Hi! This is the very first fanfiction I've ever written! I know it's not very in-character – well, not in Sherlock's case anyway – but I'm still proud of it considering it's the first piece I've ever published.
Enjoy!
"Bloody hell." John muttered, as he walked down the street, bags of shopping weighing down his arms.
He was always the one that went shopping. Then again, it was probably better that way. Sherlock, attempting to do something that "normal" people would do...yeah, that wouldn't end well. But still, it didn't mean that John wasn't going to complain about it. He also wouldn't mind if Sherlock helped pack away every now and then. Hopefully, by the time John got home, there wouldn't be as many body parts stuffed in the kitchen as he came to expect. Finding some poor person's legs in the freezer (again) certainly wouldn't help with his bloody awful headache, caused by one annoying detective and his love of violins (seriously, who feels the need to play Beethoven or whatever at half-past 2 in the morning?)
He discovered how impossible it was to hail a cab with so many bags (resulting in him looking like a right muppet outside the supermarket), and he ended up walking home. Miraculously managing to get his keys out of his pocket without dropping anything (something he was momentarily proud of), John opened the door to 221B. Naturally, he didn't expect a "welcome home" or anything, though he did notice how quiet the flat was today (where was Mrs. Hudson?). But something felt weird about this silence. Don't be silly, John thought to himself, how can silence feel like anything? Yet the strange feeling stayed. John considered calling out "I'm home!", but decided against it. Sherlock never replied.
Sherlock...
John had, like probably everybody else, come to the conclusion that Sherlock wasn't a "people person". He obviously wasn't into anything or anyone; he was asexual. All Sherlock really cared about was the cases. If he cared about anything, that is. Most people thought he was a heartless being who only believed in the facts. Others just thought he was a prick. And, at times, John couldn't blame them.
But, obviously, it hadn't stopped John falling completely and utterly in love with him. How long he had felt that way about Sherlock, he didn't know. What brought him to his conclusion, he didn't know. What he did know, though, was that he loved Sherlock irrevocably, even if his feelings weren't returned by the other. It hurt sometimes, but John could deal with it. For Sherlock's sake, if not for his own. John wasn't going to make their friendship awkward by exclaiming his love to Sherlock. He was fine with being friends. Just friends. It never helped that pretty much everyone he knew seemed to think they were as much of a couple as he wanted them to be. And it really didn't help that Sherlock never explained that they weren't, leaving all the explaining to John (though no-one ever believed him). But he knew at the end of the day, no matter what anyone said about it (whatever "it" was), John would deal with it.
John carried the heavy load of shopping into the kitchen. The moment he finally put the last bag on the table, John reached into the cupboard which normally held medical supplies (pills, plasters, that kind of stuff) to get out some paracetamol for the horrible pounding in his head.
His brow furrowed in confusion. He knew there were paractamols - he specifically remembered having some yesterday and seeing at least 4 nearly-full boxes - yet there were none to be seen.
"Sherlock," he called out, "do you know where all the pain killers have gone?"
No reply came. The flat was still filled with empty silence. He called out again, "...Sherlock?"
Maybe he's not in. But Sherlock would've texted him if he went out (and most likely would've told him to abandon his shopping and meet him somewhere). Something about this made John's stomach turn slightly. He cautiously walked to Sherlock's room, his heart speeding up somewhat. This is stupid, he thought, he's probably just asleep. But John knew Sherlock wouldn't be asleep. On the few occasions John knew when Sherlock had ever slept, it was never during the day (well, the sky was darkening now, but that wasn't the point).
Slowly, John opened the door to Sherlock's room. It was dark. Too dark, for John's liking. He listened closely, and could just about hear Sherlock breathing in the intense silence. John couldn't tell if Sherlock was breathing louder than normal, or if John was listening too intently. "...Sherlock?" he called quietly. The breathing stopped. John already knew he was in there, so it was pointless. But still, Sherlock remained silent. John walked into the room, taking care to not bump into anything that may or may not have been in front of him; it was too dark to see much. He advanced to where he heard Sherlock, which led him to the side of the bed, which was placed somewhat in the middle of the room. "Sherlock?" John said, his voice barely above a whsiper.
Sherlock, still in his long coat, was curled up at the side of the bed. "Go away," he whispered.
John went to kneel down, and Sherlock looked up. "Go away."
Despite the darkness, John immediately noticed how pale Sherlock looked. His skin was naturally pale, but it usually had a slight luster to it (at least it did from John's point of view). Now, it just looked dull, almost grey. "Are you..." he began, but stopped when he looked down at the floor, on what he was kneeling on.
It was an empty pill blister.
"You shouldn't be here," Sherlock whispered hoarsely, "leave." He almost sounded desperate. John looked at him, and saw Sherlock's eyes glistening in the dark room.
He looked around Sherlock, and saw more empty blisters in a very rough pile at his side. He began to peice together what he was seeing. Sherlock groaned, and curled into an even tighter ball. That was the final peice of evidence John needed.
