His tetchy little lover has been fretting, and sighing, and grumbling, stretched out on the sofa, for about thirty minutes. And John has been watching him for every second of it.
He can't help it. Sherlock is imminently watchable. Every bit of him. From the tip of his long toes, to the top of his curly head. His pouty lips. His shifty brows. His graceful neck. John shivers. God, that neck. It's his very favourite thing. And Sherlock has no idea. In fact, if you were to ask him what he thought John's favourite thing about him was, after he rolled his eyes, he'd probably say his sparkling wit.
He'd be wrong, of course.
John represses a smile when Sherlock very pointedly sighs and flops over to glare at John from his supine position. His long, pale fingers ball up together under his chin and he jerks his knees up towards his stomach. Sherlock huffs the resulting breath from his exertions through his nose like an agitated foal. His eyes narrow further.
John is just delighted. What a precious little baby his darling is.
"John," Sherlock croaks.
John arches a brow. Settles comfortably back into his lounger.
Sherlock makes some kind of groan-y whine at the back of his throat, and John lets his gaze wander over Sherlock's body. The man hasn't bathed yet today, and god but he smells delicious. John's mouth waters at the thought of what he'd taste like. Of course, promptly following that notion, John has to clamp his jaws together, and his fists twitch with the force of his resistance. It doesn't do to let those particular thoughts roam too free. To wonder on the taste of Sherlock.
He bet it'd be the best damn thing in the world, though. Better than the tenderest filet mignon, paired with the fullest, richest red wine. Better than the finest of dark chocolates; than half-melted ice cream on a hot day. With a shudder, he swallows down the saliva quickly gathering under his tongue. Belatedly, John realises that Sherlock has gone still.
He pulls his attention back to his personal, morose malcontent. Sherlock is staring at him. Intently. In that way he gets, meaning that his boredom is very nearly gone, and John internally sighs to see that his focus has shifted to himself, now. To again try puzzling him out.
And he is. A puzzle, rather. John quietly preens at this knowledge. One day, he knows he'll lose his mystique, but he's fairly certain he'll recover his lover's interest immediately following that moment on that day. John's eyes slip closed as this daydream spins off and runs away with him. His deepest held secret twines seductively around John's mind, his heart. His cock. He keeps it closely guarded, this secret, and he knows that Sherlock knows he has a secret, but his brilliant little detective has never quite been able to figure it out. Though, Sherlock has never admitted this fact aloud. It's amazing. It's remarkable, really.
John loves him desperately.
"You're doing that thing again," Sherlock mumbles.
John opens his eyes with a satisfied sigh. Stretches in his seat. Widens his eyes with affected innocence. "Hmm? What, dreaming? About you, perhaps?" He shrugs. "I do that all the time."
Sherlock's eyes narrow again. He opens his lips. Hesitates. "You..." he trails off.
"I..." John teases. He rubs his socked feet together on the floor. Nestles deeper into his seat. Lets his innocent expression slip. Lets a little of his inner self out. Just a bit.
Sherlock slowly inhales. He licks his lips. "What is it. You want something."
John smiles. Breathes a happy, little coo of a sound. "I always want something."
Sherlock shifts his head on the arm of the sofa to better look at him. "I know."
'But,' John mentally says, 'you won't ever figure it out. Not until I tell you.'
As if hearing him, Sherlock groans and flops back against the cushions. He crosses his arms, petulant to the last. "You should just say what it is, already."
John's smile softens to a grin. He watches his lover and is calm. As he has been for the past several years, specifically the past two months and thirty-five minutes. He cocks his head. "Mmm, no."
"Ugh," Sherlock groans. He tangles his fingers into the messy mop of curls and pulls. "This is intolerable! Just, out with it already. Do you have any idea– " he cuts himself off. He does that sometimes.
John's brows faintly raise. "Any idea of what?"
Sherlock glares. He mashes his face into the side of the sofa. "Nothing," he grumbles.
