His heart should have been pounding out of his chest, which meant, of course, that it was doing anything but. Instead, it had slowed to a reptilian tempo. His breathing was smooth as glass, his hands as still and steady as stones. Obviously, John Watson was in danger.
That was of little consequence to him. More to the point, Sherlock Holmes was in danger. John was not in possession of all the facts but he knew this much:
1. Sherlock had a case.
2. Sherlock did not want to talk about the case.
3. Since obtaining this case, Sherlock had been disappearing into the city in the middle of the night, not asking John to accompany him even when he was clearly sitting around the flat doing nothing.
4. When pressed, Sherlock said he did not want John's company.
5. When followed, Sherlock flew into a rage and opined that John ought to keep his arse at home and wait to come out till he was told and anyway he was just a washed up old army doctor, who did he think he was, James bloody Bond?
6. When delivering that speech, John thought, and ok, he couldn't be certain, but he was pretty sure, that for just a second, a fraction of a second, Sherlock's eyes flashed fear.
Sherlock Holmes had the most extraordinary pair of eyes John had ever seen. Possibly the only thing that could make those eyes more startling was the look of terror in them. Very few people could claim to have witnessed that; John knew that the late Mr. and Mrs. Holmes had been two of them, certainly Mycroft would be another, and he suspected (though he could never know) James Moriarty to be the fourth. Whether there were any others, he had no idea. He did know that he'd seen it himself. A few times now. And every time, he himself had been the cause. As far as he knew, only two things frightened Sherlock Holmes: the loss of his mind, and the loss of his John Watson.
John knew something else. That where his safety was concerned, Sherlock was a sodding idiot. If John was in danger, it could only mean that Sherlock was in danger, or if he wasn't already, he'd put himself there with utmost haste.
So John rose to the occasion. He stepped up his spy game. Maybe not James Bond, but a level above the standard issue John Watson. After all, he'd picked up a trick (or four or five) from Sherlock. His leg had healed nicely from Sebastian Moran's gunshot; he'd always have a little limp, but he could run and jump and climb and again, more or less keep up with Sherlock as well as he did before (at least for brief spurts). Sometimes better, because what he lacked in physical ability he made up in knowledge of his quarry. John didn't claim to understand Sherlock; no one, except possibly Mycroft, could say that. But he knew him. Better than anyone.
And that's how John was able to track Sherlock to this hideout in the East End. He slipped between a fire escape and a skip without being seen and took note of the two young men in the alley next to a rusty metal door. Though they appeared to be loitering – smoking cigarettes, making jokes about each other's girlfriends and mothers – they were clearly the muscle. But they weren't here when Sherlock arrived. Was it a coincidence, a poorly timed shift change, or had Sherlock created some kind of distraction for them? Whatever the reason, John had watched Sherlock go through those doors just moments before these men sauntered up and took their posts.
That was nearly an hour ago.
When Mycroft said John missed the war, he wasn't entirely wrong, but he wasn't entirely right either. There were so many things about the war that John would have given his right arm to forget. The thing that he missed, the thing that he craved, predated Afghanistan by decades. The sure, steady, calm of knowing that your life could end at any moment. That it all comes down to this. Everything hinges on your next decision. And then the one after that. It's so simple. So clean. All your senses, every nerve, humming together at their potential, and your mind empty and alive. That's what he missed. It had very little to do with Afghanistan, except that Afghanistan happened to be the last place he found it, and in abundance. But back in London, with Sherlock, was where he learned to love it, without apologies or regrets.
And yet. One can only love it for so long.
An hour of nothing? His military discipline was gone, civilian life had made him impatient and impulsive, or maybe it was just that Sherlock was wearing off on him.
At this point, John's leg was starting to ache and his calm was receding into rage. Selfish wanker, has he learned nothing, has he heard a word I've said to him ever, after everything we've been through, that he continues to prance right into enemy camps without me, what in bloody hell am I good for anyway, if he had his way he'd keep me on a shelf like a talking doll, pull a cord so he can hear me tell him how pretty he is, take me down to fuck me now and again, and never let me out of the flat, certainly never let me run about London and save his worthless life, no John's no good for that is he, certainly not someone you would ever want by your side when you're facing dangerous armed criminals, what a preposterous idea, not when you're Sherlock bloody Holmes and you are brilliant and invincible and possibly immortal…
John flared his nostrils and clenched his left fist – the one not holding the gun – in an effort to keep from exhaling loudly in frustration. He was going to kill Sherlock. Provided he could save his life first.