"You...have you overdosed?!" He stuttered, his eyes widening.
"Just go." Sherlock groaned, and went to push John away. Instead, John took his hand.
John didn't know what to think, what to say. Sherlock had overdosed? Was he trying to kill himself? Have the pills already been digested? Was it too late - ?
John shut out every other thought and forced himself to remain calm.
"How long ago did you take those pills, Sherlock?" He asked quickly and clearly.
Sherlock weakly replied, "I told you to go - "
"Tell me, Sherlock!" John grabbed him by the shoulders, and made Sherlock look at him.
"About 17 minutes ago!" Sherlock shouted back. "Now just go away like I asked already!"
"And leave you to die?! I'm not going to let you do that!" John got up and pulled his phone out of his pocket. He punched 999 into the phone, and called an ambulance. Sherlock continued to sit there, too weak to bother fighting, holding his stomach.
John sat there with him until the ambulance arrived, with his arm wrapped protectively around Sherlock's shoulders. Sherlock didn't complain. In fact, if John hadn't have known better, he would've believed that Sherlock was leaning on him. He kept saying it was going to be okay, and he hoped to christ he was right.
John stayed with him. He stayed with him on the way to the hospital. He stayed with Sherlock as he was whisked away to a sectioned-off room. He stayed while Sherlock threw up nearly all of the pills. He held Sherlock's hair out of his face while he vomitted into a plastic bowl. He took Sherlock's coat off after he had finished. He stroked Sherlock's back all the while. John was glad they weren't taken to St. Bart's (they were at some other private hospital; John hadn't caught the name). He didn't dare imagine Molly or even (god forbid) Donovan hearing about would Lestrade say about it? News spreads too quickly these days...
They were told that Sherlock would have to stay for the rest of the night. Meaning John would have to get Sherlock a spare change of clothes.
"I could ask Mrs. Hudson if - "
"Don't bother her," Sherlock interrupted quickly, "I'll be fine on my own without you."
Later, a nurse told John he could go whenever he wanted. But John wasn't going to leave Sherlock on his own. Again, Sherlock didn't complain.
It wasn't until 1.35 in the morning that John had finally convinced Sherlock to sleep.
John watched Sherlock sleep in the white hospital bed. He remembered just how human Sherlock really was. He always had the appearance of a devil-may-care detective who only thought in the form of cold, calculating numbers. But as he lay there, sleeping silently, looking so peaceful, nearly vulnerable, John saw behind that mask of indifference. John also realised how good of an actor Sherlock could be when he wanted to. How long had he been feeling so suicidal for? Was John just exceptionally ignorant, or was Sherlock truly brilliant at hiding his emotions? The rare occasions when John caught Sherlock sleeping always caught him by surprise. Not just because of how out-of-the-ordinary it was for Sherlock to shut off his marvolous brain and sleep. What was surprising to John was in fact how Sherlock looked when he was sleeping. Now, his head rested against the sterile white pillows of the hospital bed, the dark curls of his bouncy hair motionless, his face completely relaxed. John continued to gaze at Sherlock's sleeping face, and found it difficult to deny that he looked rather angelic while asleep.
John slipped his hand through the bars of the bed, and gently entwined his fingers with Sherlock's.
Sherlock sighed in his sleep.
The doctors let Sherlock out in the early evening, but it was already nearly dark due to the cold season. The cold wind briskly whipped through the streets, causing people's hair to dance in front of their faces, and flimsy paper signs to fly in the air. Small puddles were glazed over with ice, and those who were unfortunate enough to be outside blew gusts of steam from their noses when breathing.
The taxi drive home was in silence, unlike how it usually was. The silence was unnerving to John; he was used to discussing cases with Sherlock, or at least listen to him insult people. John kept glancing at Sherlock every once in a while, as if to check he was still there. Sherlock was currently gazing out of the steamed-up window, his face once again devoid of all thought, though John knew better. It must be like a whirlwind in that head, John thought to himself. John was certain that Sherlock knew he kept looking, but he couldn't stop himself. Eventually, he was going to have to ask Sherlock some awkward questions. He was dreading doing so (like Sherlock was probably dreading answering them), but at the same time he had to know. He wasn't going to leave it as it was and pretend it never happened. That would've by far been the worst thing to do. In fact, it would have been outright cruel to be so ignorant.
They arrived home, and silently made their way into their flat. They hung their coats up, and went to the living room.
Sherlock took his place at the end of the sofa, chucking his phone onto the coffee table. John went into the kitchen. He found that the shopping had been put away. Silently, he blessed Mrs. Hudson for being such a sweet old dear. He made tea, trying not to think too much.
He put the tea on the table, and sat at the other end of the sofa. There were a few minutes of awkward silence.
"So..." John muttered (more to himself than to Sherlock). Then, he cleared his throat, and finally began, "Sherlock, look..." Sherlock looked up at him, concealing any emotions he might have, "if you don't want to talk right now, that's fine, but eventually we're going to have to."
