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swissmargTitle: The Case of the Vanishing Pants, Epilogue - The Porn
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
swissmarg
Beta reader: K
Rating: NC-17
Characters: John/Sherlock
Word count: 5,441/44,000
Summary: John and Sherlock lost their pants five time in the service of a case. The last time, they kept them off.
Warnings: None that are not implied by the rating and pairing.
Disclaimer: The original Sherlock Holmes stories were written by Arthur Conan Doyle, and are now in the public domain. The BBC version upon which this story is based was created by Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat. This is a transformative fanwork which was created solely for fun, not material gain.
Notes: I'm so sorry. I porned. It wouldn't leave me alone. Continues directly on from the end of Part Five, so you may want to go back and get a running start. Good luck.
And if you are new to the story, you can start at the very beginning:
Part One - The Dehydrator
Part Two - The Plutonium Pellets
Part Three - The Resiniferatoxin
Part Four - The CLAN
Part Five - The Pond
The whole thing on AO3
"Maybe. But this right here..." John indicated the two of them. "This isn't boring."
Sherlock smiled slowly. "No..." He shifted his body so that the evidence of exactly how not-boring he found their current position poked John in the thigh. "No, it isn't."
John giggled. He was fully aware of his own erection throbbing with quiet urgency under the covers.
"Okay, so, we're-" He cursed his mind for choosing this exact moment to go inconveniently blank. So they were what? Going to have sex now? Committing to each other or just trying it out? Had Sherlock even ever had sex before? Sherlock was watching him expectantly, but John recognised that could easily tip over into aggravation if those expectations weren't satisfied.
John closed his eyes and said, "Sorry. I'm just- I should stop thinking."
Rather than saying something like, 'Best leave that to me,' as John would have expected, Sherlock drew back so that his weight was resting on his elbow. "What are you thinking?" he asked.
"I just want to know-" John opened his eyes and caught Sherlock's gaze. His stomach flipped pleasantly at the obvious desire and affection he saw there. And at the same time, lest John think the uncommon display of emotion indicated irreparable damage to Sherlock's brain from his dip in the freezing lake, Sherlock's pursed lips revealed his impatience at having to wait for John to catch up to conclusions that Sherlock had probably arrived at weeks ago.
John smiled sheepishly in spite of himself. "Sorry, I know I'm slow on the uptake, but I just want to be clear what we're doing here. You know, are we-"
John floundered for what to say. It was ludicrous, but he felt that if he named it, Sherlock would lose interest. Something about maintaining the mystery. On the other hand, he really felt that he needed some guidance as to Sherlock's intentions and wishes. He'd never been able to read the man well when it came to emotional issues, which this certainly was, even if couched in physical terms.
Feeling annoyed at himself for acting like a blushing teenager, John blurted it out: "What are we talking? A bit of snogging? Full penetration? Flogging and handcuffs?" He wasn't really interested in that sort of thing - he had no idea why he'd even mentioned it - so he was slightly alarmed by the way Sherlock's eyes narrowed as if he were examining a clue.
John seized on a concrete fact in order to redirect. "You said you'd packed a condom."
Sherlock frowned in distaste. "Do you always hammer out the terms of accord like this when you get into bed with someone?"
"Well, no," John admitted. "But I've never-"
Sherlock rolled away and sat up with his back to John, taking most of the covers with him. "Yes, I'm aware you've never been with a man before. Really, if it's that difficult for you to get past, we should just forget this entire thing."
John was torn between a sudden panic that Sherlock might really mean that and fury that he thought John might be capable of even that much latent homophobia.
"That was not what I was going to say. I was going to say, I've never been in a relationship with someone who's playing ten moves ahead of me on my best day and sees - no, observes - meanings and motivations behind whether I stir my tea clockwise or counter-clockwise. So yes, I'm feeling a bit out of my depth here and am asking for some guidance." He ended his rant with his heart thudding indignantly and his arousal falling limp.
Sherlock snorted; John assumed it was in derision until Sherlock turned his head halfway and John could see the wry smirk.
"John Watson, asking Sherlock Holmes for guidance in matters of the heart."
Something warm and fragile bubbled up in John's chest. Matters of the heart. Not of physical configurations or sexual orientation. He couldn't stop a ridiculous grin from plastering itself onto his face. "Next you'll be interested in hearing my thoughts on serial killers."
Sherlock twisted around so that his face was close to John's. "I'm always interested in your thoughts."
He pecked John on the forehead and got up in a flurry of legs and sheets, half crawling, half walking over the bed to get to his overnight bag. John took the opportunity to pull the covers up over himself again, then lay back against the pillow, one arm behind his head, wondering what Sherlock was up to.
He didn't have to wait long. Sherlock crawled back up the bed moments later and flicked a plastic-wrapped square onto John's chest. His testicles hung heavy and loose, and his partially engorged penis flopped against his thigh as he moved.
"In case," he said as he insinuated himself back under the covers. His skin was perceptibly cooler just from the brief foray across the room. "But we don't have to do anything. Not if it makes you uncomfortable."
John was sorely tempted to yell, 'Are you off your nut?', but a quick flash through the events of the past couple of hours tempered his reaction. Although he had been the one to initiate both the kiss at the lake and in the shower, he could see how it might look like he had been pressured - even if with good intentions - to get into the shower in the first place. And to get into bed as well, come to think of it.
"I'm not just following along after you here, Sherlock," John said quietly, studying the condom lying on his pectoral. "I know I do a lot of that, sometimes against my better judgment, and sometimes without thinking things through as much as I should. But not here. Not with this."
He picked the condom up and laid it carefully next to the teacups on the night stand, then turned on his side to face Sherlock. He picked up his hand, threading their fingers together. His heart was thumping so hard he was certain Sherlock could hear it.
"How about this," John suggested. "What I would like, tonight, is to make you feel good, and to show you how I feel about you." He pressed his lips together at that point, because his throat was becoming unwelcomely tight.
"I believe you can consider those boxes ticked already," Sherlock said. His flippant answer was softened by the fact that he pulled their joined hands close to his chest, where John could feel Sherlock's own heart beating a rapid, steady tattoo against his ribs.
"However," Sherlock continued, leaning closer until their foreheads touched and the only place for John to look was down at Sherlock's full, red lips, "lucky for you I have a slightly more ambitious, and specific, goal for the evening."
John licked his lips, hardly daring to breathe. "What's that?"
"I want -" Sherlock breathed the words across John's mouth. "- to make -" He brushed his lips against John's. "- you come." He slid his cheek against John's and nuzzled at his ear, then kissed a line along his jaw back to his mouth and concluded in a low voice, "By any means we deem mutually pleasurable."
Several scenarios hijacked John's train of thought at the same time as Sherlock reclaimed John's mouth, seeming to suggest his own favoured variants in the way he licked, sucked, stroked and thrust with his tongue.