Someone was coming out of the door. This would be the third person John had seen exit since he'd been standing here. The first was a middle-aged white man with graying hair, a pockmarked face and a slight limp. The second, a woman in her 30s, frizzy black hair tucked under a head wrap, adjusting a heavy backpack. Sherlock would have deduced their life stories and in all likelihood found something of interest and relevance to the case just by glimpsing their outerwear and the way they walked – but John, of course, could not.
This man was similarly unremarkable. He was a bit on the thin side and slightly above average height, though it was hard to tell with the way he hunched his shoulders. His beanie was pulled low over his brow, and the hood of his black sweatshirt pulled over that. He wore sagging black jeans and steeltoed workboots. His clothing was unassuming, but something about the way he held his head as he walked suggested maturity and hard-won confidence. He had an unlit cigarette already dangling from his mouth as he walked out into the alley. He paused then and said something to one of the young men there, who gave him a light. They conversed in low tones for a few more minutes, and then the black-clad man grunted a goodbye and turned toward the alley where John was hiding.
Sod this, he thought. Enough waiting around for His Excellency to come out. Time to move things along. This man struck him as the sort of person who knew things. That was not a deduction. John would not attempt that. It was just a gut feeling, and one thing John knew how to do was follow his gut.
He flattened himself into the shadows. The man appeared to be absorbed with his phone as he walked past, his head bowed inside the hood of his sweatshirt, his other hand shoved in his sweatshirt pocket, which clearly did not contain a gun. Perfect. With both hands occupied, he'd need a fraction of a second to reach his weapon, if he was carrying one. A fraction of a second was all John would need.
He waited until the man had just walked by him and then stepped in behind him, so gracefully it felt choreographed. Just as smoothly, he raised his gun and placed it at the base of the man's skull.
"Keep walking slowly," John whispered. The man tensed and hesitated just slightly, but did as he was told. They continued a few paces until they were fully hidden in shadow. "Stop. Do not move. Now. All you need to do is tell me one thing. Where is Sherlock Holmes?"
"What, you want Sherlock Holmes?" The man's voice, with its thick Scouse accent, was rough from a lifetime of cigarettes, cold air, and hard work.
"Don't pretend you don't know." John nudged the gun harder against the man's skull.
"Yeah, yeah, I've seen Holmes. You won't find him back there." He jerked his shoulder in the direction of the building he'd just left.
"Where then?"
"I can't tell you." There was fear in the man's voice. All that understated confidence unraveling so easily.
"Then I'm afraid I can't resist the urge to shoot you."
"No, I mean, I don't know how to tell you. I know how to get there. I just don't know how to explain. I can take you."
"Well. That will be fine."
It was easy to see why the man had a hard time explaining how to get there. John struggled to keep track of the twists and turns. Fortunately it was not a long walk, just a complicated one, before they finally arrived at an abandoned warehouse. The man jerked his head at a side door and they entered. It was insane, John knew that, to walk into a strange building with an unknown – but definitely hostile – man and no idea what waited inside. But he felt it was too late to turn back now. Beyond that, he couldn't have explained it if he'd tried.
Inside, the man didn't hesitate before walking up a staircase directly before them. John had to hurry to keep up behind him. At the top of the staircase, the man took a few steps forward and stopped. John looked around; the huge bare room was empty. No traces that anyone had been here in ages.
He shoved his gun against the man's skull again and growled, "Where is Sherlock Holmes?"
"Where is Sherlock Holmes?" the man mimicked, his Scouse intonation showing through even as he mimicked John's accent. Then he laughed, low and rasping, and that was enough to make John click off his safety.
"Last time I'm asking you," he warned. "Where is Sherlock Holmes?"
The man sighed deeply and replied in impeccable Public School English, "I'm right here, John."
