**I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters within it. Okay so technically this is two requests in one, but I thought they were so perfect together. The first is from a lovely Anon that is as follows:
I was wondering if I could request an angsty with a happy ending fic where John is unintentionally mean to Sherlock because Sherlock left their dorm room in a mess (or a similar situation) and Sherlock runs away/ disappears and John frantically tries to make it up to him and a love fest ensues?
And the second from darling kitmerlot1213 which was:
Mycroft's actually following through on one of his threats-like he misunderstands a moment between Sherlock and John and he thinks John's hurt Sherlock, so Mycroft sends John a text "I did warn you." Cue John and Sherlock racing to Mycroft and their declaring themselves to Mycroft-or words to that effect.
So this is what came of those two. Enjoy!**
Fists clenched so tightly nails were digging into skin, John Watson stormed through campus, eyes locked straight ahead, posture stiff as a board.
Calling it a strop would be a huge disservice to the mood John was currently in. Furious wouldn't be adequate either. It was a rage so intense it almost startled John right out of it.
Not quite, of course.
Red was blurring at the corners of his vision as he barreled down the footpath, taking no notice of anyone around him.
It had been a long time since anything had gotten him to this point. Sure, certain things at University could be irritating or frustrating. Naturally, some people John had encountered had been unpleasant or annoying.
But today had just been one of those days. One of those days where nothing had gone right. One of those days where everything was impossible. Nothing was right. Nothing was easy.
It wasn't just a single something. It was a whole bunch of somethings. A plethora of tiny incidents that culminated into a bubbling volcano, waiting impatiently to explode at anything. Simmering in its heat, climbing with intensity. Just waiting for a reason.
Storming through the hallway and toward his dorm room, John huffed a heavy sigh and threw open his door.
Or, well, tried to.
The door barely budged.
Fuming, John pushed again. The door barely moved an inch. Throwing his shoulder against it, John shoved his way into his own room, finding the door obscured by a pile of books, followed by a pile of dirt, followed by a pile of John's jumpers, followed by a torch and a mask.
"Sherlock!" John bellowed, a ripple of rage tearing from his throat.
His roommate didn't move a muscle. He lay still on his bed, fingers pressed together under his chin. "John," he acknowledged.
"What in the bloody hell is going on in here?" John seethed. "What are you doing with my jumpers?"
Somewhere in the back of his mind, he was fully aware how entirely irrational he was being. This was Sherlock Holmes, for godsake. His nutter of a roommate, best friend and most recently boyfriend was added to the list of titles. Really, he should have expected this. He should always expect this.
Unfortunately, today was not the day to fuck with John Watson.
"It was an experiment," Sherlock replied, unconcerned with his partner's current state of anger.
If it were possible, John would have been breathing fire right about now. His face was so hot, it physically hurt, his lips pursed painfully into a thin, furious line.
He glared daggers into his boyfriend. "What. The. Fuck, Sherlock?"
Unmoved by the severe edge in John's voice, Sherlock sighed. "We could have sex."
John all but bit his tongue in two, his jaw tightening so hard it pinched the muscle. "Excuse me?" he breathed low and dangerous.
"Sex will help with your current state of anger," Sherlock replied, eyes unopened, fingers pressed together.
"Fuck off," John bit, turning his back to his exhausting roommate and flinging his bag onto the bed.
"You getting dramatically upset over such menial tasks like schoolwork is tiresome, John," Sherlock continued, clearly unaware he was poking a very angry bear. Or, maybe he was aware and simply didn't care. "I was merely offering a solution."
John just barely resisted the urge to punch the wall. Or the pillow. Or Sherlock.
"Shut the fuck up," he growled, not trusting himself to actually look at his boyfriend splayed out on his bed like some tired king exhausted from his day of doing absolutely nothing.
"Why are you getting more upset? I'm simply finding a solution to your absurd reaction to stress, which by the way you bring entirely upon yourself. Sex will assist in-"
"Shut up!" John burst out whirling around, anger curling viciously into every word he spat. "Jesus we haven't even - I don't want to have sex with you Sherlock, god! Just... christ just stop talking to me like I'm some goddamn idiot and leave me alone!"
Ripping his bag from the bed, John turned and promptly tripped over the pile of jumpers and rubbish that littered the floor. Rage burned at the back of his throat as his vision blurred with fury.
"And clean this fucking mess up!"
And with that, John stormed out of the room red-faced and shaking like a lunatic.
"Uh, are you okay?"
John raised his head from where it had been buried in his hands to stare up at the coffee shop barista and incidentally his friend, Molly Hooper.
John sighed heavily. "No," he mumbled. "No, I'm a giant fuck-up is what I am."
Molly sat down, setting the pot of coffee on the table and folded her hands in her lap. "What happened?"
Scrubbing a hand down his face, John huffed. "Just a royally bad day topped off with telling the one person I thought would make it better to fuck off."
Molly smiled sympathetically. "Yikes," she murmured.
John nodded. "He just has no goddamn sympathy for anyone. And no respect for my stuff or our room. And then to bloody suggest I-"
He cut himself off immediately. "Sorry." No way was he telling Molly Hooper about his sex life with Sherlock. It was so stupid anyway. For Sherlock to even suggest that, like that's all sex was, just a way to release stress... and they hadn't even had it yet.