"Yeah, that- Okay," John finally managed. "I am definitely on board for that. Um..." He put an arm around Sherlock and tugged until they were lying flush against each other on their sides. John's cock was rapidly perking up again, and he had to squirm a bit to get it into a comfortable position between their bodies. It ended up rubbing against Sherlock's penis, and the unexpected and highly erotic feel of the hot-firm flesh against his own sent a wave of desire through his entire body.
"Oh God," John said in a ragged voice. "That feels-" He kissed Sherlock messily, arousal wreaking havoc with his coordination. "That's really good. I may make a small change to my goal too," he panted. "If that's all right."
"By all means," Sherlock agreed.
John put his hand alongside Sherlock's head and gathered a handful of his hair, not pulling, just clenching, his knuckles massaging Sherlock's skull. "I want to see you when you come, and I want to be the one to do it to you."
"A worthy corollary," Sherlock acknowledged, if somewhat breathlessly, a fact which spurred John to resume moving his hips.
It was difficult to get any good friction going in the position they were in; in order to keep their cocks aligned, John couldn't pull his hips back very far, and the little jerking thrusts he was making, while still pleasurable, were slowly becoming more frustrating than fulfilling. Either feeling the same way, or divining John's dilemma, Sherlock clapped his free arm around John, grabbed a buttock to keep him close, and rolled over onto his back, pulling John on top of him. John instinctively braced his upper body on his right arm, keeping his full weight off Sherlock's chest.
Sherlock grinned up at him and spread his legs so that John's knees dropped down onto the mattress between them. It was, all in all, a very familiar position for John to be in. Sherlock's smug expression told him it was no coincidence.
Sherlock lifted his hips and ground himself against John's pelvis. "Better?" he asked.
John hitched himself up a fraction and dug his knees into the mattress to get better leverage, then gave a good, firm thrust. This, he could work with.
"You tell me," he said and proceeded to work his lower body against Sherlock's.
It took several attempts to coordinate the stimulation of both his own and Sherlock's cock, but he was a quick learner when it came to handling his body. Soon, both of them were gasping into each other's shoulders and John was getting close enough to start deploying some of his orgasm-delaying tactics so Sherlock would come first: tensing his feet, forcing deeper breaths, concentrating on other sensations like the slight burn of the sheets rubbing his knees and the growing ache in his arm from bearing his weight.
At the same time, there were other competing, quite compelling sensory inputs urging him to let it all go: the very faint remains of Sherlock's deodorant mixing with the increasingly heavy scent of his body, the soft, tight sounds Sherlock was making deep in his throat, the possessive fingers touching him everywhere they could reach - his arse, his back, his ears, his neck - until finally he didn't feel he could do anything more than get out in a strangled voice, "Sherlock, fuck, so good- I'm going to-"
It therefore came as something of a shock when Sherlock suddenly pushed at John in an apparent attempt to dislodge him. The impression was given further credence when Sherlock said, "No, not like this, it's not- No!"
John flumped immediately off to the side, confused and embarrassed. Had he done something wrong? Was Sherlock getting cold feet? Or maybe he didn't want John's spunk coating his stomach. John's unspent climax pulsed right on the edge of completion, and he was so far gone that he actually considered finishing himself off right then and there and to hell with Sherlock's issues. Before he could do anything, though, Sherlock pulled him back on top of him.
"What- Sherlock, I don't-"
Sherlock stuck a hand down between them and said, "Lift up a bit."
John complied, and immediately one of Sherlock's hands was around his cock, the other at the back of his neck. John's eyes fluttered shut at the blissful feel of those long fingers on his needy member.
"I'm supposed to be the one to make you come," Sherlock said and pulled John toward him for a kiss.
John mentally rolled his eyes. "You were, you bloody idiot."
He pulled back to look down at Sherlock. Sherlock's eyes were wide open and his mouth hung slightly agape. Sherlock's hand sped up on John's cock. The warm and fragile something from before cracked open and spread inexorably through John's chest, down his veins and into his capillaries, leaking into the meaty red of his muscles and the spongy, secret hollows inside his bones. It made syllables coalesce out of the air he and Sherlock were breathing into each other's lungs and the traces of the other's saliva on their tongues. The words beat against his lips in time with his heart and he struggled to hold them in.
"I- ngmf," John grunted and squeezed his eyes shut, dipped down again to press his mouth hard against Sherlock's. I love you, I love you, he thought fiercely, willing the meaning into the kiss. He felt the surge begin, but Sherlock was moving his head to the side, pulling his lips away.
"No, John, let me see you. Please," he begged. He put his free hand alongside John's face, easing his head up.
John turned his face into Sherlock's palm, his eyes still shut tight, as a series of contractions rippled through his groin. He forgot about breathing, but his body must have carried on without him, as he distinctly heard some rather filthy sounds coming out of his mouth. When he became capable of voluntary movement again, he found that his open mouth was pressed against Sherlock's palm. He tasted salt. Sherlock's other hand was sandwiched between them, as John's arm had at some point given up holding his weight.
John shifted to the side and opened his eyes. Sherlock had his laser-sharp focus trained on John, observing him as if he had just presented Sherlock with a dismembered head bearing a message under its tongue.
"Incredible," Sherlock said.
John laughed, easy and happy and full of the moment. "I think that's my line."
John closed the space between them for a kiss, one hand against the warmth of Sherlock's neck. He almost couldn't believe this was Sherlock: cooperative and pliant and eager to please, letting John take his time, enjoying his afterglow. Most likely it was the novelty of the situation; John didn't harbour any illusions that Sherlock would always be this easy.
Sherlock maneouvred his hand out from between their bellies, leaving a cold smear that reminded John he hadn't worn a condom. John had always worn one when he'd been with a woman, but he hadn't actually had himself tested in what was probably an irresponsibly long time. Sherlock would have to wash his hands thoroughly before he got it all over.
"Wait, don't move," John said. He sat up carefully, looking down at the mess on Sherlock's stomach. And at the very red, very engorged penis that was hovering in the air just over it. A shiver of pleasure squeezed his insides. "God, you."
He ran his thumb over Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock drew it in and sucked gently, keeping his eyes on John's. John leaned down again, balancing on one arm, and followed his thumb with his tongue. Sherlock sucked on both eagerly, making needy sounds.
John groped blindly around until he came up with something soft that wasn't part of the bedclothes: his vest, as it turned out. He sat back, a fond smile playing on his lips as he carefully dried both himself and Sherlock with it. "I think we may need to have this bronzed or something."
Sherlock looked down with interest at his penis, which John was carefully wiping around. "Really? How would we do that? And why? If you're thinking of a custom-made dildo, I believe rubber might be a better choice."
John paused, re-ran the conversation, and burst out laughing. "Massive ego much? I was talking about the shirt." He swatted Sherlock across the chest with it.
