A/N: A request I was all too eager to fill.
Mimamia: "You should write a fic with John as possessive and aggressive with Sherlock as your 'No Pill For The Morning' fic. That would be awesome."
Hmm, yes, I agree. And I have just the place to start, I think. #smirks#
With all his girlfriends, Dr. John Watson is sure to make it clear within the first couple dates that he can be a tad… ah, jealous at times. So he warns them, politely, with their best interests in mind, that they best not get too close to a male friend or let any guy flirt with them, because he may or may not get physical with any guy who does so.
At one point, however – and John doesn't know exactly when – he starts to become a hypocrite. He begins cheating on his girlfriends with none other than his flatmate, Sherlock Holmes.
It isn't a difficult decision to make. One day he's still denying the implications strangers make about himself and the consulting detective, and the next he's filled to the brim with frustration and adrenaline and he's yelling profanities at Sherlock and Sherlock is callously defending himself, and the next thing John knows, he has Sherlock shoved roughly against the wall and he's attacking the taller man's full lips with open-mouthed, toothy kisses.
And that's how it starts, really. John was fed up with forcing down his urges and with the charade of dating women, and he went after what he truly wanted.
And it's usually sweet and tender and blissful between the two of them because Sherlock seems to have loved John for a while now, and John finds he feels something akin to love himself, but there are moments where John…
Well, simply put, he loses control.
No one has ever made him lose control quite like Sherlock Holmes. John has military training; John is a doctor. He has self-control most people only dream to possess (and Sherlock himself has double the control John does). But when it comes to Sherlock, all of that reserve seems to melt away and John feels compelled to take his raw emotions and amplify them tenfold, his actions screaming like words, and it's all he can do not to burst as he slowly takes Sherlock apart, shattering the genius's own measured emotions and control.
They undo each other's ties and then sew one another up again afterward, and it's a wonder they function half as well together as the way they do.
But still, through the softer, more loving moments between then, John is a highly jealous person at heart. He's most certainly the possessive type, even though it's a side near to no one sees of him.
Everyone thinks him a sweet, calm, caring man; but that's because they haven't seen him abroad, in war, when he's had to get more aggressive. They haven't gotten close enough to him in a personal enough relationship to see how much he can want and own a person.
But Sherlock has. And he may be the only person who ever will.
XXX
Irene Adler. The Woman.
John comes to despise every inch and aspect of her entire being.
He's irritated when she first appears naked to them, to Sherlock. He tries, as politely as he can muster, to demand she put some clothes on. Not because he's embarrassed – he's seen plenty of naked women and while they were all beautiful and arousing, they were not embarrassing in the least – but because he doesn't like the way Sherlock's eyes follow her.
He's further flustered when he discovers that Sherlock had been very observant indeed, as John feared, and knows her measurements just by looking at her, and uses it to open her safe.
He's downright fuming that she drugs Sherlock, too; she has no damn right to touch him, let alone be as foul as to drug him.
And then he's internally livid over the fact that she takes advantage of having Sherlock's cloak in her possession, his phone inside it, to add herself to his contacts and personalize his text alert sound for her to be an erotic moan made by her own mouth. It makes him prickle with scorching heat every time Sherlock receives a text from her, and John counts each and every bloody text, all fifty-seven of them between when they meet her and Christmas, and he hates her more and more with each one.
But then she has to go and fake her death, and come to John of all people to ask a favor, and John wants to fucking scream.
She even teases him about Sherlock, and in his envious rage – especially when she calls him out on it, asking with that smirk of hers, "You jealous?" – he goes right back to denying his relationship with Sherlock, because fuck her if she think she's at all privy to that information.
However, it's the final straw when he walks in, vaguely smelled something flowery, and hears Sherlock call him into the room about a client, and she's lying there, in Sherlock's bed, hair down and face lax in sleep.
Upon waking, she flirts so heavily with Sherlock that John can't help himself from interrupting with rude, sarcastic remarks like, "Hamish. John Hamish Watson, in case you were looking for baby names," and everything similar to it.
He even tries to outdo her by trying to be precautious and clever and come up with a plan to get her phone from the safety deposit box at the bank to their flat on Baker Street, but of course Sherlock is already ahead of him and has to ruin it.
