"I'm not gay."
John glared up at the broad-shouldered man, assuming his usual rigid military posture and drawing himself up as high as he could. An ex of Sherlock's, all smooth skinned and strong jawed, had showed up on their doorstep late that Thursday evening with a case.
A case John was loathe to take, as it meant his new boyfriend would be in close proximity to someone he used to shag on a regular basis- and for some reason, that bristled John, it rubbed him the wrong way.
"Have it your way, captain," the man said in a bored tone. "Your relationship with Sherlock would suggest otherwise."
"Our relationship is none of your business, thank you," John snarled, stepping between Victor and the door. "We'll take your case, but you need to leave. Now."
Behind him, he could hear Sherlock's lips part as if to speak. He shot him a glower over his shoulder, a look that could have curdled milk, and his jaw snapped shut. Damn right. The doctor watched the other man leave with his arms crossed over chest, radiating anger and jealousy. I'm not gay, and I won't have some beautiful upper-class sod being a condescending snob in my flat.
"John…"
He turned to look at Sherlock, his stormy eyes burning with some emotion the detective couldn't identify. "Posing as a couple."
"Well we are one, aren't we?"
"In public, at a bloody cocktail party, just to recover some old lay's father's will? No. No, Sherlock, I'm drawing the line. We're not helping him."
"Yes, John, we are."
When Sherlock set his mind to something, despite his best punishments, John knew he couldn't sway him. Compromise, however, was always on the table.
"We will do this on one condition."
Sherlock was intrigued. John watched him arch his brows, a faint hint of surprise on his perfect features. "Yes, John?"
"You're dressing like a woman."
The detective balked, jaw hanging open slightly. He looked dumbfounded, and John realized it'd been the first time since the Adler woman that he was lost for words. It suits you.
"John… are… are you ashamed of me?"
"Yes."
Sherlock lowered his head, bright eyes dimming at John's admission.
"You have the right curves, though. A slender waist, long legs, gorgeous hair, a pert arse… Your hands are too large, though, to pass as female." John looked up at him, noticing the disappointment. "I'm not ashamed of you, Sherlock, I'm ashamed of your gender. I'm not gay. You're a man. But I'm in love with you. I enjoy fucking you. So maybe… We'll start tonight. Grab your coat; we're going shopping."
—-
Two hours later they returned with a dress, a pair of shoes, hose, and copious amounts of makeup. John was eager to begin.
"Sherlock. Strip. Now."
He obeyed. He always obeyed John. Long, pale fingers unbuttoned his blazer, hanging it over the edge of their shared bed. They started on the smaller clasps of his nearly transparent white shirt, brushing his skin as he worked his way down. It, too, followed the jacket, leaving his bare chest exposed. John took a step closer and reached out, caressing his skin with a look of admiration. Even without breasts, you really are exquisite.
"Trousers."
The belt came off, the slacks down, revealing what John had suspected all along- no pants. The doctor licked his lips and ran his hand down Sherlock's half-hard cock. "Tuck." Sherlock did, hiding his length between his thighs. John caressed the smooth flesh of his pelvis with a low moan. "God, you're beautiful." He pressed a quick kiss to Sherlock's throat. "Put the dress on."
The dress in question, purchased that evening, was long and black, coming down to rest just above Sherlock's feet. He pulled it over his head and John helped adjust it, getting it to fall just right. The back sported a low V that stopped just before the swell of his arse; it was 'backless', meaning that acres of his smooth skin would be visible- and able to be touched. John could stroke him, could cup him, and no one would say a thing. The thought excited him. All mine.
From his dresser, John withdrew a pair of red lace knickers. "These next."
"Yes, John." Sherlock took them and pulled them over his legs, adjusting himself inside of them as soon as they crested his hips. He lifted the dress so that the doctor could get a good look.
"Oh my god," he breathed, reaching out to run a hand over the meat of Sherlock's arse. "Look at you… Alright. Shoes, Sherlock. The heels." The black thigh-high tights came next, followed by the pointed black pumps. Now towering over him, Sherlock look the picture of feminine beauty- if not for the shape of his face, and his unruly eyebrows… and his muscular chest.
John reached up to cup his jaw. "You're incredible, Sherlock, god… Alright. Sit on the bed for me."