Sherlock frowned, but didn't pursue the subject. John tossed the soiled article to the floor and sat down between Sherlock's legs. He ran his fingers exploratively up and down Sherlock's denuded penis. John was surprised by the texture, the skin much softer than he experienced his own as being. He supposed he was always much more concentrated on the nerve signals originating in his penis, rather than in his fingers, when he touched himself, so he noticed their texture more than the texture of his own phallus. He had the impression Sherlock's skin right here was even softer than that of a woman's, although that might also be the dichotomy of the freshly shaved, silky-thin skin over the solidly firm core.
"I don't think it's going to get any harder, John," Sherlock said.
John looked up at him, startled yet slightly amused. The chiding words were at odds with the quirk on Sherlock's lips.
"Then I guess I don't need to keep playing with it, do I?" John leaned forward to plant both hands firmly on either side of Sherlock's ribs and dipped down for a kiss.
"Poor form, you're not going to make me beg," Sherlock said, studiously not reacting to John's lips on his.
John shifted so that he could breathe lightly against the side of Sherlock's neck, barely ghosting kisses around the spot that had broken Sherlock's reserve in the shower. "Are you quite sure about that?" he asked. He felt the play of muscles under his lips as Sherlock swallowed thickly.
"John..." Sherlock said, half demanding and half warning. The sheet underneath John's hands tightened as Sherlock bunched it in his fists.
John couldn't deny there was a part of him that enjoyed having Sherlock like this, squirming and at his mercy, but he didn't actually get off on power trips in bed. The teasing and withholding was only fun if it titillated his partner too, as a way to extend the pleasure, and he could tell that Sherlock was in mild distress.
Part of it was John buying time; he knew what he wanted to do, but he wasn't at all sure how to go about doing it. He could just return the hand job, but he he would prefer to have his mouth on Sherlock's cock. Maybe it was the intimacy of having some kind of penetration, some variety of part A going into hole B, or maybe it was about proving – either to himself or to Sherlock, possibly both - that he didn't have a problem with a male sexual partner. He knew that anal intercourse wasn't on the table for tonight; they'd need a lubricant, for one thing, and Sherlock wasn't going to have the necessary patience to wait until John was primed at this point, anyway. It was also something that he'd only feel comfortable trying once they'd both had all necessary tests done and he knew Sherlock's sexual history. It might not even be something that Sherlock was interested in.
Fellatio, however, seemed like a viable alternative. Only he'd never done it before, and he'd prefer this to be a halfway decent experience for both of them, rather than degenerate into something awkward and possibly painful.
Still hovering over Sherlock's body, John reached down and wrapped a hand around his penis, letting the weight rest solidly in the natural curve of his fingers and rubbing his thumb gently up and down the length. He nuzzled against Sherlock's neck and his cheek, kissed his mouth, flicked his tongue against Sherlock's parted lips until Sherlock's tongue rose up to draw him in, dissipating the tension. John tried pressing more firmly where he had Sherlock in his grip, seeing what would make Sherlock's breath catch or elicit little grunts.
It was going very well, judging by the way Sherlock gripped John's arms and invaded his mouth, but when he felt the slippery slide of moisture under his thumb on the next pass, the desire to be as intimate as possible with this man, to surround him and impress on him how important - how vital - Sherlock was, overcame his hesitation.
John lifted his head and started backing up slowly, watching Sherlock for any sign of discomfort. He kept up a steady rhythm of firm strokes with his left hand and placed tender kisses along Sherlock's chest and abdomen on his way down. His chin hit Sherlock's penis first and, mindful of the potential for stubble burn, he carefully pursed his lips and kissed gently along the length of it. Sherlock's neatly trimmed pubic hair tickled his cheek and the back of his hand before he continued down to Sherlock's testicles, cupping them and holding them up so he could kiss them as well. The perfectly smooth skin was inviting, sleek and slippery under his tongue. He was going to ask about using a condom before he got him into his mouth, but he needed to have this contact first, skin on skin, moving back up, lips skirting the corona, tongue just barely tasting salt and bitter, sweat and pheromones.
He raised his eyes to look at Sherlock, who had his chin tilted down, watching in breathless anticipation. Sherlock slid his hand up from where it had been holding John's shoulder, stuttering over damp skin and into John's hair, exerting a slight pressure against his head, tentative yet clear in intent. John breathed in Sherlock's smell, latched his lips onto the front of his shaft like a limpet and pressed his tongue there over the taut ridge of skin. He applied suction briefly before pulling off again.
"Condom?" John asked, tonguing the base of Sherlock's penis and spreading his saliva around with his hand.
Sherlock let go of John to reach toward the small table next to the bed.
"I mean do we need one?" John asked. "Have you ever- I mean, it doesn't matter otherwise, but if you've never-" He couldn't quite bring himself to ask directly if Sherlock was a virgin; somehow he had the feeling that would send Sherlock into another fit of pique.
Sherlock's arm flopped down onto the mattress. "I was thoroughly tested during my last stint in rehab. I haven't engaged in any risky behaviour since. So if that's your only concern, then no: we don't need one for this. However, I won't be insulted if you want to use one anyway." He flicked his fingers, still offering to retrieve the condom.
John shook his head. "No, I want it like this." He looked down at where his hand had stilled. "Can't promise I'll make it all the way to the end, but I want to try at least."
Sherlock put his hand back on John's shoulder. "John, you don't have to prove anything. As I said, I understand what you... what this means." He squeezed his shoulder, moving his thumb lightly back and forth.
John looked up again. "You don't seriously think I'm going to leave you high and dry like this, do you?" He grimaced. "God, no, that came out wrong. This isn't about being polite or trying to prove something. I mean, it is, but not like you mean, I don't think. It's important to me, if we're to be in a relationship that involves all of this -" He nodded toward the still mostly hard penis in his hand. "- that it's reciprocal. I want to do this, so now that the mood is completely gone, just shut up and let me suck you off, if you don't mind."
John lowered his head and took in just the tip, wetting it thoroughly with his tongue and lips, then carefully bobbed up and down, taking in slightly more on each downstroke until he'd managed about half of the length. He held the base steady with his left hand and curved his right arm over Sherlock's leg, his hand splayed across Sherlock's hip. His heart pounded furiously, a mixture of thrill, arousal, and lingering exasperation. The initial slightly pungent smell that had filled his nostrils was being diluted by the traces John's mouth was leaving on Sherlock's skin. He was breathing harder now, his exertions requiring more oxygen than he could easily take in through his nose.
He was concentrating so intently on the sensations, the smells, the sounds, and his technique - it was more difficult to keep his teeth out of the way than he'd thought it would be - that he was a bit startled to feel Sherlock's hand grasp his. John paused, wondering if Sherlock wanted him to stop, if he was doing something wrong. He glanced up to make eye contact, his mouth still full of Sherlock's cock. Sherlock had one arm behind his head, holding it up so that he could look down his body at what John was doing. His eyes were wide and his lips were parted and glistening. Far from looking distressed, he looked utterly captivated.
