Sherlock decided they needed to go on a road trip the next day.
"You may ask, why?"
Well, one might ask but one might not receive that answer.
That's exactly what happened to John. He asked, he got no answer, and still he followed Sherlock. Sherlock said a week. John said no. Sherlock said it was for a case and John still said no. When Sherlock, in a very mild and controlled voice said that he'd burn every single one of John's jumpers, John accepted. Jumpers, people! You can't just go and buy new ones. They'll be without character and memories! So even though John said yes, let it be known he was not happy about it.
But Sherlock ignored John's foul mood, of course, and continued to make arrangements for their trip (aka call Mycroft to take care of it) (aka Mycroft calling his minions to take care of it). And once he was done with that, Sherlock headed to the kitchen to finish his experiment. He didn't want to leave anything behind, susceptible to Mrs. Hudson's devious mind (he thinks devious, she thinks practical. The woman just wants a clean kitchen, even if it's not her own.)
At that same time, a very reluctant John made his way up the stairs to start packing for this unwanted trip. Seriously, if he weren't in love with the mad man he would have left 221b long ago. Unfortunately or fortunately (John still hadn't decided), he did love Sherlock and if he were being honest with himself (and he always tried to be for he is a brave man), he'd follow Sherlock to the ends of the earth if needed. With a sigh he took his bag from under the bed and started opening drawers, thinking of what he'd need. Half an hour later and with nothing left to do but to head downstairs for a reviving cup of tea, John picked up his luggage and set it down by his bedroom door, ready for tomorrow. For good measure, he took his favourite jumper out of the dresser and hid it under the two loose floorboards by his bed.
You never know.
Sherlock was still in the kitchen, still in his pyjama (like he'd been all day), blue dressing gown brushing at the feet of the chair, by the time John came down. John took the longest route to the stove so he wouldn't even have to touch Sherlock with a single finger, and picked up the kettle. After filling it with water and turning the switch on, he took a single cup from the cupboard and set it on the table in front of Sherlock. Picking up one of Sherlock's favourite blends, John put one lonely teabag in the cup. Once the water boiled, John filled the solitary cup with the steaming liquid almost to the brink, with just enough space for the milk. Sherlock watched the whole proceeding curiously. Well, he half watched because he had to keep a close eye on his experiment. He did see that the perfect cup of tea was being made as he silently watched. John was preparing it just how he liked it so John wasn't cross after all or else we wouldn't be making Sherlock some tea. When Sherlock was about to grab the cup, hand in the air and fingers twitching with the anticipation for the hot, flavoured water, he watched John calmly reach for the cup first and take a big sip of it while leaning back on the other side of the table, looking at Sherlock over the mouth of the cup.
There are many things that make Sherlock's blood boil. Stupidity is number one, of course; unpressed trousers; errant curls. The list is quite long actually, you just don't really see him react most of the time. The self-control on the man is impressive.
But one thing is sure (and John knows this well enough): you do not steal Sherlock's tea. Especially when it's made just how he likes it. You're just asking for trouble, really.
So what we learn from this are three things:
1) John is a very brave man.
2) John is a very foolish man.
3) John gives fuck all about what you should and shouldn't do.
A normal person doesn't go around poking bears in the eye, it's what I'm trying to say here.
Sherlock glared at John, who was clearly enjoying what should have been Sherlock's cup of tea. John took a pause from reading the newspaper that Mrs. Hudson had brought up that morning and stared back at Sherlock.
"John, I thought you knew better," said a very cross Sherlock through gritted teeth.
"Hm," answered a very disinterested John.
Sherlock tried again. "That's supposed to be my tea."
"Is it? There's more in the cupboard."
Well, Sherlock didn't have a reply for that. There was indeed more in the cupboard and John wasn't his slave...technically speaking... He was just so used to John doing things for him that he sometimes forgot that little fact.
"Well, fine then! But if this is some kind of childish revenge for taking you on what is going to be a very amusing road trip, know that I am very disappointed in you, John." That'll teach him to poke the bear! John hates disappointing Sherlock.
"Hm."
Or not.
The next day found Sherlock sprawled on the sofa, texting and fully clothed. He knew the road trip had been a quite unorthodox choice for spending time with John but he really did have a case in Edinburgh and instead of just flying there, driving would be better for the both of them. That is, it would be better for Sherlock and by proxy, for John too. Because, if everything went well, John would be whimpering under Sherlock's lips by the end of the week.
