"Lestrade, this is completely ridiculous. I refuse to leave the apartment in this," Sherlock said, huffing about again about the dress that they both decided would be fun to wear to John's bachelor party.
Lestrade laughed. "Sherlock, for god sakes, just either wear it or don't. It's up to you."
Sherlock stared down at the dress lying on his bed. It was black, a very decent length, and had shoulders almost like a t-shirt. Sherlock sighed. "This thing is probably the only way that John will acknowledge me at all."
"He's not that mad at you," Lestrade said hurriedly, as he tried to get himself in order as well for the party, "I know he's not, because then he'd positively have to hate that fiancé of his for hiding the whole ordeal from him. Hell, even I am pissed at Molly for not letting me know."
"You think so?" Sherlock said, uncharacteristically feeling utterly self-conscious. Ever since he came back to town, John hadn't handled anything well in regards to what had happened. That's why Sherlock had been stuck living at Lestrade's post-divorce apartment. It was shabby, unkept. Frankly, the worst part was that it wasn't his home.
"Yes, I do Sherlock. Now, just bloody put on something. I don't care if you wear the dress or not, but if you don't get something on in the next few minutes, we're going to be late. Don't want to give John reason to avoid you, or think something is strange, would you?" Lestrade said with a devious smile on his face.
"Lestrade, I will remind you that you did promise to tell John nothing of my feelings." Sherlock said, hastily dragging on the dress. He'd bought the thing, so he might as well use it.
"I'm still shocked that Sherlock Holmes is even capable of having feelings like that for someone. And, shit, that you came to me to figure things out." Lestrade said as he fastened his tie.
"Well, considering my best friends hates me right now." Sherlock paused, struggling to try and zip up his dress. He eventually gave up and walked out to Lestrade, who burst out laughing as he helped Sherlock out with the last of the zip. "To further concede, even if he didn't hate me, he's engaged to the friend that saved my life. I can't exactly go up to him and say 'John, I know you think I'm an emotionless robot, but I actually am in love with you' now can I? That would be a travesty."
"You know, you're more human than most people give you credit for." Lestrade said, turning Sherlock around to face him. "And, I don't know how you've managed it, but you actually are somewhat pulling off this dress."
"Being utterly human is overrated and too emotionally charged for my liking." Sherlock said, reaching for the door. He grabbed his coat and scarf, and did them up so well that you couldn't tell what he was wearing underneath. There was no other indication on his person that he was cross-dressing for this party. "We're already a half-hour late, Lestrade. I bet he's drunk himself into oblivion."
As they reached the door to John's home at 221b Baker St, they knew immediately that Sherlock was correct. John greeted them at the door. With glossed-over eyes, and a bit of a sway to his posture, and an over-exaggerative excitement for the dull night ahead in his voice.
"Sherlock, Lestrade…come, make yourself at home." Those words stung Sherlock more severely than he would've liked to have ever shown. "Have a few drinks!"
"It looks like you've already had more than a few. John, maybe you should stop drinking…"
"Sherlock," John said, closing his eyes tightly, "for the love of god, do not do this tonight. I don't need to be monitored and babysat, okay?"
Sherlock walked away, a hurt expression on his face. He was skulking off to what used to be his room. John carefully looked to Lestrade, who looked a little angry at John's behavior. "What?"
"Take it easy on him, would ya? He's not been doing so well lately." Lestrade said hastily, before looking past him to the other two men who were attending the party. "Well, I'm going to go talk to his brother. You, please John, go talk to him."
John nodded hastily, still feeling too drunk to fully comprehend much of anything, and headed up to Sherlock's old room. When he reached the room, he didn't recognize Sherlock. He just saw a pretty person, presumably a woman, standing in the center of the room in a pretty black dress. "I'm sorry, I am looking for Sherlock. Do you know where he went, madam?"
Sherlock turned around slowly, having completely forgotten he had shed his coat to the dress. "Excuse me?"
"Sorry to bother you, I just was looking for Sherlock." John said, stumbling over his words and footing.
Sherlock smiled gently, walking up closer to John, and put hands on his shoulders with the sole intention of steadying him. John took that the wrong way, as some sort of signal, and leaned up to capture Sherlock's lips unknowingly in a kiss.
