlock has always admired John's bravery and ability to understand complex things if given the short time or brief explanation, and he is a rather wonderful man in general, if Sherlock considers all the aspects of John, and –
Shit. He is in love with John, then, by all logic according to the knowledge Sherlock has of human behavior regarding romantic attachment.
Since when, though? Since when has Sherlock felt this way?
…Thinking on it, it's been building for quite some time. He has thought most of these things since the moment he met John in the chemistry lab at St. Bart's. And getting to know John for the past couple years as he has, those ideas have only doubled and tripled into… Well, what only can be love, Sherlock supposes.
Love that has awakened a lust the second Sherlock caught John wanking.
He reiterates: "Shit."
The most sensible thing to do is ignore the revelation and avoid being so obviously one-track-minded. And it works for another day until Sherlock is starving and requires sustenance for his body.
He emerges when he is sure John is out, and makes himself toast and devours an apple and two cups of tea to fill in the cracks. By then, John sends a text.
On my way home. Anything you want me to pick up? And you better be out of your room this time, or I will have to drag you out.
Sherlock makes a face, but clears it and replies, I require nothing. –SH
He adds sassily, And I AM out of my room. –SH
Good. I was about to call in reinforcements.
Sherlock smiles at that. John's concern makes him feel nice (and if he ever wanted further proof of his feelings, that pleasantness alone is enough).
Sighing, Sherlock remains in the living room, bored out of his mind, but too lethargic to do anything about it.
John comes home fifteen minutes later. He has a shopping bag in his hand and his keys in the other. He sets both on the partially cleared kitchen table and goes about putting the shopping away. He voices, "Feeling any better?"
"I told you, I wasn't ill," Sherlock remarks.
"Sickness comes in all forms, you know. Depression is one kind, the flu is another, for example," John says fluidly as he puts some new tea up in the cabinet. "So maybe you weren't sick physically, but you must've been emotionally, or else you would have come out."
"Touché, doctor," Sherlock bristles. "You are correct, then: I wasn't feeling myself in the emotional regard. I was… thrown off-balance by a revelation. It's nothing of consequence to you, however." Because he won't make it of consequence to John, because he doesn't intend to confess a single thing to the ex-army doctor. John holds no interest in men; he would have not needed to masturbate at all, in fact, if he had a girlfriend currently. But as it happens, he doesn't, but it still stands that he has only ever had girlfriends, and therefore wouldn't wish to participate in anything Sherlock might have to offer. Which makes any confession awkward and moot.
"What happened? Can't I know?" John says out of curiosity, smiling a little as he unloads the final item and makes his way with his keys to his bedroom to put away his wallet, jacket, and shoes.
"It's nothing," Sherlock calls after his flatmate. He shifts to cross his legs at the knee. John's in his room, and he's taking a moment in there, longer than necessary to drop off a couple items.
His room now is associated with that memory, and it's still haunting Sherlock, hard as he tries to will it away. It was so, so dumb to sit there and watch! Why didn't he engage his impeccable willpower and tear himself away? Why? Love or not, he shouldn't have done it. He really shouldn't have. He wouldn't be in this mess, now, if he had only –
"Was it about one of your unsolved cases? If so, that's something for the blog, surely," John says as he returns, changed out of a jumper, wearing a thin cotton tee instead. He also removed his socks. His arms are showing more. His bare feet. Like before. Like – Stop, stop. "…Sherlock, you okay? You're glaring at me."
The glare is meant for Sherlock's one-track-mind, as it were. He can't seem to prevent is from slipping. It would take a week, he calculated. It's only been a couple days. He sighs through his nose after a deep inhale through it. He brings his hands together and presses them into the cleft of his chin. "I apologise. It's nothing for your blog, John. It's a personal revelation, something I hadn't bothered to analyse about myself. It's nothing you need worry about."
Except that it is. If John knew, if he ever discovered – well, Sherlock fears John would move out. And he couldn't stand that. He feels nauseous at the very thought of losing John over something as pathetic and petty and pedestrian as unrequited love and unadulterated lust.
So, with a clearing of his throat, Sherlock changes the subject to something boner-killing: a new experiment he wishes to conduct regarding human kidneys, and if John would mind so much if he froze a few.
John sighs. "Just keep them in the bottom shelf of the freezer away from the edible meat on top, all right? Heaven forbid someone mistake it for a cutlet and fry it up and eat it."