John dropped his gun to his side in amazement and clicked the safety back on as he watched the man magically grow taller. His center of gravity shifted, his muscles rolled into place, and suddenly John saw the carriage of his shoulders, the angle of his head, and the body he would know anywhere, even under those bulky, baggy clothes. Well. Thought he would've known anywhere. Obviously not. And now that body was turning around slowly, pulling the hood and hat off his head. That sinister smile and those predatory eyes… those, John really would have known anywhere.
"How did you… How can I be such an idiot?" John gasped.
"You're not me." Yes, that was Sherlock's incomparable voice, rumbling through the empty room. Where had he hidden it before?
"Jesus." John shook his head. "I'm so stupid."
"Of course." Sherlock smiled fondly. "But let's not talk about that now."
"You're right." John's head snapped up. "Let's talk about how you've been tormenting me by running about…"
"Tormenting?" Sherlock cocked his head and smirked, the left corner of his mouth curling up while the right side held its ground, his eyes crinkling ever so slightly. His eyes. It occurred to John that they were especially green and unusually dark, in a way that couldn't be explained by the poor lighting in the warehouse. And that Sherlock's cheeks were a little flushed, though he couldn't possibly be winded from getting here. And that something about the way he was looking at John made the hairs at the back of his neck stand up.
"Why'd you lure me here, Sherlock?" John asked suspiciously.
"Why'd you stick a gun to my head?" Sherlock replied, slipping back into that Scouse accent like it was just another coat.
"Because I thought you would take me to… you."
"What if that's still true?" Sherlock's voice dropped a register, sinking to a dangerous place, all too familiar, never familiar enough. "What would you do, to force me to take you there?" He emphasized the word force ever so slightly, but John caught it, and felt the tiny jolt at the base of his spine.
"Sherlock…" he warned.
"Angry, John?"
"Yes…" John growled and remembered that he really was. "On top of everything else, I don't need to be fooled and humiliated by you. I came here to help you. I tend to do that, you know."
"Help me? With what?" Sherlock's condescending smirk brought John's anger roaring back full force.
"How the hell should I know? You won't tell me a bloody thing! All I know is that you think it's too dangerous for me, and if it's too dangerous for me, as I keep telling you, not that it does a bit of good, then it is also too dangerous for you, and you cannot go into it alone!" John was keeping his voice to a harsh whisper and nearly trembling with the strain of not yelling, but that was good, that reminded him that he was, in fact, in danger here, and that thought brought him back into stony calm. Which was fortunate, because otherwise his reaction to what Sherlock did next could have been much worse.
He laughed. His hand in front of his mouth, his eyes narrowed mischievously, he laughed noiselessly. And then he snorted, "Dangerous? Oh I don't think so, John. It's just a little case. A six at best."
"Bollocks. You wouldn't be running around the city, in costume no less, for a six. You'd have me do it for you."
"I was bored," Sherlock shrugged, still giggling a bit. But his eyes, their intensity and their large, black pupils, didn't match his voice.
"You wouldn't keep me in the dark about a six."
"You keep yourself in the dark quite well. Really, John. It's not like you need to know everything I do. It's not like I need you."
That did it.
In one swift motion, John slammed a hand against Sherlock's throat and threw him against the wall.
Sherlock's response was immediate, arching his back, pushing his groin into John's thigh – oh Jesus, rock hard already – and his smirk was gone without a trace, his mouth hanging open, and his eyes even darker and greener and smoldering with both triumph and desire.
And John was pressing his entire body against Sherlock, his fingers gripping, then stroking, then squeezing that long pale throat, unable to decide whether to kiss it and make Sherlock shiver with pleasure, or sink his teeth into it and make him cry out with pain.
"No," Sherlock whispered. He couldn't do more with his throat constricted so tightly. John quickly let go. No to what? Sherlock was always one step ahead, approving or vetoing an idea before John had even fully formed it. "I don't want your hand," he continued "I want your gun."
John stepped back and met Sherlock's eyes, blazing green and gold with a force that was almost tangible.
John took a moment to consider. He was still furious. Wasn't he? Just a few seconds ago he had been livid, but that was draining away and he couldn't bring himself to hold onto it, not with those eyes fixed on him as if he were the only living creature left in the world. He could practically feel the need emanating from Sherlock's body, and nothing was more intoxicating than knowing he was the person who could fill that need.
