Author's Note: I have literally no excuse for leaving this story hanging for so long. I've been really intimidated by this chapter, which is the final chapter, and I just kept putting it off. I hope it's not too terrible; I'm fairly satisfied with it so I hope you all are, too. Thanks to all the reviewers who convinced me that this was decent enough to continue. You're all very dear to me. Enjoy!
For what would hopefully be his last meeting with Andre, Sherlock had chosen a cashmere cardigan in the deep purple he was so fond of, which he wore with a high-waisted black skirt and leggings. This particular ensemble had required some extra padding in certain areas, but he needed something that would knock the gardener dead if he wanted to get this whole fiasco over with.
As he'd left in a hurry, he'd changed on the ride over. Sherlock wonders briefly, as he steps out into the late afternoon air, if the driver was shocked to see a male get into the cab and a female get out.
Andre has left the gate cracked, a fact in which Sherlock delights. He, or rather, Athena, had managed to gain Andre's trust, which would make finding and destroying Camilla's computer all the more simple. And the sooner takes out her only weapon, the sooner he can save…
And there it is again, Sherlock recognizes, beginning the long walk up the stony garden path to Camilla's manor. A strong, strange desire to protect John.
He'd noticed it for the first time a few days ago, (although it seemed like months,) when he'd loosely deduced that Camilla would target John. It only became stronger after the first attack. He had saved Eileen Shrew because he knew John would have wanted him to, and he'd hid the fact that she was alive because, somewhere in his chest, he knew that there was a possibility that John would recognize what that meant.
But what does it mean? thinks Sherlock, feeling rather contemplative in the glow of the setting sun. He decides to tackle it the only way he knows how.
Question to be answered: Why does John Watson have such an effect on me?
Fact: I both want and need John in my life. This holds true for both active cases as well as the mundane existence of every day.
Fact: I feel as if it is my responsibility to keep John safe.
Fact: I am willing to go out of my way to do things for John. Example: saving Eileen Shrew's life.
Fact: When John exhibits uncomfortable or irritable behavior, I am willing to do things that would normally be far from my nature to correct it. Example: revealing Eileen Shrew.
Fact: The concept of having intercourse or participating in other sexual activities with John does not bother me.
Fact: I would sooner invite Mycroft out for lunch than admit any of this to John.
Sherlock places two fingers on either side of his forehead and begins calculating.
Conclusion…
He doesn't remember shutting his eyes, but they snap open anyway.
Conclusion: I am in love with John Watson.
He almost runs into the front door. Cursing, he rings the doorbell and is soon met with Andre, dressed in his nicest clothes. The gardener takes Sherlock's jacket and escorts him into the kitchen, and as Andre tries to make small talk, Sherlock finds it necessary to push his previous thoughts to the side.
Conclusion: Impossible.
Sherlock notices the ring before anything else (Why on Earth has he chosen to wear such a thin jacket?) but once he does, the external signs of nervousness become increasingly obvious; there is, for example, the way Andre clinks his fork against his plate at least twice before stabbing it into his food, the slight tremor in his right hand as he reaches for his wine glass.
Of course it's his right hand, which isn't his favored one, because his left rests firmly on his pocket, as if the damned thing will jump out of its box and into his plate of butternut ravioli.
Sherlock is used to people thinking he's attractive, and he's used to people thinking he's smart, but something he's never gotten used to is the irritation he feels when he has to pretend he doesn't notice either of them. Back when he lived at home with mummy and Mycroft, the two had encouraged him to play dumb frequently, so as not to besmirch the family name by deducing who was sleeping with whom at the family Christmas party. Mycroft had the intelligence and people skills to form strong relationships, but Sherlock had never seen what all the fuss was about. Until John, relationships had been tools to gain knowledge or leverage, things that were useful but not necessary, never vital.
Until John, he thinks, and sighs into his pasta. This subject is becoming dangerous.
"Sorry, is the food not good?" asks Andre, nervously stroking the ring box under the table.
Sherlock blinks. "Oh, no, that's not it!" he exclaims in a voice higher than he had intended. "It's really lovely. I was just thinking about how sad it is that I'll be leaving soon."
"Y-yes…" Andre stutters, and Sherlock can tell the moment is fast approaching. "Actually, Athena…"
"Yes?" says Sherlock, flashing a girlish smile.
