'Since you're not going to work tomorrow would you mind to give me a hand?'
'Yeah, sure, why not...'
God, what I was thinking? thought John when he remembered the conversation which leaded to his current state. It was late after midnight and he was surrounded by a load of boxes, drowning in an ocean of postcards, looking for only one which Sherlock was convinced would crack the whole case.
"Anything?" was heard from another corner of the room where the great detective had seated himself.
"Nothing so far," the poor doctor answered him with fatigue in his voice and stretched his neck. "Only a prevailing need to go to bed."
"Hm." The detective stood up from his pile and leaving it to its fate he crossed the room to his exhausted flatmate. He approached a chair where John was sitting from behind and put his hands on his shoulders. At that point the doctor stopped his activity slightly taken aback by Sherlock action, but before he could ask something the detective started to exert pressure with his thumbs against his shoulders and it was just so amazing that he kept his mouth shut – nothing can energize and silence you better than a good massage.
"I do appreciate your help," said Sherlock, unflagging not a bit in what he was doing.
"Hm, thank you," John mumbled blissfully and tilted his head forward to give Sherlock's skilful fingers more space.
"Is it good?" he asked and gave his attention to the now better come-at-able part of his flatmate's neck.
"Very," the doctor answered. "Actually, Sherlock it's... fantastic. Where have you – ah."
A sensitive spot next to the fifth vertebra, mental note was added to a certain folder in the detective's he said: "Where have I what?"
"Learnt this?" John replied.
"This is not a thing that requires some special powers, John. Everyone can do this."
"Hm, I guess so..."
And when the doctor really started to enjoy it and that strange feeling of the sudden contact with his flatmate was slowly passing Sherlock out of the blue stopped and slapped him on the back. "Well then," he said and cleared his throat, "here you go." Then went back to his corner.
John who was now feeling surprisingly well turned at him: "Thanks."
"Anything that can keep you awake," said Sherlock without averting his eyes from the postcards which he was rummaging through as well as his companion – maybe with a little more of grace, because whatever Sherlock Holmes was doing he did that with a certain elegance (in my opinion he would even throw up gracefully).
Anything, John told to himself and smirked: "You do need me, don't you?"
The detective looked up at him with a faint smile upon his face and said more likely to himself: "Yes, I... do need you."
The doctor turned about a thousandth postcard over in his hands (he possibly had not heard anything of what Sherlock had said) and went on: "I think I may be an idiot after all. 'Cause honestly I can't imagine someone else who'd be willing to do this immensely fruitful activity for about –" he glanced at his watch "– two hours already (!). It's very unproductive..."
"Ha!" Sherlock exclaimed enthusiastically. Then sprung up from the floor where he was sitting cross-legged and with a twinkle in his eyes he waved a postcard in front of his flatmate's nose: "Unproductive you say?"
"At last!" John exhaled wearily (however with happiness caused not only by the pleasant fact that he could finally go to sleep, but also with the sight of Sherlock who was now looking so... well, the doctor didn't know exactly how to describe it... so let's just say that the detective's beaming face made him feel good somehow) and stood up. He stretched his back and looked at Sherlock who was now sitting in a chair with laptop (John's of course) on his knees, opening it.
"I'm going to sleep now, okay?" said the doctor.
"...Sure," was an unfocused answer from the detective.
"You'll not–?"
"No. I have to write to Lestrade what he has to do and how so I don't have to see him tomo– today actually."
"And you can't do it at the morning because...?" John raised his eyebrow.
"Agh John," Sherlock groaned with annoyance. "Of course I can do it at the morning but–"
"Fine," the doctor quickly cut his words. He was too tired and sleepy for one of Sherlock's speeches (actually now he couldn't quite understand why he was even wondering if Sherlock would go to bed, when he knew that during the cases the detective usually did not sleep, so why for heaven's sake did he ask?!). "Do as you like," he shrugged his shoulders at last, "Good night," and left that creature exempted from the need of rest alone.
"Good night."
. . .
