In Clear View
TheSeventhStranger
John's Revelation
It was John's first night out since Anna had been born. The clinic staff were meeting up at the pub one Friday night each month, but John hadn't joined them for three months now. It had all been so busy, working long hours at the clinic and then coming home to an exhausted Mary who usually just greeted him with a short "Here", handing over Anna to him and then heading right into the shower where she would stay for a long time. But Mary had encouraged him to go out tonight, saying he deserved a night out on the town.
It was early June, and the soft scents of summer and warm asphalt lingered in the evening sun. The streets were crowding with dressed up people, slight excitement in the air, the usual Friday evening buzz. Oh it was good being back in town. John really had a hard time adjusting to the suburban lifestyle, "endless nights in watching the telly or going to barbecues with awful dreadful boring people", he smiled to himself remembering Sherlock's mocking words at his speech at the wedding. He'd been right of course, as always.
John stepped inside the pub and squinted his eyes trying to spot his colleagues in the dark. "John!" a voice called out, and he saw Nick, the clinic's pediatrician, waving his hand from a table in the corner. "It's about bloody time you broke free for a night", he said with a laugh and a rough pat on John's back. There were about 8 people there from work, and someone quickly shoved a cool pint into John's hand.
"So, how about that hobby detective work you were doing before?", Richard, one of the other doctors, asked with a slight smirk on his face. John felt the usual pang in his chest, the way he always felt when someone asked him about Sherlock and he had to answer.
"Nah, not really agreeing with family life, right", said John and tried his best to make it sound like it didn't matter. Tried to laugh it off, like the others did. He hadn't seen Sherlock in more than two months now, and it hurt like hell just to think about.
When Mary and Anna were home from the hospital, Sherlock had surprised them all (and probably himself too, come to think about it) by actually accepting the invitation to come over, John had been so sure he'd decline. "Babies, not really my area". But instead he had not only accepted, but had been making a significant effort to be nice when he was over, being so friendly, laughing with Mary, complementing her looks even ("Motherhood suits you Mary, you look wonderful"), not a trace of the usual condescension in his voice. He'd brought two gigantic Harrods shopping bags full of gifts for Anna, and John got a weird sense that Sherlock had actually enjoyed picking out the presents for her. He hadn't spoken much with John though, had barely looked at him to be honest. It had felt a bit awkward, although John really couldn't pin down why.
There was really nothing strange at all with having your best mate over to your house, meeting your wife and newborn baby, right. The most normal thing in the world to do actually. And yet he somehow had felt guilty, like showing off his family was hurting Sherlock. Ridiculous, he tried to tell himself. Sherlock and he had been friends, right; sure, very close friends and John was certain they'd remain that way always. Maybe they wouldn't see each other as often, but that was certainly normal too, right, what with the new demands in life.
"But that first night when you had just met, at Angelo's, you wanted to have him", whispered an annoying voice in his subconscious. "No, no, it was never like that, never", he told himself sternly and tried his best to push away those crazy intrusive thoughts he now and then had to suffer. He drew his focus back to the pub and to Richard, who was saying something.
"Must have been like a childhood dream come true, right! Being the responsible doctor in the daytime and kicking the ass of bad guys at night. A proper Clark Kent/Superman set up!". Richard laughed out loud, pleased with his own metaphor.
John forced a smile. "Yeah, quite so."
More beer, then someone put a tray of shots down on the table, "What the hell", John thought and in quick succession poured the first and second and third shot down his throat. He'd already agreed with Mary that he'd spend the night at Richard's, who lived with his wife in a big apartment close to the pub. Unnecessary to risk taking the train, alone and drunk a Friday night, and a bit expensive to take a cab. He'd go back in the morning instead. Anna had just turned three months old, and was sleeping significantly better at night, which made it so much easier to leave Mary on her own with the baby for a night. He'd have to make it up to her tomorrow though, but it was worth it. Nice to be out, chatting and laughing with his colleagues, many of whom were starting to become good friends by now. Someone was getting to the punchline in a story about a patient from last week:
"…and then I had to tell the old geezer, Sir, I said, put your clothes back on please, you do not have to be naked to get a throat culture!", and John laughed with the others until his abs started to hurt.
