I've been feeling crappy about my writing lately and the lack of feedback my one-shots have been getting, but moping about it won't do anything, so I'm pushing myself to write this.
By the way, I need to say this now: while Sherlock will be pining and frustrated with John, John is NOT the bad guy here. He's just going through some shit. More details later :P Just wanted to make it clear that I don't think John's an ass or anything. I love the character.
Sherlock took a deep breath in an effort to quell his nerves, but inhaling deeply did nothing but allow the scent of John's hair to fill his nose. Sherlock swallowed. Bad idea. He shifted in the car seat, clasping his hands together.
John looked back at him briefly. "You okay?" he asked.
"Of course," Sherlock said sharply.
That made John look irritated, but he said nothing and turned his head back around to look out the window across the street. They were huddled together in a cab on a stakeout, parked right across the street from the building where drug smugglers were supposed to enter in approximately six minutes. If they showed up at this location, which Sherlock was sure they would, he and John were to catch them and alert Lestrade's team. There were two buildings they thought the smugglers would probably show up at, so Lestrade's teams was currently set up near the other building a few streets away. Sherlock usually stayed away from simple cases like this, but it was the first call he had gotten from Lestrade since John's return to Baker Street, and any excuse to spend time with John was not to be wasted. He also wanted to remind John of old times and how good they had it, and he thought a case would be perfect, no matter how ordinary.
Unfortunately, Sherlock had not anticipated that they would have to hide in the backseat of a car, nor did he foresee just how cold the night air would be in a vehicle without the heating on. They were pressed against each other for warmth, the left side of Sherlock's body against John's right. It wasn't that John's touch was unwelcome, it was the opposite. John's warm side against him was becoming too much to ignore for his traitorous heart.
Sherlock sighed, his breath visible in the cold air of the taxi. He wished these smugglers would just hurry up and be stupid so they could get caught.
"You cold?" John asked, eyes still on the building across the street.
"Mmm," Sherlock hummed, keeping his tone neutral. He could feel a little kick in his chest with each heartbeat. It had been awhile since he was this close to John. A couple years ago, he would have been able to ignore his urges, but not anymore. He couldn't ignore them, but he could try to suppress them. He had to. He was 83% sure John didn't want him, and Sherlock could not blame him.
Sherlock really was cold, though, even through his thick coat and scarf. A shiver ran through his body. Because they were touching, John felt it. He inched a little closer to Sherlock, muscular thigh now pressing against Sherlock's. "How are you so cold with that great bloody coat?" he asked amusedly.
"It's March; it's perfectly normal to be cold during a winter night."
"If you had some more meat on your bones, your body might be able to retain heat," John said, looking at him with a crooked smirk.
"I'm in no mood for your nagging," Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You act as if I never eat. It's true that I eat less often on a case because, as I've told you, digestion slows me down, but I eat a healthy amount of food on a regular day. Honestly, John, this goes along with your assumption that I never sleep, which is also false when there isn't a case."
"Okay, okay," John held his hands up, "I wasn't asking for a lecture on your daily habits."
"You started it," Sherlock sniffed.
John nudged Sherlock's knee. "Git."
Sherlock looked past John at the building. He couldn't allow John's proximity to be a distraction. The case may have been no more than a four, but it was still a case. He shivered again. "Will these idiots just hurry up?" he grumbled.
"How much longer do you think we'll wait?"
"I originally thought they would arrive four minutes from now, but I may have to adjust my estimation."
"They could show up where Lestrade is."
"And I say they will show up here," he said stubbornly.
"Lighten up," John said, not unkindly. "This is your first stakeout since, when?"
"You know I never liked this part, much. I've always preferred the chase."
"I could go for a chase," John sighed. "It would get our blood pumping, make us warm."
It's a testament to how much Sherlock's mind had betrayed him lately, since an image of them having sex in this cab invaded his brain. He squeezed his eyes shut. He couldn't think of that here, although it would certainly warm them up considerably. The heat from their bodies would fog up the windows, their movements would rock the vehicle.
Sherlock tensed when John's hand gripped his knee. "Sure you're okay?" John asked. "You've been acting a little weird tonight. Well," he snorted, "weirder than usual."
Sherlock felt heat creep up his throat from the image that appeared in his head and John's very warm, solid, and real hand on his body.
