"Yes, of course. I am quite alright to continue driving."
Sherlock steeled his grip on the wheel of the unfamiliar vehicle. The large black Land Rover was hardly inconspicuous against the harsh white snow of the Karpinsky Mountains, but anonymity was not was exactly required in this particular situation. They were awaited guests, after all.
John huffed slightly and turned in his seat, towards Sherlock, gazing out the driver's side window at the vast, endless whiteness that was just over the narrow ledge of the road they were driving on. Precariously driving on, at that. John allowed his eyes to flutter shut for a moment before feeling the slight twinge of guilt creep up behind him. He pulled his eyes open.
"Are you sure? Positive? Because I can take a turn. You've been at it for hours..."
Sherlock rolled his eyes, still looking ahead at the seemingly unchanging road.
"Yes, for God's sake. Now go to sleep."
Slightly annoyed yet satisfied by the answer, John turned over to his other side, his back to Sherlock, and drifted out of consciousness. Sherlock kept his shoulders stiff and straight until he heard the distinct shift in John's breathing which signaled that he had finally fallen asleep. It only took seven minutes.
The whiteness was nearly unending. Sherlock had heard that the mountains of Russia were staunchly bright, but he had underestimated their blandness. Each way he turned, it was all the same. To his right, a winding mountain side, covered in white powder as high as he could see. To his left, a seemingly bottomless valley, blanketed with still falling snow.
It had been a daunting task, all this driving. The flights weren't so bad. Sherlock could walk to the loo, stretch his legs, deduce information about his fellow passengers (all attendees of Mycroft, naturally, but still). There was something for his hungry mind to gnaw upon.
In the last twenty-four hours, the pair had been on a flight from London into the heart of Russia, a train up to the northern most stop of the contiguous portion of the country, followed by a boat ride across the canal to the snowy island mountain range. Once on the island, they were greeted with the keys to a black Land Rover, four tanks of fuel (which they were assured would be enough to get them to their destination, where they could refuel for the trip back), and then promptly abandoned.
That was nine hours ago.
Sherlock had insisted upon his driving, simply because of the fact that John was in no state to do so. John hadn't slept since they left London, and though Sherlock hadn't had more than a few hours himself in the last few days, he felt more than apt enough for at least the beginning portion of a thirty to forty hour cross-country car ride, depending on (of all things) the weather.
The dullness was beginning to ache on him, though. Sherlock felt the usual bustling of his mind nearing the edge of his tolerance. Without a fair distraction, he would soon have to wake John, just to end the numbing silence. Sherlock then took to counting the flicks of the windshield wipers as they flicked away the fast-falling snow.
By the time his count reached well into the triple digits, Sherlock began to feel his body betraying him. His eyes sagged and drooped heavily. His body was desperate for sleep, despite what his mind wanted. The lids of Sherlock's eyes felt weighted in a way he had never quite experienced before.
He watched the long stretch of winding road diligently, his body slowly betraying his mind. Sherlock blinked for a long moment. But it was not a blink.
The second his eyes ripped open, Sherlock became aware of an intense feeling of vertigo. The entire vehicle was tumbling, side-long, down down down. Sherlock's mind tallied the tumbles without hesitation. It raced, counting each blow to the rental vehicle, and watched helplessly as a now jolted John attempted to wake during the midst of all this confusion.
A faint, strangled cry escaped John's lips. His flatmate's name. It was all he could think about during the seemingly never-ending descent. What happened to Sherlock? Is Sherlock alright? Is Sherlock hurt? Is Sherlock alive?
The consulting detective answered him back with a shout. What, exactly, he said was lost in the crushing volume of the recurring crashes. The Land Rover barreled down the mountainside, sending each of the pair flying in their seats. They were both restrained by their safety belts, but it was hardly much help. John instinctively thought to cover his head and neck, but Sherlock had no such reaction. His brain was too busy with the sudden flurry of new information to take measures towards his own safety. His head crashed against the top of the vehicle several times, cracking the sunroof slightly.
Just as it began to dawn upon the pair that these may be the last moments of their lives, the Land Rover came to a crushing halt. The car was upside down, the now broken sun-roof face-first in snow. Sherlock and John were suspended in mid-air in their restraints as their ears buzzed. The sound of a crushing force of weight surrounded them, and all at once any light that had been peeking through the cracked windows was squashed. They were in utter darkness aside from the faint glow of the dim dashboard lights.
