I own nothing but my dirty, dirty mind ;)
This fic has been betaed by the lovely LittleLock (link to her tumblr coming soon), and any remaining oddities or mistakes are purely the result of my own pigheadedness and/or carelessness.
Enjoy, and please review! If I don't periodically get injected with a 7% solution of feedback, I go a little crazy ;)
"You're a mess, Sherlock," John chided, "I really don't understand how someone meticulous enough to have a bloody sock index can let himself go so far. Do you even remember when you last ate or bathed?"
The detective, uncharacteristically scruffy and rumpled, scowled. "Transport, remember? I might normally abide by personal grooming norms for easy social interaction and personal comfort but they hardly take precedence over a genuinely challenging case."
"You have stubble, Sherlock. Stubble. I didn't even know you could grow a beard. And you reek."
"Don't be idiotic. I smell fine. And if my facial hair is so offensive to you, you can do something about it yourself. I refuse to concern myself with trivialities when there are more important things to worry about." He crossed his arms and settled into a sulk.
The doctor rolled his eyes. Of all the typical, childish outbursts... "Fine, you know what? Perhaps I will." And with that he stood from his armchair and strode purposefully from the room, returning a few minutes later with an armful of supplies. He knelt before Sherlock and arranged a bowl of warm water, a dish of shaving cream with a brush, a flannel, and a folding straight razor on the floor beside him. Sherlock's lips parted as his eyes roamed over the array on the carpet and he tensed minutely before reclining in the chair and turning away haughtily.
"Look at me," John commanded softly. He took Sherlock's chin between his thumb and forefinger, turning the detective to face him. "That's it, stay."
Sherlock remained unaccountably still as the army doctor dipped the flannel in the water, wringing it out before applying it carefully to his jaw and throat. Sherlock swallowed and John set to lathering his face with the brush.
John picked up the razor and snapped it open with an easy flick of his wrist and click of the catch. When he finally brought it to Sherlock's face, it touched down first at the edge of his jaw, just a centimeter below his left earlobe, and then dragged exquisitely along to the point of his chin. Sherlock inhaled sharply before slowing his breathing. He remained motionless as John scraped the razor gently over more of his face and neck, rinsing it in the water between each stroke.
The surgeon's hands moved with the bone-deep steadiness that had carried him through Afghanistan and abandoned him in the unbearable safety of quotidian London. But there wasn't anything quotidian about Sherlock and absolutely nothing safe in the slow uncovering of the planes of his face.
About half the discarded shaving cream from Sherlock's jaw and cheeks was already floating in the bowl, melting in the water, when everything building in the air between them finally hit John hard in the chest. A short drag of the razor had left a dab of foam perched on the bow of Sherlock's upper lip and, when John forced himself to look up from it, the detective's eyes were fixed on him, intently focused. Oh god, this was going to happen. His eyes couldn't look like that—pupils wide, irises hovering stubbornly between green and grey—without this happening. They made everything suddenly go so very, very real.
Heart pounding, John set the razor carefully down on the carpet and wiped the cloth over his flatmate's mouth, leaving it damp and open. Then he leaned forward on his knees, cupped his hand around the base of Sherlock's skull, and pulled him into a kiss. And then careful and methodical went promptly out the window.
Sherlock groaned as John sucked the detective's lower lip into his mouth, tasting everything, measuring its plumpness between his teeth. His mind ran. God, yes, definitely happening, happening now, oh god, don't let it stop. He felt Sherlock's tongue push passed his lips and then he was raising himself awkwardly, never breaking contact, and maneuvering to straddle Sherlock's thighs, knees squeezed tight against the arms of the chair.
Sherlock, if he was following anything like his normal thought processes, was probably noticing John's chapped lips or some telling aspect of the texture of fingers or the rhythm of his breath, and deducing exactly how much this mattered to John. But, if he was, he kept it blessedly to himself. John slid his hand to knot through Sherlock's hair, smearing the remaining cream on his right cheek. He pulled the detective's head to the side, exposing his neck, and bore down with his hips, pressing urgently against—
"Nngghh!"
John hummed against Sherlock's throat. "That's it, moan like that. God, you sound gorgeous. I could order you about all day long to hear you make a noise like that."
Sherlock whimpered.
"Oh, would you like that? I think you would. I think you boss people around so snottily because you're angry no one's ever been able to boss you." Oh, hell. What was he doing? John Watson had no control over the words pouring from his mouth and clinging to Sherlock's neck. He knew, somewhere in his mind, that what he was saying could have consequences, very bad ones; that he was pushing dangerously past the limits of anything even remotely classifiable as a wise idea. But, when he bit Sherlock's Adam's apple, an indescribable sound escaped the detective's lips and he couldn't stop himself talking, consequences be damned.
