Disclaimer: We own no part of the BBC Sherlock world and make no profit from this work of fiction.
A/N: I co-wrote this with another lovely author, KittieHill. This is actually our second work together, but it's got a bit more plot than our first one, so I decided to start with this one. Over the next while, I'll be transferring our stories from AO3 to here. I hope you enjoy them!
They trudge back into their flat, shivering from the cold.
"I can't feel my ears," Sherlock complains, placing his now gloveless cold hands over his even colder ears for some semblance of warmth.
"I can't feel my face," John counters, words coming out nearly slurred through his numb lips.
They take off their snow-covered coats and gear. The snow storm had come in suddenly, unexpected as they were working on their most recent (outdoor) case. They were close to being done, but they still found themselves out in the elements for an hour more before Sherlock would allow them to leave.
"Get out of those clothes and into some warm, dry ones," John orders Sherlock, moving towards his own room to do the same while ignoring the indignant grunt he receives in reply.
When John enters his room, he discovers that the power has gone out with the storm when he tries to turn on his light. That's alright, it's only one in the afternoon, so he figures it'll be back on before night falls. Surely.
"Power's out," John informs Sherlock when he goes back downstairs in his dry clothes. He's still cold, but it's a start.
"Mmm," Sherlock hums absentmindedly from the sofa where he's looking at his laptop.
John rolls his eyes as he walks over to the fireplace, appeased to notice that Sherlock at least changed into dry clothes as he asked. He notes that they don't have much fire wood, but it should last for a few hours until the power comes back on.
Once he's gotten the fire going, he stands while rubbing his hands together to get the dirt and traces of wood off of them. He turns to Sherlock, "Come sit by the fire," he says before moving their chairs closer to the hearth.
When he rights himself again, he notices that Sherlock hasn't moved. With a heavy sigh, he walks over to the younger man and lifts his computer from his lap unceremoniously.
"John!" Sherlock scolds with a defiant crease to his brow.
John doesn't even say anything, merely walks the computer to Sherlock's chair before turning to face him with a pointed look.
Sherlock huffs as he stands, glaring at John as he walks to him and grabs the laptop from his hands roughly. He sits down in his chair petulantly.
"I am not a child," he tells John with a glare, looking and sounding remarkably like one at the moment.
The corner of John's mouth lifts, "Of course you're not," he sarcastically placates.
Sherlock's glare intensifies as John walks over to the desk and grabs his Nook before sitting in his own chair.
The following hours pass silently as Sherlock types away on both computer and phone, and John reads and stokes the fire as necessary.
When the sun begins to fade (what little was making it through the storm that's still raging), John stands to light some candles, a bit unnerved now that the power isn't back on. He turns the switch on the desk lamp as a guide for them to know when it returns.
"Will you grab my chargers while you're up?" Sherlock asks, uncharacteristically polite.
"The power is still out," John tells him, not surprised that he hasn't noticed.
"So?" He asks, clearly not thinking.
"Figure it out, genius," John needles him after lighting the candles and then moving back to the fire.
"Damn!" He curses after nearly a full minute of silence.
"There it is," John smiles.
"I didn't plan...didn't think...both my phone and laptop are practically dead."
"Unsurprising," he says, standing from the fireplace yet again to reclaim his chair, "We're going to need to check Mrs. Hudson's flat for more wood soon."
Sherlock ignores the statement, instead demanding: "Let me use your laptop."
"No; it wasn't fully charged when I turned it off and you know my battery holds a charge for shit."
Sherlock growls because he knows John is right, "Your phone, then."
"No. Also not fully charged, but I'd like to be able to have something to call Emergency Services with if necessary."
"What are you planning on calling the Emergency Services for?" Sherlock scoffs.
"I'm about to be trapped in an electricity-free flat with a bored Sherlock Holmes; have you met you?"
He huffs indignantly, "I'm not that bad."
"Go check Mrs. Hudson's flat for wood," John orders, but Sherlock turns away the key that John produces from his pocket. Mrs. Hudson has gone to visit her sister and she always leaves him (never Sherlock) with a key in case of emergency.
"I'll pick the lock; at least that should entertain me."
"By what?" John laughs, "Candle light?"
"Precisely," he nods seriously before standing.
John's face takes on a resigned look that clearly states that he should have seen that coming.
Sherlock disappears downstairs and John returns to reading his Nook - finally activating the backlight. John looks up again about ten minutes later when Sherlock bursts back into the flat with empty hands and a scowling face.
"Don't tell me she has no firewood," John beseeches, true worry seeping in for the first time.
"She has no firewood," Sherlock parrot's back grumpily, flopping back into his chair gracelessly, "So I'm soon to be bored and cold."
