Reader Beware: contains sexy-goodness that might not appeal to ones pallet. also- writer discretion on updates. i do this as an outlet- when i have time (which is rare), i write. i will try to update as timely as possible, but alas that is sometimes impossible.
please enjoy my first slash of Sherlock- this pair was much too tempting to ignore ^_- and feel free to comment! thank u!
What Dreams Are For
He was stone cold drunk. Literally. Dr. John Watson sat, immobile, in his normal rest chair, unconscious. Sherlock had snuck back inside earlier to discover John in this precarious state. Again. This was the third night in a row that the good Doctor had chosen the escapism of alcohol. Though from the state of things, Sherlock really couldn't blame him. Apparently John quit his job at the clinic, depleted what was left of his money in savings, and now couldn't sell the infamous 221 B Baker street apartment to the Central Bank of England even if he tried.
Sherlock had left him in a bit of a bind. Yet as the days progressed into weeks, he was realizing that his decision to fool everyone, including John, might have been a mistake.
His light blue eyes cut across the empty remains of the apartment. It was bleak and sad. Unfamiliar to the home he had left it four weeks ago. But as he continued to look around the room, he couldn't help but return to the figure in the armchair, whom also looked bleak and… sad. Sherlock felt a small tingle of guilt constrict his gut. He swallowed, attempting to alleviate the unsettling feeling. Problem was that just by looking at the depressed form of his friend, made the constricting bind twist even more painfully.
John was his best, and only friend. Sherlock had left nothing for him. Nothing but a ruined private eye practice, an empty apartment and a shadow memory of what they had not so long ago.
John stirred slightly in his chair, disturbing the glass of amber liquor perched on the arm rest. It slipped off and with horror- he watched the decent of the glass onto the hardwood floor. He was too far back to stop it. Nothing would prevent the tumultuous crash of the glass. Gaze locked onto John, he listened to the shatter. He waited. Breath held.
But John remained immobile. Stone-cold drunk and asleep.
Sherlock titled his head curiously. How much had John been drinking? Enough to knock out his short stature and probably several large Russian brawlers from the amount of empty whiskey and rum bottles lying about. Sherlock sighed. John was too emotional for his own good. Drinking like this didn't do anything but prolong his torment. One he seemed keen on having. Why, Sherlock could only guess. Obviously, they were friends. But how long did one grieve for a friend? It had been a month. Move on.
He paused, eyes narrowing onto John's face. He seemed older, more worn and weary. Too much for a man his age. His hair was rumpled and chin unshaved. His clothes were three days old dirty. And the only thing in the room that was relatively new was the amount of Jack Daniel's bottles. At least John seemed physically fit enough to see himself down to the market at the end of the block.
John stirred again, this time in a blatant shiver, pushing his frame deeper into the light cloth of the chair. Sherlock noted the fire had died out hours ago, leaving John in a rather cold room. Luckily he had all that booze in his system to keep him unconscious.
Securing his own jacket around his tall body, Sherlock moved forward and with skill and delicate ease, pulled John out of the chair. When John didn't immediately wake from the sudden movement, Sherlock continued, wrapping his arm around John's side and holding his body close as he walked them to his old bedroom, since John's was upstairs. It was the only logical place, Sherlock assured himself, as he opened the door to his bedroom and saw that since his death, nothing in his room had been touched or even taken. Surprised, he hesitated a moment before entering.
He liked his room. He liked his bed even more. And the past month he'd been moving through motels like some phantom and now, as he stared at his soft cushioned bed, envy filled him. He would give anything to sleep securely in his own home and his own bed. Granted he didn't sleep much. But when he did… comfort was his king sized bed. Alas, he would let John have the privilege, though he might not remember enjoying it as much Sherlock once had.
Slowly, he lowered John's dead weight onto the sheets. He slid his hand beneath his neck, lowering his head into the pillows. John's eyes shifted and opened.
Unable to think, move or even speak, Sherlock stared dumbfounded down at his friend.
John's gaze was unfocused and glazed. Sherlock instantly realized he was still drunk.
"Sherlock…?" John asked slowly. "Come to tuck me in?"
Sherlock pondered a response. Should he reply? Maybe John thought he was dreaming? And would it matter what he told him? Because from the smell of John's clothes and breath, Sherlock had a feeling that this midnight encounter wouldn't be recalled.
"Yes…" Sherlock said uncertainly at first. "Just to tuck you in."
John smiled foolishly, letting his head drop into the pillows like a child. "That's nice…"
"Yes, it is." Sherlock replied placidly.
John yawned, his eyes barely open now as he spoke. "I have this dream a lot you know."