Frankly, it hurt John. More than he cared to admit. It made him feel like Sherlock assumed the only reason John would ever want to sleep with him was for relaxation. Not because he loved him.
Not that they'd said that either.
"It's going to be alright," Molly said, offering a smile.
"I just thought I'd sit here for a bit of a cool down before I go grovel. Just to make sure I don't pop off again."
Molly nodded. "Good idea. But Sherlock of all people will understand, won't he?"
John frowned. "Why would he understand?"
Molly smiled sheepishly. "Well he is rather difficult to live with. Surely he knows that?"
John rubbed the back of his neck, thinking that over for a minute.
He'd lived with Sherlock for just shy of two semesters. Yes he was absolutely difficult to live with, but that wasn't exactly the point. And besides, it didn't matter to John seeing as John was madly in love with the boy.
A roll of guilt surged through him. He didn't like the thought that he'd hurt someone he cared for so deeply.
They'd danced around each other for an entire semester, Sherlock's guarded exterior extremely difficult to break through. John had been persistent that they become friends, mostly because he desperately needed a reason to stay near Sherlock, to keep his attention. John had been certain Sherlock didn't feel the same in the least, that yes, he liked John, maybe more than anyone else, but he certainly wasn't gone on him like John was.
Of course, that had all changed the night John had convinced Sherlock to have a few drinks with him just before Christmas. A few drinks turned out to be Sherlock's limit, as he lay on the floor of their small dorm room, babbling away about chemical mixtures and experiments John just had to help him with, and how John was the best friend he'd ever had.
John had giggled, slightly tipsy himself, nowhere near Sherlock's level, and grinned at his friend. It had been rather endearing to see normally intense, dramatic Sherlock completely let loose.
When John had finally called it a night, Sherlock had crawled over to John's bed, laid his head in John's lap and hummed contentedly.
John had been just drunk enough to not be terribly alarmed and took the opportunity to do something he'd been dying to do since he laid eyes on the mad genius: he threaded his fingers in Sherlock's curls.
Sherlock had hummed happily, whispered, "I wish you were mine, John," and settled in for the night.
John's entire world had flipped upside down.
Sherlock had huffed, murmured, "Wish you wanted m'too," and promptly disappeared into dreamland.
John hadn't slept a wink.
Talking about it the next morning had been a similar torture to pulling teeth. Sherlock had sat silently, giving nothing away, eyes as wide and terrified as John had ever seen them, fingers digging into his thighs so hard they were white.
But John hadn't been about to let that go. He'd all but forced Sherlock to admit it because it was everything John had wanted for so long and to be this close to it... John wasn't about to pass that up.
Finally, Sherlock broke down, raving about how he'd never felt like this about anyone and how he was sorry he'd ruined their friendship while simultaneously throwing his clothes into a bag and apparently attempting to move out.
John had tackled him to the floor, held his hands over his head and snogged him senseless until Sherlock had relaxed underneath him, gasping for air and reaching for more kisses.
And so they began dating.
Or, whatever you call what they were doing.
They lived together, which made things interesting enough, but besides that, it was Sherlock he was supposedly 'dating' and that in and of itself deserved an entirely different label.
Brilliant and mad were two excellent descriptions of John's roommate. Sherlock was constantly moving, talking, experimenting. He had a knack for knowing things people just didn't normally know, seeing things most people didn't see. He was an absolute bloody genius and absolutely fascinating and John's most favorite person in the world. It wasn't difficult to fall in love with him. And John did love him. John did love him so very much.
"We all have shit days, John," Molly soothed, refilling his coffee mug. "We all say stupid things we don't mean. Just go apologize. It'll make you feel better, trust me."
Sighing again, John nodded. "Yeah, you're right," he grumbled, pulling out his phone and typing out a text.
I'm sorry for being a psycho. Just had a really rough day. I'm heading back, do you need anything at Tesco's?
The reply arrived almost immediately.
Message Not Delivered
John frowned. He went back to his sent messages and tried it again.
Message Not Delivered.
Glaring, John checked his service, finding he had full bars. He huffed and dialed Sherlock's number.
The line wouldn't connect.
He tried again and still nothing.
"Everything alright?" Molly asked, peering at his phone.
John shook his head. "Yeah, it's just my stupid mobile isn't working." He attempted to ignore the little stab of panic in the back of his neck. Why would he panic over a broken phone? There was nothing to panic about.
"Oh no," Molly said, fishing her phone out of her pocket. "Here, try calling mine."
John scrolled through his contacts, found Molly Hooper and tapped the name.
Molly's phone shrieked to life, making them both jump.
"Works fine," Molly said happily, like this was great news.
It wasn't.
John attempted another text to Sherlock.
Message Not Delivered.
"Maybe it's his phone?" Molly suggested.
John shook his head. That mobile was practically glued to Sherlock's hand. No way he would allow it not to work.
"I gotta go," John mumbled, an unhealthy swell of panic wafting through him. He stood abruptly, almost knocking his coffee to the floor in his haste, barely noticing as he hurried to the door.
What if something had happened to Sherlock? What if something was wrong?
Deep down, he knew he was overreacting but after the spat they'd had earlier, John felt uneasy.
