Hi. Before anything, I'd like to say:
1) Thank you for your interest. This was fun, and is going to be much more so from here on.
2) Regarding reviews, say whatever you want, whether it be politely constructive or as straight to it as "This is donkey balls". I really don't care (though I do hope it isn't donkey balls). There is one thing, however, which I'm serious about, and that is being in character. If you feel I'm not doing this, please do let me know. That much is important to me.
3) I am not steadfastly "pro-JohnLock", nor do I think it is canon for the show; I believe what the two characters possess is a bromance of sorts, beautifully written, and something of pure friendship which is touching on its own accord without any need for romanticizing.
That's not, however, to say I don't quite fancy the thought of them rolling around like a couple horny teenagers.
Ta~
(Oh-and I don't 'own them', and all of that rubbish.)
(Obviously.)
Chapter One
Where it Started
There were times when they might've looked back and laughed, or given an appreciative head-shake, or a knowing little murmur of a smile. After all, it was embarrassingly obvious (as things in hindsight often are) that they had fallen in love long before any of it happened—So it was something to be noted of, and certainly laughed about, when Sherlock and John considered how they had come to be, really, Sherlock and John. It was, even more so, when they considered the fact that it had begun—all of it—with John being dumped for the last time.
"The last bloody time." It was said bitterly through his teeth, and mostly for his own sake, as John worked his jaw and displaced his frustration onto a dish at the sink. He placed this one roughly in the drying rack and went at another, scrubbing the life violently out of it. "I give up. This was the last time. The last time I go out of my way in attempts at a romantic relationship—Clearly, it's just not written for me in the stars. No, I'm meant to grow old and bitter, and…gallivant around London with you until my hips give out and I join Mrs. Hudson and the ranks… I already clean up after you, so that won't be a difficult life transition..."
From his chair, Sherlock didn't look up.
"Hm?" Shamelessly unveiled indifference.
John clutched the edge of the sink and put his head down to contain himself.
"Nothing, Sherlock." There was a pause as Sherlock typed something out. Then:
"Oh—the girl. Right. Dropped you, yes. Yes, very sorry, that luck. What was it for this time?"
John turned around.
"Don't know, this time…" He wiped his hands with a dry cloth and tossed it to the counter with grumpy resignation. "Usually I go and…muck it up because I'm to busy with work, or off chasing criminals, or because I… bolt out of the restaurant in the middle of a date—which has happened more than once, mind you—because you've sent me a text that makes it sound you've destroyed the flat." He sighed, moving over to the sofa and plopping deeply into it, pinching the bridge of his nose tiredly. "But, I don't know. Wasn't her… 'type' or something, I guess, dunno..." He trailed off noncommittally.
There was nothing but the sound of rhythmic typing for a moment as John massaged his forehead. Then Sherlock turned his head slightly and peripherally found his coffee from the side table. He picked it up, still not tearing his eyes from the (John's) computer screen, and took a sip.
"Mmm. Right." He sucked in a breath. "Well, you're-such-a-catch, and it's-her-loss, and all that…rubbish people tell each other." He took another sip of coffee and put it down again, unmoved. "Besides, John, you can really do better than a middle-aged shoplifter who still thinks it's trendy to dye red."
John let his hand fall from his face to his lap sharply and gave his flat-mate a look the other didn't notice, or didn't care about.
"You never even saw this one," he said after a pause, loudly.
"Perfume."
John laughed disbelievingly, but in the end did what he was supposed to, which was collect himself and take the bait. "What about it?"
"Cheap. You reeked after each date, though you never got past first base—" His possession of this knowledge, John didn't even bother to fathom at— "which means she wore far too much but never ran out because she has more than one bottle and of different brands. Never fancy enough to linger on its own. Rather she has to douse herself every night. Not likely to have been gifted-Cheap, but not that cheap. Just inexpensive enough to be found in unmonitored sections of department stores, frequently where a quick swipe of the hand won't be noticed. She shops, snatches a moderately-priced perfume—perhaps for thrill, perhaps out of whim or childish habit—and tries it out later. Only reason she'd have so many of the same low value."
