It all started with a birthday card.
John plopped onto the sofa and flipped the brown package around, resting it on his knee. Judging by the chicken scratch handwriting and no return address, it had to be from Harry.
John pulled a deduction face, mimicking the one Sherlock always used whilst thinking, hoping it'd help him determine the contents of the package.
It was just a box. Anything could be inside it. He shook it. Fuck it, John thought only seconds later, it was supposed to be a surprise anyway.
He tore open the wrapping, and out fell a bottle-shaped object dressed (sloppily) in Christmas wrapping (it was July). He noticed a white piece of unevenly-folded computer paper on the ground near his feet, picked it up and opened it.
Dear bro,
The big 4 0, I can't believe it! Welcome to middle-age hood. It sucks donkey bollocks.
I really didn't know what to get you for your birthday. You are soo hard to shop for! So. I got you this. Clara's cousin Michael works at a sex shop and I got it 10% off. Family discount, baby! Oil up that weirdo flat-mate of yours that I know you like so, so much (you seriously never shut up about him) and take him for a ride (if you catch my drift). This here is just the motivation to bag him…unless you're already shagging him then it will just spice things up. It's really fun, trust me. Clara and I were crazy for it.
Oh, get a good grip after he's all slippery 'cause you may slip and fall off the bed. That totally didn't happen to me. LOL. ;)
Love ya I guess,
Harry
John read the letter twice, slowly, just to make sure what he read was actually there. (Was it really necessary to write "LOL" on a hand-written note? How old was Harry again?)
Hesitantly, John tore open the not-so-festive wrapping paper and read the label of the bottle, "Erotic Oil Massage: Aphrodisiac."
John tutted. This was so like Harry. She never did understand John's boundaries. She once gave him a pack of condoms and lube for his birthday back when he was just a lad in primary school, actually handing it to him in front of all his friends. She saw nothing strange about it. John was teased for weeks. When John confronted her she simply said with an irritating shrug, 'I just want you to make good decisions!'
Why the hell did she have such a wicked fascination with John's sex life? And, for god's sake, he was a forty year old man! He didn't need his older sister giving him incentive to fuck his flat-mate. He could make that decision on his own, thanks.
Besides, Sherlock definitely wasn't interested.
His face turned flush as he stared down the card, then shook his head and vowed that Sherlock never saw this.
"Harry riling you up again?" a bored voice questioned from a distance, snapping John out of his completely tame fantasies. John looked up and watched Sherlock stride toward the bookshelf in only three long steps.
John wasn't going to ask how he knew. After living together for nearly six months, he knew to skip that step of incredulity.
"Yeah, kind of."
"She gave you an embarrassing gift for your birthday," he said as a statement rather than a question. He hadn't even noticed the bottle of oil clutched in John's grip, but probably saw his ruddy cheeks (like a damn schoolboy).
"Well it's…yeah. I'm used to her mucking around." John fluttered a hand in the air, trying to affect that it wasn't important and hope that Sherlock wouldn't pry further. "It doesn't matter. It's Harry being Harry."
Sherlock didn't usually have an interest in John and Harry's trifling sibling follies—he had his own dangerous sibling rivalry to contend with-but today, to John's surprise and dismay, the man happened to have a keen interest.
Sherlock reached for a book on the tip-top shelf (the shelf John couldn't reach even on his toes) and removed a thick book. He turned sharply around, book in hand, and cocked his head to the side, presumably reading what was in John's hand.
"Erotic massage oil," he read monotonously, and then raised a condescending brow at John. John shivered. Holmesian judgment was the coldest kind.
Sherlock slowly walked toward John, a look of curiosity spreading across his features. John tightened the grip on the card in his hand predatorily, crinkling it.
"That's right. She thinks she's hilarious," John said, hoping to end the conversation there. He gulped as Sherlock was now looming over him.
"Let me see the card."
"Uh. Why?"
"Let me see it," he repeated firmly.