And he would be fine with all of this if it only stopped. Returning to present, though, seems to make that impossible.
Because the worst thing yet, John thinks, is when The Woman leans in and kisses Sherlock's cheek, and how he rattled off the fastest deduction John has ever heard, all to clearly to "impress a girl," like she wanted.
But no, it gets better (and by 'better,' he means 'worse'): Then Irene says, "I would have you right here on this desk until you begged for mercy twice."
John freezes in place.
Sherlock makes a pregnant pause, but he seems mostly unfazed. "…I never beg for mercy." (Not even when John is pounding into him from behind; but that's usually because John has his hand over Sherlock's mouth to keep him quiet, to prevent Mrs. Hudson or anyone else form overhearing.)
"Twice," she insists, and that's it, John has had enough. He has never struck a woman in his life, and he never wants to because he thinks it morally wrong, but he swears to God he is about to lunge over the desk and punch her with his left hook, hard enough to dislocate her pretty little jaw, because goddammit Sherlock is his.
But, somehow, he refrains (maybe due to that strong sense of morality of his; he's stubborn with doing The Right Thing, for the most part). Instead, he keeps it in his mind to remind Sherlock later precisely who he belongs to, and how little this whore (because she is, after all, a dominatrix paid for by people of either gender) should mean to him.
XXX
"So her case is closed, then?" John remarks tightly the evening Sherlock returns home from dealing with the whole ordeal, seeing her for hopefully the final time.
"Yes," Sherlock says, and he explains everything with a fast mouth to John as he removes his coat and moves to sit in his usual armchair across from the doctor.
She's gone, now, then. Taken care of. Sherlock cracked the code on her phone – SHER-locked, how cute; ha ha bloody ha – and now the authorities have her, and whoever else wants her head. And John can't care less. Because Sherlock is back to normal, he hates her in the end. And, John thinks, that's just as well because while the respect for her is still there, he knows, at least Sherlock doesn't hold any feelings for the bitch.
"Good. That's good," John retorts tensely as he sets aside his drink and stands form his chair. He isn't drunk, not even fuzzy, and he takes a stern step forward, leaning over Sherlock to look the dark-haired man in the eye. He braces one hand on Sherlock's armrest and stares directly into those blue-green eyes. "Because I couldn't stand watching her get so close to you. You're not hers to have; you're mine."
And he loves the way Sherlock shivers in anticipation, his pupils dilating instantly.
John smirks and uses both hands to yank Sherlock's chair closer, the rug bunching up in front of the legs of the black chair. "And I'm going to remind you right here and now precisely that."
Sherlock doesn't protest. He merely licks his lips and murmurs, "As you wish, Doctor," under his breath.
John slides his hands up the faux leather and grips Sherlock's biceps. He crushes their mouths together, using his tongue to bring Sherlock's bottom lip between his teeth as he gently pins it there, tongue laving over it and pulling off to permit his teeth a small nip, his own lips smoothing over Sherlock's to soothe any pain, and Sherlock opens his mouth wider to moan lowly and grant John more access.
John delves into Sherlock's mouth with his tongue and uses his hands to start plucking away at the pesky buttons of Sherlock's shirt. Around broken kissing and some maneuvering, Sherlock is stark naked.
John removes his shirts and unzips his fly. He tugs his pants away just enough to free himself, giving himself a few quick strokes, watching as Sherlock hungrily eyes John's member. "You'll get it," John promises, his voice thick with lust, "But not yet."
Sherlock adverts his gaze and peers upward at John's face instead. John smirks and lets his own eyes wander down Sherlock's glorious body, all sharp planes and angles, muscles taunt and form thin, and oh so very pale.
John takes Sherlock's legs up, hands cupping under the knees, and he spreads them almost impossibly wide, loving how open and vulnerable this makes the great genius seem. His eyelids lower and he ducks his head to run the edge of his teeth up the inside of Sherlock's thigh, Sherlock's hands slamming down on the armchair, gripping tightly as his head cranes back and he keens softly. John bites down, then, near Sherlock's groin, and Sherlock groans and starts to pant, his length twitching with interest.
