The door to the flat barely closes before Sherlock is on him, pushing John against the wall, pinning his wrists and swooping in for a hard, bruising kiss that leaves John panting with surprise and almost instant arousal. "What the hell's gotten into you?" he says to Sherlock, who is busy pulling open John's shirt and dragging it and his jacket off of his shoulders.
"You," he says, and ducks to kiss John's neck, sucking and nipping and John's sure leaving a whopping great mark behind.
"Yeah, well, Sherlock – Christ!" John exclaims as Sherlock bites down on the mark he just made and cups John's erection through his trousers. "It'd probably be a good idea if we talk- oohhhh, yes, just like that." John's head tips back against the wall as he fights to keep his knees steady.
They'd just gotten home after the end of what John was temporarily calling the Chinese Smuggler case. John had put Sarah into a cab and given the driver enough cash to cover the fare and waved goodbye, promising to call the next day and getting a weak smile in return. John's not sure how things will go from here, but he thought he might still be able to save it. Sherlock had been fidgety the entire ride home, and now John knows why.
John grasps Sherlock's hips and hauls him in closer, pressing their bodies together from chest to knees. He can tip his head up at this angle and kiss Sherlock's earlobe the way John knows he likes, sucking gently and running his tongue around the shell of Sherlock's ear until he gasps.
"All right then," John growls. "If that's what you want, then let's go right ahead."
"Yes," Sherlock hisses, caught up in the pleasure of John's hand insinuating itself into his shirt to flick against his nipple. "God, yes, fuck me. I need it."
John pulls them both down to the carpeted floor and gets Sherlock to sit so John can pull off his socks and shoes and Sherlock can slide his trousers down his legs, leaving him bare from the waist down under his long dark coat. John has a sudden flash of their first time, on a roof in the dark, and just how much he thought that position could be improved upon.
"Wait here, need to grab some lube from your room," John starts before Sherlock tackles him back against the floor and starts pulling open his belt.
"No time for that, really, want you now," Sherlock pants, struggling to get John's jeans far enough down his legs so his erection is free. John's somewhat amused but confused at the same time – Sherlock impatient is Sherlock aroused, but the forceful bit is new. Marking his skin is new, too.
Sherlock angles a long leg over John's hips and straddles him, rubbing John's cock in the crease of his arse while pushing two fingers into John's mouth. John closes his eyes and laves each one, sucking and scraping the knuckles lightly with his teeth before Sherlock pulls back and reaches around to work a wet finger inside of himself.
John feels a bit undone at the visual he's getting and drops his head against the floor, staring up at the ceiling and wondering when the hell this became his life. His momentary reflection is lost when he feels Sherlock grasp his erection, take a deep breath and completely relax his body before pushing back in a hard shove that has the head of John's dick impaled inside Sherlock's body before he can blink.
Sherlock's pained cry at the invasion has John scrambling to pull back. "Jesus, what the hell are you trying to do?" he says. "Just – wait – let me help."
Sherlock shakes his head, pushes back another inch, and gasps. John's sure there's nothing helping ease the way but spit, and Sherlock's so tight it's almost painful. John isn't sure what on earth is going on with him, why he's so desperate, but John's going to have to calm him before he hurts himself. He wraps his hands around Sherlock's slim thighs, caressing his taut muscles and struggling not to move, the hot grip of Sherlock's body drawing him in and making him want to thrust up.
"Shhh, Sherlock. Just stop. We don't have anywhere else to go."
Sherlock drops his head to John's chest, breathing heavily and slowly slides back to take John in to the hilt.
"Ah, fuck," Sherlock says, grinding down a little. "Come on, I'm fine."
John stares at him, concern and desire warring with each other until he lifts his hips just slightly, pressing up to allow Sherlock's weight to settle more firmly. "I think you're in charge of this one," John says, squeezing Sherlock's arse. "Go ahead and fuck me," he adds with a growl.
Sherlock responds to the rough edge of John's voice and places both hands on John's chest. He slowly lifts himself almost completely off of John's prick and then slides back down, making them both groan. The discomfort on Sherlock's face slowly blooms to a flush of pleasure the longer he moves. John's watching him carefully, and the moment he's sure Sherlock can take it, snaps his hips up to meet Sherlock's downstroke. Sherlock cries out at the sharper contact, dropping his hands to the floor behind him and angling back, his body a long, lean line from head to knees.
"Fuck, that's gorgeous," John says, grasping Sherlock's cock with long, twisting strokes until Sherlock cries out and comes hard, the warmth of his semen trickling across John's belly.
Sherlock lifts himself up and leans forward, looking John right in the eyes as he continues to move on John's cock, muttering filthy encouragements until John follows him, coming so hard his back arches from the floor. When he comes down from the high, Sherlock is slumped over his chest with his eyes closed, pressing kisses against John's sternum. They'll be cemented together with sweat and dried come if they stay this way, but John's content to relax for the moment, closing his eyes and enjoying the warmth of Sherlock's body over his and soft lips on his skin.
Until he wakes up to find himself alone on the floor, covered by Sherlock's coat , the flat gone dark, the lovebite on his neck throbbing dully.