"Um, it's been really nice seeing you these past few days, and I…well, I was wondering…"
"You were wondering…?"
"Er," he chokes out. "Um…would you, maybe, want to stay longer?"
"Oh Andre, you know I'm going back to London." Get on with it. This is trying even my acting skills.
Andre swallows. "I didn't mean…" He closes his eyes briefly and puts on a brave face before plunging his hand into his pocket. "Athena, I know it's only been a few days, but I feel like I have a real future with you, and I'd kill myself if I missed the chance to ask. Would you stay here in America…as my wife?"
From his pocket, Andre produces a beautiful amethyst ring.
Sherlock smiles his sweetest, most feminine smile. "Of course."
Andre's face lights up. "Really? You will?"
Sherlock nods.
"Oh thank god! I was so…well, it hardly matters now, right?" The gardener laughs, a nervous, ecstatic little laugh, and within four seconds he's crossed the space of the table and Sherlock becomes vaguely aware that he is being kissed.
Quite fervently, actually.
He should have been prepared for it, he realizes as Andre shoves his tongue into Sherlock's mouth in a bestial way. Clearly this man has loads of experience kissing dogs and very little with actual human beings.
Sherlock succumbs slowly to the kiss, slipping his hands around Andre's waist. Very carefully, he slides two fingers into Andre's back pocket, seizing what, he knows, are the keys to Camilla's gate and house. Now all that's left to do is wait it out.
In an attempt to ignore the moans Andre makes every time he breaks for air, Sherlock closes his eyes and runs through the plan for Camilla's ruination. Tell Andre to meet him somewhere. Come to house instead. Destroy computer hard drive. Sherlock 1, Camilla 0. Hundreds of potential victims saved. John is proud.
John, Sherlock remembers with a start. Is John still mad at him? Surely he can't be, now that he knows Eileen Shrew is alive, but what if he is?
He reminds himself: Conclusion: Impossible.
What if isn't something with which Sherlock is used to prefacing his questions. What if is figurative. The answer will be something nonexistent, unlikely or inconsequential. What if only creates bias or fear.
But Sherlock can't help thinking: What if John were kissing me instead?
The image comes to mind easier than he expects it to. Andre becomes John, John's strong arms around his shoulders, John's mouth on his, John's hand tangled in his hair. He is kissing John and it feels beautiful.
Conclusion: Improbable.
Andre makes a noise that snaps Sherlock out of his reverie, abandoning Sherlock's lips, moving instead to the crook of his neck and nipping slightly, raising a red welt on his collarbone. ("I am marking you," growls John. "You are mine.)
"J-" Sherlock begins, but catches himself just in time. What the hell?
Andre doesn't seem to notice. He slides his mouth further down Sherlock's shoulder, leaving teeth marks every inch.
"Athena…" whispers the gardener into his ear, and Sherlock shivers despite himself. ("Sherlock…" whispers John.)
The detective lets out an audible moan, and he knows it's all over.
Conclusion: Bugger.
One of Irene's hands is holding John's wrists above his head. The other is halfway down John's shorts, and this is the position they are in when Sherlock strolls into the bedroom, already changed into his t-shirt and blue bathrobe.
"Irene, here's your lipstick. I've got the key so I won't be-"
He sees them. Even through the blindfold, John can imagine the look of surprise on his face.
"Oh."
John tears the covering off his own eyes in just enough time to see the flash of hurt in his friend's. Sherlock's bathrobe swishes as he quickly turns around and exits, closing the door quite a bit louder than he'd likely intended to.
"Shit!" exclaims John after a moment of recovery. "He must think…oh my god."
"Seemed like you were rather enjoying it a moment ago," purrs Irene as John sits up.
John flushes. "Yes, well, that…anyway!"
He springs out of bed and rapidly pulls on his trousers. He is still buttoning his shirt when he reaches the door and turns back to Irene.
"Look, I'm…sorry about this. You know I-"
"It's been fun, Doctor," Irene interrupts. "But I think you've got some explaining to do."
John flashes her a grateful smile before quickly darting out of the room.
"It was a losing battle before I even started, wasn't it," she hums, pulling on a thin white negligee. "Now, let's see how straight laced little miss CEO really is."
