Hello and Welcome!
"Sherlock", Sherlock Holmes X John Watson (2014) (a.k.a. Johnlock)
Because my boyfriend has forbidden me to see the Season 3 without him, I've decided to write a story with only minor details. Thank you for being patient and not killing me with words! :D
I don't know whether or not John had a cat when he was a child, but in this story, he did. As for Sherlock, he didn't. FYI, not a lot of suitable synonyms for "erection" and it seems I don't like to finish sentences so deal with it. ;*
Shout-out to my cat for inspiring me to write this particular story (except the smut) and for sitting on me the entire time while doing so.
Thank You and Enjoy the Show!
҈ ҈ ҈ ҈ ҈
John sat comfortably in his plush chair with the newspaper on his lap. The late afternoon sunlight was perfect reading light and he hadn't been sitting there long – just long enough to have read the sports column, the business column, and the front page, usually saved for shocking information. He found none of it shocking in the least; it was still better than mindlessly watching the 6-foot tall pale man pace back and forth across the living room of their flat. Sometimes he would stop and stare out the window. Sometimes he would sit in his chair across from John's with his knees to his chin. It was all just part of his routine when he was bored.
Sherlock was a little bit more on edge than usual, though. Every time John peeked over the top of his paper, he would see Sherlock moving part of the curtain to look down at the street. His eyes would follow a car or two that passed by. Sherlock Holmes's behavior was generally out of the ordinary, but this afternoon was untypical even for the black-haired genius.
"Sherlock?" John asked, hardly needing to move his eyes to get a good look at his figure. Sherlock said nothing but turned completely around to face him. "Something wrong? You seem a little out-of-place." He set his newspaper down, instantly forgetting everything he read.
'I'm fine. Fine, John. Why wouldn't I be?" he replied quickly. John tried hard not to chuckle at his response. The man was never "fine"; he always had something on his mind.
"Well, you're pacing around like a nervous animal, staring out the window like you're expecting someone you're anxious about – "
"What, like Mycroft or something?" John picked his words carefully.
"No, I'm thinking someone a little more than just Mycroft. Want to tell me anything? Anything at all?" Sherlock didn't respond. He hurried to his chair and watched John with big blue-green eyes. John waited for him to say something.
Sherlock's expression loosened. He crossed his arms and legs and slowly leaned back, never once taking his gaze off his friend.
"What would you do if I told you, John?"
What kind of question was that? Sherlock knew that John was his companion, flatmate, even his best friend. But he didn't say he was bored like he always did, so something else was bothering him.
"I would listen, of course. You have my full attention."
Sherlock just stared at him, his eyes narrowing.
"Alright. I haven't been sleeping well recently, always waking up between one and three in the morning with more energy than I know what to do with, and none of it is useful for new cases which aren't coming in as often as I'd like them to. That's my main problem, currently, doctor. Now tell me your input."
John sat there blankly, replaying the words of Sherlock's short explanation. The man was just going through sleep troubles?
"It's common to have sleep problems once in a while, I guess, but what do you do between one and three in the morning with all that energy?"
"I pace around my room. Toss and turn in bed. Stare at the ceiling. Anything but sleep, basically."
"Why didn't you tell me sooner like this morning?"
"Because I needed to know how I would go about my day with the lack of sleep, John."
"Then I don't know what to tell you, Sherlock." He retrieved his newspaper and tried to understand whatever nonsense he was looking at.
Sherlock did not like the sudden lack of attention. He pushed himself up and stepped behind John's chair, looking over his shoulder. The literature column, ugh. He rolled his eyes and draped his long arms over John's shoulders, crossing them over John's sweater-covered chest, and rested his chin on top of the clean blonde hair. They stayed like that for a few awkward moments before John tilted his head up to look at Sherlock.
"Why?"
"Because I can." Sherlock looked down at John. Their noses were barely touching.
"N-No, I mean like – "
"I know what you mean."
John didn't know how to respond to that. He sighed and resumed trying to read as Sherlock placed his head on John's. He figured as long as it calmed him down, he'd let Sherlock have his way for now.
