Sherlock was in the process of discharging himself from the care of the paramedics when John walked over and found him again. John's helmet and extraneous gear had been dropped off somewhere, it seemed, and he was merely wearing his bulky uniform. God, he was attractive. While he was secretly thrilled that John had sought him out, he was also slightly devastated, knowing that he wouldn't be able to think properly until at least twenty-four hours after John left his presence for good.
"I definitely like you better without the oxygen mask on," John said with a pleasant smile as he reached the ambulance. Sherlock wasn't sure how to respond to that, and any hopes of coming up with the right words were eliminated as John reached out to stroke his fingers against Sherlock's cheek. "I think I'd like you even better without all this ash." John lifted his hand to show that his fingertips had come away from Sherlock's skin covered in a thin layer of grey dust.
Sherlock had meant to come up with an excuse to leave without encouraging further contact between them. John didn't mean to be so friendly. The touch was just to prove he was covered in ash, and the apparent interest was fascination with his mind and professional curiosity about his condition. Trying to keep up contact between them would therefore only set him up for rejection. Instead of the planned excuse, though, when he opened his mouth, he found himself asking, "Dinner?"
His first thought was to backtrack, to say that he hadn't been offering and had merely been explaining his plans for the rest of the evening, but John smiled over at him as if he'd said something particularly clever, and he found that he didn't regret anything that made John look at him like that.
"Starving," John said, and then Sherlock was smiling, too.
They went to a Chinese restaurant that stayed open late, and it was surprisingly easy to keep the conversation going while they ate. John talked about his time in the army, and Sherlock pretended he was listening, though it was hard to actually do so when his mind insisted on conjuring the image of John in a military uniform. Sherlock talked about his experiments and past cases, and John seemed genuinely intrigued. When they'd finished their meals, even though the owners owed Sherlock a favour, John still insisted on paying, and Sherlock acted as though his heart wasn't beating out of his chest at the gesture.
Throughout all of that, Sherlock had been able to maintain the outward appearance of calmness. It was only when their shared cab pulled up outside his flat that he began to lose his grip on that nonchalant mask.
"Do you want to come in?" he blurted out and immediately regretted it. "I mean, your current salary is adequate at best, and your army pension likely contributes very little. Your flat right now must be quite terrible, then. I've got an extra bedroom, and I've been looking for a flatmate." That much was a lie. Mrs. Hudson had thought that it would be good of him to find someone to live with, but Sherlock had never actively looked.
John quirked an eyebrow up and thankfully looked amused rather than horrified. "Spot on, as always," he said with a small smile. "I'll have to give more consideration to moving in, obviously, but I'd love to come up."
Sherlock let out a relieved breath and slipped out of the cab, hurrying to unlock the door to the building before John changed his mind.
"This is…an interesting place," John commented once they were upstairs in the sitting room of 221B.
Sherlock shifted nervously and fluttered around the room, trying to sort loose papers into neater piles. "Well, with the case going on, it's been hard to keep things in order." Another lie, of course. There was never much of an order in the sitting room. "Do you want something to drink?" he asked, remembering those manners he had always been lectured about. He dashed into the kitchen and pulled open the door of the fridge. That revealed a sad selection indeed. "I've got…wine? Or water, I suppose." He was sure John would refuse the wine, as that implied that they would spend more time together that night drinking it.
John surprised him, though, when he said, "I'd love a glass of wine." John smiled over at him from where he'd made himself comfortable on the sofa.
Sherlock's heart skipped as he considered how good John looked in his flat. John was still wearing his uniform. The black and yellow material should have looked tacky at best, but instead, it seemed to be a particularly good look on John. Sherlock couldn't help but notice that it would be even better if John took his jacket. He licked his lips as he pictured John in his vest and trousers, still somewhat dirtied from trudging through a fire earlier.
He forced himself to get it together. To distract himself from the image, he pulled out his bottle of Cabernet and two glasses, giving them each a healthy portion. He passed John his wine and sat down beside him on the sofa, careful to keep himself at a respectable distance. He drank half his glass in one go as John watched him with amusement.
"You don't pace yourself much, do you?" John asked him with a smirk.
Sherlock offered a small smile in return. "Patience is not something I'm known for."
