They ate, picnic style, on the bed with the food cart next to them. It was too much food, but Sherlock downed his share, and John was happy. Maybe sex made Sherlock hungry.
Afterwards, John put the plates back on the cart and Sherlock fell back with his head at the foot of the bed and his feet next to John's head.
"Sherlock," John murmured, running a finger along Sherlock's calf, "what did you do yesterday? Why did you invite me to lunch and then stand me up?"
Sherlock gazed at the ceiling and then shut his eyes. "I stood across the street from Angelo's watching you be seated, wanting to just go in and say, 'When I said I was married to my work that first night…' but I was too scared. Scared of what you'd do. What I might say. So I texted you that I couldn't come.
"Mainly I just wandered. I saw my network and gave them money. I followed you sometimes. I knew where you'd go."
Sherlock curled up resting on his elbows, "One thing I don't know is who you visited in the Veterans' Hospital."
"An old friend. He's was brain damaged in Afghanistan. I go once a month on Fridays. It just happened to be Christmas Eve."
"I'm sorry."
"There're a lot of people I should visit, but I don't."
"You do a lot, John. Never doubt that you are a good man."
John's mouth quirked a little at that.
"What?"
"Lestrade says that someday you could be a good man."
Sherlock flopped back, "Lestrade is an idiot."
"No, he isn't. What about dinner. What happened then?"
"I really was detained by Mycroft, but I should have texted so you weren't just sitting there. Sorry about that."
"Two sorrys in a row, eating. It is a red letter day!"
"The fact we had sex doesn't come into it, I suppose?"
"Oh, sex always comes into it."
"Bastard."
John pinched Sherlock's calf back for good measure earning a yelp of protest that was unexpectedly satisfying.
"Are you going out today, to look for clues?"
"You've been watching too much American television. I don't look for clues. I observe and draw conclusions from the evidence."
"Yeah, right. So are you?"
"No. It's Christmas."
"Then why on earth did you need to catch the last plane up here last night?"
Sherlock paused again, that slightly insecure look, a flickering of eyes from one thing to another.
"Did you ever want something so badly as a child for Christmas, and you knew that you weren't going to get it, but you kept hoping anyway, just in case? I could almost bear it, you know, every other day of the year. To know you were upstairs, asleep in your bed or hear you in the morning moving about in the loo and think about you with your shirt off, shaving, brushing your teeth, and to resist barging in and simply grabbing you, even knowing or believing that you would run out the door in a panic.
"I just couldn't bear it on Christmas. Watching you open presents. Worrying that you wouldn't like what I'd gotten you, or it said too much. Thinking you might go out with mates or a new girl. And knowing that I would never get what I really wanted."
John sat up and pulled Sherlock up for a deep kiss. "Well, there is a red letter day. Sherlock Holmes got something wrong."
"I, am going to have a bath," said Sherlock huffily, pushing John away. He stalked off to the bathroom with all of his usual drama, casting off the dressing gown as he went, leaving John staring at his naked backside, a very nice view.
Sherlock filled the tub with hot water, and slid in, displacing water over the side, Archimedes Principle, water displaced equaling my volume, he thought. Plus John's come, he giggled a little hysterically, which would add far too little volume to be registered on all but the most sensitive scale, less than the volume of a meal or even a glass of water. He speculated for a moment whether displacement in water would be useful in studying bodies. There was a little sting there, and some of his muscles ached from strange new positions. He turned off the taps with his toes and stared at them between his knees at the foot of the tub. This is good, really good, he thought. That was the best his vocabulary could come up with? But perhaps, in this, that was enough.
After about a half an hour there was silence in the bathroom. John got a little worried, knocked and went in.
Sherlock lay in the bath, long legs bent, water up to just under his nose. He slid up enough to say, "You can use the toilet if you need to."
"What? No."
"John, you had your cock inside me this morning. I don't think we need to stand on false modesty here."
"Yes, but there are some things one keeps private. But then you've never understood that idea, have you. What's that noi— are you blowing bubbles?"
Sherlock had slipped back down in the water, "Bbbblllllessss."
"Do you also make farting noises and squirt water with your hands? Remind me never to go swimming—"
They stared at each other. They had talked about it, and they hadn't talked about it. And now everything was different.
Sherlock pulled his eyes away first. "Later, John. Not now, not while I'm in the bath."
"But we will talk about it."
"If we must."
"I think we have to. Do you want me to wash your back? "
Sherlock nodded, sat up and leaned forward. John knelt beside the tub, took the flannel and soap and ran his hands across Sherlock's back.
"God, I really scratched you, didn't I? I'm sorry."
