& 1 &
John Watson and Greg Lestrade liked getting drunk together. It had become a regular, Friday night thing. Ever since Greg had finally moved on from his philandering wife, and John's dates had started drying up like a lemon tree in winter, they'd taken solace in each other. Dating women hardly seeming worth the bother anymore, not with the world's greatest cock blocker as a flatmate and best friend. Of course, Sherlock was also techy about John and Greg's pub nights, but Sherlock could go hang. He might be able to chase off John's girlfriends, but Lestrade was made of sterner stuff.
John had two shots and two beers onboard and was working on another pint as he told yet another funny Sherlock story. This one was about the time Sherlock had used an empty aspirin bottle to store laxative tablets and then absent mindedly forgot and took some. He mimicked the way Sherlock had burst into his bedroom that night – "John! John, something's wrong! I think I'm dying!" and was still giggling when he realized that Greg was not smiling. Instead, the DI was looking at him with soft, drunken, yet unmistakable pity.
"What?" John asked.
"You do realize that you talk about him 95% of the time?"
John blushed. "I do not. And anyway you know Sherlock. And I know Sherlock. So it's funny to talk about him."
Greg took a sip of his pint and grunted non-committally.
"He's interesting. More interesting than my bloody patients at the locum, that's for sure."
Greg raised his eyebrows suggestively and took another sip.
"Oh, come on!" John said, annoyed. "Don't be mental."
Greg pushed John's pint gently towards him, as if placating. Or trying to get him drunk. "So… Would you tell me the truth if I asked if the two of you have ever…"
John glowered at him.
"Come on! You can tell me. Not once? Not even a kiss? Mutual wank on the sofa?" Greg put on that open, childishly charming expression. It was always a surprise to see it on his hard-boiled detective's mug. And impossible to resist.
"No," John said firmly. "Christ, Greg. You know what he's like. He's oblivious to that shit. If someone dropped trou in front of him, he'd probably get out his magnifying glass and look for evidence of Manilan parasites or something."
Greg arched an ironic eyebrow at him. Oh you think?
"What's that supposed to mean?" John huffed.
"It means that I don't buy for a minute that if you, John Watson, 'dropped trou' in front of Sherlock he'd be wasting time with his magnifying glass, though he might get on his knees in a hurry."
John felt his blush deepen. Was that a complement? His stomach felt queasy. Maybe it was the booze.
"You know something I don't?" John asked. "Because I've never seen him with anyone, or even showing interest in anyone unless it was sham flirting for a case. Have you? You've known him a lot longer than I have."
"Not… exactly," Lestrade said, shifting uncomfortably. He took a swig of his beer.
"What's that supposed to mean? Have you or haven't you?"
"I haven't seen him with another person, no," Lestrade said carefully, "but… I have good reason to believe he's not as oblivious to sex as you're implying."
John felt his pulse quickening. This was something new. "What reason? Tell me."
Lestrade shook his head. "Forget it. I'm just saying, I don't believe that Sherlock is sexless, alright? Take my word for it. And do with it what you will."
John sat stunned for a minute, trying to figure out what the hell Lestrade could be talking about. He could feel himself growing red as a rather frightening anger starting to burn its way into his brain. There was one obvious answer.
"You don't mean…. You and he…" John said stiffly.
"Christ, no!" Lestrade said, with dawning horror. "No, John. That's not what I meant. Jesus Christ. I've never…. No."
John was relieved, truly. Because he didn't think he could handle something like that.
"Then what?" John insisted. "Someone else at the Yard? Did someone tell you something? Saw something? Something from his drug days? You said if I dropped trou - Are you trying to imply that you know for a fact that Sherlock is gay?"
The questions tumbled out furiously. John heard how anxious he sounded but he couldn't seem to help it. Lestrade sighed and looked even more uncomfortable, like he was sorry he'd ever started this conversation.
"Gayish," Lestrade said, looking down into his pint. "Probably."
"For god's sake, Greg, just tell me!" John yelled. Several of the other patrons looked their way, disapprovingly, but John didn't care. He was starting to clench up like an overwound spring and the urge to leap across the small table and shake Lestrade was growing.
"Alright! God's sake." Lestrade grumbled. He looked up at John reluctantly. "This is really wrong and really unprofessional of me to mention. I want you to know that."
"Yeah, well, what else is new," John frowned, not giving much of a flying fuck.