Sherlock, about to leave, hesitated. "What dream?"
"This one. The one where you're still alive…"
Sherlock's heart gave a strange lurch.
"You're alive…" John continued to babble. "And you come home…"
"Yes, well this is another dream. You're just dreaming, John."
John snorted into his pillow. Sherlock had never seen John so happy. The alcohol. It was effecting his inhibitions. Sherlock arched a curious eyebrow. John rarely let down his guard, unless he chose to disclose it. Now, seeing him so vulnerable, so… odd, made Sherlock pause.
"It's my favorite dream." John wrapped his arms around the pillow, smiling like an idiot.
Okay, he'd seen enough. He made his way to leave when John's voice stilled him.
"Aren't you going to kiss me good night?"
Sherlock froze. He spun on his heel slowly to face the blithering drunk on his bed. "A what?" Sherlock couldn't keep the tone of surprise from his voice.
John sighed, inhaling deeply the pillow he laid on. He turned onto his back and opened his eyes to look up at him. Sherlock nearly took a step back, afraid that John would realize this was not a dream but very much real.
"Kiss me before you leave me again, Sherlock."
He heard the hint of sadness in John's voice. It was hard and painful. His heart turned again. Yet his stomach gave a strange flutter too. It was the same type of excited flutter he would feel whenever he got his hands on a real puzzle of a case.
"It's my dream…" John said. "I won't let you go… I can't…"
Sherlock swallowed. The pain in his voice was gut-wrenching. And it kept getting worse. If Sherlock could do anything in his power to make John feel better- anything to stop his pain, he would do it for him. But a kiss? Could he really "kiss" this problem and make it all go away for his dear friend. Apparently in John's dreams, he had that ability.
His face flushed strangely. He never experienced embarrassment before. This was a first for him. He never showed affection for this reason. He avoided relationships because of the intimacy they required. He wasn't…good with things like love and kisses. He never kissed anyone in his life, except maybe his mother. Yet he never saw the appeal of it. Or someone for whom he wanted to kiss either.
This would be a first for him in a lot of things, he realized as he bent over John's body and kissed him coldly on the forehead, before quickly withdrawing. All of a sudden John let out a chuckle. Sherlock shifted on his feet before straightening indignantly.
"What?" he demanded.
John shook his head on the pillow, rolling dazedly. "A kiss, Sherlock…"
"That was a kiss. An efficient one in my opinion."
John rubbed his temple. "God, you're even annoying in my dreams."
"Fine, you require a kiss—I shall give you one that will make all others pale in comparison."
"I doubt it…"
Sherlock clenched his jaw as he stepped forward determinedly and placed his lips directly over John's mouth. It was more a mashing of lips, than a kiss. But seeing as how Sherlock never gave anyone a kiss before, and John had irritated him, well- this was the best he could do.
All of a sudden, John's hand wrapped around his neck, sending a warm shiver up his spine. John pulled back from his lips slightly, then with careful delicacy, parted his lips and kissed Sherlock. It was a slow. Soft, not hard and cold like the one Sherlock had attempted at. It was warm, so warm… just like John's hand, which now began to message the back of his neck, his fingers moving through his hair. Sherlock felt his heart beat erratically in his chest. His pulse leapt madly in his veins. His stomach churned… all these magnificent physical sensations erupted within him.
He marveled at his own body for a moment, before he felt something else just as incredible. The building, the anticipation for something else—something more, swelled into a desire which spread like fire to his loins. His cock stirred restlessly, mystifying Sherlock completely.
So he let his lips take part in this experiment with John, as they were parted easily and John's tongue entered his mouth. It was then, Sherlock felt the tension spike into a full erection. A hard, untamable flare of urgency between his legs. He gasped, unable to control himself.
John pulled back then, eyes closed dreamily. "Thank you, Sherlock…" He began slipping back into his sedate position on the bed. "Good night."
Sherlock stared down at him, dumbfounded.
"Is that all?" he asked.
John nodded, drifting off into sleep.
He glanced down at the bulge in his slacks. It was heavy and uncomfortable. His pulse continued to beat, his heart pound, and John was finished with him? No. Sherlock wasn't done, so neither was John.
"This might be a different dream John." He heard himself say huskily.
John stirred, eyes opening to stare sleepily up at him.
Sherlock stripped off his coat. John's eyes widened then. The shock of what he was witnessing sobered him up. "Sherlock… what are you doing?"
"Playing a part in your dream." He unbuttoned his black suit shirt. "Isn't that what you want, John?"
"We never get this far…" he sat up slowly, almost disoriented.