"S-Sherlock!" John cried out. "Are you ok?"
"Y-yes..."
There was a thud as Sherlock released himself from his seat belt and crashed head-long into the broken sky-light.
"Ugh!"
"Sherlock! What's happened? What was that noise?"
Sherlock had attempted to absorb most of the blow with his shoulder, recalling fully that he would be landing on glass shards. It was, quite literally, a shot in the dark, for he could not see precisely how the glass had arranged when they came to a halt. Luckily, most of it lodged into the thick of his jacket. Only a few stray shards latched superficially to the side of his face. He brushed most of them away with an easy swipe, noting the wetness of his cheek. Blood, then. It was a good thing there was nearly no light. Sherlock had noticed that John became quite uneasy at the sight of Sherlock bleeding. Odd, for an army doctor.
"I'm fine, John. We've had a wreck. Hold on one moment. There's broken glass. Just stay there and let me come get you down."
John wriggled in his seat anxiously, suddenly aware that he was hanging upside down. Sherlock laid his coat over the shards as best he could before making his way to John, feeling for the shorter man's body.
"Now, watch your head." Sherlock instructed, positioning his body directly under John.
Sherlock felt for the latch of the seat belt and counted to three before releasing it. John fell haphazardly into his lap and scrambled away, assessing his own wounds. He was bleeding a bit from his nose, which he recalled possibly hitting during the fall. His shoulder hurt immensely, but there was no permanent damage there. All in all, he was in one piece. Sherlock set to feeling around for the glove compartment, in hopes of a light source. He found, nestled in with the rental company's insurance papers, a small plastic lighter. He immediately flicked it once and the entire vehicle was drenched in a reddish-orange glow. John set his eyes to Sherlock, now studying him for any physical harm the detective may have neglected to mention.
"Oh, fuck, Sherlock! You're bleeding!"
John scrambled over to his best friend, taking his head in his hands without permission and turning it slowly, deciphering the wound. He noticed the small gashes on Sherlock's face and the presence of his coat on the ground, piecing together what had happened in those pitch dark moments. It was then he turned his attention to the gash just peeking out from those dark curls. It didn't seem incredibly deep, but it was worrisome, none-the-less.
"Are you dizzy?" John inquired, his voice full of concern.
Sherlock resisted the urge to point out the obvious: that they had just careened down a mountain, twisting and turning the entire way. Instead, he opted for the simple answer.
"Not overly so."
"God, you're bleeding pretty bad. You must have smashed up your head on the steering wheel or something..." John trailed off as he brushed a lock of hair out of the way, inspected the injury further. Sherlock cleared his throat.
"Ahem. I... don't believe it's serious..." He said slowly.
"R-right." John replied, immediately aware of just how close he had gotten. "Best to stay awake though. For the time being. Just in case you might have a concussion..." John scuttled back, retreating to the area under the back seat, near their disheveled luggage.
Sherlock took his finger from the lighter and the flame promptly vanished, plunging them both back into darkness.
"Hey! What'd you do that for?" John shouted, taken aback.
"There is only half a container of fuel left in this lighter. I cannot simply sit and hold it until help arrives."
John paused. In the past few minutes, the reality of their situation hadn't quite sunk in. It all hit him swiftly at once, as though in a powerful jab directly to his stomach.
"Help?" He barely managed to eek the word out.
"Obviously." Sherlock retorted. In the darkness, he felt the heat of his own sharpness and tried again. "We were expected. When we fail to arrive and don't answer our phones, we will be missed."
"God, Sherlock! We aren't expected for another full day or two! It'll be at least a day after that before they even start to come looking!"
"I expect so, yes."
"You expect so? How the hell do you 'expect' to survive down here for days? Given that they start looking for us as soon as you think and they are actually capable of finding us? We are in the middle of an arctic wasteland, buried God only knows how deep in snow!"
"Russian wasteland. And, well, considering the lack of light, reverberations of your heightened voice, and the general amount of insulation, I would say we are buried by at least ten feet of snow, give or take a foot or two. Also, if I were to include the still accumulating snowfall, which was continuing as we descended, then by the time they set to search for us, it may well be twenty or so feet."
