AN: It's ridiculous how happy a handful of favs and reviews make me. Thanks, everyone who did. You made my mont- day. Why. Why would you. why have you stuck around for four chapters.
Sorry this chapter wasn't up for a while, I'm going to be away from home until school starts.
Oh god. School.
LOTS OF STUFF HAPPENS IN THIS CHAPTER. OF THE EMOTIONAL AND SEXUAL VARIETIES. THIS IS MY FAVORITE CHAPTER SO FAR AND I HOPE IT'S YOURS TOO. ENJOY.
John woke up feeling crushed, hot, and confined, his consciousness flickering from Afghanistan to the near darkness of his bedroom.
Naturally, a year's worth of adrenaline started pumping through his veins.
He started thrashing around as ferociously as he possibly could, but the weight on his chest and the constricting hold on his arms only seemed to get more intense as he struggled. Trying to kick was equally as fruitless, it seemed that the pressure holding down his body went all the way down to cover all of his thighs and curl under his shins.
"John, you aren't going to accomplish much if you choose to continue what you're doing." Sherlock's sarcasm was muffled in the mattress.
The sound of that velvety baritone shocked John into stillness, his heavy breathing and racing heartbeat filling the following silence.
"God, I was wondering how long it would take for you to get it out of your bloody system…"
More breathing filled silence.
"I was talking to you constantly for about one hundred and ten seconds. How long could one small person squirm like a deranged wolverine before they start to see reason?" Sherlock chuckled right next to John's ear, raising his head from where he had had it tucked over John's shoulder to press his face against the still thrumming pulse in the smaller man's neck.
It was about right then that John's brain finally caught up to the situation.
A normal person would have questioned why their crazy flatmate was in their room, or why they had tried to wake him up from a nightmare in the first place, or you know, at least they would have questioned why someone was in their damn bed.
But, as he was painfully and constantly reminded of, John Watson was not "normal".
Sherlock had spread out right down the middle of john's chest, wrapping his arms around John's torso to hold back the soldier's punches and stretching his long body out so that his hips were aligned with John's lower thighs, wrapping those fucking perfect legs under John's calves to keep him from kicking.
Oh, and Sherlock had his face pressed against his neck.
And now he was hard.
Fucking splendid.
John threw his head back into his pillow to avoid absolutely all possible eye contact with the image of Sherlock lying on top of him, and to delay the inevitable/necessary conversation they would have to have about this entire clusterfuck of a situation.
His face burned as he thought about how Sherlock would definitely be able to feel his erection pressing into his lean stomach.
God, has it always been so hot in this room?
Thankfully he didn't have much time to sort out his panicked thoughts because Sherlock, being Sherlock, noticed John's problem almost immediately, snapping his head away from john and laying still for a few seconds.
John could almost see his friends face, probably wearing the contemplative expression Sherlock adapted when he tried to analyze large amounts of new evidence.
He waited for snide comments about his sexuality, for a surprised exclamation, for him to get bloody of off him and leave the room to incorporate this new information about his flatmate with his perceived illustration of John's person.
But Sherlock, as he often did, took every scenario John had made in his head and crushed them into tiny little pieces.
He pulled his slender limbs out from under John and sat up on his knees, straddling john's upper thighs and spread his large –perfect, brilliant, elegant- hands on the sides of John's waist, gripping his T-shirt lightly, his face ethereal and his hair lit up from behind him like the halo that so often seemed to make its appearance in near darkness.
It seemed like the entire world had stopped breathing as Sherlock raised his pale eyes –perfect, brilliant, glowing- from his own fingers to john's blankly shocked face, looking directly into wide dark eyes as he thrust his hips forward smoothly, brushing his own erection against John's.
"Oh-oh fuck," John's hands scrambled against the crumpled bed sheets, his vision flashing brightly as he flung his head back against his pillow.
The room was almost completely silent, John's breathless panting sounding like the only noise in all of London.
The detective just sat there on john's hips with a blank facial expression, waiting for John to react or say something.
When John opened his eyes and saw that Sherlock wasn't moving he groaned in frustration, bringing his hands up to cover his eyes (how many times was he going to do that today?). He laughed at himself (how many times was that going to happen today?!) when he noticed he was shaking. It must be the adrenaline. Or, you know, the emotional turmoil from the nightmare. PTSD trauma and nerves and adrenaline. Completely legitimate reasons.
Yeah. Not because you're fighting the urge to touch your male flatmate everywhere possible and fucking rip his clothes off…
Dammit.