John hums quietly. Interesting. Sherlock almost admitted it this time. He must truly be bored. Or, he's surpassed the territory of boredom, and has lapsed into bothered. Great mind like his? John's secret must wear on him more than he lets on. Poor darling.
"You're fine," John placates. He crosses one ankle over the other. Admires the line Sherlock's body makes where it's crumpled so artfully before him. In all his years, he never once thought to take up drawing. What he would give to be able to sketch Sherlock's gift of physical perfection. He'd draw page after page of him, he thinks. He'd hang them up above the mantel and would force everyone who entered to admire and acknowledge his beauty. Sherlock is surprisingly self-conscious for someone so confidently vain, though he puffs up like a peacock when John tells him how beautiful he is. He wonders what the colour Sherlock's cheeks flush is called.
"Don't patronise me," John thinks he hears from the sofa. He chuckles.
"Okay," John patronises. He watches his beloved curl in tighter on himself and frowns at his misery. He gets an idea. A little one. Just a seed of a thought. Perhaps, Sherlock needs a wee bit more of a distraction this time. Just enough to soothe his racing mind and quell his curiosity about the inner workings of John. Which he could do by displaying some of said inner workings. Besides, Sherlock has always told him that hiding in plain sight is the best sort of disguise. For now. He takes a moment to think, and a wicked grin stretches his lips.
"Anyway," John says lightly, stretching like a contented house cat before a fire, "you don't want to know."
Sherlock twists around, untangling himself from his ball of ennui, and shakes his head until an eye can peek through a cascade of curls.
"Not really," John adds with a murmur. He closes his eyes. Counts to five. His darling boy is charmingly predictable. Though, that's not something he'd ever want to tell him. It would piss him off, see.
He hears the leather of the sofa creak. Hears the rustle of Sherlock's hopelessly wrinkled dressing gown catch. In five seconds precisely, Sherlock says, "Is that so?"
John opens his eyes again, body lax and lazy. He smiles a delicate thing. "Mm." He watches a spark flicker back into Sherlock's glassy eyes as they track over John and knows he has his full attention. "Some things," he pauses, lets it dangle a moment, "are best left secret." His eyes catch Sherlock's. "Don't you think?"
Sherlock frowns and then sits up, feet firmly on the floor. "John."
"You like secrets."
Sherlock fidgets.
"And you like me."
Sherlock huffs. "Of course I do." His face scrunches up. "This is tedious. Just tell me what it is you want."
John's brows fully raise. "Wow."
Sherlock ducks his chin and darts a glance to the floor.
"You're really asking," John says in wonder.
Sherlock sighs. Picks at a speck of lint at his knee. "Just for today. You want something today."
John's smile widens and he shakes his head. "Look at you."
"Shut up." He wrings his hands in his dressing gown and glares again. "What is it?! For god's sake."
John cocks his head. A thrill tingles through his veins to be skirting the edges of this discussion. This deeply buried need. He swallows and hears the roughness of his voice when he says, "Do not play this game, Sherlock."
Sherlock slowly straightens. John sees the moment Sherlock's resolve firms and locks onto him. For a second, he feels a twinge of regret because his poor lover is like a hunting dog with a scent, and John is afraid to let him get too close to this one. He isn't ready to know about the existence of creatures like him. Sherlock's beautiful, otherworldly eyes scan over every inch of John's face, and he leans forward. His elbows settle on his knees, and his lips purse in thought. John feels the warmth of his gaze like fingers trailing over his skin. Like Sherlock's warm hands. He looks like he might be cold, chilly, distant, but it's not the truth of him. Sherlock is John's own little sun, and John is his moon. He loves to orbit that body, loves when Sherlock lights him up from inside. And outside. Every point of contact.
"You desire... something." Sherlock's head cocks and he studies John's fingers. Fingers he quickly relaxes. "Sssexual - no."
John swallows hard. Thinks of what he wants, what he really wants to do to Sherlock. His dick hardens between his thighs. Twitches with serious interest. His throat burns and he feels the sharpness of his teeth scrape his tongue. All of it involuntary. Sherlock can pull the strings of his body better than any marioneteer with a puppet.
