Hey, y'all! Here's some good, healthy smut for ya. Don't know what else to say, really, just... enjoy!
Disclaimer: All credit to Mofftiss for creating it, Benedict Cumberbatch for being so damn *sexy*, and Martin Freeman for being absolutely adorable.
John Watson was a good friend. Really, he was. It wasn't easy to befriend Sherlock Holmes, much less stay his friend, but he managed. Something about the man was intoxicating, irresistible. He had to be with him. Sherlock, however, did not seem to feel the same. Sure, John knew he cared, at least a little, but it wasn't like he was openly lauding John as a friend. John couldn't have expected that, it just wasn't in Sherlock's nature.
Which was why he couldn't understand Sherlock's aversion to his, John's, dating. What did it matter? If they didn't have a case, Sherlock didn't seem to care if John was around or not, so why shouldn't he meet people, have a little fun? He didn't have to be as reclusive and antisocial as his flat mate.
Of course, it wasn't entirely the path he wanted to take. He quite liked the girls he met, that was true, but there wasn't a date he went on, a kiss he stole or bed he shared that didn't remind him of the dark-haired detective. Despite frequent protestations to the contrary, John began to wonder if he really was gay, or if it was only for Sherlock he held affection.
Still, he knew his partner was asexual at best– at least that was how it seemed– so he figured it was a no go. Even Mycroft knew– assumed– his brother had no interest in such a mundane pursuit as sex.
Sometimes John wondered if that wasn't for the best. He was on a date, sort of, having taken a girl back to the flat after dinner. She was interesting, Emma was, all auburn curls and fierce personality. She was a direct opposite of Sherlock, which he tried not to imagine was the reason he chose her. She was the very picture of artistic, slim artist's hands itching to sketch.
"I'd like to sketch you sometime," she said in her soft voice. "You and your Sherlock. Two halves to the same whole."
"Interesting position to take as my date," John deflected. "I'm not gay, you know."
"I know. Well, I think. Anyway, I just mean you complement each other beautifully. He's black and white, ice and night sky. You, you're all warmth and fire, with the pink tones in your skin and your blonde hair…"
He looked into her bright, animated face and slowly smiled, effectively causing her to stumble into silence. There was a stunned moment where Emma couldn't move and John didn't move, but when it ended, it ended with a bang. They dove forward from their respective positions on the couch and crushed themselves together, open mouth to open mouth, hands roaming and bodies clicking into place. John cradled her face with one hand, the other skimming her waist–
The door opened with a bang. John and Emma were too wrapped up in each other to notice, but the tall, thin man in the doorway looked at them in displeasure. "This is not what I imagined coming home to," Sherlock grumbled.
At the sound of his voice, John tore himself away. "Sh-Sherlock!" he exclaimed. "I thought you were out!"
"I was. And now I'm back. You were alone when I left, weren't you?"
"Yes, but–" John started before Emma jumped in.
"The famous, or should I say infamous Mr. Holmes. Pleased to meet you, the name's Emma." She held out a hand for him to shake, but he just ducked around her to peer inside the gaping mouth of her purse.
"Pencils and a small sketchbook, means you're an artist. Copy of Dante's Inferno, probably to look impressive rather than reading it purely out of interest. Pair of glasses but no case, either you're financially secure enough to not mind if something should happen to them or they're just for show, most likely to look more intelligent or fit the bill of a stereotypical art student. Your bag seems quite empty, so either you're a neat person who doesn't need much– which seems doubtful– or you cleaned it out of all objectionable objects before meeting Watson here. Which of course raises the question of what you're trying to hide." He looked up. "This isn't difficult, John. Do you think things through before you do them, or just rely purely on instinct?"
"I think you'd better go," John whispered to Emma, who nodded. She snatched up her bag, blushing and unable to look at Sherlock, before quickly leaving the flat. When the door was shut, John turned to his friend.
"I was busy, you know. You needn't have burst in on us like that."
