A/N: Sorry for the delay, but my exams are now completely over and from hereon in I have no excuse.
By the time they made it back to the flat the heavens had opened; Sherlock stripped off his coat and held it over their heads as they ran from the taxi to the flat's front door, John huddled warm and close to his side so as to remain under the coat. The doctor dropped his keys twice in the too-hasty fumble to get them in the lock before they got too wet, and by the time they actually got into the hallway of 221 John was doing that little giggle that he did sometimes when they had just done something exceptionally stupid or dangerous. Sherlock hadn't realised John could giggle like that in everyday situations.
For one wild moment he considered pouncing, leaping on John, pressing him against the wall and kissing him while desperately hoping John would kiss him back instead of pushing him furiously away. Then the toilet flushed in 221A and he sighed, running a hand through the droplets of water settling into his hair. "A fire is in order, I think," he commented, shaking out the Belstaff forlornly.
John hummed enthusiastic agreement as they started up the stairs. "You get the fire, I'll get the tea," he negotiated.
Sherlock had tried to insist that John take responsibility of the fireplace once upon a time, assuming that with his army experience the task would be simple for him. The smoke alarms were still going off hours later and Sherlock had taken over from then on. Now he simply shot the doctor a wry smile as he leapt up the stairs, stripping off his jacket before the damp bled through to his shirt.
It was already late; Sherlock wondered whether it was worth initiating any kind of role-play before John would want to go to bed. He had been rostered onto the early shift at the surgery again tomorrow. Sherlock supposed it would be easier for him to think without John around.
John sat down on the sofa next to him once the fire had leapt into crackling action, slipping a mug of tea in front of him and bending his back to look Sherlock in the eye concernedly. "Are you all right?" he asked.
Sherlock looked up in surprise at the question; he hadn't thought that he looked out of sorts. When he caught John's eyes, though, they were wide with concern. He smiled bewilderedly. "Of course, John," he assured him.
The doctor's face froze uncomfortably. "Oh - did you want to go over the murder with me? I just assumed you'd want to do that as soon as we got home."
"Oh!" Sherlock corrected himself, realising that John had been attempting to initiate the expected role-play. Something in his stomach that he hadn't even realised was clenching relaxed. "No, of course. Thank you, John." He reached out a hand timidly for the tea his friend was still holding out to him. "And I'm… fine." He schooled his voice into a quieter, softer tone and hunched over slightly, like someone attempting to drown their sorrows in a bar, shooting an entirely false smile at the doctor.
John shifted closer to him on the sofa until their knees were pressing together, looking hesitant. "You've done an admirable job of hiding it, but… I don't think any amount of makeup could cover those bruises."
Sherlock jumped as though he had forgotten the killer would have bruises. "Oh, fuck," he muttered softly, lifting a hand to his cheekbones.
"I'm not going to lecture you, or try and get you to report whoever did that to you. I'll completely ignore it if you want me to. I guess I just wanted to check you're okay." John's fingers tapped against his mug uncomfortably.
Sherlock smiled weakly. "I'm fine, thank you," he replied. "And I won't be seeing him again."
John grinned suddenly. "That's wonderful news," he said brightly. "To freedom," he suggested, lifting his mug in a toast.
"Freedom," Sherlock agreed, clinking his own mug gently against John's. His timid smile grew as he watched John take a generous gulp of his tea. "Thank you for the drink," he said after a moment. "And the concern. It's good to know there are still decent men out there."
The resulting chuckle was rich and dark, luxurious on Sherlock's ears like red velvet cake. "You're welcome," he replied idly. "You looked like you needed it."
There was a pause for a moment, in which John sipped his tea again and shifted his knee subtly against Sherlock's. "I'm Vince," he introduced.
"Nice to meet you," Sherlock answered instead of providing his own name. John smiled thinly. "So, um… what do you do? Other than drink on weeknights, that is."
John chuckled again. "I'm the CEO of a property management company - don't look so impressed, I inherited it from my father. Basically I sign papers all day."
Sherlock flapped a hand at his false modesty. "Hey, it beats what I do. I'm an accounts receivable officer for the Ministry of Health," he invented. John smiled wryly, his nose buried in his teacup. Sherlock slapped him lightly on the arm. "It pays my bills," he said sternly. "We can't all inherit property management companies."
"No," John laughed. "No, we can't."
They settled down into a comfortable silence, watching the flames jump cheerfully in the fireplace. "They probably talked for quite a while," Sherlock said finally, leaning back on the sofa and tucking his feet up underneath him. "For Stephens to be comfortable enough with her to treat her the way he would have treated his long-term girlfriend, they would have formed an emotional connection. She probably played along thinking that as soon as he got her on her own he'd turn nasty."
John smiled idly. "Probably. Of course, she would be genuinely enjoying herself, because he would be devastatingly funny."
Sherlock affected a sarcastic laugh. "Oh, naturally. Still stupid enough to get himself murdered, though."
John laughed in turn. "I'm not sure that was his fault," he argued genially, shifting slightly closer to Sherlock on the sofa, one arm stretching subtly across its back towards him.
