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John was bored. Yes, he knows, that's not his line, he's not the one who is supposed to be prone to fits of boredom, but right now he is. Dear lord, he's bored. And he's tried everything. He's tried watching Telly, he's tried reading a book, he's tried picking up an extra shift or two at the clinic (not that Sarah particularly trusts him to show up to these shifts or even to stay awake for their entirety but she's desperate) he's tried cleaning, he's updated his blog and even dabbled a bit at the novel he's always meant to write. But nothing seems to satisfy the itch that is residing just under the surface of his skin.
It's intolerable, this feeling that he just can't quite get comfortable, he feels like he's losing his bloody mind. And it's entirely his flatmate’s fault. It's his stupid curly hair that John just can't stop imagining running his fingers through. It's his stupid eyes that can't decide what stupid color they want to be. It's his ridiculously plush lips that are just begging to be kissed and nipped at. It's that strip of flesh always on display when he lays stretched out on the sofa, his shirt riding up and his pajama bottoms slipping low on his hips, showcasing not only the pale bit of warm flesh but the tantalizing trail of hair leading down into his pajama trousers. It's his damned cheekbones which John's fingers constantly want to run themselves over before cupping his cheeks in his hands and snogging him breathless.
But it's so much more than that. It's the way Sherlock's eyes go soft when he's looking at John sometimes. It's the small smile he gives to only John and no one else. It's the deep belly laugh that Sherlock lets out when John's done something to surprise him and amuse him. It's the way his eyes light up when he's been clever and the way he immediately turns to John as if he wants nothing more than to share his delight at solving some mystery with him. It's the way Sherlock has closed off the rest of the world from the two of them. It's something about the way he can't quite comprehend how he lived in a world without Sherlock by his side day in and day out for thirty years (he can't imagine how he made it through three ridiculously long years without him after he jumped, or fathom how he chose to leave his side when he came back either.)
But all of those terrible things are in the past, they've slain dragons since then and they've learned terrible truths. They reached a point where John didn't know which way was up, where it felt as though his entire life had been a complete lie, where John felt he had nothing to grab onto, a point where he would have most certainly drowned. Except he didn't because Sherlock was there. Because even when John wasn't able to trust his own mind or better yet, his own heart, he had always been able to trust Sherlock. Every step along the way in the process of taking down Moriarty once and for all, John had unerringly been able to trust Sherlock to always do what was best for him.
But now all of those trials were past, Moriarty long gone and Mary had disappeared shortly thereafter leaving a note to say she was sorry. And as John sat in his comfortable chair in 221B across from Sherlock, exactly where it ought to be, he couldn't help but feel exceptionally bored. As insane as it sounded (Sherlock must be wearing off on him) he almost missed Moriarty. At least when Moriarty had been around there had been something to distract him from this nagging feeling pressing him perpetually forward toward certain doom.
There was no way imaginable that Sherlock wanted John the way John wanted him. He was drawn always by the desire to solve a case, to prove how clever he was. He wasn't wired that way, relationships weren't his area. How many times had he told John these things? And yet here he sat, on this gloomy Sunday afternoon, across from where Sherlock had laid himself out of the couch, fighting the desire to get up and go kiss the fool laying on the sofa across from him.
It was the most incredible torture. John had often thought during his army days that there was nothing someone could do to get him to give up his country’s secrets. There was no torture that he couldn't withstand. But he realized now, that should someone offer him the chance to have one kiss, he would gladly give up most any secret. (He'd come to realize that the real villains already had the secrets anyway.)
“John.” Sherlock said, snapping his fingers to get his attention and pull him out of his stare.
“Hmm?” John asked, his attention snapping to Sherlock with the laser like precision as it always did.
“I asked if you wanted to go get dinner.” Sherlock said with a huff. “Honestly, I don't understand how you can just sit there staring off into space, thinking about nothing and still have no response when I speak to you.”
John rolled his eyes, it was probably best if Sherlock thought that he was thinking about nothing, he would be completely horrified to know that John was actually thinking about kissing him (and doing all other manner of unspeakable things to him, but he tried not to think about those things when Sherlock was present.) “Yeah, I'm starved, actually.”
“Good. I’d already made a reservation.” Sherlock replied, standing from the sofa and stretching, his shirt riding up to reveal more pale, tantalizing skin. “I’ll just get dressed then and we can be off. Maybe we’ll run into a criminal on the way,” he hummed with a grin as he loped off to his bedroom.
John couldn't help the fond smile that overtook his face, he was surprised with how different Sherlock was after he’d come back from the fall. Sherlock was softer, somehow. He spent less time raging and shooting at the walls and more time seemingly content just to be near John. It surprised John, truth be told, especially after the stunt Sherlock had pulled with all of those drugs after John and Mary had been married. He wondered now why it was that Sherlock had taken up drugs in the first place, had it only been for the case? At the time, John had thought Sherlock had probably just gotten bored and all of the habits he had acquired had been thrown out the window.