'I didn't tell you to stop did I? You're marked as mine as well." He rested his head along the side of the tub reaching out to stroke John's side as John squeezed water from the flannel onto his back.
Sherlock pulled John's hand between his legs to his stiffening cock.
"No, I am not getting into that tub with you. No matter what you do. It's much too tiny for both of us."
"But neither of us is fat, and you're small!" Sherlock pouted.
"And you are a gangly giraffe! I am not bashing my knees.
"I will wait for you on the bed." John leant in and kissed Sherlock again. God, if he stayed he really was going to end up in that tub.
John stripped and lay on the bed, idly caressing himself. He heard the bath drain and expected Sherlock to come out. The door opened, but instead of Sherlock coming out, he heard the basin being filled. What the…he went to the door to see Sherlock lathering his face and preparing to shave.
"Why are you shaving?"
"I like to be clean shaven."
"I mean why are you shaving NOW?" John realized that he sounded almost petulant.
Sherlock gave him one the patented 'are you an idiot' looks—nothing changed there—and said, "It's better to do it when your skin is soft."
Fine, if Sherlock was going to be deliberately incalcitrant, then John could play that game as well. He walked into the bathroom stark naked and hard and hoped up on the counter.
"Are you really going to watch me shave? Is this an all-the-time thing, or once to see how it's done."
"I know how it's done, thank you. I'm just watching because I've never seen someone with such sharp cheekbones shave."
"I don't shave my cheekbones."
"Do you even need to shave at all?"
"Yes. Look, John, I am a grown man. I'm not some ethereal, androgynous creature above the daily annoyances of being human."
"Got that—not androgynous—from all of the gay sex we were having. I meant, you twat, that I know you can grow a moustache, but it didn't really seem like you had that much stubble.
"I can grow a perfectly reasonable beard if I need to."
"Do you want me to shave?"
"If you like. I don't mind it."
"Well, shove over then."
"Right now?"
"Why not? I've shaved next to blokes in the army all the time."
"Yes, but…"
John ignored him, lathered up his own chin and shaved with the cheap razors he'd bought. It was a new experience, and yet it seemed familiar somehow, as if they had always done this, shaving next to each other, both of them shirtless. This is my life now, John mused, being domestic with Sherlock, as if we weren't already living in each other's pockets. Only now there would be nakedness and intimacy and sex. Apparently lots and lots of sex.
Sherlock wiped his face and turned to watch John finish. He really is amazing, he reflected. He takes everything in his stride—me, this, Mycroft…Moriarty.
"I think I was promised sex," he said, quirking a smile.
"I wasn't the one who decided he needed to shave in order to—oh!"
Sherlock had dropped to his knees and gusted a breath across John's cock. John laughed, "You know, there is a perfectly good bed just a few meters away..." But when one of the cleverest men in Britain, who has quite rapidly and unexpectedly become your lover, is kneeling on the floor of a hotel bathroom, dressed only in a towel, rubbing his newly smooth, very soft cheek along your thigh, saying stop ceases to be a viable option.
And when his remarkably lovely lips wrap around the head of your very hard cock, while he does all the things that you most enjoy (which he's figured out, because he's Sherlock Holmes), such as gripping the base and stroking rapidly but keeping a leisurely pace with his mouth, saying anything beyond, "Oh, God," and "Sherlock," soon becomes impossible. In fact, in a matter of minutes the ability to articulate actual words eluded him as he came with something close to a shriek when Sherlock did something with his teeth. And then Sherlock smirked up at him and licked his lips.
"Much better than Hollandaise Sauce." Sherlock rocked back on his calves and sprang up to kiss John forcefully, taking full advantage of his height for the first time since this had all begun. "Take me to bed, John," he whispered in John's ear and it was more of a command than a come on.
They stumbled out of the bathroom and John found himself pushed backwards onto the bed, with Sherlock crawling over him, a predatory look in his eyes.
"Lube," Sherlock demanded.
John passed it to him and dammit, Sherlock had him completely hard again in just a few quick strokes of his slick hand. John didn't think he would come again or even could come again, but Sherlock didn't seem to care as he was positioning himself on John's cock and there was that mind-boggling tightness again.
Totally in control, Sherlock set the rhythm. It was fierce, unrelenting and insistent. If Sherlock had looked delirious and abandoned when they'd made love before, he looked possessed now, completely consumed with pleasure. He sat up on John's hips, head thrown back, eyes shut. His skin gleamed with sweat in moments. John could even see a drip running down his cheek or maybe that was just some water from his wet hair. Either way Sherlock didn't even seem to notice to wipe it away. John watched the muscles of Sherlock's thighs as he slid himself up and down.