"John?" Molly called but John was already out the door.
Throwing open the heavy wooded door to their small dorm room, John's panic doubled when there was no resistance. The door swung wide open, revealing the worst possible thing John could have ever imagined.
The room sat clean, far cleaner than it had ever been since John and Sherlock had moved in. John's things sat untouched, shoes still lined under his bed, cardigan still slung over his desk chair, bed still made with a slight wrinkle from where he'd flung his bag earlier.
Sherlock's side sat bare.
Completely and totally empty.
The blue mattress provided by the school sat alone, no white sheets covering the ugly color, no boring white comforter fluffed on top with a very deep imprint of a tall lengthy body. The desk sat brown and dull, no laptop askew on the edge, no absurdly expensive microscope sitting in the center of multiple petri dishes, no piles of books scattered around it, no papers strewn in chaos. The walls were entirely bare, unpleasantly cream texture staring back at John in a taunting fashion. No newspaper clipping of crimes or investigations pinned to cover it up.
No tall, curly-haired genius flouncing about in a ridiculous dressing gown, bent over an experiment or laying on his bed or pacing, hands flying wildly as he rattled off his thoughts.
No Sherlock.
Something crumpled deep in John's chest, something worse than panic. Something approaching terror.
Ripping his phone from his pocket, John tried again, sending message after message.
Where are you?
Message Not Delivered.
Sherlock, please.
Message Not Delivered.
Sherlock, you're scaring me.
Message Not Delivered.
Please come home.
Message Not Delivered.
Sherlock
Message Not Delivered.
Sherlock, please.
Message Not Delivered.
Please.
Message Not Delivered.
Please.
Message Not Delivered.
Please.
Message Not Delivered.
By the time the last message was sent, John was on the floor, having fallen to his knees at some point, eyes full of terrified tears, fingers trembling over the buttons of his phone.
Sherlock was gone.
And by the looks of it, he wasn't coming back.
After hours of searching campus, combing through every library and lab he could think of, John crawled into bed in his empty dorm room.
He was back to being angry. Not quite in the rage he was in before, but a good healthy fury he could function and think in. An anger that lead him to this:
Fuck Sherlock Holmes.
Seriously, one bloody fight and he runs away? Hides? Moves out? Blocks John's number? Jesus Christ. Talk about dramatic.
Spoiled prat. He'll come back. He'll sort it out in that giant brain of his, that he overreacted and move back in and apologize and all will be right.
All will be right.
Something didn't sit well in John's stomach at that conclusion but he shook it off and closed his eyes.
All will be right.
All wasn't right.
All wasn't right at 7am the next morning when Sherlock wasn't flailing around their dorm, demanding John's attention at such an early hour.
All wasn't right when John made his way to the dining hall for breakfast alone, no mad genius babbling away in his ear about god knows what.
All wasn't right when John spent the entire day fidgeting, head on a constant swivel, searching anxiously for curly hair and absurdly long coats.
The panic was returning. The longer the silence lasted, the more worried John became.
Sherlock had the patience of a goldfish. If he was freezing John out to get him to apologize, he would have caved hours ago. No, this was starting to feel more… permanent. More real. More like Sherlock really and truly didn't want to see or speak to John ever again.
An ache had formed where the anger had been, chipping away at it until it replaced it with a dull emptiness.
John found it harder to breathe with every passing second of silence.
It didn't occur to John until much later, after racing all over campus in a fruitless effort to find someone who clearly didn't want to be found, that he realized he had one other person he could try.
He scrolled through his contacts, hovering over the one name he'd hoped to never have to use.
The man attached to this phone number was likely the most powerful and equally petrifying person John had ever met in his life. He was mysterious and serious and brilliant. Maybe as brilliant as Sherlock but John would never say that out loud.
John had only met him a handful of times, the first being in a dark underground parking lot where he offered to pay him to spy on Sherlock after they'd been randomly selected as roommates.
The second being at Christmas when Sherlock announced that he and John were together, when the man had promptly dragged John into the other room and threatened him within an inch of his life in such a calm manner, it was even more terrifying.
"If you ever hurt him," he'd stated, "You will be very sorry, John. Very sorry indeed." The words were spoken with such simplicity and yet they shook John to the bone. He'd blinked at the sickly grin on the man's face, and knew the man meant every word he'd ever spoken. Even the wording of his threat should have been laughable, so overly dramatic and old fashioned.
But John had not laughed. John had barely dared to breathe. He'd just nodded dumbly and gotten the hell out of there.
Now, he stared down at his phone, feeling so uneasy, but so desperate to find Sherlock, he decided it was his only option.
Do you know where Sherlock is?
He threw his phone down on the bed and shoved his face into his pillow.
When his phone chimed, he threw himself at it.
Do not contact this number or Sherlock's again. Your affiliation with him has ceased. -MH
John's throat burned, a very real fear sizzling within him.
What is going on?
Sherlock doesn't wish to speak to or see you again.
Just tell me where he is, please.
Please.
The reply took eternity. John's leg bounced up and down with anxiety, finger tapping against the screen of his mobile.
When his phone finally signaled a message, John's hands couldn't open it fast enough.
And as he read the words, his heart plummeted into his stomach.
I did warn you, John.