John contemplates knocking, but he ultimately decides that Sherlock probably won't answer anyway.
"Sherlock, I'm coming in," he says. When he opens the door with a faint click, Sherlock is seated on the far edge of the bed facing the wall. There is a cigarette between his long fingers, and curls of smoke unfurl over his head each time he exhales. John swallows loudly.
He sits nervously on the other end of the bed, staring at the opposite wall. Sherlock gives no notice of John's arrival, and they spend several tense moments in silence before the two of them speak.
"Er…" begins John, but Sherlock cuts across him:
"How did you do it?"
John looks over his shoulder at Sherlock, but the detective doesn't turn to him, instead taking another long drag on his cigarette.
"Do what?" he finally answers, lamely.
Sherlock takes a deep breath. "Your relationship with Irene. How did you hide it?"
John nearly chokes on air. "My…what?"
"I do have eyes, John," replies Sherlock with an audible scowl. "I don't make mistakes like this. You are simple. You are readable. Up until a few moments ago I was nearly certain you were attracted exclusively to-"
The detective stops suddenly.
"Well…" he says, softly. "At any rate, it appears I was incorrect."
John is fairly certain he should feel insulted at Sherlock's words, but instead he feels oddly proud in the fact that he was, for once, not completely predictable.
"You're certainly incorrect somewhere," says John, sighing. "I didn't sleep with Irene."
"Of course you didn't. I walked in before you could," says Sherlock in a deadpan.
"No," John answers, wrinkling his eyebrows. "No. I mean I have never slept with Irene. What you saw there was…a mistake. After I saw Eileen Shrew was alive, my feelings got all jumbled. I was angry, Sherlock, and happy and sad, all at once, and I just had to do something about it."
"Or someone."
"Sherlock!" cries John, although he has the urge to laugh at his flat mate's childishness. "Look, I know you're upset because of what you saw, but you should know…"
John closes his eyes tightly and opens them again.
"You should know I'm not the one she wants."
Sherlock replies instantly. "Your point?"
"So you, er…you can go after her. If you want. I know you told me to protect her, but I'm sure you can-"
"When exactly did I tell you to protect her?" Sherlock interrupts. "Those are your words, not mine."
The doctor frowns. "You told me to -"
"Stay with her, yes. For your own protection, not hers."
John pauses to work something out. Something clicks. "So Camilla's bodyguards aren't after Irene then."
"No."
"Then, the one you were worried about…and when you walked in on us…"
John can almost hear the cogs turning in his own head.
"You're pouting!"
It is Sherlock's turn to frown. "I am bothered by my own limitations. I am not pouting."
"You are pouting," says John definitively. "But you know how Irene feels about you."
Sherlock breathes out a perfect ring of smoke. "Deduce at will, doctor."
John attempts to think up a better conclusion than the one he's come to, but it remains there, gnawing at the back of his brain, and so John opens and closes his mouth a few times before clamping his hands together and staring into his lap.
"Alright," he declares finally. "I'm going to say some things, because if I'm reading the mood right then it may be my only chance. If anything I mention bothers you, and I mean anything, then just give the word and I will leave this room, and the next time I see you we can pretend nothing happened. Agreed?"
Sherlock nods wordlessly, still not looking at John.
"Right then," he starts. "I am not, nor have I ever been, attracted to Irene Adler. I'm certain she feels the same way about me. There is nothing going on between us. The deduction you made earlier," John gulps. "It wasn't wrong."
John turns his head to look at Sherlock, only to find the detective's icy blue eyes already staring, calm and concentrated, as if attempting to look right through John.
"Then, you're not…with Irene…?" Sherlock asks quietly after a pause.
"No! No, absolutely not. And you…?"
Sherlock's face is unreadable. "No."
John looks down into his lap again. "Huh."
A few moments pass before Sherlock stands up and strides to the other side of the bed where John is seated. Sherlock sits down next to John without looking at him, bringing a hand to his lips in contemplation. After another period of silence, he speaks:
"You're going to have to say it first."
"I'm sorry?" John replies instinctively.
Sherlock looks straight ahead. "This sort of thing…not really my area."
"Men?" supplies John helpfully.
"Sentiment," says Sherlock. "Although you're correct as well. I've never really had any reason to learn until…"
Sherlock looks as if his words are physically straining.