"How was I to know you were doing anything but reading the paper and having a cup of tea? You didn't tell me you had a courtesan–"
"Courtesan? What century am I in? She's not a whore, Sherlock, she's a girl. You know I date."
"Date." Sherlock repeated the word like it disgusted him, which it probably did. "I can't understand the appeal it has for you. Frankly John, you're spending lots of time lately with people who aren't me, which is not something I can condone. These people you seem to like so much, like this empty-headed girl who just left, they aren't as brilliant as I am. They can't compare to me. What appeal do they hold?"
"I think not being you is enough, isn't it?" John said coldly. He sighed, rubbed his forehead, and closed his eyes. "Look, Sherlock. It's easier being with them than with you. Can you imagine why?"
The other man blinked. "No, not at all."
"Then we have nothing more to say to one another, do we?" John started towards his bedroom. "After all, if you can't understand this most basic part of me, what can you say to make it all right?"
He strode out, slamming his door, leaving a thoroughly bewildered Sherlock standing frozen, staring at the space John was just occupying. "John?" he asked hesitantly, and when he received no answer, he shook his head as though to clear it.
Later That Evening
John sat on his bed, wondering exactly where he went wrong. Had he gone wrong? Maybe there was never a chance… A soft knock interrupted his musings.
"John?" Sherlock's voice came through the door, sounding uncharacteristically humble. "John, please let me in."
"Just come in. Nothing stopped you before." John winced at the harshness in his own voice as the door swung open. The detective shut it behind him and moved to sit beside John on the bed.
"You told me we needn't be… friends… if I didn't understand the most basic part of you. I may not know what that is, but I'm going to say it has to do with your compulsive need to be in a relationship. I don't know all that much about personal feelings, you know I find it a tremendous waste of time, but I think… I think I should like to try, if it means keeping your companionship. This is not something I can learn from research." His lovely blue-green eyes searched out the good doctor's dark brown ones.
"It pains you to admit helplessness, doesn't it?" John laughed.
Sherlock scowled. "Are you going to help me or not?"
"Well, what do you want me to do? What do you want to know?"
"Why do people do it? Why do you go through so much, risk so much, waste so much time, just for sex? For love?"
John sighed. "Well, those are two different things. For sex, it's, you know, a biological need. I'm sure even you know what I mean. For love, it's… well, you're trying to find your other half– better half, even. You're trying to find another person who completes you, who can make you laugh even when you're upset, who needs you as much as you need them."
"And what do you do when you find this person?"
"I dunno, Sherlock. Kiss them, maybe. I can't really answer that."
Sherlock went silent for a moment. John knew his mind was racing, touching on a thousand possibilities he, John, couldn't begin to understand. "John?"
"Hm?"
"I think I should like you to kiss me."
John choked. "What the…? Sherlock, you haven't been drinking, have you?"
"Of course not," he replied, unruffled. "I'm merely following your logical train of thought. If one has these feelings one acts on them accordingly. I may not be an expert on personal relationships, but even I know you need me." He hesitated. "My cases would be difficult without you. You can talk to people when I cannot. As much as I detest the thought, I believe I need you."
"Sherlock, that doesn't necessarily mean love. It's just an example."
"Do you not wish to kiss me?"
"That's… that's not what I'm saying, I just…"
"So you do want to kiss me." He leaned in, eyes narrowing, examining his flat mate's face. "Pupils dilated, flushed hue, labored breathing, lips slightly parted. That indicates sexual arousal."
"Jesus, Sherlock…"
"You keep saying my name, is that significant?"
"Is it?"
Blink. "I don't know, that's why I asked. Why I ask if I knew?"
John sighed. "You're supposed to just know with these things, Holmes."
"Oh, now it's just Holmes? Do I have to just kiss you myself?"
"That's not– mmph!" John started to protest, but Sherlock swooped in like the raven he resembled and kissed him swiftly. Their lips were locked together, Sherlock's eyes closed and John's wide with surprise. Long, slender violinist's fingers stroked his cheek and his mouth slipped open. Then, just as suddenly as he went in, Sherlock pulled back.