Sherlock Holmes had always considered himself as a man of logic, a scientist with a cool mind who had no interest in socializing and making friends, because it just did not bring any benefit to him. And stuff like having deeper emotions for someone or be aroused by something were absolutely beyond his interest. About love he thought as of a disease, a doom for any fain brain. And sex? Well, sure, it could be agreeable, but why you'd be rolling around somewhere with someone else, when you can satisfactorily achieve an orgasm only by yourself? 'Interpersonal relationships – especially love ones – are confusing and have a sickening impact on human's mind and therefore they are unwanted.'That was a theory he promoted.
Sherlock was so disinterested in those things that he even had not thought properly about his orientation – he didn't care. And yet in these times when he lived with Doctor John H. Watson on Baker Street there were moments which took him by great surprise.
Like this midday when Sherlock's flatmate went out from his bathroom, wrapped in that damn dressing gown (which was in the detective's opinion too short even for the short man) with wet and messy hair which made him look disproportionately cute to his age, and without going to dress he contentedly seated himself in the armchair with newspaper. And poor Sherlock who was sitting at the table, dealing with his very late breakfast, could not help but watch that lovely fair-haired creature with steady gaze and with teeth deeply dug in his lower lip.
What the hell is wrong with me? a restless thought flashed like a burning comet through his cool mind. Why I can't stop watching him? I have no interest what so ever in– For heaven's sake did they not have a longer dressing gown?
Suddenly he heard his name which could not be pronounced by anyone else than by his flatmate.
"Hm?" he mumbled nervously through the pressed lips.
"Stop stare at me, it creeps me out," said John with a dispassionate voice, and turned a page.
Sherlock jerked in surprise and averted his eyes immediately, but then he frowned and looked back: "How did you...?"
"I can see your face in the mirror," John replied amusedly, because it felt really good to see that the detective did not know.
"Ah," the tall man with hurt ego muttered and began to anatomize his toast again.
. . .
When Sherlock had cut it to like a million pieces without eating a single one his phone rang. He left the toast and lazily reached for it.
John put the newspaper away and looked at his flatmate: "Lestrade?"
"Yes."
"Have they got him?"
"Yes."
"Good. (...) Any new case?"
"Yes."
"And?"
"I'm not interested."
The doctor's eyebrows flew upwards in amazement, but he did not say anything.
Sherlock, who had noticed John's reaction, stood up and crossed the room to him. "It's dull, John. And I've already told you," he took the newspaper from a table, "that I don't want to see him." He sat down into his armchair and added: "Besides I need a few days off."
"What?" John wondered.
"What?" Sherlock replied with his typical tone (that roguish tiny hint of disdain in his voice – like a naughty child who's being cheeky to its teacher).
"You?" the doctor turned at him. "I mean you want to take a– aren't you ill?"
"No."
"Yeah, of course you're not." John sighed. "You'd work even if you were."
Sherlock gave him an approving nod. "True."
At that the short man rose from his seat and approached the detective. Then he leaned forward to see straight into Sherlock's face and with narrowed eyes he asked: "Who are you and what have you done with my flatmate?"
"Oh come on, John," Sherlock smiled and hided his face behind the paper which he had just unfolded in front of John's nose. "Believe it or not I am only a human after all."
John smiled too and because his position had no use now he straightened up. "That's quite hard to believe really," he said and went upstairs to put on something else than the dressing gown.
Sherlock peeped out from the newspaper and breathed a sigh of relief – if John would stay that close to him for a little bit longer he'd probably die by that strange unfamiliar feeling of constricting chest (but not with pain obviously). Why is that? he thought. Stupid, you know why – more or less. But why now? And why him?
. . .
"So it means," said John when he got back to the living room, wearing a t-shirt stretched out of shape and something most likely described as pyjama trousers which were indicating he was not planning to do any outdoor action in the upcoming time, to his flatmate who was still occupying himself with the papers, "that you're staying here today?"
"Yes."
"Aha, fine."
Sherlock looked at John from head to toe and said: "So do you I presume."
"Uh-hu. I'm not feeling like doing something revolutionary today. It's Saturday after all."
"I see."
"So if you'd by any chance have a need of something," John said and went to the kitchen, "you have to get it by yourself."
"Fine," agreed the detective.
"...Sherlock?" the doctor's voice was heard after a while.
"Hm?"
"The sugar."
"It's in the top shelf."
