a/n: okay...i've sunk to the occasion. you people are dirty, and i love it. this is my first johnlock, so be gentle (or not) but i've written sappy/filthy supernatural destiel fics in the past, so it shouldn't be such a new ride, right? i hope you like it, and i want reviews so please, i'm begging, leave your marks ;)
chapter 1
It had begun, like all other baffling cases, as a trip through Sherlock's roller coaster of a mind. John followed the younger man at an unwitting pace through the maze of alleyways, walking at a brisk pace, thankfully enough. They were on the way to see the last person who had seen the victim of their latest case alive, an old drug dealer Sherlock had known who worked the Oxford Circus area.
In the cab on the way from the Yard, John has sat in silence, watching Sherlock text away on his phone, refusing to give the slightest clue as to what they were doing. When they stopped at the flat, Sherlock had told him to stay put, saying that he just needed to grab something. John stayed in resolute silence until Sherlock had graced his presence once again.
"Where are we going, Sherlock?" he asked, finally giving in to what his mind had been racing toward since daybreak, when they got the first message from Lestrade.
"I know the person that she bought this from," he muttered, holding up a tiny clear baggie that still held a few grains of white powder within. John's eyes narrowed.
"Did you steal that from the crime scene?"
"Yes." Weary sigh.
"Is that cocaine?"
"Oh, yes, she OD'd," he continued to stare at his phone. After a solid minute of silence Sherlock finally looked up, meeting John's eyes for the first time all day. It felt like the first acknowledgement he had gotten in that same span of time. "What?"
"Are we going to meet one of your old dealers?" John felt nauseous. Should he alert Mycroft? Was this counting as a danger night? Surely, so wrapped up in a case, Sherlock wouldn't dare to buy drugs, especially not right under John's nose?
"He was, yes. But no, John, I am not going to buy anything," it sounded like a derogatory growl. How did he manage to be aloof and condescending at the same time? Frustrating.
God, I'd love to gag him some days. Wait…what?
Just as John started to shake his head at the errant thought, the cabbie stopped at Oxford Circus, letting them out. John scoffed at Sherlock's purposeful forgetfulness, and paid the man, sending him off onto his next ride. Sherlock was already halfway down an alley by the time John turned back around.
"Keep up, John. He stays back here a ways," the smaller man kept close as suggested, dodging in between homeless persons and Sherlock's own oversized steps as he struggled to see in the blackness. There were no streetlights where they were going.
After one particularly tricky turn of corners, John all but slammed into Sherlock's back, as he had stopped suddenly.
"Bloody hell, Sherlock give a man some warning!"
"Hullo, Dalton," Sherlock drawled, putting on the dark chocolate voice that the sociopath knew worked so well on manipulating people. John stayed alert, knowing full well that it usually meant trouble.
"Sherlock! Fancy seeing you on your feet in a darkened alley. This your boyfriend?" The man came forward. He was dark skinned, not English, but rather American, it sounded like. Sherlock stiffened beside him.
"My associate, Doctor John Watson," Sherlock stepped slightly to the side, allowing John to see the man in front of them. A cell phone light was the only luminescence on any of their faces. The man looked positively dangerous, eyes glinting back at the young detective. "I need to know, what was the last thing you sold to this," Sherlock produced a photo from his cloak, "woman?" Dalton's eyes narrowed on the picture, barely focused.
"Ah, sweet little tart she was. Sold her a gram of coke, nothing else." Dalton's eyes ghosted over John again before settling in a haughty manner on Sherlock once again. "Why, you want some of your old brew again?"
"Decidedly not. I've been clean for some time now. You said you sold her nothing else?"
"That's right. Nothing. She only wanted that." Dalton relaxed, leaning against the brick wall beside him, crossing his legs so that his right shoe was balanced on the tiptoe.
"Thank you," Sherlock brusquely left, swirling his coat about his shins as they wove through the alleys and out onto the main road.
"What as that on about? What did he mean by on your…oh," John fell silent, blushing slightly. "Did you really—"
"Let's not dwell on past mistakes, shall we? Dalton sold our victim her last bit of cocaine, now we have to see if she got pure or mixed…and if it was mixed, then with what? He said he had my old brew on hand…" Sherlock muttered the last bit to himself, but John still caught it. They crawled into the back seat of a cab just then, headed for St Bart's to run blood work on the vic.
