Here it is, ladies and gentlemen, the last chapter of A Study in Leather. I can't believe that this whole thing has come together, from start to finish, in one month.
I'd like to thank everyone that's been kind enough to leave a review. I look forward to hearing what all you lovely people have to say, and it's pushed me to write even when I either was stuck, or didn't want to invest the time. I do hope that you've enjoyed this story, and that this chapter finds each and every one of my readers well.
As always, please let me know what you think through a comment or a review. My PM is always open for those who wish to talk about my work, or for those who want to leave a request. Thanks again for coming along with me on this insane journey. Cheers, to the best of times.
Paperwork. There was so much paperwork. Mountains of it. Oceans of it. Planets of it. John wasn't quite sure how he had amassed so much paperwork after being off for just a week, but there it was, stacked in cluttered towers on his desk. With a heavy sigh, John sunk down at his desk, his mug of half-drunk tea going cold by his lamp in the corner. John worked diligently through lunch, ignoring his stomach's gurgling as it tried to get his attention, and continued working until it was an hour past closing time. Sarah had to kick him out when she left, ordering him to go home and eat dinner and have an early night. After the day he'd had, John was keen on obeying.
By the time John made it back to Baker Street, it was half after seven, and Sherlock was experimenting on a half-frozen, decomposing foot. On their kitchen table. With no protective gear whatsoever. John changed his clothes and promptly exited 221B, stalking down to a local pub for a few hours. With theLeather case all wrapped up, Sherlock was starting to get restless. John knew, from experience, that dealing with his flatmate on a regular basis was a challenge, but on an empty stomach, it was damn near impossible. Slipping into a small, very worn booth in a corner, John decided that dinner and a strong drink were definitely necessary. Perhaps two drinks. He rubbed his face after the wait staff took his order. Paperwork fucking sucked.
Tuesday and Wednesday passed by in a similar manner. John showed up to the clinic, drank mug after mug of lukewarm tea, treated colds and allergies, worked on ploughing through his still-growing mountain of paperwork, and went to the pub for dinner and a drink after concluding that Sherlock was too agitated to deal with. Tuesday, John found a few holes in the kitchen table, partially hidden by Sherlock's microscope. Wednesday brought the discovery of severed toes in his favourite jam. If Sarah had noticed the outline of his handgun bulging out the back of his jumper, she graciously didn't say anything. Once again, John was happy to have her as his boss, knowing full well that everyone else would have fired him ages ago.
When John came home Wednesday night, it was to Sherlock battling the microwave with a fire extinguisher. John stood and stared at the fire for precisely 10.27 seconds before he stepped forward, took the fire extinguisher from his flatmate's hands, and put out the flames. One minute and sixteen seconds later, John was stomping up the stairs, an annoyed Sherlock traipsing behind him.
"I had it under control, John!" he said, running his hand through his unruly mop of matted, greasy, curls. "It was an experiment. For science, John!"
John bit his tongue as he moved around his room, packed an overnight bag, and texted Lestrade. When his bag was packed, John pushed past Sherlock to limp down the stairs. "I'm going to spend the night with Greg," he said, pulling his shoes and jacket on. "when I come back tomorrow after work, I expect a new microwave. And the fridge needs to be cleaned out to what we specified during the last case. While I'm gone, I want you to think long and hard about your behavior. Ever since the case wrapped up, you've been out of control, and it needs to stop."
"But John-"
"No buts, Sherlock. Actions have consequences. And I don't have the energy to deal with you tonight," John said, running his hand through his hair.
No more words were exchanged, and Sherlock stood silent in the doorway, watching as John left. He did his best to ignore the twinge in his chest as the door slammed shut behind his flatmate. He chalked the odd feeling up to his transport malfunctioning and returned to his experiments.
Upon his arrival to the clinic the next day, Sarah gave him a once over, squeezed his shoulder gently, and sent him home. He spent the day avoiding Baker Street, choosing instead to wander around London and run some errands for Greg as a thank you. After his shift was scheduled to end, John headed back home, steeling his shoulders as he opened the door to the foyer. Mrs. Hudson was out, spending a long weekend with her sister. Good. John could yell if he needed to. Swinging open the door to 221B, John took in the state of the flat, and froze motionless in the doorway.