"Well... you know how we sometimes do drug busts. On Sherlock."
"The first one was about two years ago. He didn't expect it."
"Yeah?" John said, leaning in.
Lestrade wet his lips. Shrugged.
"You saw someone? Someone was there?" John asked.
"Someone was leaving?"
"No." Lestrade looked at John, steadily, as if willing him to guess the right thing.
So this was the game. Alright then. John would play all bloody night if he had to.
"You found someone else's clothing, personal articles."
"An email from some guy."
Lestrade shook his head. "No."
John tapped the table. "Porn?" Though it was hard to believe. He'd never seen any evidence that Sherlock watched porn, and Sherlock's snide remarks about the fact that John did would be awfully hypocritical if he—
Lestrade shook his head. "No, John. Not porn."
"What then?" John asked impatiently.
Lestrade looked at the ceiling. "God, I really shouldn't be doing this. It's so fucking unprofessional."
"I have a right to know," John said insistently, "After all the bloody shite I put up with in that flat."
"You don't have a right to know," Lestrade said firmly. "If Sherlock wanted you to know, he'd tell you."
Lestrade was right. But John couldn't let it go. Not when there was some obviously important nugget of information that Lestrade had that he didn't; something about Sherlock, something about Sherlock and sex, for Christ's sake.
"Alright, I don't have a right to know," John admitted, "But for the love of god, I want to. Please."
Lestrade huffed a laugh. "Well, at least you're honest with yourself. And the begging is effective. Well done you."
"Greg," John said, half warning, half plea.
Lestrade breathed out a sigh and slumped and John knew he'd won. Lestrade leaned forward.
"Alright, John, but you goddamn well never heard it from me, okay? This is a violation of privacy on an epic level, and I feel like a total shit telling you…"
"Just say it."
Lestrade struggled a moment to get the words out. "It was… in Sherlock's bedside table. I've never seen it again since, but that first time, he didn't know we were coming. You see?"
Lestrade looked around and then whispered it. "He had a dildo."
John stared at Lestrade in disbelief. "No."
Lestrade cocked an eyebrow. "I wouldn't believe it either, but I saw it with my own eyes. I was the one searching his room, so I know for certain no one planted it there."
John laughed. It was too ridiculous. A) harmless (what had he been expecting? Whips? A blow-up doll? Necrophilia? Sheep?) and B) ludicrously incongruent with the man he knew as Sherlock Holmes.
"Right! He probably had it for an experiment," John said dismissively.
"In his bedside table? With lube?" Lestrade shook his head.
John frowned. "What did it look like?"
Lestrade gave him an 'are you stupid?' look. "It looked like a bloody dildo! What do you think it looked like?"
John blushed. "I mean… was it… like one of those slim white vibrator things or…"
"What does it bloody matter? Shit, why did I ever start this? It was biggish, probably, I dunno, eight inches."
"What bloody color?" Lestrade said, incensed. "Are you fucking taking the piss?"
John blushed more deeply but held his ground. "I'm having a hard time picturing it. Come on!"
"If you're asking me if Sherlock had a life size reproduction of hung black guy's dick – excuse me, redundant – then no, it wasn't. It was… pink. Ish. Flesh tone, whatever you call it. You know, like a bloody cock. Head, veins and everything. Bullocks not included. Is that enough now? Or do you want me to draw a fucking picture?"
John felt his face burn. His heart was hammering in his chest. God, he was too drunk for this conversation.
"I just don't get why Sherlock would have… that… in his bedside table. I mean—"
Lestrade gave him an arched-brow exasperated look as if to say are you completely daft? He drained his beer and stood up. "I need another shot. Maybe two. You?"
"I'm good," John said.
Lestrade went off to the bar, giving John a chance to cool down. He knew he was badgering like a fool, but he couldn't' seem help it. He just couldn't believe what Lestrade had told him. There was no way.
He tried to imagine it, Sherlock lying in bed, opening up his bedside table and taking out a bloody eight inch cock. Putting it in… That couldn't be right, could it? It had to be something he'd picked up out of curiosity or to test a hypothesis or….
But John's gut, like Lestrade's, knew better.
Lestrade sat back down and did a shot in one toss. For a while they nursed their beers in silence.
"Jesus. So you think he's gay then?" John finally said.
"Well, I don't know a lot of straight blokes who'd want something like that up their arse. Do you?"