He waited for a reply. After a while, he decided that Sherlock wasn't going to reply, and was about to speak again when Sherlock said in monotone "I don't see what the problem is."
"What?"
"I don't see what the problem is. Lots of people have commited suicide, and they turned out fine."
"Sherlock!"
"What?" He crossed his arms and turned to look at John again. "Why would you care anyway?"
"Why would I - Sherlock. You nearly killed yourself." John could've sworn he saw Sherlock flinch when he said that. "Of course I care, you idiot. I'm your friend. And before you say it, you do have friends.
You just don't acknowledge it."
Sherlock turned away. A few seconds of silence followed.
"Sherlock, please." John said finally. "I do care, and I want to help."
Sherlock got up and began to walk away. "You can't help."
"Why not?!" John finally shouted, rising to his feet. Sherlock stopped, but didn't turn around. John carried on. "How are you so sure that I won't be able to help? Do you still view me as your idiot flat mate? A talking replacement for your goddamn skull to bounce ideas off of?"
Sherlock turned to look at him, almost looking hurt. "No, John - "
"Then what? Why can't you just talk to me?"
"Because it's you!" Sherlock finally exclaimed quickly.
John stared at him. "What...?"
Sherlock shook his head and ran a hand through his hair. "I'm not supposed to have friends. I'm not supposed to become attached, or to care. I've always been alone. Alone was good. Alone was safe. But then I met you..." he trailed, and began pacing. "How are you going to understand? I don't even know what it is!"
"What is it, Sherlock?" John asked cautiously.
"I don't know!" Sherlock shouted, throwing his hands up in exasperation. "It feels so strange, so new to me...and it's you that caused it." He stopped pacing. "I'm not blaming you, but..." Sherlock sat down, and put his head in his hands. John sat down next to Sherlock, all previous anger at him gone. "I've never...never...felt like this before. Not because of anyone, not for anyone, or even anything. It's such a weird mixture of happiness and pain, and it's so overwhelming...and..." He looked up at John, with tears in his eyes. This took John by surprise; Sherlock never cried. "...it hurts that you don't feel the same way."
Feel the same way...? Was Sherlock talking about...?
"And it's too confusing! Why can't I just view you as my friend?" John stood there, watching his friend, listening intently. Sherlock wasn't even trying to cover up the slight croak in his voice. "It doesn't feel right. It makes me so angry. Not at you, but at myself. There's never been anyone or anything I couldn't properly decipher, and then you show up...and this feeling..."
Suddenly, he yelled in frustration, and slammed his fist against the table, making John jump. Sherlock stood up, and briskly walked to his room. John got up and followed him, having to trot to reach him. He put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder as he opened the door. "Sherlock, are you saying...?"
"Yes, alright? Yes!" Sherlock shouted. Then he paused, and turned to John. "I love you, and knowing you don't feel the same way makes me want to die." And with that, Sherlock shut the door in John's face. Sherlock leaned against the door, and began to quietly cry for the first time since he could remember.
John stood outside the door, dumbfounded by what he had just witnessed.
"I love you, and knowing you don't feel the same way makes me want to die."
Sherlock's voice echoed in his brain, and John got the feeling that those words might just haunt him. The significance of that statement hit John like a tidal wave, knocking the wind out of him. How had he never bloody realised before?! Had he really been so absorbed in his own world of "woe is me" that he hadn't even considered the fact that Sherlock might feel the same way? Was he really so stupid?
Sherlock just declared his love for John. And John had stood there, gawping like an idiot, letting a door get slammed in his face.
Then he heard a faint, muffled cry from the other side of the door, knocking himself out of his mental chain of self-loathing. He leaned down on his knees, pressing his ear up against the smooth, cold wood of the door. He could hear very quiet, very soft sobbing. Sherlock is...crying? The sound of Sherlock dissovling in tears, and trying to cover up the sound of his suffering, was enough to break John's heart, and rip his very soul.
Placing his hand on the mahogany door, John called out, "Sherlock..."
"Just go." He heard Sherlock utter.
"But Sherlock - "
"Just leave me now!"
" - I didn't know - "
"I said go!"
" - Sherlock - "
"For god's sake John - !"
" - I love you, too."
There was silence then. John didn't dare breathe. Had he said the wrong thing? Would Sherlock ever speak to him again? A fraction of him doubted it. He hoped like hell that he hadn't scared Sherlock off. That was the last thing John wanted to do right now.
The door cracked open slightly. Very slightly. Not even enough to see through. John sat as still as stone, waiting.
"...what did you say?" Sherlock asked, rather hesitantly.
John kept as still as possible, and spoke clearly, "I love you too, Sherlock."
More silence followed. The door remained slightly open, though John didn't dare try to push it open any more than it already was.
John found himself opening his mouth to speak. "I've always loved you. Probably since the day I first met you. I just hadn't realised it at the time." He smiled as he remembered the first time he had seen the man. The man whom he had known nothing about, yet had deciphered nearly everything about John at a glance. "I thought you really were fantastic. You're a complete git at times, but fantastic." He laughed softly.
