Result of a picture prompt on Tumblr. Link can be found on AO3 and on my homepage (archive).
I think this bunny ran a bit away with me. Or from me. -.-
As it goes these days, I guess I have to place a warning at this point - this could be considered DUBCON. In my head all actions are consensual, but - better safe than sorry ;)
Rated T (with M tendencies)
The Next Step
Still not gay. He was still not gay.
Never before in his life he had felt the need for a mantra to play over and over in his mind, just to convince himself of something he'd known for years anyways. He'd ever since been self-assured enough to be able to forego such means; he knew who he was, what he liked, what he wanted.
Months and years of loneliness after one had lost their best friend did funny things to a person's mind, though. First and foremost, it got one thinking. Too much, too often, too long. Thinking about shared moments, made memories, passed adventures, survived dangers. Thinking, and reconsidering. All those things he'd never paid attention to before because they seemed too unimportant to waste time on them. Or maybe because he just didn't want to give them any further thought, didn't want to contemplate their meaning.
For John, it had been all those moments, the small things, he'd shared with Sherlock. When they were together, when they ran together, fought together, laughed together. Moments of the strangest kind of domesticity that yet was perfectly normal.
In the end, still not gay proved to be right; because he wasn't. He looked at men he passed on the street, met at a pub, in the supermarket, in the park, and felt nothing. Nothing at all. He looked at women and there sure was this spark, this old spark he was so familiar with, and that felt right, because he'd never had anything else. And then he thought of Sherlock, looked at his picture, and there was something entirely else. More than a spark. More than affection for a friend. More than attraction to a unarguably beautiful man even.
Instead it was something that broke his heart into a thousand pieces.
Three years he lived, existed, with the assurance that nothing would ever be as it was during his time with Sherlock. Three years he believed his heart would never heal. He had an affair or two, one even aspiring to be a promising relationship. Mary was a nice woman, and she accepted his pain, his mourning, but ultimately his tormented soul resisted a commitment that would have made both of them unhappy.
When Sherlock returned, he knew he ought to have gone crazy. Later on, he really wondered why he didn't. It was too much to take. He had seen comrades, friends, return after they'd been believed and declared dead, and it had torn his insides apart time and again, because mourning and happiness, crashing together in those moments, were such a volatile combination.
Sherlock suddenly standing before him, his best friend he had believed, but never quiet, lost forever - it had taken him days, if not weeks, to work through all the emotions, the surprise, anger, pain, joy, fear, even disgust for what his friend had done to him. But in the end, relief won; relief and another feeling he had struggled to define for a while.
Until this very day.
They were back at 221B, Mrs. Hudson only too happy to welcome them in the old flat again. The way his friend was stretched out on the couch, like he'd done before as well, conjured up all kinds of feelings inside of him, one of them the yet nameless one; the one that now made him rise from his seat and approach the head end of the sofa.
"John, what do you want?! I'm thinking!" Sherlock immediately dismissed when John leaned over him, his hands placed carefully on either side of the younger man's head, and instead of giving a snarky reply he just smiled fondly.
Well, Sherlock. Deduce, John thought, then leaned down and caught Sherlock's lower lip between his, slightly nibbling, suckling, until he heard the other man moan into his mouth. Slowly he let go again, but remained close, sharing Sherlock's uneven breath.
"I - Oh God, John," he whispered, a sound that made John shudder pleasantly, "I hav- nev- I… Oh God." His voice got lost when the doctor once again pressed his lips against him, and awkward as it was, facing each other like this, it also gave an incredibly alluring prospect.
"Shh, Sherlock, don't worry, I will not hurt you," John murmured against Sherlock's lips. He heard the younger man make a disapproving sound in the back of his throat then, most likely to protest against the sentiment - as inexperienced as Sherlock may ever have been, he was no idiot, and he sure didn't want to be treated like one. But John wasn't a fool either. Even if Sherlock was a master of pretense, the trembling that had taken possession of his whole body he couldn't conceal.
To emphasize his words, John brought up his hands to caress the other man's cheeks, have his fingertips graze the area just below the jawbone, tickling it almost and immediately having Sherlock lean into the touch. He was aware that he was causing sensations that were hard to understand for someone who had never been treated to them, and John wanted nothing more than for Sherlock to relish in them.
It were no kisses yet they shared; it was only the touch of lips, a tongue dancing over full cushions before slipping between them, just a bit, just probing, just making a presence known he yet planned to let much more feel of. He first felt, then saw Sherlock's hands fly up, grabbing at thin air, fists clenching und unclenching, the movement of his arms causing the dressing gown, tied loosely, slip open a bit to reveal a bare chest beneath.
"John," Sherlock moaned into his mouth then, and the doctor's temptation got the better of him as he began to walk from behind his friend's head to his side, never losing contact, soft kisses placed all over that handsome face, until he was able to sit down next to him on the edge of the sofa. Just a bit he pulled back, just to catch a glimpse into the younger man's eyes that now opened, leisurely, eyelids no doubt heavy with his body's need to just feel.
"What are you-" Sherlock started a last attempt at reasoning, explanations, deductions, but John wouldn't let him.
"The right thing," he replied, as if it explained everything. It did, for him, and he hoped it would be the same for the man he planned to make his. There was doubt and trust, fear and curiosity in his friend's eyes, and it was all John needed as reassurance when he brushed his thumb over Sherlock's lower lip, then opened his mouth with a gentle tug at his chin.
He was past tender exploration and careful testing. He fell against Sherlock and sealed his mouth with his own, entangling their tongues in a passionate dance he led and his partner followed, hesitation gone, a willingness to learn setting in. The sensation of having a muscular chest instead of soft breasts meet him was odd, but right then nothing he would have wanted to give up for anything more familiar, but so unimportant.
As their lips' encounter grew more desperate, a longing revealing itself in touch and contact, John climbed atop Sherlock and pressed their bodies together, meeting him head to toe. It didn't take long before he noticed a certain hardness against his belly, and to his own surprise, it was the most erotic thing he'd ever felt. I was another man's arousal, ready and waiting, asking for attention, and he found himself more than willing to give just that. Forevermore.
But he was still not gay.
Because it weren't men. It was just Sherlock.
Always Sherlock.
FIN