Look, Sherlock is by no means a dim person. In fact, he's probably the fastest, most logical, most intelligent person you'll ever come across.
Except when it comes to sentiment.
He knew there was a connection between himself and John. He'd known it since the beginning and there was no point in denying it. Sherlock's no machine after all and he does feel. He just usually avoids such things. But what he hadn't realised until a couple of weeks ago, was how deep that connection was. The realisation had been eating away at him ever since. John became (quite literally) the centre of his attention. All of his attention. And when Sherlock wants something, he wants it now. Or yesterday, which is even better. The point is: as fast as possible. But like it's been said, Sherlock isn't dim and he knew you couldn't just force someone into marrying you ("Already thinking of marriage, Sherlock Holmes?"). In fact, he's sure John would be quite cross, if he were to arrange the papers and all before actually kissing him, hence this little road trip/ operation "Woo John". Sherlock felt that part of his brain was already betraying him with all this romanticism.
Sighing, he stood up and made his way to the kitchen, switching the kettle on and taking two cups and two teabags from the cupboard. John should be coming down any minute.
As he poured water into the cups and over the teabags, he heard John coming down the stairs. 8.30, as always. A man of habit. He used to hate people with fixed routines. Repetition always made his toes curl with disgust. Somehow, John changed all this without even knowing it.
John entered the kitchen and mumbled something to Sherlock. It might have been "good morning" or it might have been something less nice. Only John and the universe know (and possibly Mycroft through overuse of CCTV). Anyway, when John eyed the cup that stood on his side of the table, he did throw a smile to Sherlock. The smallest of smiles ever smiled by mankind. John decided to see the cup of tea as a truce and resolved that being cross at Sherlock for a whole week, confined to the space of a little car, would be a bad idea. Deciding that sulking would be pointless now (Sherlock was starting to rub off on him), he began to make toast and beans for both of them.
They were ready to go by 11am (it shouldn't come as a surprise to John that Sherlock still hadn't packed for the trip. And still...). The luggage was in the car, carried down by John alone, mind you. John was in the passenger's seat next to a very excited Sherlock behind the wheel.
"Do you even know how to drive?" John couldn't help but asking. He'd never seen Sherlock drive after all, so it was a fair question.
Sherlock scoffed. "You choose this moment to ask me that?"
Good point.
"I'll take that as a yes then." He might as well as it wouldn't change the outcome of the situation.
As it turned out, Sherlock did know how to drive and he actually did obey the rules, which came as a surprise to John. Sherlock seemed to have been designed with the sole intent of breaking any feasible rule.
Outside London, John ventured a question. "Where are we going anyway?"
Sherlock glanced sideways to John. "West Linton, near Edinburgh."
"Why?"
"Because that's where our client lives. His name is Siegfried Willoughby and he asked us, well, me actually, to take a look at his business. Mr Willoughby is of the opinion that someone is trying to murder him to take him off the market."
"What is it that he does, then?"
"Sheep."
John turned his head sharply, staring at Sherlock. "I'm sorry, what? Sheep?"
A poignant sigh made way past Sherlock's lips. "Yes John, sheep. Apparently they're a surprisingly high, albeit uncommon, source of income."
This made no sense. "Sheep... but how? I mean..."
"He didn't hire us to control, explain or expand his business, John."
"Fine, fine... For now," John added with raised eyebrows and a warning look in his eyes. "So, why are we driving there instead of flying?"
"I thought it would be a good idea for both of us. I need to relax, you need to relax, we all need to relax."
John snorted. "So you thought driving there would provide the much needed relaxation. You don't even know how to relax, Sherlock. It's not in your nature to relax."
Sherlock didn't have a ready retort for that.
What would John like to hear?
"Perhaps I'm trying to learn how. I know that my restlessness can drive you... insane, sometimes."
Apparently it was the right thing to say because John just smiled and turned to look at the road.
One of the first problems of the car ride was the music. This all became quite obvious when Sherlock turned the radio on and set it to BeethovenFm, the radio station that made John's eyes water with boredom. Since he wasn't actually driving, John tried in turn to put some Motown on. This earned John a scoff. Compromising seemed impossible so they settled for silence. It wasn't so bad as it sounds, really. Sherlock and John had developed their own kind of silence, an electrifying silence. It's full and thick but by no means uncomfortable. Quite the opposite. John liked their kind of silence. He didn't feel the need to say or listen to anything. And it seemed to make Sherlock content as well so they said practically nothing for two hours except to ensure they were still going the right way, with the help of a map. Sherlock had somehow decided that taking the M6 would be too easy for them, so instead they were now driving through roads John didn't even know existed.