When John got up to use the lavatory, he wobbled into the table and almost tipped over a glass of wine. He realized he was clearly drunk, more so than he had expected. The result of sleep deprivation and no drinking for a long time, he managed to think while he swayingly made his way to the loo.
Ok, definitely pissed. Room spinning. John slowly made his way to the bar and quickly downed three large glasses of water, then he decided it would be best after all to go straight home. Not really ideal to crash at your colleague's sofa when this plastered. He said a quick goodbye to everyone, told Richard he was going home, and stepped outside. It felt good with the cool air hitting his face, much better already. Maybe walking for a bit would do him good, before getting in a cab. Walking when drunk, good. Fresh air, good.
The hours in the pub had passed so quickly, and by now it was almost midnight. Although John definitely felt more sober now, he was still swaying a bit when he walked, and he was aware, although remotely, that he'd make a good target for a mugger. Army training still ingrained in his backbone, he grabbed his keychain in the pocket of his jacket, and let two of the keys point out between his fingers, fist closed around the rest. If he needed to defend himself, the impact would be so much more efficient than with just his hand alone.
He wandered around aimlessly for over an hour, just looking at the people out, taking in the sounds and sights and the energy that only a big city could offer, already feeling much better. Man, how he loved London. And then he realized where his feet had been leading him. Baker Street. How silly, he thought. Granted, he was still a little bit drunk but he surely remembered that he wasn't living here anymore. "I don't live here anymore", he said out loud, and suddenly felt like he wanted to cry. My god he really had to get a grip on himself, all kinds of weird thoughts and emotions running wild this evening apparently.
He should just get in a cab and leave, but.. standing there in Baker Street, it felt impossible not to wonder about the one particular flat at 221B. Was Sherlock home? John knew he had been very busy, dealing with that horrible "Did you miss me?"-scenario after Christmas. Sherlock had asked if John wanted to help, but at the time it had just been impossible, with the imminent birth of the baby and all. It had been so strange, to not be by Sherlock's side this time. He had tried to keep in touch with texts, trying to suggest meeting up for lunch or a coffee once in a while, but knew all too well that that is not how one keeps up with Sherlock Holmes. He had needed to be there, but he couldn't.
He had made the only choice he felt that he could morally defend to himself. But still, how he had missed not being a part of Sherlock's life. He also worried about Sherlock, living alone again. John had taken upon himself, with not a small amount of pleasure, to help Sherlock with all those mundane but important things that his genius flatmate so easily ignored. Like eating. And sleeping. And attending to various wounds and scratches. Wonder how he was doing now?
John walked closer until he found himself standing on the sidewalk right across 221B. He looked up the windows facing the street, and saw that there were some lights on in the sitting room. Sherlock was home, and although it was late, John knew for certain that this man hardly ever went to sleep before 3 or 4 in the mornings. John felt his heart beat a little faster, and thought about taking out his phone to send a text. Then he had an impulse.
What if he surprised Sherlock instead? He still had the key (had felt too dramatic to return it, like breaking up or something, how silly, and Sherlock had never asked for it back), and if he managed to climb the stairs quiet enough, maybe he could sneak in and make a good scare out of it. John smiled, he could picture how Sherlock would first be all mad for a second and then break out laughing in that happy, open way that he sometimes did when John had managed to catch him off guard. Oh how he missed hearing that laugh.
Fueled by the alcohol still buzzing in his blood, clouding his judgement, John put the key in the lock and turned. The door opened and closed without a sound, and John proceeded to ever so slowly take one step at the time, slowly approaching the inner door. He could see light trickling down from the flat and onto the staircase, clearly Sherlock hadn't bothered to close the door properly. Of course, John thought, why bother closing your door when Europe's entire pack of gangsters and mastermind criminals might pay you a visit. He'd have to have a word with Sherlock about this, there had to be some limit to the unnecessary risks he was going to expose himself to.