"You're sure it's not dangerous here?"
Sherlock didn't answer, but rolled his eyes impatiently.
John nodded and raised the gun up to empty the clip.
"No." Sherlock had his voice back, and there it was, with all the imperial command he could put into it when he wanted to. "Keep it loaded."
"Sherlock…" John started to shake his head. "That's insane."
"Yes. I'm insane. You're insane. This is insane. Nothing new here. Keep it loaded."
John stared at him. He noted the way Sherlock's chest rose and fell, his breathing shallow now, and the way his long, elegant fingers fidgeted. He knew those fingers and wanted them, badly, in a million different places on and in his body. He looked up at Sherlock's face and saw how those sensual, pink lips were parted, he knew that mouth, and he wanted it, hot and urgent, surrounding him, and he knew the tongue inside and wanted that most of all.
"Alright, then. Strip."
Sherlock affected a look of intense boredom, gazing at some distant point beyond John's left ear.
"I said, strip." John saw, or thought he saw – it was so subtle he couldn't swear to it – a tremor go through Sherlock's body when he barked out the order. But Sherlock did nothing to respond.
"Very well." John raised the gun – and this was no mistake, Sherlock's focus swung round to John's right hand and his entire body hummed at attention – and pointed it directly at Sherlock's face. Sherlock smiled and reached up to unzip his hoody when suddenly John strode forward and pistolwhipped him across his left cheek.
The only thing more unusual than fear in Sherlock Holmes' eyes was shock. John had seen it precious few times. It took his breath away. For a moment, Sherlock's eyes went wide and flashed with a blue so clear and pure it seemed unnatural. His mouth was hanging open as he slowly reached up one hand to touch his cheek. It was bleeding. He held his hand in front of his face and examined the blood on his fingers. His eyes were dark again, balancing desire and control.
John took Sherlock's hand in his own and brought it slowly to his mouth. He parted his lips, took the tip of the middle finger between them, and swirled his tongue around it, tasting the warm, metallic blood, and heard Sherlock's breath hitch. John pulled his hand a little closer, bringing in the index finger and ring finger, delicately licking the blood off each. He traced his tongue around each finger in turn, swirling it up and down, pressing firmly on the underside where the fingers bent, flicking his tongue across the tip, treating each finger just the way he knew Sherlock wanted his cock to be treated. Finally he let the hand fall from his mouth and met Sherlock's stare. He was flushed, panting. Perfect.
"Now. Where were we? Ah." John placed the gun in his waistband and crossed his arms. "Right. Strip."
Sherlock didn't hesitate. His actions were not rushed, but they were deliberate and economical, he wasted no motion as he removed his clothes one by one until finally he stood naked, shivering slightly, in an abandoned warehouse in the East End.
It was filthy, John suddenly realized. Literally, filthy, this building was probably full of rat droppings and who knows what else. But also, filthy as in obscene, as in perverted, as in profane. That thought seized him as if Sherlock had just grabbed him himself, and suddenly he was desperately hard. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and when he opened them Sherlock was still standing there, naked, watching him silently from those extraordinary eyes. Examining him, as he always did. John would've thought, before starting this… this thing between them, whatever it was, that "clinical" and "adoring" were mutually exclusive; he never could've imagined this feeling of being held with tweezers under a microscope and simultaneously cherished and treasured, but there it was. Anyone who said Sherlock Holmes didn't know how to love had a sadly limited view of the myriad forms that love can take. John was thankful that he did not suffer from such a lack of imagination. Right now, Sherlock was watching him, but also waiting. With an eagerness so sweet and so filthy it had to be rewarded.
John took the gun from his waistband and held it at eye level so that Sherlock could appreciate it. Sherlock knew it well, of course. He had bought it himself on the black market (no other way to find a Sig in this country, obviously) and presented it to John like a knight presenting a great treasure to his king. And it had made John feel something like a king, actually. The Sig was simply gorgeous. Too beautiful, too precise, too rare for someone like John to deserve it. Much like Sherlock himself.