"Oh, Jesus," John moans and covers his face with his left hand.
"Entertain me," Sherlock demands.
John stares at him again, reflecting on how much quicker his petulance set in than he had originally calculated, "I'm reading," he tells him, motioning with his Nook.
"It's electronic - its battery will die."
"Not for a few weeks yet."
Sherlock looks extremely confused, "What?"
John smirks, "It's designed for battery efficiency; since it's just a reader with e-ink and not a smart device, a charge lasts for weeks."
Sherlock's confusion has given way to intrigue, "Is that why you prefer it?"
"I wouldn't say I prefer it - there's still no comparison for a new book smell and flipping the pages - but sometimes I want to read a thousand-page Stephen King novel without carrying all 1,000 pages around."
Sherlock's eyes flit around and his hands rest in a thinking pose against his lips for only a minute before he breathes in loudly suddenly, "Okay, bored again. Entertain me," he demands once more.
John instead ignores Sherlock as the man taps and huffs in boredom. The book isn't that interesting but it's a far better choice than watching Sherlock get himself into a frenzy.
"I have scotch," Sherlock says without warning, "that'll keep us warm."
"Might feel it but it's actually the opposite," John explains, looking above his tablet, "You should know that as a chemist."
"But I'm bored, John. Dangerously bored," Sherlock sighs and then stands up, "I'm going to find things to burn."
"Nope," John insists, sighing and getting up, "You'd have burnt my stuff."
"Well, yes…your things are considerably cheaper than my own," Sherlock says as though John is an idiot, "We're going to freeze due to your stubbornness, I hope you realize."
John rubs at his face before striding into Sherlock's bedroom, picking up the bedding from the king-sized bed and bringing it back to the living room. Upon dumping it at Sherlock's feet, John does the same with his own bedroom and the airing cupboard, finding every padded or warm item possible to build a makeshift den in the living room. Once returned to Sherlock's side, John begins organising the fabrics until they have created an almost full-sized fort in the living room which can be climbed inside and closed up around them to conserve heat.
"I should have brought food," John mumbles, "Saves us having to go outside when it starts getting colder."
"I'll order," Sherlock insists and then smiles, "and I'll ask them to bring burnable materials. I'll call Chin from the Golden Dragon; he still owes me."
John nods and then climbs out of their little nest to get the scotch and two tumblers. Sherlock has already contacted the takeaway and promised a large tip if they bring food and flammable materials within the hour.
"Alright," John says, placing the scotch and tumblers on the floor between them, back in their den.
"Alright what?" Sherlock asks, looking apprehensively at the glassware that separates them.
"You're the one who wanted to drink scotch to warm up," John reminds him.
Sherlock shifts slightly, uneasy, "Well, yes, but…"
"But what?" John asks, slightly exasperated. He was only trying to do what Sherlock had suggested; keep him occupied , for fuck's sake.
"We just...drink it?" Sherlock asks. He's never been a big drinker - obviously drugs were his go-to reality suspender of choice - but he has done it, typically outside of his living space, though.
John laughs, "Well, we can play a drinking game if you'd like to make it more entertaining."
Sherlock raises an eyebrow in consideration, "What type of drinking game?"
John thinks, leaning back against his chair that's helping support the roof of their hideout, "There's lots of types, some better than others."
"Like?" Sherlock presses in annoyance, leaning back against his own chair petulantly.
"Truth or dare? Kings? Never have I ever? Spin the bottle?" He ends with what can only be classified as a good-natured leer. The scandalized look on Sherlock's face makes the joke completely worth it, and John can't help the laugh that escapes.
"John!" Sherlock scolds with a pout. He hates it when John uses his few shortcomings for his own entertainment purposes.
"I'm sorry," he says through a few tears before focusing on his breathing to calm down again, "Any of those sound interesting?" he asks kindly once the laughter has subsided.
"What is 'Kings' and 'Never have I ever'?"
"'Kings' is a card game, extremely simple: each card denomination has a specific rule or task you and/or I would have to do. 'Never have I ever' has us taking turns saying things that we have never done before; if one of us has done it, though, the person who's done it takes a drink."
"That one," Sherlock insists with a snooty roll of his eyes, "if we must. I can at least find some embarrassing anecdotes for the next time you drag me out for one of your football and perving events with Lestrade."
"Okay," John smiles, 'This is going to be fun' he thinks as he fills their glasses and begins the game, "I'll start simple. Never have I ever stored a severed arm in the bread bin."
Sherlock narrows his eyes, suddenly aware of how dangerous this game could be. Lifting his glass cautiously he takes a drink and then huffs, "Honestly, it's not like it's an everyday occurrence."