True to form, Sherlock obeyed, crossing his ankles while John carried in a chair and brought the makeup.
"I'm going to tame your eyebrows, alright? It might hurt."
"John, I really don't think that's necessary. To be honest, I'm not exactly comfortable with-"
John's dark blue eyes narrowed, a glint of anger shining in their depths. "Aren't comfortable with what, Sherlock?" His voice had grown quiet, the pitch dangerously low.
"… Nothing, captain." It was a quick and easy way to appease him. "Thank you, love," John replied. "Now, this may hurt."
—-
As soon as Sherlock's brows were tweezed and shaped, John lifted his chin and captured his lips in a soft kiss. Sherlock wrapped an arm around his waist and pulled him closer, and for a few briefs moments they felt like a normal couple- all love, and tenderness, and basking in the feel of one another. There was no confused sexuality, no dominance, no shame- just peace. Just warmth.
John pulled back with a small smile. "Alright, Sherlock. It's time for the makeup."
Growing up with Harry, being around women his whole life, John knew a thing or two about applying makeup. He started with a fair foundation, evening out the color in Sherlock's face before starting on the eyes. The doctor went for a smoky effect, lining his lids with steady hands before applying and lightly smearing the shadow. Blacks and grays, which would make Sherlock's clear blue eyes stand out even brighter than usual. Mascara followed, for his long lashes, and when his eyes were done John couldn't help but reach down to draw fingers along his chest.
"I need to do your lips next, Sherlock," he whispered. "May I?"
The detective nodded and John cupped his jaw, the tube of dark red clutched in the fingers of his left hand. He pressed it against the dip of Sherlock's perfect arch and began to draw, staining his skin with the makeup, breath growing more shallow as the color took. Down, around his large, bracketed bottom lip, up over the pointed bow, connecting it at the edges…
"Oh, fuck."
Sherlock looked good. Better than good. Sherlock looked like a dream come true, pale and elegant and tall. The lipstick was the crowning touch, the detail that brought it all to completion, the one that drove him wild.
"John," he said, in his incredibly sensual baritone. Man, woman, it doesn't really matter, does it? It's him, him in anything, him writhing beneath you and begging for more. That's the trick.
The doctor stood back and offered Sherlock his hand, raising him to his full, heel-enhanced height. John looked up at him, fire building in his gaze. "On your knees, Sherlock. Now."
He dropped quickly, with practiced motion, and looked up at John expectantly. "Did you enjoy yourself, captain?" He purred. "Do you like painting me up like a little doll?" One hand came to rest on John's denims, cupping him gently. "Do you think I'm sexy, captain? Do you want me?"
"Yes, Sherlock," John replied. His answer encompassed all of the detective's questions.
"Give me an order."
"Open your mouth."
Sherlock did, parting his dark red lips, his heavily-painted eyes locked on John's. The doctor grabbed a fistful of his curls with his right hand and undid his trousers with the left, freeing his rather stiff prick. Slow, almost teasingly, he pressed into Sherlock's mouth. It was warm, and wet, and when he closed it John could see the red heart-shape those perfect lips were forming around his shaft.
"Mmn, Sherlock… Suck."
He held still as the dark-haired man began to move, languidly licking as he sucked a trail down to John's pelvis. Back and forth, just exploring, his lipstick leaving a red ring in its wake. John moaned, watching him intently as he fluttered his lashes and hollowed his cheeks.
"Yes, god, yes…"
When his pace started to slow, John took control, snapping his hips forward and fucking into Sherlock's mouth. The lipstick smeared as he drove harder, relishing the gasps and gags issuing from the man's throat. Tears shone in the corner of his eyes, but John knew they were from the exertion, not from fear or actual pain. Even if they had been, he wasn't sure he would be able to stop.
Sherlock moved his tongue whenever he got the chance, running it along the underside of John's length, flicking it over the head, coaxing him to come. Finally the doctor grabbed him by the back of the head and pulled him down, burying himself to the hilt in his throat as he pulsed and spilled. Sherlock swallowed every drop and John released him with a soft whine.
"Good girl," he breathed, wiping the sweat from his brow. Sherlock smiled up at him, though he could see the hurt on his features.
"You're going to steal the show tomorrow, love."
Sherlock didn't want the show, though, as much as he wanted to help Victor.
He wanted John to accept him.