"Is he coming?" John whispers into the night.
Sherlock waves his hand, signaling that no, their quarry isn't in sight, and yes, John should stay put behind the skip and wait. Sherlock is across the alley, two stories up on a fire escape, crouched down with his dark coat wrapped around his knees and his face tucked behind his collar. If John didn't know he was there, he'd be completely invisible in the gloom.
John watches carefully. Suddenly Sherlock flicks his hand out, giving John about 30 seconds warning to pull taut the fishing line they'd carefully tied to a lamppost on one side of the pavement and wrapped around John's padded and gloved hands where he's hidden behind a skip on the other.
Anderson makes his way down the pavement around the back side of the house. They're on day four of a complicated multiple murder scene, and it's taken the entire forensics division at least that long to carefully excavate and catalogue all of the remains found in the back garden. Their work is finished now, the scene completely processed, and John's had about enough. Sherlock's been there all four days, John about half of that, and if the volume and quality of insults Anderson's thrown Sherlock's way when John was around are any indication, its been a long four days for Sherlock's nerves. It was when John made his way to the back carport along the alley behind the house earlier in the day he had his idea for a little revenge.
He pulls hard, levering his weight against the skip, and waits for the inevitable. He feels a sharp tug, hears a curse, and pokes his head out just far enough to see Anderson stagger and fall face-first into a massive puddle left in the grass by the morning's rain. John drops the line, ducks out from the back of the skip and darts around the side of the carport, trusting Sherlock to catch up with him at the front of the house. He does about two minutes later, eyes dancing with amusement. They wait for a moment, then, seeing Anderson making his muddy way their direction, take off.
"Told you it would work!" John crows.
"It's completely juvenile," Sherlock says, huffing a little as they run, glancing back to see if Sally noticed them on their rather hurried way out.
"Funny though, right?" God, the sight of the scowl on Anderson's face and his blue tyveks dripping with muddy water was going to make him laugh for a week.
Sherlock grins. "Yes, it really was."
They run, laughing, into the gathering night.
"You know you don't have to defend me," Sherlock says, around a mouthful of noodles. "Anderson's an idiot with a brain the size of a walnut. Perhaps smaller."
John looks up, surprised at this conversational detour. He swallows. "Wasn't. You thought it was funny." John points at Sherlock with his chopsticks for emphasis, and then goes back to picking the snowpeas out of his chicken. Hateful things. "Besides, if it just so happened that he was a complete tosser to you all week, that's just a bonus."
Sherlock looks at him carefully. "Well, I appreciate the benefits, as it were." He clears his throat. "Thank you."
"Eh. It's what mates do, right?"
Sherlock smiles at him, a warm, genuine smile that John's only seen once. It transforms his severe features, making him look years younger, relaxed and happy. Drop dead gorgeous. "Yes, I suppose they do," he says.
John's just tossing his shirt across the room into the basket when he hears a tap on the door.
"Yeah," he calls, pulling on his sleep shirt and kicking his shoes under the bed. The door opens a crack and Sherlock looks in. "What's on, then?"
Sherlock crosses the room and climbs up to sit cross-legged on the bed. He looks thoughtful for a minute before he says, "You said we were friends, earlier."
John's a bit puzzled, but goes with it. "'Course we are. Take it that's a new experience for you?" John says teasingly, but his smile fades when he sees the look on Sherlock's face. He immediately feels guilty, remembering a nasty older brother's rather pointed remarks.
"Don't be ridiculous, of course I've had friends."
Had being the operative word, John thinks.
"Just, not in a while. I've been too busy, too focused. But I wanted to say that…well." Sherlock clears his throat and ducks his chin, a flush rising up his neck.
John smiles at him, understanding what he's too uncomfortable to say. That words are hard for him, that he doesn't share them easily, that giving John even the power of claiming friendship is something he doesn't do lightly. So John sits down next to him and cuffs him on the back of the head. "I'm glad I'm here too, you mad bastard."
Sherlock feigns indignation. "That was completely uncalled for."
"Fair and equitable retribution for you being a sappy idiot. Clear off so I can sleep, would you?"
But Sherlock's not moving. In fact, he's leaning into John's shoulder more and more heavily with each second, until his nose is tucked into John's neck.
"What are you up to?" John says, feeling Sherlock's breath tickle his skin.
"Being friendly," he mumbles, then presses a light kiss into John's throat.
"Ah," John says, his chest tightening. "Friends with benefits?"
"Yes," Sherlock answers, and sucks a little on John's neck, his tongue swirling against John's skin. "You said we were friends; we have sex sometimes. Like now."
"Sherlock, it's been almost a month. You can't just use me for sex whenever you feel like it. Work off your post-case drop somewhere else."
Sherlock pulls back, a pretty pout on his face.
"No matter how gorgeous you look." John sighs.