John shifted closer and lifted his free arm up to rest on the back of the sofa. Sherlock felt his stomach flip. It was almost like John was making a move on him, but he knew it was foolish to truly believe that without further proof.
"I'm not one for pacing myself, either," John murmured, and his fingers came up to brush gently at the hair behind Sherlock's ear. Further proof indeed.
Sherlock opened his mouth, shut it again, and then swallowed down the last of his wine. Except that, with his wine gone, he had nothing to occupy himself with as a distraction from John. He could feel his cheeks turning pinker by the second, and he made sure to keep eye contact with John. If he looked confident enough, his blush might appear to be a trick of the lighting. How could he be confident, though, when he was entirely out of his depth?
"Do you want this?" John asked him, his hand now drifting down to cup Sherlock's cheek.
Sherlock considered saying no. He'd always turned down advances in the past, and this had to be an advance. There was no other logical explanation for John's behaviour. Emotional entanglements would only slow him down. The work was what mattered, and having his mind muddled by sentiment would be detrimental. He imagined that John would be disappointed with the rejection, but he would surely move on quickly enough. An attractive and simply fascinating former soldier, doctor, and fireman all in one, there was no way John would stay single for long. They would still see one another on occasion during arson cases, of course, and Sherlock would be able to experience John being interesting and attractive and capable, though he would also be forced to see evidence of whatever knew partner John was bound to find for himself. He decided that he didn't like the thought of that last part at all.
"Yes," he found himself saying, in spite of the rational reasons for turning John down. He cleared his throat and set his wine glass down on the coffee table. "That is to say, yes, I want this." He wasn't one for casual sex—or sex at all, really—but John had paid for dinner, and there was something about their interactions that indicated more than just carnal interest.
John huffed out a surprised laugh and smiled broadly over at him, and Sherlock decided that he had absolutely made the right call. "Good," John murmured, and before Sherlock could even think of a response, their lips were pressed together.
He had kissed people before. There had been Susan when he was five, though that had merely been the two of them tripping and smacking against one another. The touching of lips had been accidental and painful. Then there was Victor in sixth form. That had been wet and sloppy and not entirely comfortable. The only people since then had been persons of interest in cases he was working. So he had done this before, yes, but his experience was still far too limited to have prepared him for kissing John Watson.
It started out slow and chaste, as if John knew that he would need time to adjust to the feeling. As soon as he got a bit more comfortable with the kiss, John's tongue slipped out against his lips and worked its way into his mouth. The kiss still remained relatively slow and sweet until Sherlock heard one of them (him, most likely) making soft, needy sounds into it. After that, John didn't seem to hold back any longer. He surged forward until Sherlock was sprawled out on his back on the sofa, John braced above him. Capable hands worked their way into Sherlock's hair, alternating between tugging and petting in a way that made Sherlock glad he was already lying down. There was a heat building inside of him that seemed to correspond with the movement of John's tongue against his. He was saved from having to figure out what to do with his hands when John reached down and pinned both his wrists above his head with one hand. God, John was good at this. Sherlock let out a high, desperate noise, and he rocked his hips up on instinct, startling another moan out of him when he pressed himself against John.
John broke the kiss and bent down to pant against his neck. "You're so hot. How did you get to be so hot?" He nibbled at Sherlock's skin, and at the whine that move earned him, he smirked and started to suck on Sherlock's neck in earnest. He only pulled back when there was clearly going to be a visible mark lingering in that spot for days.
John leaned back, and when he did so, he ended up sitting with his hips pressed right up against Sherlock's. It was obvious at that point that they were both incredibly aroused, and knowing that he wasn't the only one in this state sent another spike of need through Sherlock. John groaned at the contact, too, and Sherlock was certain he had never heard a more erotic sound in his life.
"Let me know if this is moving too fast," John said, managing to work through his lust with obvious effort to be reasonable right then.
Sherlock tried to put on his usual air of haughty indifference, but it was difficult to manage when his cheeks were red and he was breathless. "All your clothes are still on, so I'd say this isn't moving fast enough."
John laughed, a high, pleased giggle, and Sherlock positively melted underneath him. John leaned down to press a kiss to Sherlock's nose. "Well, we'll just have to move things along, then." He stripped his jacket off, leaving only his vest covering his chest.