Panic surged through him like hot liquid fire as John typed a desperate reply.
We had a fight. I just need to apologize. Please.
Message not delivered.
Those three words were all it took to bring John to his knees and moisture to his eyes.
Hours later, after sobbing and sniveling on the floor of their once shared bedroom, feeling so unbelievably helpless and useless, John made his way weakly to the shower and stepped under the scalding water, hoping maybe he could burn the ache right out of his skin.
It hurt. God, did it hurt. And it wasn't the water that did the hurting.
It wasn't a sharp or searing pain, but a hollowing, aching feeling. Like someone had gone into his chest without permission and removed a rather large chunk of his heart, leaving behind a gaping hole and an emptying feeling in his gut.
It was unbearable.
John had never been heartbroken before. Never had someone he loved left him without a word. John had never loved anyone before Sherlock. He'd had girlfriends here and there, sure, but they were nothing compared to Sherlock. To what he felt for Sherlock.
It hadn't even been a slow burn for John. It hadn't been this uncertain, foreign feeling, questioning why Sherlock was so important to him and why their connection was so strong. No, it had been immediate. John hadn't fallen. He'd belly flopped. Face-planted into his feelings, allowed his young, naive, stupid heart to be swept away by Sherlock Holmes.
Sherlock Holmes with his beautiful ever-changing eyes and his thick, curling hair, and his abrasive, sassy, arrogant personality that made John's mouth drop open in shock and awe and amusement.
He'd been so ridiculously happy these past few months. So gloriously, idiotically, blindingly happy. He hadn't thought twice about this ever ending. He hadn't considered one day Sherlock wouldn't want him anymore. He hadn't considered that one day he would drive away the love of his life.
God and he really just didn't understand. He didn't understand why Sherlock was cutting him off. Why Sherlock didn't want him anymore. The rejection burned so deeply in him, he wasn't sure he could handle it.
He was desperate to know. To know what he'd done. What had he done?
Maybe Sherlock couldn't deal with John's dramatics any longer. John actually laughed bitterly at that thought. If that were true then that was bloody rich seeing as Sherlock was the most dramatic person John had ever met.
Maybe Sherlock was really offended by John's anger toward his experiments. John had never been particularly fond of the experiments, especially the ones conducted in their room, but Sherlock never seemed to care. That couldn't be it.
Maybe…
Maybe Sherlock just didn't want him anymore. Maybe it was as simple as that. Maybe Sherlock had finally had enough of John and his jumpers Sherlock always made fun of and his overly clean side of the room and his insistence that Sherlock at least try to be nice to people and…
God, now that he thought about it, it made perfect sense.
Sherlock had simply come to realize he was better.
Better then John.
Better without John.
Why in god's name had Sherlock wanted him? Ever? It actually made zero sense. John had never thought about it before, so caught up in his own overwhelming feelings. But now it seemed to be so obvious. Someone as intelligent and stunning as Sherlock could never want someone like John for long. It would have never lasted.
What a fool he'd been. Believing in forever with the most incredible human being he'd ever met. Christ, he was a child. A stupid, naïve, immature child.
The realization didn't help at all with the pain of rejection, no matter how sensible it was. It was still miserable. It still ached.
John bit into his flannel as another bout of tears filled his eyes, concealed only by the shower water streaming down his face.
The shell of John Watson made his way to classes for the next two days, not hearing a word from the teachers or students around him, barely registering Molly's concerned looks and fidgeting worriedly.
He was living off of the two hours he'd slept in total the previous two nights, body aching to sleep but finding no comfort when it did.
He didn't want to close his eyes. His dreams were filled with tall dark beautiful creatures that whispered taunts like I love you and I need you. They weren't pleasant. They were cruel. They were ugly reminders of the truth. That Sherlock didn't love him or need him.
They didn't leave him when he opened his eyes. They lingered in his mind as the days dragged by, tearing the whole in his heart another inch with every heartbeat and leaving John feeling completely and utterly empty.
"This is Greg," Molly announced late one afternoon on the fifth day that John Watson was no longer Sherlock Holmes' boyfriend. A dark haired boy stood next to her looking nervous.
John nodded. "Alright, Greg."
"Yeah, hi," Greg said awkwardly.
Molly elbowed him. "Greg is here to help."
John coughed. "Help with what, exactly?"
Greg shot Molly an irritated look, then scrubbed a hand down his face. "Uh- I uh… I know where Sherlock is."
John's heart stood still in his chest as his stomach flipped. "What?" he croaked.
"Greg dates Mycroft," Molly said simply. "And Sherlock is currently living with Mycroft."
John's eyes widened. Or, well, they attempted to widen but the lack of sleep only allowed them a fraction of true movement. He blinked owlishly at this Greg character.
Greg gave a sharp nod. "He's miserable, mate," Greg murmured. "I can't take it anymore. All I want is to sit on the bloody couch with my boyfriend and snog him without his nasty little brother coming down to bitch about how sentiment is only found on the losing side or some other crock of shit he's been-"
"Yeah, that's about enough there, Greg," Molly cut him off sharply. She turned to John. "We have an address. Go see him."
John sighed. "He doesn't want to see me-"
"Yeah, he really, really does," Greg said. "I don't know what you did to him, but go make it up, alright? Mycroft would murder me in cold blood if he knew I were here but please, for the sake of Sherlock's sanity and my sex life, go to him."