"No," he said far too quickly and more defensively than he should have, "I mean, it's nothing—why do you want to see it? Isn't this all just a bit too mundane for you anyway? Birthday cards, birthday gifts—"
"You're obviously hiding something."
"Don't be ridic—"
"Wearing your emotions on your sleeve all the time is going to make it easier not more difficult to read you, John. You need to practice the art of stoicism if you want to challenge me a bit."
In one swift motion, Sherlock had snatched the card from John's grip. Well, then. John's vow had been broken in less than three minutes. That had to be a record.
"Damnit, Sherlock," John said, as his mind chanted Oh god, oh god, oh god.
Sherlock darted his eyes across Harry's words rapid-fire, then flicked them to the bottle, then back to the card then to John.
"It's stupid, really stupid," John now spoke to his trousers, laughing nervously, not daring to look at Sherlock.
When Sherlock placed the card onto the coffee table, John massaged his temples, slightly horrified. This could go two ways: Sherlock could shrug it off, walk away saying nothing and they never talk about it again or he could be disgusted and tell John that his family is demented and that he hates him.
But, instead, Sherlock asked, "You talk about me a lot?"
John's choked on his spit.
"Wha—yes. I guess so. I spend a lot of time with you, if you haven't noticed. I probably rant to Harry without even realizing it."
"Oh," he said softly. He sat on the sofa next to John, folded himself like origami in a cross-legged position, rested the fat book (scientific textbook, now that John could see the title) on his lap and began flipping through the pages silently. And that was that.
John cleared his throat, feeling uncomfortable in the silence. He added carefully, "They aren't all rants, though. I tell her many good things about you."
"Oh? Like what?" Sherlock asked as he continued to turn the pages of the textbook mindlessly. If he was trying to sound patronizing or uninterested, he was doing a bad job.
"Let's see. Uh, I guess I say that I like how brilliant and interesting and unique you are. I mean, you're unlike anyone I've ever met before and I find myself intrigued by absolutely everything you do. Oh, and you never make me bored."
John stole a glance at Sherlock, and the man had stopped flipping the pages. He was beaming. Colour had been added to his pale skin tone and a small, creeping smile snuck onto his face. Compliments usually did that to him, since he received so very little and fueled himself on the few he did receive (mostly from John, seldom from Lestrade). John always reveled in the way his friend's eyes were devoid of the usual harshness and calculative flare. The softness in his features made him look almost vulnerable.
Sherlock had said to him once: That's the frailty of genius, John. It needs an audience.
It was John's job to be Sherlock's audience. To support him and cheer him on. Underneath his hard, mechanical exterior, the man was human and simply needed to be loved and appreciated.
John held his breath. This could end up being very awkward if it turned out to be a one-sided thing. But, hell, John was never one for turning down an adventure.
"And look at you. You're just...I hope you don't mind if I..."
He wanted to show his appreciation in a new way, and couldn't resist the glowing look on his flat-mate's face. He leaned in until their foreheads were almost touching, and noted that the softness if Sherlock's eyes had transformed into something more inquisitive. He leaned in and gave Sherlock a kiss on his lips, closing his eyes tightly, wishfully. He was waiting for the man to give any sign of life, a sign of consent.
He was about to remove himself when Sherlock didn't react, cursing himself for even trying, when Sherlock splayed his hand on the nape of John's neck and pushed him closer, deepening the kiss.
John felt his tension uncoil and he smiled into Sherlock's lips.
"You know I've been waiting for this to happen since the beginning…of everything," John murmured against Sherlock's skin. He kindly moved a stray strand of Sherlock's hair from his forehead back to its proper position and collapsed onto the sofa, a small rush of adrenaline pumping through his veins. "I thought you weren't interested. The whole 'married to your work' thing was kind of off-putting, you know. I figured you didn't…do this."
"I barely knew you then, John. Besides, you are technically part of my work."
"It's great to know I'm on the same level as a severed head."
