This is a re-post of an old story we'd written a few years back. It was requested by the exceedingly patient and understanding hpgleek713 (again, SO sorry that it took me several months to actually get it re-edited and posted!) For those of you who do not know, this is the joint account of Driffta and Calabash. My dearest Calabash writes as the good doctor John Watson, and I try to fill in as Sherlock Holmes. Hopefully you enjoy this!
The note was mixed in with the stack of bills, adverts, and miscellaneous junk when John brought the post indoors. He yawned, rubbing his eyes, waving to the family across the street at they hustled their children into a cab, dressed gaily in their Halloween costumes, and he smiled wanly, his grey blue eyes a little sad. They looked happy, bustling and busy. John had never been much for celebrating this holiday; he supposed he rather liked it as a child, but it all seemed garish now, loud, colourful, and entirely exhausting. He ran his fingers through his hair, trudging up the stairs, and he pushed the door to the flat open, mumbling under his breath. He sifted through the post, pulling out his own bills with a grimace, and the rest he tossed to Sherlock, who was currently lounging on the sofa, in one of his fits of utter lazy apathy. Sherlock's stack was always significantly smaller than John's, and perhaps, this was why the note caught his attention. Silver eyes flicked to the envelope at the top. John glanced at it as well, but he was too preoccupied with his own matters to stare at the deep purple stationary that bore Sherlock's name. "Have anything on tonight, then?" John murmured, plopping down in his chair, glad for his pyjama trousers and jumper. It was cold.
Sherlock shook his head, staring at the envelope, picking it up with a pair of tweezers and turning it around, his eyes narrowed. "No, nothing..." Sherlock took out his silver pen knife and ran it carefully through the top. There was barely anything to read about this. It had been purchased at a shop, obviously, but not a local one... it was made from expensive paper, and the gold lettering was written by hand. He took out the note and stared at it for a few moments. The lack of clues was... alarming. Interesting. Sherlock was intrigued.
Within the card, the raised, pre-printed invitation was simple enough, and all the more alluring in its simplicity. It read:
All Hallow's Eve Masquerade.
Paper Faces on Parade.
Twelve o'clock
October thirty-first
An address was scribbled below the printed lettering, obviously with the left hand to remove any identifying characteristics, and below that, a scrawled message.
You know me, Mr. Holmes, and more importantly, I know you. Will you know me in a sea of the grotesque, I wonder? I shall know you.
Sherlock's eyes widened and immediately the cogs in his head began to whir. His brain powered up and soon he was lost in the possible deductions. Who could it be? A masquerade party? Halloween? Someone wanted to test him. To play. Sherlock relaxed against the sofa and immediately began to ponder what his next move would be. Should he go? Obviously. In a mask? Most definitely. Would he be able to obtain one in time? He was Sherlock Holmes! He could do anything! Sherlock carefully replaced the letter and slid it into the pocket of his dressing gown. "I'm going out." He snapped suddenly, standing up and pulling the robe around him. "Don't expect me back tonight."
John looked up from his chair, and the letter on his lap from an army mate in Scotland. "Wh...I thought we were going to have a night in and watch telly," he complained, gesturing to the television set as Sherlock darted about the room. Amazing. The extended periods of lethargy were equalled only by the amount of energy they produced when the man finally started moving again. Sherlock was flying from room to room, retrieving clothes, shoes, and who knew what else. John's eyes slid back to the envelope. "Wait... what is that?" he asked with a scowl, reaching for it.
Sherlock darted forward and slapped his hand away. "None of your business." He replied tartly, moving out of John's range. "I've simply decided that I do not wish to spend the night watching telly. That is BORing." He put his nose haughtily in the air and exited the room in such a way that, had it been anyone other than Sherlock, one might have called it flouncing.
Once in his room he began to pick and choose from his various disguises, finally deciding on a slim tuxedo and a cape. Spats, of course, a cravat, everything he needed. He even used cufflinks. Laying them all out, he took up the simplest mask in his collection and set it near the rest of his clothing. It was 5:00 PM. He would need to get a shower and clean up a bit in order to be there 20 minutes before everyone else arrived. With the traffic, it would take him almost an hour to get there.
John sat quietly in the sitting room, listening to Sherlock pace in his bedroom. The doctor shook his head, smiling a little, and he pushed up from the chair just as the shower began running in the loo. John exhaled, turning to walk silently up the stairs to his bedroom, his hands in his pockets, whistling lowly under his breath.
Sherlock dressed quickly and listened at his door for a few minutes to determine that John was not down stairs. Silently, he opened the door and crossed the flat in a matter of seconds, not bothering to take his coat. It was too recognisable now. Pity. Sherlock ran down the stairs, his eyes ablaze with curiosity.
Arriving at the grand old building, Sherlock was able to find a decent spot to wait at, leaning against the stone wall, mask firmly in place as he watched the early participants begin to arrive. Many of them he recognised, yes, but none of them smart enough to send the letter. None of them clever enough to make him curious. Sherlock waited. And waited. And waited. No one. Absolutely no one. A little discouraged, the slim detective glided through the double doors, looking about at the posh, elaborate decor of the building, completely unimpressed. Women in ball gowns and period style clothing swirled about, men dressed to the nines leading them to the tune of a waltz, the orchestra booming out in the cavernous room. Sherlock sat on one of the brocade covered chairs and viewed the gathering somewhat disinterestedly. Would the person even show up?
Perhaps it had been a trick. A gag.
He sat for nearly an hour before one of the servers that littered the room, carrying trays of glittering champagne, approached him. The tall man wore a fiery orange and scarlet mask, and bent, his brown eyes shining at Sherlock as he offered a drink. "Sir," he murmured, turning the tray a little. Beneath the stem of the nearest glass, a small parchment was folded. The server stayed there, his eyes intent on Sherlock's, waiting for the detective to take the drink, and the note. Around them, the music was lilting, and people were laughing loudly, talking, dancing. It was a whirlwind of light, chandeliers acting like prisms and throwing rainbow beams across the marble floors. How very archaic. Sherlock's eyebrows raised as he accepted both the note and the drink. He rather enjoyed that. This whole thing had an air of mystery that the detective had been sorely missing the past few months. All the cases brought to him had either been boring or not at all worth the trouble, and Mrs Hudson had been seeing another unworthy man again. All in all it had been a drab month.
He pulled the purple ribbon from the scroll and read it with pursed lips, his eyes flashing across the page from beneath his black mask.
You are breath-taking tonight.
The words were so straightforward, so genuine. Amidst the thick, vulgar masses, Sherlock Holmes was a willowy spark of beauty and freshness, and now... he knew that someone saw it. Someone saw him.
