A/N: This is the revised version of a story I had put up, and decided to make some changes. Hopefully this is going to be a multi-chapter thing, if I get reviews (comments are wonderful too! I love getting mail!) and I am kind of liking where this is going.
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters. I just enjoy making them do naughty things.
Three weeks. Three weeks since Sherlock started acting strangely. John noticed it began right after a particularly thrilling case involving disguises, sneaking around dark alleys, and rooftop chases. Those were always his favorites. Racing along the top of the city, next to his partner-in-justice, the famous Sherlock Holmes.
On the third night of the case, Sherlock and John were together in a small alley, tracking down a killer. They were waiting in a location Sherlock had specified to be where they would catch the murder (he was right, of course). They had been waiting there for about 15 minutes, trying to breathe as quietly as they could. It was cramped and close, barely allowing for two people. John was pressed flat against the alley, back to the cold brick wall. Sherlock was in front of him, hands on either side of John's head. The moon was full, casting shadows across the alley. Sherlock's chiseled face look carved from marble, pale and angular. Those famous cheekbones, that long, sculpted neck, and those piercing eyes that could see a person's entire life story with a glance. The power those eyes held was incredible.
As John was staring at Sherlock, his heart was racing, his breath coming in short pants. Of course, it could be from the straight half mile they ran, but John knew that wasn't really the case. He was acutely aware of every inch pressed against the detective, and how hot the chilly November air seemed to become. John noticed Sherlock was breathing rapidly, his pupils dilated, heart loud enough to hear in the small space. The dull hum of the city was drowned out by the sounds of his pulse and breathing. As he looked at Sherlock, emotions and impulses began to surface that he didn't knew were there. He noticed Sherlock's mouth, pale lips slightly agape, air passing through in a quick rhythm. He suddenly had a fleeting image of wrapping his arm around Sherlock, hand tangling in those dark curls, and tugging his head down to press their lips together. John's pulse jackknifed at the thought, the urge becoming so unbearable that he actually began to lift his arm when the killer decided to come racing around the corner.
John sat in his leather chair, sipping his tea, mulling over the memory. After that night, he noticed Sherlock begin to act differently. Sherlock would leave the room if John came in, would only speak in short, clipped sentences, and seemed to generally avoid him. John had no idea how to approach this, and knew only that it was making it difficult to live with. Being flatmates with someone is hard when one person is doing everything they can to limit contact.
Just as John was about to get up and make himself some toast, Sherlock came in. He clearly didn't expect to see John, immediately looking away. John had had enough.
"Sherlock, tell me what's going on. This is getting ridiculous. You don't talk to me, you leave whenever I'm in the room, and you come up with excuses to work as far away from me as you can on a case," John said. It was about time to get some answers.
"Nothing is going on. I merely am not in the mood for socializing. You know that I prefer solitude when working on a case," Sherlock responded. John rolled his eyes.
"This has been happening for weeks, and you know it. Just tell me what's wrong so we can work this out. We can only go on like this so long," John told him. Sherlock looked him in the eyes, showing a kind of vulnerability that John had never seen before.
"I don't know how to tell you this, John. I don't know how this will affect our relationship as partners," Sherlock replied. John raised an eyebrow.
"I thought we got past that. I was assuming we made it into the 'friend' stage, at least. And just tell me. I won't judge, and it won't change anything," John reassured him as an afterthought.
"It's just…I feel so incapable. I'm having all of these reactions that I keep trying to shut out but they keep coming back whenever I'm around you. I feel…weak, helpless…"
"Human?" John finished for him gently. Sherlock nodded.
"I have been training myself to tamp down anything that interferes with work, that inhibits my thinking. And I don't even know what to call…whatever it is I'm feeling. I just know what I observe, from a purely scientific standpoint. The physical sensations are tied to being in close proximity with you, so, to avoid those, I stay away from you. It makes perfect sense," Sherlock explained. John's eyes softened as his heart melted for his friend. Sherlock didn't know how to feel, and it was scaring him.
"Sherlock, have you ever thought, just maybe, feeling human might actually be a good thing?" John suggested. Sherlock shook his head, as if it were a completely absurd concept. For someone so smart, Sherlock Holmes was one of the most innocent men in the world when it came to matters of the heart and soul.
"I just know that I get strange physical impulses that I know to act on would be folly," Sherlock said. John stepped closer, slowly, so as not to scare his friend. Sherlock stood there, watching, not quite sure what to do. John kept coming closer until they were almost touching chest-to-chest, their body heat radiating off each other.
Unfortunately, that's just when the kettle started whistling.
"We'll continue this talk later. Don't think you're getting away from this. We need to discuss this if it's going to be an ongoing issue," said John as he made his way to the stove. He pulled the kettle off the burner, using the time to take a deep, slow breath. Lately, it seemed that being around Sherlock made his skin go hot and his heart start stuttering in a way that it had no reason to. He could understand, at least to some degree, what Sherlock was going through.
John poured himself a mug, and then, as an afterthought, made another one for Sherlock. He glanced over at his flatmate and saw that he was curled up in his usual ball on the leather chair in front of the telly, having turned it to some random program that he was watching with far too much intensity.
As John made his way over to his chair, he silently handed Sherlock the mug, who looked at it, sniffed it, and placed it beside him, without saying a word. What John didn't see, when he turned to look at the telly, was Sherlock's deep shudder that ran through his whole body.