҈ ҈ ҈ ҈ ҈
Sherlock opened his eyes. The darkness of his room, the warmth of his body heat under the sheets . . . He turned his head to face the clock on his nightstand: 2:07. Another early-morning wake up call. What to do this time?
He lay there, staring at the ceiling. Maybe John could help him – he helped soothe his nerves the evening before . . .
Sherlock sat up and reached for his sleep shirt and pants. Matching of course, who in their right mind would wear mismatching clothes when sleeping? He didn't bother putting on socks. The floor was chilly, but it didn't really matter to him.
He tiptoed (more like walked – his footsteps had gotten quieter like a cat's over the last few days) across his room, through the door, up the narrow stairs, and made his way to John's bedroom, flinching at every little sound he heard along the way.
҈ ҈ ҈ ҈ ҈
John dreamt about how his home life was before Afghanistan. His mother, father, Harry, even their cat, Ebony, he loved so much. Cats were so easy. You didn't have to walk them, they were independent, and soft, plush companions to have around. They did so much together when he was growing up. Ebony would entertain him and play with him when his sister said she was "too busy". He made John feel better when he needed cheering up. They would butt their foreheads together, not just out of trust, but out of love; he would dig his face in the blonde hair when John had decided to sit on the couch or lay in bed. All through his childhood and adolescence, Ebony and John were two peas in a pod. He loved Ebony. He could still feel the pressure on his forehead from where Ebony had once touched. It felt so real.
" – on?"
Too real.
"John?"
John shot his eyes open and looked up at the face so close to his. His heart stopped, then started beating a mile a minute when he realized the face looking down at him.
"Sherlock?! Jesus, you nearly gave me a heart attack! Do you know what time –"
"Yes, and quiet, John." Sherlock's eyes darted toward John's open bedroom door, hoping nothing heard them.
"What are you doing in my bed?! What are you even doing in my room?!" John whispered frantically. John had noticed Sherlock curled under the sheets on the opposite side of the bed once or twice before and usually thought nothing of it. He rubbed his eyes and sat up slightly, letting the sheet fall to his stomach.
"Too much energy."
"So you think that's a good reason to climb on top of me in my own bed?!"
"Quiet, John, or Mrs. Hudson will hear you. And yes, I do, if that's what it takes to mellow out my mind, then so be it."
John stared blindly at the man on his hands and knees on his bed. The moonlight outside shone perfectly across Sherlock's face and shoulders. His jet black hair messily curled and touchable, his sparkling eyes wild with liveliness. Granted, he had managed to shift to the end of the bed away from John, but it was still too close to be comfortable, considering that John was half naked. He tried not to think about what would happen if he decided to take a chance and kiss Sherlock. No. If either of them wanted to make such a move, 2:10 in the morning was the worst time to do it.
"What do you expect me to do about your nonsense, Sherlock?" It was too early for Sherlock's odd habits, and he was interrupted from his sweet nostalgic dream. Sherlock merely cocked his head to the side, looking confused, but adjusted his position so he sat cross-legged facing his friend.
"I expect you to keep me company, John, but judging by your change in attitude from the previous smile on your face when I walked in, you seemed to be having a pleasant dream that I have interrupted." Sometimes this person's ability of deduction was scary. John closed his eyes and sighed.
"Correct."
"Tell me what it was."
John was taken back.
"Why?"
"To take my mind off the current matter."
"Fine, if you must know, I was dreaming about when I was a child and teenager with a pet I loved very dearly. Happy?"
"Not in the slightest. More detail please."
"An affectionate black cat with big blue eyes. His name was Ebony and –" Sherlock's eyes went wide as he continued to speak.
"Shut up!" Sherlock rolled his legs off the bed and stood up, thinking at his usual speed when he got an idea.
"I'm sorry, why?"
"Your pet cat, John! A cat! That's the characteristics I've been portraying! The skittish feelings, high levels of energy at ridiculous times in the morning, and the sudden feelings of affection, those more recently, though."
"Sherlock, you're talking in monologue, again, and please tell me you're not going to sprout ears and a tail." John flopped back onto his pillow, tired of his shenanigans at such a bad time.