"Interesting," he said in a perfectly normal voice while John gasped for breath. "You claim to be straight, you were on a date with a girl not four hours ago, and yet you kissed me back."
"Bloody hell," John panted. "Who taught you to kiss like that?"
"I thought you wanted me to kiss you."
"Didn't expect to get snogged, though…" He took a few deep breaths, though his heart rate refused to return to normal. "Can– can we do that again?"
"Interesting," Sherlock repeated slowly, almost smiling, something that disconcerted John. "Why me?"
"W-what do you–"
"I wouldn't bother keeping up the pretext, John. It has to come to my attention that you have… feelings for me."
John swallowed. "How did you find out?" he whispered.
"I borrowed your laptop. It was rather foolish of you to have written it down, that you loved me. Still, it does make things quite clear now, doesn't it?"
"I really need to teach you the meaning of personal space," John muttered.
"What sort of detective would I be if I respected everyone's privacy? Besides, you haven't even heard my proposition."
Proposition. It conjured up all sorts of images for John, which grew increasingly less innocent and caused a stirring in his trousers he tried to ignore. "What's that, then?"
"You have feelings for me, you're the one who understands relationships and… feelings… and things. I regrettably can't learn this from the internet and I think it could only enhance my knowledge of the world should I engage in some sort of physical activity of this nature."
"You want… sex." I wasn't far off with proposition, then, was I?
"I thought I made that quite clear."
"Sex."
"Yes."
"With me."
"I… I trust you, John. Might as well." He shrugged, his eyelashes casting shadows over his ridiculously high cheekbones. "So what do you say?"
Instead of answering, John pulled his jumper and t-shirt over his head. He raised an eyebrow at Sherlock, who hurriedly started removing layers of clothing. He only got as far as being bare-chested before John took his face in his hands and kissed him, hard. He slowly leaned back until he was flat on the bed, John crawling over him to continue the kiss, one knee planted between Sherlock's legs.
A sudden move caused the knee to nudge the detective's groin. He jerked and let out the barest trace of a groan. John grinned to feel the hard length under the fabric of his pants. "I guess you are into it, aren't you?" he murmured. He spread a hand over the younger man's chest. "Blimey, you're skinny. Hug you and I'd get a paper cut."
"It isn't kind to tease, John," Sherlock replied as the hand dipped lower, fooling with his zipper. "How long is this going to take?"
"That depends. How long do you want it to take?"
"Not long. I have things to do."
John rolled his eyes. "All right, Sherlock. Help me out, then." He stood up and slid off his trousers, waiting for Sherlock to do the same. When they were sufficiently naked, they got back into bed and fell back together, snogging and touching bare skin. Sherlock seemed reluctant to move below the belt, but John dove headfirst into it, taking Sherlock's cock in hand and stroking it. Sherlock let out a hiss.
"Get on with it!"
"All right, all right! I'm going! Here, you lie down," John ordered shakily. Sherlock obeyed, his dark curls tumbling over his forehead, pale skin nearly glowing. The doctor nudged his thighs apart and knelt between them.
"Here, spread your legs a little more. Perfect." He stuck his fingers in his own mouth before slipping one into Sherlock. He added another, scissoring them to prepare the man a little more. Another hiss.
"Tell me if it hurts," John instructed. Sherlock just closed his eyes as a third finger slid in. When he was satisfied he was ready, John lined up his cock.
"Are you sure about this?"
Sherlock's eyes snapped open and fixed on John's concerned, ruddy face. "Would I still be here if I wasn't?"
"Curiosity is your great sin," he conceded.
"Sin, no. Weakness, perhaps. You know, you seem very sure of yourself. How often have you done this? What do you look up on that laptop of yours?"
"You invaded my privacy, you should know."
"You cleared your internet history."