Which was why it made sense, then, to bring them together like this, John thought as he stepped forward and placed the gun against Sherlock's temple.
Sherlock closed his eyes and let out an exquisite, shuddering sigh.
John slid the gun down the side of Sherlock's face, across the cut on his cheek and through the blood still smudged there, to brush across his lips. Sherlock opened his mouth and John stopped, letting the gun hover there, just in front of him. Sherlock reached out his tongue and John almost let him, but then pulled the gun just out of reach, leaving Sherlock's tongue suspended enticingly in the air, his mouth hanging open, and John closed the gap, pushed his open mouth over Sherlock's, and kissed him like he wanted to break him, like that was even possible, sucking his tongue and scraping it with his teeth, grinding his entire body against him, savoring Sherlock's desperate whimpers, and that's when he realized he was pressing the gun into the tender skin under Sherlock's chin. When he nudged it in a little harder he felt Sherlock's mouth fall open even further and his cock jump against John's waist.
John groaned appreciatively and nipped his way down to Sherlock's neck, dipping his tongue into the hollow at the base of his throat, sinking his teeth into the flesh above the collarbone. At the same time, the gun traced the same route down the other side of Sherlock's neck, to the center of his throat and back out along his collarbone. It wound a lazy path across his chest and grazed lightly against his nipple, causing him to gasp and grab John's arms. John responded by bowing his head to bite the other nipple, a little harder and a little longer than Sherlock liked it. The sharp, helpless cry in response made his whole body pulse with desire. With his free hand he reached down to Sherlock's arse, slid his finger down the crack, and pressed it against his hole. In the same moment, he jabbed the gun into Sherlock's ribs, just under his pounding heart. Sherlock let out a long moan so deep it vibrated through his chest.
John pulled his head back to look at Sherlock's face. He'd never seen him this undone this quickly.
With a small sigh, Sherlock suddenly dropped to his knees and began nuzzling his face against John's legs and then across his crotch. John closed his eyes and bit his lip, struggling to keep control. He felt Sherlock's cheek rub across his cock again and then teeth, scraping through his trousers. John cursed and reached down to grab Sherlock's hair but it wasn't there. John opened his eyes and saw Sherlock leaning back on his heels, his hands placed demurely in his lap, smiling sweetly at John. His pose was pure innocence, but his erection was not. Neither was the look in his eyes. It was almost exactly the same look that appeared when they were about to head into a fight. That look was flooded with adrenaline and laced with cyanide, deadly and ecstatic. He wondered what was in his own eyes, if it was the same look that he brought into battle too.
John reached down, grabbed a handful of hair, and yanked Sherlock up, pressing his face into John's crotch.
"Go on," he growled, and pressed his gun against the side of Sherlock's head.
Sherlock blinked slowly and pressed his open mouth against John's erection, through his trousers, moved up his shaft to where the fabric was already damp with pre-cum, and lazily worked his tongue and lips there, until John impatiently jabbed the gun into his head again with a grunt. Sherlock flicked his eyes up John's body to his face. The left side of Sherlock's mouth began to smirk, but before the right side could follow suit he lowered his head and then those fingers, those long, lovely, talented fingers were unbuckling, unzipping, pulling, stroking. And then that shameless, clever mouth was closing around the head of John's cock – he groaned and dug his fingers into Sherlock's scalp – and that ruthless tongue was gradually spiraling its way down, then licking up the shaft, then soft wet lips closing around him, steady suction, and the whole sequence repeating, one hand at the base of his cock and the other cupping his balls, and John twisted his fingers in Sherlock's hair and moaned.