Sherlock's head shot up and he looked around, his eyes wide. Who? Where was this person? Was it a man or a woman? From the handwriting... Sherlock couldn't tell. Most likely the person had hired a specialist, disguised their handwriting. He stood from the chair and turned about, but no one was watching him. Women's laughter sounded behind him, but the sleuth did not turn around. Where was this mystery person? Why was he or she doing a power play? Sherlock pushed away from the wall, foraging forward, effortlessly weaving through the masses. A heavy smell of perfume hung about the hall, and Sherlock wrinkled his nose. Just because half the people here dressed as though they were from 18th century France did not mean they had to pour perfume on themselves as though they were from that era as well. He sneered.
The lights flickered, and a cry of delight rose through the hall. Halloween was a time for false fear, and the crowds reflected this as the ancient electrical system in the monstrous building nearly failed. There was a surge to the dance floor, and when the chandeliers glowed once more, perhaps a touch more dimly than before, Sherlock found himself surrounded by bodies. The masks were nothing short of terrifying in their gaudy morbidity, peacocks and death heads mixing all around him as he was jostled by the waltzing figures. The music was brassy, ringing in his ears, and he began turning in circles, his eyes darting, his head swimming, his breath growing heavy as the world turned, faster and faster and faster...
Then there was warmth. A gloved hand wrapped around his elbow, bringing him to the earth once more. Sherlock was wheeled around swiftly, one white glove on his waist, the other moving to his back as he was pulled flush with a very solid, sturdy body.
So it was a man, Sherlock thought to himself as the short man stared up at him, his face completely obscured behind a white mask. "Who are you?" He asked softly, his silvery eyes narrowed as he looked him up and down. Familiar. Too familiar. But who? Short, compact, masculine. The scent... roses. His gait, completely smooth, professional. His clothing was expensive, the white suit tailored to perfection. Sherlock was about to peer closer, but then the man began to move, to pull him along in time to the music, joining the twirling throng. This dance was a familiar one, of course, one he had been taught as a child, but... he'd never been the woman before. He'd never been led before. It was distracting. "Tell me who you are!" He hissed above the music and chatter. The man just shook his head. This was infuriating. Sherlock pushed away, turning to leave.
The hand that was warm, flat, and comforting on his back was suddenly an iron grip on his waist, and the shorter man pulled him with a great deal of strength into the crowd. A pair of thin lips quirked at the confused, shocked expression that crossed Sherlock's face, and the mysterious stranger pulled him very close, his breath whispering over Sherlock's neck as he stood on his toes, letting his mouth brush the shell of the pale ear that hide beneath layers of dark curls. "Dance with me." It was barely more than a whisper, a soft yet powerful command, and once more as the tempo picked up, Sherlock was swept into the crowd, the floor opening up as if only for them as his unknown companion slid his hand down, just above the detective's buttocks. It found a hollow in the small of his back, and the gloved hand rested, as if made to fit there. He sighed, his eyes fluttering shut in satisfaction, obscured in shadow.
"Why?" Sherlock asked, allowing the man to hold his hand, quite confident that, if the need arose, he could extract himself from the situation with a great deal of ease. "You can't just be bored." What could the man possibly gain from this? Sherlock felt the hand over his own tighten and those thin lips smiled at him. They floated around the ballroom, ignoring the rest of the dancers and being ignored in turn. Even the music seemed to fade in the background as the two men danced, each studying the other with interest.
There was no answer forthcoming, only another small smirk, as if the man was holding back his genuine smile. He held Sherlock closer, and as the music slowed, and their movements followed, the lights flickered again. In the low, golden glow, Sherlock's companion lifted his chin to meet the mercury eyes, and they held. Sherlock hesitated, stalling in the man's arms. Slowly, with great caution, the gloved thumb began to rub circles, onto Sherlock's thin hand, and onto his back. Fingers crept beneath the long back coat, slipping to the thin silk fabric of his short, and the little man's tongue darted out to wet his lips as he gazed into the silver, wide eyes. Their dance had grinded nearly to a halt, and they swayed now only for show as the small hands caressed Sherlock, and the short, curious man pushed close, his stomach rubbing Sherlock's, his hips pressing the detective's. His chest was rising and falling rapidly as he unabashedly drank in the sight of the lean, exquisite creature in the black tux. His gaze fell on the cherubic lips... and it left off there, staring hungrily.
Sherlock was beginning to feel uncomfortable and more than a little out of his depth, yet still he stayed. Somehow it wasn't unenjoyable. The detective stayed mostly still, allowing the man to stare. Not boredom, then. Could it be that... this man was actually interested in him sexually? It seemed almost impossible, but as the man's eyes continued to stare longingly at his lips, Sherlock became more and more sure that this was an act of genuine romantic interest. After all, this mysterious man must have gone through a deal of planning in order to pull this together. "Who are you?" He asked again, once more taking in the man's apparel. Who? Sherlock was getting more and more curious with every second that passed.
The music quickened again, and someone bumped into the couple, jarring Sherlock's attention. He whipped his head angrily about to see who had done that, but they'd already gone.
When Sherlock looked back, he held his breath. The man standing before him, still holding onto his body, looked as if he was on fire. Heat radiated from him, from the set of his jaw to the blazing eyes, shining from beneath the white and gold mask. The little man snatched the lean body to him, bringing their faces close, and he bared his teeth a little in a menacing grin. If Sherlock had any doubts as to his intentions or interest, they were immediately dispelled by the evidence digging into his thigh. The short man took advantage of the immediate gasp, and he backed him into a dark corner of the room, where the lights had finally fizzled, and died. Sherlock was pressed into a peeling, antique wallpapered corner, and the gloved hands moved down his neck, his chest, his flat stomach.
The little man was panting softly, his nose nuzzling into his collarbone.
Sherlock gasped, his hands slamming against the wall as the man began to devour his neck, firm lips caressing his skin. He didn't know how to take this sudden turn of events. Every alarm bell inside his brain had begun to ring, but he couldn't move. The hands were slipping around to the backs of his legs now, rubbing and gently kneading his thighs. Biting back a moan, Sherlock lifted one hand to push against the man's shoulder, but it did not do any good. Perhaps that was because his companion could tell that the young man didn't quite mean it. "Stop it." His voice, though cutting, had an edge of something else to it, something darker. "You know who I am, so obviously you know I am not interested in..." Sherlock trailed off, his eyes rolling to the back of his head as a tongue darted out and licked just under his ear. Blood was beginning to flow south as Sherlock tried again, with even less success, to push the man off of him.