Sherlock must have been getting impatient because he rocked forward again, making John curse and pant faster.
John took deep breaths for thirty seconds before speaking for the first time that night (well, the first time while he was awake).
"Sherlock," his voice broke and he sounded rather pathetic, "please get off of me."
Please get off on me-
"Why should I?" Sherlock drawled, tightening his grip on John's shirt.
"You can't- you can't do this to me. You don't know what you're doing. I-"
"John, when have I ever not known what I'm doing?"
Oh my god that fucking voice, jesus-
"You're my friend, my flatmate, a fucking virgin, and I'm not-"
Sherlock pushed his hips forward again languidly.
"Fucking- jesus- stop-"
"You're not what John? Not gay? Well, isn't that just so very apparent right now." Sherlock rocked forward with every extra burst of sarcasm. He looked composed and pale and fucking gorgeous when he was rolling his slim hips on top of john.
John didn't have a response to all that, so he just laid there, helpless, panting, and dying of arousal.
"All of those reasons are idiotic, and when you can think of something at least partially relevant I will get off of you and leave this room right away."
Sherlock parted his lips, his tongue swiping over his full bottom lip as he pushed their cocks together again, the long slow movement and the friction from john's boxers was fucking torture.
John gasped and bucked his hips up without meaning to.
"Fuck- sorry-"
Sherlock abruptly leaned forward, roughly covering the lower half of johns face with a long thin hand.
"Don't ever be sorry. John. Don't ever tell me you're sorry." Sherlock growled, his murderous expression mere inches from John's wide eyes.
Sherlock could be fucking terrifying when he wanted to be.
The open bathrobe fell dramatically around them, pooling around the edges of John's body and creating a curtain from Sherlock's arched back to the top of the mattress. All John could see was Sherlock.
Light from the window behind John's bed fell faintly on the detective's face; accentuating his sharp cheek bones and making his auroral eyes positively blaze, illuminating the wild curls framing his spectral white face and clenched jaw. His full pink lips were pressed together firmly.
He looked psychotic and magnificent and positively feral.
John bucked his hips again, whimpering from behind Sherlock's hand.
The motion must have caught Sherlock off guard because his eyes softened slightly and he removed his hand, relaxing and lying flat on John again, completely blanketing him like a bony ragdoll.
John's breath hitched as his mad man pushed their foreheads together, propping himself up slightly on his elbows and spilling hot minty breaths against John's lips.
"I'm so sorry, John. You're the best friend I have ever had, and I used you. For an experiment," Sherlock bit that word out, "John. All you do is help me and care for me and I used you. I'm a bloody childish sociopath and not only do you actually stay with me but you care about me," his facial expression changed, his eye's widening in confusion and his eyebrows drawing together in frustration, "Why do you stay? Why do you care?" His eye's stayed locked on john's shirt collar, keeping his head down.
When John didn't answer right away he wrapped his hands tightly in the material on the soldier's shoulders, pulling towards him.
"I want to help. I want to fix you, and so far I've only made you worse. Don't leave me. No matter how much I break you don't leave me. I'm selfish and I need you functioning and existing next to me. Always. I'll do bloody anything to keep you." Sherlock twisted his hands into John's shirt again, gripping even tighter. "Anything." He pushed his face into John's neck and pulled his legs up next to John's sides, snaking his arms behind john's shoulders and crushing them together.
"John. John. My John-"
Sherlock's quite mantra and distraught cuddling were cut short by hands in his hair, gently pulling him back up to John's face so that the good doctor could softly press their lips together.
The kiss was chaste and heart wrenching and unexpected, and Sherlock untangled his hands from john's shirt to cover the sides of John's face with them.
John's face was wet with tears.
AN: I thought that was a good stopping point (and I got lazy and didn't want to write anymore… haha sorry) I will make these precious boys have the sex eventually. I promise. Next chapter.
So when I was writing Sherlock's emotional breakdown I had three things in mind:
fuCKING RIECHENBACH FALLS
the fact that he has never had friends and everyone has always hated him. (that bastard from the blind banker. Don't even get me fucking started)
John watson's eating disorder. If you are unfamiliar with it you can read a short little passage explaining it here post/47567082889/gini-baggins-what-john-has-a-depr ession
Reviews make me feel all warm and fuzzy.
I've been ditched at a relative's house for three weeks, hundreds of miles away from anything, so sorry if I don't write regularly.
If you want to talk or give me writing tips my tumblr url is appropriatelypessimistic
Wow that sounded pathetic. Bye! Have fun, be safe, do what you want.