"But you've wanted us to?"
John nodded, watching transfixed as Sherlock pulled at his belt buckle and unsnapped his slacks.
"Why haven't you taken this dream further than?" Sherlock asked. "I would have… assuming you feel the same as me right now."
"It didn't seem right." John's reply was breathless. Sherlock noticed then that John was flushed now. His eyes riveted to every move Sherlock made as he unclothed himself, revealing the naked flesh below.
Sherlock slipped his slacks off his ankles, completely nude and stepping towards the bed. His skin was warm with excitement and… fear. He'd never done this. Never kissed anyone before tonight. But strangely, it didn't matter. He was with John. He was safe. John wouldn't hurt him. John was his friend.
"Why wouldn't it be right?" Sherlock asked.
John gazed up at him, his dark brown eyes almost pleading to him. "Because you're dead. And why wish for something I can never have?"
Sherlock realized then what the consequences might be should he proceed with his intent. If he were to lie down with John, touch him, let him be kissed again… it might harm his friend even more. Sherlock was dead in his heart and his mind. And men weren't suppose to rise back from the grave. Except, Sherlock refused to give up these tremendous feelings roaring inside him. It was the first time in his life he wanted to truly touch and be touched by someone. He wouldn't give it up. Not now. Not when it was within his grasp.
"That's what dreams are for John," Sherlock whispered as he kneeled down onto the edge of the bed. "To want the things we can't have in life."
John sighed, a passing moment of torment flickering across his handsome features.
Sherlock feared John would rebel, and banish him from the bedroom and this make-believe dream. All of a sudden John slowly moved forward and reached up to him. John did something Sherlock did not expect. He grabbed him suddenly by his cock. Sherlock's erection instantly pulsed with a thundering need that nearly drove him to his knees.
John seemed pleased by this reaction and pulled again, this time harder, forcing Sherlock to move to him. Sherlock's stomach quivered anxiously as John pushed him down on the bed on his back, his throbbing erection still firmly in his control.
He looked down on him with those tender, understanding eyes and Sherlock felt his heart give. "I've never done anything like this…"
John smiled softly. "I know."
"Where do we start?"
John's hand released his cock and rubbed the base, pushing on the flesh that ached for more. Demanded more. Sherlock heard a strangled sigh escape his throat.
"We start here, love." John's lips pressed into Sherlock's mouth and with amazing ease opened his mouth with his tongue and began the slow torment of a kiss.
Incredible, was the only word floating in Sherlock's brain. John was an amazing kisser. Maybe he only assumed that because the lack of his own experience. Yet this… this was something else. Aside from the chemical reaction in his body and brain at this precise moment, he felt something deeper inside him reach out for John. Maybe his heart. Maybe his soul. All Sherlock knew was that he never felt like this before.
Now it was time to experience it.
Without hesitation, Sherlock grasped the back of John's head, fingers running through his soft blond hair. He opened his mouth wider and pushed John closer. Within seconds, their kiss seemed to explode. John no longer was easy and delicate. But wild, carnal. Sherlock liked this much more and so did his body. He dug his finger eagerly into John, feeling his back arch from the bed and his legs tense at the marvelous sensations shooting down to his cock.
Quickly, and without thinking, he pulled John on top of him and let their bodies met. Except John still wore his horrible sweater shirt and pants, this however did stop Sherlock from madly touching him. He spread his legs to accommodate John's body, instinctively thrusting his pelvis forward into him, his body humming with extraordinary need.
He heard John let out a small moan. Sherlock, feeling bold, pushed his erection yet again into John. It felt wonderful. And he wanted more. He wanted to feel John's naked body pressed against his. It seemed almost critical that this occur. John must have felt the same thing, for he pried his lips away from their torrid, open mouthed kisses.
John's eyes were bright with desire. "Sherlock…" he said in a sighing moan. Sherlock arched again, unable to stop himself. Just hearing John whimper out his name like that was so… sexy. He wanted more.
"Ah-Sherlock!" John cried out, clenching his fingers into the bed sheet. "Don't you think we're going a little fast…?"
Sherlock studied the man above him. John was breathless. His heart pounded. His skin temperature was elevated and his pupils were dilated. John was aroused and from the bulge pressing into Sherlock's own erection, he could only conclude one thing.
"We're not going fast enough, John."
John's reaction was momentary surprise, which then turned to sudden delight. He quickly pulled off his shirt and tossed it aside, letting Sherlock graze his hands greedily over the exposed flesh. John was in rather fit shape. His hard, defined muscles felt compact and solid. John might have been a foot shorter than himself, yet his toned body made up for whatever he might compensate in height. And my, my, did he like touching John Watson.