"John," he says, turning his head and putting a hand on John's shoulder so he'll turn too. "Please. I will never act on something unless I am reasonably confident about the result. You have defied every one of my attempts to ascertain your feelings. Uncertainty is the only thing I am afraid of, and I can count on one hand the number of times I have been as uncertain as I am now."
He closes his eyes for a moment.
"You terrify me, John Watson."
John's mouth breaks into a small smile. Gently, he takes Sherlock's hand from his shoulder and places it delicately over his own heart. Sherlock feels it beating, quick but steady, a wonderful, gentle rhythm.
"Are you still afraid?" John asks.
Sherlock whispers, "No."
John raises Sherlock's hand up to his mouth and ghosts his lips along Sherlock's fingertips. Next he kisses the palm, and then the pulse point, feeling the detective's slightly elevated heart rate under his tongue.
Sherlock is staring at him placidly, and when they make eye contact, John suddenly pulls Sherlock forward and plants his hands on either side of his face, mouth hovering millimeters from Sherlock's.
"Is this…" says John breathily. "Can I…"
"It's fine," Sherlock says in his guttural growl. "It's all fine."
"All?" says John without thinking.
"Yes, and yes," replies Sherlock.
John looks puzzled. "Yes and-"
"You asked if it was all fine, and the answer is yes. What you didn't ask is if I have any sexual experience, and the answer to that is also yes. Five people in total, all in university. Four men and one woman. I assure you everything served a purely scientific purpose."
"And what about now?" asks John. "Is this just an experiment for you?"
Sherlock snakes his left hand up the side of John's face, stroking John's lip with his thumb. "You, John Watson, are an exception. To everything."
He gives John a hesitant look, and John takes the initiative and leans forward.
Their first kiss is slow and tentative, a soft whisper of a thing. John feels Sherlock's body tense at the contact and reaches an arm around to the back of Sherlock's neck to still him. The detective calms almost instantly, and John hums into the kiss triumphantly.
John plans to wait a minute before moving but finds, with Sherlock's warm mouth beneath his, that he can't bear to wait that long. He seizes Sherlock's bottom lip with his own and pulls it slightly, giving it a soft nip that makes Sherlock inhale sharply.
Sherlock parts his lips before John even asks for it, allowing John's tongue to slide inside and run along the teeth, feeling the ridges of each one. Sherlock tastes like cigarettes, something John finds strangely arousing, and John can smell it on Sherlock's hair and clothes as well, blended with the mix of scents John can only ascribe to the man in front of him; chemicals and violin rosin and something distinctly Sherlock.
Clothes, John thinks. Sherlock is always wearing too much. Still kissing Sherlock, John brings his hands up to the lapel of the blue silk bathrobe and shrugs it off. Sherlock catches on and hoists his gray t-shirt over his head, regrettably forcing them apart for a brief moment.
John takes in the sight of him, milk-white skin and tousled dark hair. His lips are red and wet, eyes hazy with lust, and his ragged breathing sends a jolt of electricity right to John's groin.
"God, don't look at me like that," John says, nearly panting. "You'll make me want to take you apart."
"Didn't I tell you," says Sherlock tilting his head slightly. "It's all fine."
John sucks in a sharp piece of air and kisses Sherlock again, this time rough, needy, filled with desire. Sherlock's mouth is pliant beneath his, his arms snaking upwards around John's waist, pressing his bare chest to John's and reminding him that he, too, is wearing too many clothes.
John strips off his shirt and returns to Sherlock's mouth, kneading the soft lips under his own. He moves to the corner of Sherlock's mouth and plants a kiss there before moving slowly downward, grazing his lips on Sherlock's chin and then his neck.
"What's this?" he asks when he gets to the place between Sherlock's neck and shoulder, noticing a small purple-red bruise.
"Andre was…rather excited about our engagement," says Sherlock between breaths. When John gives him a confused look, Sherlock holds up the amethyst ring on his left hand. "Oh, did I forget to mention?"
John looks like he's torn between yelling and laughing at him. After a few moments' contemplation, he does neither. Almost violently, John slips the ring off of Sherlock's finger and tosses it onto the carpet along with Sherlock's bathrobe.
"You will return that tomorrow," he snarls in the voice Sherlock had only heard him use to give orders to his army underlings. "You will apologize for taking advantage of him. But right now, I am going to make you forget everything he did to you."
