JOHN P.O.V.
There was something the matter with Sherlock. He'd been acting strangely ever since we went to the park, especially with the whole grabbing me in the alleyway thing - not that I was complaining too strenuously about that. This was different, though.
As we drove off with Mycroft to heaven knows where, to do goodness knows what (nobody ever tells me anything), his body suddenly tensed beside me. I looked up at him and he was staring out of the rear window, his face completely frozen. I started to turn, to see what had affected him so badly, but he immediately grabbed my shoulders to halt my movements, switching his gaze to me with the strangest look on his face.
"What is it?" I asked him, concerned. "What's the matter?"
He didn't say anything, just staring at me, his eyes moving over my face as if he was trying to memorise it, which I'm sure he had already done by now. Then, with no warning, he yanked me forward into an awkward hug, slipping his hands inside my coat and around my body.
I let out a grunt of surprise, before trying to pull back – a deserted alley was one thing, but a moving vehicle with his brother sitting opposite was a little bit out of my comfort zone. He released me without argument and sat back into his seat, angling his body away from me. No explanation, no apology, not that I really expected either from Sherlock.
"Has something happened?" I pressed him, looking to Mycroft when Sherlock didn't respond.
For a moment I wondered if this sudden departure might be a family thing. "Is your Mother alright?" I asked, not able to bring myself to use the word 'Mummy' to anyone over the age of seven.
Mycroft smiled benevolently at me. "Mummy is very well, thank you, John," he nodded at me. "Sherlock has merely agreed to assist me with a rather delicate problem."
I looked at him doubtfully. "That doesn't sound like him."
We both turned to look at Sherlock, who was now staring out of the window, tension evident in every line of his body. Something was very definitely wrong. I decided I needed to 'man-up' and get over my embarrassment about being in an enclosed space with my gay lover and his upper-crust sibling.
"Excuse us," I muttered to Mycroft and he nodded, smiling approvingly at me, before turning his attention to the opposite window so that we were presented with the back of his head.
I slid along the seat until my thigh was pressed against Sherlock's, and put my hand on his shoulder, feeling the tremor which ran through him at my touch.
"Sherlock," I said quietly. There was no response. I moved my hand up to the back of his neck and he shivered. Using my other hand to cup his jaw, I turned his head around so that I could see him properly. He looked wild, his eyes dark, and his jaw so tight his teeth were gritted together. I could not imagine what had happened to bring about this reaction in him, but he was ridiculously tense and clearly distressed.
I brought both my hands to his face and tried to soothe him, stroking my thumbs along his high cheekbones and smoothing the tips of my fingers over his eyebrows and forehead. After a couple of minutes, I pushed my left hand into the hair behind his ear and used my right to stroke gently along his jaw, tracing the shape of his lips with my thumb. I could feel him relaxing slightly, as I was bearing more of the weight of his head in my left hand, where my fingers were making small circular movements in his hair.
After a little while, the tension in his jaw started to ease and his lips parted slightly. I pressed the tip of my index finger against his mouth and saw his eyes flash to Mycroft, who presumably still had his back to us, because Sherlock touched his tongue to the end of my finger in invitation. Happy to distract him, I slid it into his mouth a little, before stroking around the inside of his lips. He was definitely leaning towards me now and he started to suck, running his tongue along and down, so that he was lapping at the cleft between my fingers, which felt inappropriately good. Really, having a boyfriend with a distinct oral fixation could never be a bad thing; I didn't even mind the biting.
I held back a moan, remembering where we were, and with whom, and concentrated on Sherlock, who gradually seemed to be settling somewhat. I slowly withdrew my finger, cupping his jaw again as I leaned forward and kissed him several times. Soft, tender kisses with no tongues involved, just our lips coming together gently and with affection.
Pulling back, I looked at him carefully, still framing his face in my hands. His eyes were huge against his pale skin and he looked strangely delicate and ethereal. I'm falling in love with this man, I thought, and somehow the idea didn't shock me at all.
I smiled at him. "Are you alright?"