The door opened half way, and Sherlock, kneeling in front of John, stared into the other man's eyes. John stared at Sherlock in return, taken aback at the emotions displayed on the usually cold face. Sherlock's piercing eyes were wide open, his pupils contracted to pinpricks of black surrounded by slate-blue mist. His eyes were full of surprise and, if John wasn't mistaken, relief.
John sobered. He placed his hand gently on the side of Sherlock's face (noticing how soft his skin was). He wiped away the tear that had been travelling down Sherlock's cheek. "I've been such a prat," John admitted, "I've been thinking only about how much I loved you, that I just assumed you didn't feel the same way and ignored your feelings completely. Now...I've ended up really hurting you." Sherlock leaned into John's hand, his eyes softening slightly as he stared into John's. John pressed his hand against the other side of Sherlock's face, keeping his gaze completely focused on the man infront of him. "I'm sorry, Sherlock."
Sherlock remained silent. Then, he gently placed his right hand on John's shoulder. He leaned forward, and their lips met. It was a ghost of a kiss, but still a kiss. John widened his eyes, realising what they had just done.
"I forgive you, you idiot."
John stared breathlessly at Sherlock. Those eyes which John had become so accustomed to seeing so reserved and repressed of nearly all emotions were now fair and bright with honesty, pure and true. John was aware that Sherlock was most likely not used to being so open with anyone, so he knew he had to handle this carefully. He didn't want to push Sherlock away while he was so vulnerable (it felt so unusual to have that word come to mind about Sherlock when John thought about it).
John sighed in relief as he leaned closer for another gentle kiss. Sherlock pushed his lips against the other's, and their toungues encircled. The taste, scent and feeling of Sherlock was addictive, and John found that it was all he wanted, and all he would probably ever want. Sherlock moved closer to him, without breaking the kiss. Soon it was no longer gentle and comforting but passionate and intense. Eventually they broke the kiss, only for the sake of needing air. John realised at that moment that Sherlock had moved to sit on his lap, his thighs on either side of John. They deeply breathed in the smell of the other, their foreheads pressed together. John loved the intimacy of their current position, and to boost the level of closeness he wrapped his arms around Sherlock's waist. Sherlock responded by locking his arms around John's shoulders, entangling his fingers in John's sandstone hair. Sherlock dipped his head down slightly to kiss John again, and they tightened their grip on eachother. Then, without meaning to, their hips moved towards eachother, grinding their crotches together. Sherlock moaned into John's mouth, and pressed down into John's lap again. John supressed a gasp, but let Sherlock carry on pushing down onto him; the feeling was electrifying. John pulled away slightly to break their kiss, and travelled slowly down Sherlock's jaw and neck, littering the pale, soft skin with small lovebites. John began to notice that maybe they were getting a little too excited, considering the fact that they were sitting on the floor.
"Sherlock," John said, holding Sherlock's hips still. He placed his left hand on Sherlock's chest, which Sherlock covered with his own hand. "Sherlock, maybe we should slow down just a..."
But John couldn't find the words to finish his sentence. Sherlock lifted John's hand from his chest, and placed the tip of his index finger in his mouth. He brought in nearly all of John's finger, and slowly, delicately, began to suck. His toungue occasionally flicked over the tip, and Sherlock kept his eyes calmly fixed on John's. "Sherlock..." John tried to begin, but any attempt at forming a sentence would have been in vain. It was pretty useless trying to think when all his blood was travelling south. So, he kept quiet and placed his free hand on Sherlock's thigh.
Eventually, shortly before John began to think he was going to expire, Sherlock withdrew the wet finger from his mouth. He did so slowly, teasingly almost, sliding it across his toungue, and letting the tip linger on his lips, before finally letting it go. He kept his gaze on John, somewhat aware that it was slowly driving the other man crazy inside.
Some quiet moments followed.
"Well?" Sherlock asked softly.
"What?" John replied dumbly, most of his thought process coming from his pants.
"My room, your room, or should we just do it in the hallway?" He asked, smirking a little.
"Sherlock, are you sure you want to...?"
"Yes. 100 percent." He answered determindely.
"But," John loosened his grip slightly, "we've only just begun...you know...don't you just want to take it slowly? I mean, I'm up for it, but - "
"John." Sherlock firmly placed his hands on either side of John's face. He thought for a moment on how he was going to word this. "If we don't do this now, I'm afraid that we might never do this, ever again. I needto do this with you, right now. I don't want to go to bed tonight, and wake up thinking that this was a silly mistake. Because if I do that, I know I'll never allow myself this chance again, and I'll end up regretting it. Don't make me beg." He leaned closer to John's face, to the point where they could feel eachother's breath. "John...make love to me."
John hesitated, and opened his mouth as if to argue, but then his dark blue eyes softened, and replied, "Okay...I won't make you beg."
Sherlock smiled thankfully, and placed a chaste kiss on John's lips. "Well then," he began, "which room?"
John didn't hesitate. "My room."
Sherlock pouted slightly. "But my room is right behind us."
