Author: tigersilver
Pairing: S/J
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 4,000
Warnings/Summary: Sherlock's approach to life's little events and situations is absolutely not normal; this John Watson accepts. His methods as employed to affix John's romantic interest firmly in his direction, though? They simply must be experienced to be believed. John only hopes he'll live through them, preferably without his brain imploding.

This is last of the 'Actually, Yes' series and I do hope you enjoyed them. Ta, now. Oh, find the rest on my A03 or fanfiction accounts, please, if convenient.

"Sherlock!"

In the chauffeured car—long, black and hideously expensive; what sort of man is Sherlock's brother?—Sherlock descends to his knees onto the mat almost immediately. He's a professional, yes, but it's not that hat he's wearing, metaphorically.

John's lungs catch, frozen into stillness by the glitter of pale eyes gleaming. He's seen lust, he's seen want, he's seen what verges on fondness in them before, but he's never seen anything precisely like this.

"John," Sherlock groans, as if it hurts him deep inside, any time wasted away on the mundane acts of life, such as dealing with interfering clothing, and proceeds to viciously rip John's flies apart, undoing his belt buckle, tearing madly at the zip-and-snap of his jacket, exposing him—all John's lower belly and his bits, all the soft parts. "John. John, John."

Oh, god, he's such a mouth on him, John thinks in scattered scraps and dashes—lips, tongue, teeth, barely tucked away behind lips, and then fucking suction. Forcing suction; John feels quite liked he's being hoovered! Professional, yes, alright; Sherlock can't seem to help but be brilliant at all he takes on, but this isn't, not so much. This is a bit messy, hurried and rash, and it's not the actor Sherlock Holmes on set John sees knelt before him, no. It's the real deal, as those scripted shags in the studio have never quite been, no matter how good at their craft either of them is. And it's so bloody fucking real, and it's so brutally true, like the existence of sweet honey in a pot and the fact of John's going away from Sherlock for a long time and the bitter inevitability of just how much John will feel bereft—ah!

No, this is…amazing! Brilliant! Superb. Fingers and toes, oh, my!

John gasps out all the adjectives, half-unhinged by sensation, and Sherlock's dark eyebrows pop up his lovely high forehead as the skin about his even lovelier eyes crinkles into lines of grinning pleasure.

"Hmm," he hums, in that bloody toff drawl, stopping for the briefest moment to gaze wickedly up at John's unguarded stare, eyes flickering greedily as he takes in all John's befuddled awe. "You do realize you say those things aloud, John? You do."

"Ah…yes!"

John squeaks, flushing faintly, glancing away instantly. He keeps his hands away from his bits only by sheer will; he's a bit embarrassed, honestly.

And…he's amusing? To Sherlock? It was the wrong thing to—ah, er? But he'd quite fancied Sherlock liked it, knowing how much…ah, well. Another mystery, was it? Among many; too many. He blinks carefully at the dimmed interior of the car before he dares peer back again. Sherlock is regarding him oddly and the flicker of his triumphant smile has been wiped clean.

"Erm. Ah. Shouldn't I have?"

"No, no," Sherlock replies strongly, every line of his face fiercely, palpably satisfied as he mouths the very tip of John's straining prick, teasing it with a taste of stray worship from tip-tilted lips, quirking wryly. And lewd tongue. He grins again 'round the spit-slippery bulb of John's dick and it's the very Devil's smile. All Faustian and subsuming, like sinful hot treacle. "Don't stop. Not on my account, John."

"Ah, okaa—ack…oh! Oh, oh!"

He's back on John in an instant, all about swallowing deep and raw; John rears back against the squabs of the bench seat and concentrates on notsquealing. Well, not squealing like a girl, or too pathetically loudly, that is. Because Sherlock sucking him off on the literal fly is awesome: it's the best ever, sloppy or not, and Sherlock is a genius, and Sherlock's gazing up at him in the ever-changing light of the streetlamps whizzing by with an undeniably, absolutely honest expression of utter devotion.

Yes, devotion, which is more than divine in any world, any universe John's ever imagined or inhabited, on screen or no. His lover's beautifully cut lips are bowed out in an 'O', a perfect circle, that long pale throat works madly, and John nearly swoons over the sight. He knows in his bones every nuance of speech that normally comes from that mouth, every precise syllable, and this astonishingly mute act of the usually baffling Sherlock for his sake is—well, it's.

"Oh, god, oh, god, oh, Sherlock…..ah!"