But John had remembered something months later, after they'd gotten Sherlock off of that plane and treated him for the ridiculous amount of drugs he'd given his body. It hadn’t been something that occurred to him until after Mary left and John had moved back into 221B but he realized that Sherlock hadn’t touched drugs since he moved back in. There had been no problem too great for his brain to solve without slipping into that place that truthfully terrified John, there had been no boredom too immense. And most importantly John had remembered when they first thought Irene Adler had died. He remembered that Mycroft had called him and told him to cancel his plans because it was a danger night. It hadn’t been, not really, but Mycroft had thought that Sherlock's heart was broken and he would, therefore, turn himself over to the escape of drugs.
In John's wildest imagination, he let himself wonder if maybe, just maybe, Sherlock could possibly care for him the way he cared for Sherlock. He wondered if maybe the prospect of losing John had been enough for Sherlock to take drugs, enough to push him firmly into what Mycroft always referred to as danger territory.
“Good heavens, John.” Sherlock said from the doorway, drawing John's attention away from his thoughts once more, “What are you thinking about that has you so distracted today?”
John shrugged, “Nothing out of the usual. Besides, who are you to criticize me for being lost in my head, you're constantly stuck in your mind palace for hours on end.” He said these things perhaps a touch more vehemently than he might have wanted to, but he truly did want to dissuade Sherlock from asking, or worse yet deducing, where John's mind had been. This was the trouble with living with the world’s only consulting detective; he was too brilliant for his own good. Fortunately he seemed to still be as inept at reading social cues as he had ever been.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him, “Touchy.” he commented before gesturing to the door. “Shall we?”
John nodded and stood from his chair. They went to Angelo's for dinner, it was as delicious as ever and John found the food went a long way toward easing his irritability. The location however, did little to keep John’s mind from wandering to how handsome Sherlock looked in the candlelight (damn the candles that Angelo always insisted on bringing over). Not to mention the fact that Sherlock had him giggling like a child over the deductions he was making softly to John about their fellow patrons.
Truth be told, John really loved to be with Sherlock like this. He loved how everything had settled down and the two of them were able to enjoy one another's company. It was a lot like the very early days of their friendship before Moriarty had reared his ugly head. Of course he and Sherlock still went out and solved cases but they weren’t the type of cases Moriarty had brought with him. The sort that consumed Sherlock and left John feeling nervous that something terrible was going to happen to his best friend and he wouldn't be able to stop it. No, now they solved cases that took a few days and left Sherlock glowing over his own brilliance and then they came home. The benefit to this not being the early days was that John and Sherlock had been through so much together that they had this unspoken bond and affection for one another.
“What are you thinking about?” Sherlock asked softly.
John glanced up at him, and perhaps it was the wine that was making him brave, but he gave Sherlock a small smile and said, “That I’m happy to be with here with you. I’m glad for the way our lives turned out.”
Sherlock tilted his head, scrunched up his nose, and studied him in the way John couldn't help but find endearing. After all this time, after everything the two of them had been through, Sherlock still didn’t understand how much he meant to John. Small comments like these always baffled Sherlock and John couldn't help but be glad that the genius across the table from him hadn’t gotten bored of him; he was glad that he could still surprise Sherlock.
“You are the strangest person I have ever had the good fortune of meeting.” Sherlock said finally. He cleared his throat and looked down at the wine glass he was twisting in his hand to watch the light reflect off the liquid inside. “Do you know what today is?”
“The fifteenth of January, if I’m not mistaken.” John said before the sudden realization hit him. It was the anniversary of the day Sherlock had jumped off the roof of St. Bart's and left John. John felt the blood leave his face as the memories of that horrible time came flooding back into his mind. God, that had been awful, worse than when he'd come back from Afghanistan.
“John.” Sherlock said firmly, reaching across the table and gingerly placing his hand over John's as though he were afraid John was going to panic.
John looked up at Sherlock sitting in front of him, very much real, very much alive. He turned his hand over and gripped Sherlock's in his own.
“My apologies.” Sherlock said softly, “I didn’t mean to bring up the pain of the past. It was just the only explanation I could come up with for your distant behaviour lately.” Sherlock swallowed and looked at where their hands were clasped together. He gave John’s hand a gentle squeeze before releasing it once more. “Ready to go home?”
John nodded and attempted to pay Angelo and for what had to have been the thousandth time in his life, Angelo refused to let him pay. He simply gave him a smile and a good natured pat on the back on his way out.