John shrugs and then gestures to Sherlock, "Your turn. What do you think I've done that you haven't?"
Considering for a short moment, Sherlock smirks, "Never have I ever been to war."
"That's too easy!" John grumbles, taking a long drink, "Never have I ever had dinner with a member of the Royal family."
"Oh for -" Sherlock complains and takes a drink, "It was a simple evening with Princess Anne. She's a fascinating woman, you know."
"Sherlock fancies Princess Anne," John began singing, high pitched and giddy, "Did you love her? Did you snog her?"
"What?" Sherlock asks, his eyebrows meeting in the middle as he looks horrified, "John. Not only is she of Royal birth, she is also considerably older than me. And female."
"Oh," John stops speaking, blinking rapidly and then downing his scotch, "So…you're gay then?"
Sherlock lets his face fall back into his usual mask of neutrality as he realises he let too much slip, and he ignores the question before topping up John's glass, "Never have I ever gone fishing."
John drinks deep, feeling the heat of the alcohol warming him from the inside. This is a bad idea. They shouldn't be drinking whilst the temperature gets lower, but he has started something now, something which has obviously caught Sherlock's attention.
The rounds continue, each man drinking deep and filling up their glasses until the bottle is half empty and the men become rather tipsy and loose lipped. They stop for a break to eat and then burn the carriers and most of the extra cardboard which the delivery driver had given them, but it doesn't last long before the room is colder than usual. The brief heat simply serving to make everything seem much colder than it previously was.
Wrapping a duvet around himself, Sherlock peeks out of his comfortable burrito for his next round.
"Never have I ever," Sherlock slurs, his eyes slightly glazed, "put my finger in another person's anus."
John laughs, clutching his stomach as he struggles to stay upright, "That's part of my job, you idiot."
"Oh. Of course. How disgusting," Sherlock grimaces, "During an intimate encounter, then."
"Is it that surprising? Some people like that," John scoffs before he drinks and settles back on the makeshift bed, piling the blankets on top of himself and shivering.
"Do they?" Sherlock asks, genuinely puzzled, "Why?"
"Why?" John responds with a shake of his head, "Because it feels nice. You've never done it?"
Sherlock's cheeks suddenly bloom with a blotch of colour before he gives a half shrug, "When am I to have ever attempted it? I've never actually been with anyone, as you well know."
John flounders for just a moment, "No, I didn't actually know that until right now. I thought Mycroft was just taking the piss with you since you refused to wear pants in Buckingham Fucking Palace."
Sherlock blushes, "Oh," perturbed that he, yet again, gave away more information than necessary. Alcohol is stupid.
John clears his throat in preparation for the question he knows he just has to ask, "Okay, completely normal, non-shocking virginity aside, you've never even done it to yourself? Alone?"
"John!" Sherlock sounds like the most scandalized person in the entire world.
"What?" John smiles through a paradoxical mix of amusement and embarrassment, "Everybody masturbates, Sherlock!"
"No. They don't," he says resolutely, drinking from his nearly-empty tumbler while staring at the carpet for something else to do. When he raises his eyes again nearly a minute later, he finds John simply staring at him open-mouthed, "What?" He adds testily.
"You...you don't…" John stutters and then clears his throat again, "Don't ever ?"
"Why is that so incredibly difficult for your pea-sized brain to comprehend? You're supposed to be a doctor!"
"And as a doctor, I know that human bodies need sexual release, if not with someone else than of your own free will," he states as logically as he can through the haze of alcohol. Following Sherlock's scientific lead actually helps his own level of embarrassment come down to a more manageable level.
"My body takes care of itself on its own."
John has to think about this statement for a humiliatingly impressive length of time before his Doctor Brain can take control back over from the Sea of Scotch, "You mean wet dreams."
"I mean night emissions, yes," Sherlock is glaring at him challengingly. He didn't think he had a problem with sex until he started talking about it with John, and now he can't seem to bring himself to stop thinking about how knowledgeable John is about sex; how John could help him collect data on the subject, if only he could gauge whether John was about to die from laughing so hard at his best friend's lack of experience first.
John easily reads the challenge in Sherlock's eyes because, even inebriated as he is, he's very good at reading other people's emotions. He's also very good at reading Sherlock's face specifically, with as much time as he spends looking at it. So he instinctively knows how delicate the situation is.
John schools his face into a non-threatening, open, accepting curiosity, "Sherlock," he starts gently, "what have you done?"
Sherlock does not want John to know the extent of how little he has done; he wants John to feel comfortable touching him and kissing him, and if John knows how he's never really done any of those things…
Sherlock looks away from John and shakes his head, denying him an answer as he drains the rest of his glass.
"Okay," John placates simply, not pushing him, "how about we go back to the game, then?"