He reached up and brought John back to him, not liking that they had stopped kissing. He captured John's lips, devouring them in the similar fashion as John had except this time, Sherlock couldn't help the ferocity behind this kiss. He consumed him. Biting down on John's lower lip before pressing his urgent lips back into his, slipping his tongue into his mouth, tasting all of him.
John pulled back, panting and gasping for air. "I can't get my trousers undone with you doing… that."
Sherlock glanced down between them, noting that those horrible pants were still on. He reached between them, but before he could even attempt at unbuttoning them, John rolled off him and onto his back. He sat up on his elbow, pushing the stray dark lock out of his face to stare deliberately at John while he undressed.
John's fingers were trembling. He could see the evident arousal hidden beneath the layer of clothing, yet John's hands continued to slip on the clasp.
"Here, allow me," Sherlock said huskily. He carefully and slowly unclasped the buttons, feeling the hardness of John towering erection against the back of his fingers.
He watched in wonderment as John's whole body tensed and his back arched ever so slightly off the bed. Seeing John's excitement seemed to increase his own. He quickly pulled down the trousers and slipped them off. The second John was naked, a new vigor awakened in him. His eyes shot open and he grabbed Sherlock roughly, pinning him to the bed with the intensity of a predator.
Their kiss was frantic. Their bodies greedy. Both men seemed ravenous for the same thing. Each other. And both had waited far too long for this moment.
John seemed more passionate than ever. His body thrumming with the same need as he rubbed himself into Sherlock. Sherlock's only solution was to hang on and let himself be conquered by the solider. If this was what foreplay was, he planned on playing for as long as possible.
John's kiss melted away as he slid down his chest, pressing wet, hot kisses into his flesh. He teasingly sucked on his nipples, letting his body slide and touch every part of him. Sherlock nearly bolted off the bed when he felt John's cock press hotly into his own. The friction was unbearable.
He dug his head deep into the pillow, resisting the urge to yank John back up and suck on those tormenting lips. But it felt too good to make him stop. All of a sudden John's warm breath whispered across his erection and before he realized what John's intention was, he felt his mouth consume his flesh. Warm, wet, glorious mouth sucking at the aching flesh of his cock…
Sherlock let out a deep, guttural moan.
John hummed. The vibrations forcing Sherlock to jerk forward, which in turn further his cock into John's mouth. He didn't seem to mind though his hands now securely locked Sherlock's hips to the bed as his sucking quicken and grew stronger.
"Oh dear God… John!"
He couldn't believe the enormous pressure building at the base of his spine, tingling around his manhood, desperate to release. And yet he never wanted this beautiful pleasure to stop. Not when John was the one doing it to him.
He twisted the sheets in his hand, the other hovering over John's head, willing him to stay there until he peeked, until he…
Suddenly the rhythmic sensation stopped and John pulled away. He groaned in protest. "What are you doing…?" Sherlock was surprised at the breathlessness of his own tone.
John grinned. "Making you wait."
He instantly sat up, enraged, grabbing John by the back of his neck, forcing him to look at him. "Why? Is this punishment for something?"
"Not at all, Sherlock. But if you're going to cum tonight, it'll be with me inside you. Not by giving you a blowjob."
Sherlock's eyes widened and with that, John returned to being the predator in this game and pushed him back down on the bed, completely and utterly in control. Sherlock was too lustful and confused to protest. John was an expert at this. After all, he had more girlfriends than listed in the yellow pages and if John should be an expert at anything, it would be this.
"We need protection." John said as he straddled him, his thighs trapping him and Sherlock's cock brushing up against his backside. Sherlock was lost at how marvelous John's ass felt when determined dark eyes met his.
"This is a dream…? Do we need protection?" Sherlock asked, but when John hesitated, he pointed at his bedside table. "I have condoms in there."
John stared down at him curiously. "What?" His eyes narrowed then. "Why would you need condoms if you never have sex, Sherlock?"
He hesitated, and then admitted. "Experimental purposes. It felt like the appropriate place to hide such materials. A bedroom and such."
A smile pulled at the corner of John's mouth, making Sherlock suddenly blush. John didn't say anything though as he reached over to the night stand and withdrew a condom.
"Pre-lubed?" John asked, holding the telling condom overhead.
"It seemed redundant to make another purchase since this had everything I needed in one."
Sherlock couldn't tell if John was making fun of him or not, but either way- it didn't matter. What mattered was the aching throb that burned for release between his thighs and the only person who seemed fit to relieve it sat on top of him.