Gorgeous, oh god yes. No other word can do the sight of this brilliant act of fellatio justice, none. Just…gorgeous.

Excellent.

Brilliant—yes! Extraordinary.

Fuck, but he's running out of adjectives altogether! John's scurrying thought processes—what there is remaining of them—are fortunately interrupted before he can stupidly spiral into a mini-depression over it.

"John," his errant Cupid mumbles 'round John's surging cock, strident in its uprightness where he's thrusting unconsciously up against the ridged roof of his amazing lover's mouth. "John?"

"Mmm…eh?" John's hips jerk to a halt. "What, Sherlock?"

Sherlock shockingly ceases the suction just for the sake of another little chat, apparently, staring up at John, blinking rapidly. He seems puzzled; unhappy with it, too. Opens and closes his mouth a few times before coming out with it, what's on his brilliantly squirrelly mind: "You…you do know you're beautiful, don't you? John? And I have you, now. Ah…right. So." He shakes his curls, as if to clear his head of a fog. "Please…have these?"

John's eyes widen as Sherlock fumbles in a pocket with one hand, never leaving go of John's still quite painfully erect cock with the other. Casts hastily a small white box—familiar? familiar!—upon John's wide-spread thighs and then also a slightly battered envelope—vellum, creamy, embossed with the BA logo. Tickets? A ticket, rather?

Tickets for what? And that's the box John had been so curious over, earlier. The same one the little prissy man at the Jewelry counter had made such a fuss over. But…meant for Sherlock's mum, wasn't it? Or…was it?

"They're for you; I got them."

With that very strange declaration Sherlock grips the base of John's prick tightly and waggles it about imperiously, his knuckles working away at it, all a bloody symphony of slippery rubbing, squeezing and fondling. John can barely see, much less think, but the man on his knees before him is just as clearly distracted, and the process of John's beautiful, earth-shattering blowjob has been rudely halted mid-stream, apparently, solely at Sherlock's willful discretion. So they can indulge in a little talk, which is purely exasperating!

"I did." He announces this as if John should inordinately proud of him, just for entering a shop and making a purchase. The man stares down at John's quivering thighs, tightening his amazing lips into a thin line for an instant before transfixing John with a boldly inquisitive stare. "Me, John."

John has no idea what to say. His brain cells have mostly checked out for the duration; there's no oxygenated blood left up there to fuel them. "Er?"

"John!" He is frowned at again, fiercely, and Sherlock's moistened lips purse unhappily as he licks them. "D'you see?"

"What's—what's this all about, then? Weren't we just…just?"

John doesn't actually 'see', no. John's out of breath; has been for some time. The world has staggered to a very slow reel all about him. And it's as though he ceased the regular inhaling and exhaling of mundane old oxygen some time before, when first bundled into the car by an enthusiastic Sherlock. He's not even positive what planet he's inhabiting currently, but whatever it is, he's convinced he'll adjust. Soon, very soon. Give him time, that's all. Breathing's boring, really. He'd much prefer to stare down at his gorgeous co-star and maybe drool over him, just a bit. Quietly. Like any devoted fan would do…Oh—yes! There was a question asked of him, wasn't there?

He has no clue, really, what this is about. Vastly struck, all John can manage is to repeat himself: "Sherlock! Wha-what?"

"Take them?"

The demand barely impinges on John's altered consciousness. No, really.

It's…it's beyond all expectations. It's almost beyond what John can imagine, even stretching for it—this. This. Sherlock Holmes upon his knees on the floor mats of a borrowed car, his every iota of attention pasted upon John's reaction. Waiting—oh, just waiting about, visibly hanging upon John's every twitch and murmur, and ever so anxious with it. As if…as if Sherlock didn't know, not really, what came next in line, what was what, what was purely logical, even if he did know, empirically. John can see he does know; he's sorted out all the clues, just as he always does. John's an open book; his heart's desire is written in every line of him, lax and receptive and eager for an expert Sherlock, but he's…still. Sherlock's stillnot apparently properly satisfied with what normal old body language is shouting at him.

He gives John's cock another tiny impatient shake, making it bob about.

"Look. See! What I've brought you; take them, please. Say you will? John? John!"

No, negatory, nyet. Nope. He's not at all convinced this is even happening, is John. It's an alien world, Sherlock coming over all insistent at John for not instantly tearing into what can only be his intended Christmas gifts. What's odder by far is they're in midst of making their way intentionally to exactly the sort of do Sherlock usually most despises and will go miles out of his way to avoid: a public venue inhabited by all sorts of regular, boring people, jammed together like kippers in a tin, and then the place swarming with children and amateurs. No, amateurchild actors! Ye, gods!