John chewed on the inside of his cheek. "Alright. And the hair?"
"On your coat sleeve last week."
"Yes, couldn't have been natural, I suppose?"
Sherlock seemed amused. "No shade of emergency vehicle is ever natural, John."
"Fine." Then, after a beat, "But how could you possibly have deduced her age?"
Sherlock made a disapproving face behind the computer screen and wriggled the fingers of his hand in John's direction.
"You always get that… look when they're young," he said vaguely.
John blinked, pursed his lips, and cursed himself for wanting to smile.
"Right, well thank you very much, Sherlock Holmes. What do I owe you for the counseling session."
Sherlock grunted. "You could pick up the milk."
John chuckled back with defeat. "Yeah…"
From inside his jean pocket, John's phone called out once for attention. After digging through his pants, he pulled it out and reviewed the screen. Then he puffed out a breath and made to stand up.
"Right. Well I'm off, I'm meeting Greg—"
"Who?"
"Lestrade—Honestly Sherlock, you really should know the man's first name by now— I'm meeting Greg at the pub; He's promised to buy me a drink of consolation."
Sherlock snorted. "Oh please, you dated her for less than a month," he said shortly.
"Yeah, well, that's at least worth a couple beers."
John headed to the door and snagged his coat. Lightly and out of habit, as he shrugged it on, he asked, "You be alright here alone?"
Sherlock found an expression of horror.
"Nope! I am going to shrivel up and die from the loneliness..."
John gave him a look of patience and took hold of the knob, leaving the other man tapping away at the keyboard and sipping his coffee.
"G'night, Sherlock."
John sometimes figured he could blame Lestrade. He and Sherlock likely never would have crossed the line they did had John not gotten completely sloshed with the Detective Inspector that night to the point of barely being able to find his way back to Baker Street.
It hadn't been that his breakup with Michelle (Was it Michelle? John found he had trouble recalling old girlfriends' names after Sherlock, and that he certainly had Sherlock, who'd never cared about them in the first place, to blame for that)—
It hadn't been that his breakup with (possibly) Michelle had been all that bad; It hadn't been that he'd needed to get so uncompromisingly slaughtered that he, at one point in the night, tried dialing his old girlfriend Mary only to end up saying some very awkward things to, instead, his sister, Harry (who frankly did nothing to discourage him drinking more and probably got quite a laugh off it). The fact was simply that when you go drinking with Gregory Lestrade, you had better be prepared to find yourself on the floor on your arse. When drinking with Greg, you go heavy or go home.
John did both, in that order. And when he at last located 221B, and was able to stumble up the stairs and burst through his flat's front door, he was almost coherent enough to realize he didn't know the proper lyrics to "Stayin' Alive"—and that Lestrade had won that bet, the clever bastard—but not quite coherent enough to realize he was still trying to sing. Loudly.
"John."
Hanging from the open door, which was rocking him slightly on his, at the moment, quite useless legs, John swung around to face his flat-mate the best he could.
"What is it again, Sherlock? Not 'music warm', but it's 'something warm'… Greg's an arse, he's not… not playing fair—cheating bastard knows I don't listen to the Bee Gees… GREG!" He fumblingly let go of his grip on the door and stumbled to face the way he'd come in, bellowing down the stairs. "Greg, you cheating— It was B-E-E…" Then he opened his eyes a little more widely and stared with confusion. He spun around to Sherlock again, who was standing, still in his day clothes, and watching with a bored expression. "Where'd he go!? Drunk git said he was right behind me!" Finally, as a man intoxicated does when he experiences a momentary window of lucidity to realize how utterly pissed he is, John clapped his hand over his face and began to laugh hysterically.
He was soon on the floor.
Sherlock heaved a sigh.
"Don't worry, Mrs. Hudson, he can't fall down because he's already on the ground."
