last chapter yaaaaaaaay
Sherlock didn't knock. Sherlock never knocked. Sherlock didn't knock before waltzing into the loo without bothering to check if John was in there or not. He didn't knock before entering the back room of the conservatory despite the completely rational possibility that the first chair violist might be snogging the brains out of a French horn player.
So he certainly did not knock the day he returned home from his work.
John was, as suspected, nowhere to be found. It was, after all, three in the afternoon and thus still at orchestra rehearsal.
No, I want the later flight.
The later flight is inconvenient for everybody and I've already booked you this one. You are being childish. My life does not revolve around your boyfriend's rehearsal schedule. If you wish, there's always the possibility of doing something else around London before returning home.
He is not my boyfriend. Do not ever use such a vulgar word again.
What then, pray tell, is he?
Not my boyfriend.
You're insufferable. And you're getting on that flight.
Of course Sherlock wasn't about to go hopping around London just to kill time. That would be twice as boring as lounging around doing absolutely nothing. And so Sherlock waltzed into John's room without permission and took a much needed nap, laying face down so that his nose was pressed into the sheets, reveling in the scent of John. He had changed shampoos no doubt, but that did little to affect that distinct John smell.
John returned home with a bag of groceries in one hand and his clarinet in the other. Balancing both in one arm, he fumbled around for his flat key in his pocket long enough to retrieve it and unlock the door. When he entered, the room was dark and usual. Without thinking much, he nonchalantly strolled into the kitchen to put away the groceries. For a moment, he peered into his refrigerator, contemplating whether to make a cold sandwich or a grilled cheese for his supper. Cold ham, he decided, and nodded to himself firmly before shutting the refrigerator door.
John would fix up his supper after he put his instrument away, then, and so he headed towards the bedroom without the least bit of suspicion.
The moment he flicked on the lights, however, a subtle movement under his covers alarmed John so much his clarinet came crashing onto the floor.
Immediately, a familiar voice spoke out, muffled by John's bedsheets. "I hope, for your sake, that wasn't your clarinet that just hit the floor. It's not good for the instrument, you know."
Still stunned as if he had been shot with a tranquilizer, John was physically unable to speak up. He watched the lanky figure slowly rise from his slumber, sitting up properly to stare John in the face and John could have sworn his heart skipped a beat. Or five.
"I was asleep," Sherlock noted, running a hand through his dark and curly hair. "You woke me up without knocking. How rude."
John lifted a shaky finger. "Y…You…you've certainly got balls, saying that after breaking into my flat and falling asleep in my bed!"
"Tsk," Sherlock said, swinging his ridiculously tall legs over the side of the bed so he could stand up properly. "I was under the impression that it was our bed," he spoke as he took long strides towards John, backing the clarinetist into the wall and trapping him between Sherlock's arms. Sherlock bowed his head to meet John's ear, whispering softly, "unless you've already thrown me out?"
John nearly melted, forgetting exactly what Sherlock could do to him with that deep, sultry voice. And when he felt Sherlock's teeth just barely graze the tip of his ear, John shuddered and fell forward, his forehead on Sherlock's shoulder.
Sherlock responded by wrapping his thin arms around John's back, John returning the favor by sliding his own hands up Sherlock's neck. "You're a bloody git, you know? A real proper arsehole." He inhaled sharply, for the first time in seven months able to breath in Sherlock's essence. And then he laughed. "And you're the rude one, coming in just like that and sleeping while I'm off toiling away at the conservatory. I was going to meet you. A real, proper greeting. Cook us both a hot meal."
"You could still do it," Sherlock offered, taking John's face into his hands. "Give me a real, proper greeting."
And that was the last straw before John was pulling the world class violinist down greedily for the best snog of their lifetimes.
Two minutes later, they were both in bed.
"Oh god I missed this," John gasped, arching his back as Sherlock slid bony, calloused hands under his jumper, exposing more and more flesh as he went.
"Mmm," Sherlock responded, nipping tenderly at the side of John's neck. "I missed you."
"Who the fuck turned you into a romantic over these past few months?"
"Well, I had a set of frustratingly dirty dreams that might have helped."
"Bloody…" John exhaled sharply when Sherlock's hands ran over a clearly aroused nipple. "So glad I wasn't the only one."
Sherlock sat John up just long enough to push the jumper over his head before slamming him back down onto the bed, attacking John's mouth with Sherlock's own in a heated kiss.
They snogged in silence for what seemed like forever, hips slowly moving against each other, hands fisted into each other's hair. John hadn't had a haircut since Sherlock left. Good, much easier to grab onto.
"How was Washington?" John asked, parting their lips so that they were still slightly touching.
"Don't mock me," Sherlock growled, gripping onto John's pelvis possessively.
John smirked and wrapped his arms around Sherlock's bare shoulder blades. "I wouldn't dare."