He nodded slightly. "I'm sorry, John," he murmured.
I looked at him quizzically; he so rarely apologised for anything and now I didn't even know what he was sorry for.
"Thank you," he added – another rare occurrence, although this didn't look like the time to make an issue of it.
"It seemed to be what 'a good boyfriend' would do," I pointed out, trying to make him smile. He had spent the last week quoting 'a good boyfriend does this' or 'a good boyfriend never does that' at me. I particularly remembered the day I was trying to get rid of him so I could throw up in peace. It had occurred to me to wonder if he was getting relationship tips from a website aimed at pubescent girls; Google has a lot to answer for.
I released his face and took his hand, sitting back into my seat, and he laced our fingers together tightly, giving me a small smile. When I looked around, Mycroft was texting, then he regarded his phone with an irritated expression.
"Where are we going, anyway?" I asked Sherlock quietly, assuming he at least had some idea what was happening.
He just shrugged. "Job for Mycroft," he said. "Don't know the details yet."
It seemed to me extremely odd that Sherlock would agree to undertake a case for Mycroft, without knowing exactly what it entailed – in fact it seemed strange that he was willing to assist his brother at all, as I had witnessed him refusing similar requests several times in the past. Really, this day was just getting more peculiar by the minute.
Mycroft exhaled loudly, then knocked on the partition between us and the driver, which slid down smoothly. "221B Baker Street," he said, pressing a button to restore the divider. "I do apologise, gentlemen." He turned to us. "It would appear that my problem has resolved itself, so I have intruded on your time unnecessarily."
Sherlock's eyebrows were nearing his hairline and he leaned forward aggressively. "What are you playing at, Mycroft?"
Mycroft just returned his gaze with his usual expression of polite enquiry.
Sherlock shook his head slightly. "Did you know…" he trailed off, shooting a glance at me, then studied Mycroft a little longer. "Why did you come!" he exclaimed in a low tone. It wasn't a question, his voice sounded plaintive and almost despairing. He dropped his head, sitting back and tightening his grip on my hand even further.
I looked at Mycroft enquiringly but just got his 'polite face' smiling blandly back at me.
"Apologies, my dear John," he said, and for a moment I thought there was a thread of real regret in his voice. "Ah, here we are," he continued a few minutes later, as we pulled up in front of the flat. "Must get back to business, eh?" He raised a hand dismissively in farewell as we left the car. Sherlock didn't even look at him.
By the time we got upstairs, Sherlock seemed to have frozen again. I pushed him down to sit on the sofa and went off to make some tea, managing to locate some rather crumby digestives. I had to practically force them into his hand, but he did at least sip at the tea, although one bite of biscuit seemed to almost choke him.
I put my mug down on the coffee table and turned towards him, "Sherlock, what is it?" I asked him pleadingly. "You have to tell me what's the matter!"
He was just looking at me again, then he shook his head. "I can't tell you, John," he replied. "I just…" He was tensing up again and jumped to his feet, dumping his cup on the window ledge.
He started pacing the room the way he does when a case really has him in knots and his brain is working at a hundred miles an hour, muttering to himself and waving his arms around. After a few minutes, he came to a stop in the middle of the room and thrust both hands into his hair, tugging mercilessly.
I stood up to go to him, but before I could move forward his head snapped up and he fixed me with a piercing stare, which seemed to freeze me in place. We stood like that for a few moments, just staring at each other, until he let out a frustrated cry and hurled himself at me, his impetus driving me backwards until I was pressed against the wall.
His hands gripped the sides of my head to hold me in place and his head swooped down to kiss me with bruising intensity. There was a sharp edge of desperation in his actions which made me uneasy, but I couldn't deny that he was turning me on. He dropped a hand to my shoulder, then slid it quickly down the front of my body until he was gripping me firmly, squeezing rhythmically as he sucked on my tongue. I gasped into his mouth and he suddenly pulled me away from the wall and put both hands on my shoulders, pushing me to my knees. The position was nothing new, but it was very unlike him to be so forceful or demanding. I found I rather liked it.