Sherlock thought in his mind that he should stop himself. That this was terrible behavior to be allowing from John, and especially when John was too drunk to realize it was him on the receiving end.
But when John's lips were finally pressed to his, kissing him firmly and passionately, Sherlock couldn't do anything but melt into it. Sherlock kissed John back with fervor, and locked his fingers into his friend's short blonde hair.
The kiss wasn't broken until they needed air desperately. And, when they parted, they were practically gasping for air. When John leaned in for another kiss, beyond kicking himself for ruining this chance, Sherlock spoke up. "John, it's me, Sherlock."
John stared up at Sherlock, in shock for a few moments. Then, he began laughing. "That's not possible, I mean, Sherlock wouldn't ever…"
John's eyes widened. He couldn't think of much of anything Sherlock wouldn't do. He didn't know what to do, or how to feel, or what to say. John hurried away to his own room, and Sherlock couldn't even get in another word with him.
Sherlock ran downstairs, and grabbed Lestrade's arm insistently. Mycroft looked up at Sherlock, frustrated that his brother was trying to take away his company. "Sherlock, can't this wait?"
"Unfortunately, no, it cannot wait brother. But you know what can wait? Your flirting with my friend here can absolutely wait. I'm sure he will be just as susceptible later for that. If you excuse us," Sherlock said hastily, dragging Lestrade out of the room by his arm.
"Sherlock, this better be good." Lestrade said, clearly frustrated.
Sherlock took a deep breath. "John came into my room. He found me, but didn't think I was me but some girl, and when I tried to steady him…he kissed me. And, I kissed him back. And, it was glorious. The only issue was when we pulled apart for air, I told him it was me, and he freaked out. He's up in his room right now, doing god-knows-what, probably angrier at me than before."
Lestrade laughed lightly. "Sherlock, if there is any time to make your move, it'd be now. John isn't angry, he is confused. I probably shouldn't say this, but I think before you left, John felt the same way about you that you did about him. That's why Molly and he became a thing. Nobody else wanted to hear them each blabbing on about you, after you were gone. I think he's a little frightened about everything. He hasn't wanted you back because he's scared you'll disappear without a second thought again, as it seemed before, and it will hurt more. If you want him, now would be the time to weigh in on that point."
Sherlock smiled gently. "You're more intelligent than I give you credit for, aren't you?"
Lestrade shrugged. "More than just a pretty face, I guess."
Before going upstairs, Sherlock turned back to Lestrade for a few moments. "I believe Mycroft actually likes you. It is strange, because he doesn't let in much of anybody. Not even I get to be close to him, as his own brother. If he likes you, and you like him in that way, please just pursue it. We don't need you two sulking about any longer."
Lestrade laughed as he descended back downstairs, ready to take that advice.
Sherlock ran upstairs, and knocked on John's bedroom door. All he heard was a muffled 'go away' in the midst of knocking. Sherlock wasn't going to do any such thing. He opened the door, and found John curled up in his bed, crying into his pillow. "John?"
"Sherlock, I said to go away," John said, openly sobbing.
Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed, and gathered John into his arms. John resisted at first, before resting his head on Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock put a hand in John's hair, and held the other firmly around his friend's hip. "I'm not going anywhere again, I promise. If I do, I'm not leaving without you."
John looked up, teary-eyed and sad. "I can't go through that again, Sherlock. I can't, I can't, and I can't. I can't deal with getting so attached again, and possibly now more attached, and then you doing that again. I had to watch you die, Sherlock."
Sherlock hugged John closer to him, and John moved so his legs swung around Sherlock tightly. With everything they had, they clung to each other, desperate to now have to ever let go. "I can't handle it again either, John. I'm not leaving the man…"
Sherlock stumbled over his words, and John pulled away slightly, smiling slightly at Sherlock's inability to finish the sentence. "I…am I making you speechless?"
Sherlock cleared his throat. "You make it harder to think. You make it harder for me to speak my mind. You make it harder for me to live my life completely unattached. You make it harder not to have to worry about anything. You make it harder to want to die. You make it harder to want to solve a puzzle at all costs. You make it harder for me to pretend I am not human."
