It was another boring day at 221b Baker Street, at least by the standards of one Sherlock Holmes. His last case was ages ago, almost five hours in fact, and frankly, Mr. Holmes was sick of the boredom boredom BOREDOM. The tedious tendencies of everyday life frustrated him to no end, and he contemplated, not for the first time, how pleasantly and pitifully simple it must be to have a simple mind that was made for routine. Sherlock Holmes was a force of nature, and much like nature itself, favoured chaos.
Phone phone, for god's sake where was his phone? Once located, Sherlock checked his phone again, willing a call or simple text from Lestrade to appear, but to no avail. London was pitifully silent that day, and Sherlock wondered when the good old days of murder and destruction would be totally replaced with the unbearable boredom that plagued the flat now.
The door whipped open as the honourable Doctor John H. Watson burst through, loaded down with brown paper bags filled with groceries that he would no doubt try to form into some type of meal that he would assuredly attempt to force onto Sherlock, who would, obviously, refuse.
"A little help here, Sherlock?" John huffed from under the weight of the bags while he attempted to stumble into the kitchen. Although Sherlock quickly deduced that the weight was causing John's bum shoulder some extra discomfort, he also deduced that trying to assist him would only exacerbate the situation and lengthen the duration by adding the awkward fumbling of John trying to hand bags to Sherlock, especially given their considerable height difference, so it would not be advantageous to either of them for Sherlock to even consider helping. Obviously. Besides, it was clear that John didn't expect him to help, judging by the fact that he was halfway to the kitchen by the time he rhetorically requested the assistance in the first place and didn't bother to slow down to allow Sherlock to respond.
"John, please tell me you witnessed some horrible crime, stumbled upon a dead body, or discovered some obscure clue to an unsolvable mystery while you were out? Lestrade is useless as ever and I am unbelievably BORED!" Sherlock expelled this complaint in a huff of wistful air as he flopped down onto the sofa, his limbs spread out and his dressing gown falling open, revealing the lavender shirt and dark silky trousers underneath.
Mr. Holmes could swear he heard the sound of a sigh amidst the sound of John hurriedly unpacking the groceries, but he could also deduce from the way the sigh sounded that at least one corner of his mouth was curved up into a smile, and if his further deductions were correct (which they probably were) it was Sherlock's favorite smirk. Sherlock could picture the exact smirk, the one he was all too often the cause of, and it gave him an odd flutter in his stomach which he quickly ignored and forgot.
"Sherlock, life isn't all about cases. How about you pick up a hobby or two, get some fresh air, have a little fun once in a while?" John came in with two cups of tea, staring down intently while giving his dialogue, determined not to spill, handing Sherlock his cuppa as he finished speaking, simultaneously pulling his eyes up to give Sherlock a look that expected a response, his eyebrows pulling up, causing his forehead to crease into folds, and Sherlock stared at them with the sudden urge to reach out and touch them, smooth them out with his long, white, and cold fingers, feel the undoubtedly warm skin. Another thought he repressed and forgot as he realized John was waiting for him to respond? What had he said again? Oh, yes.
"John, solving cases is my hobby. I am married to my work, and that is what I do for fun, or whatever you call it. Plus, there's not much fresh air to be had in London, in fact if you simply look at the numbers and statistics, it's very clear that the percentage of-"
"Sherlock, please, spare me the details. It was merely a suggestion. How about you, I don't know, maybe relax for once in your life, sit back, have a cuppa and watch some crap telly, and, I don't know, have a normal conversation with me for once? I am your friend after all."
Normally the thought of relaxing and doing anything so normal and boring would be enough to make Sherlock go completely over the edge, but somehow the thought of doing those things with John made him feel…different. It was even…appealing? Before he had the chance to repress those feelings, John shoved Sherlock's legs from where they were splayed on the sofa, plopped down next to him, and turned on the telly. Sherlock sat there motionless for a moment from surprise, and then he sat up straight at the edge of the sofa, unsure of what to do with himself. Finally he allowed himself to sit back, and quickly glance at John out of the corner of his eyes. Why did this make his insides feel warm as if he just swallowed his first sip of tea, even while his cup remained untouched? Perhaps it was time to stop repressing his feelings. Perhaps it was time to see what kind of feelings the good Dr. Watson held himself.
Perhaps this was just the case that Sherlock Holmes was waiting for.
A devilish smirk quickly graced the normally stone face of Mr. Holmes as the typically cold insides burned with a sort of nervousness that was uncomfortably new to Sherlock. He moved minutely, almost imperceptibly closer to John, simply to test his nerve. Then, at that miniature success, he moved a bit closer, only an inch of space separating their thighs. He could feel John tense up next to him, but that could mean anything. He'd have to go a bit further if he planned on deducing the full extent of John's feelings towards him.