The sight of Sherlock's mouth on him was something he had not yet got used to and hoped he never would. Every time, he wanted to pinch himself as he took in the view from above: Sherlock's tousled hair, his dark lashes resting against his cheek, fluttering open as he directed his gaze up at John, his eyes – almost turquoise now, in the sliver of iris around his blown pupils – locked on John's face, the plane of his cheekbones above his hollowed cheeks, and his mouth, jesusfuck, the perfect heart of his lips wrapped around John's cock (how can this be my life, he wondered for the millionth time) like they were made to fit. John released Sherlock's hair and traced a thumb down his cheek and along the strong edge of his jaw. He cupped his hand under Sherlock's chin and held it gently but firmly. With his other hand, he slowly dragged the gun down Sherlock's face, to hover at the edge of his mouth. Sherlock froze. "Don't stop," John said gruffly, and jabbed the gun at the corner of Sherlock's mouth. The edge of the barrel scraped just barely against his cock and sent a surge through his body as Sherlock resumed his pattern of licking and sucking with renewed enthusiasm. John pushed Sherlock's hand away from the base of his cock and started rubbing the gun against it, the barrel against his shaft, enjoying the feeling of hard, smooth metal against his hot skin, but appreciating even more the affect on Sherlock, who was simply staring with a nuclear intensity. Jesus. John hadn't even thought about that.
"Alright," he said, as if he'd planned this. And then Sherlock was stretching his mouth around both of them, John's cock and his gun, and it looked difficult and extremely uncomfortable, but also fucking hot, as Sherlock closed his eyes and moved his mouth down the lengths, curling his tongue between them.
"Fuck," John breathed, and pushed Sherlock's head away.
"Lube and condoms in the right inside pocket of your jacket," Sherlock offered hoarsely.
The man appeared to be incapable of replenishing the milk or toothpaste or toilet paper, yet he kept both their coats stocked with lube and condoms at all times, in case they found themselves shagging in a mall restroom, a train car, the mortuary, the library, a cupboard in the Diogenes, an empty office at the Yard, and now, a shell of a warehouse. It partially made up for the shopping.
"Turn around," John ordered, and Sherlock did. He was close enough to the wall that he had to lean his arms against it and couldn't get on all fours or put his head down on the floor as John might've liked, but he decided to leave him there because the sight before him was so gorgeous: Sherlock's back, an elegant triangle, the graceful outlines of muscles, the power just under the surface as he shifted his weight, the way his pale skin almost glowed in the darkness. John leaned over to run his tongue along a shoulder blade, and then started making his way down Sherlock's spine, planting a kiss on each vertebrae as he went. He trailed the gun a few inches behind his lips, scraping across the vertebrae he'd just kissed, and Sherlock sighed and rounded his back in response.
When he got to the base of Sherlock's spine, John kneeled behind him, between his legs. He knew he was going to pay for this tomorrow, and probably days after that; his right leg just couldn't take this kind of treatment anymore. And Sherlock, naked on this concrete floor, his knees would be a mess as well. John thought about taking him home, sitting him down in the kitchen and cleaning him up as he'd done countless times before, applying ointment and plasters and kissing the inside of his knee, whispering his lips up Sherlock's inner thigh, grabbing his hips and pulling him to the edge of his chair, sliding a finger down his perineum, wrapping the other hand around his cock… John decided not to worry about Sherlock's knees. He'd definitely make it up to him.
He placed the gun at the inside of Sherlock's knee and tapped. Sherlock immediately spread his legs wider. John groaned at the sight and placed a hand on Sherlock's arse. "I could take you right now," he murmured. "God, I want to."
"Then get on with it," Sherlock rumbled, his voice shaking slightly, and began to rock back and forth slowly under John's hand.
John ran the gun all the way up Sherlock's inner thigh and along his perineum, smiling at the ragged moan he heard in response, and then slid the gun up and down Sherlock's arse, watching as he arched his back and rutted against it.
John pressed his palm against Sherlock's arse to stop him, took a deep breath, and licked his lips. He knew Sherlock had turned his head over his shoulder to watch him, but he didn't dare look up. He was trying to regain control, and Sherlock's stare would not help matters. He opened a packet of lube, dripped it over Sherlock's arse, and immediately slid a finger in, loving the sounds he heard in response. He rested his gun hand at the small of Sherlock's back and waited until he started rocking back and forth again, fucking himself on John's finger. He didn't wait long before adding another finger and finding the prostate. He stroked it softly and slowly at first, let the pressure build, and then suddenly backed off, forcing Sherlock to start fucking himself again, this time with a mesmerizing roll to his hips that pushed John's fingers against the prostate and squeezed them so tightly he felt it in his arm. "Do that," he whispered, "what you're doing now, do that when my cock is inside you."
