Extremes, A BBC Sherlock fanfiction By CowMow
Inspired and slightly based on Billy Joel's "I Go To Extremes".
For 'Lex', because… well, I thought she could use some JohnLock. You know why, don't you? You're brave and strong, and you can do anything. Yours, A.
…-…
It had been enough for John Watson. The limit was reached, perhaps the boundaries crossed. How did they call it, the point of no return?
He knew he was Sherlock's sidekick, Sherlock's Joker, Sherlock's fool – especially when the man was so clever that he made everyone around him feel like an idiot – and he had been satisfied witht hat, but tonight was John Watson's night. Tonight, John was totally cool, emperor of the world, the man who could and would do anything.
Tonight, it would be everything, the very extreme. He would fall or fly, and at the moment John didn't care which one it was. He was sick and tired of being pushed down, of being careful. He had no idea how long this would last, how long he would see everything clear as christal.
And if I stand or fall, it will be all, or nothing at all.
He was going for the kill, tonight, the extreme; too high or too low, nothing left in between.
John was done with secret glances, lingering touches, intimate smiles; he wanted all. He wanted to have the beautiful man in his arms, in his bed, in his life, in him, and he wanted to be the same for Sherlock.
He was done with lying in bed night after night, just dreaming about dark, soft hair, smooth pale skin, long legs and that brain, those clever eyes just fixed on him.
And he was going to get him, or die trying.
Not that he would really die, but honestly, he wasn't sure his heart could handle more of this until he would break. And he was sure it would; he was doing with being eager to please, done with always being ready to fight – feelings, badguys… it was all the same at one point.
Either he was wrong, or perfectly right.
…-…
He gently stroked the soft curve of Sherlock's back. The man had fallen asleep on his front, his bottom half covered with rumpled sheets. John couldn't get enough of him.
Why had he never done this before? Why had he never just spoken up? It had been… John smiled and pressed a soft kiss to a mole just between Sherlock's shoulder blades. The detective stirred but didn't wake up. John softly continued his way, tracing a line into the dip of the small of Sherlock's back, down to his luscious arse and back up again.
All his now. His to treasure and to love and to take care of. His to touch, to kiss, to hold. John laughed softly in pure happiness. Oh, he had been right, so perfectly right. If he had ever wondered why he'd go for extremes for that enigmatic, mysterious man, he had the answer here, lying in his bed, under his hands.
He still remembered the flabbergasted look in Sherlock's grey eyes when he said what he should have said earlier. John closed his eyes and felt the change when Sherlock went from shocked to pleased to shy when John had walked up to him to gently press their lips together.
"You're staring," Sherlock softly mumbled into his pillow, and John laughed again, unable to stop himself from feeling the happiness simply bubble over.
"Yes, I am. Problem?"
Sherlock snorted and turned over to lie on his back. "No, not at all." He wrapped his arms around his blogger-turned-lover and kissed him softly on the mouth. "Not at all, John."
John smiled and moved from Sherlock's mouth to his neck and shoulder, leaving soft, burning kisses all over that beautiful skin.
Sherlock's eyes fell closed and he sighed John's name, his arms tight around the sturdy body above him.
Lips locked, fingers pried open, moans that soon turned to gasps and stuttered breaths filled the warm air between two tongues.
Yes, he had been perfectly right.