With only two more steps to go, John froze at a sound coming from inside the flat. He listened attentively, body pressed against the wall of the staircase. It was absolutely quiet in the hallway as well as in the flat, no music, hardly any street noise slipping in, just the sound he had just heard. What was that? He waited and listened. There it was again. And again. From a turned down TV perhaps, he wondered, then reminded himself that Sherlock never watched the telly voluntarily.
No, this was… a human sound, must be from Sherlock, almost like.. like a whimper somehow, yeah, like a very quiet whimper. Had Sherlock fallen asleep on the sofa, was he having a nightmare?, John wondered. Or, and his pulse picked up speed at the thought, was Sherlock hurt in some way? Was he in pain, and was that why he was making those sounds?
Suddenly feeling much more sober, and also more than a little embarrassed over having sneaked in like this, John tip-toed the remaining steps and leaned forward to peak through the crack in the door. And then John's body froze in place, his mind simultaneously blanked for a moment. Because oh my god oh my god oh my god.
His eyes had immediately detected Sherlock, sitting slouched down in his usual chair, head leaned back, eyes half closed, arms slung loosely behind his head, and oh fucking hell was this really happening. Because in front of Sherlock, kneeled down on the rug, was another man, his forearms bracing on Sherlock's thighs, his head bent down, moving slightly. And there was no way for John to misunderstand what he was observing, no further deductions that needed to be made. This was Sherlock Holmes, in his chair, getting a blow job from this other bloke and clearly enjoying it very much. Hence the slight whimpers coming from Sherlock's mouth.
Oh my god oh my god oh my god.
Standing absolutely still, protected by the darkness of the staircase, John could not stop staring at the sight in front of him. He felt like a deer caught in the oncoming headlights of a car, frozen, mind racing, brain not fully willing to take in the signals the eyes were transmitting. Sherlock was having sex. With a man. John realized that while he was stunned by the first fact, he was not at all surprised by the latter, no really it was more like a confirmation of something he had intuitively understood but not been willing to think about.
Close friends as they had been, they had never talked about sexual preferences or relationships, well not if you didn't count that horribly awkward conversation the first night, at Angelo's. "You wanted to kiss him", the teasing voice in his mind whispered again. "But you didn't and look where it got you now." "He said loud and clear that he wasn't interested in me like that", John also thought. "Married to his work."
Yeah right.
It had been so easy to put the thoughts about Sherlock's eventual sexuality out of his mind, back then. Tried not to think about it, figured that most likely Sherlock wasn't into sex at all, probably way to messy and undignified for him, to pathetically human, and far beneath his great, logical mind. And Sherlock had certainly neither asked John nor volunteered any kind of information pertaining to that particular area. So they had just gone about their daily lives, Englishmen as they were and all, tactfully avoiding to talk about all things that threatened to become uncomfortably private. But here now, in front of John Watson, was evidence as good as any that his assumptions had been wrong.
Slowly adjusting from the initial shock and disbelief, John started to take in more of what he was seeing. Who is that guy?, he wondered, curious but simultaneously annoyed with the burning feeling of jealousy that shot through him. No reason to be jealous. Embarrassed, yes. Jealous, no. The light in the flat was low, only a few lamp lights were lit, and the warm glow from a dying fire in the fireplace. Some light from the street lamps fell though the windows and cast long shadows on the walls.
John could not make out much of the man busy servicing Sherlock, but he appeared to be of Sherlock's age or a bit younger. Average height probably, fairly muscular body, hair golden and slightly wavy, dressed in a light blue, immaculately pressed shirt with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. The elbows that were currently pressed flat on Sherlock's thighs. Black trousers, similar to the ones Sherlock usually wore. Shiny black leather shoes, John could see the soles, looked like expensive shoes although John was certainly no expert. A city boy, John guessed, a banker, or perhaps a lawyer.