This gave John quite a bit of time to think about the man currently sitting next to him. He knew he ought to tell Sherlock about his feelings. He also knew that Sherlock could be unpredictable, especially when it came to feelings. A rash decision could force John to move away from 221b and the life he had with his best mate. And he didn't want to lose Sherlock as a friend. He could be insufferable and most of the time John wondered how he hadn't hit the man more often (except for that one time and Sherlock had demanded it. John only complied). But Sherlock could also understand John better than anyone else and he provided John with exactly what he needed: a balanced life with three parts danger and one part tea (yes, danger and tea. That was basically all John Watson needed).
So, in summary: there was quite a bit at stake. Plus, if he thought about it properly, John couldn't imagine Sherlock in a physical relationship either. He avoided touching other people. Unless they were already dead. Then he could be found up to his elbows in some corpse. And he was indeed also amenable of John touching him, so maybe it had to do with the people involved rather than Sherlock himself.
Then there was the speech impediment Sherlock seemed to suffer from when it came to complimenting someone. Or to even be polite! Most of the time Sherlock didn't even bother. But even towards John, whom Sherlock considered to be of the "less stupid kind", his praises (if one could call them that) came in staccato: "That...uhm... good... yeah..". or "John, you didn't throw my jar of thumbs away. Th-... uhm... I mean. I appreciate. It. You. I mean, you not throwing it away. Yes."
Could someone who didn't seem to be able to vocalize positive things, be able to be demonstrative in a relationship? Or even in bed? John knew Sherlock was a confident man but when it came to basic human interaction (and sex was the most basic of human interactions, mind you), could Sherlock still be as confident as he was when dealing with a corpse?
All right, maybe that wasn't how a normal person would put it but John hadn't been normal by "normal" standards since he was 13 and decided to perform an autopsy on their recently deceased hamster, so he wasn't going to start now (and let's not forget that he'd been living with Sherlock long enough to have abandoned all pretences).
With a sigh, John decided to concentrate on the road again, giving his eyes something else to look at other than the beautiful man next to him. "When did I start thinking of him in those terms?", he thought. He really couldn't remember. He couldn't even pinpoint the exact moment he'd fallen in love with Sherlock because it seemed that it'd always been there since the time they first met. But, being a rational man (and most of all, a man), John didn't believe in love at first sight. So he chose to think that the feelings had sneaked up on him and that he'd always just been too busy with cases and the surgery to notice. Definitely not love at first sight. No, no.
Sherlock, for his part, was silent as a statue and equally frozen in time and space (how he could do it while driving was beyond John).
"Sherlock?" John asked tentatively.
Nothing.
"Uhm... Sherlock? Are you all right?"
At this, John heard a sharp intake of breath and a pair of silver-blue eyes turned to look at him. "Yes yes, perfectly fine."
"Sherlock, for the love of God! Were you sleeping?"
"What? No, of course not. I was in my mind palace. Frankly John, you of all people should know I can do that and still absorb the details surrounding me. That means I can still drive. Furthermore, the road is deserted and if we were to crash it would only be on vast banks of grass and vegetation because there's nothing else here." Sherlock flew a long arm in front of John's face and pointed to the left with an open hand. "Nothing."
John may have been uncertain about a number of things just then, but he did know he didn't want to die on a deserted road just because his friend thought his own mind was more interesting than driving (which of course it was, but that's beside the point).
"Look, there's a petrol station coming up. We'll stop there and switch places. My brain is starting to get numb due to all this landscape."
John heard a snort, which he pointedly ignored in favour of maintaining some degree of peace.
An hour later and now seated behind the wheel (which Sherlock had reluctantly abandoned only after being bribed with chocolate HobNobs), John thought of the case ahead.
"Care to share more information about the case?" he asked Sherlock, who was at the time entertained in remixing music by constantly zapping between radio channels as a means of keeping himself busy.
Sherlock turned the radio off and cleared his throat. "As I already told you, Siegfried Willoughby, age 54 and single, deals with sheep. Six weeks ago he started receiving threats through the post. It didn't start with death threats but with simple instructions. 'If you do not step away from the circuit, something bad might happen.' Innocent threats as you can tell. Two days ago he got another letter in the post. The envelope was pristine but inside was a blood-stained, handwritten letter. I have not seen this letter for myself, but being handwritten I believe it makes the case rather simple."
