A/N: Usually I'm not a fan of straight-up slash when it comes to Holmes and Watson, but this idea hit me over the head and I just had to write it. Hope you enjoy! Stay tuned, there's at least two more chapters coming if people end up liking it.
I was right in the middle of a nice cup of tea and the paper when Sherlock Holmes walked in and demanded that I fuck him.
"WHAT?" I spat out a mouthful of tea all over the Prime Minister's face and my new trousers. Dripping wet and sputtering, I spun around to face him. "Have you gone completely mental, Sherlock?"
"No, no I haven't, John." He narrowed his eyes at me and frowned. I hated it when he did that. It was his little way of implying that I was an idiot to have suggested something without evidence. "Now, will you please remove your clothes? Or shall I?"
"Oh no." I got out of my chair and started to move toward the wall, my hand held out in front of me to ward him off. "There is something definitely wrong here. Is this one of your little games? Because I swear to God, Sherlock…"
Sherlock made an impatient noise and swept out one of his long, thin arms.
"John, look. I have decided that it is time that I take part in this aspect of… human nature. You are the obvious choice to do it with, and you are going to say yes." He shrugged off his jacket and began to loosen his thin black tie.
"No no no, wait!" My voice was slightly panicked. "That's not… I'm not… what? Why am I the perfect choice? I'm not – God, you know I'm not even gay, Sherlock!"
Sherlock set the tie down on the coffee table and sat in his chair. He began unbuttoning his shirt.
"Because, John. You are my friend. My only friend, in fact. I… trust you." He wrinkled his nose as if the notion was distasteful to him. "And in return, for once, you will get to teach me something."
The shirt was slowly coming all the way unbuttoned, revealing the pale skin underneath. He really needed a tan. A holiday! Maybe that's what we needed. We could go to a resort, or on a- a cruise! and Holmes could find something to completely occupy his mind other than…
Sherlock had cocked his head to the side and was squinting at me.
"Are you thinking of taking me to a resort?" he asked, his tone amused.
"Stop that," I snapped automatically. I backed behind my chair, keeping it between us.
"Sherlock, we're friends, yes. Best friends, in fact, well, some might say… Anyway, the point is, that's exactly why this is a terrible idea. Friendships never come out of this sort of thing intact; it just doesn't work." A sudden thought drew me up short. "And by the way, I thought you weren't gay?"
"I'm not." Sherlock pulled the shirt off his shoulders and slid it down his arms. Pulled his arms out of the sleeves. Now he was shirtless. "But I am interested in you." His long fingers started on his pants…
"No, stop!" I yelled. "Stop taking your clothes off, okay, I can't think like this!"
Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "Excited already?" A hint of a smile tugged around the corners of his lips.
I glared at him. "What? I mean – no, NO! Of course not!" I rubbed my hand over my face, trying to think of the right thing – anything – to say.
His fingers stopped moving. There was a pause before he looked up at me.
"So – you're not interested in me," he said. His voice was quiet, tinged with sadness. His pale blue eyes stared up at me, suddenly looking huge.
"What? I – no, no, Sherlock, I didn't mean it like that."
"It's fine," Sherlock said shortly. He started to re-button his pants and shoved one arm through the sleeve of his shirt. He didn't look at me. "I suppose I didn't really think you'd be interested; it's not like anyone else has been…"
"Wait, hang on." I came out from around the chair and crouched down next to his feet, looking up into his face. "That's not what I meant at all. You've had – you've had loads of people interested in you. Look at Irene! What about that, er, Molly?" I remembered how Sherlock had treated her at the last Christmas party and hoped desperately that Molly was the forgiving sort.
Sherlock shook his head. His fingers slipped on the clasp of his pants. Was he shaking? "Gay; only interested because she knows I never will be. The instant I started to return her affection, Molly would run screaming and you know it." He glared at me.
I hadn't known her very long, but I suspected Sherlock had a point about Molly. She looked like the kind of girl that had never really graduated primary school.
"Well, that's just because you haven't tried, alright?" I craned my neck to get him to look at me. "When was the last time you chatted a girl up over a pint, eh? Or, or asked a colleague out for a drink?"
"DAMMIT, JOHN!" Sherlock exploded. He leaped out of his chair, leaving me sitting on the floor, staring up at him as he clenched his fists in rage. "I don't want any of that, don't you see? I can't – I can't do that, okay? All the talking, and their dull little lives, and their meaningless ambitions…" He wrinkled his nose and flapped his hand, imitating these poor boring people's conversations.
"I can't do it, John, alright? I don't want to do it." Now his eyes bored into mine, blazing and relentless. "I just want you."
"But… I'm not gay," I almost whimpered, grasping at any last shreds of sanity. How had this conversation veered so far off course?
Sherlock knelt down next to me, his nose just a couple of inches from mine.
"I told you, neither am I. But you and I… we're something different, aren't we?" He tilted his head and reached out one pale, long-fingered hand toward my face. I felt like I was held in a vise. All my instincts screamed out for me to move, but I couldn't.