Sure, he wasn't going off of nothing here. He had noticed the rare but obvious lingering gazes he would get first thing in the morning or in the moments after a chase when John's guard was down, or as down as an ex-Army doctor's could get. He had noticed a slight dilation of pupils here and there and the jump of a vein in the neck of his doctor, most of which he had passed off due to other environmental circumstances, or perhaps lingering effects of PTSD. However, now that Sherlock was considering it, it was entirely possible that perhaps John Watson did have some sort of feelings for him, feelings that blurred the lines drawn by friendship.
Of course, Sherlock was making the situation all about John. He had not begun to fully address what this meant for his feelings. Sherlock had somehow become regarded as others as asexual, and he figured the term fit him as he didn't really express interest in romantic endeavors. That isn't to say that he couldn't recognize attraction when he felt it, which was very rare, but this instance was markedly different. It wasn't just a physical attraction he felt tugging at the edge of his brain, but beyond that, and that had never happened to the man before. He'd always maintained that relationships led to sentiment which led to weakness, and investing a part of yourself into the instability and unreliability of another person was not only a huge risk, but a waste of time. But could John Watson be the person that changed Sherlock Holmes' perception?
After weighing the pros and cons of moving forward, Sherlock decided perhaps, in this case and this case only, maybe the risk would be worth it. With just a touch of residual uncertainty, he stretched and "accidentally" brushed into John, noting the way it made him react. Very promising indeed. A few minutes and a couple feigned yawns later, Sherlock decided to softly rest his head on John's shoulder. John tensed up a little, but slowly relaxed, telling Sherlock that even though he didn't know how to react, he specifically chose not to react so he wouldn't cause the moment to end. From this perspective Sherlock could observe John's pulse, and observe the way it was skipping at an ever increasing rate. Sherlock shifted himself slightly so he was resting onto John in a more affectionate way, placing some more pressure onto John's body, and was rewarded when John pressed back in return. Sherlock smirked slightly at the victory of having his hypothesis confirmed, and also with the unexpected pleasure he felt rising from his own body. Pleasure he didn't quite know how to react to.
They sat like that for a while, neither of them watching the television, for so long that Sherlock deduced that John was not willing to make the next move, maybe he didn't know how. Well, neither did Sherlock actually, but he wasn't going to just sit here when it was perfectly clear that the both of them wanted to move forward.
So Sherlock tentatively reached out and began tracing John's knuckles softly with his fingertips, slowly pushing open John's fingers until there was room for Sherlock to lay his hand on top of the back of John's and push his fingers into position, intertwining with John's considerably shorter and much warmer fingers. John took in a sharp breath, and cleared his throat before saying in a strained tone "Sh-Sherlock."
Instead of responding Sherlock looked up from John's shoulder and shifted slightly to meet John's gaze, only to find that John was pointedly not looking at him. He pulled his hand away from John's and slowly lifted it up to gently caress his jawline, slowly pulling it towards him so he could look into John's eyes. He saw dilated pupils filled with confusion and a hint of sadness, mixed with a slight tinge of desperation. Sherlock wondered what John saw in his eyes, but could not deduce what it could be for the life of him. Sherlock raised himself up slightly, and pulled John toward him in a slow, tired fashion, and paused with less than an inch separating them, feeling the hot exhale of breath shoot from John's mouth and brush against his lips, some of the air pushing past those pale lips into Sherlock's mouth, where ice met fire and when their lips finally met, Sherlock melted into John with a slight "pop" that may have been a piece of Sherlock finally falling into place, the greatest mystery of all finally solved.
It started slow and sweet with a hint of surprise and fear, but soon transformed into something much more intense, like smoldering coals that had been raked over with a hot iron poker, burning and sizzling, changing and working up to a full-on blaze. Sherlock moved his hands along John's body and deduced that he must have been doing something right, based on the sounds that John was making, and his own enthusiastic attempts at claiming Sherlock's body as his own. When they pulled apart it was only out of necessity, chests rising and falling and breath coming hard, they looked into each other's eyes, searching faces for answers, coming up with half of what they wanted, deciding to save the rest for later. They crashed into each other for one more kiss before forcing themselves apart again to fumble with buttons and sleeves. Sherlock's hands were shaking like a dying leaf in the late winds of fall that bring the threat of winter as he struggled to break John free of his button-cage and reveal the treasures beneath.
