Fair Warning: prepare for the feels. Also, sex in public. And pseudo-virginity. I mean, you should have gotten that last one from the title. But you know. Also, I had zero time to edit. So sorry about any mistakes. I'll fix them at some point. I promise :)
Really, when Sherlock said he wanted to go to the cinema, John should have been suspicious. He should have known something was going on when they arrived and Sherlock bought them tickets to a romantic comedy that had been in theaters for weeks already and had received generally poor reviews.
Even when they sat in the very back of the theater, where it was darkest, and farthest away from the few other patrons in the front—John didn't put two and two together.
Perhaps he was already caught off guard by Sherlock wanting to go out and do something that was, as far as he knew, not case related. Perhaps he was simply a bit giddy because this was the closest thing they'd ever had to a proper date.
Whatever the reason, John did not realize what was happening until it was too late—the exact moment that Sherlock pulled a flask out of his coat pocket and chugged a frankly impressive amount of what smelled like whiskey.
"Sherlock," he hissed. The film had just started. The theater was dark, and filled with the forgettable pop music playing behind the opening credits.
"What are you doing?"
"It's not obvious?"
John let out a long breath to keep from shouting at his flat mate. Even though the theater was mostly empty, just a few teenagers and an older couple, he did not want to come to terms with what was about to happen.
"I can see that you're drinking, Sherlock," he said in his quietist, most patient voice, "but would you like to explain why you're doing that?"
Sherlock's hand snaked over to John's thigh and squeezed. Then he leaned in close and started to whisper into John's ear.
"I'm drinking, John, because I'm incredibly aroused by the idea of sucking you off in a dark theater while you bite down on your fist and try not to moan so loud that somebody notices. Then after you come down my throat, we can sneak out, buy some more whiskey, perhaps have dinner, and catch a cab back to the flat. Hopefully by then enough time will have passed that you'll be able to fuck me. The nice, rough way you do when you're particularly cross about something inappropriate I've done."
God damn it.
Sherlock was trying to give him a heart attack. That was the only reasonable explanation for this. But his cock was rapidly hardening. And he could almost feel Sherlock smirking against the shell of his ear.
"Call me a slut," Sherlock went breathy. And John knew he was doing it to wind him up. But somehow that didn't make it any less sexy.
"Stop it," John did his best to sound like he meant it.
But Sherlock started running those long, nimble fingers up the inseam of John's jeans. His cock twitched with interest. Perhaps because it was remembering the more sinful things those wonderful hands had done to it.
John didn't push Sherlock away—because that would have been pointless. Instead he tried to focus on the film and will his erection away. But it didn't really help. The leading actress was rather attractive, even if he could already tell that this was just going to be an awful movie, with trite dialogue, and ridiculous situations. The woman was a dentist. It was called "sweet tooth" or something like that.
God. Those hands.
Sherlock's fingers barely brushed over John's erection and he squirmed in his seat.
"Come on, John. I'll let you fuck my mouth. I'll let you wind your fingers in my hair and thrust into my throat while I swallow around you. I love choking around your huge cock."
John bit down on his lip, torn between frustration and unbridled lust. Sherlock's voice rumbling in his ear was vibrating his brain at just the right frequency—so he'd relent and go along with this insane little plan. He half suspected Sherlock kept an entire room in his bloody mind palace called, "how to be an unbearable tease so that John Watson will do whatever I say."
Not like it was that difficult. It wasn't like John didn't want Sherlock to suck him off right there in the back of a movie theater. Really, common decency was the only reason John hadn't given in yet.
Common decency seemed like a more abstract and silly principal with each passing moment.
Sherlock undid the top button of John's jeans and pulled the zip down. His fingers ghosted across John's cock teasingly through the thin fabric of his pants. But it seemed like the infuriating genius wouldn't be sucking any cock until John verbally gave in. Or requested. Or begged. Whichever came first.
He let out a small sigh and tangled his fingers in Sherlock's dark curls, pulling him into a sloppy kiss. Sherlock tasted like a pub—the sharpness of hard alcohol barely masking the vague smoky flavor. John had thought he'd smelled cigarettes in the flat earlier.