John blinks. Child actors, oh, god! The worst! Worse than dogs, cats and horses, even! Even his own little niece as a bloody lobster—ah!

But…Sherlock's staring at John, transfixed, and ignoring all that, impending papier-mâché crustaceans and everything.

It's the strangest expression on him, Sherlock. It's as if John's a dream come true, conjured just for him, and Sherlock is having a problem believing it's real, what's going on here. And, too…as if he's terribly, horribly frightened of something, some event that's not happened yet, but coming soon, despite him. Eaten up by it, this fear, the fact of John's cock firmly in his hand firmly aside. The fact the car's purring away around them, eating up the miles to their destination as well.

"I don't," John begins, swallowing against a very dry palate, but he's not quite certain what he doesn't. Doesn't understand—doesn't…trust, maybe? "…Don't."

"John." His lover's voice is ever so soft, and it cracks, just a bit, coming forth; Sherlock winces, pulling a horrid face, an exquisite grimace. "Please. Take them or not, but."

He sucks in a hard breath and settles the line of his shoulders, broad and wide, as if facing up to something dreadful.

"Just…just don't simply go, John. Don't go? Not without…not without looking them over, at least. Please? At least look? At what I've got you. It's a present, for Christmas. John. Gifts—both of them are. You like Christmas; I know you do."

Oh, god.

"And the presents and the waste of silly wrapping," Sherlock sneers vaguely, wrinkling his nose. "Probably those ghastly decorations, too."

He's never been anyone's dream, really. John hasn't. He's a nice bloke, of course, or tries to be, and not half bad looking, and he's possessed of decent manners and excellent technique. He's a damned proficient actor. And he's shy with it, unassuming, 'hiding his light under a bushel', as Harry harangues him constantly, but…it is how it is. He's been called competent and able, talented and similar, but he's never, has John Watson, been the sole object of such a brilliant man's attentions—his affections, actually. Because they are very clearly engaged, Sherlock's heretofore dubious 'affections'.

"That bloody song they all keep playing—what is it? 'Feel it in my fingers' or some such crap? Bosh!"

He's never heard such pleading words spoken, not on his account. They're amazing. John may just come to believe. Maybe…if he ever catches his breath, that is.

But Sherlock's jabbering at him, yet:

"Or, come back, rather. Return, I said. Did you hear? It's a… it's a Christmas gift, John. Naturally I know you must go; me, as well. It's horrid; no help for it, I can't stop it happening, but—but, John? John? I'm saying this now—come back again? To the flat."

That question has John jolting into an abrupt and intense awareness, for the first time in what seems like a very long while.

"Oooohhhh, Sherlock, Sherlock…" he breathes, profoundly and pleasantly astounded. Down to the very core of him, really. "What, seriously?"

"Please, John?"

Oh…bloody! That tongue…those lips!

And those eyes, imploring.

"To me."

John is stone-cold shocked. Sherlock wouldn't bother otherwise. He wouldn't. He can't be arsed half the time to curry the favour of the biz that employs him, he mostly hates and despises his own agent, the git; why would he ever give a flipping fuck as to what another two-bit porno actor thinks of him? Why would he?

"There's your fare, all prepared for you. And an appropriate seasonal item, stuck in an appropriate box, all right? And?" With a little huff, Sherlock's lips are dancing upon John's prick once more, fluting about, sending shivers all through him. "There—will—be–tea!"

John smiles. Broadly, and possibly idiotically, and nods. Even to a brain bloody superannuated by several sorts of endorphins, it's remarkably clear. Crystal clear.

Yes, yes. It's so brilliant, it's bloody dazzling. It's a blinding revelation, right here in a car, whilst being sucked off, and honestly? Honestly, John is floored—beyond floored. He's gutted, actually, arse-over- tea kettle and completely awash in a species of blissful delirium. What he'd imagined before as compared to what's apparently happening here—well, it's a bit of a miracle, really. He's never thought—never hoped—never laid a wager on any turn-out like this.

This!

"Right, yes, so?"

Sherlock's mumbling round John's cock again, against all odds. He's even vaguely coherent in that enunciated way of his, though his eyes are nearly slitted shut and his words are muffled.

