Theoretically
Word Count: ~ 2.000
Summary: "Theoretically," Sherlock said softly, his hand drawing patterns on John's shoulder blade, "we have to stop doing this."
Characters: John Watson, Sherlock Holmes
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: The Great Game / A Scandal In Belgravia
Setting: after the end of the pool scene in A Scandal In Belgravia
Contains: Sex
Author's Note: Written for the holmestice summer exchange and sherlockian4evr, who wished for explicit sex and fluff.
Beta: pandoras_chaos, thank you so much for a super-fast job!
Disclaimer: I'm not making money with this fanfic. The tv show Sherlock and the characters appearing within it belong to their producers and creators. Any similarities to living or dead persons are purely coincidental and not intended.
xxx
John's head thumped against the wall and he grimaced, Sherlock's apology muffled against the skin of his neck, his teeth against John's pulse point causing him to arch his back and bury a hand in Sherlock's curls. Sherlock kicked his bedroom door shut, shutting out the light from the hallway and only leaving them with the illumination of the street lamps falling through the window.
Their lips found each other for a heated kiss that grew clumsy when Sherlock tried to toe off his shoes at the same time. Chuckling against Sherlock's lips, John pulled him closer by his hips, holding him still. "Bad at multi-tasking," he murmured before pushing off the wall and pinning Sherlock against the door. "Interesting."
"Shut up," Sherlock growled, settling his hands on John's hips to pull his shirt out of his jeans impatiently. John's fingers fumbled with Sherlock's belt, dropping it to the floor and immediately starting to work on the button and zip of the trousers. Sherlock huffed a frustrated breath. "Too many buttons," he muttered and gave up with John's shirt only half opened. Instead, he grabbed both the shirt and the cardigan John was wearing and pulled them over his head in one swift move. John yanked Sherlock's trousers down and paused to lean up for another kiss.
Sherlock's hands were hot against the skin of John's back, fisting in his hair to tilt his head up further and allow Sherlock to lead the kiss. John let him, moaning into Sherlock's mouth as he pressed their groins together and felt Sherlock becoming just as hard as he was.
The cab ride home had been torture. Aside from a relieved embrace and a kiss, they hadn't been able to work through the adrenaline the encounter with Moriarty had left them with. It didn't matter right now that John was technically still pissed off at Sherlock's attitude and it didn't matter that a threat had been directed very clearly at them this evening … John just wanted to reassure himself that they were all right and that their connection – the spark that had been there from the start – was still present.
Pushing away from the kiss, he took a few steps back, opening his own jeans and starting to toe off his shoes while Sherlock got rid of his suit jacket and shirt.
Belatedly, John realised that the curtains were open and he pulled them closed. For a moment, the room was almost dark, then the lamp on the bedside table came on and Sherlock plastered himself against John's back. His chest was now naked and his erection pressed into John's lower back through the cotton of their pants. Sherlock's lips nuzzled John's nape and they stilled for a moment, their hands entwining on John's belly. It reminded John of the first time this had happened – that moment of uncertainty …
He turned around, seeking Sherlock's lips in a gentle kiss that grew quickly heated. His fingers teased along the seams of Sherlock's briefs while he moved him backwards towards the bed.
They landed in an ungraceful tangle of limbs and John flipped them so he was hovering over Sherlock. Lowering his head to bite Sherlock's neck gently, his hand moved between their bodies and palmed Sherlock's cock through the cotton of his pants.
Sherlock bent his knees, drawing in a sharp breath. "John," he whispered. John sat up to remove Sherlock's underwear and his own, his gaze not leaving Sherlock's flushed face, his eyes almost black in the low light and his lips pulling into a smile. "What?"
John shook his head. "Nothing."
Sherlock reached out a hand pulled him closer again to rest between his legs. John gasped when their erections brushed against each other, his hand trembling when it reached for the drawer of the bedside table. They were both already straining for release; their stumbled way through the front door and up the flight of stairs having taken a while.
The tube felt cold against the skin of his palm. Sherlock held out a hand and John squeezed some of the lube out, discarding the tube to rub his palm against Sherlock's, warming the liquid up and entwining their fingers. There was no discussion necessary, no words needed, because this wouldn't last long. It never did after situations like tonight's.
John slid his hand around both of their cocks, groaning when Sherlock's slick fist joined his. A gentle squeeze from Sherlock got a moan out of both of them and John moved to kiss Sherlock almost chastely, his lips hovering for a moment before he kissed him again, deeper this time. Sherlock's free hand rested on the back of John's head, keeping him close.
John gasped, his hips snapping forward impatiently, chasing release. They sped up their movements, Sherlock's fingers fisting in John's hair, his panting breaths against John's cheek. When John lowered his head to bite Sherlock's neck, the skin tasted salty and John could feel his pulse race, could feel their cocks sliding against each other, between their hands, the fingers of the arm he was supporting himself with grabbing the sheet.
He cried out when his orgasm hit him, pushing his forehead against Sherlock's shoulder, his hand grabbing onto the head of the bed clumsily while he shuddered. He heard Sherlock moan his name and felt him come as well, his muscles going taut and his nails scratching down John's neck.
