((WARNING: AND SUDDENLY, A WILD SEXUAL ENCOUNTER APPEARS! I actually wrote this less graphic than I originally planned, because it turned into fluff. I wanted it to be loving, as I think it would be for Sherlock and John. Their feelings have been denied and frowned upon and crushed and impossible for so long. And now they're free. Plus virgin!Sherlock and GingerBatch because hmm, it's so lovely. Also, some hints at John/Greg. I do love that ship, which is sort of strange. Not beta- ed. Never beta-ed. So I apologize for mistakes. But yes. Carry on… xx- Tori))
When John awoke, he was back in his hotel room. It took him a minute to realize that a long, warm body was curled around him, and he racked his brain, trying to remember who it was when-
"Hello, John."
Oh. Oh, now he remembered.
He rolled over, and just stared at the man in bed with him. It really was Sherlock. It had to be. Same nose, same precious beauty marks, same small scar, same pink cupid's bow lips, same ever changing eyes. Sherlock.
His Sherlock.
"Are you alright, John? You fainted. I'm sure you're thirsty. Here, let me get you some water."
The taller man made to get out of the bed, and John instinctively grabbed him.
"Don't you fucking DARE leave me."
Anger was slowly creeping over John, soaking his senses.
"You better explain, NOW, before I fucking punch you in that pretty face of yours."
Sherlock's eyes widened comically at John's sudden change of emotion, and cleared his throat.
"John, I don't-"
"NOW, Sherlock."
Sherlock winced at John's tightening grip, and nodded.
"It was a trap, John. I'd planned ahead, just in case, but I never thought it would actually happen… And I never imagined his web to be so widespread. He... He had snipers, John. Killers… Trained on everyone who… who mattered. Who still matters. Lestrade, Ms. Hudson… You. If I didn't die, you would. So… I died."
John glared at him.
"Oh. Couldn't be bothered to send me a post card, you know, letting me know who were ALIVE?"
Sherlock sniffled, looking away.
"I'm so sorry, John. I had to… rid of Moriarty's web… They'd kill you, if they knew you knew I was alive."
John sighed, running a hand over his face, before looking up at Sherlock.
"I… I was… It killed me, Sherlock. I… I loved you. I'm sure you knew it, too… But… I never got to actually tell you. My last memory of you was… seeing your bloody body, and feeling no pulse, I…"
John choked back the lump in his throat, trying not to cry. The past three years hadn't been good to either of the two men, and it showed. In their eyes, their voices, their faces. They'd seen too much. Experienced too much. Lost everything.
"Sherlock…"
Sherlock gathered the smaller man into his arms, holding him tight.
"John… I'm here, John… I won't leave you again… I'm so sorry…"
It wasn't clear who did what first, but suddenly they were kissing, melting into each other, and giving what they'd wanted to give for so long. John clutched at Sherlock, dominating his mouth, almost violently. He needed him. He needed this to be real. He needed to know this beautiful man really was here with him, warm and living and breathing. Sherlock let John mold him how he wanted, just holding him. He'd missed him so much.
"J… John…"
Sherlock choked out softly, tears stinging his eyes.
"I love you. I've…. Always… I think I fell for you the first day we met. And it scared the living shit out of me. I… I'm so sorry for leaving. Forgive me, please."
Sherlock watched his blogger smile softly at him, and push a curl out of his eyes.
"Sherlock Holmes. I died every day, just praying that you'd somehow come back… I… I loved you every single day, all through these 3 years while you were gone, and I'll love you for a thousand more."
Sherlock froze, his heart swelling with warmth. John loved him. John wanted him. John waited for him. So he let his emotions take over. He allowed his tears to fall. Because he was loved.
John smiled, and kissed Sherlock gently.
"Red hair, huh?"
Sherlock laughed through his tears.
"Yes, well, I had to change my looks at least a little. I actually kind of like it."
He ran a hand through his ginger curls, looking up at John, who nodded, then spoke in a light tone.
"I think I'd like for your clothes to be off now."
Sherlock smirked a bit, looking up at John in mischief, despite his red eyes from crying.
"Might not want to say those things, John. People will talk."
John basked in Sherlock's familiar words, happiness surrounding his mind.
"Let them."
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The two men ended up ordering dinner first, just lying with each other, catching up. Sherlock had been traveling all over the world, tracking down Moriarty's men. John had been going to work, and… trying to stay alive. He'd become… good friends with Greg; they'd gone out a few times. Sherlock cringed at this.
"Nothing came of it, Sherlock. Greg and I are good mates. He and I… helped each other is all."
John blushed, remembering those drunk, heated, tear filled nights with Greg. They were both so shocked by Sherlock's 'death'. They'd been each other's comfort.
Sherlock sniffled, and nodded. He knew what John meant by 'helped each other'… It hurt, but he understood. And it was his fault anyway. So he stood, without speaking about it further, and stretched.
"I think I'll take you up on your offer."
"What offer?"
"The 'taking-off-our-clothes' one."
"Sherlock that wasn't an 'offer'… It was… That doesn't even make sense."
Sherlock rolled his eyes at John's words.
"Shut up."
John was about to give a retort when the detective did something that really did shut him up. The taller man rucked his tight navy t-shirt up and over his head. (Apparently the disguise consisted of a style change too.) John's cheeks heated, but he couldn't help his eyes from running over the body in front of him.
Anticipation.
They'd seen each other naked before, but this would be different. VERY different. This would be seeing each other in a totally different light.
"John?"
The deep voice was soft, timid. John smiled at his- What? Boyfriend? Lover? - And began to unbutton his shirt, letting Sherlock know all was fine.
