A/N: Just a one-shot Johnlock smut/fluff fic. Trying out a new writing style, let me know what you think :)
Sherlock groans into his pillow, fingers twisting angrily through the silken sheets. It's been weeks since he's gotten any sort of decent sleep and it's starting to frustrate him.
He'd finally worn himself out, having been awake since yesterday morning, and had been sleeping somewhat peacefully for the first time since his return to 221B. That beautiful, wonderful rest that he had finally captured is cut short by a quiet noise that echoed in from the living room.
Keys hitting the table.
"John." He mutters to himself as he pushes back the sheets, a shiver runs down his spine as the cold air hits his bare chest. Curious as to the meaning of a late-night visit from his former flatmate, he walks through the living room. His pajama bottoms riding low on his lean hips, he immediately goes for the kettle in the kitchen; He isn't planning on getting anymore sleep tonight.
John sits on the edge of the couch, looking tense and out of place as Sherlock makes their tea. "Sorry if I woke you." He tries so hard to be polite, but his smile is shallow.
"It's fine." Sherlock rounds the table with two cups, his bare feet moving soundlessly accross the floor. "Don't sleep much lately anyway."
"Hm." John barely acknowledges his words, his glance seeming far-off. He's distracted. Sherlock notices his stiff poture, the way he sits at the edge of the couch, how his hands are itching at his knees until he is handed a cup.
They sit in relative silence until both of their drinks are gone and staring into their empty cups starts to become awkward. "Mary and I..." John broke the silence, brows furrowing as if trying to think of how to say what had happened. "We've split up."
Sherlock's expression remains the same, but his heart skipps a beat at the words. When he came back to London and found that John had started a new life, he did his best to respect his friend's wishes to give him space. They had gone through a lot upon his return and Sherlock almost thought that he could win him over again.
It turns out that Mycroft was right; He wasn't welcome. He'd hurt John too badly to be forgiven so soon and the best way that he could say that he was sorry was to not interfere with his new life. To give him a chance to be happy with Mary.
Mary tried her hardest to help Sherlock back into John's life and he really did like her, but it was a decision that only John could make. He'd closed himself off to Sherlock after the terrorist situation was diffused, afraid to get close to Sherlock again. Afraid to be hurt again.
He'd known that he would be forgiven eventually, but he wanted the timing to be up to John. It took longer than he thought.
"Why?" He knows, but he wants to hear John say it.
"You know why." John, refusing to be baited, tenses his lips as he speaks.
"You should be with her. She's lovely." Nothing that he says is a lie, he's careful of the phrasing. He wants so badly to give John every chance at his life with her so that he won't feel guilty for stealing him away.
"She is." He smiles, a little bittersweet, fully aware of what he's giving up.
"Can you really just abandon her? She's the best thing that's ever happened to you, she deserves better than that." He speaks honestly of Mary, still, truly believing that she would have made the doctor happy if the circumstances were different. If Sherlock hadn't come back.
"Don't." He snaps, quickly closing his eyes as he regains his composure. "Don't you talk about abandoning people. Not to me."
His words sting, but Sherlock takes them because they're true. "You love her, don't you?"
John nods. "Yes. At least I thought I did. Then you came back and I realized that I just didn't like being alone." John had almost lost himself when he lost Sherlock, but then he found Mary and he clinged to her for dear life. She was the only thing that kept him sane and he owed her so much. "She's a lot like you, you know?"
Sherlock smiles a bit, he had noticed that.
"I just... I don't want to promise her something that I can't give her." His eyes are damp, but he blinks the tears away before they can fall. "It's better this way." It was plain to see that leaving her was a difficult thing to do, but it was also the right thing.
If that's what he wants to believe, who is Sherlock to say otherwise? "Well, you know where the bedroom is." He takes their empty glasses to the sink, leaving them there for the morning.
John sits alone on the couch for a while before Sherlock hears the familiar sound of creaking stairs. For the first time in a long time, he sleeps through till morning.
The next morning, Sherlock lies in bed, staring at the ceiling as the light floods through the curtains. He blinks slowly, staring at the dust floating above him, captivated by the way it moves through the air. He has always had a certain fondness dust. He reaches his hand out into the air, enamoured by the way the flecks of dirt rush away from him.
He breathes in deeply, a tranquil feeling washing over him. He'd slept so deeply without dreaming, his body finally getting the rest that had been denied him for so long. He smiles faintly as he hears the familiar sound of dishes clanking from the kitchen. Sherlock opts to leave his robe behind as he strolls into the living room.
John peeks his head around the corner, hearing Sherlock rustling about. He opens his mouth to greet his roommate, but closes it immediately. His cheeks turn slightly pink at the sight in front of him.
Sherlock is leaning over his desk, fingers dragging lightly accross the keyboard of his laptop. The light from the window is coming in behind him, illuminating his already pale skin. John's eyes can't help but lower, provoked by the way Sherlock's bottoms hang so low on his waist.