Sherlock smiles minutely. "Heaven forbid one of us cross into cannibalism, yes. What a waste of valuable sanity that would be. Not to mention how it would ruin my experiment."
"Clearly your experiment is the most important thing there," John says with a roll of his eyes, but he's smiling.
Sherlock smirks briefly. "Of course it is."
The following two weeks go smoothly, thankfully. Sherlock is able to keep his feelings under control, and a new case distracts him shortly after his kidney experiment comes to a conclusive result. The case is a mild one – a client-given case that is solved in two days – but it helps. Everything helps, because everything that takes Sherlock's mind off of John is safe. Doable.
But he can't skate by forever, he's sure of it. He will try to hold out for as long as possible without a slip if he can. And he is more than capable, because while he has always found John more difficult to act in front of and manipulate than others, John also has the tendency to be gullible enough to believe Sherlock when he says, "I'm fine," more often than not.
And he's plenty "fine" these days. More than fine. Because it's all fine, isn't it? He's using John's words for this. For suppressing his homoerotic sentiments in favour of denial and other convenience. Yes, it's all fine to feel this way. Perfectly fine indeed.
One evening, a month following Sherlock's peeping mistake, John comes and sits beside Sherlock on the sofa, casually picking up his feet and dropping them into his lap to make room for himself at the end of the sofa. He picks up the remote, flips on the telly, and watches a rerun of Merlin.
"You know, sometimes I think that Merlin kid could be your younger cousin or something," John muses with a smile. "Dark hair; high, prominent cheekbones; full lips; thin frame; deathly pale. He might as well be related to you with all that in common." And he chuckles to himself. "But I reckon if you could use magic, you'd blow him out of the water, seeing as how you're much cleverer."
There is a compliment in there. In fact, there are a few, most of them in disguise as pointing out similarities that hardly exist, and, naturally, calling him clever, like always, but this time without the awe or the occasional sarcasm; this one is like a fact, like how his appearance was clearly described, but with affection mixed in there somewhere to make it a compliment.
Sherlock mulls this conundrum over. Why is John looking for an excuse to compliment his appearance and remark on his smarts? It couldn't be that –
No, that's not right. John has no interest in men. Unless there is an exception.
"Don't be ridiculous, John; he and I look nothing alike, not at all. My lips are a completely different shape; more of a heart. And his ears stick out more than mine, and my hair naturally curls. Not to mention the way my eyes slant and his do not. Plus, his actor is Irish; can't you hear the slight lilt even through the English accent he tries to put on? No, we couldn't possibly be related," Sherlock states. He knows for a fact John didn't mean this literally, and John is about to say so, if Sherlock is correct. And, hopefully, he will give his true reason fort he statement in three, two, one…
John shakes his head. "I didn't mean it accurately, I was just… pointing out that he reminds me of you, just a little. Like how I imagine you might have looked when you were a teenager."
"His actor is in his mid-twenties," Sherlock corrects.
"Is he? He looks like he's nineteen," John laughs. "Ah, well. Looks are deceiving until you hit about thirty-five, I suppose."
Sherlock gives pause, watches the screen for a moment. Then, softly, he ventures, "Why would you be thinking, even hypothetically or curiously, about what I looked like when I was young?"
John turns and looks Sherlock in the eye. He drops his hand from the back of the sofa and runs it through his hair. "Um, well. I guess because I wonder how anyone like you could have even been a child at one point, even though you obviously had to have been. You're… very unreal, do you know that?" John admits with a slight smile. "You're an 'old soul,' as they say. I can't picture you ever acting much like a kid. You must have been mature very young, being as brilliant as you are."
It's true. His talents of observation and deduction were raw, but evident, even as a child. He would meet adults when he was six and look at them and able, more often than not, what sort of occupation they were in, or at least if they were a liar or not. He didn't know how he knew until he was roughly ten, when he began looking for and dissecting tells. And it all developed from there. His imagination was wild as a child, enabling him to think himself a pirate, or think himself a scientist as he dissected animals in school, and go as far as to start questioning crime, as he did when he was about fifteen, and Carl Powers was murdered.