"More alcohol?" Sherlock asks with distaste, feeling an intense dislike for his new-found enemy that loosens his tongue too far.
"No," John chuckles as he shakes his head, "I think half a bottle is quite enough for tonight, especially in this cold. Just words and actions."
" Actions ?" Sherlock chokes out, heart rate speeding up of its own volition.
"Give me a moment to think this through, yeah?" John requests, and they fall silent.
John stays silent long enough that Sherlock begins getting antsy, so he voluntarily removes the scotch and tumblers from the fort. When he returns - thankful for the warmth inside of it that's gathered from their body heat - John is looking at him calmly, but with a purpose.
Sherlock swallows thickly and sits down, trying not to look as nervous as he feels.
"Ready?" John asks, still in a reassuring fashion that is so second-nature to the doctor. God, how he can genuinely care for others this much boggles Sherlock's brilliant mind.
Sherlock can only nod, not trusting his voice.
"We stick with 'Never have I ever' statements since that's what we're comfortable with. If one of us says something that one of us has done, the one who has can offer their experience to the other. It by no means needs to be offered or accepted if either person is uncomfortable. And if you haven't done it, you just shake your head."
Sherlock thinks but can't quite grasp it; he's stuck on the fact that it sounds like John is offering to help him experiment sexually in whatever way he can, "Example," he orders.
John snorts, looking relieved that Sherlock hasn't simply run screaming straight away, "Okay, never have I ever held another man's hand romantically."
"How does one hold a hand romantically ?" Sherlock sneers.
"With a romantic, intimate intent," he amends with a roll of his eyes.
Sherlock shakes his head to the statement, letting John know he hasn't.
"Well, I have. Would you like me to show you?"
'It's a trap,' Sherlock's brain supplies, 'it must be.' "Yes," he says aloud anyway.
John moves to sit next to Sherlock, the easier to interlace their fingers properly. John looks down as he slowly takes Sherlock's right hand in his left, gently weaving their digits together. When he looks up at Sherlock's face, he finds the other man entranced by their joining with an odd, soft look on his face. Unconsciously, John's thumb rubs softly over Sherlock's in reassurance, and Sherlock's eyes fly up to his in wonderment.
"Your turn," John whispers, gaze still locked on the intense eyes of his genius.
Sherlock stutters for a moment and then whispers, "Never have I ever been romantically embraced."
"You've never had a cuddle?" John asks unbelieving.
Sherlock blushes pink to his ears and bristles visibly, "Obviously I've been embraced by my family…although, not for a long time. And not consensually. Mrs. Hudson occasionally wraps her arms around me but I don't count that as a sexual or romantic embrace."
John smirks, "Well, you never know with Mrs. Hudson."
This raises a shy smile from Sherlock who maintains an open posture, waiting for John's reaction. It comes a moment later when John separates their hands (leaving Sherlock bereft for a moment) and wraps his arms around the taller man's body instead. Sherlock leans in, enjoying the sensation and the scent of John right in the crook of his neck where Sherlock's nose is currently residing. Sherlock takes a sneaky inhale, storing the aroma in his mind palace before John pulls away with a bright smile.
John fidgets and surprises Sherlock with his next go, "Never have I ever kissed a man."
Sherlock's brain races to keep up. He has kissed a man; never for a romantic or sexual reason, but sometimes using his looks was the best way to find out information on cases. Not that Sherlock would like to admit that, of course…
"Sherlock?" John asks, concerned, "Shit, did I go too far?"
"No," Sherlock mumbles, looking down shyly, "I'm just not sure how to word my answer."
John allows his brows to bunch together and takes Sherlock's hand again. Without being prompted, almost like John wants to do it rather than being forced by this stupid, ridiculous, and demeaning game they're playing.
"Word it however is best," John answers cautiously, looking down at their clasped hands and then up to Sherlock's flushed face.
"I have...done that," Sherlock grimaces, "A long time ago. However it wasn't for romantic reasons."
John stills, his mind a flurry of activity, "Right. I see," he says before adding, "actually no, I don't."
"It was for a case," Sherlock admits, a flash of excitement in his eyes as he remembers the details, "It was a delightful case: a strangling with a staging of the body…I had to find out what the window cleaner knew and I deduced that the man was attracted to me and…"
"Sherlock," John interrupts with a frown, "bit not good."
"Oh," Sherlock shuts his mouth with a click.
John inhales deeply and looks at one of the blankets separating them from the cold room. He can almost see his breath it's so bloody cold, "Have you ever had a romantic kiss?" He clarifies.
"No," Sherlock whispers, looking bashful, "I've never been interested before...well...until recently."
John lets the words wash over him before he steadies himself internally to ask, "Would you like me to show you?"