John hated the hope that rose in his gut. "I-"
"Seriously John, if you don't go right this very minute, I'm going to lose it," Molly barked in a more vicious way then John had ever heard her speak before. "You fucking love him so much you're not even you without him. And I actually like my friend John and wish he'd come back so please, for all of us, go get your boy back. Please."
John stood outside of a rather modest house to what he'd assumed Holmes the elder would deem worthy. His body was thrumming with anticipation as he made his way up the steps, certain at any point some sort of booby trap would appear and capture him, keeping him from entering and finding his partner.
Mycroft Holmes just seemed the type to have traps surrounding his house like a fortress.
The scariest man John had ever met owned this house and he was about to come barging in like some knight in shining armor.
Which was entirely absurd. John knew Sherlock didn't want him.
But John needed…Christ he needed closure. He needed to stop hurting like this and move on. He needed to see Sherlock one last time, hear it from his mouth, and pick himself up off the floor.
And apparently, to get to that point, he'd have to go through Sherlock's mean older brother.
How bizarre.
Raising an unsteady hand to knock, John jumped back as the door swung open.
Ah, there we are then.
Mycroft stood on the other side of the threshold, glaring at him.
"Hi-"
"Go home, John."
"But-"
"Yes, I know Greg sent you, it wasn't difficult to miss his annoyance with my baby brother. It doesn't change anything. Go home."
"Please, just-"
Mycroft went to shut the door and John scrambled to get a foot wedged before the latch caught. "Wait!" he cried. "Please, just-"
It happened faster then John could have ever prepared for.
Mycroft stepped aside and yanked the door back, watching as John's weight fell forward, sprawling into the entry way.
"Such grace, John Watson," Mycroft's cool voice came from above him. "I won't tell you again to leave."
"Good," John tried to say with as much dignity as he could muster. "Because I'm not leaving." He scrambled to his feet and considered making a run for it toward the stairs, having no idea if Sherlock was even here or up those steps.
"Don't even try," Mycroft replied calmly, crossing his arms over his chest.
"What is your problem?" John cried, the numbness from the past few days slowly lifting. "Jesus, I just want to apologize to my boyfriend or ex… or whatever, and you're meddling arse keeps getting in my way."
Mycroft glared. "Sherlock is not yours to play with, John," he said coldly. "You don't get to play these games with my brother. He may let you because he doesn't know any better, but I won't stand for it. I've known plenty of boys like you. You don't stand a chance with a Holmes."
If John hadn't already come to that conclusion on his own, Mycroft's words would have felt like a punch to the gut. But he had. And they only stung a little. "Yeah," John sighed tiredly. "You're probably right. I don't. But if you'd just step aside, I could talk to him and we could sort that out for ourselves."
Mycroft raised a condescending eyebrow. "Why, in heaven's name, would I agree to that?"
John was shaking. His body was trembling so hard he could hardly speak. "Because I love him," John breathed, feeling absurd and foolish to have to tell Mycroft fucking Holmes of all people how deeply he felt for Holmes the younger. "I love him," he repeated.
Mycroft narrowed his eyes skeptically.
"I've been waiting my whole life for Sherlock without even knowing it. He makes my life better. He makes me better. Every moment I spend with him is everything, Mycroft. Everything. He's…" John trails off, losing himself in his blinding love for this one man. "He's brilliant in the cockiest way possible and funny without meaning to be and snarky at the best of times." John's lips curve into a small smile. "He's… when he's focused, it's like magic. When he's at the top of his game he's… enchanting. To watch his brain work is one of my favorite things in the world. He's... perfect. To me, he's perfect."
Mycroft's mouth had dropped open slightly, lips parted in a silent gasp but John was too far gone to even notice.
His eyes burned. "These past few days without him have been the absolute worst of my life," John continued. "Awful. Bloody unbearable. I don't know who I am without him. I didn't know what happiness was before I met him. I didn't even know I needed to be saved but he saved me. From a dull, unfullilling life, Sherlock Holmes saved me. And I need him, Mycroft. So very badly, I need him."
John scraped a finger under his eye to catch a tear, looking away as if he had any chance of hiding it from the every observant Holmes the elder.
Mycroft didn't move. He blinked several times, like he was seeing John for the first time in his life. John cringed away under the scrutinizing gaze and furrowed his brow. "Mycroft?"
The man shook his head sharply as though to snap himself of whatever it was he was under and huffed an uncomfortable laugh. "I am truly at a loss for words," he smiled wanly at John.
John laughed. "Well, I've got all kinds of words, so-" he flicked his hand toward the stairs. "Can I?"
Mycroft glanced at the steps behind him and sighed tiredly. "Fine," he said, moving slightly to the right.
John made to move, but a hand came to his arm as he passed Mycroft. "If you ever-"
"I know," John said sharply, because he did. "Whatever you're going to say, I know. And I promise, for as long as I live I won't hurt him. Not purposefully and I will do my damndest not to let anything like this ever happen again."
Mycroft studied him for a moment longer before dropping his hand. "Fine," he murmured. John didn't need telling twice.
He took the stairs two at a time.