Of all the things John had imagined would greet him upon returning home, this particular scenario hadn't even crossed his mind. The microwave had been replaced along with the kitchen table, and no experiments were in his immediate line of sight. Taking a deep breath, John turned to look through the sitting room, his gaze falling on his flatmate.
Sherlock was kneeling by his chair, knees on a cushion looking as if he did this every day. He was naked, save for his pants, the black cotton striking against his alabaster skin. Sherlock shifted, flashing two bands of black around his wrists. John swallowed thickly when he realized Sherlock was also wearing his cuffs.
John made quick work of his shoes and coat and crossed the room to sit in his chair, bag abandoned by the door. His hands wrapped around the gently steaming mug of tea resting on the side table; he must have missed it on his first sweep of the room. He took a sip and smiled softly. Sherlock had made his tea exactly the way he liked it; strong, with a splash of milk. He almost dropped the tea when he realized that in order for his tea to be made perfectly, Sherlock would have had to go out and pick up milk. John figured that it was as close to an apology as Sherlock would ever get.
They sat in silence for a while, John's hand eventually finding its way to tangle in Sherlock's curls. The detective leaned into his touch and John smiled, his annoyance quickly melting away. "What am I going to do with you, Sherlock?" he asked.
Sherlock went rigid at John's words, back ramrod straight. "Keep me?" he offered, his voice unsure.
John tipped Sherlock's chin up, looking down to lock their gazes. "Of course, you daft bugger. I think we need to reassess what we want now that the case is over," he said. "You need to tell me what you need."
Sherlock swallowed thickly. "You, John," he breathed. "I need you. You've become… irreplaceable."
John nodded and pulled up on Sherlock's chin, bringing his face level with his own. "And how do you want me, Sherlock? As a flatmate? A friend? Or do you want me as your dominant? Your lover? I can't read your mind, pet," he said.
"Yes," Sherlock replied, tongue swiping across his plush lips. "Yes."
"Yes to what?" John asked.
"To everything, John. I have no idea what I'm doing, or even how to go about all this, but I want you in every way I can have you," Sherlock said, reaching across John to wrap his hand around something small. "I want to wear your tags, John. I want to feel them pressed against my chest when I wake up. I want to see them when I get dressed in the morning. I want Lestrade and Donovan to make snide comments because they can see them straining against my shirts. But most of all, I want you to put them around my neck and never take them off, and know that I am yours. Please, John."
John took his dogtags from Sherlock's hands, wrapping the metal chain around his palm. "If I put these on you, Sherlock, you become my responsibility. Whether we're on a case, or here in the apartment. Is that what you want?" he asked.
Sherlock looked puzzled. "I want what we had. Where I can work like I always do, but if I step too far out of line, for you to correct it," he said. "We can differentiate it from the full D/s dynamic by the addition of the cuffs, if that's acceptable to you."
John considered Sherlock's words for a moment and nodded, unwrapping the chain. "Sherlock Holmes, will you wear these dogtags as a symbol of our relationship?" he asked.
"Yes, John," Sherlock replied, eyes snapping down to focus on the tags as they twisted just beneath John's hands.
"You are my responsibility now," John murmured, slipping the chain around Sherlock's neck.
Sherlock shivered when the cool metal rested against his warm skin, eyes fluttering shut at how grounded he felt. "John?" he asked after a moment, worrying his lower lip between his teeth.
"Yes, pet?" John replied, hand still wrapped around the actual tags.
"Will you kiss me?" Sherlock asked.
John stared at Sherlock for a moment before yanking hard on the tags, dragging him closer. "Oh god, yes," he breathed, eyes darting down to glance at his flatmate's plush mouth. John leaned in and gently pressed his lips against Sherlock's, kissing him in the gentlest way he could.
A moment later, Sherlock melted against John's chest, hands gripping at the doctor's strong thighs as their lips moved together. It was sweet, and chaste, and everything a first kiss should be. It was so lovely, but Sherlock wanted more.
John broke the kiss, pulling a groan of protest from Sherlock's throat. He chuckled and pressed a lingering kiss to the detective's forehead, hand stroking at his temples. "God, Sherlock," he murmured, dropping the tags. "What am I going to do with you now?"