Sherlock's cold fingers touched my face, and his pale lips curved up into a smile. And in that instant, I knew I had lost.
He stood up, and somehow I was standing up with him. We were very close together, though we weren't quite touching. But I could feel faint heat coming off his body and seeping into mine like electric shocks.
Sherlock's face was next to mine, so close that our lips were almost touching, though they didn't.
"Yes," he murmured. "We're different, aren't we? Admit it. In some way, you wanted this. You've been waiting for it."
"What? I – I don't understand." My head felt fuzzy and all I could focus on were his hands, his hips, his lips almost touching me. We were so close. I could feel us about to touch. When was it going to happen?
"Allow me to show you, then."
Sherlock pulled me with him a few feet across the floor so that we were standing over the sofa. Somehow, he did it so that our bodies stayed close, just barely brushing each other, his pale blue eyes boring into mine.
We hovered there over the sofa for a minute before I saw the nervous twitch in his lip, and the uncertainty in his eyes. Of course. I was the experienced professional; he was waiting for me to make a move.
Now remember, he's a virgin, John Watson, my mind admonished me as I reached a gentle hand up and slid it around the back of his head. Be gentle with him. He's probably never even been kissed before.
Our lips had just touched when I decided I had to know.
"Have you… ever done this?" Our lips brushed against each other as I talked. It was very distracting.
"What? I… what?" Sherlock sounded a bit dazed, almost. "No. Now get on with it." That demanding tone sounded more like the Sherlock I knew.
I smiled slightly and leaned in, tugging on the back of his head and sliding one hand around his small waist to pull him into me.
The kiss was shocking; like nothing I'd ever had before. It was like I was aware of every molecule, every hair on my head and every atom of skin touching Sherlock's. And at the same time, we were both melting into the kiss, opening our mouths until our tongues touched. He made a noise in his throat and bit my lip.
My fingers dug into his waist and his long arms wrapped around my shoulders and neck, pressing himself so tightly to me that I could barely breathe. I didn't want to breathe. I broke away and took short, gasping pants to recover while Sherlock whimpered and leaned into me, wanting more.
At some point I noticed Sherlock's hands on my shirt, trembling violently but managing somehow to undo the buttons. I tore it off the rest of the way, leaving me standing there in just my jeans. I wasn't sure how it had happened, but Sherlock's pants had come off after all and he was pulled close to me in just his boxers.
"C… couch?" I gasped. Sherlock nodded fervently and flung himself down, pulling me on top.
The couch proved to be a dangerous proposition. In these close quarters our bodies clung together and our limbs entwined. I found my knee nudging one of Sherlock's legs away from the other, exposing his bulging package.
Sherlock was flat-out moaning now, and not quietly; it crossed my mind that a neighbor might hear. But I didn't care. I didn't care about anything except having him, all of him, right here and right now.
When I took a moment to breathe, I saw Sherlock's tousled hair and stunned expression and scolded myself. Slow down, John Watson! The voice in my mind shouted at me. You're doing this too fast; it's too much for him.
In the small, quiet part of my brain that still made sense, I couldn't understand what I was doing. Sherlock was my flatmate; my friend. And I wasn't gay. Never had been, not at all. There wasn't anything wrong with it – I lived in London for God's sake – but it had never been my cup of tea. Hell, even if I had been gay, I couldn't imagine that Sherlock Holmes would be my type. He was strange and pale and awkward, and he kept frozen heads in my fridge.
And yet, here I was, kneeling over my friend's exposed body, ready to reach into his boxers, draw out his cock and toy with him until he was spent. Not only that, I wanted to do it. Needed to do it. Sherlock was right – I had been waiting for this.
Softer now, I leaned forward and kissed his lips. It was deep, but slower this time. Sherlock tried to reach for my hair, but I caught his arms and pinned them down beside him.
"John," he whimpered. "Please."
Ignoring him, I kissed his jawbone. Then I worked my way down his neck to his collarbone. I kissed and licked my way down the side of his chest, eliciting a surprised, "Oh!" when I sucked on his hard nipple.
The further down I got, the more Sherlock started to squirm. I kissed his waist, and the "V" of bone showing under the skin there, and slowly drew his boxers off over his legs, trying not to bounce him more than I had to. At this rate, and this his first time, I wasn't sure how much longer he could last.
Sherlock's cock was so engorged it looked painful; purple and oozing pre-cum at the top. He was cut, which surprised me for some reason, though it shouldn't have. In fact, it looked a little like him, severe and ramrod straight.
"For God's sake, Watson!" Sherlock moaned. He didn't try to touch himself, but I saw his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.
I smiled wickedly down on him, making sure he saw it.
"Oh, don't worry," I told him. "I'm getting there."
Then I dove back down and started to kiss all around the area – his thighs, the sensitive skin just above the crotch, the place where his legs joined his torso.