For Sherlock, he had never been this hyperaware of someone in the room as he was at that moment. At best, he noticed people were around him when he was working on a case. But this was insane. He was cataloging every breath, every shift, every change John made in the chair next to his. Sherlock was trying, perhaps a bit too hard, to not look in his direction and keep himself under control. He felt some strange, wild impulse to walk over to John, straddle his waist, and kiss him blind. Sherlock almost smacked himself for being so stupid. That's when John left the room.
John had to get out of there. He was breathing a bit too fast, and was getting too flushed. He barely managed not to run to his room, walking with a slight limp due to the raging hard-on currently trapped against his bottoms. He finally made it and stripped off his shirt, got to the bathroom, and washed his face in cold water as a desperate attempt not to totally wreck this whole thing. Finally he couldn't take it. He made it to his bed, sat down, damn near ripped his trousers and pants off, and began slowly running his hand up and down his painful erection. His moan of relief was louder than intended, but at that moment it didn't really matter.
John was so focused on what he was doing, he didn't hear the graceful, whisper-quiet footsteps leading to his room. Sherlock peered in from the crack in the door, and he almost fell to his knees at the sight of John wanking off. He was stunning. The light fell in from the window, illuminating him and turning his hair a perfect gold. His unoccupied hand gripped the sheets so tightly his knuckles turned white, and his head was thrown back, mouth open in silent ecstasy. Sherlock's desire drove a railroad spike of lust through his groin, making him bite down on his fist to keep from moaning aloud. He did, however, gasp a little. It was too much to hope John hadn't heard. As soon as he did, John immediately slowed, but didn't stop.
"I know…you're there, Sherlock. If you want to watch, that's…that's fine, just come in or stay out," John finished, the last couple words coming through clenched teeth. His strokes were getting faster, adding a little twist at the top and occasionally making a sweeping pass over the slit that brought a gorgeous groan from his throat. Sherlock couldn't take it anymore.
John had to admit, he almost wept with relief when Sherlock slowly came in and shut the door quietly behind him. He sat on the chair in the corner, legs apart, revealing his massive boner that made John's breath come a bit quicker. He needed to put on a show.
John began to change his pace, going for slow, pressurized strokes that pulled at the tender skin and squeezing his length as he dragged his fist up. He played with his balls with the other hand, moaning at the dual sensation. He heard a slight exhalation from Sherlock, and, encouraged, began to try new tactics. He ground his hips against the bed, as if on top of an invisible lover. Oh God, what he wouldn't give to be inside of Sherlock right now, he mind going blank at the image of Sherlock writhing helplessly in pleasure underneath his talented hands. As a doctor, he knew every single spot that would cause any person intense pleasure, pain, or both. And he wasn't afraid to use that knowledge to his advantage.
John didn't notice that Sherlock had moved, and was now kneeling on the bed in front of him. He looked up at John with a silent request, and heard John's answering "Fuck yes" of a reply. Sherlock took John in his hand, having never done this before, looked at it as a kind of scientific observation. He began to move his hand, wondering what he could do to recreate those amazing sounds John had been producing earlier. He pulled up and down slowly, gently, testing the waters. When John let out a soft groan and bucked his hips a little, Sherlock took that as a sign and began stroking harder and faster. When he heard a hitch in John's breath, he suddenly took him in his mouth without warning.
John had laid back around the time Sherlock began to change his pace, and he shot up with a cry between a choke and a gasp when he felt a warm wetness envelop him. He threaded his fingers through Sherlock's hair and pulled. Sherlock groaned, the vibrations around John's cock making him jump a little and moan with desperate need. Sherlock swirled his tongue around the head, delving into the slit and grinning around John's cock and the answering shout. He ran his tongue along the thick vein, pulsing in his mouth. He was so incredibly turned on right now that he shoved his hand down his pants and began palming himself, moaning.
As soon as John saw that Sherlock was getting off on blowing him, he barely had time to shout a "Fuck…I'm c-" and then cut off by his orgasm as it ripped through him like a hurricane, his world flashing white for a good 45 seconds. Sherlock swallowed every bit, shockingly enough. As soon as he was done, he yanked Sherlock up and crashed his lips against the taller man's. John felt Sherlock's hardness and decided that it was time to return the favor. John was able to pull of Sherlock's trousers and pants, get about five hard pulls, and Sherlock was coming with the most gorgeous moan he had ever heard in his life, a velvety "John" before he began undulating his body in time with the pulsing waves of his orgasm. When it subsided, he laid down with John, both breathing hard.
After a while, he sat up, an embarrassed smile on his face.
"Sorry. It's just, I've never done that before, and it felt so…good-" Sherlock couldn't even finish his sentence as the mere memory of his blinding orgasm momentarily stunned him.
"Don't worry about it. It just takes practice to build up stamina," John replied.
"And I suppose…there will be more practice?" Sherlock asked, the hesitation in his voice more apparent that John had ever heard from the world's only consulting detective.
"I should hope so. After that, I think you've ruined self-gratification for me," John replied with a chuckle.
"Come on. Let's clean up. I want to see if it was really River Song who shot the Doctor on the beach," Sherlock said.
"You watch Doctor Who?" John asked, surprise coloring his voice.
"On occasion. Why are you looking at me like that? I admire his powers of deduction," Sherlock replied, defense in his tone. John just shook his head and grinned, making his way to the bathroom to clean up.
He had a feeling this was the beginning of a very interesting relationship.