John slid Sherlock's cock further in, as far as he could get it, flattening his tongue along the length and sucking in the sides of his mouth. Sherlock's eyes fluttered shut and he squeezed John's fingers together hard. His lips were pressed firmly shut and his breaths came in tight, small bursts. John took that as a good sign and redoubled his efforts. He made sounds of encouragement around his mouthful of cock and entwined his right hand firmly with Sherlock's on his hip. With his other hand, he alternated between fondling Sherlock's balls and stimulating the portion of his cock that wasn't in his mouth.
When Sherlock's legs tightened against John's sides and he uttered incoherent half-words between breaths, John realised he was close. Not wanting to choke or have to spit, he pulled away and encircled Sherlock's cock with his left hand, working it up and down as fast as he could. The position was awkward: he had little room to maneouvre, and the grip was the reverse of how he held himself, but at this point Sherlock would probably come if John so much as blew on him.
When John lifted his head, Sherlock had an expression of intense inward concentration on his face. Immediately, he opened his eyes to meet John's. Surprise, fascination, and relief unscrolled across his features before he released control and let the orgasm wash over him. John felt more in love with him at that moment, more grateful that he'd been gifted of a life with this man, and more humbled by the love he felt in return, than his body was able to contain.
"John," Sherlock said hoarsely.
"Yeah, yeah, come on, Sherlock, God, fuck, come on." If John could have reached Sherlock's face, he would have kissed him, taken the unspoken words right out of his mouth and swallowed them down so they could become part of him. As it was, he couldn't do anything but watch and stroke him through it as Sherlock entrusted him with everything he was and everything he had. John had said he wanted to make Sherlock feel good and show him how he felt about him; now, that seemed like an inadequate child's stick figure of a proposition in comparison to the richly nuanced masterpiece of what Sherlock was giving him.
With a great sigh, Sherlock let go of John's hand, all the weight dropping out of him. John smoothed his hands over Sherlock's hips and dipped his head to kiss the jutting bone there, resting his chin against it and just breathing in the warmth from Sherlock's skin. After a few moments, he leaned over the side of the bed to retrieve his vest again and used it to blot up the moisture from Sherlock's stomach. Sherlock didn't say anything, but he skimmed his hand over John's back and shoulder, up to his neck. His fingers were warm and slightly sticky, perhaps from sweat. They were both going to need another shower.
John dropped the vest again and moved up to lie next to Sherlock, pulling the covers back over them. Sherlock had closed his eyes and his breathing was still elevated. Aware that Sherlock might be overly sensitive to touch at the moment, John resisted the impulse to sling his arm around Sherlock's chest and rest against him. Instead, he propped himself up on one arm so he could continue to watch him.
Although John thought he knew Sherlock's face better than anyone else's - even his own – and had seen every conceivable emotion cross it, both faked and real, had an indelible imprint of it, bloodied and (he'd thought) broken, seared into his brain - he felt that he was only truly seeing it now for the first time. He looked both younger and more mature; there were lines John had never noticed before; bits of stubble that were slightly longer than others where he'd missed shaving that day. He looked more real, somehow. He wasn't playing a role here: not the cool, aloof genius nor the eccentric flatmate nor the manipulative charmer. He was just Sherlock, a construct of sinew and synapses, who needed the same things that all sinew-synapse constructions needed, despite his protests to the contrary. Sustenance. Repose. Connection. John slid his hand a few centimetres across the mattress to touch the tips of his fingers to Sherlock's.
"You all right?" John asked.
"Yes." Sherlock turned his head to look at John. His mouth quirked up.
John grinned helplessly. "That was..." He searched for a word that didn't sound trite.
"That bad?" Sherlock asked wryly when John didn't finish his sentence.
John looked down at a spot on Sherlock's neck. He could see his pulse beating in the hollow at the base of his throat. "Far from the most ridiculous thing I've ever done," he said quietly.
"Far?"
"Very far," John confirmed. He slipped his hand over Sherlock's. "In fact, it's probably the least ridiculous thing I've done in... a long time."
Sherlock turned onto his side so that could face John. "Less ridiculous than moving back to the flat?" he teased.
"Far, far less ridiculous. Someone would have to be mad to want to share a flat with you." John smiled and nudged Sherlock's foot with his own under the covers.
"And yet here you are."
"And yet here I am," John agreed. Right where he needed to be.
Sherlock looked down to where their hands were still joined and rubbed John's fingers.
"I'm not good at this," he said, frowning slightly. "But... I'm glad. That you moved back, and... this. It's good. I think it's... I think I'd like to keep this. To keep doing this." He glared at the mattress, struggling to arrange his thoughts in the correct order.
"Hey," John said gently. He leaned in and kissed Sherlock on the side of the mouth, keeping his lips closed. He wasn't sure how fastidious Sherlock was going to be about kissing him right after he'd had his mouth on Sherlock's cock. "Me, too. Like I said: not ridiculous. Now." John put his hand on Sherlock's hip and gave him an affectionate squeeze. "I believe you said something about Cornish pasties and a couple of pints?"
Sherlock leaned into John's embrace, then flopped onto his back. "Wine, John," he said in an exasperated tone that John knew he didn't mean. "A nice bottle of wine."
John shoved him playfully. "Go on and get cleaned up again, then. I'll nip back to my room and do the same. Back in ten."
Sherlock swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up with his back to John. He paused, his shoulders hunched over and his hands braced against the mattress. "You could... just bring everything over here," he said without turning around. "If you want. Might be easier."
John had to suppress a rather large and embarrassing grin. "Absolutely, yeah, I'll- Good idea," he said as nonchalantly as he could manage.
John saw Sherlock's head nod, and then admired the view of Sherlock's naked backside as he went into the bathroom. That's my boyfriend, shot proprietarily through his head. God, really? No, not his boyfriend (although that's certainly what other people would call them now). His partner. His … well, to be honest, his life. He never would have chosen this, solely because it never would have occurred to him in his wildest imaginings. But now, he wouldn't trade it for anything.
He sat up and picked through the discarded clothing on the floor until he came up with a towel and the pair of pants Sherlock had loaned him. He also snapped up the wadded-up vest and smirked at it. Yeah. Definitely going to get that bronzed.
Author:
swissmargBeta reader: K
Rating: NC-17
Characters: John/Sherlock
Word count: 5,441/44,000
Summary: John and Sherlock lost their pants five time in the service of a case. The last time, they kept them off.
Warnings: None that are not implied by the rating and pairing.
Disclaimer: The original Sherlock Holmes stories were written by Arthur Conan Doyle, and are now in the public domain. The BBC version upon which this story is based was created by Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat. This is a transformative fanwork which was created solely for fun, not material gain.
Notes: I'm so sorry. I porned. It wouldn't leave me alone. Continues directly on from the end of Part Five, so you may want to go back and get a running start. Good luck.