"Kiss me again?" Sherlock offered, smiling cheekily up at his partner.
John chuckled, but did just that, hand cupping the back of Sherlock's neck as he pressed their lips together again. It wasn't a perfect kiss by any means, their noses bumped too often as they learned each other, but it was pleasurable all the same.
Sherlock's lips parted when John licked at the seam, and then they were really tasting each other, tongues stroking over teeth, across hard palates, tangling with one another. John tasted like old toothpaste, and chips, and milky tea, and home. It overwhelmed Sherlock, and he found himself drowning in John. When John broke the kiss and rested his forehead against the detective's, Sherlock found that he didn't mind drowning at all.
"John," Sherlock breathed, eyes opening to stare into John's.
"Sherlock," John murmured, fingertips stroking over sharp cheekbones. "God, how I need you."
"Then take me," Sherlock said, turning his head to press a kiss to John's thumb. "Please."
John was up a moment later, pulling a willing Sherlock behind him by his dogtags. How they made it up the stairs to John's bedroom without breaking anything is a miracle, especially with John needing to pin Sherlock to the wall, to the railing, even down against the stairs every now and then to plunder his mouth with his own. Eventually, John's door closed shut behind them, and Sherlock was frantically digging through John's wardrobe for his fetish bag.
"Get on the bed, Sherlock," John ordered, pulling off his jumper.
Sherlock turned and gaped at John. "You'll get the bag, then?" he asked.
John shook his head. "No. Tonight, it's just you and me. No toys or implements."
Sherlock nodded and climbed onto John's bed, watching as his partner quickly worked out of his clothes.
When he was down to his infamous red pants, John climbed into bed beside Sherlock, settling in on his side. He pulled Sherlock to face him and kissed him softly, his hand drifting to tangle in Sherlock's now clean curls. They kissed and took their time, bodies slowly being pulled closer and closer, as if they were magnets.
They were always like magnets though, John mused, thinking back to their first meeting as he kissed down Sherlock's jaw. Memories of their first case played through his mind as he revisited the faded mark on Sherlock's neck, tongue laving over the mottled green-yellow spot. "Mine," he murmured, sucking gently on it, "all mine."
Sherlock moaned under John's touch, hips stuttering to find friction. "Please, John. More," he breathed, hands clutching at his shoulders.
"More what, pet?" John asked, pulling back to lock his gaze with Sherlock's.
"I don't know," he huffed. "Just… more of you."
John smiled and leaned in to kiss him again, pushing his body back against the bed. John straddled Sherlock's hips and ground his hips against Sherlock's, their half hard erections grinding together. "More of this?" he asked, voice roughened with arousal.
"Oh god, yes, John. I need you in me," Sherlock murmured, hands dropping to grip at John's hips, pulling him even closer.
"Patience, love," John chuckled, dipping to press a chaste kiss to Sherlock's lips. "I am going to taste every last bit of you before I enter you."
Sherlock shivered at John's words, his hands fisting in the sheets as John swirled a tongue around his left nipple. A broken moan fell from between his lips as John's teeth wrapped around the pebbled flesh and nibbled, the delicious sharpness of pain dancing with the haze that pleasure provided.
John continued down Sherlock's chest, diligently kissing, nibbling, and licking every square inch of skin he could find. He littered love bites on Sherlock's rib cage, and left red, crescent shaped indents against his angular hips. Sherlock's skin tasted of sweat and his soap, and John found that he couldn't get enough of it. His tongue chased the intoxicating taste behind knees, across ankles, and up thighs. John hovered between Sherlock's spread legs, breath puffing hotly over his straining cock. Licking his lips, John looked up and locked his gaze with Sherlock's as his mouth descended, placing a wet, open-mouthed kiss against his clothed erection.
Sherlock's hips bucked when John's tongue lapped at his cock through his pants. His entire body was on fire, thrumming with arousal, John's name falling from his lips like a chant. "Oh god, yes, please," he moaned, legs spreading ever so slightly wider.
"You want me to suck your cock?" John asked, hands gliding up Sherlock's thighs to rest on the elastic of his pants. "All you have to do is ask for it."