Sherlock had gone out before John and was standing with his back to John staring out across the street; the droplets of rain water clinging to his hair and catching in the lamp light made him look even more ethereal than he usually did. John wondered, as he so often found himself doing, what Sherlock was seeing out there that he had no hope of ever being able to see. He reached out, feeling emboldened by the wine and feeling as though he needed the physical confirmation of Sherlock's presence, and slipped his fingers through Sherlock's.
Sherlock looked down at their linked hands, then up at John’s face, “Careful,” he said with an amused grin, “People will talk.”
“I have it on good authority that people do little else.” John replied with a smirk of his own. He gave Sherlock’s hand a tug and they set off at a leisurely pace down the sidewalk, John swung their hands between them in time with their steps and couldn’t help but glance over at Sherlock, trying to deduce what he was thinking.
Sherlock’s face looked very serious, as though he were concentrating very hard on something, and his grip on John’s hand was a bit stiff. John felt his stomach sink a bit and relaxed his grip on Sherlock’s hand.
Sherlock looked over at him then, his eyes flickering across John’s features and reading him as surely as he always did. John wondered for the thousandth time what he saw there, he wondered if he could see the blatant desire the way he had the night they first met.
Sherlock gave John’s hand a sharp tug and pulled him in while simultaneously leaning forward. His lips pressed against John’s for barely a second before he pulled away and released John’s hand. John was completely stunned, he had no idea how long he stood there, completely frozen on the pavement but it was long enough for Sherlock to start to turn away from him.
Sherlock’s motion seemed to be all it took for John’s brain to come back online. He lunged forward and grasped Sherlock’s face in his hands, pressing a hard kiss to his lips. Sherlock gasped and his body went rigid for a moment before he completely melted into John, his arms coming up to clasp around John’s back. John pried Sherlock’s lips open with his tongue and urged Sherlock backwards so his back was pressed against the wall.
How long the two of them stood there on the sidewalk kissing in the drizzling rain neither knew but when Sherlock pulled back they were both panting slightly and John for one was feeling a bit dizzy. Although he wasn’t sure whether that could be attributed to lack of oxygen or the amount of sheer disbelief that this was actually happening.
“People will definitely talk now,” Sherlock said breathlessly.
John let out a bark of laughter, the kind that lit up his entire body and made him feel light and buoyant. “Let them,” he said before he leaned in to press one more lingering kiss to Sherlock’s lips.
Sherlock pulled back first, just a hair. He kept his eyes closed and when he spoke John could feel his breath ghosting across his own lips, “Are you going to take me home now, Dr. Watson?” John watched as Sherlock’s eyes opened to look at him and he saw the tiny flash of insecurity.
John hummed, “You know, I think I just might.”
He dragged Sherlock up off the wall and they set off down the sidewalk, now at a much brisker pace than before. This time when John looked over at Sherlock he saw that Sherlock was grinning widely from ear to ear and found that he was doing the same.
Sherlock glanced over at him and gave him a mischievous smile before tugging his hand from John’s and setting off at a run, “Last one to the flat is a rotten egg,” he called over his shoulder at John.
John laughed with sheer, unbridled glee and took off running after Sherlock. When they got back to the flat, Sherlock was still several meters ahead of him, but somehow fumbled with his keys as he tried to unlock the front door. John caught up just as the door was swinging open and pressed Sherlock to the wall once they got inside.
“Caught you.” John said as he leaned forward and nipped at Sherlock’s thudding pulse point with his teeth. Sherlock groaned and tipped his head back, exposing more of his neck to John’s lips and teeth as his hands came down to grip John’s hips through his trousers.
“Honestly, boys.” Mrs. Hudson said from behind them, making John and Sherlock both jump like naughty school children. “In the foyer, it’s not decent. Up the stairs you get, you’ll give this old woman a heart attack,” she chided with a soft smile which belied her words.
Sherlock grinned at her, much in the way John had always imagined one would describe the cat who got the cream and John felt his chest puff out with pride. Sherlock was the first to move from his place and pressed a kiss to Mrs. Hudson’s cheek on his way to the stairs.
When John started to move past, she caught him and pressed a kiss to his cheek as well, “It’s about time.”
John laughed, “That it is.” He took the stairs two by two, finding Sherlock was already most of the way through the living room and practically through the door to his bedroom. “My room,” John said.
Sherlock spun around and raised an eyebrow at him, “My bed is infinitely more comfortable.”
“My room has all of the supplies we need and is further away from Mrs. Hudson.”
“My room also has all of the supplies we need and I took the necessary precaution of sound proofing my room years ago.” Sherlock replied.
“You soundproofed your room?” John asked skeptically.
“Yes.”
“But why?”
“John, in spite of what Mycroft has led you to believe, I am far from an unsullied virgin.” He looked momentarily unsure of himself, “I’d lived here alone before I met you.”