And if you are new to the story, you can start at the very beginning:
Part One - The Dehydrator
Part Two - The Plutonium Pellets
Part Three - The Resiniferatoxin
Part Four - The CLAN
Part Five - The Pond
The whole thing on AO3
"Maybe. But this right here..." John indicated the two of them. "This isn't boring."
Sherlock smiled slowly. "No..." He shifted his body so that the evidence of exactly how not-boring he found their current position poked John in the thigh. "No, it isn't."
John giggled. He was fully aware of his own erection throbbing with quiet urgency under the covers.
"Okay, so, we're-" He cursed his mind for choosing this exact moment to go inconveniently blank. So they were what? Going to have sex now? Committing to each other or just trying it out? Had Sherlock even ever had sex before? Sherlock was watching him expectantly, but John recognised that could easily tip over into aggravation if those expectations weren't satisfied.
John closed his eyes and said, "Sorry. I'm just- I should stop thinking."
Rather than saying something like, 'Best leave that to me,' as John would have expected, Sherlock drew back so that his weight was resting on his elbow. "What are you thinking?" he asked.
"I just want to know-" John opened his eyes and caught Sherlock's gaze. His stomach flipped pleasantly at the obvious desire and affection he saw there. And at the same time, lest John think the uncommon display of emotion indicated irreparable damage to Sherlock's brain from his dip in the freezing lake, Sherlock's pursed lips revealed his impatience at having to wait for John to catch up to conclusions that Sherlock had probably arrived at weeks ago.
John smiled sheepishly in spite of himself. "Sorry, I know I'm slow on the uptake, but I just want to be clear what we're doing here. You know, are we-"
John floundered for what to say. It was ludicrous, but he felt that if he named it, Sherlock would lose interest. Something about maintaining the mystery. On the other hand, he really felt that he needed some guidance as to Sherlock's intentions and wishes. He'd never been able to read the man well when it came to emotional issues, which this certainly was, even if couched in physical terms.
Feeling annoyed at himself for acting like a blushing teenager, John blurted it out: "What are we talking? A bit of snogging? Full penetration? Flogging and handcuffs?" He wasn't really interested in that sort of thing - he had no idea why he'd even mentioned it - so he was slightly alarmed by the way Sherlock's eyes narrowed as if he were examining a clue.
John seized on a concrete fact in order to redirect. "You said you'd packed a condom."
Sherlock frowned in distaste. "Do you always hammer out the terms of accord like this when you get into bed with someone?"
"Well, no," John admitted. "But I've never-"
Sherlock rolled away and sat up with his back to John, taking most of the covers with him. "Yes, I'm aware you've never been with a man before. Really, if it's that difficult for you to get past, we should just forget this entire thing."
John was torn between a sudden panic that Sherlock might really mean that and fury that he thought John might be capable of even that much latent homophobia.
"That was not what I was going to say. I was going to say, I've never been in a relationship with someone who's playing ten moves ahead of me on my best day and sees - no, observes - meanings and motivations behind whether I stir my tea clockwise or counter-clockwise. So yes, I'm feeling a bit out of my depth here and am asking for some guidance." He ended his rant with his heart thudding indignantly and his arousal falling limp.
Sherlock snorted; John assumed it was in derision until Sherlock turned his head halfway and John could see the wry smirk.
"John Watson, asking Sherlock Holmes for guidance in matters of the heart."
Something warm and fragile bubbled up in John's chest. Matters of the heart. Not of physical configurations or sexual orientation. He couldn't stop a ridiculous grin from plastering itself onto his face. "Next you'll be interested in hearing my thoughts on serial killers."
Sherlock twisted around so that his face was close to John's. "I'm always interested in your thoughts."
He pecked John on the forehead and got up in a flurry of legs and sheets, half crawling, half walking over the bed to get to his overnight bag. John took the opportunity to pull the covers up over himself again, then lay back against the pillow, one arm behind his head, wondering what Sherlock was up to.
He didn't have to wait long. Sherlock crawled back up the bed moments later and flicked a plastic-wrapped square onto John's chest. His testicles hung heavy and loose, and his partially engorged penis flopped against his thigh as he moved.
"In case," he said as he insinuated himself back under the covers. His skin was perceptibly cooler just from the brief foray across the room. "But we don't have to do anything. Not if it makes you uncomfortable."
John was sorely tempted to yell, 'Are you off your nut?', but a quick flash through the events of the past couple of hours tempered his reaction. Although he had been the one to initiate both the kiss at the lake and in the shower, he could see how it might look like he had been pressured - even if with good intentions - to get into the shower in the first place. And to get into bed as well, come to think of it.
"I'm not just following along after you here, Sherlock," John said quietly, studying the condom lying on his pectoral. "I know I do a lot of that, sometimes against my better judgment, and sometimes without thinking things through as much as I should. But not here. Not with this."
He picked the condom up and laid it carefully next to the teacups on the night stand, then turned on his side to face Sherlock. He picked up his hand, threading their fingers together. His heart was thumping so hard he was certain Sherlock could hear it.
"How about this," John suggested. "What I would like, tonight, is to make you feel good, and to show you how I feel about you." He pressed his lips together at that point, because his throat was becoming unwelcomely tight.
"I believe you can consider those boxes ticked already," Sherlock said. His flippant answer was softened by the fact that he pulled their joined hands close to his chest, where John could feel Sherlock's own heart beating a rapid, steady tattoo against his ribs.
"However," Sherlock continued, leaning closer until their foreheads touched and the only place for John to look was down at Sherlock's full, red lips, "lucky for you I have a slightly more ambitious, and specific, goal for the evening."
John licked his lips, hardly daring to breathe. "What's that?"
"I want -" Sherlock breathed the words across John's mouth. "- to make -" He brushed his lips against John's. "- you come." He slid his cheek against John's and nuzzled at his ear, then kissed a line along his jaw back to his mouth and concluded in a low voice, "By any means we deem mutually pleasurable."
Several scenarios hijacked John's train of thought at the same time as Sherlock reclaimed John's mouth, seeming to suggest his own favoured variants in the way he licked, sucked, stroked and thrust with his tongue.
"Yeah, that- Okay," John finally managed. "I am definitely on board for that. Um..." He put an arm around Sherlock and tugged until they were lying flush against each other on their sides. John's cock was rapidly perking up again, and he had to squirm a bit to get it into a comfortable position between their bodies. It ended up rubbing against Sherlock's penis, and the unexpected and highly erotic feel of the hot-firm flesh against his own sent a wave of desire through his entire body.
"Oh God," John said in a ragged voice. "That feels-" He kissed Sherlock messily, arousal wreaking havoc with his coordination. "That's really good. I may make a small change to my goal too," he panted. "If that's all right."
"By all means," Sherlock agreed.
