"Huh….Hun…..Hun….." John panted as he raced behind Sherlock, dodging thickets and thorny bushes, his shoes making a sloshing sound with every forward step as they slapped into wet puddles. Sherlock was gaining ground fast, the lanky git, his coat flapping behind him like a cape. It was a moonlit night, thank God, but visibility was still poor, and John concentrated all his faculties on making sure he did not lose sight of Sherlock.
They were chasing a group of smugglers who had carried out a gangland style execution of two members of the opposite gang three days ago. Sherlock had gained information from his underground network that the two gang leaders would be meeting tonight at a warehouse, to see if a truce could be brokered. The plan, such as it was, was to follow them and confront them, a plan John had vehemently argued against and vetoed. Without much grace, Sherlock had acquiesced to let Lestrade in on the location once it was confirmed.
The suspects had taken off in their car, but Sherlock with that spooky in-built GPS in his brain had led John via alleyways and short-cuts to the location.
"Over here. Get in between the crates," Sherlock hissed as both men positioned themselves between large mouldy looking wooden crates, as they hid from their quarries. Both were panting loudly, as they struggled to get their breath back.
Minutes passed by as the two cars arrived and slowed to a stop outside the abandoned warehouse. Two men came to greet the four men who came out of the cars. Their voices did not carry to where John and Sherlock were hiding, they went into the warehouse. Three men paced outside, on guard duty.
"Did you text Lestrade?" John asked.
"Yes," came the brief response as Sherlock's eyes remained focused on the closed door of the warehouse. A sliver of street light illuminated one side of his face, while John was completely in the dark. They were crouched quite close together, close enough to feel each other's breath.
"What now?" whispered John.
"Now we wait for the cavalry to arrive, just as you wished," Sherlock replied, a hint of disgust and frustration in his voice.
"Damned if I am going to let either of us get shot trying to muscle into a gang-war. You take too many risks as it is," John retorted.
Sherlock turned to glare at him, before swinging his head back to watch the warehouse and the patrolling men. That he was zoned into some thought process was obvious, his eyes momentarily turned inwards as he stared at the men.
John watched him, safe in the shroud of the darkness surrounding him. His gaze flicked from the way the light angled on Sherlock's face creating long shadows under his cheekbones, the eyes which looked almost colourless in the dull orange glow of the sodium lamps, the curls which gently fluttered in the light breeze. He breathed in deep the scent of Sherlock's sweat, laced with exertion and adrenaline. He listened to the rustle of Sherlock's coat every time he moved, the barely audible sounds of his breath.
He felt he was drowning. In desire, in pure unadulterated single-pointed longing.
The last fortnight had been….different.
The day when Peter had left Baker Street had more or less passed in a daze. John had called up and cancelled his work at the surgery, not able to trust himself to treating patients and interacting with humanity in general. But he had been unable to stay at home, needing to go out and think. His thoughts had been the usual hot-potch of his restrained thwarted desires for Sherlock, an ocean of self-pity and worthlessness that he was drowning in, Peter's cryptic brief comments about 'Doms' and submission, wondering about what the hell kind of alternative lifestyle it was that Sherlock practiced in the bedroom, a feeling of frustration and fury and yes, jealously at the perceived loss of what he always considered was his to possess… he had walked the streets of London, aimlessly, for hours, taking brief respites on the sidewalk benches, staring at the people around him, thinking about Sherlock….Sherlock…..Sherlock.
Eventually though it was time to come home and face whatever the future brought. He could not walk forever. His feet were killing him and it was dark and freezing out there.
He expected to walk into an empty flat as had become the norm the past few months. He had thought about Peter coming back tonight or Sherlock going out to be with him.
What he had not anticipated was the sight of Sherlock lying down on his stomach on the carpet in the living room, surrounded by papers and peering at them one after another with his magnifying glass.
"Oh!" John exclaimed in surprise. "Didn't expect you to be here. Thought you would be out with Peter!"
Sherlock looked up and flicked his eyes up and down John before turning back to the paper in front of him.
"John, hand me that box I've stashed next to the sofa."