The thin lips smiled against his neck, and Sherlock shuddered as the small, strong hands moved to grasp his briefly. Then slowly, they guided both of Sherlock's hands down, down, down, to first touch himself between his legs, to make the detective feel his own arousal swelling between his lean thighs, and then... the little man grunted, moaning into Sherlock's white sloping neck as he brought his palms into contact with his groin. He rotated his hips, rubbing his hard cock into Sherlock's palms, and he dropped his hands, leaving them there, his own planting themselves on the wall on either side of Sherlock's head. The stranger gasped, his legs firm and wide on the floor. It was beautifully shadowed here, with just enough light for him to lift his eyes again and stare up into the huge, round, silver orbs that gazed down at him in shock... and yet Sherlock did not move his hands. The gloved fingers curled on the wallpaper, and the little man pushed closer, grinding into the wonderful, curious caress of Sherlock's long fingers, and the throbbing pulse of the lovely prick that twitched underneath Sherlock's trousers.
The strangest part about this, in Sherlock's mind, was that he wasn't disgusted. He wasn't disinterested. In fact, quite the opposite. Despite his constant denial, the feel of the man's prick as it hardened beneath his touch was... alluring. Sherlock's hands tightened around the cock, rubbing his thumbs experimentally. Perhaps this wasn't such a horrible idea. And after this Mycroft would never be able to make any remarks about Sherlock's lack of sexual knowledge. He could prove that sex didn't scare him. Nothing scared him. The detective bit his lip as his mystery man ground against him, causing the backs of his hands to rub up hard against his own, tentatively interested penis. The world around seemed to slow down as he looked down at the blank mask once more. Who? Sherlock needed to know. Who?
His breath was ragged now, and the short man's mouth was open, trying to take in as much air as he could while he thrust gently into the touch. His hands moved once more, dragging the fingertips across Sherlock's face, and the lips twisted in frustration underneath his mask. Slowly, one hand slid down his torso once more, and as a question, hopeful, desperate, appeared in the dark blue eyes, he began to fumble with the zipper on Sherlock's trousers.
Sherlock started, unease setting in once more as his hands left the man's erogenous zone and instead moved to his chest. "Stop." He hissed, his eyes wide. "Just stop." But the mysterious man didn't. He continued to work at the zipper, tugging it down. Sherlock pushed at him again, his heart now in his mouth.
He dropped to his knees. Around them, the lights dimmed again, and the women screamed, half in joyful fear, half in morbid pleasure. Sherlock arched a little as two hands freed his cock, pulling it from its prison of linen and silk, and a hot, wet mouth wrapped around the base without hesitation. In and out it slipped, soft lips working the shaft speedily, the slowly, worshipping every vein, every ridge, every single centimetre of the beautiful organ. The gloves moved up his thighs as a soft, golden head bobbed in the dark shadows, hungry, desperate noises escaping the stranger's throat.
Sherlock nearly bent double as the wet heat enveloped his cock. He let out a tiny moan of surprise and extreme pleasure as the tongue began to work around the shaft, the roof of his companion's mouth rubbing against the cock head. "G...od..." Sherlock whimpered, his eyes sliding shut. It felt so good. So damn good. Why had he avoided this for so long? Why hadn't he sought it out? How could he have been so blind? This wasn't something to be distained or frightened of, this was something to enjoy, to seek out. His hands found purchase in the man's hair and he rocked his hips a little, unable to hold back. A warm sensation beginning to unfurl in his gut.
The man growled, rumbling deep in his throat, and the attentions double as Sherlock grabbed fistfuls of blonde hair. He clawed at his legs, his mouth opening wide and shoving the cock in as deep as it would go, until it hit the back of his throat. He reached around, squeezing Sherlock's tight, pert arse tightly, and he yanked him closer, fucking his own mouth on the long, rosy cock as hard as he could. It collided with his throat over and over, saliva slicking the passage, and as Sherlock got the idea, he moaned and wrapped a long, thin hand on the back of his head encouragingly. The small man dug his fingers into the fabric of his bum, seeking, digging into the crack of his buttocks, his teeth dragging the shaft, perhaps a little too hard.
The stimulation was overloading Sherlock's hard drive as he tried to stay cognizant of his surroundings. This was more than he'd ever imagined. The hands rubbed at his arse, fingers intrusive and frighteningly delightful. The mouth... Sherlock had never felt anything quite so exquisite as this pair of lips. "I... I think I'm going to ejaculate." He groaned, canting his hips into the mouth, shuddering and moaning as his prick slid down the man's throat. He felt the hands on his arse tighten, and he yelped.
The man bit him. It was not a light nip, or the lovely scraping of his teeth over the long curve of his cock... the man bit the head, hard, and his fingers gripped the flesh of his arse painfully, his head bobbing up and down one last time. Sherlock clapped a hand over his mouth then, his eyes shutting tight as he cried out hoarsely, and the man below him shuddered. His mouth was full, full of virginal cum, dribbling from his swollen lips, burning his throat, pooling on his tongue, and he swallowed it all, every last drop. He licked the cock clean as Sherlock shivered, panting, whimpering against the wall, his hands clawing at the air helplessly. The short man tucked him away again, then stood, pushing down hard on the tall detective's shoulders with a feral gleam in his eye behind the mask. The gloves shoved at him until Sherlock collapsed on his knees, still weak and shaking from the force of the massive orgasm. He found himself face to face with a thick, pink, twitching prick, bobbing before his eyes.
The little fight Sherlock had before was now gone in the haze of his orgasm. He whimpered a little in slight protest, but his mouth was already opening, the red tongue flicking out and tasting salty flesh. It send shivers up and down his spine as he heard the man above him let out a low growl of pleasure. He glanced up, cheeks flushed pink. The more he thought about it, the less he objected to this action. After all, this man had done him an incredible favour, and it was not strange that he would want some reciprocation. Sherlock took hold of the cock with one gloved hand, holding it steady as his mouth tentatively closed around it, his mind already springing to what had been done to his own that had caused such enjoyment. He sucked on the head, curious, his cheeks hollowed as he took more of it in. It wasn't... it wasn't half bad. The taste was sort of musty and salty, and the flesh was dry, but... Around the head he could feel the precum already drip onto his tongue, and that was an even stronger flavour. How strange. That he would be giving someone head at a ball on Halloween was shocking to the poor detective. Completely unheard of, uncalled for, unneeded, and now... unthinkable to do without. Unbidden, and for an inexplicable reason, Sherlock's mind strayed to John as he took more of the hardening prick in. Was this why John enjoyed sex so much? Perhaps... perhaps John would enjoy sex with him. Or at least oral sex. He moaned around the stiff organ and laved his tongue against it, the silvery blue eyes closed.