Sherlock pretends not to notice John, intrigued by the way he can feel the doctor's eyes on him. He stretches his neck before looking over just in time to see John tear his gaze away. John mumbles a quick 'Good morning.' and a knowing smile appears on Sherlock's face as he makes his way into the kitchen.
John goes back to drying the dishes as he was before, pretending that he hadn't been caught ogling Sherlock moments ago. He nearly drops a cup onto the counter as he feels Sherlock move behind him, so close to pressing against him. He feels a warm breath against his neck as a lanky arm reaches past him, grabbing the freshly cleaned kettle.
"Tea?" Sherlock is pleased at the reaction he gets from John as he leans close, purposefully lowering his voice as he speaks. He doesn't miss the way John clears his voice before attempting to speak.
John settles for nodding and lets out a breath he hadn't known he was holding onto as Sherlock backs away, moving to the sink to fill the kettle. He steals glances out of the corner of his eye, enraptured by the way the messy black curls framed Sherlock's face, providing a stark contrast from his faint skin and pale eyes.
John has been attracted to Sherlock since the first time they met, something that has been an endless source of frustration for him. Sometimes he thinks that Sherlock is completely oblivious to the implications of the things he says and does. Other times, like now, he swears that Sherlock pushes his buttons on purpose.
Because of Sherlock, he has never been able to keep a relationship. Mary was the closest he'd come to something real, but that was only possible because he thought Sherlock was dead. As soon as the infuriating man had come back, John knew that Mary wouldn't be enough for him. Sherlock had ruined him for other people.
John never considered himself gay before Sherlock and still didn't think the term really fit. He'd found other men attractive on occassion, but had never been particularily moved to act on that attraction, and he had never craved intimacy with another man the way he craved it with Sherlock. There was something so spectacular about Sherlock that defied everything he'd ever thought about himself. He was addicted in a way that made normal people seem inadequate, both men and women.
John sets down the last cup, still feeling the warmth of his colleague, even after he's stepped away. He had spent so long trying to bury his feelings for Sherlock, then when Sherlock had died he realized all of the things he wish he'd said and done. Now that he's back in 221 B, those things are all that he can think about.
He's lost in thoughts of the things he's wanted to do, before he realizes he's moving, his hand is running through Sherlock's hair. He almost pulls away, but is mesmerized by the way Sherlock leans into his touch. Their eyes are fixed on each other, both trying to read what the other is thinking.
Sherlock realizes that John is about to lose his nerve and let go, so he swiftly moves to grab John's wrist, holding his hand in place. His other hand maneuvers itself to John's side, fingers clutching the soft fabric of his jumper as he slowly guides the doctor towards him.
John's spare hand is bracing himself against the counter, keeping him from swaying as he feels Sherlock's hands on him. He stretches his neck, looking up to see Sherlock looking down at him, their height difference arousing him more than such a simple thing should. There is something both comforting and erotic about Sherlock bearing down on him from above.
Sherlock pulls John close enough that their chests are aligned, his bare skin flushing enough for even someone as unobservant as John to notice. Sherlock tightens his grip as John attempts to pull his hand away. His eyes squinch ever so slightly, unsure of why John wants to retreat at this point.
John tries again, more insistently this time, to withdraw his hand, succeeding only because Sherlock curiously allows it. He immediately presses his palm flat against the smooth breadth of Sherlock's chest.
Sherlock feels his eyes slipping closed as John's fingers trace along his collar bone and down his chest, stopping to rest at the elastic of his bottoms. He bends his head down just far enough for his nose to brush against John's, taking in the breath of him.
"Sherlock." He barely hears the whisper, but feels the words against his lips as John speaks in a hushed voice. John doesn't know what to say, he only knows that he needs Sherlock to lean in just one more inch. "Please." He feels almost pathetic, but he's craned his neck as far as he can and he refuses to stand on his toes to kiss Sherlock. He needs Sherlock to make the next move.
Sherlock has heard John speak countless times, but there is something so incredibly different about the way John sounds when he pleads. His hand trembles ever so slightly as it finds its way to John's neck, the tips of his fingers brushing against the short hair on the nape of his neck.
The air seems thick as Sherlock leans forward, breeching the last bit of space between them. It's breathy and wet and their grips tighten simultaneously as their lips connect.
Sherlock's mind is typically like being in a crowded room, everyone trying to speak over everyone else until there's nothing but shouting. There are always so many different thoughts and memories and it takes all of his energy to constantly keep it all sorted. When he's on a case, it quiets down just enough for him to focus, finally finding some semblance clarity but the background noise is still there, alway begging for his attention.