And the sounds that he was making: a slurring of johnjohnjohn, jumbled words and sounds were so extraordinary coming from Sherlock's mouth that John almost lost himself in just appreciating it.
Sherlock suddenly leant forward, dotting John's face in a scattershot flutter of kisses, gasping, "John, I need to be inside you. I need to be that close to you. Will you let me? Say you'll let me. I'll do whatever you ask, please, John, oh, God, John."
"Yes, Sherlock, anything, anything you need."
Sherlock sat back still holding John's cock inside himself, smeared his fingers and reached behind to run slick fingers over John's balls and down. He slid one finger in working frantically and a little roughly and then another. John felt a tiny burn, but it was no more than a rug burn and the sensation, the pressure, the feeling of being opened was remarkable and new.
Sherlock was frenzied now. He slicked his cock and lifted himself off, scrambled to swing his legs under himself so that he was kneeling between John's legs. He bit his bottom lip so hard John was surprised that it didn't bleed and slid in. John could tell that Sherlock was using all of the little will-power he still had to hold back and not simply thrust.
This is what it feels like for women, John thought. No wonder sex is usually more personal for them; needing there to be emotion. You're letting someone inside, physically inside your body. You're trusting someone to not hurt you, to treat this gift with the reverence it deserves. It was a startling revelation, even more so because he had never thought he would experience the feeling.
Sherlock seemed beyond all control now. His eyes were closed, mouth hanging slack as he thrust wildly, erratically and with a strangled scream, came.
He collapsed over John, breathing heavily into John's shoulder and neck, wet hair rubbing against John's cheek. John just held him tenderly, didn't move his hands up and down, knowing that any movement would be too much at that moment.
At last Sherlock took a great gulp of air and said, "Thank you," into John's ear. Only then did John move his hands soothingly along Sherlock's back, running his knuckles up and down the spine in a small massage. Sherlock seemed on the verge of crying.
"It's alright. I've got you, my love, I've got you. It's alright. Are you…ok?"
Sherlock sat up and slid free gingerly. John winced but it wasn't nearly as bad as he'd feared. Sherlock crumpled over, facing away from John, seemingly shattered.
John pressed himself against Sherlock's back, "Sherlock? Are you alright? What's the matter?"
"Shouldn't I be asking you that," murmured Sherlock almost sleepily.
"I'm fine. What about you? Why are you curled away?"
"You made it turn off."
"What? I made what turn off?"
"My mind. I wasn't observing. I wasn't watching from outside my own thoughts. I was just feeling. The feel of you inside me, the feel of you around me. I can't describe it because I wasn't analyzing it while it happened. That's never happened to me before. Even in the bathroom when I was down on my knees, I was thinking, storing information—oh, he likes that, that's what this tastes like, feels like, I'm doing this now and John's responding—but here there was nothing but sensation. It was…perfect, unbelievable, I don't know…I can't say it in words." Sherlock struggled within himself to figure out how to convey it. It was disturbing to not be able to describe something. To not be able to break it apart into its component pieces, but it was just a giant wave of feeling, emotions and physical reactions that tumbled over and over each other in a chaos that was caused by it being John.
"It's overwhelming. I feel…emotionally sensitive. I think I just need to sleep for a little while."
"Of course," John kissed Sherlock's shoulder. "I may go take a walk. Don't panic if I'm not here when you wake up." He pulled the sheets up around Sherlock's body and tucked him in.
"I never panic."
"Yes you do. Do you mind if I use your laptop to check my email or read? Why am I even asking—you don't."
"Of course, John. What's mine is yours."
"And what's mine has apparently always been yours. Password?"
"Yes, but it's very simple. Even you should be able to figure it out," came the drowsy reply.
"Um, thanks for that. But say that your boyfriend is not as clever as you, and would like to be able to use the laptop this afternoon and not spend twenty-four hours trying to break in…"
"All lower case: em, dee, double u, at symbol, five, zero, en."
It was only when John had scribbled it on a piece of hotel notepaper to remember that he understood—mdw50n.
In the end he didn't go out. He listened to the songs Sherlock had recorded for him and looked them up on the internet. He downloaded some music for himself—although his taste ran more to pop. He debated downloading the Christmas song. It was sort of their song. Nope, still annoying. Better to stick with Nessun Dorma as their song—that way Sherlock could play it for him again.
He checked his email, but first he skimmed Sherlock's which was still open. He felt guilty and then he didn't, and then he did again.
From: Elizabeth Hudson, .uk
To: Sherlock Holmes, .uk
Cc: John Watson, .uk
Hello, Dear,
I'm trusting that Doctor Watson caught up with you last night since he didn't come home.