Sherlock couldn't help but swallow the tension that had built in his throat as he watched John slip the condom over his large, thick cock. He shivered with sudden need. Oh how he wanted this more than anything. He wanted John inside him. He wanted to know what it felt like. Needed to know. Just looking at his manhood sent rushes of anticipation through his body.
John leaned over him, his eyes intent as his fingers grazed over Sherlock's body.
"I only see you this excited when a good case falls in our lap," John muttered, kissing the side of his neck.
"John, will you please shut-up and just put me out of my misery already?" Sherlock snapped. He couldn't help it. He was so twisted up inside, so tormented by his own body and the incredible arousal building up at his spine. If he didn't release this tension soon, he feared he might die- literally.
"Misery? Oh- is that what we call this?" John asked tauntingly. He sat up, perched his cock directly over Sherlock's and rocked his hips on top of him. Their erections met and brushed against each other. Hard flesh against hard flesh. Muscles tightened in Sherlock's legs, his knees buckling as he let out a gasping cry. John rocked up and down, harder and harder, until Sherlock's whole body burned with need.
All of a sudden, John maneuvered him onto his stomach, and reached around and grabbed his cock. Sherlock groaned, his body stiffening.
John pumped him a few times, before positioning himself behind him. Sherlock had read enough to know what happened next. Fear filtered through his brain for only a brief second. John wouldn't let him stop and think about what was going to happen. Instead he distracted him by gripping his cock with a bruising hold and pumping him vigorously. Before Sherlock could even cry out in pure bliss from the rush of sensations, John pushed forward and entered him from behind.
Sherlock tensed. John stilled. Choppy breaths filled the silence of the room. Slowly, John began to move. Sherlock felt the intrusive sensation of John's cock painful at first, but when he slid back out and then in once more, deeper—he let out a heady whimper.
"You all right?" John asked tightly. "I'll stop if you need me to…"
"No," Sherlock interrupted. "Dead God, don't stop."
That was all John needed to hear, because seconds later, he drove into Sherlock with renewed energy. He pounded into him over and over. The bed creaking beneath their weight. The sheets tangling in Sherlock's fierce grip. John gasped and pushed.
Everything felt perfect to Sherlock in this moment. But when John's hand started moving again on Sherlock's cock, tugging at the flesh, he froze. The anticipation building in his body finally peeked. The muscles in his body tensed before the shock wave of the orgasm slammed into him. John cried out, feeling Sherlock's body give completely to him. John took this opportunity to pound into him with the fierceness of a drill.
"John…!" Sherlock came magnificently. He shook and trembled, his cum coming in waves of pure ecstasy that wouldn't stop. It seemed to go on and on. Each thrust, each slam inside him made him come again. John was prolonging his orgasm with every thrust of his hips. All of a sudden he felt John's body tightened and then he came, a warmth spreading into him as his friend gasped and writhed with his own orgasm.
He pumped weakly into him, until drained. He slipped out, pulling off his condom and falling backwards onto the bed. Perspiration clung to John's neck, his legs spread lazily out before him and his chest heaved from exertion. Sherlock collapsed onto the sheets, his body depleted of all energy.
"This was one hellvua dream," John mumbled.
Sherlock glanced towards him.
"I can't wait to have it again tomorrow night," John said groggily. Drowsiness overcame John then as he closed his eyes and nodded off into sleep.
Sherlock slowly got up from the bed after a few minutes. It took him a second to regain his balance after such a shock to his body. He stood there in the darkness of his own bedroom for a moment. He glanced down at John. His handsome face was turned to the side as he slept, his nude body displayed before Sherlock. He marveled down at his wonderful friend. They had just shared a rather enjoyable night together and John was made to believe it was all just a dream…
He narrowed his eyes at him. No, he couldn't possibly think this was still a dream when he woke up tomorrow and came to his senses. He would have to realize they had sex and that they had to do it again! How could they not after what just happened? It was absolutely breath-taking and… hot!
Suddenly Sherlock straightened as he realized why he must let John believe this was just a dream. Sherlock was dead. Dead to the world. Dead to John. And he had to stay that way. Right?
Unable to think clearly from the sudden emotional whirlwind beating at his mind, Sherlock dressed and carefully placed John's clothes into a neat pile by the bed, along with the bottle of whiskey on the nightstand. He picked up the condom wrapper and material, shoving it into his pocket. No evidence would be left behind. He would let John go on thinking it was a dream. At least until Sherlock figured out what he planned on doing, because tonight changed everything.
Tonight he finally realized that John was more than just his friend. He was something else entirely…