John nodded, eyes fixed on the road. "What did it say then?"
"Oh, something a little less innocent than before. 'If you don't step back now, I'll kill more than the Divine Trinity'. It was at this point that Mr. Willoughby decided to contact me."
"Wait, wait. The Divine Trinity? As in 'the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit'?"
"No. As in 'Libby, Jane and Molly'. They're Mr. Willoughby's prize winning sheep."
John did his best. No no, really! He really did his best not to laugh. It proved insufficient and soon enough he felt laughter start in his belly and rumble through his mouth in an open laughter that resonated through the confined space of the car, the sound of it making Sherlock smirk.
"So, let me see if I understood this correctly: Mr. Willoughby, a middle-aged man with three very special sheep, wants you to come and save him from someone who has been threatening him because of said special sheep, a case that seems simple enough (as you said yourself) and that you only agreed on because you think we need to rest?"
Sherlock nodded. "That is correct, John. I took this case because it was what looked like a mini- vacation without actually being as dull as one. And seeing that the whole affair with Sarah was starting to go south, I thought it was the appropriate thing to do."
John thought about Sarah. Since they'd broken up months ago, things seemed to float on a thin line between cordiality and dislike. It had been a friendly break up but they hadn't stayed friends. Sarah still let him work at the surgery, partly because she really didn't have anyone else to take his place, with all the rubbish hours and everything. And John...well, John needed a job. And sometimes they let him go away on cases like these, so it wasn't too bad.
"You're right, Sherlock," he said, "I really needed it. Thank you."
"No need to thank me. Let's just hope that this case, straightforward as it is, doesn't become a waste of time in the end."
The silence settled between the two once again and the rest of the journey went by peacefully (except for a second problem that involved "returning to the wild" due to the lack of toilets along the way and the third problem, getting lost, which had been Sherlock's fault and which Sherlock decided they would never, ever talk about again).
They drove into a path of gravel that led into a little B&B by the road. It was almost 6pm, about time to start thinking of a nice supper and a bed. They stepped out of the car and went in. They were met by a friendly, robust woman in her sixties who had just come out to greet them.
"Hello! Good evening, good evening! Do come in! I'm Sue. Come with me." She led them through the hall towards her little reception desk and turned to them again, smiling. "So, what can I help you young gentlemen with?"
John, who had been a little stunned by the overly welcoming woman, cleared his throat. "Hello. I'm John, this is Sherlock," he said, gesturing to Sherlock who was standing in the middle of the hall looking around, "We'd like to stay for the night if possible." He was about to add that a room with two beds would be lovely when Sue's smile split even wider as she hurriedly answered. "Of course! You're in luck! Our last room, and our nicest if I may add, is ready for you both! Someone else had already called for it but they couldn't come at the last moment." Behind John, Sherlock chuckled inwardly. He'd already known that would be the case.
Not even waiting for a positive answer, Sue handed John the key. "Here you are. Now I only need you to sign here" she said pointing at the paper in front of John, who immediately signed it, "and I'll show you to your room." At that point the beaming Sue was starting to make Sherlock cringe so he turned and started to walk up the stairs, followed by John and Sue, who was already making her way to walk in front of Sherlock to lead them to their room.
Sue left them standing by the door before turning on her heels and going down the stairs again saying, "If you need anything just call! Supper will be in half an hour!"
John looked at Sherlock, who still hadn't said a word and handed him the key. "I'll go get our luggage." And with that, he followed Sue down the stairs.
Sherlock inserted the key in the keyhole and opened the door. "Oh this is perfect", he thought, "I couldn't have planned it better myself." Mycroft did come in handy sometimes.
The room itself was nothing special. Just a regular room, comfortable in size, with plain beige wallpaper. Flowers on top of the little desk. Bathroom to the right. Big window with mauve curtains. Couch under the windowsill. And a king size bed against the wall to the left. Sherlock smiled to himself. John was not going to like this.
And indeed, three minutes later, John came in and frowned upon seeing the bed. "No, no, no." It sounded pretty much like whining and it rather annoyed Sherlock. "I want to have a good night of sleep!"
Sherlock frowned at that. "Why wouldn't you?"