When he kisses John, it's as if the room has gone utterly quiet. Everything else starts to fade away, a thought at a time until all he hears is the sound of John's breathing and the wet noises coming from them both as they struggle to keep their lips in control. With nothing else vying for his attention, he is able to completely immerse himself in the sensations that he's so longed to experience.
Sherlock feels John's brows crease against his as if he's concentrating every bit of his attention on their kiss, his hands and body moving purely out of instinct, without a thought behind them. John's fingers are digging into the hollow of Sherlock's hips hard enough to hurt and he revels in the feeling of it, so sharp and clear in his mind.
John's head is spinning, unable to fully comprehend what is happening. Just as he finally feels like he mind is catching up with his body, Sherlock is moving them. His legs falter and his grip on the counter is torn away when Sherlock repositions them.
John's back is wedged against the countertop and a cup falls to the floor, shattering. Neither of them flinch, entirely engaged in each other. John attempts to adjust his position, appreciative of the groan that Sherlock lets out as their hips align. The rough denim of John's trousers seems ignorant of the thin material of Sherlock's, brushing past them as if they weren't even there.
Sherlock's patience begins to run thin as he is overwhelmed by the way John feels against him. The pressure of the jeans against his almost bare pelvis is enough to inspire Sherlock to want to remove every barrier between them. The hand he has buried in John's jumper begins to move slowly upward, still clutching the fabric while the hand on John's neck runs underneath the jumper, deftly unbuttoning the dress shirt below.
John breaks away from Sherlock's lips, dragging in rough, shallow breaths as his sweater is pulled over his head. Sherlock's fingers are like ice on his hot skin, leaving trails of frost behind as they run up his chest and across his shoulders, discarding the button-up with ease. They're both finally in a similar stage of undress, out of breath and staring.
John's eyes are drawn to Sherlock's lips. Usually such a tight line, pursed in thought, now they're full and red and relaxed. The taste of Sherlock on his own lips incites a feeling in him that John can't begin to describe, but he already knows he's addicted to it.
Sherlock's mind is intent on taking in all of John, one small detail at a time. His eyes dart from John's heavily lidded eyes to his lips, wet and slightly swollen down his flatmate's trousers. Once he see the unmistakable bulge, it becomes impossible to think of anything else.
His hands are at the front of the doctor's jeans, unbuckling and unbuttoning faster than John would have thought possible had he not seen it with his own eyes. John does his part to discard the clothing, kicking it away as it hits the floor, thoroughly happy to have them gone. They're both barely covered, the two thin layers of cotton being all that stand between them.
Sherlock debates removing them quickly, more than ready to see John completely bare. He decides against it, preferring instead to see John writhe as he is being teased and tormenting. Long, thin fingers move curiously along the outline of John in his briefs, his every move calculated to leave John with almost no friction with which to relieve himself.
When John moves his hips forward, desperate for a more firm touch, Sherlock's hand pulls away, pushing his hip back against the counter a little more roughly than necessary. "Don't." The voice is deep and commanding and John doesn't dream of going against Sherlock's orders, simply nodding and willing his body to comply.
Sherlock wonders if it's because he was a soldier that he likes to be told what to do or if it's the other way around. Either way, he feels a stirring in his gut as John does what he's told without question. He leans his head in, again pressing his lips to John's, less urgently, but no less fiercly than before as his hand wastes no more time outside of John's trousers.
John is thankful for the kiss, not only because Sherlock is notably good at kissing, but because Sherlock is swallowing every lewd noise he's making. He can hardly control himself as he feels Sherlock's hands running down his back, paying no heed to the fabric barrier as he approaches, sliding inside of it against John's skin.
Sherlock takes his time, kneeding the flesh with his fingers, using the angle of his grip to urge John's hips into his. He moves with John as they rock back and forth, his fingers growing ever more curious, delving deeper until John breaks their kiss with a sharp inhale.
John is a stunning image of discomposure as he barely pushes back against Sherlock's fingers, encouraging the detective's ambitions. Sherlock wants more than anything to continue, but there's too much friction and he won't risk hurting John because of his impatience. "Find me something."
With a twitch of a finger, John understands the meaning behind Sherlock's words. He groans at the loss of contact when Sherlock pulls his hands away, twisting John around by the hips. His disappointment is quelled when he feels the entirety of Sherlock's hardness slide between his thighs.
John closes his eyes, savoring the feeling of Sherlock flush against his back. He chokes back a groan when Sherlock's hands reach around to delve into his pants again, this time not teasing; instead, urgently encompassing the soldier. The long, languid strokes send John's mind further into a state of disarray.
John forces his mind to focus through the pleasure, reminding himself that as wonderful as it would be to let Sherlock finish him like this, he absolutely needs to feel Sherlock inside of him. He doesn't think he's ever needed anything so much in his life as he needs Sherlock to take him; to make him his.