"Three weeks from now, we've both a weekend break scheduled. 21st January, John? We'll meet here? No, not here. In the flat, of course; mine. Yours, too, if you will. You don't require that other one, do you? No, you don't! It's dreary and cramped and can't possibly suit you. London's very dear, no sense in maintaining two residences when we only need one, John. And our Mrs Hudson will be ecstatic. Another male boarder, exactly as her neighbor Mrs Turner's 'married ones'! Tea for two, again; she adores that, silly cow, but god help us all, she does. Say yes, John Watson—just. Agree?"

The bastard's speaking at John, teasing his cock with little sucks and dipping strokes, kisses and licks, all through the ongoing siege of John's ears.

"Oh-my-god! Sherlock!"

It's—it's infuriating!

"John. John?"

It's a brilliant dream, and John? He could care less if they drink their tea without milk, and he could give a bloody flying fuck if they never leave the messy, musty bed Sherlock calls his own, and he could honestly exist quite well in a completely rubbish environment, brim full of discarded scripts and toppling mounds of arcane theatrical references, provided Sherlock Holmes lived there, too. Odd, fusty things in the fridge, stale biscuits, never a clean surface to be found—none of that, withstanding. Doesn't matter a stinking crap; none of it matters. Not important.

He dearly wants to open his mouth and utter the simple word yes, to agree to all Sherlock asks of him. But there's this one thing, this important, crucial, life-shattering iota of info John needs to have in order to reciprocate. His life hinges on it; he's a tenacious man and he needs so much to simply know. He'll be halfway round the world on 5th January, in a foreign country, and acting his arse off. Any break in the filming schedule is damned sure to be dreadfully tedious; it'll all take that much longer to complete, won't it?

"Sh-Sherlock?"

John grasps at a shoulder, clad so well in that bloody fucking coat. All charcoal wool, and saturninely beautiful, just like the man. Because he's not stopped sucking, Sherlock, moving that brilliant tongue all 'bout. Not for an instant, and John's so near the edge it's not bloody frigging funny. He can barely think, but he must think—he must.

All the same.

There's a spoon in his pocket riding on it, and that damned honey. No, it's his poor, wrung-out heart riding on it, poised on the verge of an abyss. He scrabbles for a mental handhold, somewhere in his head, and tries to make some sense of it, everything laid out before him, practically chalk-lined.

"Sherlock?"

"Mnnph?"

"Is it? Do you—do you—d'you want me? Me?"

"Oh, John. I'd…"

"No, no! You're saying—this is about you? Wanting me? After—after Christmas is over?"

There's a tiny pause, and it seems as if the world itself stops grinding away on its axis, although the car is always moving, carrying them on to their destination. To little Miranda, and to Harry and Clara both, all bright-eyed, and John's own family, and then, too, mayhap one day he'll be even introduced to Sherlock's: Mummy and this mysterious brother who has such wealth flung about at his fingertips.

For now, all of that makes no matter. Not to John Watson. There's only the one small thing, just the one little miracle—and only Sherlock Holmes can give it to him. John would have it no other way.

"I'd die for you," Sherlock groans, pulling off with a growling moan, and the next instant goes down on John's prick with a vengeance. "I'd—always—ever—fucking—bloody—die for you. Oh, John!"

"Oh—no—really?"

"I'd wait for you." It's all he's ever wanted. Everything, wrapped in an amazing package. "Too; yes! Always. Yes, of course I would; how could you even doubt it?" He seems quite upset, Sherlock. Wild-eyed and breathing fast. "Think, John, think! Haven't I all but proved it? Shopping! Hah!"

"Oh, god. God!"

"Everything I do, everything I am—and, and! Heath—row!" Sherlock stutters, swallowing down chaotically between words, and John's so close again, so very fucking close. "Heathrow, John—the 23rd coming. Eight o'clock—on the dot. I'll be—"

"Oh, jeezus! Bloody fuck."

"Waiting. And you, at—ah! Eight—ought—five, John—John?"

"Sherlock." He cannot sit still moment more. John rushes forward, leaning his entire upper body into it, curling down so he can bury his face in the curls, so sweet they are, and presses a few frantic kisses to Sherlock's furrowed forehead. The very palms of his perspiring hands are grateful to grasp at that coat, and then slide achingly to the angular bones and marble-hued skin hidden beneath it, warm and writhing. His fingers slip on the silk of Sherlock's shirt, creasing it; he could give a damn as he shoves at it, fumbling his way sure and certain.

The wrinkle gracing the other man's brow instantly smoothes out as they draw just enough apart to stare at one another, gazes rapt and unblinking.