John removed his jacket as he walked up to the box Sherlock was pointing to. "Case?"
"Yes. Private client. Blackmail. There are compromising letters written years ago. Now she's been getting threatening letters asking for money. And I know I've seen this handwriting pattern previously. Look, come here, see this, this terminal stroke on the letter 'g' and that connecting stroke between the 's' and 'o'? It is very distinctive," Sherlock said as he pointed to the letters. "Do you want to help?"
"Yeah, sure. What do you want me to do?"
"Look through the box. Keep this specimen in front of you. Try to notice if anything is remotely similar and hand it over to me."
They spent forty five minutes going through the box. Anything that looked similar, John pulled out and handed to Sherlock, who then went over it with his keen eye and his magnifier.
"Didn't know you knew so much about handwriting," John mumbled.
"Had to learn it for a case years ago," Sherlock offered, as he straightened up and stretched. There was an open warmth on his face as he looked at John and asked, "Hungry?"
John looked up, startled at the sudden lump that formed in his throat. It had been years since Sherlock had first asked that question in that exact tone. It had been so long since they had been just this.
"Starving," John replied simply, aware that Sherlock would not have missed the huskiness of his voice.
The smile that Sherlock gave him was the same that he had given him on the most unforgettable night of John's life, the secretive intimate smile that only rarely graced his face.
"Thai?" Sherlock asked.
"Yes."
That was that first day.
Since then things had been both better and different.
The most glaring difference was that for the first time since John had moved back, Sherlock was home for a lot of the time.
John would come down in the mornings or after another day of drudgery at the surgery and find Sherlock pottering about the house or working on his laptop or just lying quietly on the sofa in his thinking pose and not moving for hours.
John had felt so lonely for so long, he wanted to weep in gratitude just to have Sherlock present. He could not remember the last time he had just existed in the force field of Sherlock without making attempts to judge him or find fault with him or being angry with hm. Every thing was somehow better, brighter when he was around. The world was a beautiful technicolour instead of the monochromic sepia it had been for months now.
John felt hyperaware of Sherlock, his presence…and not to put too fine a point on it, his body.
He found himself stealing sneaky glimpses at him, at every individual part of him that made that completely improbable and exquisitely beautiful whole. As if his mind was taking mental snap-shots to obsess over later.
At the curls which looked as if set by a professional stylist, but that John knew were natural and he wondered how soft they would be to touch…..
At the delicate looking wrists and long fingers and John marvelled at their dexterity at any task that Sherlock set for himself, whether it was playing the violin, or handling scientific equipment and how those hands would make love….
At that long graceful swan's neck which coupled with that perfect posture and how it gave him such an effortless aristocratic bearing and how many kisses it would take to traverse that endless length…
At those full perfectly sculptured lips which had the power to make artists weep with joy and John wondered how soft and sumptuous they would be when they kissed…..
At the brightest, most alert eyes he had ever seen, that shone with deep intelligence and saw everything and John wondered how much did Sherlock's pupils dilate when he was aroused… how they might glaze over when he orgasmed…..
At that lush arse as Sherlock walked away from him or bent down to get something. John wondered if it had dimples in the back, if it looked muscular or soft and fleshy, what it would feel like to cup those cheeks…..
One morning, John walked past him to get to the linen cupboard in the corridor where Sherlock had just come out of the shower, one hand rubbing the towel through his curls. The smell of citrus and musk and warmth and Sherlock assaulted his nostrils. John felt unsteady on his feet as he was suddenly overcome with craving to breathe and breathe and breathe…...
Later at night when Sherlock retired to his room, John would go back to his bedroom with his laptop and start exploring the strange and novel world of BDSM. In this digital age it was insanely easy to become very informed about any topic instantaneously and it seemed that nothing was off limits, the concept of privacy did not exist.