Hesitating for only a millisecond, John threw open the door of Sherlock's bedroom. He didn't have the time or patience to wait for the stubborn genius to answer.
To his surprise, Sherlock was already standing facing the door, balancing on the balls of his feet as though ready to pounce. It wouldn't have thrown John off so much if the stance wasn't topped with a look John had never seen on Sherlock's face before. An angry look.
No.
A furious look.
"Why did you do that?" Sherlock demanded, face flickering darkly.
Wholly unprepared for that, John rocked back on his heel like he'd been slapped. "What?"
"Why did you lie to Mycroft? Why are you here?"
John's eyes widened. "Sherlock-"
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Of course I heard you. You weren't quiet about it. Now answer my question."
John shook his head, hoping to clean out whatever fogged his ears up to hear that incorrectly. "You think... you think I was lying?"
Sherlock let out an impatient huff. "I don't think. I know. Now stop deflecting and answer me."
"I would never lie about that," John all but whispered. "I meant-"
"Oh my god," Sherlock snapped. "Stop. Just stop, John and tell the bloody truth for once in your life. For godsake."
John's own anger was coming back. Being accused of being a liar can do that to a person. He glowered at Sherlock. "I'm not lying, Sherlock," he bit back.
Sherlock threw his hands in the air. "You are impossible. I'm sorry you feel guilty after finally telling me the truth, but I really don't have any sympathy for-"
"Sherlock!" John bellowed. "I don't even know what you're talking about!"
"You!" Sherlock yelled right back. "You and your lies! First you pretend to want me, claiming you want to be with me. Then after weeks of lies, you finally come out with the truth, stating you don't want to have sex with me and tell me to leave. I'm fine with it being over John, really, I'm not so pathetic that you must coddle me after breaking up with me. It's been five days and look; I've survived without you. So don't show up here pretending to be sorry. I haven't heard from you in said days, so you clearly aren't that sorry."
"What?" John couldn't seem to think of a proper response. His rage was turning to gut-wrenching guilt.
"Jesus Christ," Sherlock breathed with such bitter irritation, John took a step back. "Fine. I'll leave."
"No!" John lurched into action, stepping in front of Sherlock's path. "No, I... fuck, I did try to reach you, Sherlock!" He can hear his voice is frantic and embarrassingly high but he truly couldn't care at the moment. "I tried and tried but you'd blocked my number. And I couldn't- I even tried fucking Mycroft for fucksake and he wouldn't tell me where you were and god I do want you, so badly, I want you, I want you to come home, come home to me, be with me, Sherlock, please, please come back to me, I miss you so much and I'm sorry I've never been more sorry in my life and-"
"John," Sherlock whispered tenderly. "John, stop."
John blinked, having not realized his fingers had curled into the front of Sherlock's shirt into fists, effectively holding Sherlock to him.
He let go immediately, feeling so unbelievably unsteady, but Sherlock caught his wrists, keeping him close.
"I'm sorry," John breathed shakily, lip trembling harder with every word. "I'm so so sorry, I was such a dick, I didn't mean-"
"Alright, it's alright," Sherlock murmured, pulling John to his chest. "Christ, John, you're the one who-"
"No," John shook his head fiercely against Sherlock's sternum. "No, I didn't mean any of that, I was just... I don't even know. I don't even remember why I was upset, and I'm so so sorry Sherlock-"
"I know, it's alright," Sherlock muttered into his hair, hands soothing circles over John's back. "Mycroft must have blocked your number from my phone. I didn't think about- I just thought you didn't want me anymore."
"I want you," John whispered, burrying his face in Sherlock's chest. "I want you so much."
"Are you sure?" Sherlock's lips grazed his ear. "Are you sure I'm what you want? Because I would understand if I'm not, John. I'll walk away without any hard feelings, nothing for you to-"
"Sherlock," John said sternly. He was fucking shaking in Sherlock's arms. How could this genius not know? "I'm in love with you. Please tell me you knew that."
Sherlock's breath hitched and John pulled back, searching for Sherlock's eyes. "Look at me," John whispered. "Deduce me. See it, Sherlock. I love you. I love you."
Sherlock's eyelids fluttered slightly. "John," he murmured.
And then they were kissing.
John wasn't sure who initiated but it didn't matter because he'd missed those pouty lips so very much, he'd barely been able to breathe without them. Sherlock was parting his lips and snaking his tongue into his mouth, searching, and John complied immediately, needing to taste Sherlock just as desperately.
Hands were finding shirts and hair and grips were tightening as they clung to each other, all the emotional turmoil of the past few days finally finally draining from both their bodies. John could feel Sherlock settling against him, the tension in his shoulders loosening, and John practically melted under his touch.
"Please," John whimpered against Sherlock's neck, lips dragging over the pulse point. "I want you." God, he wanted him so very badly. "Please make love to me, Sherlock."
The tall body wrapped around his went rigid, the caresses coming to an abrupt halt. John didn't let it deter him. "I want you inside me," he murmured, mouthing against Sherlock's slender neck, fingers curling into shaggy waves. "Please. If you're ready, please, take me."
A small, soft, precious moan escaped Sherlock's lips against John's ear. "John," he croaked. John could feel those large, slender hands trickling down his back, resting on the hem of his shirt.