With a moan (and not the good kind, mind you) John answered, "Because I'll have to sleep on the couch!"
Casually, Sherlock made his way to the bed and sat on it. "It's a big bed John, you won't need to sleep on the couch. There's no need to be juvenile about this small matter."
John let out a resigned sigh. Sherlock was right, Sherlock was absolutely right ("like always, the bloody git"). That meant that John was going to sleep in the same bed as a certain Mr. Holmes. So he nodded because frankly, the couch was too small, even for him. What John didn't say though, was that it would be impossible to sleep at all lying next to Sherlock.
Half an hour later John and Sherlock sat at a small table in the dining room. A table for two. By the window. Knees touching under the table. This was nothing new for the two of them. The tables at Angelo's were on the small side as well, so touching was inevitable and they were used to it. But today the main thought on both their minds was this:
Oh my god oh my god oh my god, we're touching bits! Well not bits, but bits!
Well, Sherlock's thoughts were slightly more eloquent but they went along the same lines.
Somehow the fact that they were about to sleep on the same bed enhanced the whole "touchy-feely" thing.
When Sue came by to ask what they wanted from the menu, they both chose haggis because they were after all, quite brave men and open to new things (because even though John's grandfather had been a Scotsman, John had never even smelled haggis in his life). Sherlock ate almost as much as he usually did on a case, which was next to nothing; John just wolfed his haggis down like there was no tomorrow.
They made small talk about the weather, the food ("John, are you even tasting what you're putting in your mouth? Calm down, it may be haggis but it's not going to run away from your plate"), the other guests at the tables around them (specifically their entire background story, courtesy of Mr. Holmes), current experiments and so on. They were nervous. Not that you'd notice anything different in their stoic posture, mind you. No no, don't be silly. But on the inside Sherlock was vibrating, counting down the minutes, while John... John was thinking about the dessert to avoid thinking about a lean body next to his in bed later that night.
And then "the moment of truth" happened sooner than John had wished and even though Sherlock could control a lot of things, time was not one of them and this irritated him, irrationally (which was something rather ironic for such a rational man). So they headed upstairs, followed by Sue's beaming eyes from behind her desk (which John found, frankly, quite creepy. The beaming eyes, not the desk. It was a perfectly normal piece of furniture) and opened the door to their room.
They busied themselves with their nightly rituals: brushing of teeth, loo and other things that grown men have the tendency to do before going to bed.
When John was finally ready to lie down, Sherlock was already lying on the bed, one hand behind his head and another holding his mobile phone, his lean body wrapped in cotton pyjama trousers and a flimsy white t-shirt. Making his way to the bed, John cleared his throat and did his best to look casual.
"This is getting ridiculous", he thought. "It's just a night of sleep for fuck's sake!"
Sliding under the covers next to Sherlock, he made himself comfortable and turned on his side facing away from Sherlock. He then turned off the only light that was on, the one on his bedside table. "Good night", he said but got no answer in return.
John could still see the glow of Sherlock's mobile phone. He was hyper aware of his every small movement and of every breath that passed Sherlock's lips.
This was going to be a long night.
At about 3am, John felt an arm snake around his waist and hug him closer. He inhaled sharply and held his breath, waiting for the next move. He could feel Sherlock's breath against his nape, Sherlock's nose just barely touching his skin. His hips, even though far enough not to touch John, radiated heat that John could feel on every inch of his body. John tried to breathe again.
Oh, this wasn't helping at all.
He felt Sherlock shift again, the fingers on his stomach splaying in a wide fan on his skin, the pinky just under the waistband of his pants.
"Oh god, what am I going to do? I'm not about to molest my unconscious flatmate!" So John, being the honest man that he was, coughed under his breath and moved a bit under Sherlock's arm, hoping to wake the man long enough for him to move away. But no such thing happened for Sherlock's grip tightened around him.
"John..."
He waited a bit longer. Maybe Sherlock was just mumbling something in his sleep, unaware of what was happening, just out of habit.
"John, I know you're awake," Sherlock whispered close to his ear, the damp breath making John shiver.
Oh.
"Sherlock, what are you doing?"
"Frankly John, I thought even you would be able to deduce what's happening." That velvety voice was accompanied by a soft brush of fingertips along his arm. John's throat had gone completely dry so he had to swallow a couple of times before starting to speak, and that gave him time to think about what to say because, really, what the fuck was going on?