He had started with porn videos and gifs related to BDSM. And watched till his eyes bulged as young men were caned, spanked, flogged, as they were tied up in all manner of bondages and knots guaranteed to look both exotic and obscenely leave them splayed open for gangbangs. He saw all manner of gags and blindfolds attached, heard crying and whimpering as the Dominant paraded them with leather leashes around their necks, offering their mouths and arseholes in the service of other Dominants. He saw Submissives being pissed on and forced to drink the urine. He saw them being made to lick shoes and suckle on toes and their backs being used as tables for food and drink, while the Dominants laughed around them.
He had started to become familiar with the terms used like "impact play", "nipple torture", "Japanese rope bondage", "safe, sane and consensual", "safe-words", "scene negotiations", "Master-slave contracts", "edge play", "spreader bars"….. it was a never ending roaring river of information out there. He was a doctor and thought he had seen it all. But he found a lot of it was something he had never even heard about before.
He read about BDSM groups that 'trained' aspiring Dominants and Submissives—teaching them to wield and to endure all forms of bondage and sexual toys.
He read websites that contained information on the sublime intimacy and the nature of a true Master-servant relationship, the spiritual connection that was possible, and 'Dom-space' and 'Subspace'.
It was endlessly fascinating. A lot of it was just plain bizzare or disgusting. But to his surprise, many of the acts were indescribably arousing and intriguing.
The more he learnt, the more he fantasized.
With every bit of information he read, with every scene he played on video, with every description he read about; he sat and imagined if Sherlock was into this particular activity, was it something that turned Sherlock on? Does he wear leather when he whips someone? Is he a caring Dom or does he treat his Submissive as a slave? He is so good with his hands, I wouldn't be surprised if he knew every single way to tie someone up before fucking them. Does he put his foot on the Sub's face as he takes him from behind? Does he like nipple clamps? Does he prefer the cane or the flogger?
Even as he imagined what Sherlock would do, he could not but help imagine how he would feel if Sherlock was doing those things to him.
He found to his surprise that certain imaginations really aroused him. He got off every single night on different videos, it was his new guilty pleasure.
He thought he would really like for Sherlock to spread him apart on his lap while fingering him and playing with his balls and spanking him. Just before hoisting him up on his knees and fucking him into oblivion. The day he had watched that particular video he had shot a huge load clear across his chest just with that imagination. It had been unexpected, this level of arousal and curiosity.
He had never been into pain or humiliation and wondered about it. Was it because he was desperate for Sherlock's attention, that he would willingly undergo a few lashes from the cane or have his face fucked or be bound up like a Christmas turkey so that his legs were splayed open for Sherlock's pleasure. Or was it that he was really getting interested in pain?
It was all very confusing.
But he dared not go and ask questions to the one person who could help with his confusion.
Besides for the first time in a very long time, he neither bored nor depressed!
There had been three small cases interspersed during the fortnight to bring a respite to John's confusion and obsession. It had been the most fun John had had in months.
One night, John was sitting in his armchair pretending to type something and watching Sherlock out of the corner of his eye.
Sherlock stood next to the bookcase perusing through a book, a look of intense concentration on his face as his eyes flicked through the words rapidly. He was wearing his tattered pajamas and t-shirt, his naked feet looking shockingly intimate on the floor. For the hundredth time that fortnight, John was stealing glances at the bulge of his crotch. What does his cock look like? Are his curls the same colour down there? Is he circumcised? How big is it when he is erect? God, I am losing my mind. I would give anything to be allowed to go over there, and pull those pajamas down and bury my face into his crotch….what does he smell like? What does he taste like? Would he allow me? Fuck, my mouth is actually watering….
"Don't overthink it, John" Sherlock's deep voice sounded mild even as it ripped through the quiet of 221B at that time of the night.
John started as he raised his eyes guiltily from Sherlock's crotch to his face. Sherlock had that expression that John normally hated, the 'we both know what I am thinking' face. John felt heat rise from his neck up as he met Sherlock's knowing eyes, completely lost. I am not ready, not ready to admit what I am thinking, he thought panicking.
Sherlock's eyes looked disappointed as John stammered out, "What?" and shook his head as if to suggest he had been staring blankly. John shrugged and murmured, "It's late. I'm off to bed."