Again, Sherlock merely nods shyly, eyes dropping to John's lips.
John lets his hand cup Sherlock's sharp jawline, his thumb stroking across Sherlock's cheekbone before he leans forward and presses a soft kiss to Sherlock's lips. It's barely a touch, more of a whisper of skin on skin, but it sends electric pulses through both men who groan simultaneously. John tilts Sherlock's head further back, using the position to let his tongue slick across the seam of Sherlock's plump lips, coaxing them open and finally, finally tasting Sherlock's mouth. With a quiet moan of disappointment, John pulls back after a few short moments, but he can't help but place a small peck to the lips in apology as he moves away.
"There now," John whispers, still too close to the other man's face, eyes tracing his features and continuously landing on the bow of Sherlock's lips in wanting, "that wasn't so bad, was it?"
Sherlock merely shakes his head, silently agreeing that it was actually quite pleasant.
John moves back imperceptibly before urging, still in a hushed tone, "It's your turn again."
Sherlock's eyes shoot up to John's in fear. He's so scared of ruining things, going too far, asking for too much.
"Whatever it is, nothing needs to happen," John reminds him gently.
Be that as it may, Sherlock can only think of one thing: "Never have I ever kissed the same person twice."
John smirks confidently, "I really hope you don't plan to keep count," he goads before closing the space between them once more. After a few minutes, John growls in frustration at the awkward angle of the kiss before he pulls back.
"John…" Sherlock starts in a panic, thinking that he's done something wrong, but he's struck dumb as John moves.
John swings his right leg over Sherlock's lap so he's kneeling above the other man without touching. Without another word, John buries his hands in Sherlock's curls before bringing his mouth down to the younger man's hungrily. The new angle gives them both better access to the other's mouth, and they relish in it.
When Sherlock lifts his hands to hesitantly land on John's hips, the older man breaks away. John sits on Sherlock's lap, not quite in the right position for them to feel the other's arousal, and lowers his hands to Sherlock's chest.
"Never have I ever," John whispers, eyes on his own fingers as they play with Sherlock's shirt buttons, "undressed another man."
Sherlock wracks his memories for an instance - any instance will do - because he wants to undress John; to have the experience for the other man to call upon because those are the rules of this game, aren't they?
He finds one.
"It was a corpse," Sherlock states as an offering, hands already lifting slightly to the hem of John's jumper in anticipation.
"Good enough for me," John concedes, lifting his arms above his head in a submissive, trusting gesture.
Sherlock shudders at the warmth flooding from beneath John's clothing. Despite the coldness in the room, John is like a furnace and Sherlock lets his thumbs dip under the wool monstrosity which is John's Marks and Spencer jumper as he strokes along John's stomach, circling around the navel sensually.
"Undress," John reminds him with a slight groan.
"Right," Sherlock nods, "Right. Sorry."
Sliding his hands up John's body, Sherlock pulls off the jumper and lets it fall to the side. Normally John would wear a vest, but there had been a recent issue with them (namely Sherlock melting them for an experiment on various textiles. He's promised to replace them, however, now he's not so sure that he wants him to) which has forced John to be bare under the jumper. The cold air immediately hits John and causes him to shiver and his nipples to pucker into erect nubs which Sherlock desperately wants to taste; he wants to suck and lick and feast on John's skin.
"Sherlock," John whispers, his eyes wide and the hairs on his skin standing up.
Nodding in agreement, Sherlock lets his hands fall to John's hipbones, holding tight over the denim of John's jeans. This can't possibly be happening. This is a dream.
If it's a dream then it's a nice one. Sherlock slowly unbuttons John's trousers and works them down, trying desperately hard not to look or stare (or drool) at the view of John in tiny, cupping white Y-fronts.
It should be ridiculous. It should be unsexy and unflattering to see a grown man in Y-fronts - especially white ones which do nothing to hide the very prominent bulge of John's not-yet-erect penis - but Sherlock can feel his mouth filling with saliva, his blood beginning to boil with pure want. He diverts his eyes and looks away.
"We don't have to go further if you're not comfortable," John soothes, his finger doing another sweep of Sherlock's cheekbones, "Plus, it's not going to be attractive when I shrivel up because of the cold. I don't want your first experience of seeing a living person naked to be my micropenis caused by sub-zero temperatures."
Sherlock would like to point out how full John's pants are with his currently mostly-flaccid cock, thus making his argument invalid, but he can't quite do it. Instead he settles for, "I highly doubt that would be the case, but maybe it is best if we stop it there," he agrees half-heartedly.
