Author's Note:
This story is a prompt fill and gift for the lovely PrettyArbitary. She left a rather inspiring one on the Johnwantsit tumblr page and this is how this story came about. I have no idea where this is going or what is going to happen. I'm just probably going to run with it and any sort of kinks or other ideas that spark my imagination as they come my way.
WARNING: For drugs, violence, gore, sex, alcohol use/abuse, criminal activity, language, possible dob-con, same-sex relationships, and anything else I come up with I'll warn for later.
PROMT: Sherlock and John in a clandestine relationship. Why and how is up for grabs: maybe homosexuality is illegal, or the difference in their social classes is awkward, maybe Moriarty can't know, maybe Mycroft can't know, maybe they just value their damn privacy and don't want to hear about it. Maybe they're just starting it and they want to keep it between themselves till they figure out what they're doing. Maybe there's something kinky about it.
Anyway, for whatever reason-danger or awkwardness or getting off on keeping secrets-they keep it on the down-low as much as they can.
Read and review! And if you have any possible ideas or prompts to add on to this I'm open to suggestions.
Short blunt nails gently scraped down Sherlock's back, enticing him to return to the silken warmth of the bed. He ignored the invitation, continuing to button his crumpled blue shirt that was sporting creases atypical of his usual starched and ironed appearance.
A soft rustle of the sheets behind him indicated his chosen conquest was no longer asleep.
"It's five in the morning," said a drowsy voice. "Come back to bed."
Turning, Sherlock slowly ran his eyes down along the nude male body lying open and tempting. Strong broad shoulders matched with a tone stomach and tapered waist that flowed into solid thighs and sculpted calves. All packaged in light-tan skin that was closer to honey-gold in the dim room. Absently he unfastened his cuffs, appreciating the view. For it was a lovely but rare sight to indulge.
"John, don't." They had this talk numerous times; it tinged their time together with reserve and bitterness. "I can't stay and you know why."
John lifted his head from the pillow, a wry smile tugging at his lips though his brows were bleak. A poor attempt to hide his disappointment and hurt. Even when he was less obvious, using his solider face, Sherlock saw it, he always observed.
"It's nearly dawn," John whispered. The only explanation he was willing to voice but nevertheless true.
Sherlock rolled his sleeves to his elbows, glancing to the window. Paris' kaleidoscope of lights winked in the dark, beyond. It was always easier to slip out undetected when visibility was limited.
"Yes," Sherlock acknowledged.
John swallowed thickly, either unsure what to say or unwilling. His eyes cast down and away.
The illusion was ending, much too fast for either of their taste. It always did, no matter what country they found each other in. When their brief tryst was over Sherlock would always slip away before sunrise like a thief in the night, the warm affirming seclusion of their time together fleeing with him.
"You know Interpol is catching up, don't you?" John speculated, voice soft in the silence of the hotel room. "That's why you're leaving earlier each time."
Sherlock's quicksilver eyes darted to John, flicking over his face and upper body as he rapidly pulled information together. Still dressing himself as he did so, though more slowly now.
"Newspapers?" he guessed, trying to discern where John would have gotten the idea.
The man shook his head, a worried look on his face. "MI6 has linked you to a case I'm working."
Sherlock managed to keep his shoulders from stiffening. Of course they had; his last job had gone tits up when one of the point men had blown the whole operation, to a bloody undercover CIA agent no less. Irritation still crawled in his stomach over it. Even after he took care of the problem.
"Mmm," he offered noncommittally.
The pair of eyes that watched as Sherlock pulled on his black trousers burned at the back of his neck. John was not going to let it go, it seemed. Ever the proper British spy.
"Fine," said John testily, "we'll do it your way. No talk of work."
Sherlock smirked, though hid it as he turned to face John. Crouching down on the rumpled bed, he took John's chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting his head back slightly.
"Good," he rumbled, eyes glittering with lust as he considered John.
Sherlock then dropped a rather heated kiss on John's upturned mouth. His clever tongue slipped past John's lips, seductively running the tip along the roof of his mouth. An arm snaked across the agent's waist, a nimble hand clenched the flesh of his hip with bruising force.
John became pliant in his firm grasp, molding his flushed skin to Sherlock's chest as he was ravished. Calloused fingers tickled the fine hair at the back of Sherlock's neck, a bid to keep him in place. He gladly allowed it, for just a few heartbeats as he sunk his teeth into John's plump bottom lip.
Then Sherlock was prying John off, his strength demanding compliance.
"I'll be in contact," Sherlock promised. He pressed a fleeting kiss to John's forehead, eyes running over his face once more as if to memorize every inch.
"When?" John asked.
"When it's safe. Wouldn't do to have either of us traced to the other."
John nodded, resigned. "I trust one of your homeless networks will be the messenger next time then?"
He didn't receive an answer. Sherlock nipped his bottom lip one last time before disappearing through the door.
A silent promise, worth its weight in gold to John.