Just for a moment Sherlock allowed his shoulders to sag as they watched John's retreating back, before he took a deep breath and straightened his spine and went back to reading.
Present day…
Sherlock had been his brilliant best once again and John watched and watched as his friend danced around in his trademark coat and rattled off his deductions to a grateful looking Lestrade, even as Donovan and gang went about arresting the gang members.
Standing at the sidelines, John thought about how wonderful it felt just to be alive and here, sharing this singular man's world.
I can live with this. Just being allowed to savour the company and friendship of this man. He could live with this secret desire and longing that he felt too afraid to pursue. He had played so many roles in his life. Doctor, soldier, husband….he'd never felt more at home than when he was with Sherlock. So many identities. So many roles. None had given him more heartache and more joy than being the friend of this extraordinary man.
He makes me come alive.
It would have to do.
The cab ride home was spent in silence. Sherlock looked relaxed. John leant against the window and watched his reflection in the closed glass window, the street light occasionally illuminating that calm thoughtful visage before it plunged into darkness again.
"Want to order take-away when we get home?" John asked as Baker Street neared.
"Hmm…" Sherlock turned his head towards John. "Sorry, no. I have a friend meeting me for dinner."
"Oh," said John, fighting to keep the disappointment off his face. "Someone I know?"
Sherlock shook his head, "You've never met him. But he does know all about you. He's an old friend of mine from my Cambridge days, Victor Trevor."
An uncomfortable silence followed as John recalled Peter's words, "Victor actually warned me against coming here. Said once I've experienced him, no one else will ever come close….. And that Sherlock Holmes just does not do relationships."
"Right." John's smile was tight-lipped and perfunctory.
The cab slowed to a halt outside 221B. The streets were still busy.
Standing close to the front door was a tall, slim attractive man, wearing jeans and a smart casual shirt with a leather designer jacket, hands casually in his trouser pockets. His roaming eyes settled on the duo getting off the cab. As they approached him, his deep blue eyes lit up on catching sight of Sherlock, the hands came out of the pockets and he stood up straight, somehow his entire posture managing to convey respect.
"Victor," Sherlock said warmly as he shook hands. He turned to John, "John, this is Victor. Victor meet Dr John Watson."
An isolated lock of light brown hair fell over Victor's forehead as he leaned forward with genuine warmth and shook John's hand, smiling.
"It is a great pleasure to finally meet you, John. I've been nagging Sherlock for years about being introduced to Sherlock Holmes's famous blogger and friend."
John smiled as he shook hands. "I am afraid Sherlock has never even mentioned you until today," he quipped lightly.
But his heart clenched as he watched Sherlock lay a proprietary hand over Victor's back.
"It is a lovely night. I was thinking of taking Victor out for dinner. Would you care to join us, John?"
"No, that's fine. You two go ahead," John answered.
'Don't wait up," Sherlock said, and Victor gave a small, friendly wave as both turned and walked away.
John stood there watching their retreating backs for a moment, before going in.
It was close to midnight when John finally gave up his fight to fall asleep. He had left his trusty laptop downstairs and there was no other alternative except to go and get it.
He was inside the living room when he became aware of Sherlock turning away from the bookcase. Bloody git, can't decide whether he is a man or a cat, John thought and then his eyes settled on the riding crop in Sherlock's hand.
His heart seemed to give a loud thud and then race as he watched Sherlock running a long finger over the leather tip. His eyes were glued as he watched that finger as if hypnotised.
Sherlock murmured, "It's got cracks. I'll need to moisturise it first."
He looked up and down at John and took it all in at one glance; the dilated pupils, the elevated respiratory rate, the growing bulge in his groin and John's unique tell, the quick subconscious licking of his lips.
John felt pinned in place when their eyes met and he begged silently…..Please don't say anything, please don't say anything.
A heavy silence descended in the room. After a few moments Sherlock spoke.
"Good night, John," he said as he turned away purposefully and walked towards the bedroom.
John stood there gripping the back of the chair. He had gone from being almost sleepy to rock hard in seconds and he felt dizzy. And he knew Sherlock had noticed.
Damn you, Sherlock.