All of this happens in the space of a few breaths, and John knows the instant Sherlock sees it. Or, sees something. Gets a glimpse of the dark thing that lives inside of John, and Sherlock blinks for a moment in confusion. John then watches with fascination as Sherlock passes it off, watches his gaze settle back into one of intent curiosity. John loves him so much, not least because his lovely genius sees everything, everything, but even he, human that he claims not to be, does what they all do. He himself Sees but does not Observe, especially when he gets close, really close, because he refuses to accept anything that might change his view of John. The darkness of John. Sherlock cannot accept that John is capable of such things. In this, he is beautifully ignorant, and John loves knowing that Sherlock willingly keeps his lover a mystery. He wonders if he even does it on purpose. He must.
John struggles to reign the dark thing in that roils at the knowledge that Sherlock has brushed aside a glimpse of it, and has once again created his own excuses.
His detective licks his full lips. He is irritated. He is... cautious. "What is it, then?"
John huffs softly. He stares at the pale column of throat that jumps with a nervous swallow. "I'm not sure I want you to know."
"John, there is nothing you could ask that would shock me. I left a horse's liver in the shower last week."
John grins a slow, mad thing. "Hmm," he hums again.
Sherlock's lips thin, and John relishes the look of uncertainty that suddenly clouds his lovely face. "Go on, anyway. I want to know."
John takes a moment to admire his bravery. While he waits, Sherlock trails a graceful hand along his collarbones. Let's it slowly slide down his chest. He's still attempting to assign something relatable, a sexual favour apparently, to what he does not understand of John's wants. As usual, he is wrong.
John glides his tongue over the tingling, twin points above the canines that want to descend, and decides he's predicated long enough. It isn't like Sherlock will take him seriously in the end, after all. And anyway the man loves head games. If anything, John can give him something to mull over for a few days. Or, forever. John's belly heats at the thought. He will have forever.
John settles deeply into his chair, lets his bum slide forward. His thick fingers lazily lace together over his stomach. He tilts his jaw, just a fraction, and finally meets his lover's eyes. He inhales.
"I want to kill you."
He waits. The statement drifts through the air and John watches as the words slither and settle into Sherlock's mind. He watches that beloved face shift from surprise, to amusement, and then re-settles and pauses on surprise again. Sherlock's eyes dart to each of John's, and the faintest wrinkle creases the spot above his nose while he intently studies him. Sherlock's brows slowly rise and his lips gently part. He inhales once. Twice.
"John. ...you're serious."
John flutters his fingers playfully atop his stomach. He smiles and nods. "Mmhmm."
He loves this next part. For all Sherlock says John is overly-expressive and can't keep a single thought in his head, Sherlock, when it comes to John, is read as easily as any book. His detective blinks rapidly. Those gorgeous cat's eyes slide off to stare out at nothing John can see, and he knows that madman is probably throwing boxes around, tearing binders off shelves, sifting through John's personal files while searching through that fancy, great mind palace of his. He's running, right now, through it's depths, scrambling to explain away this sudden revelation. Remembering the times he dismissed those glimpses of Other he always dismisses. Looking for something that would have ever suggested murderous proclivities. Or, perhaps, he's flipping through dusty books filled with symbols and literary metaphors. John can be sarcastic and dramatic with his prose. Perhaps Sherlock is trying to tell himself that John is having him on. Or testing him. But whatever it is, it's enough to make the man's world stop spinning and make the pulse at his neck visibly pick up. John can smell the sudden cloud of hormones and adrenaline being subtly thrown off his body where it sits tensely across the way.
John does not allow him very long.
"I want," he says again, "to take your life, Sherlock."
"But– "
"You did ask. What I wanted."
Sherlock stares. John fancies he can hear gears grinding to a halt.
"And," John adds, "I did warn you."
Sherlock keeps staring. Staring and breathing.
"I want," and now John leans forward, mimicking Sherlock's pose, however slack it's grown, "I want to rest my ear above your heart and listen to its final beat."