From the bottom of the stairs, Mrs. Hudson in her nightclothes, who'd been fretting at John's state since he'd come bumbling loudly in, gave a disapproving "chu!"
"Oh, Sherlock, be decent! Help the poor man up and get him to bed, he's going to wake the whole street with that shouting!"
John, who was still laughing helplessly on the floor, felt his arms lifted up as Sherlock threaded his own underneath and began to drag the heavy man away from the door.
"I can very nearly promise you," Sherlock grunted slightly from under his burden, "he'll be doing nothing quite so spirited, besides, possibly, vomiting, the rest of the morning," He dropped John onto the sofa and went to close the door, just after leaning out and calling. "Goodnight, Mrs. Hudson!"
Afterwards, Sherlock drew in a breath to collect himself from the chore before turning back to John on the couch, whose giggles were dying out into exhausted gasps.
"What was it Sherlock, that damned song…"
With a look that could have easily been either annoyance or amusement, Sherlock observed him, then strolled gracefully to the kitchen and retrieved a glass from the cupboard.
"I suppose I have Lestrade to thank for this?" he said easily while filling it with water.
"That. Yes, that you do." It took John a moment to digest when Sherlock stood in front of him holding out the water. Once John registered the glass was there and, then, what it was, and that it was for him, he sluggishly accepted it into a saggy grip that drooped a little after Sherlock had let go. "You should come out with us sometime, Sherlock," John complained merrily, "It's not as much fun talking about you when you're not there to get angry..." He attempted to take a sip from his water glass and dribbled down the front of his jumper.
Sherlock rolled his eyes generously and returned to what he'd been doing, which was sitting on the table and appeared to be some kind of order-less collage of paper clippings. Sherlock sat and began studiously glaring at them, and moving bits around when he'd made mental connections between them.
"I think my presence is better served here, for when you return from these little visits and try to clamber into the flat, serenading—poorly and inaccurately—the rest of Mrs. Hudson's unfortunate tenants."
John snorted and tried repeating what Sherlock had just said in a deep, slurred impersonation of his voice. Sherlock glanced up at him, his hairline rising in a slight smile, then looked back down, his impassive expression replaced, and reached into his pocket. He pulled out his phone and began scrolling through his contacts.
"What is it, Sherlock?" John said, suddenly, his tone no longer jolly, but loud and frustrated. "What's wrong with me?"
Recipient: D.I. Lestrade
If reports of disturbances tonight for Baker St., disregard.
When borrowing my flat-mate, please return in a quieter and less embarrassing state.
- SH
Sherlock sent the text and put his phone away.
"At the present, copious amounts of C2H5OH," he replied.
"I mean," John blurted, "I'm nice! I'm funny! Maybe not deliberately, but… I dunno," he threw his arms up with abandonment. "I can be charming, maybe endearing even, for all my lack of glamour… Sherlock, wouldn't you say I'm charming." Before the detective could answer, his mouth already open, John went on, saying, "I mean I'm not Sherlock Holmes charming, with my coats and my cheek-bones all sharp and… billowing in the wind, and nonsense, but…" John shook his finger with conviction. "I know how to treat a lady. I'm that kind of charming, I'm nice guy charming. Wouldn't you say I'm a nice guy, Sherlock? If you were a woman—"
"Oh, God…" Sherlock groaned quietly.
"No, no—shut up—If you were a woman would you date me? I mean, a regular woman, not, like… your Sherlock version of a woman. God, that'd be terrifying…"
"I am sure, John, you would have me just swooning," Sherlock answered in a bored tone. John didn't appear to hear him and continued his rant.
"But nope! Nope, no luck for John Watson. I'm chronically dating."
Sherlock quirked up an eyebrow in agreement, not looking away from his work. "You do chronically date."
John's sudden outrage might have seemed more dignified were it not for his state, and it came across as rather comical, instead, when he splashed his water down on the table beside him. "I do not chronically date!"