"Right. Perfect. Wonderful. We're going to die!"
"Not necessarily."
"What the hell do you mean 'not necessarily'?"
"Do keep up John. I already told you we are expected. Even if our clients don't realize our absence for a few days, I'm sure Mycroft will notice that the GPS in my cell phone has stopped moving. And though I dislike the fact, he is mildly clever at times. He will know something has happened and send aid."
"Why didn't you say that in the first place?"
John groped in his pocket for his phone, which, much to his surprise was unbroken. He fiddled with the buttons anxiously, lighting up the interior with a much different blueish glow. He hadn't noticed, but Sherlock had scuttled over towards the back of the vehicle as well, away from his coat which was covering the glass shards and wet snow. John's excitement at his phone was short lived, however, as soon as he gave it a good look. He set it down between the two of them downtrodden, allowing the light to still beam up on their faces.
"No reception."
Sherlock resisted the urge to ask what else could be expected, and instead nodded solemnly.
"Mycroft will find us?" John asked, shoulders slumped, staring at his phone.
"Yes." Sherlock affirmed confidently.
"Ok... so. We just have to... keep alive, then. Until he gets here."
"Yes." Sherlock repeated, attempting to sound as sure of that statement as he wanted to be.
"H-how? We have no food... no water... nothing."
"There is a tin of biscuits in your bag. And a box of tea as well."
John's ears perked at the mention of the biscuits and tea.
"Biscuits? Tea? I didn't pack any biscuits or tea...?"
"I packed them for you. The last time we had to go out of the country for a case, you wouldn't stop nagging me for biscuits and tea. This time I thought I'd make preparations..."
John stared, flabbergasted. He thought better of his current facial expression and promptly shut his gaping mouth.
"I... thank you..." he mumbled, "but how is the tea going to help?"
"Simple," Sherlock said, gesturing to the remains of the sun roof. "The cup holders are stainless steel. We can use them as cups to melt the snow in. Sadly, there is no sugar, but I suspect that will be much more of a grievance to me than it would be to you."
John was staring again. It didn't matter how many times his flatmate made his deductions or came up with ingenious solutions. It amazed him each and every time.
"Fantastic..." John whispered.
"Hardly, but it will have to do." Sherlock responded seriously.
Sherlock sat in the corner of their confines, his knees pulled into his chest, as John dug out a little bit of the snow from the sun-roof, pushing the glass shards carefully into a pile. He also picked the shards from Sherlock's long coat and returned it to him. They had a nice little glass-free hole by the time John was done, and he used the cup holders and the lighter to make tea. There was not nearly enough heat to boil the snow, but it did melt sufficiently enough. Sherlock and John each drank a cup. While John was using the lighter to heat the tea-snow, Sherlock noticed it was refillable. While less than ideal, they did have containers of fuel in the boot, if need be. Sherlock made John put out the fire, however, stating that it used up their valuable oxygen. They agreed only to use the lighter to make tea, and John set his phone down for light otherwise. John organized the trunk of the car so that their bags were more or less reachable and the gas containers were no longer upside down, threatening to leak. Just as John started to settle into eating a biscuit, Sherlock began to shut his eyes.
"Sherlock!" John shouted, louder than he intended.
The detective's eyes flashed open, almost wildly.
"You can't sleep..." John said, softer this time. "You might have a concussion, remember...?" John nibbled his biscuit, the single one he would ration for himself tonight, and held out another to Sherlock, who turned his nose at it.
"I'm not hungry." He said plainly. "And I don't have a concussion. I am fine."
John tucked the biscuit back into the container and finished his own with a relishing bite.
"If you don't want to eat yet, fine. We need to conserve food anyway. But you absolutely cannot sleep for at least a day. Just to be sure."
"John! It's so boring! I cannot possibly keep my eyes open another moment..."
Sherlock's eye's began to close yet again and John felt panic setting in. He couldn't diagnose a concussion for sure under these conditions, but if Sherlock did have one, there was a chance that a little nap could turn into a permanent one.
"SHERLOCK!" John screamed, as loud as he could, "STAY AWAKE!"
Sherlock groaned and opened his eyes again.