John's thoughts accidentally stumbled into serious territory. His flat mate's "secret" smoking habit was just the tip of the large iceberg of things they never discussed.
Really, he'd never understood why women complained about men being bad at communicating. At least, he hadn't understood it before he and Sherlock had started… well… whatever this was. He didn't know. Because Sherlock never brought it up, and if John ever got up the nerve to ask related questions, Sherlock stared at him blankly until he stopped talking.
Of course, if John asked directly, Sherlock probably would of answered directly. But what was he supposed to say? Are we just shagging because you're bored? I would ask if you had feelings for me, but you do go on about how you're a sociopath an awful lot. Am I a living sex toy to you?
There had only been that one conversation. The first morning after. Sherlock had said that they already did everything a couple did besides shag. And at first, John had been hopeful about what that statement implied. But they hadn't talked about it since. It had been a whirlwind of ridiculously enjoyable sex. But it wasn't like John expected a confession of love any time soon.
In fact, he got the distinct feeling that he was replaceable. Because when Sherlock got cross about John being late home—the threat was usually the same. "If I'd known you were going to take so long, I would have called someone else." Perhaps it was an empty threat. Because Sherlock certainly never brought anybody else home. But still. John couldn't be sure.
Sherlock Holmes was an embodiment of mixed signals. Pushing John away with one hand, and pulling him in with the other.
Like that time, when Sherlock climbed into John's bed in the middle of the night, rutted against him until they both came, and informed him they'd been shagging for exactly four months.
John hadn't known what to make of it. He dwelled on it obsessively for a little while. But then month five rolled around, and Sherlock didn't say anything. John had been keeping track since that night. They were rounding the corner of six months in two weeks.
He wasn't expecting much. But maybe he still wished the half-year mark wouldn't simply pass them by without any note.
"Stop thinking," Sherlock grunted, "you're a terrible kisser when you think too hard."
And that, right there summed up the problem and the solution all in one.
John kissed Sherlock a bit more fervently. Pushing his tongue between the other man's lips in deep, slow motions. The way he'd like to fuck him, but was almost never allowed to. Because Sherlock wanted it fast and hard.
Sherlock pushed down the waistband of John's pants and he wrapped his long fingers around John's cock. He began stroking in an achingly slow manner. And maybe John whimpered slightly.
"Do you want my mouth, Doctor Watson?" Sherlock murmured against his lips.
And John's heart was hammering in his throat. Because god damn him. It wasn't fair how he just dropped in those sexy little Doctor Watson remarks. He knew exactly what it did to John.
"I'm going to fuck you so hard when we get home… you won't be able to sit down without squirming for days. Now suck me off, you tease."
Sometimes, John was surprised at the words that came out of his own mouth. Usually he wasn't, because he didn't really have time to dwell on it.
Sherlock folded the armrest up—of course this was one of the theaters that had retractable armrests—and leaned over. He wrapped those wonderful luscious lips around the tip of John's prick and slowly slid down on him. The good doctor inhaled sharply.
The perfect moist heat was entirely too much to handle. God. It was lovely. The tip of John's cock hit the back of Sherlock's throat, and the other man swallowed. A small groan escaped John's lungs and Sherlock began bobbing up and down.
Normally, they both would have devolved into ridiculous dirty talk by this point. But they were already being too loud as it was. John fought to keep his mouth shut—by pulling on Sherlock's hair a lot harder than necessary. But that just made Sherlock moan around him… and really, that wasn't helping anything. At least, it wasn't helping in terms of them not getting kicked out of the theater. Because John was on the verge of letting out a lot of very loud, very pornographic sounds, and if they got caught, he'd blame it all on the lunatic that was currently giving him the most sinful blowjob in the history of exhibitionist blowjobs.
John couldn't help it. He started thrusting into Sherlock's throat. Usually, Sherlock didn't have much of a gag reflex, and he seemed to be making a valiant effort to relax as much as possible. His hand was wrapped around the lower section of John's cock that would simply not fit, stroking in time with the doctor's motions. And maybe John was more than a bit keyed up because they might get caught. He knew it shouldn't turn him on. But it bloody well did. It was impossible not to be turned on when you were fucking Sherlock's perfect mouth.