The next morning John enters the kitchen to find Sherlock at the fridge, rummaging around for something to eat while wearing only his thin plaid pajama bottoms, the pale smooth skin of his back tempting John into something perhaps a bit rash. He feels like something shifted last night, a harder possessiveness in Sherlock's actions that might be the first glimpse of a space John can fit himself into. Besides, John can't resist that much skin on display, so he decides to risk it and steps behind him, curling an arm around Sherlock's waist and kissing his back.
Sherlock stiffens and steps away quickly. "No, sorry," he says, and leaves the room.
John's desire turns to ashes. But the punch of rejection is soothed with the feeling of Sherlock's cock pushed deep in John's throat later that night, so late that even London is quiet.
John tries again two days later, creeping up behind Sherlock's chair where he's curled up reading a book. He slides his hand up Sherlock's nape and through the dark, wild curls he secretly adores. "Come to bed with me," he murmurs in Sherlock's ear.
Sherlock tilts his head into the caress for a moment then shakes his head slightly, looking a little put out. "Not now, John," he says gruffly, and turns back to his book.
John throws up his hands and stalks off to his room.
The next morning Sherlock corners him in the shower, and John's gasps and moans echo off of the tiles.
It's got him completely confused, to put it mildly. After two more attempts to - what? Seduce? Convince? Sherlock to come to his bed, John feels like he has to give up just to maintain his dignity. His complete lack of willpower where Sherlock is concerned is troubling. They're too good together, John knows, as thick as thieves and the other half of each other's brain besides. Adding damn good sex is muddling it all up, throwing John's heart a curve he's not sure he can deal with and one that Sherlock obviously won't. He's starting to feel like he's trapped in orbit around Sherlock's life; unable to get any closer, but having a hard time pulling back.
So he goes out with Sarah, taking her to the cinema or to dinner, and thinks it's really hard to make conversation when another man's come is burning in your stomach.
Sherlock meets him at the door the night John comes home slightly high from managing to get so far as his hand up Sarah's top, palming a perfectly lovely breast while she moaned above him. It's not quite the engulfing flame of sex with Sherlock, but a long, slow simmer that promises to be richly satisfying after a little time. Time John's pretty sure he's willing to invest.
So when Sherlock reaches out to curl his hand around John's neck, John squares his shoulders and puts his hand up. "Not anymore," he says gently and steps back, out of Sherlock's reach.
Sherlock looks shocked for a moment, but then smiles. "You can't possibly mean that."
"I can, and I do. I've had enough, Sherlock." John drops his keys on the table and turns to hang up his coat, leaving Sherlock by the door looking completely flummoxed.
Sherlock crosses to stand directly in front of him. "John, don't be so pedestrian. Come to bed with me."
John's temper flares. "What, so you can pull another fuck and run, and I don't get to touch you again until you decide to let me?"
"That's –" Sherlock stops, swallows. "You've never had a problem with it before."
"That's patently untrue and you know it. And maybe that's not what I want anymore."
Sherlock's lips twist into a sneer. "Oh, so that's why Sarah. Boring nights in front of the telly, romance and dates and kisses at the door, and a woman who'll give you safe, dull, pedestrian sex on demand. You cannot possibly think that would satisfy you."
John finally loses control of his mouth at Sherlock's pat dismissal of his (admittedly new) attempts to create a life outside of Sherlock's influence. "Dammit, I just want to have something that I know is mine!"
Sherlock draws himself up tall, every ounce of hauteur showing in the set of his shoulders and the lift of his chin. "I won't let you possess me," he says, his voice icy cold. He stalks off down the stairs and out of the front door, letting it slam behind him.
"Of course you won't, you fucking hypocrite!" John yells after him.
John whispers into the empty room. "Because it's too late for me."
The next day John is heading back to the flat from a walk down to the nearest pub. He ducked out as soon as he could that afternoon to avoid any further confrontations with Sherlock, hoping he'd had a chance to cool down. But as John starts up the stairs to the flat, he hears a gunshot. Then another. He manages to make it to the top just to see Sherlock point his gun at the wall and fire, a puff of plaster dust floating in the air.
"What the hell are you doing?" he yells, and then puts his fingers in his ears as Sherlock flips the gun behind his back.
"Bored!" Sherlock counters, and pulls the trigger.
John wrestles the gun away from him, dropping the magazine and putting the pieces away in the desk drawer for now. The entire night only devolves from there, with severed heads and Sherlock getting sarcastic and John retaliating, until the atmosphere is so tense John takes the coward's way out and makes a run for it.
He's not sure why he expected anything else, really, he grumbles to himself as he strides down the pavement. Sherlock's got the emotional capacity of a 6-year-old, and if he wants to be a caustic, selfish, and unfeeling bastard in order to drive John away, then John's more than happy to go right ahead and leave. He hails a cab at the corner and gives the cabbie Sarah's address, with all that matters to me is the work echoing in his memory.
Title from Edvard Munch: Jealousy, and Lord Byron: "Yet he was jealous, though he did not show it, For jealousy dislikes the world to know it."