"Or what? You'll shout at me until your voice gives out?"
"If I have to, yeah." John threw him an angry look.
Sherlock just wanted to sleep. His mind was unoccupied again, settled on the fact that they would be discovered in a few days, and all would return to normal.
"The battery on your phone is going to die faster if you keep it running like that."
John looked down, momentarily distracted.
"Eh. It's ok. It probably wouldn't have lasted through the night anyway. At least this way we can stay out of the dark for a little while longer."
His voice had resumed it's normal cadence. He sat back with a thud against the metal of the back seat door, feeling it's distinct chill to the touch. He realized then that Sherlock had been sitting that way for quite some time. John edged away from the chilly surface, nudging closer towards Sherlock, sitting with his back against their luggage. Sherlock began to speak, sluggishly.
"John... I just can't... stay awake... I'm so... utterly bored... my mind is... painfully still."
John chuckled a little, involuntarily. Only Sherlock could be trapped under a mountain of snow, in the wilderness, and somehow be bored. The slight grin was erased, however, when he looked to his friend and saw his eyes struggling to remain open.
"Sherlock! C'mon look at me! Talk to me!"
Sherlock struggled to form words.
"Talk about what?"
"Anything!"
"That's the same as saying nothing."
"How was your tea?" John asked frantically.
"My tea?"
"Yes!" John was pleading now, inches from Sherlock, trying to keep his face upright and the piercing eyes engaged with his own.
"Could have used sugar..." Sherlock muttered.
John felt Sherlock's neck beginning to go slack. Sherlock was saying something, mumbling incoherently, but John couldn't quite piece any of the sounds into words.
"Sugar..." John laughed, attempting to shake him now, growing desperate. "Oh please Sherlock! Please don't! Please don't leave me here all alone! Stay with me! Wake up!"
No remarks were coming from the clever man anymore. His words were slurs; just blurry sounds strung together with no coherency. John began to fear the worst; if he let Sherlock slip, if he let him pass out, there was a chance he would never wake up. John shook him by the shoulder's almost violently, pleading and yelling, to no avail. Finally, in a last ditch effort, John thrust his head forward and latched his lips onto Sherlock's.
For a long moment, there was silence.
And then, a stir. John pulled away slowly, a tear forming in the corner of his eye. Sherlock mumbled, and raised his hand to touch his own lips, where John's had just been.
"J-John?" Sherlock's eyed widened as he seemed to awaken. "What... happened?"
John nearly cried out in delight.
"You almost... you passed out for a second there. Gave me a fright." John said, releasing Sherlock's shoulders and running a hand through his own sandy blonde hair. He felt his cheeks flush at the moment of intensity that had just occurred.
Everything was slowly coming into focus around Sherlock. He remembered John offering him a biscuit, denying it, and then... something about tea? And after that... John was yelling at him... and just a second ago... John... kissed him? Sherlock shook his head as if it would unscramble the jumbled moments that just passed. He cleared his throat as though he were going to speak, but fell silent, unsure of what to say.
"A-are you ok now?" John asked, barely daring to look at his best friend.
Sherlock nodded in the affirmative.
"I... believe so..."
John nodded back and scooted over to where he had been sitting. Sherlock touched his lips again. They were warm and tasted faintly of... biscuits.
"John..." Sherlock began hesitantly.
John could tell by the tone in his voice that Sherlock had realized what passed in that furious flash of his panic. He gulped, unsure of how to explain it, or even how to begin to respond to the slurry of questions Sherlock would surely have.
"Y-yes Sherlock?" John answered carefully.
"Did... you...?" It wasn't like Sherlock to be at a loss for words. It was actually quite the uncommon occurrence.
John inhaled sharply and felt his shoulders raise.
"Yeah... I suppose... I did."
A hundred questions fired into Sherlock's mind all at once with staggering fury, but a single, simple one superseded them all.
"Why?"
John was taken aback by the staunchness of the question, although really, it was the one he should have expected most of all.
"I was afraid... that I'd lost you." John bit the inner part of his lower lip and looked down, wishing that his phone would just die already so Sherlock didn't have to see and analyze his face during this.
"So you... kissed me?"
"Yeah."
"I... don't understand."