John was even sexier like that than Sherlock had previously imagined. Sherlock licked his lips and reached out one hand to rest on John's chest, moving it slowly down the man's front and simply feeling the muscle and slight traces of subcutaneous fat. Sherlock noted the scar that peeked out from behind one side of John's vest. He knew that too much attention to it might make John uncomfortable, so he merely passed his fingers over it gently before moving on.
John allowed this slow exploration to occur with a hint of amusement on his face. "Bedroom?" he asked. "If you want this to move in that direction."
Yes. Bedroom. They would be able to do so much more in the bedroom. He at least had lubricant in there. He shivered at the thought of all they could do with that. This certainly wasn't moving fast enough. He shoved at John, urging him to get up. John did so with noticeable confusion but didn't seem concerned that the events of the night were stopping. Good. Sherlock didn't want John to worry about that. He pushed himself up from the sofa and said, "This way," before walking down the hall toward his room. He felt unsure of himself right then. It was easy when they were pressed together, but walking together was strange. Should he have been holding John's hand? Should he have been giving John more space? He really didn't know.
Not wanting to waste any more time in that uncertain transit, as soon as he walked into his room, he perched himself on the middle of the bed. Instead of joining him immediately, John simply stared at him for a moment before walking up to the bed.
"You are gorgeous," John told him, nothing but sincerity in his voice.
Sherlock felt his cheeks heat. "You think so?"
John nodded, crawling onto the bed now. "Yes, I do. Absolutely gorgeous. Breathtaking. Out of this world." He moved until he'd resumed his earlier position on top of Sherlock. He pressed a few soft kisses to Sherlock's neck, his cheeks, his lips, before passion began to seep in.
Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's neck and pulled him down to deepen the kiss. He was feeling more confident in this whole kissing business by that point, learning from John, mimicking his movements and experimenting with new forms. He hoped that they would continue this arrangement for some time afterward so that he could get as good at kissing as John obviously was.
"We might want to start getting rid of these clothes," John noted, pulling back just enough to strip his vest off.
Sherlock had been so wrapped up in the kiss that he'd hardly remembered how eager he was for them to both be naked. He was glad that John seemed to be ready to remind him how to keep things moving every so often. He propped himself up on his elbows and hurriedly undid the buttons of his ash-dirtied shirt. He tossed it on the floor once he'd gotten it off and moved his hands down to his belt, fumbling with it uselessly until he finally managed to get it undone. John was still sitting on his hips, so neither of them were really in any position to take their trousers off right then, but Sherlock found that he couldn't be bothered with that, especially not when John bent down and began to lick and bite at Sherlock's nipples.
He felt as if an electric shock had gone through him. It was maddening and arousing and he couldn't get enough. "Oh," he gasped as he arched his body up.
John pulled back and laughed lightly, though the noise was so tinged with arousal that Sherlock couldn't even be upset that he was being laughed at. "I had no idea you'd be so responsive," John commented, and he seemed surprisingly enraptured by that fact. He teased Sherlock's other nipple while his hands dragged down the pale body before him until he was cupping the front of Sherlock's trousers.
Sherlock tossed his head back and moaned, hips bucking up into John's hand. "We need—to get all of these clothes off—now," he said, his words choppy and disjointed as they were interrupted by little gasps.
John rolled off of him, and Sherlock couldn't help but whine. John laughed again and kissed his shoulder in an attempt at reassurance. "I'm just moving to get my clothes off like you asked," he said. "When we're both undressed, I promise I'll be right back on top of you."
Sherlock supposed he could deal with that. He quickly divested himself of his own trousers and pants, only slightly self-conscious about John seeing him totally naked. He was perfectly average in size, so he was sure he had no need to be embarrassed, but, of course, he had never been this exposed in front of someone else in recent years.
He forgot all about his own body as soon as John's was revealed. "Oh," he breathed, eyes going wide as he took in the sight before him. John was…big. Bigger than average, certainly, and thicker, too. Sherlock's mouth watered. He needed that inside of him.
He immediately twisted over the side of the bed toward his bedside table so quickly that he almost tumbled to the floor. John luckily grabbed his waist before he could really fall.