So John isn't off-base at all. Sherlock has always been… different. And he has always had an air about him, his mother's friends would say, that made him feel far more adult than he was. (This often got him into trouble: either more was expected of him, more beyond his age, or he was told things he shouldn't have yet known because people thought he could handle it. He couldn't. He learned to cope by becoming indifferent, and becoming rather passive about people and their feelings.)
"Actually, Sherlock, I've wondered: have you… I mean, did you have friends? Or special people in your life while growing up? I know how things are now, and it makes me worried for your past sometimes, especially knowing that you used to do drugs," John murmurs, his hands falling to Sherlock's feet and idly rubbing a thumb over his ankle bone, and under the arch of one foot. And god, that feels good, just the gentle brush of skin, and Sherlock has to focus on the question and not the sensation.
"Any friends I made in primary school, I lost within a week or less," Sherlock answers quietly. He swallows because of the sensitive topic and to stifle a soft sigh from how John is touching his ankle, running the tips of his fingers up the base of Sherlock's shin, ghosting over leg hair, making it tickle. "I was a very, very blunt child that didn't know how to hold my tongue. Eventually I learned not to speak at all unless it was showing off by answering a question from the teacher or correcting the teacher when they made a mistake. This made me even more disliked, however, so I gave up. I knew people once I hit University, of course, but they weren't friends by no definition. Only in my middle age, now, have I made any form of friendships. And those are limited to approximately four people in total."
"Me, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Molly," John listed to himself. "Yes, I figured as much." His contact slows to a stop atop both of Sherlock's feet. He looks him in the eye again. There is something there: it looks as though John wishes to comfort Sherlock in some way, make up for how people have mistreated him (unspoken, but implied: Sherlock was ignore, possibly bullied sporadically throughout his life).
"Don't look at me like that," Sherlock scoffs, turning his head to look at their armchairs, the fireplace (unlit), the screen. Anything but John's face, John's kind but calloused hands, John. "I don't want pity. I managed perfectly fine, and I am fortunate enough not to have to worry about any of that anymore. It's in the past, and it's irrelevant all around."
"Not irrelevant, Sherlock," John murmurs, and there is a shift of weight, and Sherlock jerks his head back to find John bracing his forearm on the back of the sofa, his torso leaning toward Sherlock. "Not to me. It explains a lot. And it isn't fair."
Sherlock doesn't have a biting remark for that. He simple swallows again and feels John's other hand gripping his calf for balance as he leans closer, and Sherlock wants to lift his head and kiss John, or he nearly expects John to kiss him, but instead, John grabs Sherlock's hand slung over his chest and hauls him up into sitting position, pushing his feet to the floor and bringing him into his arms.
"John," Sherlock grumbles, mouth dry, head pressed to John's sternum by his (right) hand, and he can hear John's heart beating rapidly, thumpathumpathump. "Why are you trying to comfort me? I don't need it. It's not a wound, not something you can heal with an embrace."
"I'm the doctor here. I'll decide if you are injured and need some healing. And I say you do, so shut up," John retorts, and honestly, Sherlock is too thrilled internally to pull away or reject it. His own heart could race against John's and possibly lap his rate if they were Olympic runners on a track.
Sherlock doesn't make a move to return the embrace, but he longs to. He wants nothing more than to turn fully into John's body and straddle his lap and bury his face in John's neck and breathe against his skin and wrap his arms under John's and under his shirt and feel his warm back and cry, or kiss, or confess. But it's not his nature, and John wouldn't allow it; it would be too strange, too uncomfortable. This is friendly gesture from an empathetic flatmate; that is all.
Finally, after a short eternity that Sherlock relishes with closed eyes and the subtle inhalation of John's scent on his clothes, John pulls away and stands. He shuts off the telly and claims he's heading to bed.
"See you in the morning, Sherlock," he murmurs, and then he's gone.
Sherlock breathes in and out, feeling cluttered and uptight, his mind racing and his chest clenching.
What was all that? John has never been so affectionate before. He's been as concerned, yes, but never more affectionate than a hand on Sherlock's shoulder or a pat on his knee or upper back.
Something is very different here. Sherlock only wishes he knew what.
One night, Sherlock stirs awake to loud groaning coming from John's bedroom. He has woken John from plenty of nightmares before; this one won't be viewed any differently.
He groggily makes his way to John's room and pushes open the half-ajar door.
John is thrashing less violently than usual, and he's murmuring in between groans. Sherlock freezes in place; John is not having a nightmare, his brain registers instantly.
