The Sig Sauer P226R was really the perfect gun.
Almost 20 centimeters long and 14 centimeters tall, it was small enough to be concealed with relative ease but had a long barrel coupled with a sight radius that was just right to make it more accurate than average. It weighed just over 32 ounces fully loaded with 15 rounds of 9mm destructive force, impressive given the black, hard anodized steel frame. Its one-piece ergonomic polymer grip required a bit shifting around to get it to rest in the right place, nestled in the crook between the thumb and the index finger in such a way that the kickback travelled through the fleshy mound of skin underneath the thumb before reverberating up the arm. Feet planted properly, back straight, hesitation in check, it could be fired single-handedly, but a guiding hand underneath it only improves on the accuracy.
John remembered the first time he held it. He was no longer a boy by any means, but he had never held a gun before. He wanted to say that it felt foreign to him, that he had the same trepidation as the other boys did when they held theirs. He told himself that it was just because he was a man and not a child that it didn't faze him, but if he was honest, he wasn't apathetic toward the weapon, no, he was far from apathetic. He remembered, clearly, the perfect coalescence of hand to gun and finger to trigger and that beautiful feeling of finally.
In the desert country of Afghanistan, he didn't have to run from that feeling. He embraced it. He was a doctor, sure, but his patients were often dragged out of remote villages under heavy fire from the enemy. No man got left behind, even if Doctor John H. Watson had to go in and retrieve them himself. He looked back with pride at the trust and respect he earned from his men, even if they reminded him constantly that he was a complete idiot. Quite frankly, he was surprised he hadn't gotten shot sooner.
Best not to dwell on that bit.
Instead, his thoughts shifted to those nights where there weren't any soldiers for him to patch up, no bodies for him to call time of death on, no medical emergencies and he was able to retreat to his tent, have a glass of the brandy that he kept stashed under his mattress, and relax as much as he could in an active war zone, something that usually involved meditation in the form of cleaning his gun. It was something he continued to do even after he came back home.
There was the addition of Sherlock Holmes, always perched in his chair across from John's, and his slightly overbearing fascination with the way John's hands moved over the weapon, but if John had cleaned his gun through a barrage of mortars, he could do it under the laser-focused gaze and around the weird feeling that planted itself in his stomach the second he noticed the scrutiny.
Best not to dwell on that bit either.
On a clean cloth, set out the cleaning brush, cleaning patches, and gun oil.
Remove the magazine, check the chamber, and pull the slide back, locking it in place. Push down the convenient lever on the side (six o'clock to clean, three o'clock to fire), hold the slide, unlock it, and slide it off down the barrel of the gun. After setting the frame on the cloth, push the guide rod up to remove (just like taking a battery out of your remote, not rocket science), and remove the recoil spring from the rod. Lay them both on the cloth next to the frame. Push the barrel forward, up, and pull back to remove.
Apply gun oil to the cleaning brush and insert it into the barrel from the chamber end, moving it in and out as meticulously as possible for even cleaning and lubrication. Remove powder residue and oil from the barrel bore and chamber using the cleaning patches that are attached to the cleaning rod, using multiple if necessary. Reapply oil to the brush and clean the exterior of the barrel. Use a brush or more cleaning patches to remove all dirt from the frame guides, the slide, the recoil spring, and the guide rod. Oil up the cleaning brush once again and lubricate everything that was just cleaned. Oil the bore of the barrel and the chamber. Remove all excess oil with an oil-free cleaning cloth. Reassemble pistol.
There was something amazingly satisfying about the slide clicking back into place, the magazine sliding home, and the gasp that came, however quietly, from between the lips of his flat mate.
Looking back, John was never entirely sure what made him do it. Perhaps it was that sound, the helplessness of it. Perhaps it was the fact that Sherlock's scrutiny had moved from fascination to hunger. Perhaps it was just that John was sick and fucking tired of Sherlock just sitting there, staring at him, and always keeping him slightly on edge as he did the one thing that kept him calm through whatever was thrown at him. Perhaps it was the gut instinct, the pure primal knowledge, that his actions would make Sherlock's mouth pop open in a perfect O, his pupils blow wide, and his breath catch somewhere in his throat making his exhale sound like a strangled sob.
Whatever it was made John calmly shift his grip on the Sig Sauer and point it directly at Sherlock's face.
"John?" Sherlock whispered, just loud enough for the other man to hear. When he got no response, he cleared his throat and tried again. "John? What are you doing?"