Sherlock was in his blue dressing gown, but it was untied and open in front, he had one of his usual thin t-shirts on underneath, and it was pushed up to his chest, revealing Sherlock's well defined abdominal muscles underneath pale, almost hairless skin. And what else, what else? John strained to see, had to see more, had to know even though he also felt acutely aware that he should immediately turn away and sneak out while he still had the opportunity. To be caught out here would be, well, mortifying was too weak of a word. Sherlock would never speak to him again.
Oh christ. Sherlock's breathing had become more audible, John could hear the his every breath, now faster, with a small sigh of "oh" on each exhale. "Oh, oh, oh, oh", John heard. And when John tilted his head slightly, he could see Sherlock from another angle and noticed that, as expected, he was naked from the waist down, moving his hips ever so slightly in a slow, even rhythm.
Where are his pyjama bottoms?, John wondered out of the blue, and then noticed them in a little pile on the floor by the chair, scrunched up together with a pair of blue silk pants. The guy was working Sherlock thoroughly it seemed. He was moving his hands now, one hand below his mouth, helping to add some extra stability and friction surely, and with his other hand, he started to stroke Sherlocks stomach, and then reaching up under the t-shirt, over his chest, maybe pinching his nipples, John guessed, or did guys perhaps not do that to each other? John felt confused.
Like an answer to his question, a second later Sherlock's whining sounds turned into something more decisive, something more like small grunts. "Ah ah ah ah ah", he was saying, still in a half whispering voice but a bit darker and definitely more insistent, his hands suddenly lowered and combing through the guy's full hair, almost but not quite holding his head.
"Sensitive nipples then", John registered, almost unaware of his own thoughts. "Ah ah ah ah, yes yesss, good, keep going, keep going", moaned Sherlock. With something that almost resembled shock, John realized he was getting hard. He was hiding in a doorway, watching his best friend getting sucked off by another man, and getting an erection from it. "Oh shit, John Watson, what the hell are you doing", he thought to himself.
"It certainly looks like this guy knows his stuff, must feel so good", John thought and then immediately hated it and tried to push it away. When was the last time John had gotten treated to a blow job? He couldn't really remember. Before the baby, definitely. Maybe that reunion night with Mary after Christmas day?
The women he'd been with, Mary included, usually saw a blow job like something of a chore, a favor to be distributed on rare and special occasions, or to be used as a sort of currency or a way of apologizing for something. John had always been very happy to accept, regardless of the underlying reason, but it occurred to him that this, this thing he was witnessing, well. This guy did actually not seem to mind. On the contrary, he looked like he quite liked it. He was starting to make small sounds now to as well, a sort of "mmmmm, mmmm" while not losing focus from his task at hand. Maybe gay men could enjoy this in another way?, John wondered as he stood there.
Next thought: Could he, John Watson, also enjoy getting blown by a man? He was actually not 100% innocent on the area of man-to-man sex, although he had always considered himself completely straight. But in the army, down in Afghanistan, well he'd had his share of lonely, miserable nights, and yes, once in a while he had caved in to the invitation to a mutual wank with another soldier. He had tried not to think too hard about that, since. Chalked it up to normal human psychology, the need for closeness and comfort, a moment's distraction from the realities of war. Not gay! But now he wondered.
In a vivid mental image, not just any man popped up, but Sherlock. He visualized Sherlock, on his knees in front of John in his chair, sucking him off. He saw himself stroking his fingers through Sherlock's soft dark curls, gripping them perhaps a little bit too harshly, guiding his movements and setting the pace. Imagined what Sherlock would be able to do with that usually so poisonous tongue of his. Pictured the satisfaction of finally, literally, being able to get the smug bastard to shut up. John felt himself getting painfully hard, a tight strain towards his jeans. Oh god. He had to really watch his own breathing now, could not risk being heard.
His mind continued to race off on crazy tangents, far away to since long forbidden, locked-up places. It presented him with an internal picture of himself going down on Sherlock, mimicking what this guy was doing. Tasting Sherlock. Being the one who could make him emit all these wonderful sounds. Taking him in his mouth and swirling his tongue around. The intimate scent of another man. Could he manage that? Could he even like that? He was surprised to find that the quiet voice within him replied a calm, assured "yes".
