John finally managed to unlock the front door on his fourth attempt and stumbled inside drowsily. Every year. Every bloody year posters were put up in waiting rooms up and down the country to tell patients that antibiotics don't work against a cold and every winter, without fail, his days would be filled with people who'd decided that calling their cold a chest infection and getting some antibiotics for it would be an cunning way of getting themselves off work for the rest of the week. Still, he mused as he hung up his coat, at least they were better than the teenage boys who sat there assuring him that their sniffles were in fact pneumonia and that they had about three days to live. He knew he'd have more patience with them had Sherlock not kept him up all night chasing the criminal underclasses through London. He glanced up at the first floor to where the man in question would probably be in the same spot he'd had left him that morning, flicking through case notes. Sarah had looked rather smug and knowing when he'd come into work looking so tired and asked if Mrs Hudson had considered getting the flat soundproofed. Restraining himself to a rather long-suffering eye roll had taken more effort than he was prepared to admit.
His feet moved of their own volition and carried him up the stairs to his bed, his lovely warm bed. A bath at this stage would be nice but as he couldn't trust himself to not drown it would have to wait. Sherlock was a grown man, SURELY he could look after himself for a few more hours?
"John? John is that you?"
Apparently not. With a sigh of resignation climbed the last few steps and pushed open the door to their living room to find Sherlock hunched over a microscope in his dressing gown. Must have solved the case then. John thought. The brunette glanced up at him before going back to his latest experiment. John eyed the sofa longingly for a moment before remembering what it had done to his back the last time he'd accidentally fallen asleep on it and gave up on the thought. He hovered in the doorway, hoping this wouldn't take long. "You mean you couldn't tell it was me from... the cloud formations or the colour of the sky?"
Sherlock ignored the jibe. "Well I thought it was you, but you and Mrs Hudson sound remarkably similar on the stairs when you're tired and she's got heavy shopping."
He glanced at the array of chemicals on their coffee table and decided he didn't want to think about what they'd do to the varnish if they spilled. He tried to keep his voice light. "Didn't we talk about keeping experiments confined to the kitchen?"
"Most of them are in the kitchen."
The silence stretched out between them while John watched Sherlock fiddle with the lens, waiting for him to speak again. He felt himself drifting as he leant against the doorframe. "Was there something you needed Sherlock?"
"Oh" the man snapped visibly from his thoughts, rummaging on his make-shift desk for something "yes, there was." He smiled unnervingly and held up a petri dish. "I need a sample of your sperm."
John blinked slowly and tried to think of some way he could have misheard the man. "I'm sorry, what?"
Sherlock sighed impatiently. "How wonderfully eloquent. Your sperm John, in here if you would. I'd like to see what happens if I give them caffeine."
The blonde gaped at him. "And what's wrong with yours?"
The other man visibly bristled. "Nothing's wrong with mine John, but the process of extraction would involve masturbation and I've known since I was 13 that that generally slows brain functioning for a while and makes one feel rather tired, something I cannot afford at the moment." He shrugged. "By the time my cognitive function would have returned to normal levels most of the sperm would probably be dead. Youon the other hand," the brunette looked him up and down and smirked "well, in your current state I doubt that anybody would notice."
In all his time in the army - where incompetence cost lives, in all his time in the rugby team at university - with matches against men who could think of no source of humour beyond their own genitalia, John Watson had never punched anybody in the face. He found himself disinclined to break that record now, even with the neurons attached to his right arm whispering persuasively to his conscience about how satisfying it might be. He took a deep breath. "Goodnight Sherlock." His legs seemed to forget that they'd hardly been able to move a minute ago as they propelled him up the stairs to his room, leaving his bemused looking flatmate still holding the petri dish in his hand.