John felt weak now, exhausted really, and collapsed to lie next to Sherlock, staring at the ceiling and trying to regain his breath. Leaning over the side of the bed, Sherlock found a towel and used it to clean himself before handing it to John.
They remained silent, but exchanged a kiss with Sherlock cradling John's cheek and John brushing a hand through Sherlock's curls before closing his eyes to doze for a moment.
Sherlock's thumb rubbed over a patch of skin on John's neck. "You didn't mention an injection."
John opened his eyes and looked at him. "That's how they got the better of me." He smiled. "It wasn't important. I feel fine." He slid closer, curling against Sherlock's body until their legs were tangled and their groins pressed together, their lips meeting in kisses while John's hand trailed down Sherlock's flank and Sherlock's arms kept him close. The warmth made John even more sleepy and he let his head rest on the pillow, closing his eyes.
"Theoretically," Sherlock said softly, his hand drawing patterns on John's shoulder blade, "we have to stop doing this."
John frowned and opened his eyes. "Theoretically, you're a daft git." He cupped Sherlock's cheek to soften the words. "Why should we stop?"
"I care," Sherlock answered. "Not about random people, but about you. That makes me vulnerable."
John sighed and rubbed his tired eyes. "Piss off."
"That statement wasn't intended to anger you."
"A lot of things make me angry recently."
"I know," Sherlock replied. "You're having trouble accepting that I didn't care about the victims in the bomb vests as much as you did."
"Among other things."
Silence spread between them, thickening steadily, until John finally sighed and resigned himself that they would be having this discussion now.
"Sherlock," he said, "you are vulnerable because you care about me, yes, but it doesn't make a difference whether we do this or not. You would still care if we'd stop. Plus, I think it's all right to keep yourself distanced from the victims. That's what the police do as well. But you only cared about him – Moriarty – and the sick game he was playing with you. Which brings me to the fact that you have to understand that you can't message a psychopath and expect me to find that all right. He could have killed you. And don't tell me you were intending to arrest him because you sure as hell didn't ask anyone for assistance."
Sherlock sighed. "Arresting him wasn't my intention. I wanted to get to know him just as much as he wanted to get to know me."
John shook his head. "Sherlock, I know you're focussed on your work, but what he is turning you into scares me. I understand that you love the challenge but I think he's manipulating you and you are falling for it."
"I'm pretending to fall for it," Sherlock replied.
"It's really all just a game to you then?"
"No." Sherlock looked at him. "I intend to arrest him, John, but if we had done that tonight, somebody else would have taken his place. Moriarty isn't acting alone, he is the head of something bigger, something I can't fully see yet and until I do, I need to let him manipulate me. If he thinks he's getting the better of me, he will make a mistake; he will reveal information that I can use against him."
"I think he knows more about you than you about him."
"Obviously," Sherlock replied. "He learned about me before I had even heard his name for the first time. He kept an eye on me. He admitted as much. All this was his way of introducing himself and gauging how worthy an opponent I am, but it was also his way of seeing where my limits are. His way of trying to see what would break me. What would make me lose my head. Did you think about the victims, John?"
John nodded. "Yes, of course."
"No, did you really think about the victims?"
John frowned and Sherlock rolled his eyes. "He threatened the life of a woman and a man. An old woman. A child. The more cases he gave me to solve, the more he tried to appeal to my sympathy. I'm sure he wanted to know whether the identity of the victims would influence me."
John nodded. "It didn't, though."
"Of course not. I care about the work, the puzzle, the mystery. Just like he only cares about his work, his success, his network." He pressed his lips together. "I don't care about people. At least not about most of them. And he learned that the identity of the victims didn't make a difference for me … until he grabbed you."
John closed his eyes. "Shit."
"He won because he surprised me. I hadn't expected his game to be about anything else but our work. Instead, he challenged me by showing me that there is one thing he could do that I hadn't thought of: he made it about more than the work. He made it personal."
John sighed and tucked his head into the bend of Sherlock's neck. "Are you angry about that? About him being able to hurt people just to prove a point?"
"I could do the same."
John turned them so that Sherlock was lying on his back with John leaning over him. "You couldn't."
"I already do it all the time, don't I? Isn't that what makes you so angry?"
John smiled sadly. "You're an inconsiderate, unsympathetic, rude, arrogant bastard and yes, you hurt people sometimes just to prove a point but you're nothing like him, so stop pretending you're alike. Because when you're not all that, you're actually warm and caring and generous."
Sherlock shook his head. "What did I tell you about making me out to be a hero?"
"I'm not making you out to be a hero. I'm just telling you that you're a brat … except when you aren't. Which makes you actually quite human." John pecked Sherlock's lips. "And that I love you."
Sherlock looked at him for a long moment, then he brushed a finger down John's cheek. "Theoretically, you shouldn't."
John smiled at him and leaned down for another kiss. "Theoretically, I should never have moved in with you."
Sherlock smiled as well, gentle and warm. "The best decision you ever made."
John rested his head on Sherlock's chest. "Believe me, I know."
END
05/15