"Yes," John groaned, lifting his arms up before Sherlock had even begun to tug. Sherlock pulled back to look at John as he pulled his t-shirt up over his head. John stared right back, allowing himself to be watched. Sherlock needed to be certain that this was okay. He needed to see it in John's face. John could understand that.
He offered a small smile as his shirt was deposited on the floor, his now exposed nipples pebbling to hardness in the cold air. He reached for Sherlock's hands, bringing them back to his torso. He needed Sherlock's hands on him. He needed the touch of this perfect man. He needed to know they were okay.
Sherlock wrapped his long arms around John's waist, bending slightly at the knee to pull him as close as possible, bringing John into a searing kiss. "Oh-" Sherlock breathed over his lips as John slipped the top button of Sherlock's shirt free. He continued his work, flicking round plastic through threaded holes, taking his time with every touch. Sherlock kept him cradled in his arms, lips moving cautiously over John's in such a loving manner it pulled on every string of John's heart.
Pushing at the sleeves, John dragged Sherlock's shirt down his arms, letting the pretty material fall to the floor. Sherlock grinned against John's lips. "That's silk, you know," he huffed in feigned irritation.
"Don't care," John murmured, dropping his hands to Sherlock's belt.
Sherlock's breath hitched. John tugged on the buckle, freeing the leather strap from the hook and letting it fall open. He moved his hands to the flies of Sherlock's trousers and flicked it open.
The kisses Sherlock had been laying on John's lips abruptly deepened, his strong tongue sweeping into John's mouth. He tasted just as John had been remembering for the past five days, like spicy honey and faint nicotine. It was still so intoxicating and overwhelming and John allowed himself to be enveloped fully. "Sherlock," he groaned, pushing at the trousers in his hands, allowing them to fall free down Sherlock's thighs. "Please," he murmured.
Sherlock's deft fingers came to the button of his jeans and gracefully, so much more so than John ever could, pulled them open and hooked his thumbs into the band. With one swift motion, he tugged downward.
Each stepping out of pooled trousers, John never took his hands, or lips, off of Sherlock as they stood together in only boxer briefs. John slid his hands down over the curve of Sherlock's arse, the soft silk of his boxers so smooth against his fingers. Sherlock groaned and pressed his hips harder against John, his straining erection hot and heavy against John's abdomen. John's own hard cock sat against Sherlock's thigh, gyrating subconsciously against the touch. They groaned into each other's mouths, pulling the other closer, chasing the friction created by their two bodies.
John was just about to beg, just about to speed this up a bit, to drag Sherlock to the bed and let him have his way with him, when the mattress hit the backs of his thighs. His eyes fluttered open slightly, just realizing Sherlock had been steering him backward so carefully, he hadn't noticed.
Sherlock's hand came to the base of his neck, the other on the small of his back, and ever so tenderly laid him down in the sheets.
John had never imagined in a million years that his first time with Sherlock would be this gentle. Every touch was so loving. Not that the other things they'd done hadn't been, but John was only just finding out that getting off with your boyfriend and making love to him were two very different things.
He'd never loved anyone before Sherlock. He'd never felt like this about anyone. The emotion that came with it was almost unbearable, the feeling of needing touch and reassurance of reciprocated sentiment and caring so very deeply for the other's well-being were things John never dreamt he'd worry himself over. It wasn't that he didn't want to; he'd just never known it was a possibility until now.
Now. Looking up into translucent green eyes, accented beautifully by tumbling dark ringlets and pale skin, Sherlock was gazing at him like everything he'd ever wanted in his entire life was laying beneath him, dressed only in pants and waiting to be had.
John reached up and tucked an errant curl behind Sherlock's ear. "I love you, Sherlock," he whispered, resisting the urge to grab at the tall boy and bring him down.
John's heart burst in his chest as Sherlock's eyes softened even further, his lips parting ever so slightly. He folded himself down over John, hovering on sweaty palms, and found his lips again. John hummed, threading his fingers through Sherlock's hair in encouragement.
"I don't want to hurt you," Sherlock whispered over his lips. "I'm- I'm unsure how to do this."
"You won't hurt me," John breathed back, carding through curls over and over. "I'll be right here the whole time. I'll help you, okay?"
Sherlock pulled back just enough to search John's eyes. "Are you sure?" he asked quietly, eyes large and frightened, twinged with heavy arousal and, god help John's wildly beating heart, love.
John nodded. "I'm sure. I'm very sure. I love you, Sherlock."
Sherlock's deep green eyes flashed at the words. Like he wasn't sure if he could trust them. Like he wanted nothing more than to trust them.
Like he reciprocated with every fiber of his being.
John pushed the packet of lube he'd managed to fish from his wallet before his jeans had been discarded into Sherlock's hand and nodded. He then hooked his thumbs in Sherlock's pants and pulled them down as far as he could reach.
Sherlock chuckled and finished for him, then moved to do the same, John lifting his hips compliantly as Sherlock pulled the clothing from his body.
John spread his legs and Sherlock gasped softly, his pale cheeks flushing beautifully. "John," he whispered.
"I'm here, love," John replied softly, reaching for his partner. "Come here."