"Sherlock... you..." he cleared his throat once more and tried, again, "Sherlock, I don't know how you usually go about this kind of thing, but pointing out someone's lack of intelligence is not a good way to seal the deal. Besides, what the fuck?"
Sherlock chuckled at John's weak remark. "John, I'm not blind. I've seen you look at me. I've wanted this since the day I saw you coming in the lab behind Mike. You were the absolute personification of dignity, even limping and seemingly broken as you were, and I'd never seen that before. If you want, I can go back to sleep or rather, turn to the other side and pretend to sleep because I'm not even remotely tired. Or-"
John turned to face Sherlock and kissed him on the lips. Not a demanding kiss but a kiss that said Okay. And even though Sherlock was quite illiterate when it came to feelings, this he understood very well, so he held John by his nape and deepened the kiss. John turned them over, settling his knees on either side of Sherlock who was now willingly pinned under John and raking his fingernails lightly over John's back. John let out a little moan when he felt those nimble fingers travel to his waistband. The pyjama trousers he was wearing were doing nothing to cover how interested he was in this turn of events.
"Apparently it sealed this deal. That's an appallingly proverbial phrase by the wa-". Sherlock always had to have the last word, in this case a shaky word that had been swallowed by John's mouth which was covering Sherlock's with fervent kisses and licks, while John's thumb toyed with his nipple. Sherlock shivered as John started to extend those little licks to his jaw and applying little bites along his neck and collarbone. Not many people knew this (more than Mycroft believed, but less than the average 34 year-old), but his collarbone was a very sensitive place. So sensitive in fact that it was enough to activate his vocalisations, transforming coherent phrases into little mumbles between soft lips.
"John..."
Both hands on either side of Sherlock, pinning him but not really touching him, John let his lips travel down the alabaster skin, nipping and biting a path. He could feel the scarce hairs on Sherlock's chest as he tasted the skin there. John withdrew the thumb that was caressing Sherlock's nipple and replaced it with the flat of his tongue, long licks over the tight nub. John's left hand continued travelling south and his fingers were now grazing lazily over Sherlock's taut stomach, drawing loose circles over the skin, now and then touching the waistband of the pyjama trousers. Tentatively, John ran his fingers lightly over Sherlock's erection, the one he could clearly feel and see under the trousers, finding that it was not enough (John wanted so much more).
"John... please..."
John chuckled because really, this was Sherlock under him, begging for more under his tongue and hands. The man who was always so controlled, so disconnected from everything but The Work, trembling under John's body. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so good, so in love and so... powerful. John left Sherlock's nipple and made a path with kisses, up again, to kiss that lovely lush mouth that was just forming incoherent words, more breath than noise.
Looming over Sherlock and sharing a kiss that was little more than an intimate exchange of air, John felt his elbows fail him for a moment before straightening his arms up again and locking them into place once more. Two long hands caressed his back, from shoulder to lower back, staying there, while fingernails scratched lightly at the round buttocks.
Oh, Sherlock and his impossibly big hands.
Those hands would be the death of him someday, he knew that much. And maybe one day, he'd find a fuck to give about that.
But today was not the day.
All he wanted right now was Sherlock's lean and long cock in his mouth.
A long hand cupped John's left buttock to pull him in, grinding hips against hips, hard flesh against hard flesh.
The feeling made John buck and press himself to Sherlock, grinding even harder as Sherlock's hand found a proper way to hold John's cock as he began to stroke over the fabric of his trousers.
John wasn't going to last long if Sherlock continued his ministrations.
Kissing a path from mouth to neck, from neck to collarbone and from collarbone to nipple, John lapped at the little firm bud. At Sherlock's moan he grazed his teeth lightly over the flesh before biting, not quite enough to hurt, and managed to smile with the sensitive flesh caught between his teeth. That lean body arched under his. He could feel Sherlock trembling beneath his own body, trapped between his own arms. His Sherlock. His.
As he made his way further down, John could feel the taut stomach muscles quiver under his tongue. He nuzzled at the skin just under the band of Sherlock's pyjama trousers. He immediately fell in love with the scent there: soap and skin. And the taste... Christ... but it would get even better, John thought with a smile. An eager cock was waiting for him and getting quite impatient in the process.
A long hand reached out to rest on John's scalp, just massaging it. Finally, John reached and pulled Sherlock's trousers down, revealing just a small patch of dark hair. "No pants. That smug bastard". He smiled and inhaled deeply. Musk. Something unmistakably Sherlock. And...undeniably primitive.