Sherlock felt John's hands close over his own, staying there for a few precious moments before assisting him in the removal of John's shirt. Sherlock deduced that this put John in a more dominant and controlled position, even though it should be the opposite since Sherlock initiated these…activities. Sherlock considered trying to regain control of the situation, but when John's much more experienced hands, finished with their owner's shirt, moved to undo Sherlock's, all reason and control went out the window. And when John's hands splayed over Sherlock's chest, moving in patterns that caused Sherlock to react in ways he had never thought existed, Mr. Holmes was most certainly done for.
John moved his mouth back to Sherlock's lips, simultaneously dragging his hands around Sherlock's ribcage and to his spine, and Sherlock finally gained back enough consciousness to react and resume moving his hands over John's body, fingering the notches in the doctor's spine, causing shivers to run through the both of them as one single unit.
Sherlock pulled John to his feet and gently started pulling him towards his bedroom, preferring the floor they were currently on, not trusting his usually sharp mind to tackle the simple task of stairs.
John stopped and hesitated for a moment, and Sherlock turned to look back at John, studying his face and feeling his heart drop at what he found there.
There was the same lust and desperation he saw there just a few impossible moments ago, but the mixture of fear and uncertainty was certainly more pronounced.
"John?" Sherlock said, sounding a lot more desperate and pleading and vulnerable than he had intended to, or ever wanted to.
"Sherlock, I-" John began, something catching in his throat. "I'm not- I've never-" John sighed and looked down at his feet, looking ashamed. Sherlock didn't know what to do. He couldn't read what John was feeling from this vantage point. Was he nervous in the same way that Sherlock was? Or was he having doubts, changing his mind? Sherlock just stood there in the awkward silence for too long, unsure of whether he should back down or move forward to comfort John, tell him that whatever he was feeling was okay.
Sherlock, always the pessimist, chose the former.
"It's- it's…okay. I understand. I shouldn't have…pushed you. I'm sorry, we can just forget about it." Sherlock turned to walk away and almost got to his bedroom before he felt warm fingers close around his thin but strong wrist. He turned around and was surprised at how close John's face was, and had to take a step backwards to see him properly.
But John took a step forward to match Sherlock's. And then another, and another, and another until Sherlock hit the backs of his knees on the bed and fell backwards onto it, speechless at the way John pushed him onto his back, crawling on top of him, and hovered over his face until the closeness of their lips made it feel like they were touching, but not quite.
John started to say something, but decided otherwise and simply pushed his lips against Sherlock's so fiercely that it almost hurt, but Sherlock didn't mind in the slightest. Still shirtless, he felt the warmth of John's chest seep into his own, melting the cage of ice that was formed so tightly over Sherlock's heart. Both men's senses were beginning to overload, and Sherlock reached for John's belt, eager to move forward before it was too late. It was a frustrating and tangled process that led to the two inhabitants of 221b in nothing but their pants, John gasping for breath as he sat on top of Sherlock's lap, legs wrapped around his waist.
Sherlock was at a loss, but wasn't totally clueless. He tentatively pulled a hand away from John's neck, trailing fingers down a surprisingly well-sculpted chest, a firm stomach, and stopped, fingering the waistband of alarmingly red pants. He looked up into John's eyes for approval and consent, but was surprised and pleased when all he saw was an open mouth and fluttering eyelids. Sherlock reached his hands around to raise John up onto his knees, and then used his long and agile fingers to pull down John's pants in an agonizingly slow fashion. The moan that came from John's lips was pure sin wrapped in a sweet and sultry package. Sherlock moved one hand to grab John, and began moving slowly and uncertainly, unsure of how to proceed. He wasn't sure how much John had deduced of his sexual experience, or lack thereof.
But if Sherlock was anything, he was a fast learner.
Things progressed quite smoothly from there, with plenty of moans and groans and sharp intakes of breath to go around. That is until things progressed to the point where certain…supplies were necessary. The first to realize that these materials were missing was, naturally, John.
"Shit!"
Sherlock just looked at John with confusion and petulant irritation that he interrupted their fun.
"Sherlock I don't suppose you have, uh, condoms? Or…or lube for that matter?" John was almost as unsure about these things as him, Sherlock realized. John may have much more experience in the "sex" area, but Sherlock could easily deduce that this was John's first time with another man.
"Um…" Not usually at a loss for words, Sherlock struggled with how to phrase the simplest no. But he didn't need to.
"Shit!" John repeated. "Wait here a moment." And with that John leapt off Sherlock and started tramping upstairs. Sherlock threw his head back onto the bed and groaned, glancing down at his aching and throbbing crotch, silently apologizing for having deprived it of such activity for his whole life.