"You might have to make me," Sherlock smirked over his shoulder, with an especially pronounced hip roll that made them both gasp.
John growled and pulled his fingers out abruptly. He had a condom on in no time and started slowly pushing himself in, but then hesitated. Sherlock was tight, so tight, he should have waited longer, prepared him more, but fuck, he wanted this. Sherlock was leaning his forearms against the wall and resting his head on one arm, sweat dripping down his face. He whimpered. John exhaled and pushed all the way in. The sensation was almost too much; he closed his eyes and waited until he'd regained control.
Finally he took a deep breath and asked, "Ok? Ready?"
There was no reply.
"Sherlock?" John felt a little jolt of concern. "Are you ready?"
"For what?"
"Christ. To get fucked, you bastard."
"Yes." Somehow he filled that simple syllable with every lewd, obscene thought that had ever floated threw John's mind, and it rumbled through his body and coiled in his groin.
"Then do it," John ordered.
Sherlock didn't move.
But John had caught on, finally, so he moved quickly. With one hand he grabbed Sherlock's hair and yanked his head back so suddenly that his gasp became a yelp. With the other hand, John shoved the gun up against the base of Sherlock's skull.
"Is that familiar?" he growled. "That's where I had my gun when I didn't know it was you. When you were just some bloke who was in my way. I'd have shot you if I had to. You know that. And I could do it now if I wanted to."
Sherlock's breath was coming hard and fast, and John could tell from the sound of it that he was gritting his teeth, trying to restrain some other, more interesting noises.
"Now. Stop playing around and do as you're told." He jabbed the gun sharply against Sherlock's head. The results were immediate. That thing with the hips, fucking Christ, was incredible. The tightness around his cock, the way it felt to slide in and out of Sherlock's perfect arse at just that angle, the sight of those undulating hips and lower back muscles. And the sounds, the filthy, glorious moans coming from Sherlock's mouth, rising in pitch every time he rolled his hips to make John's cock stroke his prostate. John wondered again whose life he had accidentally fallen into and how he could make sure he never ever went back to his own.
He felt like he could go on like this forever.
Until he couldn't. Until the pressure building up inside him became unbearable, until Sherlock's hips started to stutter; he was close, he wanted to speed up, but he was trying to hold his rhythm, and John felt that just wasn't necessary anymore, so he let go of the hair and reached for Sherlock's cock. Touching it for the first time that night, he wrapped his hand around the shaft and pulled up and in the same moment snapped his hips back and thrust in hard. Sherlock's entire body shook and he cried out – shouted, really – so loudly that John let go of his cock and slapped a hand over his mouth. Sherlock had said it was safe here, but they were still in a bloody warehouse in the East End where anyone walking by would hear a noise like that and think it was two blokes shagging or one bloke being violently murdered; either assumption would lead to nothing good.
So there John was, with Sherlock's mouth hot and wet and moaning against his hand, and he couldn't help but think it was horribly unfair. He needed two more hands to grab Sherlock's hips, tight enough to leave ten finger-shaped bruises and steady his arse so that John could pound into it until they both came. He needed another hand to stroke Sherlock's cock, long steady strokes with that twist he liked, and another to press against his stomach, pull him in tighter. Two hands to run across his chest, brush across his nipples, feel the hammer of his heartbeat, hold him close. One more hand to trail up and down his spine and around his shoulder blades. Another to tangle in his hair. Another to wrap around his throat. Two more to run up his arms and lace into those fingers spread against the wall. It seemed cruelly unfair, to give him a body like this to touch and only two hands to do it with. For a moment, John didn't know how he would manage. There was only one thing for it, of course, so he –
"Don't," Sherlock whispered, his voice broken. "The gun."
John cursed under his breath. The demanding son of a bitch would find a way to take incredible sex and make it as difficult as possible. He briefly considered ignoring Sherlock's demand, dropping the gun to the floor and fucking him senseless, but that was ridiculous. There was no chance of that happening.
"And I always give you what you want, do I?" he said in a low, dark voice, removing his hand from Sherlock's mouth and letting it wander across his chest. It was a rhetorical question; the answer was obvious.