“I remember,” John said with a grin. “This place was a mess when I came to see it the first time.”
Sherlock huffed through his nose, “Well, at the time I was just getting out of the habit of providing certain,” he cleared his throat delicately, “Services in exchange for drugs. I’m clean,” he said. “I was always very careful.” He looked away from John and gripped his hand over the crook of his elbow in what appeared to be an unconscious gesture. “I understand if you’re repulsed. The idea of it now is repulsive to me as well.”
John took the few steps it took to close the gap between himself and Sherlock. He turned Sherlock’s face gently with his fingers so he could look him in the eyes, “There isn’t a thing about you that could ever possibly repulse me,” John said softly. “Do I think that was a good decision, no. But we’ve all done things in our pasts that weren’t very bright ideas.”
Sherlock smiled at him, “Always an anomaly.”
“Let's hope I continue that, shall we?” John asked as he started walking Sherlock backwards toward his room. John’s hands went to work on Sherlock's buttons as his lips pressed up to take ownership of Sherlock’s. He deftly maneuvered them into Sherlock’s room and pulled Sherlock’s shirt off before pressing him backwards onto the bed.
Sherlock flopped onto the bed, letting out a soft “oof” sound, he grinned up at John as he crawled onto the bed and settled between Sherlock’s legs kissing him soundly and pressing him into the mattress. “You seem to have an affinity for pressing me against things,” Sherlock murmured when John pulled back to set to work on the button and zip on Sherlock’s trousers. “You do realize I'm not going to go anywhere if you aren't pinning me to something, don't you?”
John let out a surprised chuckle. “Maybe I just like pinning you to things.” He palmed Sherlock’s cock through his pants and Sherlock arched up into his hand with a groan. “Maybe I like having you completely at my mercy,” John said as he leaned up to nip at Sherlock’s ear.
“I'm always completely at your mercy,” Sherlock replied with a groan.
John hummed low in his throat. “You have no idea the things I plan to do to you, Sherlock Holmes.”
Sherlock groaned and his nails dug into John's back, “Then hop to and get going.”
John pressed kisses along Sherlock’s neck and collarbone, stopping to suck light bruises into Sherlock’s skin every five or ten kisses.
“John.” Sherlock groaned impatiently, “You’re killing me.”
John nibbled his collarbone for a few more seconds, “Pushy,” he said with a grin. He continued his way down Sherlock’s body, licking at his breastbone and clavicle before finally reaching Sherlock’s nipples. Sherlock cried out as John’s mouth latched around one and his fingertips circled the other. He flicked at it lightly with his tongue before nibbling at it his his teeth.
“John,” Sherlock whimpered, his hips pressing up toward John so he could press his erection insistently against John’s belly.
“Let me fuck you,” John begged, pressing a kiss to the center of Sherlock’s chest before he glanced up into Sherlock’s face. “I’ll make you feel so good,” he promised.
“Yes,” Sherlock breathed, his hips circling and pressing his cock against John more firmly.
“Roll over,” John murmured.
Sherlock stilled completely and looked slightly panic stricken.
“What?” John asked, stroking his fingers down Sherlock’s cheeks. “What’s wrong, love?”
Sherlock blew out a heavy breath, “It’s my back,” he said, looking away from John. “It’s something I never told you but it’s hideous.”
“That’s impossible,” John replied softly.
“Not it’s not,” Sherlock said firmly. “It happened while I was away and I just never thought it would matter. If I had known something like this could have happened, I would have had it changed. Fixed, somehow.”
“Sherlock,” John whispered. “You’ve nothing to be ashamed of. Look at my scar,” he said as he tugged at the neck of his jumper so Sherlock could see the bit of marred flesh, “It’s a hideous bit of gnarled flesh. I used to feel rather self conscious about it, I hated it. But it reminds me of the things I’ve endured and it reminds me that there are things worth fighting for. If I hadn’t been shot I never would have met you.”
“But yours is a battle wound,” Sherlock said, still sounding as though he felt rather insecure.
“Yours are too.”
Sherlock blushed, “Fine,” he said softly. “But if you think they’re hideous you can just say so and we’ll turn off the lights or whatever you want. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“Alright.” John sat up and allowed Sherlock to roll over. He hadn’t been lying, raised lines and scars covered his back, the beating he’d endured must have been excruciating. “What happened?” John asked softly, running his fingers ever so lightly along some of the most prominent lines.
Sherlock shuddered under his touch. “I got lazy. I desperately wanted to come home, I wanted to come back to you,” he said glancing over his shoulder at John. John pressed a kiss to the nape of Sherlock’s neck to encourage him and Sherlock continued. “I got captured and the man tried to beat a confession out of me. Fortunately Mycroft showed up but hadn’t been able to stop him before all of this damage happened.”