John returned after far too long for either of their tastes with a box and a bottle in his hand, and he quickly leapt onto Sherlock again and made himself at home in Sherlock's neck. "John," Sherlock muttered. "Where did you get this?"
Between kisses John explained, "Well Sherlock….when you date…as many girls…as I do…you meet all sorts…and see…all sorts of…preferences…" Sherlock didn't respond, not wanting any more details on John's previous lovers and frankly too immersed in John's considerable talents to care anymore.
After they were both properly sexed up again (which didn't take long at all), John stopped and looked into Sherlock's eyes for a long while, and Sherlock gazed right back, both of them coming to the startling realization that this attraction was definitely not purely sexual.
"How do you want to do this?" John asked in a soft, loving voice that sounded like it would do anything Sherlock wanted to. But Sherlock only wanted one thing.
"I want you inside me." Sherlock said, then pressed his cheek against John's, his lips right next to his ear before saying in the lowest and most sultry voice imaginable, "Now."
That was enough to nearly push John over the edge. He smashed his face against Sherlock's, pushing him down onto the bed and preparing him properly for everything he wanted to do to him, and preparing him good. Sherlock had never felt so good in his life. No high, no chase, no solved case could have prepared him or even came close to the ecstasy he was feeling right now, and it wasn't all physical. John made him feel loved. For the first time in his life he felt completely and totally wanted. Sure, Lestrade needed him for cases, but only if it was convenient, and Mycroft may have needed him, but that was only so Mycroft could feel useful. John needed him, but it was different, because John wanted to need Sherlock, because Sherlock needed John too, and John didn't expect to get anything in return. As John finally entered Sherlock and filled him up, Sherlock felt his heart fill up too, as cliché as it sounds, it was true. Sherlock felt vulnerable and sentimental, weaknesses he usually avoided, but this didn't feel like weakness. It felt like strength, it felt like he would never be a better man than he was at that moment. As John thrust in agonizingly slow rhythms at first, Sherlock felt a level of ecstasy that should have been illegal. And Sherlock had felt plenty of illegal highs before, but those, those were nothing. This was life. As John quickened his pace Sherlock felt as if he would die, and as he saw the bright light of release, he very well thought he had. And he was okay with that. But as he laid there and recovered and shapes began to take form around him again, he realized that John was lying next to him in a very similar state, and Sherlock realized he never wanted to leave this moment. He never wanted to leave John's side, which frightened him because he knew that eventually John would leave. Why would he stay? For Sherlock? No that was ridiculous. Sherlock Holmes was not good enough for someone like John Watson. Obviously.
But John Watson had other ideas. A trip into the doctor's mind would reveal that John was having his own feelings of amazement and inadequacy lying there next to the great Sherlock Holmes, the impossibly beautiful, infuriatingly mysterious Sherlock Holmes. Why did he choose John, of all people? He was probably just an experiment, something to cure his boredom that would be thrown out of the way when it was cracked like the rest of Sherlock's cases, forgotten save for the trophy Sherlock kept on the shelves of his brain to remind him of yet another victory in the life of a perfect human being. Yes, John thought, I am temporary. But that is okay. John rolled over and snuggled into Sherlock's shoulder, throwing an arm protectively over his chest. John could like that forever, but if he couldn't, he would very well enjoy it while it lasted.
Back in Sherlock's impossible mind, he is blushing from the innocent show of affection that John had just shown, the cuddling that seems so domestic and loving, the kind Sherlock had never expected would happen to him. Yes, Sherlock thought, this is temporary. But that is okay. Sherlock placed a hand over Johns and pressed his face into his hair. Sherlock loved John, he realized. He loved him with all of his heart, and it wasn't just the sex talking, it wasn't the novelty of his "first". Sherlock had loved John for a very long time, he just hadn't admitted it. But now that he had, at least to himself, it felt great. Sherlock could stay like that forever, but if he couldn't, he would very well enjoy it while it lasted.
In a surge of courage, Sherlock decided to go all the way, as long as he had put himself out there and given himself to John completely.
"I love you, John." Sherlock blurted in a burst of air, and then held his breath in the silence, waiting for a response that was taking too long in coming. Not that he expected a response.
"I love you too, Sherlock." John said, sounding surprised and befuddled as he said it. "Yes," he said, more confidently. "I love you too."
Sherlock couldn't suppress the full blown smile that was so wide it made his cheeks hurt. He buried his head further in John's hair, and laughed the most pure and innocent laugh John had ever heard. It didn't take long until John joined in, both of them feeling the happiest they had in a long time, a happiness that would last for a long while to come.