"Yes, you do—and you just said so yourself, anyway," Sherlock snapped impatiently as he focused on moving more bits of paper around in front of him. John shook his head theatrically.
"No—no, no…" After a couple attempts, he successfully pulled himself up off the sofa. "I said…" He hiccupped. "I said I'm… chronically dating. Emphasis on the 'dating'—not the 'me', not the 'chronic'. As in…not permanent."
"Impermanent."
"Yeah, s'what I said."
"Mm." Sherlock drummed his fingers and stared down at his papers, replying conversationally. "Yes, well, in addition to that, you do have a bit of an animalistic preoccupation with the quest for possible mates." His tone was sopping with disapproval. He swiftly picked up a clipping and crumpled it in one hand, tossing it aside to the floor without care. "You're not a ferret, John."
John had, meanwhile, begun stumbling into the kitchen. He spoke lazily, knocking things down in the process, as he made his way to the stove.
"Well, we can't all be like you can we, Sherlock? All… married to our work, and…" he clanked at things, irately, and struggled through his words, spitting them out with conviction at once when they came to him, "…'sociopathic'. Most of us normal people, down here on earth—Sherlock—are stuck with normal human needs, and wants. Our heads are set up like that when we're born, you know. Can't all get off on…" He fumbled with a saucepan before knocking it away, initially going for it when it fell to the floor clanking, then changing his mind in half-stoop and leaving it. He finished tried turning on the stovetop. "…brainwork."
Finally glancing up, having been tuning out the clatter, Sherlock watched as John attempted twice to open the kettle with thick fingers and fill it with water. He exhaled, and at last inquired, "What are you doing?" with what sounded like reluctance.
"Tea," John grunted, spilling water over the floor as he blindly allowed the kettle to overflow. Sherlock allowed this to go on for another moment, then stood up, crossing to the kitchen curtly and taking the streaming pot from John. "Oy!" the other man complained when his flat-mate shut off the sink and pushed him out of the way. Sherlock turned off the stove, which had been clicking and emitting nothing but foul smelling gas, and lit it properly. John took to looking ill tempered and standing around as Sherlock set the kettle on a burner.
"Honestly, John, you're dull even when you're drunk. What you appear to misunderstand is that, while I inhibit these baser human… Why not, we shall affectionately term them 'needs', as you so put it"—The emphasis was distasteful and superior, as if explaining something highly scientific to a child in little words—"I am not a machine, though my mind runs as such, and I still possess them. I can go in and make use of them, draw any of them out and apply them to myself at any time, as a situation so calls for. It is what makes me such a skilled actor and deceiver, and frankly it is necessary to at least be able to recognize such emotional or instinctual functions for the purposes of—Stop that." John had taken out a tea bag and was curiously stretching it so it was tearing and spilling herbs over the counter. Sherlock took it away and continued. "—for the purposes of interrogation and analyzation of motive."
John was scrunching his face as if his head hurt, trying to listen. Sherlock went on, unmoved.
"However, while experiencing these banal moods and urges may, to your lesser mind, seem to be 'reflexive' or 'automatic', I can assure you, it is not an autonomic process; Should you lose consciousness—which is quite possible to happen any moment by the way you're standing—your brain tells your body to continue to breathe, digest, pump blood—It does not force sensations of love, loneliness, sexual desire—at least, not on a cognizant level. I am human—and, though they could still take hold of me were I only to allow them—through practice and discipline, I have managed to satisfactorily dull these inane parts of my functioning for better use of my mind and focus in my work. There's therefore really no excuse for why you, or anybody else for that matter with an ordinarily functioning brain, should not at the least be able to attempt such control as well—I am making tea only because your charismatic attempts are likely to result in the flat being burned down. And Mrs. Hudson is already nagging," he added, sounding bored.
John, who had been groggily listening and swaying on his feet, as well as fussing with the tea bags as if he might somehow manage to make himself a cup without hot water, didn't respond. Then, once his head had caught up, he made a loud and abrupt sound of dismissal.