"Oh god," John whispered, "Sherlock... I'm going to—"
The orgasm ripped through him. He was pulsing into Sherlock's mouth. The detective swallowed it all. He even licked John clean as the good doctor floated in a lazy sort of afterglow.
It took John more than a few moments to collect himself. Even after Sherlock zipped up John's trousers, and turned towards the move screen—looking far more innocent than the had any right to look.
"Bloody hell," John muttered.
"You're welcome," Sherlock smirked.
It happened in the midst of an argument. Really, it shouldn't have come as any surprise—given the way they'd squabbled like an old married couple before they'd ever started sleeping together. And after they'd started shagging like mad, sometimes the fighting and the sex were indistinguishable from each other. They blended and melded in a splatter of passions that left the flat in ruins half the time.
But this fight was different.
John hadn't been prepared for it. In fact, he'd walked through the door in a rather good mood. However, Sherlock's obvious intent to have a good long row hit him like a wave as soon as he crossed the threshold of their flat.
Sherlock was seated on the couch, wrapped in nothing but a sheet, staring down at John's mobile. John had only been out getting milk. He'd forgotten his mobile and figured it wasn't worth it to turn around when he was already halfway up the street. Clearly—that had been a mistake.
"Who is Cathy?" The words dripped out like ice cubes, clattering on the floor and melting just enough to leave trails of cold water.
John's stomach twisted. He set the milk down, and walked over to where Sherlock was sitting. There was no eye contact. Sherlock was still staring at the screen of John's mobile.
"Just a resident at the Surgery," John said carefully. He already knew what Sherlock had seen. The wealth of inappropriate texts Cathy had sent ever since she got a hold of his number. He'd tried to reject her gently, but she really wasn't one to take a hint.
He didn't quite understand why Sherlock looked like he'd swallowed the fire poker, but he had no doubt the tall detective would explain it in detail.
However, instead of a reasonable explanation, John got his mobile tossed across the room.
"Oi!" He stepped towards it to pick it up, but then Sherlock glared at him and he froze mid-step.
"Are you sleeping with her?"
The question hung in the air uncomfortably, like it wasn't a question at all. More of an accusation. John didn't know why he felt guilty. He hadn't touched the girl.
"No." He ruffled.
"You want to." Sherlock replied with narrowed eyes.
"If I did, I could have had her already."
Apparently, that was the wrong thing to say. Because Sherlock was suddenly on his feet and they were nose to nose.
John wasn't even sure exactly what they were arguing about yet, but he squared his shoulders against the oncoming tidal wave of verbal abuse. When Sherlock got angry, sometimes he threw things. And when he didn't have any material objects at his direct disposal, he threw nasty insults instead.
"Is it that she makes you feel younger? How old is she? Judging by her atrocious spelling and gratuitous use of emoticons, she can't be older than twenty."
"Sherlock, I don't know what the fuck you're on about! She's practically stalking me. I keep telling her no."
"Clearly you haven't said no, because that would have dissuaded her. You've been passive aggressively allowing her to continue in her advances. I bet you haven't even told her that you're taken."
"Taken?" John repeated. Suddenly the anger he'd been building, all the comebacks he'd been preparing in his head fizzled out. Now he was just confused.
Sherlock simply stared at him for a moment. As if he'd also been derailed.
There was a long silence.
"Have you been seeing other people this entire time?" Sherlock asked in a voice John had never heard before. It was pained, but he wasn't acting. He slumped like somebody had just slapped him across the face.
"What? No—have you?"
"Of course not! We're…" Sherlock trailed off.
There was a moment where John definitely should have said something. Perhaps finished Sherlock's sentence for him. Dating. Lovers. Anything. I'd be anything for you.
He realized the second it passed. Because Sherlock turned on his heel, and began walking towards his bedroom. John knew if that door closed, it wouldn't open again for days.