"I thought... Jesus, Sherlock. I thought I was going to lose you. I thought that you would pass out, go into a concussed coma, and I wouldn't be able to wake you, and I'd have to sit here, alone in the dark, and watch helplessly as you died. And the worst part about it all, isn't that you would die before I had the chance to tell you everything; it's that it was you instead of me. It was you. You were hurt, instead of me. If I'd have driven, I would have hit my head, and I would be hurt. And not you."
John let out a long sigh.
"You... felt guilty?"
Sherlock was attempting to study John's face in the dimness, but the blonde was doing steady work at refraining from eye contact.
"Yes."
"Because you thought this was all somehow your fault?"
"You've got it."
"But... it's not your fault, John. I fell asleep at the wheel."
"I shouldn't have let you drive. I should have made you sleep."
"I wouldn't have."
"Of course you wouldn't have."
There was a long silence, each unsure of how precisely to continue. Sherlock mulled over the events and the conversation in his mind, which was finally busy with a task.
"You... said... that the worst part wasn't that I would die before you got the chance to tell me everything... what... what did you mean?" Sherlock inquired after a long bout of thought.
John sighed, arms crossed over his chest. He stared into the blackness of the cracked windshield in front of him, willing for someone to come, someone to wake them up at their flat in London, snug and warm, with a nice murder to solve. Not here, freezing to death and now stuck with the task of admitting years worth of feelings, which John himself still hadn't sorted completely. And not to mention the lack of space should things turn south, as he anticipated they would.
"Well?" Sherlock asked, ceaselessly starting at the side of John's head.
"Well what? You're the bloody brilliant detective. Deduce." John said with a hint of anger and awkwardness.
Sherlock was stunned into silence. This discussion was making John angry, clearly. But it wasn't something he could shake. That feeling, that fleeting moment when John's lips were on his own, so warm and so soft. Sherlock had never felt anything remotely of the sort before.
"I... honestly don't know, John..."
John turned, enraged.
"Now you're teasing me? Now? Of all times to make fun, Sherlock! Surely, surely even you realize! Someone kisses you... hmm... I don't suppose that means! Oh! Perhaps they fancy you! Perhaps they're in love with you! Well, who would have bloody thought that?"
Sherlock was now the one who's mouth gaped open.
"...love...?" It was the only word he could force from his lips. Was that what this feeling was?
"Yes, you git."
Sherlock looked down and away from John.
"You... love me?"
"Right fool I am for it, too. Loving a man who doesn't love at all."
"H-how...?"
"It's pretty easy, actually. You meet someone; you get to know each other; you fall in love. Simple. Child's play."
"I mean... how can you love me? Me?"
"You... brought me back. I was a shell when I came home from Afghanistan. When I was hurt and taken out of the field, something in me died. I was living a half-life, before you. And then you waltzed in, with your annoying arrogance, your blasted experiments, your I'm-always-right God complex, your brilliance, your deductions and your adventure and your excitement! It was all so... exhilarating. And there you were, standing in the middle of it, the eye of the storm, surrounded by chaos yet so perfectly calm. Damn it all, I really did try, but I couldn't help it. I fell for you."
Sherlock fell silent again. John worked up the nerve to look at him, just to see what possibly the expression on that beautiful pale face could be. It was an expression of curiosity, most of all, and John supposed there could have been worse emotions to be running across his face at the moment.
"God, please say something." John begged.
"How... does it feel?" Sherlock cocked his head to the side unwittingly.
"How does what feel?"
"Being in love."
John inhaled deeply through his nose. Bad idea. It was still crusted with blood. It was a bit unpleasant, but he could still breathe. He shifted and inhaled through his mouth instead.
"It's... I should think it's a bit like going mad. It's... when you're in love with someone... well... when you're around that person, sometimes you feel warm... dizzy... lightheaded, even, but in a happy way. You would do anything to protect that person from harm. Anything at all, even if it meant doing something you didn't want to, or hurting yourself. And when they get hurt... you just want to make the pain go away. And sometimes you want to hurt the people who hurt them. Just being around them makes you happy. It makes you smile. And when they do annoying things, you forgive them. Even their flaws make you laugh. You think of them all the time, and just want to be with them every single moment. They make you a better person, a happier person. And you can't imagine life without them in it..."
