Warnings for this chapter; mentions of sexual themes, and bit of what I'll call 'mind sex' involving a scene of explicit sexual nature.
Please be gentle, I haven't ever written smut before so this is a new thing to me.
The first section in italics is what John is imagining in his mind in order to... aid himself.
I apologise for the length of this chapter but I wanted to end where I did, the next chapter will be longer I promise. Thank you as per usual for the reviews, favourites and alerts; they mean an awful lot to me and are my motivation to keep writing.
The Return of Sherlock Holmes 8; Sink or Swim
221B was quiet; it had been for several days now. John sat in the old, worn armchair and stared at the wall. Every day since their confrontation at the graveyard Sherlock had been busy with a new case or a press meeting or some kind of police inquiry. It was going to be months before he was done with all of the legalities and public appearances to put himself back on the map and truly clear his name – even then he'd be tarred for life by Moriarty's vengeful destruction of all he'd become.
Normally the doctor would follow his companion wherever he went, but they were suffering a multitude of awkward silences and lack of contact. They stood several feet apart where there never used to be distance, and as soon as they came home Sherlock locked himself away in his room or busied himself with some incredibly important experiment. Doctor Watson knew he shouldn't worry himself, he knew what the detective was like; he blocked people out, it took him a while to adjust to changes in his personal circle and he wouldn't have any inclination as to how the ex-soldier really felt. But he did worry, that perhaps Sherlock said what he did just to stop conflict, that perhaps he had said it and been so confused by the emotions and the situation that really he hadn't felt that way at all.
Groaning loudly the doctor put his head into his hands and rested his elbows on his knees, rubbing his temples to satiate the burning headache that had begun there. His thoughts drifted to the other man once again, the things he had been keeping in a firmly sealed box at the back of his mind were coming to the forefront far more vividly than he had previously allowed them; now that he felt he might have some chance of seeing them come true. Pondering the way Sherlock's shirts would pull slightly around his chest, he felt his cheeks heat up and imagined he would be deeper shades of red and purple than a beetroot. There was the way that the detective's hair fell about his face, his shoulders, and those shoulder-blades – what John wouldn't do to scatter marks across their edges and claim the brunette as his. His and no-one else's, he wouldn't give him up even if the world came crashing around their ears, he had been through that before and it would never happen again. The thoughts continued on to what it would feel like to run his hands along the taller man's waist, it was so delicate, and it looked so soft; he would waste no time in releasing the detective from his coat and shirt, and even less time getting him out of those trousers, but maybe the scarf would stay – the doctor loved that scarf around his partner's neck. It was such a rich blue, it complimented Sherlock's eyes, and his skin, it became even paler and even more surreal if that was at all possible.
It took him until he let his mind wander far enough to those first moments when he would have the brunette revealed in his entirety for his hungry eyes to eat up, remembering the moment in Buckingham palace where he realised his friend was indeed entirely naked beneath the sheet he was wrapped in, for John to notice that he'd given himself a very uncomfortable companion. He was hard, and it needed seeing to.
He felt guilty, even though Sherlock had agreed to take their relationship further he certainly didn't show signs of it and the doctor had never gotten himself into this situation thinking about another man before.
Swallowing the lump in his throat he looked around quickly; there was no-one home, Mrs Hudson was out and Sherlock was at the crime-scene of his latest case. It was decided. Taking his time he undid his belt, sighing in a manner far too filthy at the release in pressure, and tentatively shifted his weight so he could at least pull his trousers and underwear far enough down to make it easy for himself.
Any other time he would have stopped himself then and there, but he'd allowed the thoughts in, and they were no longer obliged to leave him, it was almost painful taking himself in his hand as his imagination allowed him to think of it as the slender fingers of the detective. With a murmur of the taller man's name on his lips John allowed himself to palm, lightly at first, the aching erection that fit so neatly into his hand.
"Ah, hn, Sherlock!" called the doctor, he was getting so close now he wouldn't last much longer, the detective smirked at him, eyes half-lidded and voice husky.
"Maybe I should slow down a little, you seem far too excited." He purred, slowing the movements of his hand on the blonde's cock, it was teasingly slow, as if he were barely touching and everywhere he did it burned like fire. Doctor Watson bit down on his lower lip, hard enough to draw blood and bucked into his partner's palm, instinctively trying to increase the friction. "No?" asked the calm voice, full of underlying tones of anticipation. John knew he would have to ask, maybe even beg, but he needed the release so badly now, he was so close, and he could feel the throbbing ache from his groin to the pit of his stomach.
"Please, Sherlock," he started, gasping a little as the brunette ran the tip of his index finger through the pre-cum that had collected on his head; the gasp soon turned into a deep groan as fingers slick with saliva took his member in them once more. He hadn't noticed the detective sucking on them; he'd been too far gone to pay attention to things he had to see, instead of just feel. Again the strokes were slow, tantalizing – and John even attempted to use his own hand to speed things up, but Sherlock chastised him, telling him that if he did that the detective would simply leave him to deal with it himself. The doctor knew that simply wasn't an option.