"I'm fine," he said, looking down at John with a gaze he hoped was firm. But John looked right back at him, the concern in his eyes morphing into something harder, more intense. The heat on Sherlock's neck was now traveling to his face.
But maybe there was a god after all, because the sight of the smugglers showing up exactly on time saved him from grabbing John and kissing him senseless. "John!"
John's head snapped to the side, seeing the criminals. "Let's go," he smiled dangerously.
Twenty minutes and four handcuffed criminals later, Sherlock was giddy with adrenaline.
Lestrade looked exasperated, but pleased. "Off you go, you two. Come in tomorrow for the paperwork, as usual."
Sherlock hadn't realized how much he craved a good chase again. The buffoons tried to get away, but didn't get farther than four blocks. Sherlock's limbs were burning with exertion and his chest felt tight from lack of oxygen, but he felt amazing.
Going by the look of elation of John's face, he enjoyed this, too.
"Let's walk home, John," he smiled and began to stride down the pavement.
"What happened to being cold?" John asked, walking close to him and face red from running.
"That was before." Sherlock's eyes twinkled. "It's a lovely night. I'll race you back to Baker Street if you're cold."
John laughed loudly, "Sherlock, we can't race all the way home!"
"Why? It isn't far."
"We'll wind up knocking someone over," John said.
"It's two in the morning. As you can see, barely anyone is outside." He wiggled his eyebrows. "You just know you can't beat me, old man." God, this felt so good. It felt so natural. This was the most comfortable he felt with John since before the Fall. He knew a case was a good idea.
"Oi!" John smacked his arm. "Watch it with the 'old man' crap. You're not much younger."
"Young enough to beat you."
John shook his head, a smile on his face. "All right, madman, you're on."
Sherlock stopped walking and looked at the street sign. "Seven blocks? Oh, this won't be difficult. On the count of three?"
"Sure," John said, a smug look on his face.
Why was he smug? "One-"
John immediately took off.
After a moment of standing there, mouth agape in shock, Sherlock snapped out of it and ran. "John! That's against the rules!"
John laughed over his shoulder.
Mycroft was right; they really were like children.
Sherlock's long legs caught up with John quickly. His side was beginning to hurt from running too much in a short amount of time. He needed a shortcut. Sherlock decided to dart into an alley.
"Oh, no you don't!" he heard John shout, and then he heard footsteps behind him, echoing in the alley. John tried to get past him, but the alleyway was too narrow and John crashed into Sherlock, sending them both to the ground.
They landed to the ground hard on their fronts, John's left leg tangling with his, and they lay there, side by side, panting.
Sherlock turned his face toward John, John met his gaze, and they burst into laughter.
"I can't believe we just did that," John giggled through his attempt to catch his breath.
"It would be better if this do not leave this alley," Sherlock said, a bright smile taking over his face.
"Absolutely." John reached out and stroked Sherlock's cheekbone with his thumb.
Sherlock looked at him in confusion, but then he saw blood on John's thumb.
"You got cut," John said unhelpfully. "Did a rock cut you or something?"
Now that he mentioned it, Sherlock's face did sting a little.
"Sit up," John told him.
Sherlock did, and John sat on his knees. He stroked Sherlock's cheekbone a second time, and suddenly Sherlock felt far too hot.
"Did you hurt anything else?" John asked, voice a little husky.
"I don't think so," Sherlock said blankly, ignoring the ache in his knees from taking such a hard tumble.
John's hand fully cupped his face, chest still heaving from running. "Yeah? You sure?"
"Yes," he said, gulping. His nerves were singing with adrenaline and he loved the feeling of John's hand on his face, so much so he grabbed John's wrist to keep him in place. He shouldn't have, but his body was being taken over by hormones beyond his control, and John always looked so divine after a chase, his hair mussed from the wind.
Sherlock realized his chest was heaving, too. Their breaths were loud in the night, heightened by the echoes the alley created. Something in John's eyes shifted, and his unblinking gaze became heated. Sherlock didn't know what to do, but he knew what he wanted to do. His impulses were becoming harder to ignore.