His legs have become lead, despite the fact that he is well aware he should leave right this moment. Again, he can't look away.
John's head tosses from side to side on occasion, muttering one of his hands clenched under his pillow and the other into the sheet, fisting the fabric. From the dim streaming through the window, Sherlock can spy (as his eyes adjust and he's snapped out of his grogginess with a rush of arousal-fueled adrenaline) the sheen of sweat on John's brow, and the subtle upward thrusts of his pelvis, seek friction where there is none.
Then, in a sleep-slurred voice, he hears, "Sherlock," spoken breathy and desperate.
For the faintest of moment, he fears that John has awakened and sees Sherlock hovering at the foot of is bed; but no, his eyes are still closed, and he is still wriggling in his sheets, groaning or murmuring without conscious thought. It's a wonder his own noises don't wake him.
It's more of a wonder that he said Sherlock's name during such an obviously sexual dream.
Sherlock shivers where he stands, his own member gaining interest and size in his pyjama bottoms. He can see, even through the sheets, the slight bulge of John's own, and it takes a great amount of will not to touch himself or, worse still, move forward and touch John. But John might wake then, or any second now, and Sherlock would rather not get caught.
But it might be best if he wakes John regardless, if only to stop the dream and possibly to question him. Sherlock could easily mask his arousal in the darkness and play it off as waking John from what he did originally think to be a nightmare.
Sherlock fidgets where he stands, utterly torn. John looks so tempting like this. So many things flicker in Sherlock's mind, none of which being remotely appropriate. He swallows hard and forces himself to turn and walk out. He makes his way all the way back to his bedroom, stiff-legged, arms folded across his chest the whole way. Once he shuts his door, he exhales.
Then, greedily, Sherlock draws out his erection and eagerly rubs it, quelling some of his pent-up frustrations with a bite to his bottom lip.
Confrontation tomorrow. He could do that, he supposes; say the truth, in part: that he came up to wake John, thinking it a nightmare, but heard his name moaned and left. He won't admit to staying and watching for a short while; no, no. It would be A Bit Not Good to say that. But he needs to get John to explain himself. He needs to know why. He wants to know if it's a mistake or not. And if not…
Sherlock hisses under his breath as he jerks himself roughly, the lack of lubrication a little maddening, but in just the right way to keep him stable. The edge of dryness softened only by a dribble of pre-come is enough to feel him from getting lost in carnal pleasure.
He comes, John's name a whisper on his lips, and the image of John writhing on his bed fresh in his mind. He cleans himself off in the bathroom and then collapses into bed.
How does one go about bringing up sexual conversation? Aside from phone sex hotlines, Sherlock never understood sexual conversation, even if it is being spoke of medically between, say, a daughter and her mother, the daughter seeking knowledge to ready herself for her future romantic encounters, and the mother, being experienced, offering advice. Even talk of that nature was never well grasped by Sherlock, even though sex doesn't alarm him and he can talk about it in crime/blackmail just fine.
As it happens, John acts like his normal self in the morning, which might be a deterrent or a blessing; Sherlock isn't sure. He almost wishes John did act embarrassed; it might be easier to question him that way. But at the same time, if John is acting as he usually does, it proves one of two things: either John is a better actor than Sherlock thought, or the idea of having sex with Sherlock in a dream sits perfectly well with John after all, disproving his pattern of strict heterosexuality, if only by a little. Sherlock has hope for the latter.
"Morning," John greets as chipper and laid-back as ever. He pours coffee and comes into the living room, finding Sherlock plucking at his violin in his dress gown and pyjamas. "Sleep okay? You have bags under your eyes."
"Not entirely okay, no," Sherlock relaxes, because this is the perfect opening for him. He clears his throat to prevent getting tongue-tied. "I heard you last night."
John tenses visibly, like a video on 'pause.' Then he smiles warily and sits down in his armchair. "Yeah, I had another nightmare. Sorry if I woke you."
"You're lying," Sherlock replies nonchalantly. In favour of looking at John, he studies the strings of his instrument. "I came in there to wake you, thinking a nightmare was the case. But then you said my name, and not in fear or concern as though I were in danger; you moaned it." Somehow, he finds the courage to look up at John.