"I don't believe any of that rubbish, you git, I think you're full of it!"
Sherlock had already begun walking back to his case and stopped in his step to glanced back. He looked the shorter man over in the thoughtful, slightly uncertain manner he often did when his flat-made mildly surprised him, somehow. Then he blinked once.
"John, you're drunk." The statement was toneless and experimental, as if he could write off the rebuttal with the obvious. John only grinned and nodded savagely.
"Yeah, and you're full of it!" Sherlock finally turned back to face his boozy flat-mate with a rather deliberate sigh as the other went on emphatically. "You may be some great, magical—"
"Magical?"
"—super-detective… And you may have got all sorts of…calculating, deducting gears in that funny head that can tell a person's lineage from their jock strap—" Sherlock raised his eyebrows. John ignored him, smiling widely and smugly, and threw an unsteady finger at the other man. "But you can not stand there, and tell me, that you could just—" He made an exaggerated waving gesture towards the detective. "Turn it all off. Sure, you've got feelings—there's no doubting that, because I've seen you caught off guard loads of times, you git. But you're telling me, that, somewhere under all that… Sherlock… there is a physiologically accurate, libido-receptive, sentimental, regular old bloke that's not coming out only because you don't let him? That's rich, I don't buy it for a second. You're good, Sherlock, but you're not that good. No one could be if they weren't a bit funny in that area to begin with." John turned his wobbly position to face the counter again, taking a minute to remember the location of the mugs before dragging one down from the shelf as his water warmed.
Sherlock had not moved from his position a few feet away where he'd first stopped to listen. There was that small stitch between his eyebrows, as he stared at the back of John's head, that suggested confusion and mild frustration. He glanced away briefly with consideration before speaking.
"I can assure you, John," he said slowly, sounding faintly uncomfortable but insistent. "The reign I possess over my…humanity…" The word was spoken carefully. "…is wholly two-way and, in its entirety, within my control."
John blew a raspberry from the counter and stuck his thumb out in the air to face downwards. "Bullshit. Sorry, mate." He clumsily put a tea bag in his mug and turned back to face Sherlock again with casualness, tripping over himself a bit, leaning against the counter dangerously near to the heated burner, much to his obliviousness.
Sherlock gazed, and then something peculiar occurred. His expression changed very slightly; The stitch at his brow softened away, and his gaze lit up quietly—the way it did for a particularly challenging case. John didn't notice, and the look was promptly obscured as Sherlock blinked his eyes once and casually glanced downwards. "You really don't think so," he said, very slowly.
John, whose eyes were heavy and still just as drunk, swayed a bit, vaguely.
"Think what?" He gave a snort, his body rocking with the gesture, and he had to steady himself with a hand on the counter. "What, that you could… embody all those human 'vulnerabilities' you hate so much? Could just up and suddenly have a natural reaction, that was truly intimate or… human, or jeez I dunno… passionate? Sherlock, the last and only time I ever saw you anything close to lovingly passionate was when you came back from your little holiday of faking your death, and you took a look at your violin for the first time in months." John snorted again at the thought, his smile giddy, evidently entertained by the whole idea.
Sherlock was standing very still, his expression just as fixed as his form and intensely perspicacious. Had John not been so heavily alcohol-induced, he might have recognized the familiar sense of danger that accompanied Sherlock looking like this. Instead he chuckled to himself, his eyelids dropping every now and then heavily, so that he didn't notice when Sherlock began taking casual, strolling steps closer.
"Or, lust?" John continued, tickled, his eyebrows high on his forehead as he laughed with disbelief. "Bloody hell, Sherlock, the day I see you looking at a woman—or anything, for that matter, that's not already dead—Sherlock, the day that happens, seriously, I want you to hit me in the face. I want you to just deck me, Sherlock, because that is how surprised I'll be, I'll be…just…" He stopped short and gave a light-headed sounding, breathy chuckle of confusion, as he shook his head and tried to make his eyes focus. "How did I get so pissing drunk…?"