"Sherlock…"
"You make it hard to tell you, I'm not leaving you again...because I'm in love with you, John Hamish Watson." Sherlock said slowly, scared of the reply.
John leaned forward, and claimed Sherlock's lips again. When he pulled away, he laughed. "I love you too, you daft sod. You drive me crazy. But, hell, I need you."
"I've been called a lot of things, John. Daft has never been one of them." Sherlock said, an amused smile pulling at his lips.
"It's only because you missed the completely obvious this time…"
Sherlock shrugged, and then claimed John's lips with his own. Somehow, between all the kissing, he managed to push John back onto the bed, tackling him beneath his own body. When they pulled away for air, neither man looked quite sure of what to do.
"Are you loud?" Sherlock asked slowly.
John flushed. "I…uh…"
"That's a yes. Second question, do you mind if we are heard? You're doctor friend left an hour ago, and Mycroft and Lestrade are very preoccupied with each other…"
"Sherlock, just, shut up for a minute, will you?" John asked with great sincerity. Sherlock nodded, leaning down and letting himself rest his head on John's shoulder.
John needed a moment to try and understand this. He needed to try and attempt to be logical. However, the fact that Sherlock was right there…and everything was so comfortable and desirable, it shows enough that John wants to continue.
He moves his hands to Sherlock's hips, and slowly places gentle kisses along Sherlock's neck. Sherlock moans softly, and clings himself closer to John.
John smiles, and moves one of his hands up to run his fingers through Sherlock's hair. "I'm not particularly proud of the fact, but I might be loud. I don't care if Mycroft or Lestrade hear. God knows that they have heard weirder and worse from us two. It's just…"
"What?"
"Sherlock, when Mycroft was talking about how you wouldn't know if sex scares you," John says carefully, "I mean, what if it does? And, I don't want to scare you away that easily. Plus, it being a first time and all, shouldn't it be special? Or, at least not when one of us is so bloody drunk that he's scared he will forget this all by tomorrow?"
"Then, I'll stay here. In the morning, if all of the things you said are still true and you still want this, then we'll go from there." Sherlock said softly. Following which, Sherlock looked up with a small laugh. "I don't think you could scare me off that easily."
John nodded. "That sounds like a fine idea."
Sherlock kissed John a few more times, maybe some of the times being very dedicatedly passionate, but it didn't go farther than that. They kept the promise, waiting until morning.
*NEXT MORNING*
John wakes up with a blistering headache. He notes that, for the first time in a while, everything else is comfortable.
Sure, John's used to headaches. There hasn't been many days since the suicide that John hasn't been drunk or with a hangover. The pattern had been continuing for months. He knew, watching Sherlock go through all of his habits (the smoking, the patches, the drugs, and even occasionally self-harming), that drinking was probably the safest way to numb the pain.
Plus, he knew he couldn't put Molly through any more than dealing with a drunken sod. When John helped Sherlock through all his other issues and habits, he remembered it ripping him apart inside. He couldn't ask the same of Molly.
This morning was different. Usually his whole body ached, especially his leg. He would wake up, and most days Molly would literally have to help lift him out of bed. He hadn't even been able to work since Sherlock had been gone, and the pain had gotten so severe. Today, though, something had changed. Something big had fixed him up.
The second he looked down, he remembered. He watched Sherlock stir over top of him, and the night before started coming back in pieces. John smiled, being happy that as his drunken self, he had finally come out and said all to Sherlock that he never thought he'd have the courage to say. He remembered Sherlock holding him, and kissing him, and tackling him onto the bed. Everything felt like it had finally fallen into place.
As he went to tangle his hands into the detective's shirt, he laughed at remembering one thing: the little black dress. The barely tangible object that had made this whole endeavor happen.
Somewhere in between the sound and feel of John's laughter against Sherlock, he had awoken. He looked about his person curiously, wondering what John was finding so funny. It wasn't until his eyes caught the position of John's hand in the dress that he started laughing as well.
"Good morning, madam." John said lightly, trying and failing to hold back further laughter.
Sherlock smirked, and started to shift away from John. "I don't know if I like being called madam, John."
John stopped laughing, giving Sherlock a more serious look. "What are you going to do to convince me not to call you madam then, Sherlock?"