They stay frozen like this for ages: John kneeling, shirtless and denims around his thighs above a Sherlock whose hands are still on his legs, thumbs barely grazing the bottom of the Y-fronts. They're both worried about what happens from here, suddenly much more sober as they begin to register the cold again.
"Sod this," John mutters, removing himself from above Sherlock as gracefully as one can in his position, "I'm fucking freezing."
Sherlock looks lost, hurt, and confused all at once as he watches John completely remove his jeans before crawling under his thick duvet in the neutral middle of the fort. With a content sigh at the increased warmth - though he's still overly cold - he pokes his head out of the blanket to stare at Sherlock impishly.
"Well?" He asks with a coy smile.
"What?" Sherlock asks in shock, utterly confused.
"Are you going to join me or what?" John asks, but Sherlock is simply doing that blinking thing that means he hasn't figured out the proper way to respond, so he continues gently, "It'll be much warmer with two of us under here. If you want."
Sherlock shakes his head as though waking up and clears his throat, "It is the best use of our combined body heat, to trap it in a small space," he agrees logically, slowly crawling towards John's make-shift burrito blanket.
John smiles brightly as he lifts a corner to allow the other man to join him, then does his best to secure said corner under Sherlock to seal the heat in as efficiently as possible. They are pressed chest to chest tightly, noses almost touching as they stare into each other's eyes and try to deduce if the moment is gone - if the magical world of No Rules forged by the scotch has been lost.
John's left hand hesitantly raises to land on Sherlock's hip as his eyes are drawn down to his cupid's bow in wanting. He doesn't even realise that he's inching closer to that tempting mouth until he hears Sherlock whisper his name, the upward inflection of uncertainty at the end.
"Tell me to stop," John practically begs on a whisper, eyes still locked on his lips. His heart is hammering in his chest and everywhere he touches Sherlock is aflame despite the unbelievable cold.
Sherlock shakes his head before nudging their freezing noses together in a quick Eskimo kiss, "Don't stop," he whispers in return, a plea.
With a quiet huff of air that might have tried to be a moan, John brings their lips back together desperately. Both sets of eyes close tight against the feeling of rightness and the hope that this one night is just the beginning of something wonderful, instead of the end of the possibility that it ever could be.
Shaking with arousal, Sherlock arches his hips (and already erect penis) away from John as he opens his mouth slightly to allow John's tongue free reign. The first touch of John's tongue against his own is like fire shooting through his veins, causing his mind palace to go offline with a buzz of static. Sherlock can't think of anywhere he would rather be in this moment than right here, curled up against John's heaving chest.
"Sherlock," John whispers, pulling away and stroking Sherlock's hair, "Sherlock this -"
"Stop talking, John," Sherlock responds and goes in for another kiss which rapidly turns heated with a deep moan and a touch of John's hands up and down Sherlock's torso. Although still dressed, the touch is almost too much and Sherlock stumbles in his kissing, his body shivering and trembling.
Huffing with a giggle, John does it again and again, stroking Sherlock's flank in an almost hypnotic way until Sherlock pulls back, his eyes unsure as he stills John's hand, "I...should I undress? The best way to treat hypothermia is with skin to skin contact."
"We don't have hypothermia," John smirks before going still, "and I don't think this is about the cold or the game anymore, is it?"
Sherlock looks at John and bites his lip, "No," he admits quietly, his shaking hands attempting to undo his pearl buttons only to slip off.
"Here," John whispers, cautiously moving Sherlock's hands away and replacing them with his own. He slides each button through the hole and peels it aside, showing for the first time Sherlock's arousal-flushed chest and neck which momentarily takes John's breath away, "You're beautiful," he mumbles, unable to stop himself from speaking.
"I can assure you I'm not," Sherlock huffs, unbelieving.
John's eyes narrow in challenge and he twists so Sherlock is now lying flat with John hovering slightly over him, "Yes, you are," he insists sincerely, kissing a quick peck to the corner of Sherlock's mouth, "You're gorgeous like this."
"You're intoxicated," Sherlock laughs, although feeling the pride welling inside him that John - his John - thinks that he is attractive.
"Berk," John scoffs and begins to travel kisses along Sherlock's jawline and down his throat, finding all of the small erogenous zones which Sherlock had no idea existed before this moment. For example: there is apparently a spot just to the left of his adam's apple which makes his leg do a funny twitch thing.
John smiles and continues his journey down, lathering kisses and small sucks across Sherlock's collarbone, feeling the nudge of the bone which didn't quite set right when Sherlock broke it and refused to go to hospital for treatment. John makes sure to lick and caress that place excessively before moving down and taking one of Sherlock's nipples into his mouth.
"Hzzzmm!" Sherlock cries, arching his back and looking down in stunned awe at John who simply smirks and does it again, applying suction and licking around the now-swollen nub in his mouth before biting softly, his other hand moving to pinch and roll the other nipple at the same time.