John pressed a kiss to the top of his spine then began to run his lips along the lines on Sherlock’s back. Pressing soft kisses to Sherlock’s scars, “You’re beautiful,” he murmured into the skin of Sherlock’s back.
Sherlock shuddered and let out a heavy sigh.
“So very beautiful,” John reiterated. “Thank you for coming back to me,” he whispered softly.
“Nothing could have stopped me from returning to you,” Sherlock said fiercely. “One more miracle.”
“This might be another,” John said as he ran his hands along his sides and continued to place kisses down Sherlock’s back. He slipped Sherlock’s pants off his legs, which required a bit of maneuvering but continued to press hot, open mouthed kisses to his back as he did.
Sherlock shuddered under his ministrations and John wasn’t sure if it was because he was sensitive or if it was because of the affection in his gestures but either way he could hardly force himself to stop even though he was truly looking forward to what he’d planned next. John cupped Sherlock’s buttocks in his palms and massaged them gently, prying them apart and running his thumb teasingly over Sherlock’s puckered entrance. Every time he so much as touched it, Sherlock’s entire body would still and his breath would catch.
After John place one final kiss to Sherlock’s spine, he dipped his head down and pressed the tip of his tongue ever so lightly to Sherlock’s hole. Sherlock completely stilled and his breath hitched in his throat. When he did finally exhale, it was John’s name that emerged from his lips with his breath. John ran the flat of his tongue along the crevice between his buttocks once more before saying, “Alright?”
Sherlock didn’t turn to look at him, but nodded fervently.
John continued to press his tongue to that delicate skin, stroking it and rubbing circles around his entrance until Sherlock was shaking and his fingers were fisted in the sheets. He rolled his tongue against Sherlock's entrance and Sherlock cried out, his hips thrusting back to press his hole more firmly against John's mouth. John groaned and continued to roll his tongue in waves against his hole and then he pointed his tongue and breached Sherlock’s body.
For a moment they both froze, the world around them seemed to be suspend right along with them.
Sherlock was the first to move and it was to pull himself out of John’s grasp and roll over so he was laying on his back once more. John only had a moment to feel surprised and a bit fearful that Sherlock hated this before Sherlock was tugging John down to himself and pressing his lips roughly to John’s.
John groaned and the anxiety unwound from his chest and a moment later he found his hands coming up to cup Sherlock’s face as he kissed him back. His thumbs had started to trace Sherlock’s cheekbones when he felt the tears on his face. He pulled back and looked down at Sherlock, “Alright?” John whispered.
Sherlock let out a shuddering breath and nodded, “I want to see you.”
John stroked his fingers through Sherlock’s curls and nodded. He pressed his lips to Sherlock’s briefly once more before maneuvering his body so that he was laying on his side beside Sherlock and let his hand trail down his torso, rubbing over the sharp lines of Sherlock’s ribs and stroking the smooth skin of his side. Sherlock’s head turned and he looked at him as John’s hand continued its journey to Sherlock’s hip bone.
Sherlock let out a soft sound as John’s hand slipped into the crease between Sherlock’s groin and his thigh; his thumb rubbed absently along the crease for a moment as he looked at the beautiful creature beside him. “John,” he breathed.
John’s eyes flipped up from where they were marking his progress on Sherlock’s body to meet Sherlock’s gaze.
Sherlock slid his hands up under John’s shirt and it was only in this moment that John realized he was still wearing his jumper and trousers. “Can I see you?” Sherlock asked tentatively.
“Of course.” John said brushing his nose across Sherlock’s and pressing a quick peck to his lips before kneeling up to pull his jumper off over his head and wiggle out of his trousers. He was about to slip his pants off as well when Sherlock stilled his hands and pulled John back onto the bed.
“Don’t distract me,” Sherlock said. “There’s so much more of you to explore first.”
John groaned, “That’s true, but we’ll have all sorts of time to explore later.”
“Bossy,” Sherlock teased as he ran his hands down John’s body, mapping it out and undoubtedly learning John’s sensitive spots just from a preliminary touch. He tweaked John’s nipples and John bucked a bit.
“You like it when I’m bossy,” John said through a gasp.
Sherlock looked up at him then, “What do you mean?”
“Don’t think I haven’t seen the way you look at me when I pull rank.” John watched in amusement as a delicate blush spread along Sherlock’s cheeks and collarbones. “So you have a bit of a kink, hmmm?”
Sherlock swatted his chest, “I don’t have a kink.”
“There’s nothing wrong with having a kink,” John said, stroking his fingers along Sherlock’s rib cage.
“What are your kinks, Dr. Watson?” Sherlock asked as he slid down John’s body, pressing kisses to his chest and abdomen as he went. He slid his tongue under the band of John’s pants once he reached them.