"Yeah, I know. I see it."
"So?"
"So?" John replied angrily. "What is it doing there? I think we've agreed to put it at least in the middle one."
At that the detective stood up, left the newspaper on his armchair and went after his flatmate.
"Sorry," he said and crossed to John who nearly had a heart attack, because he did not her Sherlock come. "I forgot you're short." And he reached out his sinewy arm for the sugar box, handing it to his flatmate.
"No, you didn't," the doctor grunted and seized it from him. Then he took a teaspoon from a drawer and went to introduce it – alongside the sugar – to his cup of coffee. "If it's supposed to be a revenge for me hiding your cigarettes, then it was not fair. Don't you understand what it does to your lungs? This was childish, Sherlock. How old are you?"
"John–"
"You know very well I can't reach that stupid–!"
"John."
The doctor sharply turned his head to him: "What?"
The detective looked at John's cup: "You've just put a sixth into it."
"Sshit," John frowned at the excessively sweet coffee and tiredly rubbed his forehead. Then he took the cup and poured out its content into the sink.
"...I'll make it. I want coffee too," said Sherlock and started to prepare it again.
"Okay."
. . .
"Here you go," the detective handed him a cup.
John accepted it and sipped the coffee. "Mm, that's better," he mumble. "Thank you."
"And now my reward," said Sherlock and held out his hand to John.
The doctor looked at the long, pale fingers and then at their owner: "What reward?"
"The cigarettes which you have so kindly reminded me."
"No, Sherlock –" John unknowingly glanced at the skull on mantelpiece, "– you'll get none."
"Again, John?" The detective raised his brows, sounding a bit bored: "Really, you have to be more inventive..." and he went to the fireplace.
"No!" the doctor sprang up from his seat and nimbly grabbed the pack from under the skull (no matter he nearly killed himself at that) and put it into his pocket; "None."
The doctor's flatmate stood there in pure amazement of John's sudden energy, but he quickly shook it off and pierced him with his sharp eyes: "John. Give it to me."
"No."
"I'm not going to beg you again."
"It would not help you anyway."
"Then give me just one."
"No."
"Only one. I deserve it. You know how little nicotine there is."
"Noo."
"Oh for God–!" the detective suddenly spat and stepped resolutely forward his flatmate.
John shrank back and his back hit the bookcase. The books shook and one of them was ready to fall on John's head if a swift arm of his friend would not catch it in time.
The doctor opened his eyes (do not tell me you don't clench them tightly when you are expecting some pain) to find out why nothing had hit him and he saw Sherlock, looming over him, as he's giving the book back into its place. But when he put it there he did not step back away from John. He placed his hands from both sides of his flatmate's head and stared at him.
"What?" the doctor asked baffled and slightly annoyed. "Let me go."
"I'll have my cigarettes first."
"No."
The detective said nothing, only narrowed his eyes.
"Shrrrlock...!" John growled and gave the detective's chest a push.
"Nice try," Sherlock smirked.
It did not work.
"I'm not going to let you have the pack. Let me go."
"Well then," Sherlock said with low voice, "I just have to take it by myself," and slid his hand into the flatmate's pocket.
John grabbed the detective's wrist and closed his fingers tightly upon it. "Drop – it," he grumbled into Sherlock's ear.
The thin man gave the doctor a glare and pressed himself against John. "No..." He pronounced it in a way that made his flatmate be frozen to the spot. "...I won't."
Screw it! John thought and with his other hand grabbed Sherlock by his hair, pulling him closer and crushing their lips together.
The detective jolted and pulled away at once, giving his flatmate now enough space to go. "What... what have you just...?!" he stuttered out with eyes wide open, feeling like he may faint from the runway beating of his heart.
"Sorry," John uttered quietly and passed by him.
"No," Sherlock's firm, deep voice sounded and the doctor felt how he took him by the arm.
At that point John turned back and waited.
"What I've meant..." Sherlock looked straight into those blue eyes, trying to find something in them what could help him to sound calm once more, "is why?"
"Because I..." the doctor shot a glance at him and looked away again. "I don't know."
"But you–"
"I don't know, Sherlock!" he snapped and slipped out of the detective's grip, walking away fast.