"Your room, still with the empty pill blisters at the bedside."
Sherlock's smile faded, and he averted his eyes. John hadn't wanted to remind him of it, not really, but he knew Sherlock would be more comfortable waking up in John's room and not seeing the pill blisters at the side in the morning as a horrid reminder. And now that John thought of it, on some occasions, he remembered going to bed some nights and smelling Sherlock's scent on his duvet. It took a couple of incidents for John to realise that Sherlock had slept in his bed on the nights he had either stormed out or stayed at Sarah's place. He had never brought it up with Sherlock, though now he was regretting it.
Maybe it was Sherlock's way of trying to let John know how he felt. John mentally facepalmed again for not getting the message sooner.
"I'm sorry." John apoligised, "Come on, let's go."
Somehow they made it to John's room, and John found himself delicately laying Sherlock down on his bed. Sherlock pulled John down with him, and they kissed fiercely. John reluctantly broke the kiss, and held Sherlock down by his shoulders when he tried to follow John up. John gazed at the man underneath him. A light blush was dusted over Sherlock's cheeks. His lips were a darker shade of red from kissing, and they were parted slightly as he breathed heavily. They kicked their shoes off (and socks), and John reached down, and took his time unbuttoning Sherlock's purple shirt. Sherlock relaxed his arms and chest as he watched John remove each button from its buttonhole seperately. Once he was done, John traced his way back up to Sherlock's collarbone with his fingertips. John licked his lips as he felt a shiver go through Sherlock, and smiled. John dipped down to lick Sherlock's collarbone, and bit down lightly on the sensitive skin. He loved the involentary gasp that came from Sherlock as John nipped the pale skin, creating a small red mark. Pushing the purple material to the side of Sherlock's chest, John continued to bite and kiss Sherlock's torso and stomach, leaving a trail of lovebites down his new-found lover's body. John did so slowly and devotedly; they weren't going to rush this night. Not for anything, or anyone. He loved the soft sighs Sherlock made when a new mark was made.
"You're beautiful, Sherlock." John whispered, just loud enough for Sherlock to hear.
"John..." His name was the only thing that escaped Sherlock's lips.
John flicked his toungue out and slid it over Sherlock's abdomen, causing Sherlock to buck his hips slightly in surprise. With an audible "pop", John opened the button on Sherlock's trousers. He hesitantly put his hand on John's shoulder, as he slowly pulled the zip down.
"Are you okay with this?" John asked before continuing.
"I...it's fine." Sherlock whispered.
So John proceded to pull Sherlock's trousers down, past his hips, down his soft, smooth legs (does he shave? John thought), and chucked the peice of clothing somewhere away from them. John pushed Sherlock's left leg up, and playfully nipped and kissed his inner thigh. He pushed his face into the cotton boxers between Sherlock's legs, dampening the fabric with his toungue. He moaned quietly as he felt Sherlock arch his back and hitch his breath.
"...Oh...John..." He breathed, the hand on John's shoulder clenching.
John got the message; he pushed himself back up, and dragged the shorts down, tossing them aside in the same direction as the trousers. John marvelled at Sherlock's body. He was leaning back against the white pillow, his chest rising and falling gracefully with every breath he took. Some strands of his dark hair stuck to his forehead due to the sweat. His shirt had slipped just past his shoulders, leaving his skin glistening in the moonlight. His handsome face wore the expression of pure bliss. "You really are beautiful." He said again, before licking his lips and lowering his head, taking Sherlock in his mouth.
Sherlock cried out before he could stop himself. His legs parted further, allowing John more space in between him. His hand gripped John's shoulder to the point of pain. Sherlock tried bucking his hips, tried to get more of that wonderful feeling, but John had him pinned to the bed by his waist. Sherlock layed down and arched his back, whimpering and moaning torturously.
"Oh John...oh John..." Sherlock panted. The only thing he seemed to be able to say properly was John's name. He found the idea arousing. He liked how vocal Sherlock was. He wanted Sherlock to say his name in that tone more, have him purr his name, have him scream it when he finally came.
Sherlock's legs were spread far apart by now, and his trembling hands were clingling to John's head, entangling his fingers in John's hair. He didn't want it to stop; it felt so good. And John didn't stop. He wanted Sherlock now more than he ever had before. And now he had him, he was going to make sure that both he and Sherlock wouldn't regret this. He wanted to show Sherlock how much John loved him; he wanted to take care of him.
"...John...I..." Sherlock gasped, shaking.
John knew what was going to happen. He wanted it to happen. Sherlock's nimble fingers dug into John's scalp, and John was sure he was drawing at least a small amount of blood.
At last, John felt Sherlock sharply arch his back underneath him, and cry out as he came.
Sherlock fell back on the bed, his muscles relaxed. John held back the urge to cough, and swallowed (gagging and spitting didn't seem very sexy). He moved up, so he was more or less on top of Sherlock again. He looked at Sherlock, whose eyes were closed and face flustered. "Sherlock..."