"All right, no, I've never done this before. I've never wanted to do this before, not with anyone but you. Now if you don't mind…" He gestured between their legs, where both of them were aching for release. Sherlock gave him a quick nod, and they joined. John moaned at the tight heat, while Sherlock hiccoughed in surprise and pain. They remained in stasis for what seemed like hours but was probably only a minute or two before Sherlock bucked his hips forward.
He found he was rather enjoying this sensation, once the pain ebbed away. No, it wasn't the same high he got from playing violin or deducing, but it almost began to make sense, why people went through so much for sex. He was starting to understand, and though he would never admit it, he quite liked being with John. He was kind and patient, and though Sherlock Holmes would rarely deign to opine on such things (and would certainly never admit he did), he was an odd sort of attractive. His eyes were a warm shade of brown, his blonde hair was slightly tousled…
A sharp jolt of lightning between his legs roughly tore him from his reverie. He gasped and arched his spine as it happened again, John's cock battering a sweet spot deep in his body. "W-what's that!" he cried. It was a shocking but incredibly pleasant feeling.
John chuckled, something that irritated Sherlock. He did not like being laughed at for a legitimate question, or what he considered to be one. He was unskilled in the ways of physical love (or any sort of love other than "love of solitude", "love of knowledge", and "love of drugs"), which John knew, but still he laughed! "Don't laugh at me," Sherlock said stiffly.
"I'm not laughing at you, just sort of… because of you. It's pleasure, don't you know what that is?" John smiled very sweetly, the kind of smile Sherlock supposed lovers would share. He didn't know.
"Of course I– Oh, but that feels– Oh," he moaned, carding his hands through John's hair and tugging the ash-blonde strands. "Do that again."
John thrust slower, deeper, taking care to brush Sherlock's prostrate every time. The usually unfazed detective was reduced to a trembling, writhing, moaning pile of need and arousal. "Harder, John," he yelped.
John half-smiled but complied, feeling his release coming nearer. He slipped his hand between their bodies to grip Sherlock's cock. "Come on, come on," he pleaded under his breath.
"J-John," he choked. "I– I'm going to–"
"That's fine, trust me!" John cried, orgasm hitting him hard. Sherlock couldn't help but follow, barely making a sound but going cross-eyed with bliss. John pulled out and collapsed at Sherlock's side, sighing in pleasure and relief. "Well? What do you think?"
Sherlock stared at the ceiling, his lean-muscled pale chest heaving. "I think I have a much better understanding of the appeal sex has for people."
Quiet. "What about for me?"
Sherlock furrowed his brow. "I don't know, what about you?"
John sighed again. It seemed he did a lot of sighing around Sherlock. "Just… You said you know how I feel about you, and now after this… Well, this is how people connect with one another, Sherlock. This has to have changed something, I think. What do you think?"
"I think…" There was silence, as though he really was considering it. "You're the only friend I have. You know that, right?"
"Yes, I know that. Everyone knows that. What does that have to do with anything?"
Sherlock stood up and grabbed his shirt, using it to wipe the come from his belly. "This has to have changed something, you said. Well, I don't respond well to change. I– You're my only friend," he repeated. "I can't lose you, too." He gathered the rest of his clothing and left without another word.
John groaned, rolling over onto his stomach and burying his face in a pillow. "Now I've done it," he lamented. "I've ruined it. He knows but doesn't feel the same. Nothing's changed. What have I got to lose?"
You still can lose him, you know, he thought.
No, no, I've already lost him!
He willingly chose to shag you because he was "curious". Who's to say he won't be curious again?
Doesn't matter what he decides in the future, he decided. I have lost everything. Gambled, risked, and lost. The gambler is always ruined.
I have lost everything.
Note: I apologize if this is terribly OOC. I've, er, never seen Sherlock. Just gifs and pictures on Tumblr. I beg you to tell me if this is awful. I beg you. Of course, if it's not, you can tell me that too. I won't mind. Please review either way!