"No, this time I'm just talking really fast, I don't expect any physical changes, thank you, and I need to go research characteristics of cats, John, I might be a while."
"Ok, (a) it's almost 2:15 in the morning, Sherlock, that's absolutely ridiculous, and (b) don't you already know how a cat generally behaves?"
Sherlock stood there, anxious to get out, with his palm flat against the doorframe.
"I never grew up with pets. I didn't have the time for them." With that, Sherlock Holmes abandoned John Watson's bedroom to gather information about cats.
"And how do you know that isn't just – " John tried, but Sherlock was already gone. John almost felt sorry for the poor man, just now realizing this information. He flopped back onto his pillow, tired of his shenanigans at such a bad time.
҈ ҈ ҈ ҈ ҈
The next morning was no better than a few hours before. John walked out into the sitting room to find that Sherlock was lying sideways in his chair, his head resting upon one armrest and his long arms and legs dangling off the back and sides of the furniture.
"John, I'm hungry. Get me food."
John just glared down at his flatmate. No way was he going to make food for this man after his rampage last night, and especially not without saying "please" at least. He continued through the room to the kitchen to make something for him to digest. He shuffled his hand in the fridge over separated body parts in containers until he found the cold pizza they ordered from last night. He put two slices into the microwave and waited.
The microwave chimed and John pulled his food onto a plate. He took a bite and stood over the body in his chair.
"You know you have your own chair."
"But I want to sit in yours." Sherlock pulled the small couch pillow John sat with and pulled it up to his chin. "It smells like you and I like it." He rubbed his cheek against the patterned fabric. "Now it's mine."
҈ ҈ ҈ ҈ ҈
John liked looking out the window of the taxi when he came home from work – so many young people enjoying their evening, laughing and having a good time. And the stores and shops were busy with even more people going in and out with bags hanging from their arms. They all looked to be having fun.
Maybe I should take Sherlock out for some fun. He'd probably enjoy it, he thought. Then one store caught his eye – a pet shop. It reminded him of what Sherlock had said about himself earlier about feeling cat-like. He got an idea that made him smile wickedly. Good thing Sherlock was wearing his favorite purple shirt that almost screamed "rip me open!"
"Driver, stop here, please."
҈ ҈ ҈ ҈ ҈
Sherlock lay on the couch, held his hands together prayer-like in the empty apartment, and analyzed his feline behavior based on all the information he's read.
(a) The high levels of energy built up in his system at unthinkable times in the morning.
(b) The skittish behavior at the slightest sound or movement at any time.
(c) Wanting to be near anything that reminded him of John, especially his bed and chair (including that damn pillow).
(d) The constant demanding or lack of manners (John always had to correct him and metaphorically hold his hand through social protocols anyway – but still mentionable).
(e) The awkward feelings of sexual tension.
Sherlock dug deeper into that last observation. He had read online that when cats are not spayed or neutered, they tend to get sexually active to suppress their urges. He had those feelings whenever he was near John, and did his best not to show it. Even now he could clearly imagine the ex-military doctor walking through the door in those plain clothes or crazy sweaters that Sherlock fancied on him so much. Oh, how he wanted to see what scars lay under those clothes and everything his body had to offer to his eyes.
Christ, he thought, feeling his pants grow tighter around his groin very quickly. Now all he had to do was just think about John! Fantastic!
As if on cue, the front door of 221B opened and the man of the hour entered the building. Sherlock rushed around, trying to clean up his mess and conceal his new erection.
"Sherlock! I have something for you." John called, thumping up the stairs. Sherlock quickly slumped into his seat, appearing to look bored again. In less than a second, he thrust himself into John's armchair, instantly calming down and relieved to be back in it. John came into the living room with a small bag from the pet shop just a few blocks down.
"What's in the bag?" Sherlock asked cautiously. He felt like the short man was playing some kind of game with him, and that made him all the more interested in what John had to offer. The friction of flesh and fabric was a cruel attempt of his body playing its own game.
John reached into the plastic bag and withdrew a simple, dark purple collar with a tag in the shape of a heart with some sort of engraving on it. Sherlock just blinked at it.