The doctor is white. Very, very white. His face, his knuckles as he grips his mug of coffee. He swallows audibly. "Sherlock. Look. It's not – um…"
Sherlock waves it aside. "It's all right, John. Everyone unintentionally has sex dreams about people they know. It is not uncommon, even for a straight man or woman, to have such a dream about their flatmates and/or closest friends. Also, because I hate Freudian logic, I don't believe it means you actually wish to sleep with them. It merely shows your closeness and trust in that person. I am flattered and humbled, really, that you think so highly of our friendship, John."
It pains him to brush it off like this, but it could be true – by all means, it should be. Sherlock wishes not, but he knows John, and he's thought about this all morning. It seems like the most reasonable explanation. And he's sure John will want this, will want to cast it aside. For Sherlock to assume otherwise could put their friendship in jeopardy, because it might anger John if Sherlock's wishes are wrong.
John stares at Sherlock for a long time. After some time, once his coffee has lost its steam and rests, warm, in John's hands, Sherlock fiddling with his violin all the while, John finally speaks. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. But no."
Sherlock tenses. He shoots his gaze in John's direction. He feels a flash of angry heat. Don't do this to me, John, he thinks. Don't tease me. But he says, "Excuse me?"
"I said you're wrong," John murmurs with less confidence than previously given. A bubble of laughter escapes the nervous doctor. "I'm sorry. I am. If you want me to move out, I'd understand. I just. I can't lie anymore. God, I've been hiding it for what feels like forever."
Sherlock is shock still. He can't speak. He blinks. With a voice not his own from a body he is watching from afar, Sherlock repeats, "…Excuse me?" in the smallest of voices. Hushed, like a victim's. A victim of love this time, Sherlock muses ironically.
John huffs another would-be laugh and rubs the back of his neck (with his left) as his other hand sets his coffee aside. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, and hangs his head. "God, it's crazy. I've never felt like this for a bloke before. But you're so unique, Sherlock. Even your name is unlike anyone's I've ever heard. You put me in situations and make me feel things that I just – Jesus. I just look at you, and I'm just with you, and all I want to do is –" and he looks up, vulnerable and openly expressing himself, and Sherlock trembles, unseen, in his seat. "God, I'm so sorry. No, that dream wasn't a mind-game of my subconscious, telling me what I already know about our friendship. Instead, it was telling me what I already know about what I want our relationship to be."
It overflowed, like a dam. John doesn't spill like this. He is usually the glue, he usually keeps things together and functional. John can be more cryptic than Sherlock at times, because while Sherlock forbids himself from feeling things, John usually attempts to restrain his emotions from being too much at once. He wears his heart on his sleeve and often bites his tongue or shortens his words to keep his heart from bleeding out and over.
He couldn't hold it back anymore this time, though. His words like blood are on Sherlock's hands, cupped in his lap, waiting to be either poured back into John's sleeve-heart or left to stain the carpet.
Sherlock finds muscle control and uses it to stand. He crosses the minute steps between their armchairs and stoops down to crush his mouth onto John's.
John is startled and confused, but his mouth feels perfect. It feels precisely how Sherlock dreamt and hoped it might, were he ever, ever, ever given the slim opportunity to try kissing this part of John.
John breaks the smooch and gasps, "No…" in disbelief. Then he smiles lopsidedly. "You, too? Not just me?"
"Not just you," Sherlock breathes, clutching John's face, cradling it in his palms. He smoothes his thumbs over John's cheekbones, and this is very different then the night they were tracking Chinese graffiti around London and he spun John around with his gloved hands over John's ears.
He ducks and kisses John again, trying to taste him this time, smelling unsweetened coffee and the lingering scents of early-morning, pre-shower John. He slips his tongue in, and John allows it. It's a sweeter feeling that Sherlock could believe. And to think: this is opening the door to a whole new investigation of John Watson, one Sherlock can feel and taste and smell and have and dissect bit by bit on a whole new level than before.
"I must confess to something," Sherlock murmurs – unthinkingly – as he drops kisses onto John's mouth and jaw, unable to help himself now that he's began. "I saw you one day. The day I was home and you didn't know I returned until you came downstairs. The day I retreated to my room for so long, and you thought me ill, or depressed, or the like. I… saw you, and since then I have thought of little else, I have wanted you so intensely."