"What exactly did "your old brew" consist of, Sherlock?" the doctor asked, trying to sound light, not invasive. Sherlock snorted, fighting off a small smile.
"Seven percent pure liquid cocaine and a solid hit of black tar heroin, rolled into one shot, washed down with a draught of laudanum, ." The detective shivered, as if remembering the high. He was. Sherlock tapped his fingers absently against his knee, waiting for the cab to stop in the courtyard of the hospital so he could work over the corpse.
"Jesus. You're lucky to be alive," it's all John would come up with, and it was ignored either way. Sherlock found it best to not think of his previous addiction, especially when the dealer he was accustomed to using was now under his nose again as the lead suspect in a case.
"Let's not, John." John nodded once, biting his tongue on more questions. Sherlock leapt out of the cab, tossing the cabbie a fifty pound note without looking.
"Keep the change," John muttered to the man, following his flat mate into the darkened hospital.
They took the elevator to the proper floor, stepping out and invading Molly's morgue as she was sliding the dead woman into a cooler. "Oh, hi boys," she started, jumping when Sherlock tossed his coat over a stool. He approached her as carelessly as ever, sliding the body back out of the refrigerator and sticking a needle in her cold flesh. Once he had a full vial, he went soundlessly back into the lab, running three tests at once and sparing a drop for the microscope. John sat back and watched him work, talking mindlessly to poor Molly, who seemed to be awfully tired and none too pleased to see Sherlock in her lab at one in the morning. But, gentle as ever she let him crack on, being polite and quiet.
"Ah," Sherlock finally said, a solid hour later. John jerked himself off of the widow where he had fallen asleep, and Molly put her paperwork away, paying close attention. "He did give her a batch of my old solution. Why on earth would he sell her liquid? And if he did, then where did the baggie of powder come from? Ooh, maybe he sold her powder and she liquefied it to shoot up? That would be strange…." He prattled on, fingers laced in front of his lips as the young man paced the length of the lab.
Molly turned to John, "Sorry, what old batch?"
"It's the drug, or rather combination of drugs Sherlock preferred when he was a junkie." Was? reverberated in his mind. John blinked hard, pushing the thought away. Of course Sherlock wasn't shooting up anymore. He'd know…right?
"For the last time, John, I am clean!" Sherlock startled him out of his reverie, practically snarling at the older man as he stomped out of the lab and down to the bay of lifts. It was always disturbing when John got to fancying Sherlock a mind reader. That was the last thing he needed, now more than ever.
"Er, bye Molly," John huffed, grabbing his own coat and rushing after Sherlock.
"Now where?" he asked, half afraid of the answer if it wasn't home, bed.
"Home, you need to go to bed," Sherlock grunted, biting his lower lip. He stood straight as a rod and still as ever, but there was something the matter with his face. John waited until the lift doors opened to ask.
"Is there something the matter, Sherlock?" he waited, half expecting the unpredictable arse to ignore him entirely.
"Embarrassment doesn't suit me well, John. Humiliation is more my style. Don't pretend that you didn't hear what Dalton said in the alley." The taller man grimaced and got into the cab, refusing to look at John at all as they made their way home.
Silence pervaded in the flat as Sherlock galloped up the stairs, slamming the door to his room. John sighed and went about making a cup, rooting in the cupboards for stray bags of PG Tips. He needed to make a Tesco run. The good doctor set the kettle on to boil, eyes getting lost in the blue rim of LED lights, losing track of time. The minute that the old Hobbs took to boil was like an hour to him, thinking about Sherlock's face as the drug dealer from the alley gave away one more small slip into the life Sherlock used to lead. It was becoming less of a mystery, and John felt that he was caught in between wanting to know infinitely more, and nothing more at all.
So Sherlock used to suck some cock for a hit in dingy alleys. That was his prerogative, and he had clearly gotten over that part of his life, despite the utter embarrassment—his term—that he was feeling at the moment. John most certainly was not imagining how that wonderfully shaped Cupid's bow would look stretched around the silky skin of a cock. He shook his head and poured the hot water over the pyramid bag, blinking back into reality. John turned—
And nearly dropped the kettle on his foot. His flat mate, the wonderfully idiotic genius was standing not two feet away from John, in his blue silk dressing gown and skin-tight, solid black pants. That was it; pale, unblemished flesh against the stark black that made his mouth water. John made his eyes flash back to the detective's face despite the shock of seeing so much skin and set the kettle down on the countertop gently.