John couldn't wait any longer. Pulling the cotton trousers down over bony knees and ankles, he threw them over his shoulder, chuckling, in a mock stripper move. Sherlock looked down and grinned, fingers still buried in John's strands. Eyeing that beautiful cock, John bent down lower and stuck out his tongue, tasting the skin tentatively, just little licks all over the head, collecting the bead of pre-come and making Sherlock gasp at the feel of it. His mouth was watering with the smell and the taste and without waiting any longer, John engulfed the head of Sherlock's cock, sucking lightly and letting his tongue roam under the glans. The hand in his hair tightened and John lifted his head again, letting a broad tongue roam over the length. Reaching a hand, John took hold of the base and stroked that beautiful cock, lightly enough to make Sherlock buck up, desperate for more friction. He kept stroking, hearing Sherlock's ragged breathing and feeling as his body writhed under his hands. John licked lower, where base met sack and sucked in the skin between his lips, gently, while his hand picked up the pace to faster and longer strokes.
"John...please...I need you please please please, I need your mouth, please!"
Smiling, John looked up at his debauched lover. "Look at you. You're... perfect. Bloody perfect. All I want is to take you in my mouth again, take you deep and feel you thrust into my mouth, begging to come. I want you to come down my throat Sherlock. Can you do that? Can you come for me and make me swallow every last drop? Do you want that?"
"John!"
Yes, Sherlock definitely wanted that and John complied as he returned his mouth to Sherlock's cock, this time engulfing him completely until the tip of his nose was touching the coarse hair at the base. Sherlock gasped in surprise. The hand in his hair was now painfully tight and just like John liked it (his thoughts maybe have been very far at the moment but Sherlock still noticed the approving groan that escaped John's throat when he pulled his hair).
John started bobbing his head up and down at a faster pace, mimicking the earlier movements of his hand. When he felt Sherlock was about to come ("Johnjohnjohnjohn I'm...please!"), John took hold of those narrow hips and once more engulfed that beautiful cock to the root. Then he swallowedaround Sherlock, feeling his muscles contract around the hard flesh and making Sherlock cry out as he thrust even deeper into John's mouth and coming down John's throat in hot spurts. "JOOOHHHNNN!"
John had been so intent on pleasing Sherlock that he hadn't even noticed that he was thrusting against the mattress, "like a bloody teenager", he thought. Carefully letting go of Sherlock's cock with a final lick and a kiss to the tip, John licked his own palm tasting Sherlock on it, and reached in his pants taking himself in hand and stroking once. Twice. "Fu-...Sherlock!" and coming all over his hand with a shudder that made his whole body spasm.
Cleaning his hand on the sheets, John climbed over Sherlock again and placed himself half over Sherlock's left side, where he could feel the elevated heartbeat.
"Well, that was a surprise." John could hear the smile in his voice and hear the heartbeats slow down to a more natural state again.
Sherlock sighed. "Not exactly a surprise but certainly a very pleasant turn of events."
John chuckled. Of course it hadn't been a surprise to Sherlock. The man knew everything.
The room smelled of sex. Sherlock decided he'd maybe one day try to capture that scent in a bottle.
"John, what is going to happen now?"
There wasn't insecurity in Sherlock's voice, but it was a rather rare question coming from him. Sherlock always knew what to do. (Just look at how this little episode started.) John chuckled and nestled closer. "Hm... Well, I don't know about you but right now, even with all the stickiness and sweat swarming about between us, I couldn't be arsed to take a shower so I think I'll just keep lying here next to you and hopefully fall asleep exactly like this, if you don't mind."
Sherlock didn't answer but John felt those long arms hold him tighter.
After that, it was all a blur of limbs and intricate sleeping positions until morning.
6am. Somehow during the night, John had turned upside down in bed. Sherlock had never awoken to someone's foot on his face but being a rational man, he'd never discarded the possibility of it ever happening. And again, he felt that little special feeling for being right once more and for participating in something new, even if it meant having a foot on his face. He really didn't mind, specially it being John's foot and all. But one can only endure such a thing for so long, so Sherlock nudge said foot from his face and called for John, who was still sleeping peacefully. And very, very naked indeed.
"John. Wake up."
Nothing.
"John, it's time. We have to get back on the road early."
If you asked John, he'd say he never snores. But that's exactly what he did.