"I thought you might have, considering your reaction to me afterward," John sighs as he runs his hands along Sherlock's ribs over his pyjamas. "But you never said anything, so I forgot about it. I when you didn't hug me back that one night, I thought you really must be uninterested after all, like I thought."
"I'm not. I'm the opposite of disinterested, John," Sherlock says firmly, and John has to smirk a little at that.
"I figured as much, what with your mouth on my neck right now," he jokes airily, his pulse leaping under Sherlock's lips. "You seem very interested, in fact. And I couldn't be more relieved, to be honest. Even if you spied on me."
"It was unintentional, but I'm glad I did, if it eventually brought this on," Sherlock replies with a slight shrug as he settles into John's lap, the armchair protesting beneath them.
John giggles and with his hands on Sherlock's hips, he fidgets. "Hey, no, come on. This isn't the best place for this. And is it even the right time? I haven't eaten yet."
"Food isn't required for snogging. In fact, it's preferred without it," Sherlock reminds with a smile as he raises John's shirt and feels beneath it, the glorious, warm skin beneath it. Oh. Oh, yes, he could definitely get used to having John's body pressed to his own. He definitely won't mind engaging in this as often as they please. He won't tired of it at all, and it isn't the high of newfound love that makes him think so; it's based on trend and probability, and the odds are good.
"But I won't want to stop at snogging, not after the months I've spent thinking of you while I have a wank, so I'll want my energy for this, and food is necessary for calorie burning, Sherlock," John confesses bluntly, and his words somehow go directly to memory and flood Sherlock's groin. John feels it, too, and his own body reacts as he groans mutedly. "Uhnng." He gently pushes up on Sherlock's shoulders. "See, that's what I mean. Dammit." But it isn't as negative curse, so Sherlock lets up when John pushes again, and he doesn't feel a bit of doubt that John would at all back out of this so soon.
"Fine. Eat if you must. I'll be in my bedroom, waiting for you," Sherlock replies, and he loves the delicious shiver of excitement he watched run through John as he pauses mid-step to the kitchen.
Sherlock is practical. He wastes no time stripping of his clothes and crawling into bed. He even brushed his teeth, for good measure, so his mouth isn't as stale. He isn't sure how people normally go about this; should he be lying seductively on his side along the length of the bed, or sitting upright and waiting with his legs spread, or simply under the covers modestly? He isn't sure. Sex is certainly under the category: Not His Area.
Still, he roots around in his drawers. He recently purchased lubrication for his increasing habit of regular masturbation, but he has no condoms. But he shouldn't need them, should he? John is a doctor, and a moral, careful man; he has no diseases. And Sherlock is… a virgin, admittedly. He's never done more than touch himself and snog someone once (that horribly banker, Sebastian, from Uni), before John in the living room a moment ago. So it isn't necessary, right? And if it is to spare Sherlock or John from cleaning themselves out, then that isn't an issue, really, because a shower will take care of that. He's due for one after this anyway.
When John enters, he's fully clothed and his hands are trembling with adrenaline and anticipation and arousal, and he smells faintly of mint (he brushed his teeth, too, being the considerate man he is), and of coffee, eggs, and toast.
Sherlock smiles minutely, lips closed, as John's eyes widen. Sherlock decided to sit upright with the covers just shielding his lower body. John has seen him about this nude before, but never sporting an erection that tents the thin fabric acting as barrier.
John subconsciously licks his lips and goes about stripping, his half-formed arousal bobbing light as he exposes himself, and God, is it strange, Sherlock wonders, to have missed the sight of it, a part of John he has only seen once?
Sherlock leans forward and clutches the sheets with one hand, the other more than wanting to touch himself or be touched by John.
John slowly approaches, climbing into Sherlock's bed, falling to all fours to lean up and press his lips to Sherlock's.
Sherlock grabs John and rolls him to lie on the other side of the bed (the left. The side to match John's dominant hand). In his eager action, the sheets fell to off of him and flipped over across John's waist, draped across him like the clothes of a Greek god. Sherlock forces his mind not to think of the poetry in that.
John's head, in their turn over, has landed in Sherlock's forearm, his other hand rubbing circles on John's bicep. Sherlock sucks John's lip into his mouth and dips his tongue in, doing a sort of tango before settling into a less aggressive, easier rhythm, like a waltz. He longs to rut down onto John, but he forces his legs close together and hips high to make them behave. He can't have this happen too quickly; he wants to savour and cherish this first time, because no matter how many more times they will most likely make love and in multiple ways, none will be as vital as this one.