Sherlock freezes, he can feel the throbbing in his hugely erect penis, precome dripping out into his silk boxers to stain and mark the fabric. It's too much, the sensations are too enormous for someone to deal with. He can't - he can't - Oh god.
Sherlock shudders, his fingers turning into talons as he grabs onto the bedding beneath him, almost ripping the fabric in his grip as his hips tremble and his cock twitches and pulses streams of ejaculate. He has come in his pants like a teenage boy having his first handsy grope.
John feels Sherlock tense and he slows his mouth; he's not sure if Sherlock likes this or not, and the detective is probably too embarrassed to say anything. Pulling off with a wet pop, John wipes his spit-slicked lips and looks down at Sherlock, their massively dilated pupils meeting before Sherlock looks away embarrassed, "You okay?"
"John...I…" Sherlock starts before attempting to bolt for the exit of their fort. John is quicker, however, and pulls Sherlock back down, holding him tightly, "Desist!"
"Not until you tell me what's happened; have you changed your mind? Which is fine by the way…" John says, desperately hoping that that isn't the case.
Sherlock whines low in his throat and rubs at his face, "No it's..."
The scent of male ejaculate hangs heady and strong in the air between them and Sherlock blushes fiercely as John finally realises what's happened, "Oh," he whispers.
"Quite," Sherlock says as he looks down at himself with a wince. He's ruined everything. His one chance is gone.
"And that happened...because of me?" John asks, and if Sherlock isn't mistaken, it seems like John's voice has gotten deeper and more aroused. Blotches of colour snake up John's chest and neck and he clears his throat, "Because of what I did?"
"Yes," Sherlock admits, seeing as he can't exactly deny it.
"Fuck, that's sexy," John smiles devilishly, surging up to claim Sherlock's mouth again hungrily.
"You're not...disappointed?" Sherlock asks in shock as he pulls back from John, unwilling to believe that he hasn't ruined everything after all.
John eyes him curiously, as though trying to judge if he's serious or not, "Disappointed? Of course I'm not disappointed!" He chuckles slightly before expanding on the thought, "The fact that you liked what I was doing so much that you couldn't control yourself? I have to say, it's doing some great things for my ego at the moment. And I meant it, Sherlock: it's bloody sexy."
Sherlock leans down to be able to hide his still-embarrassed face in John's neck before whispering, "John," in a tone that's completely new to both of their ears.
John brings his left hand up to run through Sherlock's curls as his right runs over his back and side comfortingly. John is still incredibly turned on by the entire situation, but the cold from not being completely covered is making his erection wane. He desperately doesn't want this to be over just yet.
"Come on," he says gently, pushing Sherlock from him slightly, "make a quick trip to the loo, put the few remaining burnables on the fire, and then come back," he walks him through the process only because he can tell that Sherlock is still a bit offline, "Yeah?"
"Yes, John," he replies automatically before moving to do just that.
While Sherlock is away, John gratefully curls himself fully back under the heavy blanket they had been using. As his body warms back up and he thinks about bringing Sherlock to a completely unexpected orgasm, his cock begins to stiffen again. He sighs, biting his lower lip, as he moves his left hand to rub himself through his pants.
His original, admittedly-not-very-thoroughly-thought-out plan was to stop touching himself when he heard Sherlock seeing to the fire, but he didn't end up hearing that at all. What he did hear was Sherlock's gasping moan after he re-entered the fort and caught him masturbating.
John's eyes shoot open in embarrassment at having been caught, his hand pulling from himself quickly in reflex, "Sherlock…shit, sorry."
Sherlock is looking at him hungrily again as he crawls his way closer, "You still need release," he states huskily, and the words should definitely not turn John on even more than he is already, considering how unsexy they are.
He moans quietly before answering, "I can take care of it myself if you don't want...if you don't feel comfortable. I can do it in the loo, if you'd prefer."
Sherlock shakes his head with a flirtatious smile as he kneels next to John, "The loo is freezing, you'd just torture yourself," he reasons before leaning down to kiss John sweetly, "I don't mind, just tell me what you need."
John huffs disbelievingly as he searches Sherlock's eyes, but finding only an open, trusting longing in their bright depths, "You're still dressed," is all he can think to say.
"I can fix that," he smirks as he divests himself of his clothing as quickly as the limited height space allows.
"Someone once told me that skin to skin contact is the best way to treat hypothermia," John says as a way to distract himself from the beautiful sight before him.
"We don't have hypothermia," Sherlock parrots back John's own argument to him in reply as he moves under the cover to steal John's body heat in naught but his silk boxers.