The air was tingling; you could taste it. Thoughts were seen, eyes burned, breaths turned shaky. The doctor made the first move, standing, and just feeling. Sherlock was all hard lines and angles, but he was soft. Soft hair, soft eyes, soft lips, soft skin, soft touches, soft whispers. John basked in it all. Kisses down that long neck, a nip at his shoulder, a swirl of his tongue round a rosy pink nipple, light butterfly kisses down Sherlock's stomach, nuzzling his nose into the dark hair under his belly button, then a long suck at one of his jutting hipbones. Sherlock whimpered, watching.
John was doing this to him. John loved him. John wouldn't hurt him. John would take care of him.
"Sherlock?"
John's voice was husky, and Sherlock smiled at the sound.
"Yes?"
John looked up at him, suddenly looking very serious.
"Are you a virgin?"
Sherlock hesitated, swallowing, his mind going through all the options. To tell or not to tell? He didn't want John to… Not want him… if he was inexperienced. But eventually he sighed, and just told the truth.
"… Yes."
John nodded. He'd assumed as much. Kissing over the pale expanse of skin in front of him, he spoke.
"Do you want to do this?"
Sherlock sighed, rubbing his face.
"Oh please, John. I'm not some wilting flower. I've waited years to have you. Now hurry up."
John rolled his eyes.
"Things like this can't be rushed, Sherlock. Stop being a prat. Now, do you want to top or bottom?"
Sherlock swallowed hard, and looked away from John, thinking. He felt a blush start to cover his cheeks as he looked back to his lover, and spoke.
"I… I want you to feel you, John… I want you to… to fill me. Make me whole, John. Please."
John swallowed hard, eyes wide, the words going straight between his legs.
"Oh God, Sherlock..."
He choked out, before pushing his lips to the detective's, his hand squeezing Sherlock's engorged member through his jeans. Damn, those jeans. Fit him perfectly.
"Off."
John's words came out as growls. Sherlock frantically powered at jeans, shimmying out of them. John hopped around on the floor, pulling his legs out of his jeans and pants. When he turned back to the bed, Sherlock was spread out, naked, before him. His mind went blank at the sight. This beautiful man was all his. After years of waiting and hoping and praying, Sherlock was his. He stumbled over to his suitcase, digging for his lube and condoms. He'd brought them with him, hoping maybe someone in Italy would take pity on a poor, crippled army soldier. Crawling back onto the bed, he noticed Sherlock's arched eyebrows, and he knew what the man was thinking. Thankfully, Sherlock didn't say anything about it.
The good doctor made his way back onto the bed, pouring lube onto his hands and warming it. He could feel Sherlock's eyes on him, and smirked as he let out a gasp as John gave his cock a long stroke. Perfect. This felt perfect. But then Sherlock grabbed his arm.
"No, John. I… I want to come from you alone. You inside me."
John's eyes widened. Fuck. Did Sherlock not know what his words did to him? He nodded, and slowly pushed his lover's legs apart, suddenly nervous. He had to do this right. He didn't want to hurt Sherlock more than it already would. He could already sense Sherlock's fear, despite his brave face.
"S'alright, Love."
John whispered into Sherlock's ear quietly, rubbing his legs. He wanted him comfortable. Then, slowly, he-
Sherlock gasped at the sudden intrusion, his muscles clenching.
"J… John."
"It's alright, Sherlock."
Sherlock whimpered, basking in the peculiar feeling of John's fingers- those beautiful, steady, doctor's fingers- picking him apart, and turning him into a quivering mess. They stretched him, but it wasn't that painful. It was… pleasurable. Extremely pleasurable. Especially when he-
Those fingers arched upwards, finding that secret bundle of nerves, and the tall man jerked up, crying out.
"FUCK! John… NOW, John, please."
The last word was a whimper, and John swallowed, reaching for a condom, hands fumbling, but Sherlock stopped him.
"Please let me feel you. I… I'm clean. And you're a doctor, so you are too. It's safe."
John laughed softly at Sherlock's pout, and nodded.
"Okay, Sherlock. Whatever you want."
John squeezed Sherlock's hand, before readying himself, and gently starting to push in past the hard ring of muscle. He got maybe about halfway when Sherlock gripped John's shoulder tightly, his eyes wide in fear, whimpering.
"John… It hurts, John. I… I can't… I can't do it, John."
John swallowed hard, and touched Sherlock's cheek gently.
"Shh… Shh… Look at me, Sherlock. It's alright. It'll stop. You have to trust me, Love. You can take it, Sherlock. You can take it."
Sherlock whimpered, and shook his head, but dropped his arm, and rested it on John's hips, urging him to go further… John eventually slid home with a gasp, and he rested his forehead on Sherlock's, forcing himself not to move in the tight heat. Sherlock was panting, his face pushed up into John's neck.
"You alright, Sherlock?"
After a few seconds, his lover nodded, and looked up. His ginger curls were already plastered against his forehead with sweat, and his silvery eyes stared into John's own blue ones.
"Thank you, John. For loving me."
John smiled softly, and gripped Sherlock's hands gently, before starting to move. It was hot, and tight, and slow, and loving. It was him and Sherlock, speaking all the things they'd wanted to over the past three years. Expressing their love and sadness and anger and aguish. IT was soft cries, and calling out each other's names, and whispered proclamations of love.
And then… it was rushed, and frantic, and all too much. It was Sherlock keening John's name, his nails digging into John's back, hips bucking. It was John pressing soft kisses onto Sherlock's skin, cooing to him that it was okay. That he could let go, and he could feel, and to let it take him. It was sudden relief, pressure leaving their bodies like rockets, their heads in space. Stars floated by, clouds drifted underneath them.
Euphoria.
And, slowly, they floated back down to Earth, safe in each other's arms.