Look, I have my own computer and email account! I feel so modern. My niece and her husband got it for me for Christmas and helped me set it up. You're the second person I've sent a message to.
Ask Doctor Watson if he would like me to send him any of his things, as I know he ran out of here without a single thing last night.
Well, you two have a wonderful time and don't get into any trouble.
(Oh, I do hope he's with you, this message would just be terrible if he isn't.)
From: Withheld
To: Sherlock Holmes, .uk
Happy Christmas, Sherlock, and I know that it is shaping up to be a very happy one for you. I want you to know that I am sincerely glad. Please enjoy the champagne. I think you will find it a delicate Brut from a really excellent year that you will both enjoy. Thank you for taking this case, although I know your real reasons for escaping London. I do hope that you will continue with the case, even though that reason has now resolved itself.
Now then, John, I know that you have something that you feel is significant. While I cannot say that I am pleased about your possession, I will trust in your discretion in this matter (and your enforcement of my brother's). We both know that there will be consequences for both of you (as well as myself, I must admit) if this item were to fall into the wrong hands. Have a very Happy Christmas.
What the bloody hell, thought John. How on earth did Mycroft know that I would be reading Sherlock's email? No, scratch that. I don't want to know.
The rest of the entries were all about cases.
He checked his email, and found the usual debris.
For awhile he just watched Sherlock sleeping. He realized he'd watched Sherlock sleeping on the couch many times without thinking how odd it was to be studying your flatmate's face while he slept. It was usually a restless sleep, like watching a dog dream, sometimes Sherlock's hands would move or he would mumble angrily. Today he seemed to be sleeping peacefully, breath rising and falling gently, arm thrown over his eyes to block out the light.
Sherlock woke around three, so they watched the Queen's speech with Sherlock's head in John's lap. John slid his fingers through the curls, straightening them and then letting them fall back into their waves.
"I love you, Sherlock."
"I know."
At first John thought that that was all that he was going to get, but then Sherlock said, "I love you too."
"When did it start? When did you know that…you loved me? Mrs. Hudson said she thought it happened that first night after the pink lady."
"Before. When you lent me your phone."
"What?"
"The first time we met, in the lab at Bart's."
"Molly offers you the entire lab (and herself), Lestrade offers you cases, Mrs. Hudson offers you a cut rate on a flat and half of the restaurants in London offer you free food, but you're impressed because I offer you the use of my phone?"
"Well, I'm not likely to fall in love with Mrs. Hudson, Angelo or Lestrade…"
"Why not? He's quite good looking."
"Should I be jealous?"
"No, just noticing. You know, now that I'm gay."
"ANYWAY, Lestrade gives me cases because he needs me. Molly, well, I'm not exactly sure what Molly needs, but she wants something from me. You wanted nothing. You didn't even know if we would become flatmates, or even if I was the person Mike was bringing you to see. You clearly had trust issues and yet you just passed me your phone. I could have been sexting someone under your name."
"Or texting a serial killer."
"Or texting a serial killer, exactly. That kind of giving with nothing expected…it doesn't happen to me."
"It probably does, you just don't notice."
"I'm VERY observant."
"Not to people. Not to emotions. And it might happen more often if you didn't come sweeping in saying 'I'm Sherlock Holmes! I'm a bloody genius and you're an idiot.'"
"But why shouldn't I say it? It's true."
"Perhaps you should let them figure it out on their own. People don't really like to be told things like that."
"Why did you do it? Offer me your phone?"
"I…I don't really know."
"When did you fall in love with me?"
"I didn't know I was until last night when Mrs. Hudson, God bless her, pointed it out to me."
"You thought I was pretty from the first."
"I thought you were what—? "
"Pretty. You put it on your blog."
"I realize it's been nearly a year, and I don't have your memory, but I am quite certain that I did not say you were pretty on my blog."
"Let's check!" Sherlock leapt off the bed and ran to the laptop. He pulled up John's blog.
It's mad. I think he might be mad. He was certainly arrogant and really quite rude and he looks about 12 and he's clearly a bit public school and, yes, I definitely think he might be mad but he was also strangely likeable. He was charming. It really was all just a bit strange.
"You see! There!" he cried, stabbing the screen.
"I said you looked 12! That doesn't translate into I thought you were pretty! I don't tend to think of 12 year old boys as pretty!"
"You said I was charming and likeable."
"Yes, but again that is not 'read as: thought he was hot and hope to get a leg over!'"
"You didn't say that Sarah was pretty."
"I also didn't say that she looked twelve. I said she was great AND that you ruined our date."
"Well, most people don't think that I'm charming and likeable, so I think that's a declaration right there."