A guttural, masculine groan tore from the short man's chest, and then two hands were grasping Sherlock's face, powerful and strong, and he was thrusting into the young man's mouth with abandon, holding his head steady, the thumbs stroking his cheeks as his hips snapped back and forth. Sherlock choked, but the man did not stop. Rather, he gurgled a little, and dragged him further into the shadows, turning to press him to the wall so that Sherlock was caught between the peeling wallpaper, and the fragrant linens of the stranger's white trousers. He jerked, panic flashing in the silver eyes, but the white gloves were back and caressing his face as the cock slid into his mouth once more. "Shh, shhh," the man soothed, his tone slightly raspy, one hand moving to tangle in the dark, silken curls, and he urged him forward, once more canting in and out of those angelic lips, Sherlock opened wide, whimpering softly, and the man grinned, his head falling back. He seemed to know, seemed to understand that this was Sherlock's first time, for he took it slow, rotating a bit, letting the detective grow accustomed to his thickness, his smell, his taste... then he began to fuck his mouth gently, gaining speed and force as Sherlock's body relaxed beneath his fingers. His gasps were ragged. He panted, shuddered, and his hands were tight, painful on Sherlock's face and in his hair. "Fuck," he bit out in a hoarse whisper, the flushed cock spasming against Sherlock's tongue.
Sherlock's mouth was slack as the man's prick forced inside and out of his mouth, faster and faster. The voice sounded almost... it sounded... he narrowed his eyes and stared up at the man. Who? But the man seemed to notice Sherlock's sudden deduction, because he slammed back into Sherlock's throat with a sudden ferocity, his cock colliding with the back of his throat. The detective's eyes flew open and he gagged, his hands grasping the man's hips, trying to steady himself against something as his head was constantly being rammed back against the ancient wall. The prick bruised his lips, invading Sherlock's mind, pushing out every thread of memory he'd been about to grasp. This was... humiliating? Not quite. It was surrendering. Sherlock whimpered, his eyes flitting up to the
masked man once more.
The stormy eyes stared back down at him through the mask. Sherlock's cheeks burned, crimson and hot as the stranger gazed down at him evenly, his lips parted, his breath gusting, but... There was a fond, almost affectionate twist of the man's mouth as he watched Sherlock, kneeling on the marble floor in his tuxedo and black silk mask, sucking his cock in the dim light. Gently, ever so gently, the gloved hands pushed his face away, and Sherlock whined a bit, rocking back, thudding the back of his head against the wall, a confused expression of loss on his face. The stranger clucked, shaking his head, and he wrapped a hand around the base of his cock, guiding Sherlock close. "Shh," he murmured again, and pumped it, three times. The sleuth's silver eyes widened, and then the stranger threw his head back, his strangled cry lost in the crescendo of music and laughter, as he ejaculated hard onto Sherlock's cheeks, his lips, his brow. White, thick sperm dripped like honey from the bowed lips, and the little man whimpered as the tip of Sherlock's tongue darted out to taste, his eyes huge and full of wonder.
The warm liquid began to slide down Sherlock's face, the scent of this stranger clinging to his every sense as he leaned back against the wall, sagging to the ground. With one hand he wiped away some of the ejaculate, bringing it to his lips and tasting more of it. Producing a handkerchief from his breast pocket, Sherlock wiped his face up, his cheeks burning. The man had just cum all over his face. His FACE. Sherlock tried to summon the anger he knew he ought to be feeling, but it would not come. Instead he felt his own cock begin to stir once more. "Who are you?" The thin man demanded again, looking up.
The man in the white suit shivered, just once, and he tucked himself away, straightening his clothes and peering down at the beautiful, thoroughly knackered young man on the floor. The corner of his mouth quirked, and he bent down, grabbing the lapels of his tuxedo jacket and capturing his mouth hungrily. He kissed him, devouring the mouth violently, their tongues flattening together, sucking hard on his lower lip, and then he stood swiftly, his thumb dragging the sharp cheekbone. With a deep breath, he turned on his heel, and disappeared into the crowd, amongst the sea of swirling light and colour.
Sherlock sprang to his feet, his mouth hanging open. The man had left. Had just left. Without saying who he was. Sherlock swallowed hard and pushed after him, ignoring the disgruntled cries of the party goers. He looked wildly around, his heart pounding in his chest. He had to find him again. How could the bastard just leave like that? It wasn't fair. Sherlock had complied with every wish, had done everything he'd asked. Swallowing hard, the detective searched around the hall for another half hour, though he knew it was a futile attempt. Finally, when the clock struck 2:40 Sherlock gave up, disgruntled and, if he cared to admit it, more than a little disappointed. He'd been careless. Had let his emotions get in the way. This was just more evidence that getting one's expectations too high in someone else, especially a stranger, was pathetic and absolutely beneath him. Hailing a cab, the detective rode back to his flat in a dismal mood. Still... for a first sexual experience it wasn't completely without enjoyment. And perhaps he could try it again. Sherlock padded up the stairs, his mask now gone, as well as the cravat, the spats, the tail coat, and everything else that would give him away. "John, I know you're still up." He called out, entering the room. "Make me some tea. And tell me where my cigarettes are. I am bored." He stomped into the lounge, a scowl on his face.
John was on the sofa. He lay sprawled on the couch, his head cradled on the sofa arm, dressed in the same pyjama trousers and jumper as he had been wearing when the detective left, and his bare feet were flat on the cushion as he lazily flipped through channels on the telly. He glanced up as Sherlock stormed through the door, his cheeks pink, his expression livid and somewhat sad.
John smirked. "Have a good evening?" he asked casually, crossing his legs and wriggling up on his elbows. His grey blue eyes danced merrily up at the detective, and his white teeth flashed.
"No." Sherlock snapped, ripping his jacket off and throwing it on the ground. "Dull and uneventful." He threw himself into the seat next to John and grumbled, staring at the telly dejectedly. "Damn tedious waste of an evening." Sherlock pulled his shoes off, throwing them at the opposite wall. It had been such a disappointing evening. He'd never repeat it. Sherlock propped his feet up on the coffee table and unbuttoned the first two clasps on his shirt.
John grunted, looking away, his chest shaking a little, as if in laughter. "F...feet off the coffee table," he muttered, his voice choking a little. "You're getting my gloves dirty." He licked his lips, glancing over at his flat mate without moving his head from the telly.