"Testing a theory."
"Oh? What theory is that?"
John's lip quirked at the crack in the man's usually cool and collected voice.
"That you started watching me clean my gun as a way to categorize information about me, to see if I really knew my way around it as well as you had previously assumed. I thought my shot at the cabbie was good enough to show you just how well I know my way around it, but I should have known you would need more proof. I do not think, however, that you expected to like it quite so much."
The slight flush that crept up Sherlock's neck was all the answer he needed.
"And what exactly is it that you like to watch, hm?"
There was silence.
John cocked the gun.
"You," was the rapid response.
That weird feeling that settled itself somewhere in John's abdomen, the feeling he had been wholeheartedly trying to ignore, reared its head at that moment and announced its identity as desire. Instead of quashing it down, John let it carry him along.
"What about me?"
"It's the way you hold it, reverently. I've only seen that look on the faces of people who have had a particularly enlightening experience and have come to be at peace with the world and with themselves. It's the way you take it apart and put it back together again and the images that brings up in my mind of you pulling a man to safety, firing a barrage of bullets into the enemy, patching up soldiers, sweating under the desert sun. It makes me wonder about the way your voice sounds when its barking commands on the battlefield, if your command over taking things apart and putting them back together again extends to things other than weapons," he licked his lips before continuing, eyes lifting from the barrel to meet John's. "If I would be able to feel the calluses from where it has worn its way against your skin if you touched me."
"Would you like to find out?"
Somewhere, deep down, John knew he was crossing about a million lines, namely that Sherlock was the first friend he made on his return to civilian life, his first real friend at least. He was risking losing that for… what? A night of what was shaping up to be some wonderful sex? Was it worth it?
"Yes," Sherlock seemed to answer right on cue and John's mind was made up.
"Stand up and strip."
He hadn't been sure until that moment whether he could actually pull up his old army voice, the one that had made insurgents quake before it, but he must have done at least a passable impression because the man across from him was standing and hastily undoing the buttons of his crisp purple shirt, revealing a stretch of pale skin that looked good enough to lick.
He made a note to spend a significant amount of time on that later.
"Slower. We're not in any hurry here, are we?"
That's about the same time he noticed Sherlock's hands were shaking, giving him a jolt of pleasure, surprise, and pride. It was rare to see the detective off kilter. John memorized every detail. Soon the shirt was on the ground, followed by trousers that slipped easily over his bare feet. John was then confronted by the very real, very physical proof that Sherlock was, indeed, enjoying himself. John's own erection pressed almost uncomfortably tight against his trousers.
"Pants, too."
The last barrier to every fantasy John had ever had about his flat mate joined the rest of the clothes on the flood. He would never again have to make assumptions during his fantasies, but realized he hadn't been that far off. Roughly 18 centimeters long, 4 centimeters thick, and with a slight, rather nice upward curve, John was, well… impressed. That seemed to be the right word.
He took his time, tracing every muscle, every inch of skin, until he was satisfied that he could recall in almost perfect detail the exact way the light from the fire was dancing shadows in the dips and curves of Sherlock's body.
"Come here and get on your knees, facing me."
He spread his legs a bit allowing Sherlock room to settle himself there. He set the gun aside and cupped the other man's chin in the palm of his hand, pulling it up so that he could see Sherlock's eyes.
"We do not have to continue. You can stand up, put your clothes on, and delete this from your memory if you want. Nothing has to happen tonight, unless you want it to."
Something like panic flickered across Sherlock's expression making John start to pull away, only to be stopped by Sherlock's hand on his knee, keeping him there.
"John, I- I want…"
After a second where he let Sherlock struggle for words, John prompted him. "What, Sherlock? Tell me what you want."
"You."
"Specifically." Sherlock dropped his eyes to the floor again and John jerked his head back up, forcing him to make eye contact. "I said, specifically."
"I want to kiss you and t-taste you…"
"Is that all?"
"No."
"What else?"
"I want you inside me. I want you to fuck me."
Those were all the words John needed to hear before he leaned in and pressed his lips to Sherlock's. First kisses were supposed to be gentle, kind, hesitant… This was not. It was teeth and tongues and, when John finally pulled away so he could breathe, lips that would be bruised in the morning.
"You are amazing."