John winced at the thought. No. Probably not.
"Why do you suppose he doesn't just… date men?"
Lestrade shook his head. "Beats me. Course he's not exactly keen on making friends. But you'd think he could keep his gob shut long enough to get a leg over. He's not bad looking."
John rolled his eyes. That was an understatement. John had seen people go gaga over Sherlock – women and men. Sherlock had always seemed cold and oblivious if not downright cruel about it.
"He doesn't take to many people, John. I know you know that. But I don't think you realize, truly…"
John looked at him, feeling a bit of a warm glow. "I know."
"See, I don't think you do though. When you suddenly showed up out of the blue, and… stuck like you did, well, it's no wonder we all thought... You know."
"Right," Lestrade said, finishing his beer, "I suppose I've done enough damage for one night. Look, I shouldn't have told you. It's Sherlock's business. And… I'm sorry. If he ever finds out and this turns out badly, maybe you'll tell him that?"
"I won't betray your confidence, Greg."
"Yeah, but it's Sherlock, ain't it?" Lestrade sighed. "He'll know. That day… when I came out from searching the bedroom, the look his face, John… He knew I'd seen it. I've never seen him look embarrassed before. Or since really. Vulnerable. Made me feel like a heel, I can tell you. Kind of like I feel right now."
Now John did feel guilty for prying it out of the inebriated D.I. "It's alright. I won't give him any reason to think you told me."
Lestrade touched his shoulder briefly. "Good night, John."
& 2 &
John's promise to Lestrade was easier said than done. The thing is, he couldn't stop thinking about it. Every time he looked at Sherlock, he couldn't stop his mind from picturing the dildo. At first, it was just a bit of reality-testing, like he was just trying to imagine something like that in Sherlock's hand, maybe Sherlock running it up and down his chest. It made John want to giggle. Hysterically. It made no sense, like seeing an 80-year old granny in a flower-printed dress and orthopedic shoes parasailing.
No, his mind kept saying in amused disbelief. No.
Sherlock paused in his diatribe about pickle juice stains on a kidnapper's lapel to look at John in exasperation.
"For god's sake, what are you thinking about, John? You keep… smiling."
"Nothing," John said, forcing the bemused look off his face. "Go on."
A few nights later, John woke in the middle of the night, thinking he heard a sound. He was instantly wide awake and with only one thing on his mind.
Did he…? Had he heard…?
He sat up in bed and listened, heart pounding, to the darkness. He heard nothing. After a long while, he slowly crept out of bed, and then across his room and then down the stairs, trying not to make a sound, holding his breath, listening. The flat was dark. He got as far as the door to Sherlock's room and stood there, holding his breath. But he heard nothing.
He suddenly realized what he was doing, sneaking around the flat at night, trying to hear Sherlock masturbating. With a dildo. A voice of reason inside his head launched into a litany of castigation, but it was drowned out by his sense of insatiable curiosity.
Did Sherlock really… do that?
Even if he had two years ago, did he still? Or had it been a brief experimental sort of deal? I wonder if I'd like a cock up my arse? Hmm. I'll give it a 4, but I can live without it.
And as John stood there in the dark, for the first time he fully imagined it, his imagination supplying what his ears could not find. He imagined Sherlock, naked, lying on his bed, his pale skin glowing. He imagined those long fingers pushing the dildo in and out, in and out, while his other hand squeezed an erection and his body writhed with pleasure.
Christ. This was getting out of control.
John returned to his room with a raging hard on. He tried very hard not to think about Sherlock as he took care of it.
A few days later, when Sherlock was out, John went into his room. He did not find a dildo, lube, condoms or sex toys of any sort at all in the bedside table. Not even hand lotion or tissues. He found nothing under the bed, in the closet, in the drawers or between the mattress and box springs.
Had Sherlock gotten rid of it? Or had he found a really good place to hide it? He was certainly capable of hiding it, if he wanted to. John's lack of progress did not mean the dildo wasn't in the flat.
He left the room feeling guilty.
That night at dinner, Sherlock studied John with a severe, relentless gaze. John ignored it.
It's funny how ideas can grow on you. What is weird as fuck the first time you encounter it can become 'normal' over time. John certainly had his share of experience with that, being Sherlock's flatmate. 221b was like living in a parallel universe where up was down and down was sideways and pickled human ears in the icebox and piranha in the bathtub were as expected as comfy slippers and hot tea on a rainy day.