"It's thrilling to you, isn't it, that I like to claim you over and over again?" John growls, breath ghosting hotly over Sherlock's prick. Sherlock's head tilts down to stare at John, his eyes at half-mast and his cheeks pink. "I bet you did it on purpose, how you acted around Irene Adler. You wanted to make me jealous. You probably sat in that room with her and Mycroft an hour or so ago and thought about how I would fuck you when you got home."
Sherlock's lips fall open and he gasps, "Yes," very clearly. He swallows and continues, "Good deduction, John; yes, that exact."
"I knew it," John says with a shake of his head, and he jerks his hands forward, making Sherlock's knees bunch up closer to his chest, Sherlock grunting accordingly. "You bastard. Did you think I wouldn't figure it out? You were too suddenly into her to be genuine. Of course I would realize it."
"And that only makes you want to show your possession over me even greater so I don't do it again," Sherlock returns with a smile that John wants to suck away until Sherlock's lips are swollen and bruised. "You will be especially aggressive with me tonight for that reason."
John doesn't even grace that with a verbal reply. Instead, he kneels down and puts his mouth to Sherlock's arse and nibbles the man's cheeks and around his hole, licking and softly gnawing until Sherlock is speechless and arcing off the chair, feet erect in the air where John keeps him, calves over John's forearms, and Sherlock's hands going white on the leather.
John's hands slide down Sherlock's thighs jaggedly and he shoves the man onto his side, demanding, "On your knees; hold onto the back of the chair and lean over it," and Sherlock obeys, because there really is no arguing with his doctor, is there?
John squeezes Sherlock's ass for a moment before giving it a playful slap. He runs his palms alone the curve, following it up and up Sherlock's back until he's standing directly behind him, prick grazing the cleft of Sherlock's ass, and his hands are at Sherlock's shoulders. He leans in and whispers, "Tomorrow I'll take care of you. I'll patch you up and give you ice and painkillers. I'll make you breakfast and tea and anything you want. But right now, you're going to scream for me."
And his usually gentle voice is husky and strong and like the solider he was, and Sherlock melts against John, pushing back until he can feel John's belly on his lower spine and John's chest hair brushing his shoulder blades, and he answers, "With pleasure." And he feels smug as he adds, "Because I am yours to do as you will, and I trust you to love me enough to make me good as new again."
John responds with a long kiss to Sherlock's neck, and a few follow-up kisses to his ear and the back of his jaw, and Sherlock closes his eyes and shivers minutely.
Then John moves away, and slides his thumb into his mouth. He rubs it against his teeth, feeling the ridges, and slicks it with his own saliva. Then he lowers his hands and presses his thumb to Sherlock's entrance, worming his way in.
Sherlock spreads his knees on the cushion of his chair and drops his head to his forearms over the back of it. He may or may not desperately push back against the intrusion and make it easier for the short, thick digit to move into him, but if he does, John doesn't comment on it. Instead, Sherlock relishes the feeling, because he loves it when John does this. When John's thumb bends and rotates inside Sherlock while the three longest fingers of John's hand are under him, stroking the base of his prick and caressing over his balls with every thrust in and out that thumb makes. It's one smooth hand motion working in parts, tickling fingertips and rubbing palm and moving thumb a harmonious mixture that leaves Sherlock ready for anything. He already starts to drip with pre-come as John prepares him this way, shallow strokes all along his sensitive underside with shallow, swirling thrusts teasing and opening him up.
When Sherlock starts to rock to and fro in the chair, making it slide and thus a bit onto the rug, John removes his hand. He relishes how Sherlock whimpers quietly in response.
He finds a small tube of lubricant in the desk drawer, applies it to himself, and lines himself up. Sherlock trembles and John places a slightly wet hand over Sherlock's heart to feel it drumming. Then he places the other over Sherlock's hip, gripping tightly enough to bruise, and with much finesse, slots into place.
Sherlock groans long and low, and John can feel him contract to adjust. It's hot, always so hot, and a sweat breaks out on John's forehead as he feels the waves of fiery pleasure wash over him, making his skin radiate with a mirrored heat.