Sherlock shifted his feet, and that's when he saw them. The white gloves. Somewhere inside him a thunderclap sounded and his cheeks flushed crimson. Leaping from the sofa as though he'd been stung, Sherlock whirled around to face John, anger clouding his eyes. "YOU." He shouted, pointing an accusing finger at the smug man. "You... you... how DARE you? You complete bastard. What was that, then? Some sort of punishment to get back at me?" He picked up the gloves and threw them at John, kicking the coffee table. "Making fun of me. Humiliating me." All the colour had drained from Sherlock's face as he stared down at John, his chest heaving. "You..." But he couldn't finish what he'd been about to say. It had been John, then. And from the grin he'd had, Sherlock assumed it had been a power play. Something to hold over Sherlock's head. He stormed out of the room, slamming his door shut.
"Damn it..." John laughed. He couldn't help himself. The man was so bloody predictable. He stood up, marching down the hall to Sherlock's bedroom, and he rapped on the door smartly. "Sherlock, open the door right now." His voice took on the same commanding ring that it had possessed even in a whisper at the ball.
"Fuck off." Sherlock shouted back, ripping off his clothes and pulling on pyjamas. He'd burn them first thing tomorrow. A shower was in order. Something to get John's smell from his face.
The door came crashing in beneath John's foot, and Sherlock yelped loudly, jumping as his plywood partition creaked and groaned, hanging from one hinge precariously. John stood in the open door frame, his arms folded, a tiny smile on his face. "Told you to open it," he shrugged, and stepped inside, his eyes trained on Sherlock's.
"Get the hell out of my room, John Watson." Sherlock commanded, picking up a book and throwing it at him. "You crossed the damn line, John. I'm never going to forget about this." His eyes blazed as he stalked up to John and punched him in the stomach, pushing past him. "Bastard."
John coughed a little, but recovered quickly. Hell, he was used to being punched in the stomach. He whipped around, licking his lips as Sherlock reached the doorway, and he took a deep breath. "I love you."
Sherlock's feet stalled. John stepped up close behind him, stopping just short of touching the man, and he lifted his chin, his jaw set stubbornly. "I love you. You would never have heard me otherwise. I... made it interesting. I love you, Sherlock."
"No you don't." Sherlock turned around, distrust in his expression, and something else. Loved him? John? "You wouldn't have left me if you did." His voice sounded petulant in his ears. John... well, John had made it interesting. He had done a... good job with it. He'd fooled Sherlock, and that wasn't easy to do. Not that he was infallible, but he was the closes thing he knew to it. "Why?"
"Why?" John blinked at him, and a bemused smile lifted the corners of his mouth again. Sherlock had no idea. He was utterly clueless to his own charms, his beauty, his fantastic allurement. "Because," John murmured, stepping in very close and lifting his chin so that he could feel Sherlock's quickening breath ghosting over his face. "If I'd stayed, I would have taken off your mask, and my own, and there is no force on the earth that would have prevented me from fucking you on floor, right there, in front of everyone. I would have had your legs spread and your throat raw from screaming, Sherlock. I would have taken you... whether you wanted it or not." His lips set in a thin, straight line, eyes blazing. Better for Sherlock to know what he was getting into now.
Sherlock gulped, gazing at the determined man in front of him. "Why?" He asked again, his hands balling into fists.
"Because I love you, you git." John grabbed the back of his neck, and kissed him, deeply, before the man could protest.
When John's lips met his, Sherlock felt himself melt. The pupils of his eyes widening until only a thin ring of silvery blue remained. He wrapped his arms around John's waist and leaned in close to him. "I wouldn't have said no." He whispered harshly. "I didn't say no. I didn't want you to leave."
"I'm sorry." John took him by the hips, turning to walk him backwards to the bed, his eyes fierce, his hands firm on Sherlock's body. The back of Sherlock's knees hit the mattress, and John pushed him down, climbing over the young man on the bed, straddling his chest as he bent to kiss him again, deep, sweet, indulgent. A whimper of satisfaction and desire went up from the heaving chest of the
good doctor. "I'm sorry I left," he rasped, fingers winding in Sherlock's hair. "I didn't know what else to do. I didn't know if you'd hate me if you knew." John hauled Sherlock bodily to lie flat on the bed, and he began to rain kisses up and down the long neck, his hands immediately flying to work underneath the loose t-shirt.
Sherlock moaned, his legs spreading wide to accommodate John's body. "I do," he swallowed hard, eyes closed. "I hate you so much. So much." With a guttural noise, Sherlock grabbed John's face and yanked him into a kiss, biting at his lips and tongue. "It's all your fault. You're a bastard." John's hands clawed at the detective's chest, and Sherlock allowed his own to roam the shorter man's back, sinking his teeth into John's neck. What a strange development. True, he'd been wondering if John would allow him to do this earlier when he'd been with the mystery man, John, so perhaps it wasn't so odd. And yet... How could he not have seen John's admiration had turned to love? This seemed to be a reoccurring theme in his life. It had happened with Molly, too, though he did not love her. Not like... "I think I love you." Sherlock said suddenly, his eyes wide with shock and fear and just a little horror.
The moment those words hit the cool night air, John was busy lining his hips up with Sherlock's, concentrating on exactly how he was going to get those trousers off, and how he was going to convince the great Sherlock Holmes that he really did want to lie with his arse on display so John could bury his cock inside it. He was so focused on the seemingly impossible implementation of this wonderful,
mad idea, that he almost did not hear the whispered admission, and it was not until the thick lips were removed from the sensitive patch on his neck before they truly sank into John's cranium.
He sat up swiftly, brow drawn, eyes cautious, and he viewed the man below with a pounding heart and shaking hands. "Sherlock... Sherlock, don't say it if you don't mean it," he said sadly, his voice gravelly in its grief. "It.. means too much to me, Sherlock. It's my life. It's my heart." He took up the thin hands, and brought them to his chest, ripping his shirt over his head and letting Sherlock place his palms over the racing muscle beneath his ribcage. "This... this isn't a game. It isn't even The Game, Sherlock. It's my heart, and it's... in your hands." John blinked down at him through a thick row of golden eyelashes.
"T-then I shouldn't say it." Sherlock swallowed hard, his eyes wide. "I'm not sure. I've never dealt with this before. I would have to run a set of tests and experiments. It's just... it's simply an educated guess right now. It's not... I'm not entirely sure." Sherlock gently cupped John's chest, shivering as he felt the power of the heart below his hand. Would John leave him if he did not love him after all? John had left his other girlfriends, presumably he'd cared about all of them as well.
John stared down at him a moment, and then he nodded, dropping his chin to his chest a moment and breathing hard. When he looked back up, he'd regained control of his emotions, and he leaned down to kiss the pretty mouth. The embrace was measured, loving, and full of caution. "It's all right," John murmured, rubbing their noses, their foreheads together with a sigh. "I'm not going anywhere. You don't... have to love me, Sherlock," he added, with the tiniest hint of a choke. "I'll love you until the day I die." He descended on him, kissing the sharp jawline, and then he sat back up, his face resigned. "I won't bring it up again, if you'd rather."