But this idea was the most insidious yet. The idea of Sherlock with the dildo wouldn't stop replaying in his mind. And slowly it stopped being incongruous and funny and started to be… hot. John would hand Sherlock his tea and see those elegant digits wrapping around a thick rubber shaft. He would watch Sherlock bite his lips while he typed at his computer and wonder if he'd ever pushed the thing between that cupid bow, if he liked to lick it, suck on it, too, if that turned him on. That made John wonder if he'd ever sucked on a real one (must have done, John decided, in younger years; Sherlock was nothing if not both curious and capable of satisfying his curiosity). And then there was his arse… dear god, his arse...
They were at a crime scene two weeks after the drunk revelation. Lestrade and John watched as Sherlock examined the body. He stood up and shucked off his Belstaff, shoving it at John whilst muttering something about the heat. Then he went back to it, his intent focused on the body, going to his hands and knees and then bending forward on his forearms to sniff at the dead man's ear.
This put his arse clearly, clearly up and present. John sucked in a breath and stared, unable to help himself. It was so… lush and round, set between those boyishly narrow hip and perched above those long, long thighs. Sherlock's tight gray pants stretched across his cheeks, revealing the tantalizing shape of his crack. John pictured a disembodied dildo moving in and out, in and out, and then, because a floating dildo made no sense, John imagined himself holding the dildo, moving it in and out, in and out. That image started morphing into…
"John!" Lestrade's voice broke his reverie.
John blinked. Lestrade was looking at him, face red with embarrassment and guilt. Sherlock was looking at him, too, calculatingly, over his shoulder, his arse still in the air (damn it, it had been a set-up). And John, John had an erection in the middle of a bloody crime scene.
John tugged his jacket closed, stiffened his back in his best military manner and said, "I'll wait outside." He left the room.
& 3 &
John was making tea. Sherlock was sitting at the table, which was littered with an experiment involving frog toxins, but he wasn't fiddling with it. He had his hands folded in front of his chin, his gaze distant and thoughtful.
The question came out of John's mouth before he realized he was going to ask it. It had been on the tip of his tongue for quite some time. Apparently, it had gotten tired of waiting to be spoken and decided to leap to its death.
"Are you gay?" John asked. He pinched his mouth closed, silently cursing himself. But now that it was out, suicidally or not, he wanted to hear an answer.
Sherlock took a deep breath and let it out slowly, as if he'd been waiting for this. He turned the kitchen chair he was sitting in, and put his feet up on the seat of an adjacent chair. His robe was open and it fell to the sides, revealing long, long bare legs (Christ) and impeccable white briefs. His navy t-shirt rode up a bit, showing a gap of tight abdominals between the blue and the white.
It wasn't the least amount of clothes John had seen Sherlock in – he was hardly a model of propriety. Yet it suddenly felt so maddeningly, infuriatingly provocative that John wanted to turn around and punch one of the kitchen cabinets, hard, repeatedly. But he couldn't say anything because the look on Sherlock's face was utterly bored and utterly unconscious of any wrong-doing. He was merely putting up his feet, ho hum.
John didn't believe it for a goddamn second.
"You thought I was asexual. Now you think I'm gay." Sherlock said, musing thoughtfully.
"I didn't say I thought you were. I asked, that's all. I asked if you were." John spoke through clenched teeth. "If you don't want to tell me—"
"Something changed your mind," Sherlock said decisively. He placed his hands behind his head and stretched back, arching his spine. "What could it have been, I wonder?"
"Sherlock," John warned.
"You're been staring at me. Ever since the night you went out drinking with Lestrade three weeks ago. You two haven't been out since, I've noted. Curious."
John took a deep breath. He would not have this conversation. "Lestrade's been busy. Or I have. Right. I'm going to go get dressed."
John brushed past Sherlock to leave.
"Lestrade told you something about me that night, something that changed your view of my sexuality, something that's thrown you for a loop. You even searched my room."
John turned in the doorway, his spine stiff. "Look, I'm sorry. I've invaded your privacy and…. Let's just forget it, okay? It's none of my business. It doesn't matter."
Sherlock tilted his head back in his chair to stare at John, his face upside down, his throat stretched, his eyes unreadable. John felt something tighten in his gut, low and hot in his gut.
"Absolutely, John, let's forget it, no problem," John huffed sarcastically. He turned and left.
