John isn't happy. Sherlock can see as much. Still, they gaze at each other with a smile gracing their faces. They are holding hands and nuzzling against each other. It's distracting and more than a bit annoying. John drifts off for a few seconds but she is already there to pull him back to reality. She grins and kisses him. Time to leave. Sherlock can't stand it, it's too…something. He makes it to his room before he thinks What will they do now that I am gone? He throws himself on his bed and sighs loudly.
John notices it. The looks. The giggles Amy tries to suppress. She's in love. Well, shit! She kisses him with less tongue this time, chaste and almost reverent. John is enjoying it as always but still….There is something missing. He can't quite put his finger on it, yet, but he already knows. She isn't the one. They start getting a bit more sensual. He leads her up to his room, kissing her like he means it. He doesn't.
Waking up the next day, John makes his decision. He will learn it. Learn to value her and explore his feelings in depth. He will learn to love her. She deserves to be taken seriously and, hell, he deserves to be loved as well.
Two months in and they look happier than ever. Sherlock can see it by her twitchy fingers and dreamy expression. She will ask John if he wants to move to her place soon. And what then? A life in 221b without John is not imaginable. It's not worth being called a life. It's beyond his capability. No. He will stop it. Only, he can't. John looks at her with that fond expression. Listens to her incessant muttering about a "bitchy" colleague and cuddles up against her during Doctor Who. They meet almost every day, talking about their future and past. Their future is what scares him. His own terrifying right now.
John yells at her with all his might. Again. He should have known. Friendship can never be enough. And again he has to tell her all the reasons he has to run after Sherlock every time Sherlock asks him to. He talks about cases and victims. The things he is able to change for the better but she still doesn't understand. She knows now. They all realize at some point. He needs it. The excitement, the adventure. The danger. And Sherlock. The best life he's ever known. It all comes down to Sherlock, and though he tells her otherwise, he knows there will never be anything more important to him.
She left a few minutes ago, crying and furious. John is standing at the window staring out on Baker Street as if he would find answers out there. What is wrong with me, he asks himself again and again. Why can't I be happy in love? Everybody else seems to manage, why can't I? He leans his forehead against the cool glass and suppresses a frustrated groan. For awhile, he'd been able to convince himself that he loved her, but even then he knew deep down that he was only fooling himself. The sex was satisfying but always left him empty and sad afterwards.
People kept asking them how they managed to be so happy that everyone could see it and it always made him cringe inwardly when she looked at him fondly and called it "true love". His chest ached and he forced himself to return her smile with as much affection as he could muster.
He senses Sherlock hovering in the doorway, apparently uncertain how to react to an overly emotional John. Really not his area. But still….
"What is it, Sherlock? What am I missing? There must be something wrong about me."
He feels Sherlock entering the room and shuffling a bit closer but keeping a considerable distance.
"There's nothing wrong with you. Yes, you are missing something but I won't tell you. You have to find out for yourself." His voice is a low rumble, certain but kind. It makes John's frustration even more pressing and makes the blood pound in his veins. Anger surges through him and burns in his cheeks.
"Bloody hell, Sherlock! You're my friend. If you know what's wrong you should tell me. You with your giant brain!" John spits the last words out with disgust and turns a deadly glare at Sherlock.
"If you won't help me, piss off!"
And that's exactly what Sherlock does. He retreats back to his bedroom, swallowing the lump in his throat, knowing he did the right thing.
When Sherlock emerges the next morning, he feels exhausted and wary. John will come around, eventually. He knows it. Has to believe it in order to keep the façade. John will find out for himself and everything will be just fine. Hopefully.
With Lauren, it's much the same. They have dates and spend a disgusting amount of time together, but John always comes when Sherlock asks him to, and even comes when Sherlock doesn't find a reason to call him back home. Probably this means progress. Maybe it doesn't. Sherlock still counts on it though. He observes him closely every minute they spend together, watches for signs in John's behavior that imply that he finally finally knows what he is, literally, missing. He doesn't find any but tries not to worry about it. He's too close to notice every slight change. Lauren is obviously not. The same old argument but much sooner in their relationship. Sherlock listens to them, holed up in John's bedroom and Sherlock is tempted to go up there and go through their fight in the manner of a theater monologue just so he doesn't have to listen to the same old arguments again and again. He knows better. Eventually he hears the door close with a violent thump.