"Of course," Sherlock answered, but he didn't sound smug, he sounded utterly wrecked.
With his free hand John grabbed a handful of hair and shoved Sherlock's head against the wall, his face turned to the side. This gave him a bit more room, so his back was bent just a little further down. John pulled back and thrusted in once, slowly, to test the angle, and found it had improved. Sherlock seemed to agree, as he let out a long, rumbling moan.
"No." John pressed his gun against Sherlock's temple. "Quiet," he ordered, and pulled back to thrust again, slowly. Sherlock bit his lip and made no sound.
Once again, John let go of Sherlock's hair and began stroking his cock instead, but this time nothing was going to distract him. His hand and hips hit a coordinated rhythm and he watched Sherlock's profile beneath his gun, his face flushed and sweating, his eyes dark and wild, his bottom lip bleeding, and now he was coming, flying apart, his body convulsing around John's cock and in his hand. Sherlock's mouth fell open and he was choking out "John," almost silently, and that was what put John over the edge. He dropped the gun, grabbed Sherlock's hips with both hands, leaned over and pressed his open mouth against Sherlock's shoulder to stifle his cries as he came, pumping hard and fast.
They were silent for a moment, John happily draped over Sherlock's back, both of them gradually catching their breath. But then John remembered Sherlock was propped up against a wall in what had to be an uncomfortable position even without supporting another man's weight. He scooted back, pulled his trousers up, and inspected the damage. The knees were exactly as he'd expected, and he'd have to attend to them tonight. The scrapes on Sherlock's face, from being pushed up against the wall, looked nasty but would be gone within two days. The cut from the pistol whip would take a bit longer. By Sherlock standards, it was all fine. Sherlock was definitely fine, slumped against the wall with peaceful, foggy eyes.
John suddenly felt a surge of protectiveness. He felt compelled take care of Sherlock even in the best of circumstances. But when he was like this, so vulnerable, so helpless, John was overcome with the need to watch over him. He heard a noise outside and immediately grabbed the gun from the floor, crossed to the window that overlooked the street they'd come in on, flattened himself against the wall, and held his gun up at the ready.
Just a stray dog.
Sherlock was collecting his clothes and getting dressed, not quite up to his customary grace. He met John's eyes and graced him with a rare, open smile. John smiled back. Afterglow-Sherlock could last anywhere from thirty seconds to fifteen minutes. However long it lasted, it was a gift. He reluctantly turned back to the window.
He didn't hear Sherlock walk up behind him, but there was nothing unusual about that. He felt warm breath on his ear and watched long, graceful fingers fold over the gun in his hand, then trail slowly across his hand, down his wrist, along his arm, over his shoulder. "This, John," Sherlock murmured. "Your power. Your strength." John sighed and allowed himself to lean back into Sherlock's chest and close his eyes, to take this moment.
But then there was a noise outside. John didn't actually hear it, but he felt Sherlock's body stiffen and his attention snap to the street, and knew he'd heard something. He opened his eyes and saw that Afterglow-Sherlock had vanished without a trace; Regular-Sherlock was back, with a pale mask for a face and hard, alien eyes staring down at him. John had no problem with that. This was the Sherlock he'd fallen in love with, after all.
"They're coming," Sherlock whispered. He grabbed John's arm and started sidling along the wall.
"Who?" John kept his voice as low as Sherlock's as they both flattened their bodies and kept out of the line of sight from the window.
"Simsek's men. Come on, and be quiet."
"What…" Understanding crept up on him slowly. "I was right, then… You said it wasn't dangerous."
"Yes. It wasn't then. It is now."
"Are you bloody serious? You just got me to shag you here with people right outside who want to kill you?" John managed to keep his voice to a whisper but he was beginning to seethe.
"You were armed." Sherlock's mouth twisted just slightly into a smirk. "And I was listening. We were fine. Anyway, they weren't right outside then, but they are about to be now. Fire escape, there. Follow me."
"I am going to kill you for this."
"Yes, whatever, but let's get home alive first."
They hurried to the fire escape at the other end of the warehouse. I am going to kill him, John thought for the millionth time. There's no way around it. If he's not the death of me first.