John put his hand alongside Sherlock's head and gathered a handful of his hair, not pulling, just clenching, his knuckles massaging Sherlock's skull. "I want to see you when you come, and I want to be the one to do it to you."
"A worthy corollary," Sherlock acknowledged, if somewhat breathlessly, a fact which spurred John to resume moving his hips.
It was difficult to get any good friction going in the position they were in; in order to keep their cocks aligned, John couldn't pull his hips back very far, and the little jerking thrusts he was making, while still pleasurable, were slowly becoming more frustrating than fulfilling. Either feeling the same way, or divining John's dilemma, Sherlock clapped his free arm around John, grabbed a buttock to keep him close, and rolled over onto his back, pulling John on top of him. John instinctively braced his upper body on his right arm, keeping his full weight off Sherlock's chest.
Sherlock grinned up at him and spread his legs so that John's knees dropped down onto the mattress between them. It was, all in all, a very familiar position for John to be in. Sherlock's smug expression told him it was no coincidence.
Sherlock lifted his hips and ground himself against John's pelvis. "Better?" he asked.
John hitched himself up a fraction and dug his knees into the mattress to get better leverage, then gave a good, firm thrust. This, he could work with.
"You tell me," he said and proceeded to work his lower body against Sherlock's.
It took several attempts to coordinate the stimulation of both his own and Sherlock's cock, but he was a quick learner when it came to handling his body. Soon, both of them were gasping into each other's shoulders and John was getting close enough to start deploying some of his orgasm-delaying tactics so Sherlock would come first: tensing his feet, forcing deeper breaths, concentrating on other sensations like the slight burn of the sheets rubbing his knees and the growing ache in his arm from bearing his weight.
At the same time, there were other competing, quite compelling sensory inputs urging him to let it all go: the very faint remains of Sherlock's deodorant mixing with the increasingly heavy scent of his body, the soft, tight sounds Sherlock was making deep in his throat, the possessive fingers touching him everywhere they could reach - his arse, his back, his ears, his neck - until finally he didn't feel he could do anything more than get out in a strangled voice, "Sherlock, fuck, so good- I'm going to-"
It therefore came as something of a shock when Sherlock suddenly pushed at John in an apparent attempt to dislodge him. The impression was given further credence when Sherlock said, "No, not like this, it's not- No!"
John flumped immediately off to the side, confused and embarrassed. Had he done something wrong? Was Sherlock getting cold feet? Or maybe he didn't want John's spunk coating his stomach. John's unspent climax pulsed right on the edge of completion, and he was so far gone that he actually considered finishing himself off right then and there and to hell with Sherlock's issues. Before he could do anything, though, Sherlock pulled him back on top of him.
"What- Sherlock, I don't-"
Sherlock stuck a hand down between them and said, "Lift up a bit."
John complied, and immediately one of Sherlock's hands was around his cock, the other at the back of his neck. John's eyes fluttered shut at the blissful feel of those long fingers on his needy member.
"I'm supposed to be the one to make you come," Sherlock said and pulled John toward him for a kiss.
John mentally rolled his eyes. "You were, you bloody idiot."
He pulled back to look down at Sherlock. Sherlock's eyes were wide open and his mouth hung slightly agape. Sherlock's hand sped up on John's cock. The warm and fragile something from before cracked open and spread inexorably through John's chest, down his veins and into his capillaries, leaking into the meaty red of his muscles and the spongy, secret hollows inside his bones. It made syllables coalesce out of the air he and Sherlock were breathing into each other's lungs and the traces of the other's saliva on their tongues. The words beat against his lips in time with his heart and he struggled to hold them in.
"I- ngmf," John grunted and squeezed his eyes shut, dipped down again to press his mouth hard against Sherlock's. I love you, I love you, he thought fiercely, willing the meaning into the kiss. He felt the surge begin, but Sherlock was moving his head to the side, pulling his lips away.
"No, John, let me see you. Please," he begged. He put his free hand alongside John's face, easing his head up.
John turned his face into Sherlock's palm, his eyes still shut tight, as a series of contractions rippled through his groin. He forgot about breathing, but his body must have carried on without him, as he distinctly heard some rather filthy sounds coming out of his mouth. When he became capable of voluntary movement again, he found that his open mouth was pressed against Sherlock's palm. He tasted salt. Sherlock's other hand was sandwiched between them, as John's arm had at some point given up holding his weight.
John shifted to the side and opened his eyes. Sherlock had his laser-sharp focus trained on John, observing him as if he had just presented Sherlock with a dismembered head bearing a message under its tongue.
"Incredible," Sherlock said.
John laughed, easy and happy and full of the moment. "I think that's my line."
John closed the space between them for a kiss, one hand against the warmth of Sherlock's neck. He almost couldn't believe this was Sherlock: cooperative and pliant and eager to please, letting John take his time, enjoying his afterglow. Most likely it was the novelty of the situation; John didn't harbour any illusions that Sherlock would always be this easy.
Sherlock maneouvred his hand out from between their bellies, leaving a cold smear that reminded John he hadn't worn a condom. John had always worn one when he'd been with a woman, but he hadn't actually had himself tested in what was probably an irresponsibly long time. Sherlock would have to wash his hands thoroughly before he got it all over.
"Wait, don't move," John said. He sat up carefully, looking down at the mess on Sherlock's stomach. And at the very red, very engorged penis that was hovering in the air just over it. A shiver of pleasure squeezed his insides. "God, you."
He ran his thumb over Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock drew it in and sucked gently, keeping his eyes on John's. John leaned down again, balancing on one arm, and followed his thumb with his tongue. Sherlock sucked on both eagerly, making needy sounds.
John groped blindly around until he came up with something soft that wasn't part of the bedclothes: his vest, as it turned out. He sat back, a fond smile playing on his lips as he carefully dried both himself and Sherlock with it. "I think we may need to have this bronzed or something."
Sherlock looked down with interest at his penis, which John was carefully wiping around. "Really? How would we do that? And why? If you're thinking of a custom-made dildo, I believe rubber might be a better choice."
John paused, re-ran the conversation, and burst out laughing. "Massive ego much? I was talking about the shirt." He swatted Sherlock across the chest with it.
Sherlock frowned, but didn't pursue the subject. John tossed the soiled article to the floor and sat down between Sherlock's legs. He ran his fingers exploratively up and down Sherlock's denuded penis. John was surprised by the texture, the skin much softer than he experienced his own as being. He supposed he was always much more concentrated on the nerve signals originating in his penis, rather than in his fingers, when he touched himself, so he noticed their texture more than the texture of his own phallus. He had the impression Sherlock's skin right here was even softer than that of a woman's, although that might also be the dichotomy of the freshly shaved, silky-thin skin over the solidly firm core.
"I don't think it's going to get any harder, John," Sherlock said.
John looked up at him, startled yet slightly amused. The chiding words were at odds with the quirk on Sherlock's lips.