The next morning, John is sitting in the kitchen, nibbling on a slice of bread, but not even remotely enjoying it. Now and then he shakes his head at the thoughts that cross his mind. He feels the need for a strong scotch and a pub crawl but it is only 9 am. Definitely this evening, though. He'd already sent a text to Mike who agreed eagerly. For now, the food and thinking would have to do.
Lauren was a nice girl, but she wasn't desperately in love with him. That's perhaps the reason that it ended sooner than with Amy. He doesn't have to replay their fight. He'd had it too often to have problems remembering her accusations. It all came down to: You love your flat mate more than me!
It is already a reflex to deny it. A reflex. A reflex.
When John finally considers the fact that a reflex doesn't have to be based on true conviction, fortunately it's late enough to go to the pub.
Figured it out. – JW
Did you, now? – SH
Yep. – JW
Good. – SH
Sherlock is sprawled out on the sofa, clutching his phone in one hand while the fingers of the other tap impatiently on the table.
It is good, isn't it? – SH
Not sure yet. – JW
Sherlock fully expects John to have come to the wrong conclusion and considers leaving hints for him. He can only assume what might happen if John doesn't make up his mind on his own. Trust issues. Fear of being manipulated. Both a bit not good. Nothing would be less futile for their future than John thinking Sherlock was trying to brainwash him into...whatever would come out of it.
Ready to answer questions now. – SH
Right. – JW
Two hours later, Sherlock hears John passing on the staircase and not even pausing in front of the living room as he makes his way up stairs. His steps are heavy and just a bit on the clumsy side. Probably three beers and two scotch, then.
This morning wasn't at all better than the last one. No, it was even worse. John has a hangover of truly epic size, and as if that wouldn't be enough, he is more than a bit confused over his latest decisions regarding his love life. He slips groaning out of bed, sneaks down the stairs and into the kitchen, where he gathers some bread and jam before fleeing back into his room as silent and fast as possible. He'll need some strength to handle this day and he's still confident to follow through with the rough plan Mike helped him with yesterday.
And Mike was very helpful, indeed. He had asked exactly the right questions leading up to one inevitable deduction. After they argued about it for almost three hours, John finally gave in and they proceeded to make a plan to prove their (Mike's) reasoning. When he now thought about the things this plan would require him to do, John began to worry about the outcome and blushed. It was a dangerous course of action he was about to take, and it didn't surprise him at all that he was already giddy to start.
Sherlock is blinking one eye open and trying to remember what that sound beside him means. Text, yeah text. Right. He searches for it with one hand, refusing to open his eyes fully to aid the quest.
He finally finds the phone and holds it over the one open eye to read the message before both eyes fly open in utter disbelief.
"What the…?" He blinks a few times at the text to find the fault or typo in it. There is none. There is only one simple order.
Send me a picture of your mouth. – JW
It doesn't happen often but Sherlock is at a loss for ideas. He has no reason to refuse, though. He takes a picture of his mouth and only his mouth. He edits it on his phone especially to cut it down on this one feature. He has a feeling that this is what John wants.
Not even a minute later, he receives another text.
Your eyes. – JW
Sherlock furrows his brows about what exactly is happening and has to take the picture twice to make sure John can't decipher his expression just by the wrinkles around his eyes. But he sends the picture. Naturally. He is already waiting for the next message.
Hands. – JW
Sherlock briefly considers sending John a picture of the dozen dismembered hands that are currently stored away in the freezer but he supposes now is not the time to be provocative. Take picture. Edit. Send.
This time it takes a bit longer and Sherlock is already asking himself if this was it when his phone buzzes again.
Hipbone. – JW
Ah. That's why it took so long. John obviously needed a bit longer this time to find the bravery. But now Sherlock gets the idea behind it and, grinning inwardly, attempts to stretch the untold rules of John's little game. He takes the picture from a bit further away. He is still cutting it but now there is not only the demanded hipbone in the picture, he also left a hint of his dark pubic hair in the left lower corner. Smiling, he presses send.
Maybe that was a bit too much. Maybe John is exasperated now, or angry, or both. He doesn't demand another picture. He doesn't text at all.
After 30 minutes Sherlocks patience (Well…) breaks.