A smile spread over Sherlock's entire face. There was only one thing that Sherlock loved more than a challenge, and that was John. Rolling both elements into one was the perfect idea, in Sherlock's not-so-humble opinion.
Sherlock moved off the bed, and stood up. He slowly yanked up the dress until it came over his head, and it could be thrown over to the side.
John groaned involuntarily, in shock and awe of the fact that he was staring at a very naked and aroused Sherlock Holmes. "Sherlock…"
Sherlock very slowly climbed back onto the bed, and moved so he was literally hovering over John. He smirked, and raised an eyebrow jokingly. "Yes, John?"
John's logical mind came back for a split second. It survived long enough to ask one more time: "Are you sure about this?"
"Do you mean sure about the fact that I don't like being called madam, or the fact that I am hovering over you naked and practically begging you to stop being chivalrous and let me go forward already?" Sherlock said, slowly drawing closer. "Or, is it the question of being sure if you want to go through with this?"
"Fuck it." John said very plainly, moving his hands forward to wrap around Sherlock and pull the taller man to be flush against him. It created a generous friction that both of them had sorely needed, and they both seemed to simultaneously lose the will to continue their conversation any longer.
Sherlock leaned down and harshly claimed John's lips with his own, and wasted no time as he also quickly did away with all of John's clothes. When he got John down to his pants, he smirked. "Red pants, John? How curious…"
John's cheeks flushed to be almost the exact replicating colour to his newly-revealed red pants. He had completely forgotten that he had pulled those out to wear that night. It took him about a minute to gain composure, before promptly asking Sherlock: "Why, is red not my colour?"
Sherlock grinned like the madman people always claimed him to be. "It's definitely your colour, John. It's not the colour I would've ever expected to see on you, but it's your colour indeed." He moves down John's torso quickly, pecking along his chest and savouring every hitched breath that he gathered from the friend beneath him. "It's very attractive to see your red pants straining like this. The arousal I've caused you straining against the fabric. May I help you with that?"
John, who was by the way in a very irreversible state of shell-shock at the new side of Sherlock Holmes that had come to light, moaned excruciatingly loudly as he felt Sherlock's mouth encompass his member only separated by the thin fabric lining of his devious red pants. "Sheeerrllooocck…"
Swiftly then, Sherlock pulled away. It made John groan in displeasure, and due to the loss of the feeling that only Sherlock had seemed to be able to give him again. He felt alive. "Sherlock, what are you doing?"
Sherlock deftly then removed John's red pants before moving back to his previous position, now hovering as to answer more of John's tedious questions of the day. The one time that John could get Sherlock to shut up willingly is the one time that John simply wouldn't seem to let him.
"Did I do something wrong? I assumed I was on the right track, you seemed to sound-"
He put a finger to Sherlock's lips and laughed weakly. Now that he knew what the hell Sherlock had meant by pulling off, as they were to keep moving forward from that, he had no complaints. "My only objection was from the loss of contact."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. "I can fix that."
With that, Sherlock managed one long lick of the underside of John's arousal before getting eager and sucking the entire member greedily past his lips. John tangled his hand in Sherlock's hair, not-so-softly guiding the mouth of the genius for his own pleasure. Sherlock didn't mind the rough handling one bit, he seemed to encourage it. Until the point where he could almost feel that they both would peak in pleasure, and he pulled off John swiftly.
Sherlock didn't want things to be over yet, but he didn't quite know how to ask for what he wanted to do next. If there was one thing that Sherlock disliked, it was uncertainty. It was second on his list of hated things, right after boredom and right before Anderson on his list. Yes, there was a list. That's a topic for an entirely different day. Sherlock was letting himself get trapped in his mind, sincerely afraid of asking for what he wanted next out of the uncertainty…and the possible probability that the answer would be no.
"Sherlock, are you okay?" John asked breathlessly.
Fuck it. Sherlock Holmes was anything but subtle, hesitant, and uncertain. He was most certainly not allowed to be fearful.
Sherlock leaned down to John's ear, a deep voice that made John practically shudder running past his lips. "John, I want to fuck you. I want to be on top of you, buried to the hilt inside of you, practically sticking you to the mattress for good. I want it to be clear that Sherlock Holmes is no madam. And, I want it to be clear that you are mine. Would you like that?"