John kept his hand on Sherlock's face, staring right into Sherlock's eyes. John's eyes darted to his lips, his hand shifted to wrap lightly around the back of Sherlock's neck, and in the blink of an eye his mouth crashed against Sherlock's. Sherlock inhaled through his nose and he instinctively kissed back as well as he knew how, hands flying up to grip the lapels of John's jacket, grounding him back to earth. John's lips were dry and cold, but his tongue (oh god, his tongue!) was warm and wet, and soon they weren't exactly kissing as much as sucking and biting at each other's mouths, chemicals and years of tension rendering them desperate. It wasn't exactly how Sherlock thought kissing John would go, but he had no complaints at the moment.
Did John really want him? What changed his mind? Sherlock was incapable of thinking straight. How could he think straight with John kissing him?
Heart beating fast, Sherlock needed to get closer to John. Now that they were finally kissing, he wanted to wrap himself around John and never let go. They broke apart for air and Sherlock used this as an opportunity to lean his body against John, the angle a little awkward considering they were both half-sitting on the ground. But John, bless him, knew what to do. John always knew what to do.
Quick like a panther, his grabbed Sherlock's wrists and pinned him down on the ground, kissing him furiously. He lifted his head, they stared at each other with glassy eyes and parted lips, and then John moved to suck Sherlock's neck, right below his ear.
Sherlock gasped and held John's head. It hurt, but it felt so good, and his cock started tingling. Blood coursing hotly through his veins, he started to unknowingly grind his hips against John's, his primal instincts shutting off every thought in his brain.
John, thank the lord, ground his hips with Sherlock, his own hardening bulge coming to contact with Sherlock's erection. Yes, yes, John, finally. "John," he groaned.
John kissed him on the mouth, sucking his bottom lip, their cocks sliding past each other in a quick rhythm. Sherlock was fully hard now, either from inexperience or the fact that it was with John or both, and he grunted into the kiss, hands holding onto John's broad shoulders, pleasure consuming his groin. Sherlock wrapped his legs around John's waist and rocked his hips, the change in angle making them both groan.
John grabbed his hair and pulled. Sherlock did not expect that to make his cock jolt and a loud howl come from his throat.
"Hey!"
They broke apart and John scrambled to his feet, looking at the figure at the end of the alley.
"Something wrong in there?" the voice called.
John remained silent, save for his heavy breathing, and Sherlock saw when it happened. He saw when the lust left John's eyes and was replaced with realization, then horror, and then regret.
"Shit!" John hissed.
The man at the end of the alley must have gotten the idea, because his eyes widened and he ran away.
Great.
Sherlock stood up slowly, frustrated and aroused, but mainly concerned. He didn't like the look on John's face. He felt anxiety crawl up the back of his neck. He looked down at his erection, shame washing over him.
He pulled his coat around himself. "John?"
John wouldn't look at him. He pinched the bridge of his nose and rubbed his face. "Sherlock, let's go home."
"John…" He trailed off.
John cleared his throat, eyes downcast. "Like you said: it would be better if this didn't leave the alley, yeah?" John didn't even attempt to make his tone casual. He sounded cold.
An invisible hand squeezed Sherlock's heart. "But, John-"
"Home," John said sternly.
But Sherlock couldn't. He couldn't go home with John and pretend this never happened. "Actually, I think I'll take a walk," he said woodenly, looking down at his feet. "I, um, still feel the adrenaline rush."
"Okay," John said, almost relieved. "Erm, see you back at the flat." He practically fled from the alley.
Sherlock stood there in the darkness. No longer feeling any adrenaline, he shivered from the cold. What had gone wrong? If John didn't want him, why did he initiate? Sherlock slumped against the wall and slid down to the ground, knees drawn up to his chest. His throat felt tight. What the hell just happened?
More importantly, how the hell did John expect him to forget about that and move on? He couldn't. How could anyone forget about kissing their beloved. He loved John for years. Literally. He watched John marry a fucking psychopath because he thought it would make John happy. He would do anything to make John happy.
He looked up at the black sky.
But kissing him didn't make John happy. It made him closed-off. He didn't want to upset John. He didn't want John to leave again. Maybe he should act like he forgot about it. It might be better for their friendship. He felt sick in the stomach. That's what he would have to do, wasn't it? He had to indulge John and act like one of his biggest fantasies didn't come true. Sherlock's hand shook, so he folded his arms and sank into his coat.
He thought kissing John would be a dream, but now it felt like one of the worst things to ever happen to him.
I'm not sure how long this will be.
Please, if you have any feedback, I would love to hear it.