"But I change all that, don't I? Brand new variable," he mused. "Open your mouth." Sherlock's jaw dropped open immediately and John smiled tightly, heart skipping in his chest. "Good." He straightened up and stuck two fingers in Sherlock's mouth, pressing down on his tongue. "Suck. Mmm, god, perfect. I love your mouth. The way it quirks up just after you've figured something out and right before you start explaining it—turns me into a bloody teenager, making more than one crime scene a bit uncomfortable." He angled his hips down again, grinding into Sherlock to illustrate his point, and receiving another delicious moan in return.
They rubbed against each other and, at first, John couldn't quite believe any of this was actually happening. It seemed too perfect, too closely in line with the snatches of dreams he remembered when he woke too early in the morning, rutting into his mattress. It just wasn't Sherlock to be this damn convenient. Then he noticed the slow tremor rumbling through Sherlock's ribcage and the wild look in his eyes and he knew there really wasn't anything at all convenient about any of this.
If he didn't carry this off right, if he hesitated now or underestimated him, Sherlock would eat him alive in the morning. He'd absolutely tear him to shreds, leaving him tiny and blinking on Harry's doorstep with an overnight bag and a schedule of times the flat would be empty for him to pick up his things.
Right then, Dr. Watson, better not cock it up.
He tightened his grip on Sherlock's hair and yanked his head back, biting the left side of his jaw where the skin was still pink and sensitive from the scrape of the razor. He traced Sherlock's clavicles with the two fingers wet from his mouth as he spoke between sharp nips at his jawline, "I want you to unfasten your trousers, Sherlock. Can you do that for me? Good. Now push down your pants, just over the hips will do; I want to see that prick. Perfect." He licked a long line from Sherlock's chin to his ear, pulling the lobe between his teeth, and raised himself back up on his knees. "Now lean back and undo my flies, you should be able to push my trousers far enough down to pull out my cock." Sherlock bit his lip, a wanton noise slipping from behind his teeth and, damn it, how was John supposed to maintain control when the man sounded like that? "Christ, Sherlock." He shuddered, sucking in air and closing his eyes before trying to speak again. "Take us both in hand." His voice was a little shaky now but still firm. "Yes, god, yes, like that. Now, stroke."
They both forgot to think about speaking for a while after that, rocking against each other and fucking into Sherlock's fist. At some point John spat into his palm and reached down to help, pulling at their foreskins and sliding his hand over the place where their glans pressed together. When he felt Sherlock start to flounder beneath him, free hand dancing uncertainly in the air over the chair's armrest, breath starting to pull in and out too deliberately, John twined his fingers back through Sherlock's hair and tugged sharply. He needed to anchor him.
"Stay with me, Sherlock," John whispered roughly in the detective's ear, maintaining a firm hold on his curls, "I need you here." He rolled his hips slowly and waited until Sherlock twisted his head around to find John's lips with his own before picking up the pace again. "God, you're beautiful like this," he murmured into the other man's mouth, "I want to see you come apart." John moved faster, balls pulling up tight as Sherlock panted with him. "Fuck, now! Come for me, now, Sherlock!"
Sherlock's eyes snapped open, wide and blind, and he came hard into their hands. The hot slide of his seed against John's cock curled with the coiling pressure in his balls and wrung the doctor's own orgasm from him with a gasping shudder.
For a long time, neither of them did anything but pant and wallow in post-orgasmic languor. Sherlock had gone completely limp, practically melting into the cushions, and John rested his forehead heavily on the detective's shoulder.
"God, that was amazing. You are extraordinary," John breathed finally when Sherlock started to fidget beneath him.
"I—yes. Well, you might have been right about needing to refuel every once and a while." A hesitant smile ghosted over his lips.
John chuckled. "See? You might be the genius but I have my moments." He pressed a kiss to the side of Sherlock's mouth. "Let's get you cleaned up. With any luck, I'll be able to salvage the mess I've made of your shave."
The doctor retrieved the flannel from the floor and used it to wipe up the come cooling on their hands and stomachs then grabbed the razor and balanced the water bowl on the chair's armrest and settled back into Sherlock's lap. "Turn," he instructed, tapping the right side of Sherlock's chin. The detective tilted his head to the side and John brought the edge of the blade to his cheek, neatly drawing it forward and clearing a swath of cheek.
When Sherlock's skin was as smooth as the proverbial baby's bottom, he wiggled John off his lap and stood up. "I think I will have a shower, actually," he glanced over the mess of shaving equipment on the floor and turned to head to the bathroom.
"And all of this?" John gestured at jumble on the floor and quirked his lips up with amusement, testing the waters. Sherlock glanced over his shoulder to arch a sardonic eyebrow at him as if to say, "Really, John?" and swayed off to take his shower.
Smiling, and satisfied that order had been restored to Baker Street, John set to clearing away the shaving things.