"Whoa," John said, not moving his hands away as if he feared Sherlock would throw himself to the ground if he let go. "What are you doing?" He loosened his grip suddenly but didn't let go entirely. "Do you want to stop? Is that what this is?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes, feeling more confident. He had a definite mission in mind, and he would not let his own uncertainty deter him from it. "I'm not stopping this," he said, wiggling his arse a bit just to feel John's hands tighten around him. "I'm getting—" He fumbled around in his drawer for a few moments before pulling out a small bottle, triumphant. "I was getting this." He tossed the lube over at John and pulled himself back up on the bed properly. "We'll be needing it."
John seemed torn between amusement and arousal as he took in what Sherlock had been grabbing. "You're just perfect, aren't you?" he murmured before leaning down to kiss Sherlock again. This time, the kiss was a bit sloppy and incredibly hot.
Sherlock wrapped one leg around John's waist and tried to pull him down, but John refused to move. Sherlock whined and tried to rock his hips up against John's, but there was too much distance between them for him to get any friction.
He would have complained verbally had he not felt three slick digits pressed up against his perineum. A shot of electric arousal went through him at the touch. When had John opened the bottle of lube? How had Sherlock not noticed this? His whole body stilled as he adjusted to the new feeling.
"Is this all right?" John asked, and Sherlock would have rolled his eyes again had he not been so preoccupied with the fact that John's fingers were so close to where he needed them.
Sherlock nodded distractedly in reply and tried to angle his hips to make John's hand slip a little farther back.
John smirked. "Eager, are we? Don't worry, sweetheart. I'm going to take very good care of you."
Sherlock shuddered. There was something about the way John talked to him that made him feel hot all over.
John's fingers shifted until they were pressed right up against his hole. One finger massaged around the muscle there until just the tip of it was able to slip in. Sherlock felt like he couldn't breathe. He pressed back, desperate for more of it. He'd done this on his own before, of course, but John's fingers were so much wider than his own. Besides, there was an intoxicating loss of control now that it was someone else performing this act rather than just himself.
"More," Sherlock said, and John pressed his index finger fully inside. "More," Sherlock repeated, and John started to stretch him enough to take two fingers. It went on like that, with Sherlock panting, "More," and John never denying him, until finally three fingers were pumping in and out of him.
Sherlock's head was thrown back, his cheeks flushed red, forehead covered in sweat. He imagined he must look a mess, and he was surprised that John apparently hadn't lost interest. On the contrary, given the little sympathetic groans John was making, it seemed that this whole experience was mutually pleasurable.
Sherlock licked his palm and reached down to wrap his hand around John's cock. The movement of John's fingers in his arse stuttered to a halt as Sherlock tentatively began to stroke. He had never done this with someone else before, and the angle was odd. He decided that if he couldn't pleasure John with his hand just yet, he could certainly do it another way.
"I want you inside of me," he said, and while he'd tried to make it sound sexy, he only ended up coming off needy. He was too turned on to care.
John groaned again and rocked his hips up into Sherlock's hand. "Are you sure?" he asked, and Sherlock would have told him off for his over-consideration had he not been so distracted by the prospect of getting John to fuck him.
"Yes, yes, I'm sure," he said hurriedly. "Just do it."
John pulled his fingers out entirely and was kind enough not to mention the near-sob that ripped its way out of Sherlock at the sudden emptiness. "Shh, baby, it's all right," John assured him softly. He poured out some of the lube to slick up his cock. Moving in between Sherlock's legs, he lined himself up and said, "I'm going to push into you now. Stop me if it hurts." He nudged forward until just the head pressed in.
Sherlock bit his lip to stifle his moan, but even that didn't do much to decrease his volume.
"Like that, do you?" John panted as he inched in further.
By the time his entire cock was buried in Sherlock's arse, both of them were out of breath, and Sherlock was letting out soft, desperate noises with every exhale.
"Please," Sherlock said, and John practically growled in response.
After that, there was no trace of any of the softness of their earlier kisses. No, from that point on, it was pure, carnal passion. John gripped his wrists in one hand like he'd done on the sofa and propped one of Sherlock's legs on his good shoulder. He used his other hand to brace himself above the other man as he pounded into him. John set a fast, brutal rhythm that left Sherlock positively howling at every brush against his prostate. John's every breath was punctuated with, "Fuck yes," or, "That's it, baby, take it," or, "God, you're gorgeous," and Sherlock's ability to speak steadily degraded until all he was able to do was moan out something that sounded vaguely like John's name.