Some of the usual cockiness, the superiority, slipped back into Sherlock's expression at John's comment. It was quickly wiped away when John ran his fingers down the smooth column of Sherlock's throat, back up the side of his neck, and wrapping around behind his head to bury itself in his hair and yank. John smiled as he realized that he found Sherlock's "off button" for that every busy mind of his.
"I have dreamt about the things I wanted to do to that pretty little mouth of yours," John said and bit Sherlock's lip for impact. "Kissing it was, of course, only the beginning."
Sherlock's hands moved to undo John's belt and zipper, then moved his trousers and pants down just enough to free his cock. John could see him memorizing details, taking in the fact that it was shorter than Sherlock's own, but a bit thicker. His fingers ran lightly from the base to the tip, his thumb moving over the bead of moisture that was already dripping from the slit, and back down again.
"Oh fuck Sherlock," John groaned, his head dropping back against the chair.
Sherlock's strokes became firmer, more confident, using John's own pre-ejaculate as lubrication, but John didn't let him keep it up for long.
"I said I wanted to use your mouth for more than kissing."
He found himself buried to the hilt in Sherlock's mouth, the tip of his cock pressing against the back of Sherlock's throat, and when the man swallowed, John thought he was going to die. Instead, John pressed the barrel of the gun against Sherlock's head and wrapped his other hand in Sherlock's hair again, setting him at a pace that would keep John hard for days if he let it go on. When he had clung to the edge for as long as he dared, he pulled up on Sherlock's head and his mouth came off of John's cock with a slight pop, leaving his mouth still in the O shape. His eyes were glassy, his face red, his hair a mess.
And with the barrel of the gun pressed to the middle of his forehead, he looked, John decided, beautiful and perfectly wrecked.
John stood and, after tucking himself in halfheartedly, dropped the hand that was holding the gun and held out the other. Sherlock took it and stood, allowing himself to be lead into his own bedroom. John set the gun on the bedside table, watching as Sherlock's eyes followed its movements then darted back to John's face and he licked his lips. There was more of the kissing that wasn't kissing so much as it was consuming, and they were both left panting when they pulled apart. John pushed Sherlock back onto the bed and proceeded to strip out of his clothes.
He felt like he should be shy, hesitant, timid, something about being naked in front of Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, the man who solved crimes, saved lives, and toppled empires, but it was that same feeling of finally that he got the first time he held his gun, though he was willing to bet his current endeavor was even more dangerous than that last.
That thought was confirmed when he fit himself between Sherlock's thighs, trailing kisses and bites along his ribs, pausing to bite at his nipple, his neck, his lip, before kissing him and sinking down completely. Sherlock bucked his hips up at the brush of contact between their cocks, intensifying the feeling even more. They laid there, rutting against each other and snogging like there was nothing else in the entire world, for what felt like forever, before John pulled away and pressed his forehead to Sherlock's.
"I want to fuck you, Sherlock."
"Yes, please. I want you to."
"Have you… have you ever…?"
He looked away. "When I was younger, much younger. It was… The money-."
John silenced him with a kiss, tucking away the information he had just learned to be processed later. "You do not have to explain yourself to me. I just needed to know if you had and, if so, how long it's been. So yes, but it's been a while, that's all. Do you have any lube here or should I go grab mine?"
Sherlock wiggled his way out a little from under John and reached into the bedside table drawer, returning with a small container of lube and a condom. John sat up, resting on his heels, as he opened the lube and coated his index and middle fingers liberally, taking the time to appreciate the sight before him.
He leaned down and kissed Sherlock again as he moved his hand between them. He gently ran his finger around the taut ring of muscle, barely applying pressure, but even then, he felt Sherlock tense.
"I need you to relax, love. I promise, I won't hurt you any worse than you can handle."
John's voice brought out a low moan from Sherlock, the precise reaction he had hoped for, and he felt the man relax beneath him. He slid his middle finger past that first ring of muscle, kissing Sherlock through the discomfort, and immediately curling the finger up to brush against Sherlock's prostate. The man cried out, in passion and not pain, and John stroked him gently for a full minute before adding his index finger. Sherlock winced, but the gentle ministrations to his prostate erased all the discomfort. John moved his hand rougher, adding force if not speed, and soon Sherlock was clutching at the sheets and muttering a string of what sounded like 'please,' 'oh fuck,' and 'John.'
John bit down on Sherlock's neck, hard enough to leave a mark but not hard enough to cause real pain, just as he added a third finger inside of Sherlock who seemed unsure of whether he should scream, moan, or curse. He managed a combination of all three that had John adding more marks to go with the bite.
