Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. I will most likely never own it, and I'm glad that I do not. It would be a mess in my hands.
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Warnings: Talk and description of fetishes, lots of gay, mentions of sexual fantasies and SOME language.
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Author's note: The prompt "fantasy" was what got me to write this monster of a thing. I'm so sorry that this exists now and I'm sorry that the characters get kinda out of character. Guh... just, sorry.
John wasn't prone to fantasies. He was a practical, average guy. He liked cable-knit sweaters and a good cuppa. He was never into bondage or tentacle porn or bukakke. He was the kind of guy that your mother would approve of.
At least, he thought he was, before he met Sherlock.
Before Sherlock, a wank was simple and clean and consisted of picturing decent looking women with respectably sized breasts and backsides doing generally accepted things to themselves or to him.
It wasn't Sherlock, bound and gagged, tied to the mantle, completely naked and helpless but somehow with that same condescending look on his face.
It had never been Sherlock, bent over the chair he often sat in, arse as bare as the day he was born while sporting red marks from the flog in John's hand.
He had never thought like that before Sherlock. Of course, these thoughts weren't immediate. He didn't take one look at Sherlock and think about all of the dirty and shameful things he could do to the man. It was an eventual feeling that grew over time. At first, it was small glimpses of his odd, pale flatmate popping into his mind during wanks, then it started escalating into an attraction he couldn't suppress or ignore. Finally, it became this need that reverberated through his body whenever he thought of the consulting detective. Sometimes, in the fantasies, it was John being the dominant one, whipping or biting or teasing, sometimes it was Sherlock controlling John, pulling his hair, keeping him on a chain. Anything. It was both disconcerting and admittedly relieving. It was nice to know that there was a bit of humanity behind his robotic movements and average thoughts and his attraction to dull personalities.
It was nice to know that he was an individual.
And everything Sherlock said about him. The hidden encouragement shrouded by insults, the smiles, and nods, how it seems that there is little John can do to annoy Sherlock, unlike most others. It just made him feel so interesting. For once, he felt like he meant something to someone. It was weird that that person happened to be Sherlock, however. Sherlock, out of everyone who has ever existed happened to be the person to stumble into his life and make him feel again.
It was interesting, now, to watch Sherlock cross the room, because the only thing John could pay attention to was the elegant movement of his legs, so cat-like, as if on the prowl. Then the thoughts and images started leaking through. Images of Sherlock with a cat's collar around his neck, mewling like a scared kitten.
John's cheeks flushed red as he sunk low in the chair that had so often appeared in his fantasies. It was nice knowing one was human, but when one's humanity shows itself at the most inconvenient of times it can get rather cumbersome.
"John, are you coming down with a fever?" John hears the voice before he's prepared to answer and he has to swallow the lump in his throat before he speaks. "Yeah, I think that's what it is..." He murmurs, embarrassment contorting his usually composed features into a mess of an expression. "I'm just going to go have a lay down."
Sherlock lifted a beautiful eyebrow. John rolled his eyes as he hurried up the steps to his room.
He knew it was ridiculous, these things that he was feeling. He wasn't even gay... at least until he met Sherlock, and even then it took a while to recognise that the feeling was sexual.
One man could picture another man whilst pleasuring himself without it being gay, right?
John sighed as his head hit the pillow. He tried keeping his wandering hands above his waistband, but it no avail. His fingers popped his jean buttons open easily, the rebellious appendages slipping slowly, reluctantly, into his trousers and he let the kitten fantasy wash over him.
John descended the stairs approximately twenty minutes later, feeling much better. Sherlock was sitting on the couch typing madly away on the keyboard of, of course, John's laptop.
"Have you sufficiently pleasured yourself?" Was the sentence that John was immediately greeted with. Sighing, he supposed he shouldn't have expected anything more delicate. "I do believe that is my business." John rumbled, a hand covering his eyes in both shame and exasperation. He understood that there were practically no secrets under this roof, at least when it came to him, but perhaps that question was a bit too invasive.
Sherlock shrugged nonchalantly, as if he hadn't just asked his flatmate how his wank had been. "You didn't use your computer. Was there something else stimulating-"
"Sherlock! For God's sake, drop it!"
There was a smirk on the detective's lips that made John uneasy. "It was quite the sporadic-"
"Sherlock." John stared at the other man in shock . Why wouldn't he just drop the subject?
"I am simply stating my observations. You were watching me pace and then you were gone, presumably to masturbate... it is a curiosity."
John had chosen to sink himself as far down in his chair as he possibly could, as if making himself as small as possible could save him from his flatmate's deductions.
"And it is... I was curious. I searched around for something that might have inspired such actions in you and I found none. Then I remembered your face just before you leapt up so enthusiastically, and it is to be assumed that it was a thought that crossed your mind that might have-"
"Sherlock, you've made your point. Leave it be."
"I'm bored."
Sighing dramatically, John draped himself across the chair, an arm over his eyes. "You're impossible."
There was no response, which struck the doctor as odd. He glanced over where his friend was sitting, noticing how his long fingers were still poised against the keys, but they had paused, his face was at a standstill, a look of shock on his features and, to John's surprise, a slight flush to his angular cheeks.
John's eyebrows knit together in confusion, ignoring how good the detective looked with a blush. "What?" He asked, simply, pushing himself up. That piercing gaze flicked up to watch John cross the room and the subtle move of his body away from the computer was slightly disconcerting. "Sherlock, what's wrong?"
John glanced over his friend's shoulder and the title of the unpublished blog post that still sat in his drafted posts caused his own face to flush an embarrassed pink.
The title of the post was, much to John's dismay, 'Fuck Me, Sherlock Holmes'.
Well, so much for subtle.