John was trembling underneath him, positively on fire by just the pictures that his imagination could conjure at Sherlock's propositions. John barely trusted his voice, but he didn't care. He needed Sherlock to hear him say it. "Oh, God, yes."
Sherlock smiled gently, being gentler now that he knew he would get what he wanted. He started by cupping John's arse in his hands, earning Sherlock a particularly heavy moan. He kneaded the flesh in his hands, while also managing to kiss John into oblivion.
One of Sherlock's hands moved its way between John's firm arse cheeks, and when the first finger slipped in, Sherlock had stopped the kissing to evaluate John's reaction.
There were about a million thoughts running thought John's head, the most prominent of which involving the disbelief that Sherlock was actually doing this. There may have been pains somewhere in John's mind as well, but as he knew Sherlock was carefully evaluating his every expression, he knew better than to let that show. John knew that at the first sign of even the slightest idea that he was being hurt by the Sherlock in any way, the detective would pull away and this whole thing would be lost on a slew of apologies.
Plus, Sherlock had somehow managed to brush a particularly sweet spot immediately, and that made the pain shut up. John was enjoying himself, and as he let that show upon his face, Sherlock continued forth. From one finger came two, then three.
That's when John had apparently given up on patience. "Sherlock, I am ready by now. Will you please…"
Sherlock pulled out his fingers quickly, flashing his most devious smile at John. "Will I please…what?"
John didn't answer at first. He believed he had more pride than to sit and spell out what he wanted like some kind of slut or such-
That's until Sherlock pulled John's legs around his hips, brushing his erection teasingly against John's entrance. "Will you…OH JUST FUCK ME GODDAMNIT!"
"Interesting how the manners just magically disappeared." Sherlock said with an evil grin, now slowly sinking into John's hole.
John needed a moment to get used to being so-so-so…full.
Sherlock needed a moment to cherish the feeling of having a part of him be completely encased in John, in such a pleasurable way. The urge to move was very high, but he wasn't in any rush. He wouldn't dare rush John right now. Plus, for the moment, Sherlock could handle sailing solely on the pleasure that came from the fact that John kept clenching and unclenching just the right muscles in an effort to get used to this.
Sherlock had his face buried in the crook of John's neck, swooning in the most fabulous of ways. There was a moment of pure calm bliss, followed by a whole new meaning of bliss after John uttered the simple word: "Move."
And did Sherlock ever move. John had to hold onto Sherlock's shoulder's tightly, practically leaving nail-marks in the skin of the detective's shoulder-blades, but frankly not even caring. It felt so right and perfect and…hot to have Sherlock thrusting into him so hard and fast, always managing to somehow catch the right spot.
As it ended, each of them cried out as they came. John came first, simply overcome by the whole of his pleasure. Sherlock followed by the excellent feeling of John's muscles clenched around his member in one final blissful moment.
After they were done, Sherlock pulled out of John, and lay softly on the bed beside him. With a furrow in his brow, he turned away from John. The blogger automatically assumed the worst, coddling around him gently. "Did that…did that scare you?"
"Funny, that's what I was about to ask you." Sherlock said in a dead-pan voice.
John felt confused for a moment again, before finally catching on to what Sherlock meant. "I'm not going anywhere. You are not scaring me off that easily."
"What about your new life? Your fiancé?" Sherlock asked sourly.
John replied quickly, without thinking. "I have no new life. I've been miserable without you Sherlock, absolutely miserable. My leg injury was catatonic, and I became a point-blank drunkard. You should have seen the way Molly had to nurse me through-"
John's speech came to a halt, now only understanding what Sherlock had meant. "God, Molly. Geez, she's that wonderful person that has taken us both through hell and back. And, I can't believe I am going to go put her through more."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow, and John simply turned Sherlock face to his. "Sherlock, I am not letting you go. I will go talk this over with Molly and figure out how to handle it, and then this will work. I promise, alright Sherlock? I'm not letting you go again. I would say you could come with me, but I don't want to see you anywhere near St. Bart's yet. I'm not quite ready to think about that again, alright?"