"You really are insufferable, aren't you? Alright, I thought you were amazing from the first, just not pretty."
"I am amazing (and pretty)."
"And so extraordinarily modest for all that." He bit Sherlock on the shoulder as he pushed him back to the bed.
"Ow! Is this sadism going to be an ongoing part of our relationship, because I'm going to have to do some re-evaluating if it is.
"Will you add it now?"
"What? That you're pretty? Look, can we get away from the word pretty here? I might say that you are handsome…"
"No, will you say that we're together now. You've been quite vehement about denying it in the past."
"That's because it wasn't true in the past. No, I don't think that I'll have any problem, well, depends on the people, and how demonstrative you want to be in public, but no. I'm here now. I have no problem saying that you and I are together, lovers, boyfriends (well, that one's a bit ridiculous), and lovers is a bit intimate, so…let's leave it as together. Going steady" John snickered.
"I am not a 12 year old girl. I didn't scribble your name in my notebook over and over with hearts around it."
"No, but you used it as your password."
"That's a very recent thing!"
"Unh-hunh. In fact—let me see your notebook!" There was a brief struggle as John attempted to get off the bed to get to Sherlock's notebook on the table, but they were too evenly matched and Sherlock had John pinned in a moment. John could have broken free, but it really didn't seem the time when they were both panting and he could feel Sherlock hard against his hip and Sherlock had that hungry look in his eyes again.
John flipped Sherlock onto his back, peeled off the dressing gown and gripped Sherlock's cock in his hand. "How far could I push you, I wonder, now that I know you're a nymphomaniac?"
"I believe the proper word would be satyriasis."
"Says the man with a raging hard-on who's rutting into his lover's hand." He leant in and kissed Sherlock while working his hand between them. Sherlock soon had his hand down John's pajama bottoms and then worked them down to keep them from being ruined as well. They rolled about for a few minutes, each trying to get the upper hand, while still gripping one another cocks, laughing and catching each other with ungainly kisses. It was half rough foreplay and half a wrestling match. And somewhere in there it was too much for John to be wrapped in long white arms and legs while nimble fingers were stroking him and a plush mouth was kissing and occasionally biting him, and he came over Sherlock's stomach, and with a few fierce strokes brought Sherlock to a groaning orgasm as well.
They collapsed back on the bed which was a crispy, sticky mess by now, just breathing heavily and giggling a bit.
"That's something I'm going to have to get used to."
"What?"
"Struggling for dominance."
"Really? I'd have thought that some women would want to be dominant at least part of the time."
"Yes, but none of them could flip me and pin me."
"Not even soldiers?"
"A few came close. But, never with quite the fight you gave me. When I first saw you, I'd have never guessed you were as strong as you are."
"Yes, but you're not very observant."
"I am far more observant than you give me credit for, I'll have you know! I am an army doctor after all—judging people's fitness is part of my training."
"Alright, John, tell me, as a Doctor, what you can deduce from my body."
"I may not be a sadist, but I'm also not so much of a masochist as to invite you to tell me where I'm wrong."
"I won't do that. I'll…try not to that again in future. Go ahead."
John sat up and started working his way up Sherlock's naked body, touching points along the way, "Well, you wear pointed shoes, and you shouldn't because you're getting bunions. A variety of old scars. You skinned your knees a lot as a child, sometimes on gravel.
"You have well defined muscles despite your thinness which I cannot figure out, because I've never seen you exercise except when running after criminals. Do you do yoga in your room at night?
"You have horizontal stretch marks on your knees and hips and since I cannot imagine that you've ever been fat, I suspect that you had a very fast growth spurt. Probably growing six to eight inches in less than a year.
"So you went from being small for your age to one of the tallest in your class. That must have been painful in more ways than one."
"Your cock is above average in length, but average in girth."
Sherlock grinned at that.
"You have calluses on the pads of your fingers from the violin, but also one on the side of your middle finger, so you've done a lot of handwriting holding the pen too tightly.
"You're covered in love bites which means that you have a very passionate lover."
"Oh, does it?"
"Yes. I think that I've done well with your body. Especially since, despite my lesser intellect, I have made you scream three times today."
Sherlock batted his lashes and simpered, "Will you make me scream again?"
"Don't keep doing that."
"A little sensitive, John?" Sherlock asked, but his voice had returned to its normal baritone.
"No, homosexuals can be as stereotypical as they want to be or not, but I know that you aren't that…person. And I also know that you can put on a persona like other people put on hats, so I never want you to be anything but yourself with me.
"But I fully intend to make you scream again and moan and gasp, just after we eat and watch Doctor Who."