Sherlock walked briskly, but John was faster. He was blocking the doorway, arms flung out, hands grasping the sides of the entrance—because just standing in Sherlock's way wasn't going to do anything. He had to be a human wall.
"Move," the other man said in a curt voice that barely masked the tremble underneath it.
"No, Sherlock, we need to talk about this."
"I made an incorrect assumption. I don't see what more we have to discuss."
"That's the problem! You always assume things and you never tell me about them. How am I supposed to know?"
"Really, John. You can be a bit dull. But I thought even you could infer something from the fact that we've been sleeping together for almost six months," Sherlock said coldly.
"You said you didn't like labels."
"I say a lot of things," Sherlock snapped. "Now move."
"Why don't you want to talk about this? For god's sake, I don't even know what we're arguing about."
"We're arguing about the fact that you are chasing after air-headed twenty-somethings, while I've been going about my life under the impression that we are a couple. I'm sorry for my miscalculation. It won't happen again."
"Don't. I've heard it all before, John, I assure you. The sex is nice, but you can't be in a relationship with somebody who never lets you touch them unless they're completely knackered. It makes you feel dirty. It's not healthy. I'm pathetic. It's quite possible that I'm an alcoholic. Well, I did it all for you. So you're welcome. We can still shag occasionally if you like, but right now I can't stand to look at you. So get out of the way, or I'll walk out into the street in nothing but this sheet."
John didn't even think about it. He reached out and pulled Sherlock into his arms. The other man tensed and squirmed at the touch, but John did not let go.
"John! Release me this instant!"
"No. Then you'll leave."
"That's rather the point."
"I don't want you to leave."
"Because, god help me, I love you—you ridiculous bastard."
Sherlock went completely still.
"You what?" He barely whispered.
"I love you," John said with a little less certainty. Because the first time it had just slipped out. And he was only beginning to think about the implications.
He looked up to meet Sherlock's eyes and saw the moisture starting to collect. He could feel the other man shaking slightly. The first real tear gathered in the corner of Sherlock's left eye and ran down his cheek slowly.
John wasn't sure if he'd just crossed the final line. The one he was never meant to cross. To never admit that—yes—he'd gone ahead and tumbled head over heels for a high functioning sociopath. But he couldn't help it. How could you shag someone so utterly perfect and deliciously insane for nearly half a year and not start to develop feelings for them?
But then the sheet fell to the ground. Sherlock captured John's mouth in a desperate kiss. His naked body pressed flush against John's clothed one.
And that's how it usually went. A fight tapering seamlessly into sex. But this was different. Sherlock was stone cold sober, and jumping at John's touch, but his hardening cock was pressed against John's stomach.
"Sherlock," John breathed, "you don't have to—if it's too much we can—"
"I want to."
A pair of large hands wrapped around John's hips and he was being walked backwards into Sherlock's bedroom. Being kissed. Caressed.
Usually when they got to the bed, Sherlock would throw him down on it. Eager with arousal. But this time, they stopped at the edge of the mattress, and Sherlock looked uncertain for a moment before he sank down and lay on his back.
"Take me," he whispered, "I—I need to feel you inside me."
John stood for a moment, he opened his mouth and the sentence hadn't even really formed before Sherlock cut him off.
"Don't ask me if I'm sure. Because I'm not. But that doesn't mean I don't want it. Now come here."
John pulled his jumper over his head, toed off his shoes, and shed his trousers along with his pants before sinking down on the bed beside Sherlock.
The taller man's pale skin was colored warm and pink with arousal. John lay on top of him. Sherlock placed his feet on the bed, so his knees rose on either side of John's torso. He could feel Sherlock shaking. He pressed a tender kiss against his lips.
"Have you ever done this before—I mean, when you were sober?" John asked softly.
Sherlock's eyes were still wet and wide with emotion. He shook his head. "Go slowly."
John's chest ached. Because suddenly the gravity of everything they'd been doing was sinking in. All he could do brush their lips together once again.
He reached for the drawer on the bedside table, pulling it open and grabbing the tube of lubricant. He squeezed it into his hand and warmed it slightly, before brushing a slick finger between Sherlock's cheeks. The other man shuddered.