"Shh." Sherlock said softly. Then he opened his eyes, and smiled serenely. Without another word, he took John's hand in his, and placed his hand on Sherlock's bare, warm chest. "Do you feel it?" He whispered, his eyes on John.
John could feel Sherlock's heart beneath his hand, beating faster than John would have expected. John listened attentively to every beat of Sherlock's heart; he wanted to memorise the exact rythm of it. He wanted to memorise every moment of this night.
"Yes." He smiled back at Sherlock.
They stayed like that for some time, until Sherlock leaned up and tugged at the end of John's jumper (he wondered why he felt so hot...). John lifted it up over his head, and flung it to the side. Sherlock began to vigorously unbutton John's top, nearly ripping out some buttons in the process.
"Be patient, Sherlock!" John tried swatting Sherlock's hands away when he left one button hanging on by just a thread (literally).
"I'll be patient when you hurry up!" Sherlock replied, clearly irritated by the amount of time John was taking with his shirt (which was, in John's opinion, actually quite quickly).
"It doesn't work that way!" John finally got the last button off and tossed it off the bed. Then he realised he still had a vest on underneath that. Sherlock simply rolled his eyes and placed his hands on the top of John's vest. Without warning, he tore into the fabric, ripping it open. "For god's sake, Sherlock!" John exclaimed, exasperated.
"Oh, shut up. It's quick." He stated as he slipped John's arms out of the ruined vest. Then, he went silent. John stayed still, wondering what was wrong.
"Are you...okay, Sherlock?" He asked, a bit awkwardly.
Sherlock paused, before replying, "Yes, I'm fine..."
He placed his hands lightly on John's chest, and brought his fingers down to John's belt. The feeling of Sherlock's fingers softly caressing John's body was invigorating. He repeated this for some time, and John stayed still while Sherlock continued to touch him so intimately. He gently placed his lips on John's stomach, his warm breath sending shivers up John's spine. "You're being so gentle." He stated, not really thinking why he said it out loud.
"Well, you're gentle with me." Sherlock replied. Then he looked up into John's eyes. He asked, rather timidly, "You will be gentle with me, won't you, John?"
John placed his hands on either side of Sherlock's face, "Of course I will, Sherlock." he dipped his head down to kiss the top of Sherlock's head, breathing in his lovely smell. "Of course I will..."
He kept his head there, as he felt Sherlock slowly unbuckle John's belt, and unzip his trousers. "Lay back," John whispered, "let me do it."
Sherlock removed his hands from John's hips, and layed down on the bed. John moved slightly to take off his trousers and boxers, and climbed back onto the bed. John, remembering Sherlock still had his shirt on (technically), went to slip it off.
"No." Sherlock said, suddenly avoiding eye contact. He crossed his arms over his chest protectively.
"What's wrong?" John asked, stopping.
"I don't want to take it off. I..." he hesitated, and John could see that part of Sherlock didn't want to say it. He looked back up at John, "I feel exposed."
"That's fine," John reassured him, "you don't have to take it off if you don't want to." He reached to the end of the bed, and pulled the cover over them both, so that only their heads and shoulders were showing. "Is that better?"
Sherlock smiled at him, thankful for it. John dipped down for a kiss, but hesitated slightly, remembering what he had done only minutes ago. Sherlock, either forgetting (which was unlikely), or just passed the point of caring, reached up to complete the kiss. Most of the time, when it came to kissing, John never really saw it as much anymore. It was just a starter, a nessessity to get to the point of more adventurous activities. But with Sherlock, it was so much more. It felt like every nerve in John's body was being awakened, like he was being drowned in sensual pleasure, like all of his senses were being thoroughly fulfilled. His eyes saw only Sherlock, his toungue tasting only Sherlock, every touch consumed by the feeling of Sherlock's smooth skin, his ears being filled by the sound of Sherlock's beating heart, and all he could smell was Sherlock's intoxicating aroma. It was captivating, consuming, and he wanted - needed - more.
They kissed, and caressed eachother's bodies. This wasn't just sex; not for either of them. This was love. Every, touch, every kiss, every bite, every lick was a show of that. It never was about physical release; they both had the compelling urge to show the other the depth of love and affection they held for eachother. John had been with plenty of women, sure - but it was never like this. They never managed to scrape the surface of what he was feeling for and with Sherlock right now. It was a connection, a bond, blooming deep within them both, binding them to eachother. And John wouldn't change it for the world.
"John," Sherlock whispered, as John bit down on Sherlock's neck, which was covered with enough bitemarks as it is. Sherlock naturally arched his back, pressing their bodies together.
"Hmm?" John muttered, raising his head from Sherlock's neck.
"Are we going to get round to actually doing anything, or are you just going to continue biting me?"
"If you insist." John grinned. That was one of those annoying things he loved about Sherlock - even in the most intense situations, he still managed to be a sarcastic little smart-arse. "Let me just..." He pulled himself up, and reached over to the nightstand at the side of the bed. He knew he had a bottle of lube somewhere in there...