Eventually, after what may have only been a few seconds but felt like an infinite torture the brunette speeded up with his actions, and soon it sent John over the edge, he didn't call his partner's name, there was simply an incoherent jumble of noises falling from his lips as the overwhelming sensation raced through his veins like heroin. It burned and soothed at the same time, and when he eventually came down from his high he slowly came to realise that his seed was spread mostly over both Sherlock's hand and his scarf. The detective was attempting to look displeased, but really the grin showed through.
"This is your fault for telling me to leave this on." He chuckled a little, pausing only to lap up what was left of the sticky substance on his palm and his fingers, it had trailed down his forearm a little where he followed it with his tongue, and stared the smaller man in the eyes. It was almost enough to make him go again right then and there, but instead the blonde succumbed to sleep; but not before taking the other man in a weak hug so that they fell next to each other on the bed. "I love you." He mumbled into the detective's curls.
When he came back to reality, Doctor Watson found that he wasn't in bed with the man he most wanted to be, he was in their living room; the evidence of his actions quite literally spread over his hand and staining his shirt. Was it embarrassing? He didn't know; it would be if Sherlock didn't want him to think of him that way, in fact, it was pretty embarrassing even without that added factor. Cursing loudly he found the strength to at least attempt to tidy himself up.
A shower had been just what the ex-soldier needed, it cleaned his body, however, it didn't clean his thoughts. A text had been sent to his phone while he washed away as much of the 'dirt' as he could, it was from the very man he'd been previously thinking about.
Need a medical opinion, come to the crime scene – SH.
It seemed as though John wasn't going to get the peace he wanted to set himself straight, with heavily vocalised displeasure he dressed himself and made his way out.
The actual case had been relatively simple, a double homicide, racially motivated. It was boring by John's standards never mind Sherlock's. The only reason they needed him there was because Anderson was being particularly difficult and wouldn't accept the detective's diagnosis; he argued that a medical professional had to be present. Naturally the brunette's first choice was his small companion.
"Yeah, it's definitely cyanide poisoning." He noted clearing his throat. "Unusual I guess but I'm pretty sure it's worth looking into."
It was amazing, being back on cases, working with the youngest Holmes again. At least, it would be if said Holmes would even acknowledge him.
"Have you guys still not made up?" asked Lestrade, who had seemed to materialize in front of the ex-soldier. The blonde jumped a little, smiling meekly at the other man.
"If you mean about St Bart's, we made up." He replied pursing his lips. The DI frowned at him before shrugging a little and turning to walk away.
"Well, whatever's going on hurry up and fix it. He's not as engaged as usual when something comes up between you two."
It didn't take a genius to figure out that Greg was talking about Sherlock. The doctor allowed his eyes to settle on the figure of the taller man at the other end of the room. He really needed to ask, for his own sanity, why nothing was progressing as it should.
The detective himself was having similar thoughts. It wasn't as though he didn't want to be near John, he wanted more than anything to be able to be close to him, to protect him so that he would never have to go through the pain he had done for the last few years ever again. There was just one catch; the doctor had always defended his heterosexuality, what if he didn't want Sherlock to let anyone know that they were together? Were they even really 'together' at all? What if he didn't actually want to be in a physical relationship but more of an emotional one? What if, what if, what if. All these questions were putting the brunette off the task at hand and making it difficult for him to focus on cases. He supposed he feared that the first person he had allowed into his life fully and with commitment would be the one to break him completely. He was terrified of how much the doctor meant to him, he was desperate for him, and yet he could not show his affections. It was like a form of torture, knowing all the things he wanted to try, wanted to do, to share, and then feeling as though the object of the only affections he had ever harboured in his life might not have meant it when he said he loved him. If only his deductions could follow the thought patterns of John Watson, but they couldn't, he remained mostly a mystery to him and that was one of the many things that kept him interested.
With a disdainful sniff at the air, the detective turned to leave, Doctor Watson quickly standing up to follow him. They got about as far as the edge of the road when the smaller man grabbed him by the hand and tugged on it so that he would turn to face him.
"Sherlock, would you just tell me why you're being like this?" he asked, he was concerned – it was a very small change in stance and tone but the detective knew him well enough to notice it.
"I'm not sure I know what you mean." Was the cold response, the taller man trying his best to make use of his full height.
"Stop it." John told him forcefully, angrily. "You know exactly what I mean. If you didn't return my feelings you should have just told me." He spat the words like venom.
The detective's stance softened, he was taken aback – this was why the ex-soldier had been avoiding him? Because he thought that he wasn't interested?
"That's not it John." He began, choking a little on his words.
"Then what?" demanded the other man, it looked as though tears threatened at the edges of his eyes, from anger or hurt Sherlock could not tell, but he didn't like them being there.
"It's because I..." the words wouldn't come, they couldn't form and the detective couldn't rid himself of the feeling that he was drowning and that the doctor would turn around and walk away leaving him to his fate.
"Forget it." Grunted the ex-soldier, averting his gaze. "Forget I said anything; just go back to treating me like a friend."
That statement hurt more than however many times the brunette had been beaten up, drugged, interrogated, and more than all of the comments anyone had ever made in his life. As John tried to relinquish his grip on Sherlock's hand, the detective took firm hold. It was now or never; make or break.
Sink or swim.