"It wasn't- oh," says Sherlock as John sucks hard on Andre's mark. John moves one hand to Sherlock's chest, ghosting his fingers along it and making Sherlock shiver, every once in a while skimming his thumb over a pert nipple.
John peppers Sherlock's chest with bites, each time drawing a soft, satisfying moan. He sets a hand down on Sherlock's thigh and scrapes the evidence of Sherlock's arousal. Sherlock draws breath through his teeth. He slips a hand into the waistband of Sherlock's pajamas, feeling Sherlock's cock through the thin fabric of his shorts before dipping a hand in and pulling it out.
"John," Sherlock pants, and then, again, "John."
Sherlock's cock looks just as John thought it would; long and thin and less pale than the rest of him, its pink head already wet with pre-spending. John palms the top of it, slicking his hand before taking it in his grasp.
A low growl emerges from the base of Sherlock's throat as his head collapses onto John's shoulder, taking quick, shallow breaths. John slides his fist up and down, slowly at first and then more aggressively, thumbing the tip every so often and making Sherlock shudder.
Sherlock's hand finds its way to John's fly, and John is suddenly, painfully aware of how much his own member is pressing against it.
"Let me…" says Sherlock breathlessly. Skillfully he unzips the zipper and grabs John's erection, cool fingers sliding tenderly along its length. Sherlock mimics John's actions and presses his palm to the steadily weeping slit before beginning to make long, languid strokes.
"God, yes," hisses John, Sherlock's spindly fingers growing warmer from the heat of his cock. John pumps Sherlock faster, pressing his forehead to Sherlock's and feeling Sherlock's breath on his lips.
Sherlock cries out when he comes, thick streams of semen spilling across his stomach as he falls backwards limply onto the bed. John follows a few minutes later, giving himself a few sharp tugs before releasing and lying down beside Sherlock.
They don't look at each other for a few minutes, taking deep, heavy gasps of air and lavishing in the aftermath of orgasm. They turn to each other nearly simultaneously, Sherlock licking his lip nervously and John staring over Sherlock's shoulder.
Finally, John says, "That was…"
"Good," finishes Sherlock. "Good, I think."
"Very good," replies John, relieved that Sherlock has no regrets. "Could have been better, but we've got time for that."
Sherlock grants him an awkward smile. "Well, I suppose we should get cleaned up."
"Yeah," agrees John. "Not very romantic, is it?"
"No, but that was always how it was going to be with us, wasn't it?"
It was, John realizes, and grins because he understands that this is Sherlock's way of saying this has been a long time coming.
"Fine with me," says John, standing up. "I was never much for romantic stuff anyway. I prefer the sex."
Sherlock winks at him. Then, as if a fire had been lit underneath him, he springs up from the bed and begins wiping himself off with a tissue. "Now that we've got that all sorted, we need to discuss the plan for tomorrow."
Again, John is torn between laughing and yelling. He wonders if Sherlock will ever make him feel any other way.
"We've just done…this…" he motions towards the bed, "and you want to dive into the case again?"
Sherlock pulls on his shorts. "As you are ever so fond of telling me, there are lives on the line, John. And what else would you be doing tomorrow?"
John raises an eyebrow.
Sherlock sighs, the hint of a smile tugging at his lips. "Yes, right. That will come after we put Camilla Avril Milton in her place."
"It's a deal," says John, following suit and cleaning off his abdomen. "What's the plan?"
After Andre leaves to meet his fictional fiancée, Sherlock uses the key ring to open the gate and side door to Camilla's mansion. Once inside, he punches in a code to deactivate the security system.
"Figure we've got about 10 minutes," says Sherlock, striding over to where he knows the computer to be and typing in a passcode. "She really shouldn't use the same password for everything."
"Seems like an awfully big thing to overlook," John says, looking around. "That the gardener could so easily be tricked."
"Miss Milton has made the mistake of assuming that money is the only thing that motivates people." There is a tiny ding from the computer and Sherlock looks up, satisfied. "Email and computer records deleted. I rather thought it would be more difficult than this."
"Well, I wouldn't want to disappoint you then, would I?" says an American female from behind John. They both turn around to see a smirking Camilla, followed by a small parade of bodyguards, each armed with a handgun and pointing at either John or Sherlock.