Sherlock smirked and said suggestively, "You're not, yet. You need to work your way to the top."
As the weeks went by, the kisses became more frequent (and more sporadic. John was surprised on the stairwell, while he was making tea, in the back of a cab, and in a grimy alleyway. He also initiated some of his own, thanks, but Sherlock was difficult to top) and more personal (touching, touching, touching everywhere).
One day, John came home from surgery with a maddening crick in his neck. "I think I slept wonkily. My neck has been killing me all day."
"I can help," Sherlock said.
John snorted. "You can help? With what, your good looks?"
"I'll give you a massage."
"Yeah, okay. You won't even hand me the remote when it's stuck in the cushion of the sofa—when you're bloody lying on it!"
"Shut up and come over here before I change my mind," Sherlock snapped. John hesitated but did as he's told, as he always did. John positioned himself upright, back against the arm of the sofa, legs stretched outwards. Sherlock perched himself on the arm of the sofa with his long legs pressing into John's sides. His elegant fingers began kneading into John's shoulders.
After a minute of John letting out noises of adulation, simply basking in every movement of those adept fingers, he said, "Mmm. Wow, you're actually quite good at this." He grimaced as Sherlock worked on a pesky knot.
"Why are you surprised?"
"Your hands are so fantastically fragile-looking. I wouldn't have pinned them as these powerful— oh god that feels magnificent—masseuse hands."
"I'm just one great enigma," Sherlock said, leveled with John's ear, sounding satisfied by the compliment. One hand snaked down John's undershirt as the other resumed the massage.
John felt his heart skip a beat and he was sure Sherlock could feel it too. He looked up at Sherlock, throwing him a cheeky grin. "It's not too hard to figure out what you're thinking about right now, though."
"What am I thinking about?"
"Sex."
"How do you know you're not just projecting?"
"Because when I move my head into your crotch I can feel that you're hard."
"Capital, John. You have obviously learned from the best."
John looked up again at Sherlock and smirked. "Right, then. Let's take this massaging to your bed, and let's do it completely naked."
"Excellent idea."
John jumped off the sofa and took hold on Sherlock's wrist, leading him to Sherlock's bedroom (which was surprisingly clean today. Had Sherlock prepared for this?)
"Clothes off, on bed, now," John commanded, while unbuttoning his own shirt. "Actually, wait a second, I want to watch you. Let me just…" He stripped down to his boxers and jumped onto the bed. Sherlock was staring at him with a raised brow, still fully clothed. "Okay…and…go."
Sherlock gave a low chuckle, removed his purple blouse and let it drop carelessly to the floor. Next off were his black trousers, then socks, then pants. John felt himself already heating up at the sight of Sherlock's slender frame—lithe and phenomenal and for his eyes only.
He wanted to reach out and touch it, but contained himself, squirmed and waited.
Once on the bed, Sherlock crawled on all fours languorously like a cat, enshrouding John's smaller frame as they shared a heated kiss. John's hands immediately slid down the arch of Sherlock's back and held onto his waist.
Sherlock's hand was sliding underneath John's boxer's band, inching toward his cock, when John remembered something quite important and relevant to the situation. He grabbed his friend's wrist, stopping it from venturing any further.
"Wait," he rolled off the bed and rummaged through his desk-drawer.
Sherlock flopped flat onto the bed, irritated, and ran a distressed hand through his hair. "What is it?"
"Ah, here it is," he said and waved the bottle of oil with a flourish. John pulled down his boxers and sat at Sherlock's hip. "Lie flat on your back," John said as casually as if he was asking a patient to say "ah" while examining his or her throat. He rubbed his hands together to make them warm, and then poured the rose-scented oil into his palm.
Sherlock sighed but did as he was told. John admiringly rubbed circles into Sherlock's large, sinewy thighs, and then his calves. He investigated the area right around Sherlock's groin, rubbing back and forth, teasing Sherlock's twitching cock.