Sherlock's breath catches.
"I want," John cocks his head and focuses at the place on Sherlock's body that he has fantasised about for years, "to feel it's final flutter beneath my tongue. I want to cover your mouth with mine and breathe in your very last breath."
Pale, blue eyes stare back at him, wide as saucers.
"I very much want to cut you open, just a little, and taste your blood while it's still warm and roll it around on my tongue." John lets his gaze traverse Sherlock's body, licks his lips, openly appreciating the view. He drags it back to his lovers', where round pupils meet their equal. "I want to hold you down, feel your body succumb, and be the very last thing you see in this life. I want to watch the light spark, and dim, and then vanish. I want to steal it for myself."
Sherlock is gasping he's breathing so heavily. His fingers are white where they grip the sofa.
John shrugs with a smirk. He leans back, casual as you please, as if he hasn't tilted the entire axis of Sherlock's known universe. "Yeah. In short... I would like to kill you." He smiles softly at the man he's rarely seen stunned into silence. "And one day, I might."
John stands then and winces at a pop in his back. He crosses the floor to lean down and drop a kiss atop fluffy curls.
"But not today." He nuzzles into their silky softness, breathes in his lover's scent, and huffs in delight. His lips just brush the shell of Sherlock's ear as he whispers. "The day I take your life, Sherlock..." he exhales with the faintest of moans, allowing himself the luxury of visualising the image of Sherlock's body going lax, the glorious, electric length of all six feet of him wilting into John's arms. Allows the dark thing to purr and pulse and fill him for just a moment as he imagines the feel and taste of Sherlock's absolute and utter surrender... John shivers and presses against the warm body thrumming against him. The dark thing lashes out with want. "Ohh," John sighs. "It will be the most beautiful thing I will ever see."
Sherlock is openly panting below him. John pecks a final kiss against his ear and heads for the kitchen to make tea. He'd make a cup for Sherlock, but he suspects the man won't be moving for a few hours more yet.
John smiles to himself and quietly goes about the motions, familiar and comforting, of pulling down his favourite mug and plugging in the kettle. He twirls about to reach the milk and rests a hip against the edge of the counter to wait. Curiosity gets the better of him, and he cranes his neck to sneak a peek at the man he left sitting on their sofa; he has not moved an inch, except to let his jaw hang open while he gapes ahead at nothing.
John snorts with quiet laughter and feels the dark thing within him settle and recede to somewhere deep. For now, his desire is quelled, and John finds he feels rather peaceful. Sherlock will mull this over, will wrestle each word into an order that he most prefers. Arrange them into something he can understand and make rational sense of. He will place John back into the designated slot Sherlock has designed for him, and then he will play it all off as John's being fanciful. Later, they will most definitely have sex, because as briefly terrified as Sherlock was, and rightfully so, he is even more aroused. What he should do, if he had any sense, is run screaming from the flat, yelling to all and sundry about a man who dreams about fucking him so slowly, lips and fangs latched deeply onto his neck, and coming so hard he can't breathe the second the last drop of blood in his body is consumed.
Of course, John has conveniently left out the fact that more than John wants to take that brilliant, absurd, beautiful, mad detective's life, he wants even more to give him a new one. One that will keep his beloved forever in John's. To love, protect, and cherish him until whatever eternity means, ends.
But, he reasons as the kettle clicks off, it wouldn't do to give away all of his secrets just yet. For now, he's content to hide in plain sight. Just as Sherlock taught him.
He fixes his tea and returns to the sitting room, blowing cool air across the top of his mug, and peers at at his silent love through the whirls of steam that curls up and away, and dreams of the two of them together forever. He won't tell him about that part just yet.
Sherlock likes a challenge, after all.
A/N: I am playing with something. Not sure how it came out... I may turn this into a series of things because that's just what I need. One more damn series.
Comments appreciated!
Thanks for reading. :)
edit: okay, so I did actually turn this into a series. the next part is posted as "A Thing Provoked." enjoy.