You could look at it in person, you know. – SH
John stares at his phone. It was Mike's idea to make that thing with the pictures, just to see if John would find these features attractive if they weren't in that intimidating package of Sherlock-ness. If he had been honest with himself, which he quite seldom was when it came to Sherlock, he sure as hell was attracted. But he was actually looking forward to the pictures. Now that he has them, has seen them and looked at every single one -definitely more than once- his mouth is dry, he feels arousal surge through his guts, his heart pounding violently against his ribcage. And that text. That last bloody text from Sherlock. For half an hour, he entertained the possibility that he was only physically attracted to his genius flat mate but not at all emotionally. But then he got that text. While most people would probably have jumped up from the bed, ran down the stairs and licked every part of Sherlocks body (and yes, John briefly imagined doing just that.), he just began to giggle about Sherlock's impatience and felt a warm wave of affection rise in his chest.
Games it is then. John knows he has to stop staring at his phone and put it to good use again.
Just look? – JW
John swallows hard but he gets his answer immediately.
No. Obviously. – SH
Tell me. What else? – JW
Somewhere in the room below, he hears Sherlock laugh and it makes him smile in relief. That nutter.
Sherlock leans back on his bed. That is certainly much more interesting than he thought it to be. After a few seconds of thinking, he knows that this is going to be a great day.
You could touch, smell, lick, bite, and knead. You could come down and see for yourself that I slept naked. – SH
You could tell me what you want me to do to you. Where I should touch and lick and bite. Where you want me to touch myself. – SH
If you would come to me, I would ensure that I find out how you taste. Your mouth, your skin, your cock. I would explore every inch of your body. – SH
I would like that. Would you? – SH
He has probably taken it too far. He doesn't know. Uncertainty forces its way into his mind but he pushes it aside.
You can bet your gorgeous arse, I would! – JW
Good. Perfect, actually.
Now? – SH
Shower first. – JW
He can hear John getting up from his bed with a creak and making his way down the stairs. When he hears the bathroom door close, he remembers that he isn't as fresh as the new day, either. He gets up and stands in front of the bathroom in seconds. He isn't sure if he is allowed to join John in the shower but thinks it's not a problem, considering what they are planning to do. He waits a few seconds until he hears the tap turn on, and can be sure not to disturb John on the loo. He gets in, deliberately noisy, to give John some kind of warning.
There is an awkward moment of silent tension.
"Hi." John tries to keep his voice even but doesn't fully succeed. He is still hidden behind the blue shower curtain which makes it impossible for Sherlock to deduce if he is welcome.
"Can I join you?" He sounds much more casual than he thought himself able. Good.
"Erm… sure." John's voice sounds even more ragged now but Sherlock can easily identify the reason as pure nervousness.
John Watson. Fighting criminals, shooting serial killers, nervous about showering with his flat mate. Sherlock smiles and pushes the shower curtain aside, just enough to slip in behind John.
John has his back turned to him, standing under the jet of hot water. He doesn't turn towards Sherlock and in spite of his unsteady breathing, he continues through his washing routine. Sherlock doesn't worry about it. He can handle John's excitement. It even serves his purpose.
He brings his hands up to John's shoulders and lets his fingertips lightly slide over the wet skin. Slowly, he moves them from the shoulders down John's arms and lets them glide up again. John has stilled under his touch and goose bumps are blooming all over his back. Sherlock traces his spine down to the hollow of his back. Cautiously, he shuffles closer, almost pressing his chest against John. Almost. He breathes softly into John's ear before he slides his fingers over the doctor's collarbone.
"John." He sighs before kissing his neck while his arms close around John's waist. He presses the length of his body against heated skin. It makes his senses tingle and he groans softly to answer the hitch in John's breath. "John." The name is barely a whisper on Sherlock's lips as he takes the sponge out of John's hand, letting it wander over his chest and stomach. The doctor's head falls back on his left shoulder, his eyes closed, the lips slightly parted and Sherlock is pleased about the possibility to watch the sponge glide over his golden skin. But much more pleased to see the impact his proximity has on Johns hardening cock. He drags the sponge lower, over the pubic hair at first, but leading it still deeper - first over the right thigh then the left. John shivers under his assault but his eyes remain closed. Sherlock can feel his own arousal pressed against John's bare back, just above the cleft of his arse. He drags his teeth over the doctor's neck, biting carefully at his pulse point, sneaking his left hand to the hard length standing out proudly from the body in front of him. One slow stroke is rewarded with a rather obscene sound and a choked groan. "Sherlock. God, this is…Oh, fuck." John thrusts unhurriedly into Sherlock's fist which makes his back rock against the detective's cock. "Bed. Now?" The air around them is growing damper and Sherlock hasn't actually showered but John's question is very welcome, anyway.