“I love lace,” John confessed breathily.
Sherlock hooked one finger into the top of his pants, “Do continue or these are never coming off.”
John laughed, “Are you blackmailing me into telling you my kinks?”
“Maybe,” Sherlock replied with a devious grin.
“I love lace panties, the delicate lovely fabric showcasing even lovelier skin.” Sherlock mouthed at the bulge of his cock through his pants. John gasped, “It would be stunning on you, of course. Maybe purple like that shirt that makes me want to throw you over the nearest object and fuck you.”
Sherlock slid his pants down his hips, “Fascinating. Do you enjoy giving orders, John?” he asked as he flicked his tongue against the head of John’s cock. “Or should I say Captain?”
John groaned, “I’m not opposed. But we can get into that later,” a moan escaped his throat as Sherlock suckled on the head of his cock, pressing his tongue under his foreskin. “I promise, I will order you about until your cock is so hard you’ll be losing your mind with want, but next time.”
“Next time?”
“Well, yes,” John stammered, “If you amenable. I can’t imagine having you once could ever be enough.”
Sherlock hummed low in his throat, “I think I could manage that.” With that he slid his mouth down on John’s cock, John groaned; it had been far too long since he’d had a proper blow job.
“Fuck, Sherlock,” he groaned as Sherlock swirled his tongue around John’s glans before popping back off.
“Maybe later,” he said with a wink before going back to the task at hand, or at mouth as the case may be.
John groaned and Sherlock continued sliding his mouth up and down John’s cock, working further and further down on each pass until John bumped the back of his throat. John let out a soft, pitiful wail; typically his partners couldn’t get his cock that far into their mouths, he was rather larger than average. “Fuck,” he panted. “Fuck, Sherlock.” He wrapped his fingers in Sherlock’s hair and tugged his head gently. “Stop. You have to stop.”
Sherlock pulled off with a whine but continued flicking his tongue against the head of John’s cock, lapping up the precome there.
After a moment he pulled back completely, “Get me the lube out of the bedside drawer.”
John reached over to the nightstand and fumbled around before he finally found the lube. Sherlock reached out for it and John drew it away from him, keeping it out of Sherlock’s hand. “There’s not a chance in hell I’m letting you prepare yourself.”
Sherlock huffed and slid sinuously up John’s body nipping at all of the places John was most sensitive and making John squirm, “Don’t be absurd, it’ll be much more efficient if I do it.”
John wrapped his arm around Sherlock and pinned him to his chest deftly uncapping the lube with his free hand and squeezing a bit on his fingers. “Don’t care,” he murmured before pressing his lips to Sherlock's and letting his lubed fingers trace over Sherlock’s hole, still a bit looser than it might normally be from being rimmed.
Sherlock groaned and his head dropped to the crook between John’s neck and shoulder, “Yesss,” he hissed as John slowly slipped a finger inside. John circled his finger and stroked along Sherlock's inner walls just exploring the body of this stunning man and getting himself acquainted. It seemed Sherlock had no complaints if his breathless whimpers were anything to go by.
John began leisurely thrusting in and out of his hole and once Sherlock’s hips started rocking with him he awkwardly reached around Sherlock with his other hand still holding the bottle of lube. He squirted some lube and ended up getting a bit too much on his fingers and inbetween Sherlock's buttocks but it would suffice. He carefully stretched Sherlock and worked in a second finger. Sherlock’s back arched and his erection pressed itself more firmly against John’s belly. With doctor-like precision John crooked his fingers and brushed over Sherlock’s prostate gently.
Sherlock gasped and his teeth clamped down on John’s neck as he let out a strangled sounding moan. John groaned at the slight edge of pain and turned his head to press a kiss to Sherlock’s temple. “Don’t hold back,” he murmured. “You can make as much noise as you want; your voice is incredibly sexy.”
Panting, Sherlock asked, “What if my voice wasn’t sexy?”
John laughed, “We’ll never have to worry about that will we?”
He slipped a third finger inside Sherlock and Sherlock groaned, bucking his hips into John. He pressed his cock down into John's belly and then thrust his hips back to fuck himself on John's fingers, John couldn't help but think Sherlock was perfect.
“Yes,” Sherlock gasped. “Oh. Yes, John, I need you to fuck me.”
“Patience.”
“I can’t,” Sherlock whimpered, his hips twitching. “It’s been way too long for me. I need you to get inside of me now.”
John kissed him, and scissored his fingers a few times, there wasn’t too much resistance. “Alright, but I don’t want to hear it tomorrow when your arse is sore,” he grumbled as Sherlock sat up and rose up onto his knees so they could position John’s cock at his entrance.
“Yes you do,” Sherlock replied with a cheeky grin as he pushed down a bit on John’s cock, sinking down less than an inch before they looked at one one another and froze completely.