Taking a deep breath, John reaches up to the cupboard, only just noticing how his hand is shaking. He digs through the various containers of tea, a small tin of sugar and a few other miscellaneous seasonings before finding a small bottle of roasted peanut oil. He finds it slightly ironic that the oil was originally purchased to make dinner for a co-worker with the intent of taking her to bed. It's only just now being opened.
His opens the bottle and quickly removes the seal with his teeth, setting it onto the counter, not rushing to suggest Sherlock stop what he's doing to grab it. He shivers a little as the hand rubbing him pulls away, taking his underwear with it, exposing him completely to the chilly air.
Sherlock doesn't miss a single minute detail of John's reactions, filing each one of them away to analyze later. He buries his nose and lips in the crook of John's neck, placing light kisses around his hairline as he reaches back to push his own bottoms down, the two of them kicking the pile of clothing well away along with a few pieces of broken china.
Sherlock takes a moment to slide himself against John's backside roughly before applying any of the oil, his jaw tightening at the pleasure and discomfort of the harsh friction. He can feel John shiver as the oil slips down over them, helping to make Sherlock's movements more effortless.
John will never be able to think of peanuts in any other way as the aroma surrounds them when Sherlock begins to spread the oil onto his hands. He leans his head against the cupboard as Sherlock's finger enters him in one smooth motion.
Sherlock's height is a great advantage, being able to follow John wherever he moves, keeping his lips attached to the doctor's smooth skin. "All right?" He whispers in a low, husky voice, his lips resting on the shell of John's ear.
"Yeah." John can hardly breathe it out, almost losing it at the feeling of Sherlock's breath on his neck. He can only assume that Sherlock knows about his personal habits, including how he prefers to stimulate himself, given the lack of warning and the pace at which he is moving. If Sherlock thought he'd never done this to himself, he would surely be moving more gingerly; not that John is complaining.
Sherlock is thankful that John isn't completely unprepared, because he's not sure that he has the patience to be as kind as he should be. He's unbelievably hard and the way John squeezes around his finger is making it hard to stay focused. He is pleased when he can insert another digit with ease, still taking the soft skin of John's ear between his teeth as a distraction from any discomfort there may be.
After only a few movements, John isn't willing to wait much longer. "Another." He knows what his body can handle and at this point, anything, including pain, would be better than the agonizing need he's feeling. It just isn't enough.
Sherlock trusts John's judgment so he does as requested, a little more slowly than before, just in case. He taps the inside of John's foot with his, a sign for his partner to spread his feet a bit wider.
John's breathing is getting heavier by the moment, the detective moving slowly, but pressing deeply with each movement. He almost whines as Sherlock pulls away, but keeps it in with his teeth biting hard into his lip.
Sherlock holds himself in place, taking a few deeps breaths to calm himself before settling into place. He moves slowly, for benefit of the both of them, afraid that he won't last very long if he continues too quickly.
John lets out a deep groan as Sherlock is completely immersed in him, his hands grabbing the counter hard enough to turn his knuckles white. As Sherlock begins to push forward, he pushes back and they both shudder. Sherlock picks up the pace and John reaches his hand down, desperate for some kind of relief.
Sherlock's hands are firmly on John's hips, keepng him steady as well as guiding him as they move together, hunched over the counter. At first, Sherlock tries to maintain a steady rhythm, but he quickly realizes that he can't maintain any semblance of control when he feels the way that John is unravelling around him.
John holds on for dear life as Sherlock knocks him back and forth, his own grip maneuvering in time, both too tight and not tight enough. His knees begin to weaken, causing him to adjust his footing. He brings his feet closer together, pinching his thighs, causing Sherlock to jerk forward, his hand slamming into the cupboard to keep him upright.
Sherlock lets out what John can only describe as a growl, surprised by the sudden constriction as John closes his legs. It had been a tight fit already, but now it's almost impossible. He grabs the bottle of oil, pouring a generous amount on before moving again in long, slow, deep thrusts.
John is so close, feeling completely surrounded by Sherlock; his flatmate inside of him, behind him and now towering over him as well. He pushes back harder, wordlessly begging for Sherlock to hurry, wanting to be pushed over the edge he's been standing on for far too long.
Sherlock feels John's weight coming back against him and meets it with equal force, biting his lip. It only takes a few more thrusts before his entire body is shaking and he feels himself spilling over the edge.
John can tell that Sherlock is close by the way his movements become shorter and more eratic, so he speeds up his hand and matches Sherlock's desperate motions. In moments, he's letting out a harsh sigh, his now sticky hand slowing to a halt.
John stands still, marveling at the feeling of Sherlock's heavy breath on his shoulder. They've made a mess of the kitchen and he feels the remnants of Sherlock's climax dripping down his thigh, but all he can think about is the lanky arm wrapped around his waist and the sweet kiss that Sherlock places on the back of his neck before he pulls away.