"It seems that you won't have to go anywhere," Sherlock said gently, eyeing a note that had been freshly left on the dresser. They must've not noticed it when they woke up, simply because they were too preoccupied with each other.
John got up from the bed and hurried over to the dresser. He picked up the note, and read it over quickly:
Dear John,
It's not as if I didn't see this one coming. The only reason that we ever happened is because, well, we're both love Sherlock. I'm not going to be all jealous or crude. I won't. I will come pick up my things in a week or so, and then maybe you and I can start secretly planning how you will propose to Sherlock? Maybe a ring under a microscope or something, we'll see. Nothing will change, I promise. As we've always been and always will be, we are friends John. That's not going to change over this. Tell Sherlock, by the way, that he looks quite fetching in that new black dress. I am going to stop talking now. I will see you later.
Love, Molly.
John chuckled quickly, immediately thinking of ways he could get this hidden from Sherlock and keep it at the same time. He looked over at Sherlock with a grin. "Molly says you look fetching in your dress."
Sherlock scoffed, cuddling back into the bed sheets. "Maybe I will wear something similar to her next birthday party. You know, as a gift for stealing away both of us from her. Now, get back in bed, these sheets aren't nearly warm enough alone."
John laughed softly before huddling back into the covers, hugging Sherlock tightly to himself.
Sherlock hummed. "Oh, and Molly's wrong about the cheesy proposal idea. At least the microscope thing is too much. Please, if that ever does come about, be more creative and spontaneous than that."
"The paper was see-through?"
Sherlock laughed softly. "When held up to the light of a window, yes it was."
"What would you say if, I don't know, I chose a moment like this to propose?" John asked nonchalantly.
Sherlock swallowed heavily, being smart enough to know where this was going. "I suppose that would be amenable."
"What if I didn't have a ring?" John asked softly, tracing circles gently into Sherlock's side with his fingertips.
Sherlock cleared his throat, trying to keep a decently clear head. "I'm very particular. It might be best that you'd have me pick out my own ring anyhow."
John smiled, gently using his grip on Sherlock's sides to turn the genius to face him. "Alright then, I'm just going to go for it. This has been a long time in the making, you see. It'd be a shame to hold this off much longer."
Sherlock couldn't manage words, just a soft nod of the head that begged John to continue.
John took a deep breath, before finally asking the long-awaited question: "Sherlock Holmes, will you marry me?"
Sherlock said the one simple word that put things all together. "Yes."
After he accepted, they spent a long while just lazily kissing in bed. They were too tired for anything else at the moment, but they weren't caring. They were happy just like that.
Because they wouldn't dare leave their room, they ended up hearing a light rap on the door. When neither of the men on the bed answered, the men on the other side of the door decided to intrude anyways.
"By your current state of affairs, Sherlock, it seems that things have worked out fine with you and the plain one." Mycroft said slowly.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "It was bad enough before when people insulted John around me. He's now my betrothed, and that behavior is unacceptable in any shape or form."
Mycroft smiled gently. "Sherlock, you realize that all physical relations-"
"He's not being daft, Mycroft. He's not lying." John said, holding Sherlock just the extra bit tighter to him.
"You got Molly's note then?" Lestrade asked, barely having stepped out from the position he had been hiding in.
"Yes. And, Sherlock can stay here now. You two can go have his apartment to yourself, and leave us to have some free time." John said half-heartedly.
"What would make you think-" Mycroft feebly began with no avail.
It was Sherlock's time to intervene. "The fact that your hair is out of place, you have switched to take each other's blazer's, and that your pants have nail rips down the sides. And, Lestrade. Bags under your eyes, hair is a complete mess, your clothes are so unsorted on you that you might as well have left them off, and there are about…five hickey's on your neck. Is that not evidence enough?"
John added in softly: "We might just trade you Sherlock's old stuff back for the couch. Or you can keep the couch. I don't think I need that image every time I sit on the sofa."
Both Mycroft and Lestrade huffed, but they left within minutes. Each of the pairs needed their own time to collect thoughts.
"Things are really working out now?" Sherlock asked hesitantly.
John laughed softly. "Yes, and it's all because of the very non-lady that was hidden under the little black dress."