“Alright?” John whispered, rubbing his hands up and down Sherlock’s thighs which were trembling a bit.
Sherlock swallowed and nodded, “I-” he swallowed again, looking down at John’s chest and abdomen, “I just never thought this was going to happen,” he said softly.
“Me either,” John replied, reaching up and cupping Sherlock’s face in his palm. “We don’t have to do this, or do this much if it’s too intense.”
Sherlock leaned forward, shifting John’s cock a bit and inadvertently slipping a bit more of it inside of him, and he pressed his lips to John’s. “It may sound shockingly like sentiment,” he said against John’s lips, “But I want this. I want nothing but this for the rest of my life.”
John grinned, “It does sound like sentiment,” he said as he reached down and grasped Sherlock’s hips to hold him in place as he gently rocked his cock up into his hole, not pressing in more than two inches before coming back out again, “But I do rather like the sound of it.”
Sherlock snorted and pressed against John’s hold on his hips, sinking down so he was fully seated on John’s cock. They both groaned and Sherlock didn’t move for a moment as he adjusted, he just continued pressing his lips over and over to John’s.
Finally after what felt like an eternity, Sherlock started to rock his hips slowly, sinuously. He didn’t move very much or very far, just enough for the two of them to start groaning in tandem. John ran his hands up Sherlock’s back and curled his fingers in the hair at the nape of Sherlock’s neck for a moment before drawing his mouth away from Sherlock's and saying, “Sit up.”
He obeyed and John drew his knees up and planted his feet firmly on the bed, giving Sherlock a place to rest his back, “Lean back,” John said.
“So bossy,” Sherlock said with another wink before doing as he was told and gasping as John’s cock brushed against his prostate.
“Yes,” John said with a smirk, “And with good reason.” He reached out and grasped Sherlock’s hips in his fingers and began drawing him up off his cock and guiding him back down again, marveling at the muscle and control Sherlock’s possessed. “Fuck, you’re stunning,” he said with a groan.
Sherlock smiled down at him, “You don’t look too bad yourself,” he said as he began to roll his hips. Sherlock started to take a bit more control, sliding up and down on John's cock and clenching his muscles around his cock.
“That feels amazing,” John groaned.
He snapped his hips up into Sherlock’s body and felt Sherlock’s muscles momentarily clench unexpectedly around him as he gasped. “Yes,” Sherlock hissed, his hips beginning to bounce on John’s cock a bit faster. “Please, John,” he begged.
With his words the last vestiges of John’s patience and self control disappeared. With a growl, he flipped the two of them over so Sherlock was lying on his back with John in between his legs. John remained upright and pulled Sherlock into his lap, angling his hips up and ensuring that he would be able to hit Sherlock’s prostate on every thrust.
Sherlock moaned and arched into John’s touch, his arms flying back to brace themselves on the headboard and give him some leverage. “Yes,” he cried out, “Oh! Right there,” he whimpered, “Don’t stop, John; please don’t stop.”
“I won’t, sweetheart,” John murmured as he continued steadily thrusting into Sherlock’s body which had been drawn taut as a bow as he arched into John’s thrusts. He brought his hand to Sherlock’s cock and wrapped his fist around him, stroking in time with his thrusts as well as he could manage with how overwhelmingly fantastic this felt.
Sherlock’s body shuddered and his hole clenched around John’s cock. “Yes! Oh, John. Yes!” Sherlock’s eyes opened and locked onto John’s, “I love you,” he breathed.
John’s orgasm washed over him, those three little words caught him completely off guard and he lost himself in the ecstasy of his mind and his body simultaneously. Sherlock cried out and his fingers scrabbled at the headboard as his cock spurted come all over both of their chests and stomachs, his back arching off the bed and his hole clenching around John’s sensitive cock. A bit more come spurted weakly from his cock at the sensation and John groaned as he tipped forward to press his lips to Sherlock’s neck, and collapse into Sherlock's open arms.
Sherlock fingers stroked through John’s sweat slicked hair and over his neck while the two of them caught their breath. “That was fantastic,” John murmured into the crook of Sherlock’s neck.
“Do you think so?” Sherlock asked, a grin evident in his voice.
“Yes,” John murmured, sitting up slightly so he could look at Sherlock’s face, “It was extraordinary. You’re extraordinary.”
Sherlock grinned at him, that soft sort of grin that always made John’s heart do backflips.
John leaned in and kissed Sherlock again, softly and sweetly, before he pulled back and drew his cock out of Sherlock’s body. Sherlock groaned and John pressed one more kiss to his lips, “Sorry,” he murmured. “I’m going to grab a flannel and I’ll be right back, yes?”