"John… please… I need you… fuck… please, now. Don't make me wait."
John was already sliding the condom on and slicking on more lube by the time Sherlock finished his sentence. He cupped Sherlock's arse in his hands and pulled the man up into an easier to access position before leaning down over him and positioning himself to slide in.
"You're sure about this?"
"Yes, please, for God's sake, John."
The last part came out as a long, drawn out groan and John slid himself slowly inside of Sherlock, reveling in the hot, tight, wicked feeling as each inch of his cock pushed in and in some more. Sherlock's nails carved lines into the skin of his back, up his neck, into his hair, and pulled him down into a kiss. John rested a moment when he was fully inside of Sherlock, giving himself a chance to calm down and Sherlock a chance to adjust, before he slowly rocked his hips out and back in again. The moan he was rewarded with made him repeat the move, snapping his hips in harder the second time around.
"Faster, John. Fuck me, please."
How was John supposed to argue with that kind of a plea? He sat up, not leaning over Sherlock but still well inside of him. His hips pushed forward with more force, withdrew further, and then snapped forward again. He cupped Sherlock's ass again, lifting him just a little, and found an angle that must have hit Sherlock's prostate from the sounds he began to make. He upped the stakes by taking the gun from the table and placing it back against Sherlock's forehead, whose eyes flew open in shock at the same time that he whimpered. John kept his thrusts measured, precise, and he was getting almost as much pleasure from watching Sherlock unravel as he was from actually fucking him.
"Sherlock… fuck… I don't know how long I can keep this up…"
Sherlock's hand wrapped around his cock, using the moisture that had beaded up at the tip as lubrication as he began to stroke himself in time with John's thrusts. John moved the gun down so it pressed under Sherlock's chin, pushing his head back into the pillow. The sight was almost more than John could handle, the litany of his name falling from Sherlock's lips even more arousing. He felt Sherlock's muscles tighten and relax, tighten and relax around him before they contracted a final time and Sherlock painted his own chest, John's arm, and the gun with white stripes of cum and let out a moan that started as John's name but ended as a pure, carnal note that was part whimper part scream and all enough to push John over the edge. He tossed the gun onto the bed next to them, thrust in a few more times, his pace erratic, before he emptied himself out, Sherlock's name coming out in a growl from somewhere in his chest.
He dropped his head down so it rested in the crook of Sherlock's neck, breathing heavy. "You are going to be the death of me."
Sherlock chuckled, a strange thing for John to experience while he was still buried inside of the man. "Says the man who had a gun pressed to my head not but a minute ago."
"Well… that is true."
"Did you have the safety on?"
"Hm?"
"The safety? I didn't think to ask."
"The Sig doesn't have a safety feature."
"What?"
"It's part of the reason it's good in combat. There's no time between drawing it and firing it."
"Oh."
"You didn't know?"
"No, I didn't."
"You've fired my gun before."
"I didn't pay much attention to it. It's a gun. They all work in the same way. Besides, why would I care about the safety if I was using it to shoot things?"
"I feel like it should be necessary knowledge about a gun."
"Is this really the time to be having this argument?"
John was quiet, reality slowly settling in. He was laying, quite naked, on top of his flat mate and best friend (lover? boyfriend?), still inside of him, actually, after a rather intense bout of sex. This was more complicated than he thought it would be.
"John… Please don't do that."
"Do what?"
"That. The hating yourself thing that you do after you've made a particularly risky decision that you feel will negatively impact those around you. In case you're forgetting, I wanted you to do this."
"I had a gun to your head."
"A gun that I have happened to masturbate to the idea of you holding against my head."
"Really?"
"Really. Now shut up. I think- no, I know we need to shower."
John eased out of Sherlock, who winced at the loss, then sat up. Sherlock slowly stood and stretched, then caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror.
"John! What did you do to my neck?"
"You seemed to like it, as I recall. Now shut up and go take your shower."
Sherlock pouted at his reflection for a moment before facing John again and planting a gentle kiss on his lips. "Aren't you going to join me?"
"Do you want me to?"
"Is it my turn to get the gun?"
"Don't make the water too hot."
Sherlock smiled, actually smiled, and pulled John to his feel and out of the room. He made the water too hot, of course, but as he pressed John up against the wall, the doctor couldn't quite seem to mind.