"Let me do it." Sherlock grabbed John's hand by just above the wrist, and delicately placed the tips of John's index and middle finger between his lips. He kept his eyes on John while doing so, just like he had done in the hall. John realised what Sherlock was doing, and let him continue. Sherlock shut his eyes for a moment, before opening them half way, his gaze stuck permenantly on John. He coated John's fingers with saliva, slightly biting down on them affectionately. John returned the gaze with soft, dark eyes. John felt as though he might get lost in that open, fair, light blue stare set on that just expression on Sherlock's face. Honestly, he didn't mind. He had gotten so used to seeing them so straightforward and closed off that John couldn't have cared less if he was being led astray; as long as it was those eyes that did that to him. Out of all the physical aspects of Sherlock, the one that attracted John the most to him was his eyes. They were truly beautiful.
John felt Sherlock's toungue slide between John's fingers, making them wet and warm. He took his time with each individual digit, barely blinking while doing so. John would've liked to have stayed like that all night, but he knew they were both yearning to move on to the next stage. "That should do," John told Sherlock, and Sherlock let go when John pulled his hand back. "Lay back a bit, okay?" He tenderly placed his other hand on the center of Sherlock's pale chest, encouraging him to lay down on the bed. Sherlock did what John asked, and rested his head on the soft pillow. John moved Sherlock's legs so they were both on either side of his body, with his knees above John's ribs. Sherlock locked his arms around John's neck, holding him close. John gently traced Sherlock's thigh as he moved closer. He didn't know where or when he had found out about this kind of stuff. Well, it wasn't really the sort of thing you'd pick up on from a poster in a shop window or something. One day you're just wondering around, as normal...next day you know how to have sex with another man.
"This will feel...kind of weird." John said softly. Then, using his index finger, John stroked Sherlock's entrance. This caused him to moan into John's ear and push against him. Trying not to be too rough, John pushed his finger in. The first thing John noticed was how tight it was inside Sherlock. He liked that. And that beautiful heat. It was so warm, so warm...
Sherlock gasped loudly beneath him, and arched his back into John. His arms tightened around John, pulling him ever closer to the man beneath him. Their foreheads collided. John allowed himself to relax against Sherlock, though he didn't make him bare all of John's weight (he wasn't overly heavy, but anyone's dead-weight would feel crushing; John knew). John kissed Sherlock caringly, trying to distract him from the discomfort as he added another finger.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, just loud enough for Sherlock to hear, "does it hurt?"
"Don't...don't apoligise. I'm just not used to..." Sherlock breathed. He closed his eyes then, and tilted his head back. "Oh, god, John..."
John could feel Sherlock's legs beside him, brushing against his sides, spreading slightly more for him. For me...John thought with some satisfaction. He felt a foot stroking his back intimately. John continued to move his fingers around inside Sherlock, spreading him open more. If he didn't, he was certain that sex would hurt Sherlock. Even with this, it would still be painful at first, but if he didn't bother then Sherlock would be in agony. And doing it without any preperation could cause long-lasting damage. He didn't want to hurt Sherlock.
John curled his fingers, trying to find that spot that will drive the man beneath him crazy. He knew he had found it when Sherlock threw his head back, crying out. He thrust his torso upward, his body tensing, while John continued to fondle with that sweet spot. He loved the reaction caressing it got out of Sherlock, and decided he had to remember where that spot was.
"J-John," Sherlock stammered through gritted teeth, "stop t-teasing me."
John smirked to himself as he thought of several come-backs he could say, but decided to keep his mouth shut for the time being. His finger tips brushed against that spot again, barely touching it. With his other hand, John tilted Sherlock's head to the side, and ran his toungue along the shell of Sherlock's ear.
"John..." Sherlock moaned, trying to sound threatening but evidently failing. His legs tensed between John's sides, and his arms fastened around John's neck and shoulders. It still looked like John's name was one of the only things he could say. The idea that John had single-handedly reduced most of Sherlock's vocabulrary (which he was often so proud of) was nothing short of a definate turn-on. John carried on playing with him. He wondered if maybe he should try and make Sherlock beg after all...though hell would probably freeze over before Sherlock Holmes was reduced to begging (well, John thought hell would freeze over before he'd get the chance to have sex with him in the first place, but still...).
"What do we say?" John whispered, nipping the sensitive skin under Sherlock's ear.
"Stop it."
"You know you really don't want me to. Do you, Sherlock?" He bit down harder onto Sherlock's skin, making him gasp before he could bite it back.
"John..."
"Sherlock..."
"...please..." Sherlock finally whimpered.
Slowly, gently, John pulled his fingers out. "That wasn't so hard to say, was it?" He said, looking far too pleased with himself than Sherlock thought he ought to.
Sherlock looked at him sulkily, "Shut up." He remarked.
"Maybe if you asked me more politely..."
"How about we just get on with it?" Sherlock asked impatiently.
"That's more like it." John smiled, and pushed Sherlock's legs further apart. He positioned himself on top of Sherlock. "Tell me to stop if it hurts, okay?"