"I said I don't know." The detective replied somewhat sullenly, folding his arms and glaring back at John. "Don't turn into a martyr." He flipped over onto his side and gazed balefully at the wall.
The doctor chuckled a little, tilting his head and surveying the man below with a small shake of his head. "All right," John murmured, swinging his leg from his body. He stretched out, curling behind Sherlock, his chest rising and falling against the lean back as he wrapped his arm around his waist, and pulled him close. John rested his chin on Sherlock's shoulder, whispering into his ear as he kissed the back of his neck lightly. "All right, Sherlock... you're right. That's fine, it's enough for now. I'll take what I can get, eh?" He laughed again, letting his fingers graze the front of his trousers, relishing the thud of Sherlock's pulse in his temples. John meant it, every word. He'd wait for the love... and in the meantime, he'd take the intimacy. Because hell, maybe in this twisted little game they were playing, John needed to earn the love, earn it through sex. That was bloody fine with him. He'd shag the hell out of Sherlock until one day, one day...
One day.
John began to suckle gently on his neck, rocking up once into the curve of his arse.
Sherlock moaned a little, clutching John's hands. Why the hell did that feel good? There was no reason why it ought to. No earthly reason. He bit his lip and held very still, his breathing slow and shallow as he waited for John to do it again. The man's lips were already driving him to distraction, creating a lovely suction against his neck. "Y...yes, exactly right," he finally said, wiggling a little before stopping himself. Hell, John was taking too long. Sherlock was beginning to get impatient. He could feel an erection beginning to swell in his trousers as the mouth got more and more invasive, the tongue laving against his neck. Memories of earlier that night began to trickle into Sherlock's mind and he whimpered, squeezing his eyes shut. Why was this so hard?
The sound of that whimper filled every single sense in John's body. He shuddered behind him, his hand finally closing over the growing erection between Sherlock's legs, and he began to stroke it roughly, rolling his hips up again. This elicited another whimper, and an answering grind backwards from his friend. John nearly crowed with victory. Fuck! This was better than he'd hoped. He thrust up again, and again, and each time, Sherlock's cock jumped in his hands. John gasped, his eyes darkening in lust and triumph, and he arched experimentally to sink his teeth into the pale earlobe. This... would be telling. He bit down, hard enough to hurt, rolling the flesh between his teeth and waiting for the reaction as he squeezed Sherlock's cock through the pyjamas.
"GOD!" Sherlock choked a little, his eyes flying open as he ground back hard against John's prick, his own now standing at full attention. He grabbed John's hands once more and made them rub harder against his cock, his head falling backwards for easier access. The ear between John's teeth throbbed and ached and he wanted more. Needed more. The pain rolled through his body, finally reaching his brain with euphoric consequences, causing his cheeks to darken and his pupils to widen. He took one of John's hands and slid it beneath his trousers, making the fingers curl around his bare prick. "Don't stop." He hissed.
John buried his face in Sherlock's spine, his chest constricting. Too good. It was too good to be true. He worked the pyjama trousers off swiftly, none too gently, freeing the breath-taking lavender and crimson cock that rose from a soft mound of dark curls. John took a moment to admire it, propped on his elbow, staring down at the shaft twitching in his hand, and then he began to work it, stroking it with rough fingers, his mouth open, his eyes narrow and clouded. Sherlock wriggled, moaned, whimpered on the bed, and John's grey eyes slid over to his face, a feral, menacing fire lighting behind them. "Make noise," he growled. He bent, grabbing at one of Sherlock's nipples through his shirt, and he tugged mercilessly, his fist tightening around the aching cock.
Sherlock cried out, obeying John's order, much to his surprise. He rubbed his head back against the pillow, his lithe body writhing as John's hands tortured his body. "Hnnnnn... Johnnn... d-don't stop." Sherlock threw an elbow up over his face, arching off the bed at a particularly cruel twist on one of his pert nipples. The shock and adrenalin coursing through his veins was an unexpected bonus to this whole sex thing, it seemed. The entire experience seemed rather delightful. John's thumb dug into the urethra and Sherlock screamed out, his other hand snatching at the blankets to keep his body grounded on the bed. Lips forming a small "o", Sherlock allowed soft little moans and begging whimpers, pleading John to give him more, to never, ever stop. How had he never thought of this before? How had this never been an option before? Now that it was in his grasp, all of the previous misgivings and objections seemed far off and insignificant.
John was off the bed in a sudden instant, and Sherlock shot up, staring at him in horror as the little man crossed the room, headed for the door. John glanced over his shoulder. "Stay," he commanded, his lips smiling, but his eyes stern. "I'll be right back."
Sherlock huffed, slamming a fist down on the bedding, kicking at it petulantly. He stared down at the silk trousers pooling around his ankles and gave them a rude gesture. "I HATE WAITING." He bellowed after John, but all he heard in return was a chuckle as the man jogged up the stairs to his room. Sulking, Sherlock flipped around and kicked the trousers completely off, hugging a pillow as he waited for John's return. What was so bloody important that John couldn't simply give head like he had earlier? What was so damn necessary for that? Sherlock groused to himself, his lips pursed.
John hummed all the way up the stairs, listening to Sherlock's irritated grumbling and tossing and turning below. He couldn't wipe the foolish grin off his face, and as he descended the steps a few moments later, he was positively beaming with anticipation, his skin hyper sensitive, his cheeks rosy and flushed. "See? Told you I'd be right back," he sang out as he walked through Sherlock's door.
The detective looked up from his pillow, still pouting, and his face froze. John was naked. Completely bare, from his flexing toes to his broad, tanned chest. He was naked, and very, very aroused. His cock jutted out, thick and proud, and he smiled unashamedly at Sherlock, his fist closed around a plastic bottle.
Sherlock's mouth hung open for a minute before he remembered to close it because, hell, he must have looked ridiculous. Slowly, very slowly, he sat up, crossing his legs and pulling the pillow over his lap, his gaze flitting from John's erect member to the bottle and back, a ringing in his ears. He knew why John'd gone upstairs, then, and suddenly he was hyper aware of his situation. John was going to fuck him. He was going to stick that... Sherlock swallowed, his fingers digging into the pillow as his breathing once more became shallow. John's prick was big. How the hell would it fit? It was going to hurt. The detective's toes clenched a little and he took a deep breath. "I've never had sex before," he murmured, letting his stare drag up to John's face. The doctor's expression wasn't surprised. So he knew then. Guessed? No, more likely Mycroft told him. That man was always running his mouth of when it came to Sherlock.