"No, wait—oh, god, no! I meant, yes! Yes, I'll be there. Of course I will, but Sherlock? What's in—what's in?" John needs to know this, as well. As he's got honey, and a spoon, cheers. "That? What's in that box, there? Sherlock?"

"Ah…um. A bauble?"

Sherlock releases John's dick with a glowering grumble and puts on a sour face, planting both his long hands on John's kneecaps.

"Why is it do you insist on talking at me? You've said yes, correct? That's all that's needed; case closed. But, no! You're not about to allow me to simply have you off, are you, John? That's really not nice of you. And it's cuff links, if you must know, selfishly wanting to spoil it. In the box, there. As I said, John. Just a bauble, nothing more. You needed a better pair than I've seen on you, so those." A careless hands flips the little box over so it lands on John's damp pubes, just above the root of his erect prick. "Are for you. Wear them for me."

It's not a request. Sherlock stares up at John imperiously, licking his swollen lips.

"Wear them."

"Oh, no, you don't, Sherlock." John grins, or more like he bears his teeth in return, and grasps the tumble mass of Sherlock's hair with both hands spread wide, right at ear level. "Don't distract me, or even try it on."

He draws it forward on it's willowy stem, almost forcing it, till those bee-stung lips part against his purpling cock head again, smearing fluids.

"Not an idiot, Sherlock," he grits, glinty-eyed. His hands are perfectly steady, cheers, and so is the world, done with its wobbling. "Of course I'll allow you to have me off. In fact, please do. It's the best fun I've had all day, so far. Better by far than kicking my heels, waiting about for your sorry arse at that farce of a cast party, thumb up my arse."

"Oh, but—John, I was—!"

"Shut it, Sherlock. Sorted that, damn it. My turn, now. Now, speaking to my turn, finish the fucking job, will you? We've enough leeway, I think, that I could perhaps even see my way to reciprocate. If you like, that is."

"Brilliant." Sherlock smiles slyly up, his eyes narrowing. "I like, John." He's clearly cock-a-hoop and feeling very smug, now. "Very much. And we'll make time, John. And you will wear them. For me. Tonight. No arguing."

"Depends," John teases, flying high as he relaxes back against the plush interior. He wriggles his toes inside his dress shoes, he's so phenomenally chuffed. "On whether they go. Not a clotheshorse here, Sherlock, but I'm not exactly a twat when it comes to fashion, either. We'll see. Cufflinks and Christmas jersey are not exactly GQ material, nitwit. Besides, god only knows what you think suits me, you great tit. I'm not flashing any fancy diamonds about—far too showy, Sherlock. Better not have."

"John!" Sherlock's eyes go very wide. "As if I would!"

"Of course you would," John snaps back instantly, realizing with a deep sense of gloom that's precisely what's tucked away in the little pasteboard box. Probably they're heart-shaped, too, and platinum, if he knows Sherlock, which he does, thanks, very well now. "Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

Really, he's dazzling, this strange stick-insect of a man, this odd duck, especially when he's mooning over a fellow just in that particular manner. John feels he really was helpless to resist it, all along. A fly to a spider web, and happily so, all this time. No regrets, though. Not a one.

"Ahem." He clears his throat gently, John does. As the car is speeding along, and time's growing short. "Sucking me off, Sherlock—remember? You were."

"Oh? Oh, yes! Right!"

"Ta, then," John grins, adding fondly, "idiot. Go on with you."

He does precisely that, Sherlock Holmes does, and with a passionate abandon, too, moaning like a proper whore and making much of John's sopping wet willy. John's good with that, very good. He's, in reality, quite, quite fine, all over, out and in. Fine with absolutely everything and anything, including wearing bloody diamond-studded, girly-arse, flash jewelry on his plain-cuffed wrists when he'd never normally. For Sherlock, though…

For Sherlock, anything's possible. Even the improbable. At least as regards one John Watson, small time porno star, rising on the cusp of a blooming sea-change of all his various fortunes, personal and professional. He'll take it in stride, cheers, and consent to be forever dazzled.

And John? He would have it no other way, actually. No other way.

Fin.

(Oh, and all apologies for the complete OOC that permeates this little lot, but it's logically inevitable, I fear. This series premise is based on an AU crossover with the rom-com film 'Love, Actually', with John in the Martin Freeman role and Sherlock as his girlfriend. If I managed to be in character in regards the BBC 'Sherlock' programme, it is purely by accident and I can only be grateful. And...amazed. Yes, amazed. Actually.)