"You always said you weren't attracted to men."
John stopped. "That's true," he said, completely sure of himself, "I am not." Then he turned at Sherlock: "Only to one idiot."
A happy smile appeared on the tall man's face as he pressed his lips together and came across the room to his flatmate. "Do it again," he told and leaned forward.
All John's anger seemed be gone and he smiled too. Then took Sherlock's face in his hands, closed his eyes and gently kissed the parted lips.
Sherlock had not closed his eyes. He wanted to see – to see John.
. . .
They parted and the detective rested his head against his flatmate's brow.
But the doctor could not hold it and after he got enough breath, he kissed him again.
He was a bloody good kisser Sherlock had to admit. He started as gently as before, but when the detective had shown – by a slight bit into John's lip – that he'd like to get something more, John returned it to him (except it was not as gentle as from the detective) and by a few well-aimed steps he guided Sherlock to the nearest wall against which he leaned him. Then he crossed the detective's lower lip with his tongue and really didn't have to wait long for him to understand and opened his mouth. Slowly, but with obvious desire he went over the tips of Sherlock's teeth and then met his tongue. The doctor's flatmate shivered under that sensation, but he certainly enjoyed it. He run his delicate fingers through John's hair and grasped it at the nape, leaving his hand there to let him know not to ease up in his action. John smiled into the kiss and pressed himself closer to the detective's gorgeous body. Sherlock let out a tiny, inaudible moan and caressed John's back.
The fair-haired man quitted the kiss and began to pay his attention to the long neck covered with white skin which was becoming hotter with every single second. He kissed Sherlock under the jaw and when he opened a few of his shirt buttons, John licked his way down to the collarbone. Sherlock, for the first time, closed his eyes and titled his head to the side to make more space for his flatmate.
The doctor had noticed and gratefully pressed his lips to Sherlock's neck base. Then he said to himself he would test the detective and bit him there, waiting for the reaction.
"Ah," Sherlock groaned deeply and squirmed.
The short man's mouth corners twisted up with satisfaction and he kissed his friend again. And when he stroked his tight, Sherlock groaned into his mouth, grabbed him by the shoulders and with the most craving bucked upwards.
"Ha!" John gasped, "Sherlock..." and rocked against him.
"Nnnh," the detective breathed and put his lips to his flatmate's very ear: "I want it."
"Are you..." the doctor whispered and uncertainly licked his lips "Are you sure?"
"John," a hot breath, carrying his name, tickled the doctor's ear. "When I want something I'm always sure about it."
A shiver went down John's spine as he absorbed all his flatmate's words. "Good."
"But what," he continued and began to kiss Sherlock's neck again "do you expect me to do? I can't just have..." John had to stop before he said that word and so he bought time by another caress of some piece of Sherlock's skin, "sex with you. We don't have the equipment."
"Yes," confirmed the detective and met John's eyes "we don't." And then, as a true genius who could always think out some alternative, he said: "But you can use your hand."
John's face went slightly red at that (he just imagined the feeling of Sherlock's – now noticeably hard – cock in his hand, hearing him moan and seeing his face when he'd come), but he knew he wanted to do so. "I can," he said and stretched his neck upward a little to press his lips on Sherlock's before he would lick his palm and slid it into his flatmate's pants.
"A–!" Sherlock gasped as John had touched him (because actually it was the very first time someone did that) and gripped the hair on his nape tighter.
John put his other hand down from Sherlock's shoulder and crossed with it down over his waist to the hip so he could unzip the detective's trousers which hampered him in his action.
The trousers were open and the doctor had enough space now. He leaned his chest against Sherlock's and buried his face in his shoulder, giving him a long smooth stroke.
The tall man pressed his head back to the wall. "John," he breathed and closed his eyes with blinking. "That's... that is..."
"Yes?" the doctor wondered, not stopping at rubbing Sherlock's cock – he liked to tease him with that and make every word to be hard to say.
"Some– thing..." Sherlock tried again, surprised how little it takes to make your tongue tangled up.
"Hmm?"
"New," he uttered at last, all breathless.
"Yes," John whispered and kissed him, "it is."