& 4 &
The man was a butcher, both as a day job and as a murderous spare time activity. They had chased him for several blocks before his accomplice caught up and fired at them. John had fired back, or tried to, only to realize his beloved Sig was jammed. It had to have been that fall a mile or so back, which had jammed his gun into his spine and during which he was lucky he hadn't shot off his own arse. But as a result, the gun wouldn't fire.
Sherlock realized it, John realized it, and then the butcher and his partner in crime realized it. In the next instant the chase reversed and John and Sherlock were the ones tearing across the rooftops at top speed, dodging bullets.
Sherlock had yanked John down a stairwell, the sounds of boots pounding after them, and then out an innocuous side door and around a corner and down an alley and up a fire escape and… ten minutes later, it appeared that they'd shaken their pursuers.
Only now John was hanging, by both hands, from a too-short fire escape and dangling 10 feet over an alley. His chest heaved from the running while he looked down over his shoulder. The ground looked very far away. Sherlock stood below him.
"Jump, John! Come on."
"I'm going to break something. It's going to fucking hurt," John said calmly, looking at the ground. He briefly contemplated pulling himself back up the fire escape. He was sure they'd shaken their tail. But he was panting and his shoulder hurt and he honestly didn't think he had the strength to do it. A broken ankle, or leg, was looking inevitable.
"It's not as far as it appears. Here – I'll break your fall." Sherlock held up his arms.
"Perfect. Then it'll be your face that gets smashed," John snarked between ragged breaths.
"For god's sake, I know how to catch a falling body. Just let go!"
He fell, what felt like a very brief but very fierce distance, and struck Sherlock. It apparently was further than it had looked to Sherlock, too, because he heaved an ugly grunt as he was struck, and collapsed backwards, taking John down with him.
For a second, John relished the feeling of the cobblestones beneath his palms, and the absence of pain that would denote any serious damage. To him at least.
"Are you, huh, alright?" John gasped, looking over Sherlock's face for signs of pain. His hand went up to Sherlock's head and felt through the curls, looking for blood or a bump.
"Fine," Sherlock panted, looking up at the sky. He grinned, his face taking on the sort of elation he got after a particularly dangerous narrow escape. His eyes met John and he laughed.
John started to giggle. "Oh, fuck," John said. "That was insane. Thank god his BFF is a terrible shot. But we lost him."
"No." Flat on his back, Sherlock waved an impervious hand, still trying to catch his breath. "I know the route he'll take. Already texted Lestrade."
"While we were running?" John said, incredulous.
"Running requires feet, not fingers," Sherlock said, holding up his phone as if to prove his point. He smiled.
John felt the warmth of surprise and admiration bloom in his chest. It was not at all a new feeling in regards to Sherlock. But right then, something in the shift of Sherlock's body as he put the phone back in his pocket, or maybe it was the joy of his smile, made John acutely aware of something that was new.
He was lying on top of Sherlock, fully on top, thigh to thigh, heaving chest to heaving chest, both of them completely stretched out on the dirty, dead-end alleyway stones.
John froze, the smile wiped from his face. He stared down at Sherlock with wide eyes. He wanted to move, he should move, but he couldn't. He felt paralyzed in place as his skin sensitized, every point at which it touched Sherlock, which was a hell of a lot of points, suddenly tingling and warm. With a dawning horror, he became very aware of the fact that his groin was directly over Sherlock, the man's hipbones just slightly offset from his own and pushing into the vulnerable cushion of his abdomen. He thought he could feel the soft mound of Sherlock's cock and then, as he gazed with shock into Sherlock's eyes, neither of them moving or making a sound, the outline of Sherlock's cock became more pronounced. But John, in his haze, could only process the humiliating realization that he himself was getting hard, and that Sherlock had to be able to feel it. He felt himself nudge into the tender hollow of Sherlock's belly as he rapidly filled, as if his cock was searching for its goal with a will of its own. So much for subtlety.
John swallowed and then, in a panic, braced both hands on the cobblestones to push himself up. But before he could, Sherlock wrapped his arms around his waist like a vice, holding him tight.
"Sherlock!" John said, struggling.
"John," said Sherlock, quietly.
His grip was like iron and John stopped, pressed his lips together in a tight, angry pinch. Sherlock's gaze was locked on his, his jaw set just as stubbornly.
"Let go," John said through clenched teeth.