Sherlock nodded pensively as John explained this, appearing to be keeping a mental tally in his head.
"Does that... make any sense?"
Sherlock looked at John, and finally the two locked glances in an intense stare. John searched Sherlock's eyes for any sign of acknowledgement, any ray of understanding. Sherlock stared back intently.
"In that case..." Sherlock began. "I think I may be in love with you as well."
John nearly choked.
"W-what did you just say?"
"Well, from what you've described, I appear to regularly display several of the symptoms of love."
"It's not... like that. It isn't an illness where you can just wrack up the symptoms and diagnose it. It's not a disease. It's not a science. It's feeling."
"Feeling..." Sherlock repeated quietly.
"Yes. Feelings... in your gut, you just... know. Something pushes you towards that other person. Something you cannot place."
"So... if I... didn't know why, but I... had the intense desire to kiss you again... would that... count?"
"Theoretically, I suppose it would."
"What if it isn't theoretic?"
"A-are you saying...?"
"I've told you before, John, how I usually divorce myself from my emotions with what most people consider a surprising ease. But there are certain emotions... ones pertaining most specifically, to you, that I cannot ignore. Nor... would I want to."
John was engrossed in Sherlock's stare, unable even to blink. His mouth hung open in a state of utter shock and disbelief. In not more than a split second, Sherlock dove upon him, clenching John's tender cheeks in his soft palms, mashing their lips together in a fervent kiss. It was sweet, simple, their lips unparted but wholly together. Sherlock broke the embrace after a few moments.
"So... not theoretic." John chuckled.
"Not quite." Sherlock smirked.
"You're... sure...?" John hesitated, wanting so much to believe that any of this could even be real.
"Yes. Absolutely. Completely. I love you. There's no other explanation."
Sherlock looked at John as if it were the simplest thing in the world. He loved John. John loved him. Everything now seemed to make sense. But John could still scarcely believe the words coming from his beloveds' mouth.
"What... does that mean?"
"I think you explained it all perfectly adequately."
"No, I mean... for us...?"
"Us?"
"Well, yeah, Sherlock. We live together. We work together. We... well do everything together. Are we... going to have a relationship... or...?"
"Is that what you want?"
"I... don't... yes. Yes of course it is. It's all I've wanted for a long time... but... do you? Everyone at the Yard will talk..."
"Everyone at the Yard does little else."
"That still doesn't answer my question."
"We already have a relationship."
"Not a romantic one..."
"Oh...oh...well... I've... never... but if it's what you want..."
"I just want you. I want to be with you. I want to put my arms around you, to hold you, to kiss you. I want to be yours, and I want you to be mine. I want you in every way, every day, for the rest of our lives."
"That sounds perfect."
"Good." John leaned his head forward to gently touch Sherlock's.
"Good." Sherlock smiled, and leaned in for another kiss.
John released his inhibitions and kissed Sherlock with all of the intensity and need he had accumulated over the years. Sherlock responded willingly, opening his mouth and allowing John to explore. He could taste the sweetness on John's tongue as it teased and prodded at his own. John leaned forward, sending Sherlock steadily backwards until he was lying down with his feet flat on the ground and his knees raised. John had settled on top of him, his knees straddling the taller man's waist, as he leaned down and kissed him passionately.
It wasn't long before John turned his attention to Sherlock's soft, supple neck. He unbuttoned the top button of Sherlock's favorite purple shirt, revealing his collarbone. John sucked greedily, hungry for the taste of Sherlock's skin. Sherlock wrapped his arms around the doctor, holding him closely. A small moan grew involuntarily at the back of Sherlock's throat.
"O-oh John..."
John couldn't help but stiffen at the sound of Sherlock's voice. It was like hearing raw emotion. John inhaled as he felt his trousers beginning to grow uncomfortably tight. Sherlock felt the heat of John's body against him, and was certainly not oblivious to how aroused John was becoming. Sherlock lightly thrust his hips upwards, showing off the fact that John was not alone in his state. It took John by surprise, and for a moment, he hovered over Sherlock.
"I want to... oh John I want to, please..."
"A-are you sure you're ready for something like this?"
"Yes... God yes. John, I want you. Don't you see? I want you."