Sherlock nodded, and laid his head back on the pillow. John pushed himself in, and sank into Sherlock. Soft heat enveloped him, and it was all he could do to not come there and then.
"John...it hurts..."
"Crap, sorry - " he went to pull out, but Sherlock fastened his legs around John's legs, keeping him in.
"Hurts...hurts so...good..." he panted.
Oh.
Okay, then.
John pushed deeper into Sherlock, encouraged by the moaning he heard coming from his partner. So...is Sherlock into kinky stuff? John thought as he wrapped his arms tightly around Sherlock. He supposed he'd have to find out another time. Though it made him wonder if there was going to be another time. If, like Sherlock had wondered earlier, this really was a mistake. His thoughts were interrupted when he felt Sherlock's hands slither up his back. His fingernails dug into John's skin, creating long scratch marks on the warm flesh.
John thrust deeper, making Sherlock dig his nails deeper in John's back, causing pain which he barely acknowledged. He continued doing so at a steady pace, at slightly different angles, trying to find that sweet spot again. Maybe if he moved his hips that way...
"Oh, god, John!" Sherlock shouted, throwing his head back wildly.
He'd found it.
John thrust more roughly this time; he wanted to know what the limit was for Sherlock before the pain ruined the pleasure (though by this point he was surprised he could process any form of thought besides "fuck"). Sherlock's legs wrapped tighter around John, pulling him closer. John had never imagined that it would feel this wonderful. He'd fantasised about doing such things with Sherlock - maybe fantasised a bit too often - but he never realised it would feel so good. John felt alive. More alive than anyone had ever made him feel. He felt as though he was connecting to Sherlock, bonding to him in a way that no-one else could connect with him. It was something unique, which he could only have with Sherlock. And he knew Sherlock felt the same way. From the way they looked into eachother's eyes, the way their bodies moved together at the same pace, John knew that what he was feeling was being experienced and shared by Sherlock.
"John," Sherlock whipered, "kiss me."
John pushed his lips against Sherlock's passionately. He needed to show Sherlock how much he truly cared. Sherlock responded with the same amount of desire and affection.
"More..." he breathed.
John picked up his pace. He knew he was close; he felt it. But he didn't want to be a dick and come before Sherlock. He wanted Sherlock to be there with him.
"John...I..."
"I know." He whispered, holding Sherlock tighter to him, closer to him. John looked into Sherlock's eyes, compliant and beautiful, glazed over with desire, the heat of the gaze contrasting perfectly with the cold blue colour.
Suddenly, Sherlock tightened his grip on John to a nearly crushing point. He buried his face in John's neck, his nails stabbing the skin of John's shoulders and back. "John!" Sherlock gasped, his breath hitched as he finally climaxed.
John leaned into Sherlock, and called his name as he came with Sherlock.
At last, John relaxed, collapsing onto Sherlock (not that he minded). They stayed like that for some time, trying to regulate their breathing once more. They could feel eachother's hearts beat against their chests. John pulled out slowly, and rolled over. He looked over to Sherlock. "Are you okay?" He asked.
Sherlock turned to look at him. "Yeah," he smiled. He moved over to kiss John gently. The kiss only lasted a few moments, however, as they were still trying to catch their breaths.
"I love you, Sherlock." John said honestly.
Sherlock smiled at him. "I love you too."
Sherlock snuggled against John's chest, his curly hair tickling the tip of John's chin. John moved forward slightly to pull the bed cover over them both.
Though tired, John stayed awake for some time after that.
What if this really was a mistake? What if maybe Sherlock was right about that? Maybe tomorrow they'll wake up and things will just be how they always were -
"Stop it."
"What?" John asked.
"Thinking," Sherlock replied casually, "it's irritating me."
"Of course it is." John said more to himself.
"John," Sherlock sat up and looked deep into John's eyes. "This wasn't a mistake. I'm sure of it. You know it wasn't, either. Deep down, you know." When Sherlock gazed at him like that, so fixedly, so certain, John knew he was right. He just was; no matter how impossible anything was, John knew it had to be the truth. Those eyes just didn't lie.
He had to ask, "Are you okay?"
Sherlock stared at him, slightly bemused. "Yes, I'm okay. Obviously." He smirked slightly.
"I'm serious, Sherlock. Are you going to be okay now?"
His smirk subdued. "I'll be okay now. Now you're with me."
John rested his hand on the side of Sherlock's face, stroking his cheek with his thumb. "I'm always going to stay with you. Always."
John closed his eyes, and moved closer to Sherlock. They shared a tender kiss, before Sherlock settled down again on John's chest. John felt Sherlock's hand resting on the scar on his shoulder, as if protecting it from further harm. Smiling, John placed his hand over Sherlock's.
After some time, he began to listen to the even sound of Sherlock's breathing.
"Sherlock?" He whispered.
No reply came.
Must be asleep. John thought to himself.
So, he laid his arm over Sherlock's back. He relaxed his head against the pillow beneath him, and with Sherlock in his arms, John fell asleep.