I yanked off my jumper, then started to reach for his belt, but he stopped my hands, falling to his knees also and pulling me against him once more. He was kissing me again, one hand cupping the back of my head and the other wrapped around my torso, holding me so tightly that it was difficult to breath. I struggled for air and he eased off a little, then slid his hand down to my lower back to support me as he started pressing me backwards towards the floor, grabbing a cushion off the sofa for my head at the last moment.
His body followed me down until he was lying full length on top of me and he brought both hands up to my face.
"John," he said softly, kissing me sweetly for a moment, before his intensity returned. "John," he said again, moving his mouth along my jaw, then down to my neck, just where he knew I was particularly sensitive. I could feel his fingers at the buttons of my shirt and he pulled it open, kissing along my collarbone to my scarred shoulder, then down my chest, pausing to lick and suck at my nipples. I was writhing beneath him by this point, my hands stroking and kneading whatever part of him I could reach as he moved over me.
His hands slid to my jeans and he quickly finished undressing me, then sat up and tugged off his own clothes in a blur of motion. He regarded my body hungrily for a moment, then grabbed a fleecy throw rug off the back of the arm chair and spread it out, waiting until I moved onto it before lying back down on top of me.
The feeling was absolutely incredible. Even though we slept cuddled together every night, there was something so different about this. Sherlock seemed absolutely desperate for me, his hands stroking up and down my sides as he kissed me again, then he nudged my legs apart so that he could nestle between them, moving his hips so that we rubbed together; it was unbelievable.
Part of my mind was still aware that something was worrying him, that he wasn't quite himself, but if this was what he needed, there was no way I was going to deny him. My head fell back and I arched involuntarily, almost embarrassed by the noises I was making.
He raised himself onto one elbow and swept his other hand down my body, raising my knee until my foot was flat on the floor, before stroking his hand up my inner thigh.
"John," he spoke urgently, his voice husky and even deeper than usual. "John..." He waited until I looked at him, his fingers questioning as they explored me. "John, I want..." his eyes were burning. "I want to..." his finger pressed into me slightly, his intention very obvious.
Considering all the time and energy I had spent worrying about this, now that the moment was here I supposed I should feel more nervous, but honestly it never occurred to me to hesitate.
"Yes," I told him, gasping out the word. "Yes, Sherlock, whatever you want." I was panting now as his finger became more insistent. "Anything," I promised him. There was just one more thing I had to do.
Lifting both my arms, I cupped his face in my hands and brought it towards me, raising my head to kiss him gently. "I love you," I told him, kissing him again. "I love you, Sherlock." I released him and fell back against the cushion.
His eyes widened and his hands abruptly stilled. An array of expressions passed over his face too quickly for me to identify, then he dropped his head down into the crook of my neck, pressing his face hard against me and I felt his body shudder.
"Sherlock?" I queried. "Sherlock, I'm sorry, was that not what you wanted?" I felt unsure now, and a little embarrassed.
"John," he muttered into my neck. "Don't be sorry. Please, don't ever be sorry." He lifted his head and his face was tortured. He kissed me again but it was wrong, his mouth was twisted.
I put my hands on his shoulders and pushed him back a little way. He didn't fight me.
"Sherlock, what is it?" I insisted this time, rolling us so that we were both on our sides. "Look, we don't have to do this now," I told him, stroking his face, concern for him having taken the edge off my excitement anyway. "We have all the time in the world."
He made an agonised sound, which just increased my frustration. "But you have to tell me what has upset you so much." I was pleading with him. "I don't understand. I don't know what's wrong. I want to help, but I don't know what to do..."
I had never seen him like this; his face was tight and I was getting really worried. In a swift move, he hugged me to him again, holding me closely for a few moments, then seemed to come to a decision.
"I have to go out," he announced, sitting up and reaching for his clothes.
"What?" I exclaimed. "Sherlock, what's going on?" I grabbed his arm. "Tell me!"