"Care…um…for some tea, Sherlock?" he stammered, turning back to fetch another tea cup from the cupboard.
"Tell me, Doctor, why have you been thinking of nothing but me on my knees since the scene in the alley?" Sherlock had yet to move an inch. John could barely tell that the young man was even breathing. The tiny stretch of pale flesh over his ribs was the only indicator. God, how was he so sodding calm? Sherlock's hands were clasped behind his back, waiting. "Please, do tell me when you've decided to stop having this internal crisis. Then maybe we can have some fun, if you'll agree to stop being so thick about your attraction to me." On the word thick, Sherlock's eyes darted to the tightness of John's trousers, smirking slightly.
"I…I, um," John's mouth had gone suddenly dry, his tea forgotten on the counter as Sherlock strode forward, so slowly that John almost felt like it could be categorized as a glide. Those pale, sea-glass eyes were fixed on his face, though, and they were unnerving as hell.
"Is it perhaps because you want to see the image for yourself?" Okay. Sherlock's voice had decidedly gone way too low. John felt it under his skin as the younger man came so close that their chests were practically brushing, before he dropped to his knees. No preamble, no slowing himself before his bony joints hit the hardwood. The resounding thunk had John paranoid that Mrs. Hudson would come looking in. He just dropped, raising his head slightly to look out from under his lashes at John. "What do you think, John?" Jesus, his lips barely even moved, holding position. How could someone look so innocent and in control at the same time.
"Are you coming on to me, Sherlock?"
"Yes." He licked his lips.
Well then.
"I think you should go back to your bedroom and think on it some more," John muttered, his rebuttal halfhearted. Truth was, he'd thought of little else in the past few months since Sherlock had returned to him, completely unscathed for once. After the first few stages of anger and bitter hatred, John listlessly had fallen back into the swing of their old life together. It wasn't really so different, except the newfound desire to make sure that Sherlock never left again, no matter what.
"I had three years to think, John. I need action now. But I will return to my room, if you make me." He didn't budge, though. As if he were waiting for a command. John couldn't look at him, not even in his general direction without feeling a dull throb in his trousers. He knew he was in trouble.
Sherlock lowered his chin a centimeter more, flashing his gaze back up from where John's cock was straining against his zipper to John's face again, a smug look playing on his features.
Something in him snapped; the dam broke. All it took was the split second for his resolve to falter, and he was yanking Sherlock up off the floor by his curls, pinning him against the counter with his own hips. He felt the catch of breath more than he heard it, the detective going suddenly very still against him.
"What are you going to do to me, John?" Sherlock whispered, their lips nearly touching. His voice had become almost a drawl, like he was bored!
"I'm going to take the smugness out of your tone, then I'll teach you how to act," John muttered back, pulling Sherlock closer still by the front of his dressing gown. The younger man closed the distance, pressing their lips together and opening his immediately for John's exploration.
"Oh, yes, do, doctor. Teach me a lesson, smack me around. Make me be quiet, the hard way if necessary. Which it will be," Sherlock broke the kiss, fixing John with a stare so smouldering that his breath caught, enraptured. Fire raged under his skin, and a certain air of stubbornness washed over Sherlock, driving him mad. John felt it in his body language as the younger man took a step back, sauntering to his bedroom at a leisurely pace. When John failed to follow immediately, he heard:
"John, you'd better hurry or I'll start without you," followed by a creak of bedsprings. Decided, the good doctor stomped after the detective, closing the door hard behind him. No need for snoopy landladies to come looking in, like ever.
"Get off the bed. On your knees, there, just like you insisted, you little tart." John was surprised at how immediate the response was, as Sherlock slid from the bed onto his knees (surely they were bruised from his theatrics earlier?) on the plush carpet in one smooth motion. Like he'd been doing it his whole life. John's erection pressed against his trousers again, insistent.
"Get over here and get what you asked for," he sighed. No sense in making it too easy for Sherlock, he decided. Make him work for it.
He complied, lip curling on one side derisively as he bloody crawled to John's feet and sat back on his heels, the perfect height for this. Long violinist fingers slipped beneath the waistband of John's trousers, unsnapping and pulling down the zip effortlessly.