"You're over-thinking things, aren't you," John whispers fondly as he runs curved fingers through Sherlock's hair and lifts his head to press a kiss to Sherlock's (left) collarbone. He smiles. "You're frowning. Here," John says as he takes Sherlock's wrist from behind his head and places it over his stomach. "Don't over-think it. Just do what feels right."
"Everything feels right," Sherlock huffs in frustration as he runs his hand over John's stomach and up along his chest, rubbing John's pert nipples and dipping his head to suck on one experimentally, John arching up and moaning softly. "Touching you feels right. I want everything at once. It must be thought about, or I will confuse us both."
John chuckles at that and runs his hands over the gentle slope of Sherlock's arse and gropes behind his thighs, yanking them up and spreading them wide until their lengths collide, and both men groan in unison, feeling the crush of blissful satisfaction.
Panting slightly, John answers, "Then do whatever comes to mind first. I'll go along with whatever you want, because I want everything at once, too, and I really can't make up my mind." And he grins.
Sherlock smiles and touches their foreheads together as he grinds their members, dry fiction feeling a little painful but too sweet to stop straight away. John grips Sherlock's hips tightly and ruts up into it, breathing Sherlock's name.
"I keep thinking how I want to be inside you. Desperately. Is that alright?" Sherlock utters in John's ear, his tongue licking over John's earlobe as he voices his thoughts.
"Oh, Christ, yes, that's okay. God, I've wanted that for longer than I care to admit," John replies, and now Sherlock thinks back to what he initially saw, and it's no wonder John put his fingers in himself, and no wonder he was writhing in his sleep, saying Sherlock's name.
Sherlock's prick throbs upon the thought, and he can't stand it any longer. He reaches over to his bedside table and swipes the bottle of lube off of it that he set out. He rubs it between his fingers of one hand and lifts one of John's legs by the thigh and rests it on his shoulder as he goes about preparing John.
John's breath hitches and he releases a loud, low moan. "Ohhhh, Sherlock. Fuck," he keens, firmly planting his free leg on the mattress to raise his hips up and rock them in time with Sherlock's finger. Sherlock has never seen someone so responsive to penetration before, and he feels a fresh jolt of arousal tighten his balls. He breathes stiffly to keep himself from coming just from the clenching heat as he knots his fingers to add a second digit, corkscrewing gently, glad he keeps his nails so short as he massages the ring of muscle and thrusts shallowly in and out of John.
The doctor is clutching the sheets and writing like he had in his sleep, one arm under his pillow again, the other grappling for something, and settling on gripping his own raised leg. It isn't too long after the third finger is added, a bouquet of phalanges teasing in and out.
"Jesus, Sherlock, I can't take it anymore," John grinds out, and Sherlock understands. He withdraws his fingers, the slick sound a bit dirty and wonderful, and John shifts onto his side, stretching a leg around Sherlock's head as he draws his knees up and reaches around to place his fingers in his well-prepped hole and look over his shoulder at his flatmate. "Come on."
John wants to be penetrated… sideways? Sherlock thinks as he feels a thrill run through him. He quickly applies more lubricant to his length before tossing the bottle somewhere on the other side of the bed. He leans over John, hands braces on either side of the shorter man, and presses a kiss to his shoulder as he lines himself up. John grips him and guides him, and Sherlock has to keep his stomach from shaking as he feels a quick rub over the head of his prick as John places his member right where it urgently wants to be.
It's a slow slide into John, but he slots in perfectly once fully sheathed. He groans out a long breath and drops his head to rest on John's (right) shoulder as he gives time for both of them to adjust – John to being filled, Sherlock to being engulfed in such cramped heat.
Sherlock raises his head and cranes his neck to kiss John, slightly off-kilter, but well enough before he leans back and tucks one knee behind the wall formed by both of John's and pulls out to the head, John moaning openly. As the detective glides back in, easier this time, and retreats once more, he sets a pace and follows it to the letter, careful not to go too quickly and damage something, but work fast enough for it to feel as remarkable as it should.
Although John seems to be having none of that. "Dammit, Sherlock, I'm a soldier; you can go a little bit faster, you know," he says between gritted teeth. "As good as that is, you'd hit my prostrate just right – I made sure you would, with this position – if you pounded into me more than that."