"All right?" John whispered.
"Yes." The reply was clipped. Slightly choked off.
But John continued. Slowly, very carefully, he pressed at Sherlock's entrance. The detective's breath caught. John pushed in a little further and grazed against Sherlock's prostate.
"Oh," Sherlock moaned softly.
"Does it feel good?" John murmured past the other man's ear.
"Yes—I—God. Keep going."
Normally, John would have chuckled at Sherlock's inability to form sentences when he was too aroused.
But it wasn't funny right then. John was too focused, trying to monitor Sherlock's facial expressions for any sign of discomfort. He brushed against Sherlock's prostate again, this time a bit more firmly, and the other man squirmed. His breathing went ragged.
John kept up at a slow, careful pace for several minutes before he dared to add another finger. Sherlock was sweating. Making all sorts of small keening noises. Usually he'd be talking. Begging John to fuck him. Berating the good doctor with all starts of graphic imagery to get him to move along with things.
Instead, Sherlock was clutching at the bed sheets and writhing, and biting down on those wonderful plump lips of his—causing them to swell and slick in a way that was entirely too tantalizing.
John slipped a third finger, and Sherlock let out a breath so suddenly it was almost as if the wind had just been knocked out of him.
"Is it too much?" John planted a small kiss on Sherlock's shoulder.
"No… yes… I can't tell."
"Do you want me to stop? We can stop at any time you want. There's no pressure."
"You're being too considerate. I'm just—ugh—I'm almost ready. Just keep going."
John began moving his fingers slowly, thrusting them in and out ever so slightly. He watched every muscle in Sherlock's body tighten and relax.
A lot of the time, Sherlock prepared himself. John got to occasionally, when it was a game, or when Sherlock couldn't be bothered with it. But… he'd never taken this long before. Never taken the time to fully appreciate the way Sherlock's internal muscles fluttered around his fingers. The way he squirmed, or suppressed the urge to squirm, every time John brushed against his prostate.
"John," it sounded almost strangled.
"If we keep going like this I'm going to… please… I want you."
John took a long breath to steady himself. It wasn't Sherlock's usual dirty talk. But it was doing unspeakable things to him. His cock was throbbing—quite possibly harder than it had ever been before. He slicked his erection with liberal amounts of lubricant. There wasn't really such a thing as too much. And he didn't want this to hurt. Even though it would. Because Sherlock didn't like being touched. John was fully prepared to just get the tip in before Sherlock cried that it was too much, and made him pull it back out.
He positioned himself with one hand, while he supported his body with the other. Sherlock's arms were draped around his shoulders, and despite his declarations of need and readiness, he still looked nervous.
"Just try to relax," John said softly. Teasing the tip of his cock around Sherlock's hole without quite pushing it.
"We've had sex before, John. You're not going to break me. It's fine." Maybe the detective meant to sound sarcastic, or catty. But he couldn't hide the fear in his eyes.
John leaned down just enough to press their lips together as he slowly pushed the head of his cock past the first tight ring of muscle. Sherlock let out a shocked gasp. John stilled, allowing him time to adjust. To say no.
But after perhaps thirty seconds that felt like the expanse and contraction of a universe—Sherlock wrapped his legs around John's waist and rocked his hips slightly. Allowing John's cock to dip in just a little bit deeper.
They groaned in unison.
"Oh Jesus," John gritted out.
Sherlock looked like he was making a valiant effort to never breathe again. He was still, and vibrating with tension. But he repeated his previous motion. Pulled John forward with his legs, and bucked up against him. And then the tall, pale man let out a quiet whimper.
John wasn't sure if they were having sex or playing tug-of-war at a bizarre sort of halftime. But they thrust together and pulled apart at a tempo too slow for even the world's most relaxed piece of experimental music. And his brain had melted. He couldn't think. He was trapped in the wonderful tight heat of Sherlock's body, frustrated by the lack of stimulation, and entirely happy to continue running along this blade's edge for the rest of his life.
Over the course of the slow thrusting, John's cock buried itself deeper in deeper in the constricted warmth. He hardly realized it was happening until he found himself fully seated in Sherlock's arse.