"Ah, Miss Milton," says Sherlock, folding his arms. "Welcome to the party."
"Quite rude of you to throw one in my home without inviting me," she replies. "I expect by now you've deleted the blackmail records?"
"I have."
"Pity I keep paper copies in my bedroom," says Camilla, cocking her head to the side cattily. I'd invite you upstairs but I don't think my guards will like it all that much."
Sherlock and John exchange glances. Neither of them remembered to bring a gun. The detective circles the room with his eyes, counting the number of guns trained on them. There are nine.
"Oh, you don't have to worry about those pesky things," she says to him. Camilla snaps her fingers and immediately all of the bodyguards point their weapons at John.
"John!" cries Sherlock instinctively. Nine guns pointing at John. Nine bullets. Only one needed to take John away forever. He hopes Irene will hurry up and get here already.
"You've had your fun, Mr. Holmes," says Camilla gloatingly. "I told you not to interfere. I told you that you couldn't do anything. And now your dear friend John is going to die because you couldn't keep your nose out of someone else's business. Or maybe we can work something out if you get on your knees and beg."
Sherlock looks at John, silently apologizing for always getting him into trouble. John shoots him a look that says don't even think about it. Sherlock's begins to bend his knees.
Suddenly there is a voice at the top of the stairs. Sherlock breathes a long sigh of relief.
"Sorry for taking so long, Sherlock dear," says Irene, slow footsteps echoing down the wooden staircase. Two sets of footsteps, recognizes John. He can hear the distinct click of Irene's heels, but there's another pair of feet, bigger and louder. A man's. The first person coming down the stairs is not Irene.
Walking in front of the woman, being marched forward by the gun Irene is pressing into the back of his head, is a gruff, broad man, balding but with distinguishably strawberry blond hair.
"Daddy?" says Camilla looking shocked. The man scowls at the floor.
"Honestly, what would you two do without me?" says Irene to Sherlock and John before turning to the heiress. "Would you believe these idiots never thought of making a simple death threat? Too pedestrian for Sherlock, I suppose, and John here is just too kind for that, aren't you, John?"
Irene walks Mr. Milton to the center of the room.
"You might want to lower your weapons, boys," she says to the bodyguards. They all turn to look at Camilla, who hesitates before nodding reluctantly. The guns drop to their sides.
"How-" starts Camilla.
"Men," says Irene, shrugging. "So easy to seduce. Happened to be quite good at it back in the day. I got the file off him within a half hour."
She produces a manila folder from behind her back and hands it to Sherlock. Camilla's father exchanges an apologetic glance with his daughter's hard eyes.
"Excellent," he says. "Just enough evidence here to make a strong case against you in court."
Camilla gives a shrill, desperate laugh.
"You may have destroyed my records, Mr. Holmes, but you can't arrest me. Not when the police are on my side."
"Funny thing about that, actually," says Sherlock, and John becomes vaguely aware of the screeching of police sirens and faint red and blue light coming from outside the kitchen window. "As it turns out, the British government has a bit more money than your father."
The young American swings her head wildly from side to side as if looking for an exit route. Mr. Milton is glaring angrily at his shoes. From behind them all, the side door bangs open and several police officers in blue uniforms trudge into the kitchen.
"Camilla and Robert Milton," says a tall man who John assumes is the chief. "You're under arrest."
As the police officer cuffs her hands behind her back, Camilla laughs even harder.
"You see, Mr. Holmes!" she smirks. "Money and resources are all it takes! You paid off the police!"
"My brother paid off the police," he says matter-of-factly. "And they were already corrupt. Proving brain over brawn was never my goal. The result I wanted was to stop you and your father from blackmailing and murdering innocent people, and I do believe you'll have a difficult time doing that behind bars."
Camilla and her father are lead out of the room and into the waiting police cars outside, leaving the bodyguards awkwardly congregated in the kitchen. Sherlock, John and Irene move to the front lawn and watch the train of flashing blue lights disappear around the corner.
"That was what you wanted me to say, right?" Sherlock asks John after a period of silence. "Innocent people and such."
John punches him playfully in the arm. "Oh, shut up. I was starting to believe you were sincere."
Looking at John's smile in the intermittent light from the police cars, Sherlock starts to believe it, too.