He turned as I sat up and gripped my elbows, looking at me intently. "I'm sorry, John," he said. "I can't explain. There's something I have to do." He paused. "Try to do," he corrected.
"Can't I help?" I asked him, not liking the sound of this at all.
He smiled grimly, and stroked my face. "Not with this," he said, then jumped up, throwing his clothes back on haphazardly.
I pulled the blanket around myself, feeling suddenly self-conscious and, if I'm honest, rather rejected.
He was grabbing his scarf by this time, but when he looked around and saw me sitting there, he strode back across the room to me, bending to press a hard kiss to my mouth.
"John, I..." he stopped. "Don't go out, will you?" he requested.
"What do you mean?" I asked him, but he just shook his head.
"I'm not sure how long I'll be, but please stay here," he insisted. "I want to come home to you. Please, John, promise me you'll stay here?"
I shrugged my shoulders. "Where else would I go?" I asked him. "Are you going to tell me what this is about?"
He closed his eyes briefly. "Hopefully it won't matter," he said, cryptically. He pressed his lips to my forehead, then turned and almost ran out of the flat. I heard the downstairs door banging behind him.
Well, that certainly wasn't how I'd imagined our first time going.
Feeling deflated in more ways than one, as well as somewhat foolish sitting naked on a throw rug in the living room at five o'clock in the afternoon, I got dressed again, then made a sandwich, since we'd never got round to lunch.
I was worried about Sherlock. He'd shown more emotion today than in the entire time I had known him, and I wasn't at all sure what to make of it. He was such a contradiction; on the one hand he was fully aware of his genius and could be the most arrogant man you'd ever meet. On the other, he was surprisingly insecure, seemingly convinced that swarms of women would descend upon me eagerly and take me away from him the moment I gave even the slightest appearance of being single – ever since we had 'gone public' he was constantly taking my hand, or linking our arms together. For someone of his intellect and, I felt free to admit it now, his astonishing good looks, it was surprising... it seemed that I was the only case where he persistently ignored all the evidence.
Feeling restless, I thought about walking down to the pub, but remembered Sherlock's insistence that I stay here. Fine. Looking around at the mess, I decided to tidy up a little. I picked up the sofa cushion which had formed my temporary pillow and turned to put it back, when I noticed something glinting in the upholstery – it was a pound coin. That made me wonder what else might be down there, so I pulled off the other cushions and had a good root around. I found seven more coins of varying amounts, three marbles, a whistle, and what appeared to be a full set of metatarsal bones.
There was something else lodged deeply down the side of the arm where Sherlock had been sitting earlier, but I couldn't reach it. Refusing to be beaten, I fetched a wooden spoon from the kitchen. That did it – I managed to lever the object up far enough with the spoon so that I could grasp it with my fingers; I pulled it out triumphantly... it was my phone. That was odd – I clearly remembered putting my phone in my zippered inside coat pocket when we went out this morning because I was expecting a call from Harry, so how had it become lodged down the side of the sofa? And switched off to boot?
I shook my head; really this had been the oddest day. I switched the phone back on and it started beeping immediately – there were seven text messages and three voicemails. For a moment I felt unusually popular, but then I realised they were probably all for Sherlock – he so often took my things that people had got used to reaching him on my phone if he didn't answer his own. I looked at the list of text messages and sure enough they were nearly all from Sally Donovan, with the exception of Harry's, asking me to call her to arrange lunch if I was free the following Thursday.
The ones from Sally, I wasn't sure if I should read, but in the end decided I would – if she wanted Sherlock, I could at least let her know that he wouldn't be back until later. As it turned out, they seemed to be meant for me, all asking me to call her, with increasing degrees of urgency. I listened to the voice mails and they were more of the same, she was really most insistent.
I debated just ignoring them... I didn't really like Sally and surely Lestrade would call if it was something important; but I was bored with tidying already and had nothing better planned until Sherlock returned. Sighing, I sat down heavily and pressed the relevant buttons. After all, what harm could it do?