"John, please put your mouth on me," Sherlock begged. His knuckles turned white as his fingers twisted tighter in the sheets.
"Lift your hips," John growled, teeth pinching the taught elastic. He pulled down slowly when Sherlock lifted his hips, the black pants sliding down his pale thighs. When Sherlock's pants were discarded somewhere in the room, John returned to his place between Sherlock's spread thighs and wrapped his left hand around Sherlock's throbbing cock, smirking at the broken moan he pulled from his partner.
Never in his life had John ever been in a position where he would admit that another man's cock was beautiful. But here, nestled between Sherlock's legs, eyes flicking back from the man's cock to his face, John would admit it to the world. Everything about Sherlock was beautiful, from the dark curls that were fanned out on John's pillow in a halo, to the tips of his toes. His hands anchored Sherlock's slight hips to the bed and he took a deep breath before his tongue dragged a hot, slick line from the base of his partner's cock to the tip, tongue lingering against the tip.
"John, I'm close," Sherlock said, hands abandoning John's sheets to tangle in the other man's hair. He groaned when John's hand tightened his grip on his cock, squeezing tight enough to make orgasming impossible.
"Oh no you don't," John said, sliding up Sherlock's body, his hand still wrapped tightly around the other man's cock. "You do not get to cum until I'm buried deep inside you, pet; owning you from the inside out, just like you wanted."
Sherlock moaned and pulled John in for a kiss, their lips mashing messily as tongues twined around each other. "Finger me, John, please. I need you inside me," he murmured, breaking the kiss to catch his breath.
Sherlock whined in disappointment as John's body left his, the other man reaching for a half-used bottle of lube and a packet of condoms in the bedside drawer. John returned as soon as his hand had wrapped around the necessary items, his eyes raking over Sherlock's body as he settled between his legs again.
"Hand me the spare pillow, lift your hips, and get comfortable, love," John ordered, popping the top of the lube. He settled the spare pillow under Sherlock's ass and pressed a kiss to the inside of Sherlock's left knee before his strong hands were pushing and prodding at his legs, opening them further to expose every last place on Sherlock's body.
Sherlock tensed under John as a lubed finger traced down his crack, settling lightly over his puckered hole. Gently, John rubbed the pad of his middle finger against Sherlock's opening, gently easing the clenched ring open. "Relax for me, pet," John murmured, pressing a soothing kiss to the detective's thigh.
Sherlock could only moan as John's kisses swept down his leg, his tongue laving down his erection and across his balls. His breath hitched as John's tongue continued down, flicking across his perineum. Sherlock stopped breathing entirely when John's tongue swiped surely across his entrance, path eased by spit and lube.
"John," he called out, hands scrabbling for purchase in the doctor's ruffled hair. "What are you doing?"
Sherlock felt John chuckle against his skin as he pressed a closed-mouth kiss over his hole. "I'm tasting you," he murmured, punctuating his words with another hot swipe. "Everywhere. Just like I said I would."
John worked in a frenzy then, tongue lapping at Sherlock's entrance, lips sucking at whatever skin he could find, fingers squeezing around his thighs. Sherlock moaned brokenly when John brought one, lubed finger back to his opening and pushed in gently, tongue flicking beside his digit.
Sherlock was opening up beautifully for him, and John was thoroughly entranced by the other man. His back arched when two fingers pressed inside him, stroking softly across his prostate, pulling heavy gasps of air from Sherlock's lungs. John had to stop his ministrations, removing his hands from Sherlock's body twice before he had three fingers comfortably buried in his tight arse; his partner had simply been too close to orgasm, and John would be damned if he didn't make good on his promise from earlier.
Finally, when Sherlock was begging and panting for him to "hurry up and fuck me already," John put on the condom and pushed slowly and steadily into Sherlock. His lips found the tender skin of Sherlock's collarbone, sucking and biting and kissing as his cock sank inch by inch into what felt like a tight, velvet furnace.
"Are you ok, pet?" John asked, tilting his head to kiss Sherlock on the lips.
"I'm good, John. I'd be even better if you would move," Sherlock replied, rocking his hips back against John's.
