In Transition

Chapter 6: John

Before The Night Is Through

It's just before 8 when John gets back to 221b with a pocketful of supplies and a couple of useful addresses for later. Astonishing how much of this stuff there is to know. He's not sure yet whether to take Sherlock shopping with him, which could be interesting (but would almost certainly be embarrassing as well) or whether to surprise Sherlock. That might be better. Sherlock likes surprises.

No sign of Sherlock. John feels the grip of panic clench in his gut. Oh Christ. Sherlock's done something. Taken something.

Then he hears the gas boiler going and realizes – since the heating's not on – that Sherlock must be having a shower.

Almost right. Sherlock is just coming out of the bathroom, towel wrapped round him and slipping down over his hips. Their eyes meet. Sherlock is breathing unevenly. John's not sure he's breathing at all, and his good resolutions about a proper talk first seem to have evaporated.

John grabs Sherlock and shoves him against the bedroom door, kissing him hard. Sherlock kisses him back frantically, hands tearing at John's clothes as John fumbles for the door handle. They stagger through the door, losing the towel somewhere on the way. John's not even sure the door is properly shut before they hit the bed. Just have to hope Mrs Hudson is out or doesn't decide now would be a good moment to talk about the catering for that nice civil partnership.

John doesn't get to keep his clothes on very long, which is just fine by him, it's all fine, he thinks, and snorts with laughter, briefly disconcerting Sherlock, who shows his displeasure by biting John's shoulder. Not that John minds. He's got some biting of his own to do, mostly Sherlock's neck, which might have been designed for the purpose and quite possibly was. Sherlock's hands are clawing at John's back and John goes on kissing and sucking and biting till he's left a mark on Sherlock's pale skin, he wants everyone to see his stamp on this man.

Sherlock is swearing and groaning and seems to be trying to break John's ribs with his thighs. John pushes his hand between their bodies, which isn't easy given how tight Sherlock is gripping him, and starts groping Sherlock's cock. God, the noise Sherlock is making. John's getting dizzy just listening to it.

Well, not just from that. The feeling of Sherlock's cock in his hand, slippery already, and the heat of Sherlock's skin, and the clean wet faintly salty taste of it, and the smell of him that John can't identify or break down but which is completely Sherlock and unlike anyone else's, and the grip of him – oh god.

If John's not careful he's going to come before they've done anything, and that really wouldn't be a good idea.

John wrenches his hand away, making Sherlock swear again, and uses all his strength to break Sherlock's tight grip on his ribs. He straddles Sherlock, holding him down on the bed, grabbing his hands and pulling them up over Sherlock's head. Not easy, because Sherlock's thrashing around all over the place.

"Lie still," John says fiercely.

Somewhat to his surprise, Sherlock does, panting.

Sending up a silent prayer to whoever is the patron saint of fellatio, John kisses and licks his way from Sherlock's neck across his chest, down his stomach to his cock. Sherlock's whole body has gone taut, he's gripping the mattress and trembling. John tries to remember everything he now knows about how to do this, and tells himself this really isn't a good time to be distracted by puns about passing your orals. Taking Sherlock's cock in his mouth, he applies himself to the serious business of making Sherlock come.

His jaw starts aching after a while, he's pretty sure he's strained something essential under his tongue, not to mention being about to die of suffocation, but it seems to be working. Sherlock's pulling John's hair really a bit too hard actually, and he's not swearing any more, just making odd sharp little sounds that suddenly coalesce into a yell as Sherlock comes, pulse after pulse of him.

Sherlock looks pretty stunned as John comes up for air. John thinks he probably looks fairly wrecked as well. They lie there panting for a while, not good for anything else much. Sherlock seems to want to say something but it's not coming out; the most he can manage is a sort of whuffling noise. He's got hold of John's right hand and is kissing it repeatedly. Then his tongue slyly licks at John's palm before moving down to tease the pulse point in John's wrist. John groans, and Sherlock laughs shakily. He lets go of John's wrist and leans up over him, looking down at John and staring into his eyes till John feels dizzy and breathless all over again.

Sherlock brushes a barely-there kiss against John's mouth that makes him shiver with pleasure. Kisses John behind the ear, extraordinary, a jolt going right through his whole body, making him gasp and cling on to Sherlock. Kisses that place on John's neck and if this was what Sherlock had felt when John did that to himit's a wonder he didn't just ravish John right there and then, oh god, please, there. He's not sure if you can come just from kissing but he thinks he might be about to.

"Tell me what you want, John," Sherlock says hoarsely, and hearing that voice saying that to him almost tips John over the edge.

Fighting back an absurd impulse to say no really I'm fine, because it seems some conditioned reflexes die harder than others, John says "I want to fuck you."

They stare at each other as if neither of them can quite believe John just said that. Sherlock looks slightly apprehensive but also excited.

"Have you -" John decides not to finish that sentence.

"No," Sherlock says. "But I want you to."

Yes, and I want to be first with you for once, John thinks. He's shaken by how ferocious that desire is.

What happens next is new for both of them and that's just fine. Doing things in the wrong order, get it right next time, means that John's hands are too slippery with lube to manage the condom, so Sherlock has to put it on for him, stroking it carefully down over John's erection. Which is erotic to a degree John hadn't expected – probably should have done, it is Sherlock doing this to him after all – and makes John have to close his eyes and breathe carefully for a bit.

Sherlock is tight but John finds he knows where and how to press – so he bloody should after all the prostate examinations he's given – and whether it's the prostate thing or a serious backlog of sexual frustration that's causing it, Sherlock is getting hard again. John goes on exploring Sherlock with his fingers, working him open patiently, persistently, until Sherlock is moaning and pushing against him and John can't wait any longer to be inside him, has to slide his fingers out and push his cock into that tight hot space, slow and careful till he finds Sherlock doesn't want him to be.

And that's fine too, there's a lot of jagged emotion to work off here for both of them, both of them fucking hard and fast now, Sherlock's eyes closing as he grips John and squeezes him breathless, everything greedy and clenching and sharp.

"Look at me," John forces out, and Sherlock's eyes open wide.

Drowning again, a different kind of drowning, and the wrenching grasp of Sherlock's hand pushing John's hand to where he needs it, everything blurred in a glorious skidding shouting collapse. Sherlock gets there first, like he does with everything, what else is new?, but not by much, which makes a nice change, John thinks, and finds he's giggling at the silliness of the thought and the rush of sensation mixed together, which is unexpected but seems to be OK as well. Undone at last, the pair of them, so thoroughly John thinks he for one may never get properly done up again.

In the near-silence that follows all this noisy messy activity, they hear the discreet click of the bedroom door being closed from the outside, and an unmistakable step going back down the stairs.

"Oh god," John groans, "there'll be no stopping her after this."

"Mm," Sherlock agrees, clearly trying not to giggle and almost succeeding, "you'll have to make an honest man of me now."

Like that's going to happen any time soon.

"Does Mycroft have a shotgun?", John asks, a bit nervously.

Wouldn't put it past Mrs Hudson to tell him. Better start checking the wardrobe at night just in case, he thinks.

"I'm not sure about Mycroft," Sherlock says thoughtfully, "but Mummy certainly does."