Sherlock had closed his eyes. He clutched John tightly, as if he might drift away at any moment. John pressed his body entirely against Sherlock's, nuzzling at his neck. Pausing to revel in the magnificent slowness.
"How does it feel?" He thrust languidly, punctuating his question.
Sherlock was silent for a moment. "Hurts a bit. But it's not bad. It's just so… you're so warm, John."
John propped himself on his forearms and began to move at a still decidedly slow, but more established rhythm.
He could barely deal with the suffocating affection he felt for the man beneath him. It threatened to overwhelm him completely. Because maybe it was just him—but this felt like making love. And John dimly realized he'd never made love to anyone before. Not like this. All the rest of it had been fucking. Racing towards the finish line.
He didn't want this to ever end.
"It's like I'm full and I never knew I was empty before." Sherlock barely whispered. But John still heard.
And maybe those weren't the words that anyone else would use. It didn't matter. It was just enough for John to know he wasn't alone and lost at sea. They were both there. Rolling in the haze of over-active neurotransmitters and vulnerability.
He gradually picked up speed, and Sherlock was meeting every one of his thrusts. John angled upwards, to drag against Sherlock's prostate, and it earned him a shuddering cry.
"You're so beautiful," John's words were broken and slightly muddled. But he hoped the feeling got across.
Sherlock looked up at him. His curls were tangled and messy, sprawled across the pillow on an odd little halo. Pink cheeks, short quick little breaths. John could feel Sherlock's internal muscles starting to contract—squeezing around him uncertainly.
"I love you too."
The phrase was mashed in between a grunt, and a rather impressive moan. John barely managed to catch it. To latch onto the meaning before Sherlock clamped down around him, and almost sobbed as the orgasm ripped through his taught body. His cock jerked between them, painting their stomachs in sticky little puddles of ejaculate.
John toppled over the edge after him. The tingling, near painful pleasure ricocheted through his utterly wrecked nerve endings. He was completely gone for a moment. Before he checked back in. On top of Sherlock. Both sticky, and out of breath.
"Well..." John started but he didn't know how to finish.
"That was intense," Sherlock sighed.
"I'm not sure I could do that all the time—but perhaps every once in a while."
The silence stretched out. John withdrew from Sherlock and rolled off of him. They were still touching, but just barely.
"Do you really love me?" He asked softly, not sure he wanted to hear the answer.
Sherlock shifted on the mattress, silent for a few moments. "Don't make me say it again. I know you heard me."
"So you do."
"Can we drop the subject?"
John rolled his eyes. But he couldn't contain the warm, elated feeling blossoming in his chest.
"So where do we go from here?" Mostly he was musing aloud to himself. He didn't expect an answer. Sherlock snorted.
"I don't see what had changed. Unless you want a ring or something, I doubt there's much more I can do."
John chuckled slightly, at the thought of Sherlock in a wedding dress. But he let the thought pass without much of a struggle. "I don't need a ring, Sherlock. I've got you and that's honestly more than I can handle."
John laced their fingers together and squeezed lightly. It was the day before the six month mark. And it was nice to know that Sherlock cared. God. It was more than John had ever dared to hope for.
And as they lay in Sherlock's bed that lazy afternoon, for the first time in his life, John felt truly content.
Did I actually just write a happy ending? Those are difficult and painful for me to construct. Writing this gave me so many FEELINGS.
I'm kind of sad that this story is over. But I suppose I can always come back and write more deleted scenes and whatnot. Also, I might right an epilogue where Sherlock tops :)
In my mind palace, this story is part of a trilogy. And the last story will be from Sherlock's POV. Post RBF and post Mary Morstan. Sherlock and John will be older, and they will buy a house together. I cannot promise you when said story will get written, as I'm vastly over committed and pulled in to many writing directions. But I imagine it will happen sometime this summer. There's now a story update schedule on my profile, so you can keep an eye on that. I think the last story will be called "The Adventure of the House With a Yard."
I love you, smut friends. Thank you so much for your continued support of my porning.