John nodded serenely, walking over to the bed slowly, as if fearful of Sherlock bolting, and he stood before him, his hip thrown to the side, his head tilted as he studied him. "I know," John rumbled, reaching out with his free hand to trace a finger down the sharp cheekbone. "And you don't have to now." He attempted a peaceful smile, but his lips trembled with desire, and his skin was twitching as he gazed down at the lovely virgin. He wanted him. He wanted inside of him, wanted to thrust inside and make Sherlock beg. John swallowed, and his prick jumped a little. "We can.. just touch each other if you like," he added a bit hoarsely. His thumb rubbed Sherlock's lower lip. Damn, his mouth was pretty.
Sherlock nodded, his eyes falling to his lap. "Okay." He said quietly, scooting over the bed a little and turning over until his face was covered in the pillow, his arse in the air. "Do it," came the soft command. Sherlock's heart was racing, and he knew if he didn't do it now, then he probably never would. In this case he realised the best option was not to over think things, because, if he did, he knew he would find flaws with this plan. He always did. And even two minutes of thinking about it rationally would most likely result in him telling John to fuck off.
John took a deep, tremulous breath, and he glanced at the bottle in his hand. He had been going to ask Sherlock if he was sure... but fuck that. He had permission. He had Sherlock on his knees. There was no way in hell he was going to waste this. John climbed on the bed behind him, his hands shaking as he nearly emptied the bottle on his fingers, grabbed hold of Sherlock's arse, pulled the cheeks apart, and immediately slid his thumbs inside, thudding his head on his back and moaning as the heat enveloped them.
Sherlock held back the scream that rose in his lungs as all of the muscles in his body coiled, his body tightening, trying to reject the intrusion. He clawed at the pillow, his knuckles turning white with the tight grip. It hurt. More than he expected. But it wasn't necessarily a bad thing. His cock wasn't soft, and that was a good sign, and the sensations, now that he got used to the two digits inside him, weren't so bad. He bit his lip and then remembered to breathe, forcing his body to relax bit by bit as John's thumbs wiggled around inside him.
"That's right... Shh, Sherlock, good, good..." John whispered comforting murmurs and soft soothing noises into his skin as his thumbs rotated inside of the tight muscle, prying open, digging around. "Just hold on, pretty thing," he breathed, pulling them out and replacing them with his forefingers. "It's about to get really good, Sherlock." They plunged inside, and immediately, John was fucking him with the long digits, in and out, crooking them as he rubbed his hard, thick cock against Sherlock's thigh. He moaned in relief, the pain and need driving him mad with impatience. Shit, he needed to take his time, he shouldn't be hurrying this, he needed to give Sherlock time to process! His mind screamed at him... His body pressed two more fingers in.
Sherlock's entire being was overloaded with pain and arousal. John was going so fast, and it hurt so badly, the four fingers stretching him and thrusting in so quickly that he had no time to get used to them. It hurt, it hurt, it hurt, it hurt, it... "Oooohhhhh," Sherlock gasped, over bright eyes rounding as the fingers brushed against a sensitive spot deep inside him, causing his body to jolt.
He turned his head a little to look at John, his chest heaving as he began to pant. "T...that must have been my prostate." He whispered, a little in awe at how good it felt. Truly the body was a magnificent machine. "Do it again." With a little groan he turned his head back to the pillow, the image of John's aroused face seared into his memory. It was... it was a pretty picture. No, not pretty, John wasn't what Sherlock would call pretty... he was... handsome, attractive, masculine, powerful... he was a soldier. Sherlock smiled to himself and rocked back against the fingers as they brushed against his prostate once more.
"Oh yes, oh yes, oh yes, Sherlock..." John knew he was babbling, but he didn't care. Sherlock was grinding back on his fingers, a beautiful smile on his lips, and shudders wracked the thin frame. From his fingers. From John's bloody fingers. The doctor's breath came fast and heavy, and he whimpered as Sherlock began rolling his hips, fucking himself harder in the invading digits. That was more than John could stand. "I'm really sorry," he grunted, pulling out and scrambling to kneel behind him, the head of his cock nudging the slick, already sore pucker. "I really am, Sherlock." John's wet hands grasped his hip bones, and with a smooth, fluid motion, he drove inside, shouting to the ceiling. FUCK! Fuck! Sherlock was tight, tighter than anything he'd ever experienced, and so wet, warm, perfectly fuckable. John reeled, his mouth hanging open, and he felt a stab of guilt as he realised what he'd just taken from his friend. One drive, one quick motion... and Sherlock was no longer a virgin. No, he was a poor devil getting banged hard for the first time, and John was a bastard.
He moaned, and canted in and out shallowly. Then, a harder, deep thrust. Pleasure exploded in his skull. He juddered once, and snarled at him. "Sorry..." The short, strong little man began pounding him violently, setting a bruising pace.
Sherlock never heard John's apologies, he couldn't hear anything other than the blood rushing around in his ears, that and his own screams. He held the pillow to his face, covering his mouth as he shouted until he was hoarse. John's prick was ripping through him, forcing inside even as Sherlock clamped down around him. Tears filled the detective's eyes as John kept up his pace, nails digging into the detective's delicate flesh, leaving crescent shaped marks. "Ggghh... J...Johnn..." Sherlock gurgled out, his body finally going limp, allowing John to thrust into him at his will. The mind numbing pain was replaced by an astounding burst of pleasure. It invaded every crevice of Sherlock's body, finding all of the secret little nooks and crannies that even Sherlock had never known existed before. He thrust back against John, long, thin arms shooting out as he began to claw at the headboard. The sounds Sherlock was making seemed to alternate between mewls and shouts of encouragement as he widened his legs.
"Fuck, yeah, that's right..." John barked at him as he watched Sherlock's body sag, as he saw the surrender in the muscles of his back, as the pale thighs widened. He bared his teeth, quickening his pace, pounding Sherlock like a rag doll and delighting in the screams. "Spread your legs for me, Sherlock. Take my cock. Oooh, yeah, baby, you feel good, don't you? Fucking look at you..." John's
eyes roamed him hungrily, and he laughed aloud, his head thrown back. In all his years, John had never had a fuck like this. Sherlock was not just willing... he was fucking made for this. He was made to be torn asunder by John's big cock. The soldier rammed him, again and again, and on a sudden whim, John's hand shot out, and he twisted his fingers in the dark curls on his head. He hauled him back unnaturally, and bit his ear again, hissing. "I'm going to shoot off inside you, Sherlock..."