"Let me explain –"
"Yes, please do, John."
"I thought that since you've been all hyped up with this idea that you are turning into some sort of cat – "
"I never said I was –"
"Let me finish, Sherlock, questions later. I thought that I would get you something to kind of 'seal the deal' and hopefully add some humor for me. If you're going to be acting like a domestic animal, at least wear this so I won't go crazy."
Sherlock exchanged glances from the collar to John. He had to admit, John bringing a collar into this particular situation was somewhat sexy. It unconsciously called out that John was obviously the more dominant of the two. Not that Sherlock minded, of course.
"Why the heart shape and what does it say?" John's ears turned pink at the question.
"All the other tags were either sold out or specifically for dogs. It says," John brought the tag closer to his eyes, "'If found, please return to Dr. John H. Watson'. The girl at the counter insisted." He shrugged his shoulders and waited for Sherlock to give him an answer.
This is such sweet torture.
Sherlock did a half-smile and sat up straight in John's chair.
"I'll wear it if you put it on me, John."
҈ ҈ ҈ ҈ ҈
John stood there and felt his stomach begin to knot. He was partially amazed that Sherlock didn't immediately think he was crazy himself for proposing such an absurd idea and turn him down. Also partially that Sherlock seemed to enjoy this.
When he saw that Sherlock was waiting for him, he strode over to him and unclicked the ends of the collar that connected.
"Promise me you won't wake me up in the middle of the night anymore?" John joked, looking down at the elegant head of curls below him.
"Maybe, but for different reasons." Sherlock practically purred in delight when he saw John's face flush. The collar clicked around his neck; Sherlock reached up with one hand and gripped the hem of John's shirt, never breaking their intense gaze. "Does this mean you own me now?"
"S-Sherlock – " John started, but was cut short when he was pulled down. He could feel his breath on his neck. The sensation made him shiver. Sherlock brought his leg up so his bare foot rested on the cushion and he leaned back, pulling John with him so he was in between the long legs. He held one hand out onto the back of the furniture next to Sherlock's ear for balance.
"I like the way you smell, John." Sherlock rubbed his cheek and nose against John's neck and opposite cheek. "I believe when cats do this, it's what they call 'marking something as their own'. You're mine now; just like I'm yours, John Watson."
John remembered to breathe. He needed this man so badly he couldn't think straight. He broke away from Sherlock to grab his face and smash their lips together. Sherlock smiled and molded into the kiss. John backed Sherlock up and dug his knee into the cushion, spreading his legs farther than he had done already. Sherlock snaked his hands, then arms, over John's shoulders and around his neck, drawing their chests closer. John carefully grazed his warm tongue over Sherlock's thin, inexperienced bottom lip and dropped his hands to Sherlock's waist, dragging the rest of their bodies together. It was blatantly obvious that Sherlock didn't know how to progress the situation – he was just a big flirt, but it was John that knew exactly what to do.
He pushed between Sherlock's slightly parted lips until he found Sherlock's own tongue, earning a quiet moan. They danced and twirled inside the hot opening until John felt that getting his pants off his straining erection was more important than Sherlock's mouth. He separated himself, leaving Sherlock's lips red and needy. He made a small, almost inaudible, noise in protest.
"How do you want your first time, Mr. Holmes – my armchair or your bedroom?" John questioned charmingly in Sherlock's ear. He palmed Sherlock between his legs through the surprisingly soft material of his pants, waiting from an answer from the detective. Sherlock dug his nails into John's back and gasped for breath. "Tell me, Sherlock," he ordered.
"B-Bed–"
John silenced Sherlock's hasty decision by hoisting him up into his arms. Sherlock locked his ankles behind John's back to keep him from sliding as John gripped his firm arse and back for support. Although John was a good 6-8 inches shorter, he was still strong enough from his military days to carry the detective with ease.
"John!" Sherlock managed to speak out.
He attached his lips to the pale, bony collarbone and sucked, walking rather quickly to the closest bedroom – that being Sherlock's.