"We might," he reasons with a playful smile, welcoming Sherlock back into his arms, "with the alcohol in our systems, who knows how cold we truly are?"
"Yes, best to be on the safe side," Sherlock agrees with mock sincerity.
They both laugh at their ridiculous antics before they're kissing heatedly once more. John moans as he pushes their hips closer together, unconsciously seeking any form of friction on his straining cock.
"John, how?" Sherlock pants, wanting to help make him feel as good as John had made him.
"God, I don't know. Anything," John answers, beyond actually caring how he got off, just so long as Sherlock was touching him when it happened.
"I don't…" Sherlock shakes his head shyly, "I want to...but I don't know how," he practically pleads for John to take pity on him and just instruct him on what to do without making him continuously admit how inexperienced he is. How no one has wanted to touch him or be touched by him like this before.
John moans deep in his throat at the reminder that Sherlock hasn't ever been touched this way, and he rolls them so that he's mostly on top of him without thought, their legs alternating. That's when John feels the answering hardness of the man below him. He huffs as he drops down to kiss the maddening man intensely before whispering, "Again already?"
"My first experience with proper stimuli, and you're amazed that I possess a quick refractory period?" He asks in honest confusion, as though John might be an idiot.
John laughs before kissing him again, "Alright, genius," he mutters before moving fully on top of him. Their smiles are gone, replaced by desire as John positions himself between Sherlock's legs, guiding the limbs to his hips. The position places their still-confined cocks next to each other, and they both moan loudly as John thrusts short but powerfully.
Sherlock's right hand goes to the back of John's neck to pull him down until their foreheads are pressed together as they share the same air, his left grasping firmly around John's bicep. They continue this way, thrusting sensuously against each other with no real sense of urgency, until John determines that they'll need a bit more stimulation to climax. He drops his right hand between them, so that his left can still support his weight, and grabs Sherlock's cock through the silky fabric.
"Fuck!" Sherlock moans as his back arches off the floor, inadvertently separating their foreheads as he brings the rest of their bodies closer together.
"Oh, fuck," John moans, hips slamming harder against Sherlock as he hears the curse escape the lips of this overly refined, bespoke-suit-wearing, posh Adonis below him. He really can't believe his luck.
With John's hand massaging him as his cock thrusts against his, Sherlock comes hard for a second time, shooting even more semen into the lining of his silk pants. The feel of Sherlock's pulsing erection through the elegant material, as well as the utterly destroyed look on his face, brings John quickly over the edge after only a few more thrusts.
John falls off to his right side, pulling Sherlock with him so they're still cuddled close as they fight to regain their breath, "That...was amazing," John pants before kissing Sherlock hard.
"You think so?" He asks innocently, unsure how the experience truly compares for the more experienced man.
"Of course it was," John tells him sincerely, "it was extraordinary."
Sherlock looks at him curiously, aware of this exact exchange happening during their very first cab ride together all those years ago, "John, are you aware that you've already used those words before?"
John laughs, "You're not the only one in the world with a good memory, Sherlock."
Sherlock blushes, "Right," he agrees, "because you're a doctor, and that takes a very skilled mind to…"
John shuts him up with a kiss, relishing in the feel of Sherlock melting into it in submission with a tiny moan. John entwines their legs further, but winces when he feels the slick discomfort of his Y-fronts. He pulls back reluctantly.
"Are you alright if we remove our pants? I don't think either of us would relish trying to get them off once everything has dried."
Sherlock doesn't even answer verbally, simply moves away just enough to remove his boxers and throw them outside of the blanket. John chuckles as he does the same, but then he hesitates in pulling Sherlock back to him, not wanting to overwhelm him.
"I'm not going to swoon like a Victorian maiden, John," Sherlock huffs, feeling suddenly brave as he shimmies across the space and settles himself in the crook of John's neck, inhaling the scent whilst his hands roam tenderly across John's naked torso. John smiles, hiding his face in the dark curls and inhales the musky scent of Sherlock's hair, giving it a soft kiss before pulling away for a jaw-cracking yawn.
"Attractive," Sherlock chuckles from beneath him.
They settle, relaxing into the warmth of their cocoon and letting themselves drift away until Sherlock is snoring softly, his breath fluttering the hairs on John's chest. It's completely perfect until the power comes back on with a start, the central heating immediately kicking in with a thrum of activity and a clanking of old pipes.
"I suppose...we should go to our separate beds," Sherlock whispers, sounding bereft and demoralised, "since we were only doing this to conserve body heat."
"Shut up, idiot," John laughs and gathers the detective in his arms, kissing him and shushing his protestations.
Sherlock allows himself to be drawn in with a shy, besotted grin. He'll argue about the idiot comment tomorrow.