"Then I guess I don't need to keep playing with it, do I?" John leaned forward to plant both hands firmly on either side of Sherlock's ribs and dipped down for a kiss.
"Poor form, you're not going to make me beg," Sherlock said, studiously not reacting to John's lips on his.
John shifted so that he could breathe lightly against the side of Sherlock's neck, barely ghosting kisses around the spot that had broken Sherlock's reserve in the shower. "Are you quite sure about that?" he asked. He felt the play of muscles under his lips as Sherlock swallowed thickly.
"John..." Sherlock said, half demanding and half warning. The sheet underneath John's hands tightened as Sherlock bunched it in his fists.
John couldn't deny there was a part of him that enjoyed having Sherlock like this, squirming and at his mercy, but he didn't actually get off on power trips in bed. The teasing and withholding was only fun if it titillated his partner too, as a way to extend the pleasure, and he could tell that Sherlock was in mild distress.
Part of it was John buying time; he knew what he wanted to do, but he wasn't at all sure how to go about doing it. He could just return the hand job, but he he would prefer to have his mouth on Sherlock's cock. Maybe it was the intimacy of having some kind of penetration, some variety of part A going into hole B, or maybe it was about proving – either to himself or to Sherlock, possibly both - that he didn't have a problem with a male sexual partner. He knew that anal intercourse wasn't on the table for tonight; they'd need a lubricant, for one thing, and Sherlock wasn't going to have the necessary patience to wait until John was primed at this point, anyway. It was also something that he'd only feel comfortable trying once they'd both had all necessary tests done and he knew Sherlock's sexual history. It might not even be something that Sherlock was interested in.
Fellatio, however, seemed like a viable alternative. Only he'd never done it before, and he'd prefer this to be a halfway decent experience for both of them, rather than degenerate into something awkward and possibly painful.
Still hovering over Sherlock's body, John reached down and wrapped a hand around his penis, letting the weight rest solidly in the natural curve of his fingers and rubbing his thumb gently up and down the length. He nuzzled against Sherlock's neck and his cheek, kissed his mouth, flicked his tongue against Sherlock's parted lips until Sherlock's tongue rose up to draw him in, dissipating the tension. John tried pressing more firmly where he had Sherlock in his grip, seeing what would make Sherlock's breath catch or elicit little grunts.
It was going very well, judging by the way Sherlock gripped John's arms and invaded his mouth, but when he felt the slippery slide of moisture under his thumb on the next pass, the desire to be as intimate as possible with this man, to surround him and impress on him how important - how vital - Sherlock was, overcame his hesitation.
John lifted his head and started backing up slowly, watching Sherlock for any sign of discomfort. He kept up a steady rhythm of firm strokes with his left hand and placed tender kisses along Sherlock's chest and abdomen on his way down. His chin hit Sherlock's penis first and, mindful of the potential for stubble burn, he carefully pursed his lips and kissed gently along the length of it. Sherlock's neatly trimmed pubic hair tickled his cheek and the back of his hand before he continued down to Sherlock's testicles, cupping them and holding them up so he could kiss them as well. The perfectly smooth skin was inviting, sleek and slippery under his tongue. He was going to ask about using a condom before he got him into his mouth, but he needed to have this contact first, skin on skin, moving back up, lips skirting the corona, tongue just barely tasting salt and bitter, sweat and pheromones.
He raised his eyes to look at Sherlock, who had his chin tilted down, watching in breathless anticipation. Sherlock slid his hand up from where it had been holding John's shoulder, stuttering over damp skin and into John's hair, exerting a slight pressure against his head, tentative yet clear in intent. John breathed in Sherlock's smell, latched his lips onto the front of his shaft like a limpet and pressed his tongue there over the taut ridge of skin. He applied suction briefly before pulling off again.
"Condom?" John asked, tonguing the base of Sherlock's penis and spreading his saliva around with his hand.
Sherlock let go of John to reach toward the small table next to the bed.
"I mean do we need one?" John asked. "Have you ever- I mean, it doesn't matter otherwise, but if you've never-" He couldn't quite bring himself to ask directly if Sherlock was a virgin; somehow he had the feeling that would send Sherlock into another fit of pique.
Sherlock's arm flopped down onto the mattress. "I was thoroughly tested during my last stint in rehab. I haven't engaged in any risky behaviour since. So if that's your only concern, then no: we don't need one for this. However, I won't be insulted if you want to use one anyway." He flicked his fingers, still offering to retrieve the condom.
John shook his head. "No, I want it like this." He looked down at where his hand had stilled. "Can't promise I'll make it all the way to the end, but I want to try at least."
Sherlock put his hand back on John's shoulder. "John, you don't have to prove anything. As I said, I understand what you... what this means." He squeezed his shoulder, moving his thumb lightly back and forth.
John looked up again. "You don't seriously think I'm going to leave you high and dry like this, do you?" He grimaced. "God, no, that came out wrong. This isn't about being polite or trying to prove something. I mean, it is, but not like you mean, I don't think. It's important to me, if we're to be in a relationship that involves all of this -" He nodded toward the still mostly hard penis in his hand. "- that it's reciprocal. I want to do this, so now that the mood is completely gone, just shut up and let me suck you off, if you don't mind."
John lowered his head and took in just the tip, wetting it thoroughly with his tongue and lips, then carefully bobbed up and down, taking in slightly more on each downstroke until he'd managed about half of the length. He held the base steady with his left hand and curved his right arm over Sherlock's leg, his hand splayed across Sherlock's hip. His heart pounded furiously, a mixture of thrill, arousal, and lingering exasperation. The initial slightly pungent smell that had filled his nostrils was being diluted by the traces John's mouth was leaving on Sherlock's skin. He was breathing harder now, his exertions requiring more oxygen than he could easily take in through his nose.
He was concentrating so intently on the sensations, the smells, the sounds, and his technique - it was more difficult to keep his teeth out of the way than he'd thought it would be - that he was a bit startled to feel Sherlock's hand grasp his. John paused, wondering if Sherlock wanted him to stop, if he was doing something wrong. He glanced up to make eye contact, his mouth still full of Sherlock's cock. Sherlock had one arm behind his head, holding it up so that he could look down his body at what John was doing. His eyes were wide and his lips were parted and glistening. Far from looking distressed, he looked utterly captivated.
John slid Sherlock's cock further in, as far as he could get it, flattening his tongue along the length and sucking in the sides of his mouth. Sherlock's eyes fluttered shut and he squeezed John's fingers together hard. His lips were pressed firmly shut and his breaths came in tight, small bursts. John took that as a good sign and redoubled his efforts. He made sounds of encouragement around his mouthful of cock and entwined his right hand firmly with Sherlock's on his hip. With his other hand, he alternated between fondling Sherlock's balls and stimulating the portion of his cock that wasn't in his mouth.