The sudden two-foot distance between himself and his flat-mate wasn't registered as odd immediately, and John simply looked up at the taller man conversationally when he noticed him there. Sherlock was casting a relentless and ethereal gaze into him, as if with the purpose of locating something. Then, quite curiously and with an almost feline slowness, he narrowed his eyes. Of this, John finally took notice, however abstractly, and he frowned, his brow deepening with suspicion at his friend's heavily mischievous look.
"What?" he demanded.
"Hmmm," was all Sherlock said, his eyes intense and calculating and flicking all over John in a way that was very unnerving.
"What?"
"You want me to show you."
He said it—not as a question, or an offer—but as if he were reading the fact from the back of John's brain, and his voice was low and bristling. At first John merely stared back at him, mouth agape just so with incomprehension. Then, as if with a charge, his eyes flew wide open and a delighted smile of hilarity swept across his face. He laughed with full glee, falling back a bit and his hand almost lost its grip on the counter.
"Oh God, yes, Sherlock, yes, I want you to show me," he giggled helplessly. "I want you to show me, Sherlock, yes. God, it'd be like Jekyll and Hyde—Do I have to pay? I feel like I should have to pay for this—All right, go on then! Show me. Show me—Ooh, show me IN LOVE. Show me RANDY—Wait, let's us pretend The Woman is here, arse-naked again, and show me again, Sherlock, your expression of unbridled passion—because it was just so breathtaking, your male passion, the first time—"
John laughed his heart out. Sherlock's expression didn't change an inch, except perhaps the ghost of a smile quirked its way into his eyes. The kettle beside them was beginning to make warm, simmering noises.
"Don't be thick, John. I told you I can act. That wouldn't be enough. If you really don't believe me, I am going to have to show you."
John nodded heavily in agreement.
"Alright yeah, you have to show me. Alright, then," he slurred, chirping. "And how're we gonna do that, then?"
Sherlock's voice was quiet and predatory, and he spoke while scanning John's face.
"A kiss might be sufficient."
John's eyes became large and appreciative, and he nodded deeply, smile still wide and entertained.
"Oh! A kiss! Right, course, should've know that. Right then—" He shook out his shoulders, raising his arms and widening his stance, bouncing a bit on his unbalanced toes, as if prepping for a fight. "Here we go!" He shut his eyes theatrically. "The great Sherlock Holmes Consulting Detective, showing off his skills in human nature and intimacy, 'ere we go, hold your applause!" He chuckled again and relaxed into the counter, fumbling just a bit for his grip, his eyes remaining tiredly closed for a moment then fluttering back open, but just so. The kettle was beginning to rattle more loudly.
Sherlock was almost smiling, now, but he held it back and cocked his head with seriousness.
"I mean it, John. I won't have you doubting me—"
"No, yeah," John cut him off, enthusiastically prompting the joke, "Of course—s'obviously the best way. Let's have it, then, for the purposes of…of—"
"For demonstrative purposes."
"—Demonstrative purposes! Right, sure, exactly." He swatted his hand in the air brusquely in agreement, his eyes idly closed all the way again, now. "Let's have it, then, off we go…"
Sherlock spent a moment longer examining John's face and gauging his sobriety. Then, with almost robotic transitioning which bore semblance to switching gears, he smoothly stepped in, angularly ducking his head and—with a quiet, muffled sound coming from the doctor—languidly took John's bottom lip into his mouth.
The kiss was perfectly executed. It exhibited the most pleasing balance of lingering and brevity, chastity and sensuality. Sherlock met the lip with the soft tip of his tongue, wetting it just enough, and then carrying through, until his own full bottom lip had dragged across the width of John's, the suction gentle and ending lazily with a soft, only mildly obscene puckering. Afterwards, Sherlock loitered at John's mouth for a moment intimately, then drew up again with formality. The whole thing lasted no longer than five seconds.