With that, Sherlock set his hands to work removing John's jumper and casting it aside. John followed in suit with his fingers at Sherlock's shirt buttons. Once both were bare-chested, Sherlock pulled John down on top of him with a strong tug. His slim frame had more muscle than it appeared. John fell directly on top of him, their hot skin firm against each other.
"Oh God Sherlock..."
John gasped into Sherlock's open mouth as he tugged at the detective's trousers. They came off surprisingly easily, considering how snug they had fit. Sherlock's slender fingers had worked their way into John's belt and had already removed the doctor's outerwear, and was now slowly drawing down his pants. John moved in time, casting both pairs of pants aside and leaving the pair utterly bare against one another.
John settled on top of Sherlock with a satisfied "Mmm", grinding his hips rhythmically and rubbing their erections together. Sherlock mimicked John's motions, timing his slight bucks and thrusts with John's rhythm. John lapped at Sherlock's neck wantonly, leaving garish purple bruises all over the delicate flesh. Sherlock buried one hand in John's soft hair and the other clenched his back side.
"John... I want more..."
John didn't miss a beat. He spoke between slight, breathy pants.
"Anything... anything you want. Just tell me. Anything."
"I want you inside me."
John nodded and kissed Sherlock on the mouth again.
"Are you sure?" John asked, barely able to contain his excitement.
"Yes. Oh Christ yes!"
There was another long, impassioned kiss, before John shimmied down Sherlock's long, lean body, sprinkling delicate kisses along his lover's stomach as he went. There was a bit of a challenge in the tight space, but John more or less smoothly maneuvered himself between Sherlock's thighs with fairly little difficulty. He held the detective's end in his hands, and raised it up on a slight angle to meet with his mouth.
Softly, John played with his tongue around Sherlock's entrance, first lightly kissing the spot, then entering ever so slightly with his tongue, wriggling around in the tight heat. Sherlock's entire body quivered at the sensation. He moaned pleasurably with each twist of John's tongue, and before long he was crying out for more.
John obliged setting Sherlock down flat again and coating one of his fingers liberally in saliva, slowly inserting it to the first knuckle. Sherlock gasped at first at the intrusion, but found that as he relaxed, his body not only welcomed, but begged for it. Sherlock pleaded for more and more until John had two full fingers scissoring in and out of him. On one particular pass, John felt as he hit a bundle of nerves that sent a shock wave through Sherlock's entire body. He made a distinct mental note of the location.
"John... please..." Sherlock begged, "I need you. Now."
The army doctor settled in position with Sherlock's long legs draped over his shoulders. An ooze of pre-cum had accumulated on him by now, and John used it to smear a thin coat over his own erection. He was aching by now, his body pleading with him to please, please find some satisfaction, but the last thing he ever wanted to do was hurt Sherlock. Though the thought was less than ideal, John gathered up all the moisture in his mouth and spit into his hand before applying it to his now-slick cock. Sherlock stared at him with a look of pure, unfiltered lust.
"That... was so..."
He grabbed John by the neck and forced him into another furious kiss. John raised back up, aligning himself with Sherlock's entrance, his head just caressing the puckered hole.
"I'll go slowly." John promised. Sherlock nodded, biting his lower lip.
John pushed in as he said he would, so so slowly. Just as the head was breaching him, Sherlock felt the need to grab at something, this arms landing on John's shoulders.
"You ok?" John asked, his voice full of concern and love.
"Yes. God yes. Keep going."
John continued to push in, astounded by the tightness and warmth. Sherlock had correctly estimated the general amount of pain that first push would cause, but as John began slowly rocking in and out, all pain gave way to immense, indescribable pleasure. Sherlock ran his fingertips down John's back, clawing as he went.
"Faster!"
John obeyed, gaining momentum with each thrust, now aiming directly for Sherlock's prostate with each pass. Sherlock's arms began to shake, and John could feel that familiar coil of heat forming in his stomach. John took Sherlock's erection in hand, wiping away the beads of pre-cum with his fingers and licking them clean, groaning with delight. He took Sherlock's cock, stroking it in time with this now frantic thrusts. Sherlock arched his back in an almost primal scream.
"I'm coming, John! Oh fuck! I'm coming!"