John spoke quietly against Sherlock's skin, talking him through the preparation as Sherlock tore the packet open and set his fingers to work. There was nothing hurried about Sherlock's movements. He took his time, finding spots to make John gasp and writhe, laying kisses against his neck and ears as he added more capable digits and whispered endearments. No one had ever been so careful with strong John Watson, tough boy on the outside with a soft, gooey center that longed to be touched this way. And somehow, Sherlock knew he needed this. He just knew.
And when Sherlock finally slid into him, it didn't feel like John had been waiting forever for Sherlock to start. It felt like Sherlock had been slowly, softly making love to him the entire time. And beyond a stretching, filling feeling, it didn't hurt. It felt right; perfect even. Like John couldn't believe they hadn't been doing this the whole time. Like his whole world was now complete.
Sherlock bit down viciously on his bottom lip as he fully seated himself inside John, eyes wide and bright boring into the blue gaze beneath him. "John-" he choked, gasping slightly on the n as he glanced down to where they were joined. "John!" he cried again quietly.
John slid his palms onto Sherlock's reddened cheeks and tugged, bringing Sherlock's eyes back to his. "It's okay," he murmured. "It's okay, go ahead."
Sherlock shifted his weight to his elbows, sliding a hand under John's head to tangle his fingers in the hairs at the base of John's neck. His lips settled against John's ear, his breathing erratic and unsteady. "O-oh J-John-" he breathed, his back arching as he pulled out slightly, then slowly pushed back in. "I - oh god - John."
It was like a panicked prayer being whispered in his ear and John's heart lurched to one side as Sherlock continued his slow rhythm, tightening his grip in John's fringe. John's arms wound around up to lay his hands on Sherlock's shoulder blades, holding him as close as possible without hindering his thrusts. "Please," John clutched at Sherlock's back. "Please come, Sherlock. I want you to. Please."
Hips stuttering, Sherlock shifted.
And dragged right over John's prostate on his next thrust.
Pleasure rippled warmly all over his body as John cried out, fingers digging into smooth skin, legs tightening around slender hips.
Sherlock immediately froze. "John?" he asked, voice high with anxiety, moving to pull out.
John's hand flew to Sherlock's arse cheek, pushing him back in, while the other wrapped possessively around his neck. "No! N-no don't stop," John begged desperately. "Please don't stop, Sherlock, it feels so good."
Gooseflesh burst from Sherlock's skin under John's fingers, his breath catching in John's ear.
"Don't stop," John repeated, pressing his fingers in to emphasize his words. "Don't ever stop."
Sherlock immediately settled back in his position, pushing back in and gripping the nape of John's neck.
He hit John's pleasure point again and John's hips bucked. "Oh my god," John sobbed. "Oh my god, Sherlock."
"You like that," the disbelieving murmur came in his ear. It wasn't a question, it was a shocked statement.
"Yeah," John groaned, arching his back. "Yeah, I- oh - yeah."
Sherlock let out a soft oh, snapping his hips a little more insistently.
Wave after wave of a feeling John had never felt before crashed over him with every movement Sherlock made. He slid his hand down his stomach and grasped his cock, suddenly desperate for release. Sherlock continued his thrusts, murmuring soft encouragements as John stroked himself, blinding pleasure ripping through him at every one of Sherlock's ministrations.
"J-John John I-"
John incoherent yes yes yesses were all he could respond, his hold on Sherlock tightening, fists clenching and unclenching into delicate skin. Sherlock's sweaty brow rubbed against John's temple in such a loving nuzzle, John's entire body shuddered. "I - Sherlock, I - I -"
"I love you, John," Sherlock's gravelly words filtered into John's ear, snaking through his mind, down into his chest and closing, wrapping themselves snuggly around John's heart. He breathed a shaky, broken sob, stroking himself frantically as pleasure swept over his entire being.
"I, oh, fuck, love you, I... love you- Sherlock - Sherlock - I -Sherlock," John murmured nonsensically as he came, body trembling violently as he sobbed his release.
Sherlock's hips gave several, hard thrusts as he chased his own orgasm, gasping into John's ear with scattered breathes, body shaking atop John's. John held him tighter, clenching around Sherlock, wanting to deliver him as much pleasure as Sherlock had given him. The guttural cry that ripped from Sherlock's lips was so gorgeous, John preened slightly in his own sweating, sticky state, clutching to the man he loved so desperately.
Sherlock's weight settled against John as he collapsed, effectively sealing John's seed between them. John's clean hand came to the back of Sherlock's head, gently petting silky, damp curls. "Sherlock," he sighed contentedly as his lover laid a kiss against his temple.
"I love you, John."
The warmth in his chest burned as his heart thudded harder. "I love you too," he whispered back, turning his head to capture Sherlock's lips.
Sherlock let out a small chuckle.
John furrowed his brow. "What?"
"Next time, will you do that to me?"
John pulled back to stare at his grinning boyfriend. Sherlock's eyes were gleaming, crinkling happily around the edges, lids hanging low. His forehead glistened with drying sweat, curls sticking to the wetness. He looked supremely satisfied and beautiful and so madly in love it made John's chest ache.
John found himself grinning right back. "Absolutely."
**I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters within it. Woooo angst and fluff and smut oh my! THANK YOU SO MUCH for all the love and support on this series! Please please keep the requests coming either here or on my tumblr page! XO!**