Sherlock nodded. John went to the loo and grabbed a flannel, wiping himself off before looking in the mirror. He was covered in sweat and come, his hair was sticking up in every direction from the way Sherlock’s fingers had combed through it, and he had a few bruises purpling on his neck. He looked a right mess, but he couldn’t help the smile that took over his entire face. I love you, the words rang in his mind and John couldn’t help but wonder if Sherlock had actually meant them or if it had just been what he'd said in the heat of themoment.
He hoped he meant it, John meant it.
He went back to the room and found that Sherlock had sat up and was leaning against the headboard, he seemed to have wiped a good deal of come off with a tissue. John moved to the bed and knelt beside Sherlock, “I was coming,” he said in exasperation. “You couldn’t have waited two minutes? You impatient git,” John said with a fond chuckle as he started to wipe the flannel over Sherlock’s skin just the same.
Sherlock didn’t chuckle with him, he reached up and stilled John’s hand, “John,” he started and John felt his heart clench uncomfortably.
“Yeah?” John asked.
“About what I said,” Sherlock started again before trailing off and looking away.
John’s heart sank, this was not looking promising. “It’s alright,” John replied softly, “You don’t have to mean it. I won’t hold you to words you said in the heat of an orgasm. People say all sorts of things they don’t mean when they're having sex.” John swallowed and tugged his wrist out of Sherlock’s grasp; he finished wiping Sherlock off and took the flannel back to the loo before coming back to Sherlock’s room.
It was pathetic, he should probably just walk upstairs to his own bedroom but he couldn't resist coming back to Sherlock's room like a stray begging for a scrap of food. “So, ummm, did you want me to stay?” John asked, staring resolutely at the floor, trying not to make Sherlock feel pressured by the look of desperation he was sure was as plain as day on his face. “Or...?” he started but trailed of uncertainly.
“Did you want to stay?” Sherlock asked, sounding equally uncertain in return.
John glanced up, then, looking at Sherlock where he was wrapped up in bed. He was biting his lip and his eyes looked a bit red around the edges as though he'd been rubbing at them. Slowly John nodded.
Sherlock nodded back, “Turn off the light,” he said softly.
John flipped the switch and moved toward the bed. He climbed in on the other side and laid down, feeling stiff and unsure. Was this awkward? This felt awkward. Did Sherlock feel awkward? What had they just done? Had this been a huge mistake? What if he’d just ruined everything? And for what? Some (admittedly spectacular) sex?
They laid there in silence, not touching and not speaking, and John felt his stomach winding itself in knots as questions and doubts chased their way through his mind.
“Look, I’m sorry,” Sherlock said softly, breaking the silence.
“For what?” John asked, turning his head to look at Sherlock, the dark made it hard to make out his features as clearly as he would have liked.
“I shouldn’t have...” Sherlock trailed off, “I didn’t mean to say it,” he said miserably. “It just came out.”
“It’s alright,” John said. “I get it,” he swallowed, “You don’t do the relationship bit, I know.”
Sherlock laughed, a wet sort of laugh that made John’s chest ache, “Right.”
“Sherlock,” John started carefully, hardly daring to hope that Sherlock's response might have meant what he hoped it would. He was unsure quite what he was going to say until the next words came out of his mouth, “You didn’t mean it, did you?”
“Of course I meant it, you idiot. Since everything is ruined already you might as well know. I’ve meant it for years you completely blind and hopeless man.”
John sat in stunned silence for a moment before he lunged at Sherlock. It was quite possibly the most uncoordinated movement John had ever made, he and Sherlock bumped noses and their arms and legs got tangled but John’s lips found Sherlock's and that was all that mattered. Sherlock’s lips tasted like tears and John made a promise to himself then and there that Sherlock was never going to cry because of him again. “I love you,” John gasped out when he drew back. Then he pressed his lips to Sherlock’s again. “I love you so much.” He kissed Sherlock again, pouring out every feeling he’d ever felt into this kiss before he pulled back again, “I’ve loved you for years, with every fiber of my being. I love you.”
“Really?” Sherlock asked, his voice sounding hesitant as though he couldn’t quite believe what John was saying.
“Yes, really, you madman. How did you not know?” John stroked the curls back from Sherlock’s face and stroked his fingers along his cheekbones and found more tears. John leaned down and pressed his lips to the corners of Sherlock’s eyes and his cheeks where the tears had gathered, “Stop crying. You’re making me break my promise.”
“What promise?”
“The promise that I just made that you weren’t going to cry because of me again.”
Sherlock laughed, “You’re ridiculous. I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
John Watson would break his promise again on the day of their wedding when Sherlock would burst into tears at the altar but he figured he could make an exception that one time as there wasn't a dry eye in the room. And those three words, previously left unsaid between the two of them, were said everyday from this day forward.