"See?" John utters as he slides out to the head and then dives back in, "Irene could never do this to you, never make you feel quite like this. And I wouldn't let her, anyway. I would grab you away from her before she could even try. Because only I get to have this with you. Isn't that right, Sherlock?" and as he speaks in bursts, one sentence at a time, he builds up a rhythm and tugs Sherlock down onto his member and fucks into him deeper, Sherlock stretching to grasp the chair, one of his legs slipping off and landing on the floor.
"D-definitely right," Sherlock breathes, and John presses closer, his trousers falling to his ankles, belt circling his feet, the buckle making a musical chime as it settles on the floor. His boxers remain halfway up his thighs and really, John can't be bothered by it. He presses closer still, hands winding around Sherlock's slim waist and scanning up his torso, pinching his nipples and rubbing his hip bones and feeling between his ribs.
Sherlock complains about his neglected erection and turns his head to bump noses with John, but John ignores him still. He chooses instead to breathe in Sherlock's scent and fuck Sherlock until the detective's other legs drops to the floor and his hands are keeping him up by clenching the armrests of the chair and his head is drooping forward.
John snaps his hips upward, then shoves Sherlock down to his knees on the floor – "You're fucking mine," – Sherlock's forearms slapping the seat cushion as he steadies himself. He angles himself over Sherlock so he strikes Sherlock's prostrate at least every two thrusts, and then he cherishes the way Sherlock starts to lose control, crying out nonsense, his voice only drowned by the sound of slapping, sweaty skin and the jangle of John stepping out of his pants.
Then John is biting Sherlock's trapezius and leaving red marks defined by imprints in the skin, and one of his hands is snaking around to grip Sherlock's member and tug on it sharply, twisting his wrist at the end. And Sherlock can't handle it any longer; he reaches climax with a tense spasm – "John!" being wailed at the top of his lungs (and it's a blessing no ones cares to mention it later if they heard it) – and John groans deeply and satisfactorily as he feels Sherlock's orgasm from the inside.
The paler man comes almost violently, his muscles shaking with the effort, his ejaculation farther reaching than his norm and the amount of it also greater than usual. John takes a swell of pride in this and slows his the jerking of his hips to a languid rhythm and leaves Sherlock panting on the floor, his chair shoved away in a bout of strength during his climax.
John is nearing his end, too, but before he does, he buries himself to the hilt and stays there for a second, savoring it, and lifts Sherlock's jaw with one hand to bring their mouths together over Sherlock's shoulder, John straining with the effort to keep it relatively comfortable for his flatmate, and kiss him passionately slow, tongues sliding gently and lips molding together just right.
"You're entirely mine, and I love you," John mumbles against Sherlock's mouth, and then he roughly pulls out and slams back in one final time, and Sherlock makes an uncharacteristically unintelligible sound that is mostly white-hot pleasure mixed slightly with borderline icy pain, and John feels the coil in his lower abdomen release and he spills inside Sherlock and slips out, one or two squirts getting Sherlock's thigh, but neither of them are really bothered by it because the post-coital glow is too hazy and wonderful and powerful to make them mind.
Sherlock hoists himself shakily up onto his chair and he rolls to sit in it, arse half off the cushion, resting, and arms lax at his sides. He had bruises and bite marks, he is aware, but he is too overly sensitive to feel them distinctly. The soreness is already seeping into his limbs and arse, but as John gathers himself up and stands before Sherlock, tugging his boxers fully on, the detective knows that it will be all right even when it starts to truly hurt.
Because now John is scooping Sherlock up bridal-style into his arms and planting a kiss over his collarbones and on his cheekbones and Sherlock lazily wraps his arms around John's neck. John then whisks him away to Sherlock's bedroom – it's not inconveniently upstairs like John's is – and placing him in bed.
He cleans the genius up with a proper sponge bath and presses tender kisses to Sherlock's forehead and temples and knuckles and wrists, and immediately bandages where teeth have broken skin on Sherlock's body. And then he showers, and Sherlock drifts in and out of sleep.
And when John's shower is over and he's cleaned up their mess in the living room to make it as those they hadn't had sex in there at all, he returns to Sherlock's room, passing by the periodic table on the wall by the door, and heads for Sherlock's bed. He crawls in, possessively spoons Sherlock, and makes to go to dreamland himself.
And, really, this is how Sherlock likes it, and he can't imagine being owned by anyone else, or how he got on before with things being any other way.