He leaves the shower in a hurry, and John stands there for a few seconds, dumbstruck by the sudden loss of body contact. He can see the outline of Sherlock through the curtain and realizes that he hasn't seen anything yet, so he pulls the curtain out of the way to stare unashamed at his about-to-be-lover. And stare he does. Sherlock dries his thighs off with a towel, looking oblivious to the fact that he is being thoroughly examined by his flat mate. Until he directs his gaze at John that is. He continues to dry himself, his eyes remain fixed on John, who licks his lips while letting his gaze travel over Sherlock's pale, slender body. His pupils are blown wide and his cheeks flushed, apparently not only because of the hot shower.
"John? Would you please come out of that goddamn shower?" The hoarse voice betrays his attempt at nonchalance but John reacts immediately, stepping out of the bathtub, almost slipping on the tiles of the bathroom floor. He catches himself on the sink and snatches the towel out of Sherlocks hands.
"I…I am ready. Bedroom, now!" He takes Sherlock's hand, dragging him to the bedroom that is closest. Which means Sherlock's, of course. John falls back on the bed, pulling Sherlock down on top of him.
Crawling back on the bed and keeping his eyes intensely focused on Sherlock's, John feels self consciousness expand below his skin. In this moment, he is a virgin all over again. Suddenly, it's hard to breath and his throat is constricting painfully.
Sherlock is over him in an instant, leaning down to whisper into his ear.
"Oh, John. Stop thinking. I know exactly what to do to make this pleasurable for both of us!" His breath tingles John's ear with every word, causing goose bumps on his neck.
Slowly, Sherlock drags just the tip of his cock over John's hard arousal leaving a trace of precome on the sensitive flesh. The doctor squeezes his eyes shut and lets out a small whimper.
"I've been waiting so long, John. So long." He repeats the motion, deliberately lowering his groin further so that their cocks are almost aligned.
"I am going to ride you, John. I will feel so tight and hot around you. My muscles will clench when I come over you. It's going to be so delicious." He bites John's neck and shoulder to emphasize his statement. With a groan John takes hold of Sherlock's hair and pulls him into a kiss. Their first one, the doctor realizes. Sweet and soft, they let their lips just brush against each other at first but after a few seconds John takes Sherlocks lower lip between his. He sucks lightly and suddenly the kiss turns passionate and hungry. Sherlock licks over John's upper lip, demanding entrance which is immediately granted. The doctor's hands wander over his back and pull him down hard. They thrust against each other, panting and moaning.
"John. Will you let me? I want to feel you inside me. I've been wanting you in me for a very long time. Please." John barely manages a sharp nod and a grunt of approval. He is still nervous but he does what he always does. Trusting Sherlock that he knows what to do.
The detective starts to kiss down his chest, murmuring into the skin. "John, my John. Wonderful, fascinating John…" He shuffles lower over John's body, licking around his belly button, occasionally biting lightly or just dragging his teeth over the skin. John's hipbone seems to be extremely interesting to him for he spends a good five minutes nibbling and sucking the elatedness until it shows an impressive hickey and the doctor is squirming beneath him, trying to push his groin against Sherlock's chest in an attempt to get some friction.
"Impatient! I gave you so much time to figure it out on your own. Allow me to take my time now. I promise, I am not going to loiter." He licks a stripe down John's left thigh before he presses his cheek against the hard member below him. A low moan emerges from above. Nuzzling into the blonde pubic hair, Sherlock inhales deeply and savors the smell of pure army doctor.
"Sherlock….Please. That's torture." John tries very hard not to thrust against Sherlock's face but only marginally succeeds. His hips move of their own accord and he finds himself grabbing the sheets tightly in his fists. He blinks his eyes open, looking down as Sherlock's tongue scoots out to lick the tip of his cock, John's head falls back on the bed and a loud groan forces its way out of his mouth.
"I was planning to let you fuck my mouth. The feeling of your cock hitting the roof of my mouth would be excellent. I imagine, it would be hard to breath and I might choke a bit while I try to swallow around it. Would you want…" John pushes his groin hard against Sherlocks moving lips and the rest of Sherlock's sentence gets cut off. John is on edge, the first signs of his orgasm are already pooling along his spine.