There were other sounds now, as well. Mingled with the heavy breathing and the loader moans ("Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah!", grunted Sherlock on his exhales, voice dark and demanding) were also the unmistakable wet sounds of a mouth and of motion, faster now than before. Of suction and licking and body fluids mixing together. Filthy, dirty sounds, pure sex. John had to use a great deal of self control not to pull himself free and beginning to toss off like a maniac, this was almost more than he could bear. And then something even worse happened.
Without warning, the guy stopped. He pulled his mouth off Sherlock with a sudden move, causing Sherlock to speak up in a hoarse, almost desperate, voice: "no no what are you doing, don't stop, I'm so close", the guy straightened up a bit and then got up on his feet. For a moment, John felt sick with fear, thinking he had been discovered and that the guy would be heading towards the door next.
But instead the man quickly got rid of his shoes and socks, unfastened his belt, unzipped and slid out of his trousers and boxers in one effortless motion, leaving only his shirt on. John felt shellshocked, what the hell was happening now. The guy then continued to climb up on the chair, smiling, straddling Sherlock, wrapped his arms around him and kissed him. Sherlock smiled back, big grin, then leaned forward and kissed him back. Not a chaste little peck, this; no, this was a wet, sloppy, tongue against tongue sort of kiss, John knew one when he saw one.
But there was also something else in this kiss, and it was that thing that made John's heart ache so bad he feared it was going to break. Love. There was love in this kiss. Love in the way the guy put his arms around Sherlock, and what was worse, love in the way that Sherlock cupped his hands around the guy's face when he kissed him back. Up until this point, John had assumed that whoever he was, this stranger in Sherlock's (and John's!) apartment, was just an aberration, someone who would leave after this and never come back, someone Sherlock had picked up that night ("what, wait, Sherlock's picking up random guys now, that's not who he is, makes no sense", John's mind voice corrected him). But he could see it more clearly now.
This was not a one night stand he was the secret witness to, no. This was not the first time, and Sherlock and the guy, who ever he was, were not strangers. There was something too intimate in the way they interacted, and something too unhurried and relaxed in the way they were kissing.
A blind, raging jealousy now roamed freely in John's chest, heart beating like crazy, he felt like he couldn't breathe. For a second he considered storming in and throwing this intruder out, hard, head first down the stairs, one little push and off you pop, but surely that wouldn't please Sherlock. But oh how it hurt now. How had this happened? It was supposed to be John and Sherlock, Sherlock and John, "just the two of us against the rest of the world", he remembered Sherlock's teasing words, spoken on that night of his miraculous return.
This was all so wrong, how did it all go so wrong?, he wondered, feeling trapped in some sort of alternative reality, and then, a sudden realization hitting him like a blow to the head: "I am in love with Sherlock", he thought. "And I've fucked up all my chances".
John felt lightheaded, like he was fainting. "I'm not his date, I'm not gay, I'm not his bloody boyfriend", his mind voice tortured him. It had been right in front of him, all those years. He could see it now. He would only have had to say a few words, or reach in for a small kiss, and Sherlock would have been his. "I wasted the best thing I've ever had", John thought. And for the second time this night, John wanted to cry.
Aided by the adrenaline rush and the wave of emotion, John tore himself away from the flat, his every step down the staircase a massive effort to remain undetected. It had began to rain, small drops of water hitting his face and hair as he stumbled away from Baker Street, still dizzy but this time not from alcohol. In the cab on his way back to Mary and the baby, he rested his forehead against the cool window. As the car was making it's way out through the city, John's gaze locked on the buildings and the people they passed, eyes staring blankly as if he had been hypnotized; the scenario he had seen and it's implications on repeat, a thunderstorm in his mind.
Thanks for reading! I am continuing this story, but over at Archive of our own, under the same name.
The reason for this move is that I am unsure if this story turned out a bit too "explicit" for 's rules, and I want to respect those.