Sherlock couldn't control himself by this time; he was jerking his hips up and down and moaning my name and various pleas. "John, John, do it, please, please, I need it, I need you…"
I took another moment just to watch his face, twisted in painful agony, and then I leaned back down and licked the tip of his cock.
Instantly, Sherlock went still and his eyes went large. Clearly, this was something unexpected.
"I… I thought…" Sherlock sounded like he was fighting to summon up his reason. "I thought we were going to…"
"The first time?" My face probably looked as shocked as I felt. "That's not right. You're not… no, you can't. This is enough."
A look came over Sherlock's face like he got when he found a clue, and he stared at me hard for a second before he seemed to let it go, and sank his head back down on the sofa.
"Just do it, please," he begged.
I gulped. I'd definitely never done this before, but it seemed easy enough in theory. Up and down, don't use teeth. Oh, and don't gag. Squeeze tight with my mouth.
Well, here goes nothing, I thought, and swallowed my friend's cock.
It was warm, warm and hard but soft at the same time. When I went down on it the first time, Sherlock cried out my name so loud that I was sure the neighbors were going to come knocking on my door.
I pulled up, grabbing some breath, and went back down again. Sherlock was rambling incoherently, grabbing at the sofa and my hair. It hurt, but in a good way. Even though I should have been focused on my task, I couldn't stop watching him. Seeing him writhe on the sofa, hips bucking and head tossing, was amazing. I could feel my own cock almost ready to go, and resisted the urge to touch it.
As I'd predicted, Sherlock couldn't last long. It only took three or four minutes before he gasped, "My God, John!" and hot liquid spurted into my mouth.
I froze, taken by surprise, but then swallowed it before I had time to think. It didn't taste bad; bit salty.
I sat up on my knees and surveyed Sherlock with a satisfied smile, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. He looked so absolutely shattered. It was the sexiest thing I'd ever seen in my life.
Sherlock's head rolled toward me.
"You," he moaned.
"Me?"
He waved a hand at me. "Yes, you, you're still…"
I glanced down at my swollen, leaking dick. Yeah, I needed to cum badly, but Sherlock was in no state to help me out.
I shook my head. "No, but…" I lifted it in one hand and pointed it at his chest. "You mind?"
Sherlock shook his head and collapsed back, staring at the ceiling.
For some reason, cumming onto Sherlock Holmes's chest was exactly what I wanted. I heard myself make a few noises as I rubbed, but I came quickly, especially when my dick grazed his chest. The hot white cum shot out of me and left a trail up his chest, almost reaching the hollow at the base of his collarbone.
Sherlock leaned his head up to look. Unconsciously, as if he was simply curious, he slid a finger through the cum and licked it off his finger.
"Oh, God, no, Sherlock," I gasped, collapsing on my side half on top of him. "Don't do that; you'll just start me up again."
His eyes slid to look at me instantly. I could see he was quickly becoming himself again.
"You find this attractive?" he asked. He reached down again and put a finger coated in the stuff into his mouth. This time, though, he licked and sucked the finger, closing his eyes and acting like it was the best thing I'd ever tasted.
By this time, I was rock hard again against his leg.
"Oh no, no," I panted. Sherlock laughed and reached a hand down, skimming the length of my body. His fingers were still shaking.
I stopped him, and he looked at me questioningly.
"I just…" I paused. I didn't know how to tell him that in spite of what we'd just done here, he still seemed like such an innocent to me. Well, about this. I didn't want to somehow take advantage.
Fortunately, I never had to finish the sentence, because at that moment Sherlock yelled, "OF COURSE!" and leaped off the sofa. I fell forward and caught myself.
"Of course, what?" I asked, bewildered.
"Of course!" he shouted, holding his hands up in the air. "The woman went to the bar, but she never went inside. She was only waiting for someone."
My eyes widened. "You're… you're talking about a case? You just figured out a – hang on, was this all… was this somehow about a case?"
Sherlock glanced at me and frowned. "What? No. Of course not. But I've just realized something." He grabbed his pants and my shirt off the ground. "I need to go down to the station. Molly has something that I have to look at."
"A body," I said, resigned.
"Of course." Luckily that shirt was big on me, so it almost looked right on him except for the checkered pattern. He paused and looked at me again, more slowly this time. "You… er… you stay… here. We'll, um… later." He stumbled backwards over a pile of books and strode out of the flat without another word.
I crossed my arms behind my head and stared up at the ceiling. I tried to process what had just happened. What had just happened?
The door swung open. I didn't bother to move. Sherlock probably wouldn't even say anything, just grab whatever he'd forgotten and leave.
Hang on a tick. When did Sherlock forget anything?
"Oh – Lord, John, I'm sorry!" Lestrade blustered, wide-eyed, trying to look anywhere but at me. "I just needed to get – okay, I should go. I'm going."
"Sorry, sorry!" I shouted, grabbing the closest thing to me and pulling it up to cover myself. Sherlock's coat. The bloody moron had taken mine instead. "I… um, this isn't what it…"
The door slammed shut. I slumped back against the sofa and groaned.
This was definitely not going to help with the rumors.