"It's your choice, John. Do you want to come down my throat or have me riding you?" John is unable to respond while his mind supplies vivid pictures of both opportunities.
Apparently, he has lost the ability for speech so he pulls Sherlock up and kisses him forcefully before he attempts to position him upright on his lap. Sherlock chuckles above him before he produces a bottle of lube from under one of the pillows. He spills a small amount of the lube into his right hand before he moves it behind his back and shivers. John watches in rapt attention when Sherlock starts to speak again. His voice his hoarse and he is slightly panting.
"Oh… It's not that easy John. I am happy that I will be your first, though. I wasn't sure that I made the right deduction." John can't see what Sherlock is doing but he can imagine it in distinctive clarity. His cock twitches with interest when Sherlock slowly starts to move against his hand.
"Two fingers, John. That's not enough but I want to feel the head of your cock stretching me and I want to feel the evidence of what we are going to do, for as long as possible."
Usually, John would worry about that, he knows, but frankly he is too horny to care. He wants that deep voice to scream his name until it breaks under the force of orgasm. He stares wide-eyed at Sherlock and feels his breath hitch. Sherlock pulls his hand away from behind him and starts smearing lube over John's cock, being careful not to use too much pressure in order to make this glorious experience last.
He positions himself above John's leaking prick, holding it so the head is pushing against his loosened entrance.
"Look at me, John!" The doctor drags his gaze away from the point of their connection, noticing the precome that is dripping from Sherlocks neglected arousal. Their eyes meet and Sherlock sinks down on John's cock. Agonizingly slow, but definitely enough to let John feel the hot tightness that continues to pull him in.
Sherlock's eyes are closed and his head thrown back in pleasure and pain. His mouth hangs open letting a soft "Hnnnng." slip out.All John can do is to grip Sherlock's hips tightly and hang on for dear life.
"Oh fuck. Oh….Sherlock!" He can feel Sherlocks bottom resting on his thighs and marvels in the fact that he is fully engorged in brilliant consulting detective.
"John, my John. Perfect!" Sherlock's muscles clench around his cock and suddenly it is hard to breath. He has to move. Now. John holds Sherlock by his hips and thrusts once, eliciting a moan out of them both.
"Perfect. Yes, perfect." He agrees, panting.
Just then, Sherlock begins to move. He budges his hips in expanding waves, adopting a comfortable pace that lets John relish the feeling of their shared connection without making him desperate. He entwines their fingers over John's chest and lets a happy smile cross his features. Forth and back like the tides, his motions fluently and unhurried, designed to torture them both. For a while, that's enough, until it isn't. Sherlock starts sliding up and down John's throbbing length in earnest, now. Riding him with just the right amount of pressure. Exactly how he'd imagined it a hundred times before. He fights the urge to touch himself, groaning in desperation. John moves in sync with him, now. Meeting every downwards thrust with one of his own. He shifts restlessly in John's lap to find the right angle for is cock to graze his…
"Oh, John, yes. Fuck…There!" That voice. That bloody voice. John takes a hold of Sherlocks glistening prick. He is so close, so fucking close now. John's hand strokes the hard flesh urgently while he tries to last just a little bit longer.
"Sherlock! Oh, god. You are so tight. So fucking hot. I want to feel you come around me. Sherlock. Please!" The detective surrenders. He held on tight to his control but now he is finally allowed to let go. He rocks down hard on John's cock, fucking himself on it while John strokes his prick.
"Yes, Sherlock, please. Now!" John suddenly feels Sherlock getting even tighter around him. Freezing mid-motion, Sherlock throws his head back groaning out a loud "Aaaaah." that ends in a sigh, before he collapses on John, who takes hold of his hips in a bruising grip and thrusts erratically into him. It doesn't take long, but when John comes it is so intense that he throws his arms around Sherlock and presses against him as if he was drowning.
They remain slumped over each other until their breaths even out and Sherlock eventually rolls off of John. Lying side by side, they remain silent for a while longer, enjoying the afterglow and getting used to their new reality. In the end, it is John who talks first.
"You could have told me, you know?"
"No, I couldn't have." Sherlock states dryly and rolls onto his side to face John. He puts his hand on the doctor's chest, feeling the strong heartbeat under his palm.
"Quite right." John turns his head to smile at him.
He has never been this content and certain. They both know. And if he ever has doubts about it he will just ask Sherlock. He seems to know better, anyway.