The blog post basically consisted of the various fantasies John had imagined since they first started, his explanation of how he just need to get the situation out, put it in an organised format so as to be able to think about it more clearly; and then more of the frustrated paragraphs explaining what, exactly, he wanted to do with the consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes.
"Sherlock, I-"
He was interrupted by a palm centimetres from his face and a shaking head that struck fear in the pit of John's stomach. This most likely meant an end to their friendship, to their flat share and their partnership.
This unpublished, mad smattering of words that John had almost forgotten still existed had singlehandedly ruined his life in a matter of seconds.
Or, at least he thought so.
Licking his dry lips, John tried to keep himself from begging. Finally, a squeaky "Sorry," fell from his lips and he ran his finger through his hair, watching his friend's unmoving body as his eyes scanned the words again and again.
Why was he still reading? Why wouldn't he cease this embarrassment and tell John to leave before the man broke down.
"John, you haven't a thing to be sorry about."
John blinked quickly, the tears that had been constricting his throat and pushing against his eyes leaked through a bit, and he had to wipe away the single drop that rolled down his cheek. "What?" His voice was a croak, confused and dry.
Sherlock shook his head slowly, avoiding eye contact with his friend. "This blog post did not upset me."
Ever more confused, John gripped the edge of the desk for support. "What?" He sounded like a broken record, but he didn't quite care, he wanted answers.
"Intrigued me, yes. Confused me, a bit. Inspired me, most likely. But it definitely has not upset me."
Through his blurred vision, John noticed that the blush had not left his friend's face. Inspired? Intrigued? What was going on?
Finally, Sherlock turned towards John, blinking rapidly as the other man had been moments before, but perhaps for a different reason.
"John, do you fancy me?"
The answer seemed to shockingly clear that John wasn't sure how to respond at first, and the look on Sherlock's face - a mix between confused and curious - wasn't exactly helping. John knew he couldn't lie, not now, but he also didn't know exactly how to respond that wouldn't get him in some sort of trouble.
Finally, "Yes. Yes, I do."
Sherlock nodded, slow and calculating.
"Then, I suppose you wouldn't mind if I tried kissing you?"
John was utterly floored. He'd gone through every reaction he could fathom from his friend, never expecting an invitation. Perhaps John was insecure, but now he was just relieved as he found himself shaking his head slowly, not able to find the words in his throat for a proper response, but his body moved forward a fraction, just enough to make it all okay.
Sherlock pushed himself up ever so slowly, as if still uncertain. John waited, patient, thrilled with the initiation that his friend was showing. He had always imagined having to initiate their first kiss, but he shivered with anticipation as Sherlock's hand wrapped around his wrist at a snail's pace and his lips approached his own, so scared and hesitant.
Sherlock, scared.
How beautiful.
Finally, their mouths connected and John could not hold himself back any longer, his arms enveloped the other man unprecedented, a growl that he had been holding back for months ripped from his throat as he pinned Sherlock against the desk, fingertips digging into skin and teeth nipping at fragile flesh.
It was everything he had ever wanted, but then he noticed the hesitance in Sherlock's actions and he pulled back, preventing himself from attacking those reddened lips once again. "I'm sorry." John murmured, resting his forehead against the other man's, refusing to relinquish the contact he had been craving for so long.
The breath against his lips was addicting. "Don't be. I'm just... thinking."
Those words rang through John's body and he pulled away, scared that he had frightened off his friend already.
"About what?" John didn't always question the great man's thinking process, but he was anxious.
He didn't want to ruin this.
Sherlock's fingers tightened around John's wrist for a moment. "What this means." He answered, finally.
John chewed on his lip, taking in a ragged breath. "Well, you know what I want it to mean." He murmured, finally, wondering if he should pull himself away, but the grip on his wrist was becoming an anaconda-like vice and he noticed an arm had slunk around his waist that kept him from going too far.
"And I am guilty of... similar expectations, John."
John's eyes widened as he watched the other's gaze drop to their collective feet, John's own bare and Sherlock's clad with his ever-present dress shoes.
Those shoes had been featured in several of John's less-than-innocent dreams.
He shook the thought from his mind, bringing his attention back to his friend who seemed to having a rather intense internal battle.
"Then what's stopping you?"
Sherlock pursed his lips, his eyes sliding closed. "John, I want you to understand that I have not had such thoughts for anyone but you. This is all rather new to me and I hope you understand that it is quite difficult for me to deal with such emotions. I have been so incredibly tortured over this for the past several months, and it has just been revealed to me that perhaps I do not need to hide it anymore, and that..." He paused, licking his lips slowly as his eyes opened and searched somewhere beyond John's shoulder.
"It... frightens me."
John couldn't help himself as he leaned forward and brought Sherlock further into his arms, allowing the man to bury his face in the crook of his shoulder. "Know that I do care for you, Sherlock, and I am willing to do anything for you. Just say the word."
It had not been said out loud before today, but both men were fully aware. It seemed Sherlock. however, needed to hear it himself.
"Then... I would like to keep kissing you." He still looked uncertain, but with an underlying determination. Never before had Sherlock been so open before John. It was nothing if not beautiful.
"As you wish."
And so they did. They kissed for some time, eventually ending up entangled on John's plush chair, glowing with a relief and happiness that was so new and enjoyed by them both. It was as if they had been released from their own personal shackles, the things that kept them from what they wanted in fear of rejection or some greater separation that they both knew was never possible, especially now as John felt the fantasies slipping away and replaced by this man, just him with his leg draped across John's lap and his fingers in John's hair and his lips on John's lips. He didn't need the fantasies any longer when the real thing was here, happy to be with him, be connected to him on some higher level than they both understood.
John felt more complete than he'd ever been, more whole with the other side to his coin.
Perhaps that was the greatest fantasy.