When he woke it was still dark. The curtains held the orange tinge of the street lights that hadn't been lit when his head had hit the pillow, but the traffic still sounded heavy so he couldn't have slept for as long as he'd have liked to. The dip in the mattress and the breathing that wasn't his own explained why he'd woken up, his – well, his Sherlock (because he'd tried finding a name for what they were so many times and he'd always failed) had come up to visit. Sarah accused him of trying to conventionalise (and according to Sherlock that was a word) their relationship whenever he brought up the topic in conversation, but it irritated him. 'Boyfriends' made them sound like teenagers to John, 'lovers' was too bedroom specific and after years in the hospital being confronted by reps every time he rounded a corner the word 'partners' made him think of small-business owners or law firms. He'd toyed briefly with the idea of referring to Sherlock as his 'everything', which was probably true, but the imagined consequences to the man's ego had been too much to bear.
"John, you're awake, your breathing's changed." Sherlock muttered. "Please talk to me."
The blonde sighed and rolled over, propping himself up on an elbow to take in Sherlock's appearance. The suit jacket had gone and the sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, that usually meant that the hair would be on end from having a hand run through it too many times and at least one patch would have found its way onto the man's arm. The dim light in the room was sufficient for John to make out the curls that were indeed standing up at odd angles, but he was distracted from the brunette's (surprisingly soft and touchable) hair by the rather anguished look on his face. His eyebrows were knitted together and he was gnawing on his bottom lip as he did when he was unsure how best to proceed at a crime scene. A jolt of worry went through John and he sat up against the headboard, a quick look at both arms proving by lack of nicotine patch that this couldn't possibly be case related. After a beat he realised Sherlock was waiting for him to say something. He cleared his throat. "Hello."
Silhouetted against the light from the doorway, Sherlock's frame relaxed for a moment. He shuffled closer on the bed and put his hand on John's thigh. "John, earlier, downstairs I mean, was I rude?"
John tipped his head back and stared at the ceiling. "Yes Sherlock, you were." He let it hang, wondering what the other man's next move would be. The hand on his leg started stroking up and down his thigh and he started finding it difficult to concentrate as his blood pooled in his groin. He was glad of the duvet bunched at his waist, Sherlock would almost certainly take his already half-hard cock as forgiveness.
"And did my rudeness upset you?"
John glanced at him, the concern on his face seemed sincere. "Yes, it did. That's why I came up here." Ok, so maybe that wasn't entirely true. He'd been on his way to bed anyway, but Sherlock was definitely the reason he'd chosen the bed he'd hardly used in the last – could it really be almost a year?
The stroking moved up his thigh, closer to his groin and the erection he was struggling to hide. "I really am sorry John."
Sherlock's voice was low, almost a growl and it sent a shiver through John just as the bastard knew it would. Any hope that it had gone unnoticed left with the smirk that appeared on the brunette's face. Low blow Holmes. Sherlock moved closer still, close enough for John to feel the man's breath on his neck every time he spoke. With effort, he kept his eyes on the ceiling. "I'm very, very sorry. I shouldn't have done that, it was unacceptable to ask you to masturbate into a dish for me."
John felt the man's lips ghost against his jawline at the same time the hand on his thigh reached his cock and gave it an experimental squeeze. He screwed his eyes shut, determined not to give in so easily. Sherlock peppered kisses over the side of his face and sucked gently on the pulse point beneath his ear. He clenched his fists in the bedding, unwilling to surrender to what Sherlock's tongue had started doing to his neck. He knew he was fighting a losing battle, his cock was throbbing steadily against the man's hand through the duvet and he'd been on the receiving end of that infuriatingly talented tongue too many times to fancy his chances.
"I promise I won't do it again."
Blindly, he reached out to where he thought Sherlock would be and tangled his hand in his soft curls, pulling him down. Their lips met softly, slid gently over one another until Sherlock's hand squeezed John's cock roughly and he gasped. When their lips met again it was rougher. John tightened his hand in the other man's hair as the brunette coaxed John's tongue into his mouth and sucked on it. The blonde kicked the covers off him, for once grateful that he slept naked as Sherlock's hand found his cock again and started pumping slowly, twisting at the head in a way that made John slump back against the headboard for support.
Sherlock broke the kiss, panting slightly as he moved his lips to John's ear. "Why don't I show you how sorry I am?"