He barged through the door, nearly knocking down whatever was hanging from it, and dropped Sherlock on his back onto the bed. He sat up and gazed intensely at the magnificent sight – Sherlock, still fully clothed, panting from hardly any action, beet red and half-covering his face. The collar around Sherlock's neck contrasted nicely with his luminescent skin and silky black curls. Two of his shirt buttons had already come undone, showing off the smooth flesh of his torso underneath. John fingered the buttons and one-by-one popped them open, gently kissing the newly-revealed patches of skin, until he got just above the button of Sherlock's pants. Sherlock had managed to slip his fingers into John's sandy-blonde hair to hold him in place.
"Bottom drawer," Sherlock breathed, completely aware of the upcoming events. He may be a virgin, but he did take Biology in school; he wasn't bloody stupid about how these things went!
"Oh, no. It's much too early for that." Sherlock shot his direction of vision down at John, strategically hovering over his erection.
"John, what do you – " Sherlock was cut short yet again, this time hitching his breath when his length was released from his constricting pants through the zipper. He blushed furiously.
John hadn't done this with another man before, but he took his past experiences from other women into consideration. He curled his tongue and flicked it across the tip of the pink flesh, now beginning to leak with precum. Sherlock's toes curled and he threw his head back at the touch. Low growls hummed deep in Sherlock's throat, threatening to escape in his erotic baritone voice, but John continued on. His lips formed an "O", teasingly engulfed the head into his mouth, released, and dragged his tongue down the underside of his column, leaving a thick trail of saliva. Sherlock held his tight grip in John's hair, holding back from crushing his head between his legs. John ran himself back up to the head and engulfed his mouth around it once more. He slid down until almost all of Sherlock fit comfortably in his mouth. Sherlock jolted, giving a tiny thrust into the mouth around him. John grinned and began to bob his head up and down, taking all of him in and Sherlock panting in pleasure.
He could feel the contractions building up in Sherlock's abdomen and base of prick, signaling he was already so close. John sucked hard, stealing whatever air Sherlock was trying to breathe, and engrossed Sherlock's hard flesh with his hand. He was now nice and slick with John's saliva, so he was easily able to glide up and down Sherlock's shaft, pumping harder and faster until –
"John!" Sherlock yelled. His back arched, his knuckles turned whiter from the sudden death grip on his sheets, and he covered John's skilled hand with his hot fluid. Sherlock peeked at John, who caught his attention and intentionally licked one of his fingers clean before wiping the rest off with an old t-shirt lying around. John allowed Sherlock to take a minute or two to catch his breath (had he been breathing at all?) and even to catch up himself.
"Speechless?" John chuckled, casually stripping off his own shirt and pants while his submissive wasn't looking.
"Fuck, John ~" Sherlock hummed once he was able to speak again. He felt John gently tugging at the bottoms of his pants, slowly getting them to pile up at one ankle and then flung to the floor somewhere behind him. His plaid trousers, now at his mid-thighs, would soon have to go.
"Look at this," John pointed out. "Even after all that, it's still halfway up." He winked at Sherlock below him and kissed him tenderly.
"That's because you took off your clothes, John, obviously." Sherlock kissed back, this time knowing to add his tongue to the kiss from what he learned previously.
"You saw that?"
"Of course, I did. And you're still muscular from your army days." Sherlock eyed whatever toned muscle remained on his abdomen and chest. John placed his hand under Sherlock's mess of black curls, loving the way it felt between his clean fingers.
"Then I guess you're ready for round two, my little pet. Bottom drawer, you said, right?"
"Meow, yes," Sherlock purred sweetly in John's ear. "Go easy on my ass, okay?"
John's libido instantly increased. Who said anything about going easy on Sherlock?
҈ ҈ ҈ ҈ ҈
Hello Again! ^u^
I was so reluctant to post this, but first Johnlock fanfiction, so please don't hate . . . 3 (I'll get better, I promise!)
*For those of you who read my Dream Catcher series (Rise of the Guardians, BlackIce), did you pick up on Ebony? ;) The eye color is different, but that's cuz I wanted to relate John's Ebony to Sherlock . . . I tried . . .*
I don't know what else to say to you lovely people so . . .
Thanks a Bunches and Stay Awesome!