Sherlock mutely shook his head. He hooked one calf around the back of John's ankle as if reinforcing his point.
John was still panting from the run, or maybe from arousal now. And, fuck, it took every ounce of will he had not to grind into the body below him. This position was killing him. It was a nightmare. All he could think about, all he could bloody well think about, was that goddamn dildo, about using his knees to knock Sherlock's thighs apart, spreading him, and sinking into him to the hilt. He had never, ever in his life had the urge to fuck a man, but here it was, and it was vicious and sharp-toothed in its ferocity.
Dear god please let this be a dream. This wasn't happening.
And Sherlock, the mad, obnoxious prat, he was still messing with John's mind. He knew exactly what was going on, and how humiliating it was, but he always had to be pushing boundaries, digging his fingers into the bruise. His face was grave and his eyes were staring but he wasn't letting go. Fuck you, Sherlock, John thought bitterly and without a trace of irony.
"Sherlock, let me up," John said in his quiet, I'm-about-to-kill-you voice.
"No," Sherlock said. His voice was rough and it sent a thrill through John, as if he needed any more stimulation.
As if to reinforce his point, Sherlock moved his other calf over John's other ankle, pinning it, challenging. John could break away, of course, but it would take a lot more violent force than seemed appropriate to use with someone he didn't literally want to kill. Much.
"Let me up, right goddamn now!" John heard himself saying, "Or I swear to god, I will rip your trousers off and fuck you, right here in this alley."
John had meant it to be shocking. He was shocked. It should have stung like a slap. It should have made the smug git let go. But Sherlock just breathed in a sharp gasp and stared. John stared back, wanting him to see that he bloody well meant it. Let. Me. Go. For a long moment, neither of them moved.
And then Sherlock…. Christ. His eyes went half-lidded. He tilted his head back with a moan. Without loosening his iron grip one iota, he lifted up his hips and moved them against John, grinding - what was now as obvious to John as a stick in the eye - his own stiff erection against John's aching one, mashing them together as his hips did a slow circle.
All the air in the alley suddenly vanished. John thought he had already been lusting but no, it had been a mere prelude to a prelude to lust. Now the real deal rocked through him so blindingly that he gave a sharp cry. In an instant his hands were fumbling at Sherlock's belt, his flies. He was shaking so hard it was a miracle his fingers even functioned, but they did. He pulled roughly at the now open trousers, yanking them down Sherlock's thighs, taking the pants with them. He pulled off Sherlock's shoes as he went, and discarded the whole lot somewhere far away. He'd done it so fast, it had to be a world record for the swift depanting of an object of desire.
He turned back to Sherlock, saw his cock jutting up from his body and nearly sobbed with want.
"I – fuck! - don't have a condom," John panted. "Or lube. We can't—"
But Sherlock was pulling stuff out of his coat pocket. He tossed a wrapped condom to John while he ripped open a pillow packet with his teeth like a rabid dog. Sherlock coated two of his own fingers with the clear, wet gel. They were trembling.
John watched, mesmerized, as Sherlock lifted his hips and stroked over his hole with the tips of his fingers, rubbing in circles, then pushing one inside.
"Put it on!" Sherlock snarled, seeing the condom still gripped in John's hand. It might have been insulting except that even in the queer fluorescent light of a distant street lamp, John could see the red blotchiness of arousal over Sherlock's face and throat, over his inner thigh. He was as frantic as John was. Dear god in heaven.
"Oh." John ripped the wrapper open, blood pounding in his ears. He realized he was still completely clothed and wrestled with his button and fly with one hand whilst holding the rubber with the other.
His cock was like a rock as he pulled it out and sheathed it. So hard, Christ, hadn't been this hard in years. Maybe that explained why his entire body tingled (lack of blood) and an odd sense of detached euphoria fogged his faculties. Or maybe it was the sight of Sherlock, Sherlock bloody Holmes, fucking himself with two fingers, those crazy long, impossibly long fingers, thighs spread, his hips canting up in a rhythm.
John whimpered. Fuck, he had to do this, or he was going to embarrass himself and come before he ever got inside.
"Sherlock," John warned in a quiet voice.
"Now." Sherlock pulled out his fingers and reached for John.
John crawled into his arms and then braced himself on one hand while the other positioned his cock at the entrance. He looked down into Sherlock's eyes. A moment of doubt surfaced. What the hell was he doing?