Sherlock hastily unbuttoned John's trousers, the thick material between them too much for the friction he had been craving for the past seven months. John didn't prohibit the action one bit. In fact, he encouraged the violinist, lifting his hips to allow Sherlock to unsheathe him. One indisputably and irrefutably naked, Sherlock wasted no time in grabbing at John's cock, eliciting quite a memorable noise from the back of John's throat. "You've been masturbating," Sherlock observed, planting a small kiss onto John's collarbone. "Frequently."
"And I'm guessing you haven't been," John pointed out, wiggling his hips a bit to get comfortable underneath his lover.
"Dull," Sherlock stated simply, jerking his hand a bit and reducing John to a hot, groaning mess.
It was quite a messy handjob. John was leaking fluid like crazy and the sounds of Sherlock's hand against wet flesh were beyond obscene. And then Sherlock was sliding down John's body, planting soft kisses as he went- kisses that might have been even more of a turn on than getting jerked off. When Sherlock kissed John's inner thigh, John's fingers immediately tangled themselves into Sherlock's hair.
"You're a bloody tease," John hissed as Sherlock kissed his other thigh.
Sherlock's response was to nuzzle his face against John's cock, lips slightly brushing against the base and John spasmed beneath him.
"Fuck," John growled under his breath, and then Sherlock's mouth was on him, lips pursed around his tip before sliding down John's length slowly, obscenely, erotically. Like Sherlock was John's personal pornstar. John gripped at the back of Sherlock's head tightly as if silently saying "don't you fucking dare lift your mouth off my cock."
The message fully understood, Sherlock sank down onto John, swallowing his essence whole and only coming back up when the need to breathe outweighed the pleasure.
There was nothing better than watching Sherlock Holmes bob his head up and down between John's legs. John kept his eyes on the scene played out before him and several times, Sherlock would lift his head to catch John's gaze, his lips still on John's cock, and John would shudder in complete pleasure. It was just ridiculously sexy, those cold and calculating eyes staring into John's own.
John could feel his legs begin to twitch. Feeling himself slowly succumb to sweet and utter bliss, he let out another hearty groan and threw his head backwards.
Feeling John grow close to an impending orgasm, Sherlock released the cock from his mouth with the most lewd sound John had ever heard.
John let out a struggled whine at the loss of heat around his groin, but he immediately shut up about it once Sherlock started to slither back up John's body, hastily kissing John again. John could taste himself on Sherlock's tongue, which strangely enough only made him all the more lascivious. He moaned into the kiss, grasping at Sherlock's dark curls as if afraid that if he'd let go Sherlock would leave again.
When they broke off, Sherlock leaned his forehead against John's, inhaling each time John exhaled, their breaths in a beautifully choreographed dance. "What…" Sherlock started, completely out of breath. "What do you want?"
John, with his hands slowly sliding down Sherlock's naked back and dipping into the waistband of Sherlock's trousers, grinned devilishly. When he squeezed at Sherlock's arse, the violinist practically jumped out of his own skin. "I want you to fuck me. Hard and raw."
John's voice sent shivers straight to Sherlock's cock. "Yes sir," he agreed.
And he did.
It was perhaps the post-coital aspects of their lives that John loved best. Laying on his side, completely naked, tracing indistinct patterns onto Sherlock's equally naked back as the genius nonchalantly polished his violin.
Once complete, Sherlock tucked the instrument underneath his chin.
"Play what you played in Vienna," John commanded, wrapping both his arms around Sherlock's seemingly fragile torso.
"Dull," Sherlock objected.
"Don't say that," John responded. "I want to hear it. Live, and not through a television screen."
And because Sherlock loved him, he obliged, and then the entire flat echoed with the sound of Dvorák.
It was peaceful. Quiet. John can't even remember a time when Sherlock had left, it seemed like he had been here all along. And perhaps John found himself nodding off to sleep again, eyes closed as he listened to Sherlock's sweet melody.
"You're not the only one who's been successfully lately," John spoke up suddenly.
"Of course not. I've been busy myself, you know," John pointed out. "In fact, I should dare say they've bumped me up to first clarinet."
Immediately, the music came to a screeching halt. John smirked at Sherlock's back.
Sherlock slowly craned his neck around to stare at John, completely bewildered. "You what?"
"You heard me," John said, nuzzling his face into the small of his lover's back.
Instantly, Sherlock spun around, practically tossing his violin off the bed to tackle John into the sheets. "Oh John," he cried out, planting a great big kiss onto John's lips. "John, my beautiful John, I knew it! Of course you're first clarinet!"
And John laughed and drew Sherlock into a tight hug. "I hope, for your sake, that wasn't your violin that just crashed onto the floor."
"You can shut up now," Sherlock hissed into John's ear.
"Make me," John commanded.
You guys are great and I love you all okay bye