John slams the door behind them as soon as they enter their room. Sherlock barely has time to shrug off his jacket before John pins him to the mattress.
"Off," he commands, straddling Sherlock's thighs and starting on the buttons of Sherlock's shirt. Sherlock follows suit, freeing John's hands to work his own shirt off. John kisses him, half hard already from the feel of skin on skin, and a slight roll of hips produces a similar effect on Sherlock.
"I can't believe," says John in between kisses, "you pulled that off."
"A well executed plan-ah," replies Sherlock, gasping as John's thigh comes to rest between his legs, "is all that's needed."
"And how long have you been planning this?" asks John, sucking at the pulse point in Sherlock's neck, drawing a moan from somewhere low in his throat. When John tears his mouth away, there is an angry but satisfying red welt.
"Long enough to prepare," says the detective, rolling onto his side and retrieving a small bottle of lubricant from underneath the bed.
John undoes the buttons of Sherlock's trousers. Sherlock slides them off as John works on his own fly, pulling off his pants along with his trousers and releasing his now stiff cock from its bindings.
Sherlock is similarly naked, lying under John, his own flushed pleasure lying on his stomach, curving up to his navel. John runs his fingers through Sherlock's sparse patches of pubic hair, soft and dark, contrasting starkly on his pale skin.
"You shaved your legs," notes John, running a hand slowly up Sherlock's thigh and causing Sherlock to jolt.
"Had to play the part," Sherlock chuckles up at him.
John looks down at Sherlock splayed out in front of him, all white skin and legs and cock and bright, beaming blue eyes.
"You are beautiful, Sherlock," says John, kissing Sherlock's knuckles. "And you are mine. You are mine."
"Yes," Sherlock replies simply, and that's all the confirmation John needs.
The doctor hastily opens the bottle of lube, pouring it into his palm and spilling some onto Sherlock's stomach. When his fingers are sufficiently slicked, he fits two of them into the cleft between Sherlock's arse cheeks, positioning the first at the tight ring of muscle.
"Tell me if I'm hurting you," says John, and when Sherlock nods, he inserts one and then two fingers all the way to the knuckle.
"Oh," breathes Sherlock, his cock twitching visibly. John slips his fingers out and thrusts them back in again. "That's…good. Do that again."
John obliges. He has three fingers in Sherlock when he starts to move, scissoring his fingers slightly and stroking the sensitive spots, grateful for his medical knowledge of men's anatomy now more than ever.
"John," whimpers Sherlock, shuddering and raising his torso to wrap his arms around John's shoulders, giving John a much better angle. He slides his fingers in and out of Sherlock until the detective is panting into his shoulder.
"Are you ready?" asks John, and Sherlock nods against his neck. "I've never…Sherlock, I haven't done this with a bloke before. You have to tell me if you're uncomfortable."
"I will," says Sherlock into John's shoulder. "Now for god's sake, do it."
John uses some of the oil still dripping down Sherlock's stomach and slicks himself with it before positioning his cock between Sherlock's legs and starting to push in. He is met with resistance, and more than once he stops to make sure Sherlock is okay. Each time, the detective hisses at him to continue.
When John is all the way in, he pauses. Sherlock is hot and tight around him and John can feel his own heartbeat pulsing in his erection.
"I'm going to move," John tells him, and Sherlock growls his approval.
He pulls himself almost all the way out before reentering, finding the prostate and rubbing the head of his cock against it a few times. Each movement earns John a moan from Sherlock.
"Mine," says John possessively, accenting every word with a thrust of his cock. "You. Are. Mine."
Sherlock is beyond making coherent sounds now, and so he bites into John's shoulder. John finds the sudden spike of pain oddly arousing. In a graceless movement, he turns Sherlock onto his back, using one hand to hold Sherlock's wrists above his head. He curls the other hand around Sherlock's cock, and soon Sherlock is rutting sporadically against John's palm, pre-spending acting as a replacement for the bottle of lubricant which had long since rolled off the bed.
"John," cries Sherlock. "John!"
Sherlock arches under him, and John feels something hot and sticky coating his hand.
"Sherlock," says John through his teeth, rolling his hips a few more times. "I'm almost-"
John feels his orgasm tearing through him like a bolt of lightening, starting at the base of his stomach and pulsing through his entire body. His ears ring and his sight goes white at the edges. John pulls out, and it takes only two strokes by his own hand before he spends over the back of Sherlock's thighs.