Sherlock smiles, and bites his lip.
"Or how fuckable. Jesus, Sherlock. You're going to be the death of me."
"I knew you'd see it my way."
"Is there any other way?" John says, as he scoots back on the bed and Sherlock kneels above him.
"Not really," Sherlock agrees, and kisses him, working to strip John's pajamas from his body before he slides down the bed between John's legs.
Sherlock's mouth around his cock is warm, and soft, and spine-meltingly erotic. In the month since they last had sex, John's fantasized about it any number of times. He's not sure why he hasn't just asked, why he doesn't slide his fingers along Sherlock's spine and whisper filthy things in his ear until he agrees to come to John's bed. But something always seemed to stop him, to make him reconsider.
That hesitation is forgotten as John writhes and tries not to buck up into Sherlock's mouth, focusing instead on wrapping his fingers in Sherlock's hair. He's doing well holding off his orgasm until Sherlock slips two fingers into his arse.
"Fuck! A warning next time would be good," he manages, and when Sherlock runs knowing fingertips over his prostate, he loses coherence altogether and drops back on the pillows. His control shatters under Sherlock's hands and mouth and he does thrust up then, feeling Sherlock's tongue and soft palate working him in deep pulls until he comes hard with one heel digging into Sherlock's back.
John cracks open his eyes and looks down his body to see Sherlock staring directly at him, mouth still on John's cock and a heated look in his eyes that leaves John breathless. "Come here," John says, and holds out his hand.
Sherlock releases him with an obscene lick and wipes the back of his hand across his mouth. He looks greedy, wanting, and John knows what he'll ask for, even as John kisses the taste of himself from Sherlock's tongue.
"There are condoms in the drawer," John says, in between kisses.
John's feels his face flush as he watches Sherlock strip, reach over to get one, roll it on and smooth over some lube. Sherlock kneels back between John's legs and encourages John to roll over with a gentle push on his hip. John's more than willing to go with what Sherlock wants tonight and twists onto his stomach, props himself on his knees and bends low to lean on his elbows. He feels the heat of Sherlock's body behind him, long fingers caressing the crease of his arse, pushing into his hole and twisting a little. John's still very sensitive after his orgasm and jerks back a little at the touch. Sherlock stills him, smoothing a hand down his hip and kissing the dip of his spine. He continues to stroke and tease, and the longer it goes on the more John trembles and begs.
"Come on, dammit," John hisses and pushes back against Sherlock's hand, seeking more friction despite the sparks that jolt from his body at every slide of Sherlock's long fingers. It's almost too much when Sherlock replaces his fingers with the blunt head of his cock, and the slow push makes John gasp and drop his head to his folded arms. It's been a while for him, but the slight burn of the stretch crackles up his spine, making his arousal flare.
Sherlock keeps running his hands over John's sides, his thighs, and kisses his back with small, soft touches of his lips. Affection, John thinks. He can't look John in the face and say he's glad John is here, but his body betrays how he feels. But oh, Christ they've got to stop doing this; friends or no, benefits or no, their friendship is just a spark away from a conflagration that will burn them both from the inside out.
John groans as the rhythm of Sherlock's measured thrusts shifts a little, becomes harder, sharper, and he levers up on his knees so he can push Sherlock back on his heels and sit in the cradle of his hips. He lazily rubs his half-hard cock, feeling the echo of pleasure in the pressure of his fingers and the invasion of Sherlock's body.
Sherlock growls approval and pushes his hands under John's arms to wrap around his shoulders, giving him more leverage to thrust, making his breath huff hot and wet across John's back. He picks up his pace, hips meeting John's buttocks with an audible slap of skin and when he finally comes, presses his forehead into the space between John's shoulderblades and shudders out a groan. John pushes his arm behind him to hold Sherlock's hip while Sherlock is still breathing into his back.
They slide apart carefully and John collapses back against the pillows, utterly spent. Sherlock quickly disposes of the condom and turns back to start gathering his discarded pajamas from the floor; getting ready to leave, no doubt.
"Stay," John says without thinking, and immediately feels like he just lit the match. "If you want," he amends quickly.
Sherlock looks indecisive for a moment, his eyes darting toward the door and back to John, before he drops most of his clothes and fishes out his shorts to pull them on and climb back into bed. He turns on his side to face John and tucks an arm under his head, the other laying softly on the pillow between them. He looks anxious, wary, but amazingly, he's there.
But John switches out the light and pulls the covers up over them both. He settles back on his side, yawns, and says, "So, give me the whole story about Anderson's wife. I know you did something."
Sherlock relaxes noticeably. "Melanie? Well, one late evening I was at Bart's and…" Sherlock continues, his low, rumbling voice lulling John into a quiet, dreamless sleep.
Title from Raphael, Self Portrait with a Friend.