Sherlock nodded as best he could, his eyes squeezed shut. "G...good, y...yes..." his voice seemed to have gone out of his control, it was shaky and slightly high pitched, almost thin sounding as he held onto his faculties, but barely. John's fingers twisted in his hair and he held him tighter, causing the detective to arch his back into a deliciously painful curve. Sherlock's fingers trembled as they found purchase in his night shirt. Ohhh, he would pay John back for this. He would. Next time it would be his turn, and he would pound John into the fucking ground. He'd make John scream and beg for him. He'd... fuck. Was he already thinking about next time? It seemed as though he was. How curious. But then again, why wouldn't he want to continue this? This was incredible. Fantastic. Brilliant. Wonderful. "Hurrrry!" He whined into the night air, letting his fingers loosen on his shirt and reaching back so that he was grabbing John's waist.
John grinned, his eyes rolling back a little. Oh bloody hell. To fuck Sherlock Holmes was glorious enough... to find out he liked it rough? That was just decadent. He reached around, wrapping his fingers around Sherlock's cock, and he shivered to find it hot, pulsing, ready. "Together," he whispered, and his teeth gritted as he bucked, crying out, cumming hard into the slick tunnel.
The power of it was staggering. John shouted, his thumb digging into the slit, his other hand still twisted in Sherlock's hair.
At John's request, and then the tight grip on his prick, Sherlock found himself ejaculating for the second time in just a few short hours. He found that the quite liked this heady sensation of shooting out. It was every bit as pleasurable with John's hand as it had been with his mouth. Of course that might have had something to do with the fact that a very hard, very active cock was inside him and erupting with a great vigour, filling his insides with a pearly white liquid. Sherlock relaxed in John's arms, unable to resist, or even to stay upright. The orgasm flooded him with so many different sensations that it completely overwhelmed him, making him somewhat dizzy. "...John..." he called out softly, barely audible over the loud grunts his partner was making. "Please." Sherlock twisted around a bit. Wide, bright eyes stared into grey ones as Sherlock's mouth formed another plea.
John met the gaze with ferocity, and he thrust one last time, groaning, before he collapsed onto Sherlock's back, withdrawing his hand and staring at the cum dripping from his fingers. Sherlock's. He smiled lopsidedly, sliding off of his companion and lying on his back with a satisfied grunt. He turned his head to look at the silent, still man, and with a pained expression, John rolled on his side, licking his thin lips. "Sherlock?" He worked his jaw, his clean hand coming to rest on the detective's shoulder. John winced when he didn't reply. "How... bad is it?" he asked quietly.
Sherlock pulled his legs up to his chest, a spasm of pain crossing his face. "I'm cold, John." He finally murmured, letting his chin rest on top of bony knees. There was a strange, empty feeling inside of him now that the cum had oozed out. The coolness of the room was more evident than ever now, and an aching pain was beginning to set in where before had been nothing but euphoria. His whole backside
throbbed, causing his stomach to twist in a knot.
Without another word, John stood, walking round to the other side of the bed and lifting the thin body in his arms. He carried him, shivering and half nude, down the hall to the loo, and deposited Sherlock in the clawed porcelain tub. John peeled the shirt from his white shoulders, and he drew a hot bath, constantly running his knuckles up and down the delicate face, the sunken stomach, the long legs. The water filled the bathtub, steaming and warm, and John sat next to him on the tiled floor, gazing up at his best friend, his lover, his lifelong companion. He took his hand, kissing it tenderly. "I'm sorry," he whispered again, barely audible over the rushing water.
Sherlock grasped John's hand and tugged him to the tub, staring down at him. "What are you doing out there?" He asked, his lower lip protruding in a somewhat pouting fashion. "I said I was cold. Body heat is also very effective in warming up." He stared expectantly at John, his eyebrows drawn together as he waited.
John blinked up at him, taking a deep breath. He nodded, and climbed in after him, settling on his stomach with his cheek pressed against Sherlock's chest. "Are you angry with me?" he asked softly, sliding his hands round to pet the sloping back.
Sherlock snorted and rolled his eyes, wrapping his arms around John's stomach and resting his head against the shorter man's. "I don't understand you, John. Why would I be angry? And furthermore, don't you know right away when I am angry? I assumed I had no problem in expressing that emotion." The detective giggled a little and experimentally kissed John's neck, delighting in the soft sigh it brought about. This new development wasn't half bad, he decided. "Just give me one of those handy little pills, and I'll be fine."
"I will." John's hand drifted down between Sherlock's legs, and stroked the abused pucker gently. "As soon as we're out, I will." He lay his ear against Sherlock's beating heart, his eyes drifting closed. It was rapid, a fluttering drum beat that reminded John of a hummingbird. Swift, unearthly, wonderful. He swallowed thickly. "I love you, Sherlock."
"I know you do." Sherlock replied absentmindedly, yawning. "Sex is good for sleep." He remarked, letting a hand slip down to John's thigh, where he began to stroke it with a soft thumb. "This is comfortable." And it was, mostly. Yes, his legs were a little cramped, but that always happened. Sherlock had yet to find a tub that was long enough to fit him without having to bend his knees. He'd long since given up on the search and instead settled with an old tub, as he liked how it looked better than the new ones. Sherlock very much liked the claw feet. He smiled lazily and yawned again. John's fingers brushed his hole once more, and he groaned a little.
John smirked, his eyelashes grazing the pale flesh of his chest. "Sleep now?" he murmured, feeling very lazy himself. He could easily fall asleep here, curled with Sherlock, in the warm water.
The detective nodded in agreement and wrinkled his nose. "Carry me again." He demanded, not wanting to have to walk.
John stood once more, reluctant to move, and he hoisted his lover in his arms again. He carried him to the bedroom, their mouths seeking one another as he walked. It was all right. It was all right that Sherlock hadn't said he loved him back. It would come in time, and if it never did... John would have this. And it was enough.
Sherlock was silent while John dried him off, was silent while he administered two white pills, and silent even when he climbed in next to him and curled up around his back. In fact it wasn't until nearly an hour later, when John was almost sleeping, that he finally spoke. In a low, barely there voice, he finally admitted it. "I do love you, John. I am absolutely positive." And with that he closed his eyes and snuggled closer to the man's stomach, yawning. After all, he'd been mostly sure before. All it took was the past two hours to confirm it.
John's sleepy eyes dragged open, and he looked down at the slumbering man for a few minutes. He pushed the damp curls from his forehead, kissed it, and nestled into the pillow without another word. Tomorrow, he'd move his things down here, and they'd have a case, the clinic, one another. John smiled, holding Sherlock protectively, and he fell asleep as the Masquerade continued throughout the night.