John gasped as they were pooled immediately around his ankles, pants as well, the sensation of Sherlock's hot breath ghosting over his strained cock almost too much to bear. Once again the younger man looked up through those lashes, waiting for a command.
"Open up," John growled, running his fingers into the tight curls around his flat mate's temples, guiding. He licked his lips, making that uniquely curved upper lip shine in the low light of the early morning and opened his jaw as far as it would go, sinking down on John's length with one smooth motion.
Oh, bloody hell, his mind screamed, fingers tangling in Sherlock's soft curls. The man in question balanced his hands on John's thighs, just over his knees. His own erection was fighting under the thin layer of cotton for air, half distracting him, half urging him on. He shifted on his knees, letting John rut against his face, scooting them back in position until he was pressing the back of Sherlock's head into the side of the mattress.
John pulled back, letting Sherlock surface for air, the younger man gasping and wiping at the trail of drool on his chin. He fumbled to his knees, crawling over the mattress and laying on his back, head hanging over the side, facing John.
"Fuck my face, John!" he growled, gripping the shorter man's hips ferociously and pulling him back close. The good doctor didn't need telling twice, taking the necessary step forward to plant his feet on the side of Sherlock's bed.
"Oh, sweet Jesus your mouth, Sherlock," he grunted, quickly losing control as his thrusts faltered. The taller man knew exactly how to roll his tongue over the head, tease the glans, and hollow his narrow cheeks in perfect time to drive John crazy! Even upside-down it was perfection.
"Give it to me," the younger man keened, swallowing John whole again just in time to feel the telltale pulse against his tongue, tasting his come as it shot down his throat. Digging his nails into John's buttocks, he licked the shorter man clean, his own cock twitching in response, demanding attention.
Rather than bask in the glow, John all but threw Sherlock upright onto the bed, crawling up after him and throwing his thighs apart.
"What do you want?" he asked, reaching down to pull his pants down and throw the offensive clothing on the floor.
"God, anything, John." The gasp was almost funny, coming from such a generally steadfast and calm person, but John couldn't care less as he ran the pads of his fingers over Sherlock's pale thighs, drinking in the sight of the younger man falling apart beneath him.
"I'm not as practiced, clearly, but I'll give it a go," he muttered, sinking onto his belly between Sherlock's legs and propping himself up by throwing an elbow over each thigh, effectively pinning Sherlock to the mattress.
"John this is one instance where enthusiasm trumps talent, any day." John let his fingers whisper over Sherlock's hip bones, tickling him slightly as he lowered his head, lapping experimentally over the long, pale cock jutting out before him. The leaner man squirmed, holding his breath. John sighed and took the head in his mouth, sinking down as far as he could go. When his turgid length hit the back of the smaller man's throat he swallowed, squeezing the head in his throat muscles, and wrenching a choked gasp out of Sherlock.
"After tonight, I'm going to find much more interesting things to do to you Sherlock, much more interesting," John muttered between deep-throating his flat mate, making the man writhe, almost bucking John off of his position on Sherlock's thighs.
"God…like what, John?" his air was coming in short gasps now, chest heaving, long hands fisted in the bedclothes. "Gah…close! P—please, John, just a little, ah—hh!" he trembled, stomach clenching as John swallowed around him once more, teasing his balls gently. Sherlock came hard, shuddering as stray jolts of come filled the good doctor's mouth. He swallowed it all, finishing with a flourish of tongue up the underside of the thinner man's waning prick.
Sherlock had a hand fisted in his own hair, his breath slowing back to normal as the hand slid down to scrub over his face. John crawled up over Sherlock's body, sprawling in kind on the mattress next to him, not bothering to find his pants just yet.
"So, what did you have in mind, then?" the younger man asked, cocking his head to the side to throw a glance at John.
"Oh, I don't know. Better let it be a surprise, yeah?"
"I suppose." Silence filled the space as Sherlock twisted, facing John on his side, and promptly fell asleep.
"Cheeky bastard," John muttered, looking down at his stomach where a long pale hand was laying, effectively keeping him there. At least that's what he told himself so he would give in and stay there curled into the larger man's body. He sighed, ticking off a list in his head of the supplies he would need, and where to get each thing.
Yes…the next week was going to be interesting indeed.