Sherlock can be as easily persuaded by words as the next human being if given that kind of incentive. He doesn't hesitate the next time he goes in. He snaps his hips and slams, and John cries out a shrill, "Yes, like that!" so Sherlock does it again, and again, all sharp thrusts set at an angle, as directed. And now that he's on this path, he really can't object to his body's desires; it takes what it wants, pistoning his pelvis at a rather quick speed, causing Sherlock to close his eyes and feel it, feel John's increased volume born of pleasure and the incredible, indescribable things his own prick is feeling.
He remembers, as one might while walking out the door, to open his eyes and reach down and tug at John's erection as his dear doctor loses all control, unable to do it himself as he breathes broken phrases ("Yes, God, fuck, oh, yes, shit, Sherlock, oh, yesyesyes, so good, never thought, oh, Jeeeesus…") and grips the pillow beneath his hand with his left, his right slung over the side of the mattress and gripping underneath it with all four fingers, his thumb pressing into the side.
Sherlock feels his orgasm building, as well as John's, if the tightening of his buttocks are any indication (which they are). He slows his speed a bit, milking the sensation, and feels John come in his hand and onto his own stomach. Then, with a handful of jerky pounds, Sherlock slips out of John and comes on the sheets, teetering forward until he collapses, back-to-back, on his side beside John.
Panting, it takes them a long moment to scoot shakily into better positions and face one another. John lazily kisses down Sherlock's neck, one hand tweaking one of Sherlock's nipples as he nuzzles into Sherlock's skin contentedly. "Mm. Not going to lie or exaggerate, but that was the best sex of my life. No woman can compare. Might need to rethink all the times I've protested being your date."
"I'd hope so. And you ought to be corrected, John: that was the best sex of your life thus far," Sherlock teases, breathless, in reply. He grips John by the back of the neck and kisses him, breathing heavily through his nose. As he releases him, he runs his hand down John's side and rubs his thumb on John's hipbone. "Once the post-coital bliss wears off, who is going to nab the shower first?"
"I am," John says. "I have a shift at the hospital in an hour and a half."
"Hmm. That still leaves time for me to shower, and afterward, drop to my knees and suck you off before you go to work, like a traditional couple," Sherlock ponders aloud, his tone oddly serious.
John laughs and snickers into Sherlock's chest as he attempts to regain composure. "Oh, God. Oh. I'm going to have more sex with you than any girl I've ever moved in with, aren't I?"
"I predict so. You will have only yourself to blame. Now that I am allowed, I will not hold back," Sherlock replies just as serious.
John deadpans. "Wow, you mean it. I am going to be exhausted after cases, work, and sex almost constantly, now, aren't I?"
"I'm afraid so," Sherlock nods in mock sympathy. "But so will I. And it will be content exhaustion, at least."
"At least," John agrees with a smile. He pecks Sherlock on the mouth, making that sombre expression disappear. "So. I'll shower, you'll shower, I'll get a blow job, and when I come home, sore and tired, what will we do?"
"Have dinner, presumably, and proceed to either have sex or cuddle and sleep. I vote all of the above. But you'll be worn, so I will have to ride you. No issue there," Sherlock states matter-of-factly, and he's got to stop doing that, because it's making John snicker and giggle again (although this is precisely why he is continuing to do it).
"Hmm. Sounds like a plan, I say," John attempts to sound just as nonchalant, but failing as he bursts into giggles again. "Ohh, oh. I burn a little, and my wrist feels like I might have strained it a bit much from gripping the mattress, but I feel like I could take on the world right now."
"Good. It will keep you going throughout the day," Sherlock concedes, and now he smiles. He kisses John again, taking his time and savouring it. When he pulls away, he murmurs, "I love you, John Watson."
John looks startled. He touches Sherlock's face. "Hey, I was going to say it first. Or be the only one to say it. You're full of surprises today, aren't you?"
"I try to deviate from the norm as often as possible; even my own norm," Sherlock replies in jest, and John grins.
"Yeah, and I love that about you," he says, and with one final kiss, rolls out of bed and heads for the shower, stumbling a little at first, but making his way relatively fine. Sherlock smiles. Yes, this is definitely going to be a very positive change in their dynamic, he can tell.