Ribbons of white hot cum spurted out in long squirts. Sherlock writhed beneath him, riding the wave of his orgasm to it's fullest. The sight was too much for John to bear, and just moments later he came, hot and fast, inside Sherlock. He nearly collapsed down on top of the taller man, but not before licking up every single drop Sherlock had produced.
John settled beside Sherlock, who curled his body up around the doctor's. Sherlock nuzzled his head on John's shoulder, just where the scar was. He kissed it tenderly, lingering over it for a moment before resting his head on John's chest and listening as his heart rate declined back to normal.
"You're perfect, John Watson."
John wrapped his arm around Sherlock's slim body, pulling him in closer. Their legs stitched themselves together effortlessly. John reached for Sherlock's grasp with his free hand and intertwined their fingers, resting both of their hands on his chest.
"I love you, Sherlock."
"I love you, John."
Exhaustion, both mental and physical, had overtaken the both of them. Sherlock reached over and grabbed his now-glass-free coat and covered the two of them and before John could think to object to it, they fell fast asleep in each other's arms.
They awoke some odd hours later, how many they could not be sure, to the sound of crunching metal. Suddenly, they found the entire vehicle being hoisted into the air by some unseen contraption. Instinctively, Sherlock and John clung to each other during the ordeal, and all too late they both realized what precisely was happening.
Mycroft Holmes bent over and peered into the battered vehicle to see his little brother and his flatmate in a most compromising position. Stark naked, nestled only in each other and Sherlock's coat, with wild hair and a distinct flush that said quite clearly exactly how they had passed the night.
Sherlock reached for his coat and secured it around John.
"Ahem." Sherlock cleared his throat loudly. "A moment, if you please, Mycroft."
With that, the elder Holmes stood back up straightly, dismissing the crew that had operated the crane that dug out their vehicle. Sherlock and John fumbled to rearrange their clothes, smirking at each other through the entire process. Before moving to open the door and step out of the car, Sherlock took John by the face and kissed him softly. Then Sherlock proceeded towards the door, turning once he exited to offer his hand to help John. John took it and smiled. He smiled even more when Sherlock didn't let it go.
"Well, I would ask how you managed for the evening... but it appears..."
"Don't be such a prude, Mycroft." Sherlock nearly chortled with that signature sarcastic air. "How did you find us so quickly?"
"Ah, well. I could have left you down there a bit longer, if you wanted..." Sherlock shot Mycroft an unamused glance. "Your phone. The GPS stopped for more than eight hours and I was immediately suspicious. It's not like you to stop for something as boring as sleep when there's a case to be had. But apparently you stopped for something... a bit more entertaining?"
"A fucking fantastic shag, if you must know." Sherlock replied matter-of-factly.
John nearly pissed himself holding back the laugh. Instead he just cuddled up to Sherlock's side and smirked, silently admiring the hint of deep purple bruises that peeked out from under Sherlock's scarf.
"Indeed." Mycroft replied curtly.
"Well, if you are done wasting our time, do you have another mode of transportation to get us to the top of this mountain?"
Mycroft looked John up and down. Something in his expression changed slightly, almost resembling warmth. It fluttered away as soon as he opened his mouth to respond to Sherlock.
"A helicopter, actually. Much faster. Though I believe you'll find it to be less... accommodating for your unorthodox purposes."
John couldn't help himself.
"I suppose we'll just have to get creative then." He said with a smile. "I'll go get our bags out of that mess." He tip-toed up and kissed Sherlock on the cheek before releasing his hand and heading towards the almost forgotten vehicle.
Mycroft looked at him as he left, and then turned his gaze to Sherlock.
"Finally realized, then, did you?"
Sherlock cocked his head to the side and raised his eyebrow.
"Oh, come off it, Sherlock. I'm... pleased for you. Just don't let this little infatuation become too much of a distraction. You are needed."
"I know." Sherlock replied, turning to look towards John.
"I meant you are needed elsewhere. By more important people."
"There is no one more important. It's a pity that you cannot see that. But then again, you've always been a fool, haven't you, brother?" Sherlock turned to smile at Mycroft, who had a scowl firmly fixed on his face.
"Just remember what's truly important little brother."
Sherlock turned and began to walk towards John.
"I don't believe I could ever forget."