"Joohn," Sherlock whined desperately. "Touch me."
John poured more oil in his hands, reached over and softly, steadily, obediently fisted Sherlock's fully erect cock.
Sherlock closed his eyes and licked his lips. "Mmm, yes."
John used the complementary mix of Sherlock's pre-cum and oil to slick and examine Sherlock's body. He moved one hand across Sherlock's long torso, skating over protruding hip bones, crescent waist, lingering on a nipple then down the dip of his back, under the curve of his arse and legs that went on for miles while the other hand continued to jerk him off in delicate strokes.
"You're just gorgeous. Look at you. You're perfect."
Sherlock responded with strangled noises, watching John through hooded eyelids.
John rubbed Sherlock's nipple and the head of his cock in synchronized, circular motions, then fisted his cock and gave it playful tugs.
"Yes," Sherlock hissed with delight.
John took both hands and smoothed oil into Sherlock's inner thighs, then removed his hands and placed kisses in the same place, traveling with kisses dangerously near Sherlock's cock. He then spread Sherlock's thighs and buried his face into his legs, licking the circumference of Sherlock's opening then pushing his tongue in.
Sherlock actually whimpered. "John, oh my god, John."
John smiled at the sound. He loved hearing Sherlock come undone by his doings.
"No, I'm going to come." John's tongue darted in and out of Sherlock efficiently, but his work was cut short when Sherlock reached over, tugging John's hair, and pulled John in for a sloppy kiss.
"Now, allow me." Sherlock snatched the bottle and pinned John to the bed in one swift motion.
"Jesus. Been eating your Wheaties I see."
"Hush. On your stomach."
"I can't move. You're heavier than you look, princess."
Sherlock rolled his eyes, and went up on his knees as John turned and planted his face in the pillow. He inhaled sharply, basking in the wonderful Sherlockian smell of his dear friend and lover.
"Oh. Yes. Very nice," Sherlock said as he sat on John's firm arse, sliding and grinding his aching cock between John's arsecheeks.
John groaned with pleasure. "Oh, god." Sherlock shifted his weight and dragged his cock over John's back in a slow back and forth motion, slapped some oil on John's shoulders, and dug into the taut, tense muscle there with his hands for leverage.
"Christ fuck. That feels…" John trailed off, biting the soft fabric of the pillow.
Sherlock switched it up, undulating his hips and allowing his cock and pre cum to coat John's back.
Sherlock rubbed his thumbs into the sides of John's neck, leaning down to kiss the spots, then poured more oil into his hands and smoothed it slowly over the back of John's arms, intertwining their fingers for just a moment.
When he finished, he straddled John's thighs and massaged oil into John's buttocks, giving them playful smacks.
"Fuck. Sherlock," John hissed in pleasure.
He reached under and ghosted his fingers along the back of John's balls, and John shivered in response. Sherlock spread John's arsecheeks delicately, and teasingly traced John's opening with a slick finger.
"Face me, John."
John laughed shakily and managed to flip himself around. Sherlock poured more oil into his hands, smacked it across John's chest, then spread his long frame across and on top of John. John clawed into Sherlock's arse greedily as Sherlock snaked his hand underneath took both of them in his hand.
The slippery effect of sweat and oil allowed them to grind into each other with ease, their cocks rubbing together.
"Oh my god, yes," John growled as Sherlock stroked them both hard and fast, simultaneously thrusting himself onto John. At this point the only sound was skin against skin, and strained exhalations, but John quickly broke the silence with a grunt.
John was sensitive from all the teasing and didn't last long-the heat, the slickness, the closeness overwhelming him-and he came, seeing stars, spurting onto Sherlock's chest, hands and his own chest.
Sherlock shuddered against him moments later, rolled off John, then slumped into bliss.
John picked up Sherlock's chin, forcing them to meet each others' eyes. He smiled down at Sherlock, and Sherlock grinned back at him. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but thank God for Harry."