The kiss was hot and ardent, filled up with desire which they both felt for each other. Sherlock gently sucked on John's tongue as it playfully explored his mouth and his hands went up and down the doctor's back, eagerly grabbing at his arse, and for the sign of consent for everything that John was doing he let out moans and tinny gasps which made his flatmate to fasten his pace.
"Ahh!" the detective cried out when the short man had made a few intense strokes and whispered with husky voice: "I want to see you come, Sherlock."
"Yes," he replied and curved his back under another stroke.
John continued and after a while he felt Sherlock's body had shivered with the upcoming orgasm. He licked his jugular notch and kissed his neck, making the strokes even faster. "Come on, Sherlock," he breathed into the detective's ear and with that sent him over the edge.
"Ah, John...!" Sherlock dug his nails into his flatmate's shoulder and let escaped a deep, immodest groan from his throat. The doctor looked up at his face and had to bit his lip about that splendour he saw; Sherlock's eyes were shut, his pale skin shined as silver, his curly dark hair was a pure work of art, and the light flash of pink in his cheeks could simply not make him look more beautiful. John had fallen in love with this sight.
The detective bent his head down and rested it on his flatmate's shoulder, trying to get enough breaths to get his heartbeat at the usual level.
After a moment he swallowed and straightened up. He looked at John, then glanced down and before the doctor could do or say something he took him by the shoulders and switched their positions, pinning John's hips by his owns.
The doctor's heart rate shot up. "Sherlock what is it?" he asked, quite baffled right now.
But he had learnt what it was immediately – as soon as the detective put his hand on his crotch.
"My turn," the tall man smirked and swiftly pulled down John's pyjama trousers.
"I see," said the doctor with quivering voice, but still did not want to believe it (Sherlock Holmes is about to make me come? Seriously?).
Sherlock smiled quickly and met John's lips once more. Then he took his member by his hand and rubbed it twice.
"Mmm..." the short man mumbled into his flatmate's mouth and thought: Oh my God, he really is.
But the detective suddenly ended the kiss and so the touch.
"What..." John uttered, almost inaudibly, "What happened?"
The tall man didn't say anything, only gave his friend a roguish smile before bending down on his knees.
John could not believe his eyes, yet his surprise was pleasant. "But-"
"I want to try it, John," the detective interrupted him with firm voice.
The doctor faced the steady gaze of silver eyes and gulped. "Okay."
And when he said that, Sherlock took his cock and leaned forward to touch it by his lips. Kissing it, tasting the soft skin, making John's body all shiver with anticipation. He circled the head by his tongue and then with one smooth motion swallowed all John's length.
"Ah...!" the doctor breathed out over that sensation and the warmth of Sherlock's mouth – it was fantastic.
The detective made a couple of mental notes and began to move his head.
"Nngh..." John opened his mouth and whined slightly as Sherlock sucked him tightly, using his nimble tongue again. And the short man's breath went heavier and hotter with every single move.
Sherlock knew that if he wanted to do his job properly he had to not stop or hesitate for long and mostly to remember his gag reflex. And as he was aware of all these things it went good – very much indeed.
He grabbed John's arse and took control over the eager thrusts which John could not handle anymore. The doctor had gratefully adapted to Sherlock's pace and without knowing – instinctively – ruffled that amazing hair and not let go but catch it firmly, pulling Sherlock's head back and forth, blending with the motion.
Sherlock stroked John's tight and John caressed Sherlock on the nape, knowing that he would not last for long.
"Sherlock..." he uttered softly and leaned his head back.
The detective only quickened. And it was enough.
"God!" a cry escaped John's lips as he came in Sherlock's mouth.
The detective pulled away and wimped his mouth corned by his delicate finger which he then rubbed against the other ones.
John watched him and suddenly he realized: "Sherlock, you didn't have to–"
"And who'd be cleaning it up then?" The tall man smirked: "You taste nice."
The doctor's face went completely red and he quickly drew his trousers up from his ankles.
Sherlock laughed quietly and grabbed his flatmate by the wrist, pulling him down to the ground next by him. "You think," he turned at him, "that we could... sometime... do this again?"
John looked at him with an impish smile "...Surely," he answered.
"Good," said the detective and pressed his lips to John's, kissing that grin off them.