When he has enough energy to move, John cleans both of them off and pulls the covers up over them, pressing a kiss to Sherlock's brow before promptly falling asleep.
John wakes the next morning in almost the same position as a few days earlier, with Sherlock's long limbs tangled around him like some overgrown spider. It takes him a minute to register why they're both naked.
"Morning," he says, and Sherlock stirs slightly.
"G'morning," is the muffled reply. Sherlock doesn't open his eyes, instead fitting his head under John's chin and nuzzling into his chest. "I feel awful."
"Are you in pain?" asks John in an I'm a doctor sort of way.
"A bit," replies Sherlock. "Next time it's your turn."
John flushes a faint pink and tries to get up, but Sherlock pulls him back into bed.
"Stay," he says, blue eyes staring up at John. "You were certainly up for it a few days ago."
John thinks back to the time during his nap, waking up horrified with a partial erection and desperately trying to escape. "Yes, but I hadn't come to terms with how I felt about you, yet. And anyway, we weren't-"
John pauses, a sudden realization coming to life inside his head.
"You were awake."
Sherlock merely shrugs and buries his face into his pillow.
"I can't believe you!" cries John flippantly, flailing his arms and nearly knocking over a desk lamp. "I suppose Irene was right when she said you drugged yourself in that bloody Jacuzzi, too."
"It was a theory, John!" exclaims Sherlock, lifting himself up onto his arms. "I've know you were attracted to me for a long time, but I didn't know to what extent. You didn't exactly help by ignoring all of my advances."
"Irene was interested in you, too, but you never crawled into her bed!"
Sherlock looks taken aback, as though he's never considered this fact. "I suppose I didn't know why I was curious about it. That's fairly obvious now, though, isn't it."
The detective gives a rattling yawn and peels himself from the bed, wrapping the white sheet around his body.
"Mycroft's not going to be happy about that," jokes John, eyeing Sherlock's ensemble. "He's waiting for us downstairs, you know."
"Mycroft is probably very nearly proud of me for doing the big thing and enlisting his help," retorts Sherlock, stalking off to the toilet and brushing his teeth. "I can't very well have that, can I?"
John laughs as Sherlock reenters the room, sheet trailing behind him. "So how long until we head back to London?"
Sherlock pulls out a folder from under the bed and hands it to John.
"We're leaving tomorrow afternoon," he says as John pulls out the plane tickets.
"What are these?" asks John, drawing out a playbill and two theatre stubs. "Tonight's entertainment?"
"Front row," replies Sherlock. "Irene pulled some strings for her newest performance."
"Should be lovely," says John, taking Sherlock's hands and rubbing his thumbs in circles over the backs of them.
"Mm, yes," replies Sherlock.
"And what are our plans until then?"
"Oh, I don't know. Heard about any good cases lately?"
John beams. "None at all."
"Pity," says Sherlock. "I suppose we'll have to stay in."
"Pity," agrees John, and kisses him.
The front row seats are comfortable enough. John, despite numerous rolled eyes from Sherlock, purchases a large container of overpriced popcorn from the front counter and munches it happily over the sounds of the orchestra tuning their instruments.
Sherlock cracks open the playbill and scans the cast.
"Aha," he says. "Irene's playing Carmen."
"Is that the lead, or something?" says John through a handful of popcorn. "I was never one for non-English musicals."
Sherlock looks at John as though he is a mythical creature. "I don't understand how you can criticize me for not knowing the solar system while remaining ignorant to Carmen."
John gives a non-committal shrug and returns to his snack.
"It's an excellent show, when performed correctly," whispers Sherlock as the lights go down. "Irene is the main character, a gypsy woman named Carmen. In the beginning she's being pressured to choose a lover, but she thinks love is a fickle and untamable thing. Then there's Don José, who-"
"Shh!" mutters John. "Let me watch it myself."
"Fine," huffs Sherlock under his breath. He doesn't say anything more as the curtain rises and John finds himself the tiniest bit disappointed.
A/N: Well, everyone, it's been a bumpy ride for me, but I hope you've all enjoyed this story as much as I've enjoyed writing it. See you all next time!