Both men moaned at the sensation, and their bodies started to rock against each others. John wrapped Sherlock's legs around his waist and thrust slow and deep into his body, his cock seeking out his partner's prostate.
John knew the moment he found it, as Sherlock clamped down around his cock like a vice as his back arched steeply, bones straining against pale, perfect skin. John bent and sucked another mark into Sherlock's chest as his pace slowly increased. "God, Sherlock. So beautiful," he murmured. "So wonderful. So amazing. And all mine."
"Oh god, yes, John. All yours," Sherlock breathed. His voice was wrecked with pleasure, and he loved the effect it had on John.
Together, their bodies moved and rocked at a torturous pace, despite Sherlock pleading for more. "You will come when I do," John growled, thrusting sharply into his lover. "And I really love your tight, hot arse. I could make love to you for hours."
Sherlock's breath hitched as his eyes sought John's. "Make love?" he asked.
John's smile was dazzling. "Oh yes," he replied. "For hours."
And they did, their bodies engaged in a dizzying stop and go, outlasting the sunset, and finishing long after the street lamps were lit. If Sherlock had thought he was drowning in John before, it was nothing compared to how his lover made him feel now.
Now, he was able to share the same air with John. He was able to wrap his legs tighter around John's waist as he moved them from position to position, always making sure Sherlock was comfortable. He smiled as John nibbled and bit as his lips, humming in pleasure when he pressed kisses to the abused, swollen flesh to soothe the gentle sting. John was so close to Sherlock, so deep inside him and his scent surrounding him in the pillows and the sheets and the air, that he wasn't quite sure where John's body ended and his began. For Sherlock, it was bliss.
They came together, sometime before the morning paper was delivered. Sherlock clamped down on John's cock, his lover's name spilling from his lips in a chant as hot ropes of cum erupted from his oversensitive cock. He gasped at the picture John made, with evidence of his pleasure painted across tan, sweat-slicked muscles. He moaned as he felt John throb and finish inside him, his partner's deep groan harsh to his ears after the tender litany of I love you's he'd murmured during their lovemaking.
Boneless, they collapsed on the bed together, John pressing Sherlock into the messy sheets as they gasped for breath. In silence, they laid there in the dark, steadying their breath as hands searched for hands and fingers twined together.
"I do too, you know," Sherlock said, breaking the silence.
"You do, what?" John asked, pulling back to squint at Sherlock's face.
"Love you," Sherlock replied, smiling softly.
John smiled and leaned up to press a kiss against the detective's lips, humming happily as their lips moved together. "I'm so glad you do," he commented between kisses. "So very, very glad."
"Glad enough to get a flannel?" Sherlock asked.
John laughed and pulled away from Sherlock's body, standing on wobbly legs. "Come on, you prat. Let's go shower. Then we can sleep in your room tonight," he said.
With a groan, Sherlock hauled himself from John's bed, leaning heavily against his lover as they made their way to the shower. "John, if my arse aches tomorrow morning, will you kiss it better?" he asked, smirking.
John hummed in agreement and turned on the tap. "I'll always kiss you better, love," he said, pulling Sherlock under the spray when the water was warm enough. "But for now, shower, teeth cleaning, and bed. I'm knackered."
Sherlock smiled as John began to wash him, allowing his mind to drift. If anyone had told him a year ago that he'd not only be in a relationship with his at the time new flatmate, but that said flatmate would surprise him, Sherlock would have punched the fellow and checked them into a mental hospital. But now, as John rinsed soap suds from his body, Sherlock decided that they were always meant for this, always made for each other. For some reason, Sherlock wasn't sure just yet, John Watson loved him.
When the shower turned off and his teeth were cleaned, Sherlock found himself lingering in the doorway to his bedroom. He watched as John puttered around, pulling out clean pants for the both of them before shimmying into his. "Bed, Sherlock," he ordered, flinging the other pair of pants towards the detective. With a small smile, Sherlock did as he was told, climbing into bed and settling against John like he had the previous nights they'd shared a bed. He found himself drifting off to sleep quicker than usual, and for once, he didn't fight it. After all, he had a lifetime to study John Watson, and he could wait until tomorrow to start.