After one particularly rough thrust, Sherlock felt his whole body begin to heat up as white-hot arousal steadily bloomed in his abdomen. "I'm—I'm—" And then he was coming without a hand on him. His eyes wide, pure pleasure flooding through his veins, he cried out as he made a mess of himself.
John fucked him through it, and even after he'd started to whimper from delicious over-stimulation, John pounded into him until his rhythm finally stuttered and he stilled. Sherlock groaned at the feeling of John coming inside of him and was distantly grateful that John hadn't insisted on using a condom.
John rested his forehead against Sherlock's shoulder, and as the adrenaline began to fade, Sherlock started to worry that John was hiding some sort of disappointed expression. Those concerns dissolved, however, when a high giggle bubbled out of the man on top.
"Are you laughing?" Sherlock asked, and he'd meant to sound indignant but only sounded amused in turn.
"Rush of endorphins," John said cheerily by way of explanation. He lifted his head, grinning, and kissed Sherlock gently. The fact that he still wanted them to kiss was certainly reassuring.
John pulled out, and Sherlock grimaced at the feeling of wetness seeping out of him as well. "I think I'd like that much more if I was still hard," he murmured.
John smiled at him before bending between his legs to check his hole for damage. He pressed a kiss to Sherlock's upper thigh before slipping off the bed entirely. "I'll help you get cleaned up, promise."
John presumably found the loo and managed to fetch them a wet flannel, which he—as promised—used to wipe up the mess Sherlock's arse had become and the ejaculate drying on his chest. John then carelessly tossed the flannel onto the floor, and Sherlock found that he loved him a bit. Not genuinely, of course, but there was something about John's casual way of fitting into the flat, into Sherlock's life, that made it seem as though they'd been living with one another for years. It was intoxicating, and he didn't want it to end.
The following day, Lestrade texted with a case. An interesting one, too. Sherlock simply couldn't pass it up. John had laughed at him over breakfast, saying, "You're cute when you're excited about a case." After that, Sherlock had forgotten about the investigation for half an hour while he kissed John sweetly for the compliment.
By the time he showed up at the crime scene, he was nearly an hour late, as he'd had to shower and change and help John clean up a bit.
Sally clearly didn't appreciate his tardiness. "You're late," she said, glancing up only briefly from her notebook before doing a double-take. "Who's this?" She looked over at John, who was standing in his fireman's uniform at Sherlock's side.
"This is John Watson," Sherlock said, ducking beneath the yellow tape. "He's with me."
John smiled over at Sally and followed Sherlock under the tape. "I'm with him," he reiterated.
Sally was so shocked at the sight of Sherlock with another living being that it took her until they'd gotten inside the building to yell, "You can't just bring guests to crime scenes!"
Lestrade was drawn out into entryway by the shout. "What's going on here?" he demanded. He frowned over at John. "Captain Watson, right? The firefighter?"
"It's actually still technically Dr. Watson, but, yeah, that's me."
"Right," Lestrade said. "What are you doing here, Dr. Watson? This isn't an arson."
"I asked him to be here." Sherlock stepped up to John's side. Not too close, of course, because he wasn't sure John wanted others to know about their intimacy with one another. "He's a doctor who is used to life-and-death situations. He'll be very helpful."
John smiled up at him, as if surprised that Sherlock would consider him an asset. His expression turned to a smirk as he looked back over at Donovan and Lestrade. "I also happen to be dating him, so he might be a little biased," John said, wrapping one arm around Sherlock's waist and pulling him close.
Sherlock flushed and smiled, and John grinned right back at him, while Lestrade and Sally looked on with disbelief. He and John couldn't help but laugh at their expressions as they moved into the other room to get a proper look at the crime scene. Oddly enough, John helped him with the case, both by pointing out obvious and easily over-looked clues and by providing Sherlock with someone he desperately wanted to impress. John kissed him briefly when he'd figured it out, and Lestrade appeared to be too glad for the quick solve to care about the public display of affection or about the fact that John and Sherlock walked away from the scene hand-in-hand.
This, Sherlock thought, feels right. It has to last.
And it did.