When Sherlock's legs tightened against John's sides and he uttered incoherent half-words between breaths, John realised he was close. Not wanting to choke or have to spit, he pulled away and encircled Sherlock's cock with his left hand, working it up and down as fast as he could. The position was awkward: he had little room to maneouvre, and the grip was the reverse of how he held himself, but at this point Sherlock would probably come if John so much as blew on him.
When John lifted his head, Sherlock had an expression of intense inward concentration on his face. Immediately, he opened his eyes to meet John's. Surprise, fascination, and relief unscrolled across his features before he released control and let the orgasm wash over him. John felt more in love with him at that moment, more grateful that he'd been gifted of a life with this man, and more humbled by the love he felt in return, than his body was able to contain.
"John," Sherlock said hoarsely.
"Yeah, yeah, come on, Sherlock, God, fuck, come on." If John could have reached Sherlock's face, he would have kissed him, taken the unspoken words right out of his mouth and swallowed them down so they could become part of him. As it was, he couldn't do anything but watch and stroke him through it as Sherlock entrusted him with everything he was and everything he had. John had said he wanted to make Sherlock feel good and show him how he felt about him; now, that seemed like an inadequate child's stick figure of a proposition in comparison to the richly nuanced masterpiece of what Sherlock was giving him.
With a great sigh, Sherlock let go of John's hand, all the weight dropping out of him. John smoothed his hands over Sherlock's hips and dipped his head to kiss the jutting bone there, resting his chin against it and just breathing in the warmth from Sherlock's skin. After a few moments, he leaned over the side of the bed to retrieve his vest again and used it to blot up the moisture from Sherlock's stomach. Sherlock didn't say anything, but he skimmed his hand over John's back and shoulder, up to his neck. His fingers were warm and slightly sticky, perhaps from sweat. They were both going to need another shower.
John dropped the vest again and moved up to lie next to Sherlock, pulling the covers back over them. Sherlock had closed his eyes and his breathing was still elevated. Aware that Sherlock might be overly sensitive to touch at the moment, John resisted the impulse to sling his arm around Sherlock's chest and rest against him. Instead, he propped himself up on one arm so he could continue to watch him.
Although John thought he knew Sherlock's face better than anyone else's - even his own – and had seen every conceivable emotion cross it, both faked and real, had an indelible imprint of it, bloodied and (he'd thought) broken, seared into his brain - he felt that he was only truly seeing it now for the first time. He looked both younger and more mature; there were lines John had never noticed before; bits of stubble that were slightly longer than others where he'd missed shaving that day. He looked more real, somehow. He wasn't playing a role here: not the cool, aloof genius nor the eccentric flatmate nor the manipulative charmer. He was just Sherlock, a construct of sinew and synapses, who needed the same things that all sinew-synapse constructions needed, despite his protests to the contrary. Sustenance. Repose. Connection. John slid his hand a few centimetres across the mattress to touch the tips of his fingers to Sherlock's.
"You all right?" John asked.
"Yes." Sherlock turned his head to look at John. His mouth quirked up.
John grinned helplessly. "That was..." He searched for a word that didn't sound trite.
"That bad?" Sherlock asked wryly when John didn't finish his sentence.
John looked down at a spot on Sherlock's neck. He could see his pulse beating in the hollow at the base of his throat. "Far from the most ridiculous thing I've ever done," he said quietly.
"Far?"
"Very far," John confirmed. He slipped his hand over Sherlock's. "In fact, it's probably the least ridiculous thing I've done in... a long time."
Sherlock turned onto his side so that could face John. "Less ridiculous than moving back to the flat?" he teased.
"Far, far less ridiculous. Someone would have to be mad to want to share a flat with you." John smiled and nudged Sherlock's foot with his own under the covers.
"And yet here you are."
"And yet here I am," John agreed. Right where he needed to be.
Sherlock looked down to where their hands were still joined and rubbed John's fingers.
"I'm not good at this," he said, frowning slightly. "But... I'm glad. That you moved back, and... this. It's good. I think it's... I think I'd like to keep this. To keep doing this." He glared at the mattress, struggling to arrange his thoughts in the correct order.
"Hey," John said gently. He leaned in and kissed Sherlock on the side of the mouth, keeping his lips closed. He wasn't sure how fastidious Sherlock was going to be about kissing him right after he'd had his mouth on Sherlock's cock. "Me, too. Like I said: not ridiculous. Now." John put his hand on Sherlock's hip and gave him an affectionate squeeze. "I believe you said something about Cornish pasties and a couple of pints?"
Sherlock leaned into John's embrace, then flopped onto his back. "Wine, John," he said in an exasperated tone that John knew he didn't mean. "A nice bottle of wine."
John shoved him playfully. "Go on and get cleaned up again, then. I'll nip back to my room and do the same. Back in ten."
Sherlock swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up with his back to John. He paused, his shoulders hunched over and his hands braced against the mattress. "You could... just bring everything over here," he said without turning around. "If you want. Might be easier."
John had to suppress a rather large and embarrassing grin. "Absolutely, yeah, I'll- Good idea," he said as nonchalantly as he could manage.
John saw Sherlock's head nod, and then admired the view of Sherlock's naked backside as he went into the bathroom. That's my boyfriend, shot proprietarily through his head. God, really? No, not his boyfriend (although that's certainly what other people would call them now). His partner. His … well, to be honest, his life. He never would have chosen this, solely because it never would have occurred to him in his wildest imaginings. But now, he wouldn't trade it for anything.
He sat up and picked through the discarded clothing on the floor until he came up with a towel and the pair of pants Sherlock had loaned him. He also snapped up the wadded-up vest and smirked at it. Yeah. Definitely going to get that bronzed.
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no subject
Date: 2012-12-12 05:50 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-12-12 06:02 pm (UTC)Wednesday, December 12th, 2012
Date: 2012-12-13 01:58 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-12-26 08:05 am (UTC)Thank you and goodbye!
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Date: 2012-12-26 03:00 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-02-08 02:45 pm (UTC)”John felt more in love with him at that moment, more grateful that he'd been gifted of a life with this man, and more humbled by the love he felt in return, than his body was able to contain.”
*happy, happy smile*
I’ve just read the whole of this story – it was amazing. Most inventive, very funny (I lost track of how many times I laughed out loud), touching, moving, and with an absolutely perfect ending.
We tend to think of Sherlock as analysing everything, but in this story it was John who took over that role – sometimes I wanted just to shake him and tell him not to think so much!
I’m sorry I didn’t comment in each chapter; I just wanted to get onto the next one! The episode with the washing powder was particularly memorable – fancy John not realising that washing-powder-in-the-fridge equals An Experiment!!
The last chapter was just the perfect ending – it was, I believe, “right” for the way they would get together – mutually tentative, exploratory and loving.
Thank you so much for such a truly enjoyable story.
I’m now off to discover what else you’ve written!!
no subject
Date: 2013-02-08 02:51 pm (UTC)