John found himself being pushed onto the mattress before he could speak, the hand on his cock moving to his thighs to spread them apart. Sherlock settled himself between the shorter man's legs and kissed up his inner thigh,and lapping at his balls, swirling his tongue tantalisingly close to his cock before moving away again. John growled in frustration and tried to sit up but was forced down by a firm hand on his chest. "Patience." His lover/boyfriend/everything teased. John growled dangerously at him and he huffed. "Oh fine then, be boring." John's response was cut short as Sherlock opened his mouth as swallowed him down to the hilt, turning into a strangled cry instead as his head fell back and his hips flew off the bed. Strong hands held him down as the brunette set himself an easy rhythm, pleasure slowly coiling in John's belly. Sherlock's tongue was doing amazing things to his body, it had learned to play John as well as his hands knew the violin, licking up the full length of him and swirling around his head before the rest of his mouth joined in, sucking at it until John's hips started to buck and had to be held down more forcefully and he took him deep into his throat to start again. John was in agony, torn between making Sherlock hurry up and make him come and lying here forever, just letting the pleasure wash over him. Piece by piece he could feel the world falling away, zeroing in on the space between his legs that kept disappearing into Sherlock's mouth. He knew he should probably still be annoyed about earlier but Sherlock's mouth was hot and wet and tight and when he dragged his tongue up the underside of John's cock the friction was so delicious and when he sucked his head like, oh God, like that it sent a jolt of lust pleasure through him and it wasn't enough the bastard KNEW it would never be enough to make him come. He started rocking his hips again, tugging at Sherlock's curls with one hand in a futile effort to make the man move faster, the other hand clenching in a pillow.
"Sherlock." He groaned. Sherlock made an interested sort of sound around his cock that made him feel boneless for a moment. He tried again, refusing to actively beg. "Sherlock, please." Sherlock laughed quietly against his flesh and for a moment John thought he was being ignored before he heard the cap of a bottle opening and a familiar squelch and his heart jumped in his chest. Two cold, slicked fingers reached his entrance and circled it slowly, maddeningly slowly, until John groaned in frustration and they pushed inside him in one move. The fingers pumped steadily in time with Sherlock's mouth on his cock before curling and pressing against against his prostate and John simply couldn't think. The strangled cry that escaped his lips seemed to communicate enough to Sherlock though, who suddenly sped up his ministrations, his head bobbing on John's cock and his fingers rubbing mercilessly against John's prostate. The pressure started building in his groin but he held on, trying to hold off the inevitable as he balanced on a knife edge, but Sherlock sucked his head harder and the world went white as started to come with a yell. Sherlock kept licking and pumping and wave after wave went through him until he lay boneless and spent on the bed.
Sherlock was off him in an instant. John didn't worry, the man never swallowed when he was working on something, said the aftertaste caused performance reducing daydreams, he just languished in the afterglow and listened to Sherlock's feet running down the stairs. It was several minutes later, when Sherlock hadn't returned that it occurred to John that he'd gone straight passed the bathroom and that he hadn't heard anyone wandering around in the kitchen either. Perplexed, or as perplexed as anyone can be after a toecurlingly good blow job from Sherlock Holmes, he swung his legs off the bed, pulled on his boxers (back to front but who cared) and padded downstairs to investigate.
Sherlock wasn't in the bathroom or the kitchen, he was hunched over his microscope again. He looked up, smiling brightly John entered the room. "There you are, good. I've added the caffeine to them but I'm slightly concerned about whether my saliva could affect the results. The amylase won't be a problem of course but the lysozyme might be I suppose. Then again, I minimised the time they were actually in my mouth and maximised output using your prostate, so I might be fine. What do you think?"
John stared blankly at him for a moment before turning and heading for their more usual bedroom. No, he'd never find a label for what he and Sherlock were, probably because Sherlock was unique. And given the current situation in the livingroom, that was probably just as well.
A/N First attempt at Sherlock fic so please review to tell me what you think. Should I write more to this or leave it as it is?