"I want you," Sherlock said with resolve as he looked up fiercly into John's eyes. "Do it."
John sank in. There was a moment of resistance as his head breached the ring of muscle. A deep breath from Sherlock, and one of John's own, and then he pulled back and pushed again and he was in, sliding into the tight heat to the hilt.
For a moment, he couldn't trust himself to move. He lay on Sherlock's chest, a low moan escaping his lips. They both still wore shirts and coats, which was absurd, laughable, when down below he was embedded into the hot, slick sheath of Sherlock's body.
"Move," Sherlock gasped, pushing his hips up and bringing his hands down to clutch at John's arse.
John forgot about the alley, forgot about everything except what it felt like to move inside Sherlock. The pleasure was almost unbearable, the grip on his cock intense. Sherlock's responsiveness was so heated and perfect it made him want to cry. Sherlock breathed his name, clutched him tighter, met his thrusts with grinding circles. John didn't have experience, or enough brain power at the moment, to do anything but fight to stave off his own orgasm, but Sherlock seemed to know exactly how to tilt his hips for maximum pleasure. John caught on. Prostate, right. And he drove into that place, again and again, his face buried in Sherlock's neck,wanting to please Sherlock, wanting to give him what he needed.
"Oh, John," Sherlock barely whispered, shaking beneath him, and then Sherlock's muscles spasmed tight around him and the erection against John's belly hardened further and jerked. John felt something hot and damp soaking into his shirt. He bit down on Sherlock's collarbone and came, intensely, buried deep in Sherlock's body.
John zipped himself up and tried not to watch as Sherlock gathered his wad of dirty trousers and shoes from across the alley. He was half naked in the street light, and he looked young and vulnerable as he put them on. John felt a flush of shame at the way he'd – well, yes. He bloody well had. Sherlock wasn't looking at him. Any moment now, he would disappear, turn cold and cruel, self-protective, maybe not return to the flat for days.
And John decided, no, it wasn't going to be that way. Not if he could help it.
He waited until Sherlock finished putting on his shoes and then he went to him and tugged on his arm. Sherlock resisted, but not enough to matter, as John pulled him into an embrace.
John gripped Sherlock's face in both hands, forcing the man to meet his eyes.
"That? Was bloody brilliant," John said.
Sherlock frowned a bit, as if in pain. "An interesting one-off, I'm sure. But you're not gay."
"Yeah? Well, apparently, I'm not entirely straight either." John laughed.
Sherlock didn't smile. His face showed a flash of hurt. "I don't… do this, John. I don't know what to do."
"Hey. It's just you and me, Sherlock, right? Like always."
Sherlock looked down at the ground, as if he couldn't meet John's eyes. He pursed his lips and went into analysis mode, his voice cold. "Lestrade told you about the dildo. You rejected the truth at first, as it didn't fit your preconceived idea of me. But slowly your brain accommodated it. You became curious. The idea of my liking, desiring… that… to be fucked, was strangely arousing. Like a train wreck in its fascination. It became a sort of compulsion. You had to see for yourself. Well! You've satisfied your curiosity now. The compulsion will fade. Disgust will set in, I expect, if not by tomorrow than the week end. It might lessen the depth of your sexual identity crisis to know that I never expect it to happen again."
Sherlock wrenched himself away, not meeting John's eyes. He pulled his gloves from his coat pockets.
"No," John said with conviction, shaking his head. "That's not how it is."
"It's alright. I went in with my eyes open. I daresay I provoked you, so you needed wallow in pointless guilt." Sherlock's voice was ice.
"God, you're such an idiot! You missed something important in your analysis, you know."
"What?" Sherlock looked up, frowning.
"I'm in love with you, you daft git." John said calmly, folding his arms. "And I was in love with you long before Lestrade told me about the dildo. I just… didn't let myself think there was a chance of us having... this."
"Really?" Sherlock sounded truly bewildered. He searched John's face for a long moment, calculating, no doubt measuring the alterations in the wrinkles in the corner of John's eyes or the increased dilating of his capillaries or some such thing. John was patient and let him, smiling softly. At last Sherlock's face relaxed into something like surprise and... hope?
"Dear god. How did I miss that?"
John chuckled. He stepped forward to pull the detective back into his arms. "Well, it just goes to show you, Sherlock Holmes. There's always something." And he pulled Sherlock down for a kiss.