"John!"
Rien de rien.
"Oh for fu- John Hamish Watson, wake up this very instant!"
Well, that worked.
John jumped at the shout and sat straight up in bed, looking confused but prepared to fight whatever enemy came his way. "What... Sherlock, for Christ's sake! That's not the way to wake up someone, especially if they have army training! Your instinct for self-preservation is too limited."
Sherlock put on his best smile and looked at John. "Good morning."
John fought his smile for a moment before it practically split his face. "Good morning," he said, crawling over to Sherlock to give him a chaste kiss on the lips.
Sherlock frowned under the kiss. "Is it too soon in our relationship to point out that you really should go take a shower right now?"
John chuckled, "Yeah, like you smell of roses."
"I think it'd be a good idea to share the shower today. With all the environmental problems and such," Sherlock suggested, with a mock serious expression on his face.
John followed his lead. "Right, right. The planet first. Well, being as engaged as we are with nature and such, I think you're absolutely right. Don't take too long!" And with that, he stood from the bed and walked over to the bathroom, throwing a glance and a smug grin over his shoulder at Sherlock, who was still lying in bed admiring John in his birthday suit.
What followed may or may not have involved soap and a loofah, but with it being a shower and all, it's safe to assume it did. And it may or may not have involved two very naked men panting and rubbing against each other, bringing each other to completion under the hot water stream. But being Sherlock and John, it's safe to assume that it did indeed happen. (I can assure you, it really did.)
And after that, clothes got involved in the equation, which made neither John nor Sherlock very happy.
An hour later, luggage ready and back in the car, they sat at "their" little table and ate breakfast, served by a very hyper and happy Sue. Sherlock couldn't help but cringe at that. He never understood "morning people". Not that he found it difficult to wake up early and be active in the early hours. But no one could expect him to be happy at 7 in the morning (or at any other hour for that matter, but that's beside the point). After breakfast, they got in the car again and back on the road.
Nothing really change between them, on the surface. On the way to Edinburgh they still bickered about music and about the vast emptiness of the fields. They were still silent when it suited them, so that day passed pretty much as the one before that. Only little things happened now that didn't happen before. A brief touch of hands. A different smile. A whisper when it wasn't necessary. Certainly not anything noticeable (at least for people on the outside- but let's face it, when it came to Sherlock and John, people were always on the outside).
They finally arrived at their client's house by late afternoon. Well, we say house... it was more of a mansion really. John couldn't help but think that maybe they were in the wrong line of business.
After being led by the butler into one of the most extravagant sitting room John had ever seen in his life (Buckingham Palace not included, of course. Nothing was like bloody Buckingham Palace), John and Sherlock met their client. Half an hour after that, some mild interpretation problems and a lot of "ye ken?" Sherlock solved the case. Of course he did. What else were you expecting?
John wasn't that happy with that, to be honest. They had travelled quite a bit to end up solving a case in half an hour! They didn't even see The Divine Trinity! But even John could admit the case was as simple as it could get. The notes were written in Mr. Willoughby's own stationery and ink. After that it was a matter of comparing hand writings from all the people in the household. The man was either too thick or too lazy because this really was child's play. But the money was always welcome, John supposed. Even though now it meant that he'd have to suffer the wrath of a very bored detective all the way back home.
But instead of that - and after receiving a very pretty cheque that compensated for the lack of sheep-seeing-, they said goodbye to Mr. Willoughby the next day (he had insisted for them to spend the night and frankly, who was John to say no to such a lovely bed?) and got in the car, back to London. Polluted, beautiful London. Yes yes, all this green was very pretty and the air was very pure and John felt a bit like Heidi in the middle of it all but... London!
"Hm... John?" Sherlock interrupted his thoughts, doubt in his voice.
"Yeah?"
"Are we in a relationship? I mean, after last night-"
"Yes." No doubt, John wanted this. And then he remembered, "I mean, that is if you want to, of course. But if you think about it, we already were in one before... that happened." He cursed inwardly for blushing like a Victorian maiden at his age.
"Yes, yes. I...yes, I want to." A smile spread over Sherlock's face, one of the few that he had just for John.
"Good, good. Good, yeah."
"Yes John, it is necessary to say something three times just to make sure of it. Jesus, man up! This is Sherlock, not some stranger. You know how he'll rea-"
"Can we drive straight home now and have a sex marathon for the next 2 days?"
"Oh, God, yes!"