Sherlock waited, eyes intense and patient, for evaluation as John initially only swayed in the aftershock. Then he worked his eyes open and immediately made a sound of intoxicated derision, hissing through his teeth. Sherlock blinked and frowned, the stitch between his eyebrows instantly returning.
"Please, wasn't even a kiss, that…" John slurred, grinning sarcastically. He laughed once, and pressed a finger into the taller man's chest, goading. "My mother kisses better than that!"
"Oh, for God's sake—" Sherlock snapped, rolling his eyes once, and leaned in again a touch more aggressively, mounting one hand on the counter behind the doctor so that their chests met and so John was slightly pressed against the edge. Sherlock breathed in during this second kiss as if to make a point, and turned John's head upward with his mouth, opening the other's slightly more in the process, barely grazing tongues before breathing out heatedly and pulling away.
Sherlock stood back and cleared his throat, delicately and with a smug sense of accomplishment. He waited coolly for John to collect himself and say he was impressed.
John rubbed his lips together instinctually, eyes remaining closed, and grunted. He shook his head slightly, with thought or denial.
"Let's have that again," he breathed, leaning up without looking, "I didn't quite…"
Sherlock's eyebrows twitched—as his flat-mate pressed his lips, again, onto his own—as if he didn't quite understand. But he didn't object, and reciprocated presentationally. And several moments later he had closed his eyes.
Everything had the illusion of happening quite quickly, after that. Neither could have said how many minutes had passed before they heard the kettle screaming, or how much longer after that was it that Sherlock distractedly pushed it off the burner and blindly shut off the stove before going back to John.
If you asked either of them how the rest had occurred, in what order, John would have owned that he'd been far too drunk. And if you asked Sherlock at what point it was that his original motive had somewhat faded to the back of his mind, or when exactly he found that he—curiously—rather enjoyed the shallow breaths they were both taking, or the feel of John's stubble (16th of an inch long, two days—No work calls since last week) under his palms, or how Sherlock's name was coming in lust-saturated moans from John's mouth in a way he'd never heard his name said before— If you asked Sherlock for any kind of catalogue of the events, he'd almost certainly insist a precise chronology was wholly insignificant, and that he had deleted such unimportant specifications the moment it had all occurred.
Regardless, it was only after they had, somehow, come to find themselves rhythmically writhing, legs intertwined, on the couch that John managed to capture Sherlock's attention somewhere between the tongues and teeth and guttural moaning. Sherlock pulled up an inch, panting, hovering over John's mouth impatiently.
John swallowed, attempting to collect himself to some pitiable degree, and blinked for an unfocused moment before his forehead shifted downward with gravity.
"Is this…you know," he breathed, the lowness in his tone sounding like annoyance, or mistrust. Sherlock blinked back at him and their eyes had a steady meeting. "Is this… an 'experiment', or something?"
Sherlock pulled his head further back for a moment, and looked down at John as he seemed to consider this.
"No," he said at last, with a mysterious sort of finality. Then he was at John's ear, kissing and suckling—and whispering, "No, this is not an experiment."
"Oh…" John replied throatily, melting swiftly under the sensations again to unconcern. "Good."
The two continued the dance, the pressure and friction assisted now by gravity, and very soon, the sounds John was making as Sherlock rocked over him heightened in pitch, and his fists and eyes clenched shut, and the heat and weight and sound of it all rushed together and pressed the breath out of both men's bodies to make room for a grand and desperate, euphoric swelling.
Afterwards, Sherlock and John both laid panting, John on the sofa and Sherlock having already rolled off and onto the floor. His one arm remained on the couch, propping him up languidly, and his head hung back, his long, pale neck exposed and channeling in oxygen.
John's face and ears were flushed, his expression wrecked and his form utterly exhausted. He swallowed audibly. Finally, he gave one feeble cough.
"Alright," he said weakly, taking several more breaths before emptying out a sigh. "You win."
The tired, dazzling smile that spread out across Sherlock's face just before John fell victim to sleep went tragically unseen.
This was how it began.
Next Chapter: Where it Went...