"Well, he must have done something to attract her attention," Sherlock retorted.
The creeping hand reached Sherlock's shoulder and dipped its fingers down to stroke it through his shirt, John's face not betraying the movement in the slightest. "Didn't we agree she might only be picking people for their dominant roles in the bedroom?" Sherlock lifted an eyebrow coyly. "Though you saw him. I think we both know how he attracted her attention."
Sherlock snorted, and John laughed with him; in the companionable pause that followed Sherlock finished his tea and put the empty cup back on the coffee table. John was staring at him with this odd, intense look on his face.
Sherlock's heart beat once before they lunged for each other, their mouths clashing messily, the taste of tea smearing all around Sherlock's mouth before they managed to fit their lips together properly. Sherlock swung a leg over both of John's in order to fit their bodies closer together as the doctor's nimble hands slid firmly into his hair, clutching his head closer to his own to slip his tongue into Sherlock's mouth. He moaned softly. John's mouth cradled him, held him, his hands clutching tight around Sherlock's back.
It wasn't like any of the other kisses they had shared; warm and enveloping, gently overwhelming rather than pushing until Sherlock drowned in it. He wasn't sure he liked it: it was too familiar, too knowing. It made Sherlock feel queasy; he wasn't even sure that it was because of the intimacy that hadn't yet been earned, wasn't sure whether he would like it even if it were him and John in real life, just the two of them with no pretences. John's tongue swept through his mouth like rain in summer, cleansing him, lighting up his erogenous zones until every inch of his body tingled.
Slowly, the pressure in Sherlock's chest built until he recognised it as lack of oxygen rather than the vertigo he'd come to associate with kissing John, and he had to push at the shorter man's shoulders to gasp for air. A quick glance at John's face, though, showed it flushed and desperate, his thin lips glistening with their combined saliva; Sherlock moaned frantically and dove back in, laving the saliva from John's lips and plunging his tongue back into his mouth. John groaned deeply, a rough and broken sound.
"This is terribly forward of me, and I swear I don't do it often," John whispered into Sherlock's ear when next they parted for a few hurried, shallow breaths, "but would you like to come back to my flat?"
Sherlock rocked his hips against John's, once, feeling the hot swell of the doctor's erection against his balls, a coy smile firmly in place on his lips. "I'd like that," he replied, bending his head to lick and nuzzle the warm hollow underneath John's ear. "I think we'd better go now," he added. "The barman's giving us nasty looks."
John chuckled and kissed him again, but it was a softer, warmer kiss, and before long it was over and they were standing up, brushing themselves off, Sherlock making a self-conscious sweep of his hand through his hair and nodding at an imaginary barman. John guided him to the coat-hooks by the door with a hand on the small of his back, asserting his control over Sherlock in a gentle and subtle way. His spine tingled pleasantly. The doctor helped him into his coat, placing a soft kiss on his cheek as he pulled away. Sherlock felt his cheeks turn helpfully pink. John's lips were so defined against his cheek he felt as though he could feel every crease in them, as individual as a fingerprint.
"Nice place," he commented airily as John showed him into his own bedroom. His flatmate chuckled again.
"It's perhaps not as tidy as it could be," John replied, a tiny smirk lifting the corners of his mouth.
Sherlock turned his back on the pile of yesterday's clothing on the floor, rolling his eyes at John. "That doesn't matter," he rebutted wryly. "This is lovely."
John hummed, smiling cheerfully and crowding Sherlock against the door, cupping his chin with one hand. "It'll do nicely," he agreed, leaning forwards and kissing him again.
It was another deep, knowing kiss, and Sherlock shied away from it almost without realising it. John allowed him to pull away, stroking at his cheek in comfort. "It's been a long time since someone took care of you, hasn't it?"
Sherlock looked away awkwardly, pretending that he had intended to break the kiss. "I've made a lot of bad judgment calls when it comes to men," he said quietly.
"Not tonight," John breathed, his lips trailing so softly where his fingers had been on Sherlock's face. "Trust me. I'll take care of you."
He closed his eyes, his swallow loud in the otherwise-silent bedroom. "All right," he whispered. He swallowed again, watching flames dance in John's eyes as he smiled. "All right."
John kissed him again, gently, cupping the nape of his neck; Sherlock could feel his short fingers playing with the curls that rested there. The kiss was soft, pleasant; John was caressing him with his tongue, his other arm snaking around his back to hold him tight, his breath falling softly against Sherlock's cheek. He melted into it, surrendering himself to John, feeling the answering smirk against his lips.
It was interesting, this form of control. Because John was in control, there could be no doubt about it: the placement of his hands on Sherlock's body effectively caged him, not preventing escape but certainly discouraging it. And with John's hands and lips and tongue on him, in him, he didn't want to escape. He trusted John because he knew him, but he could completely understand how Stephens could make people trust him within hours of their meeting, if he kissed them all this carefully. John kissed as though he had been waiting for this moment all of his life.
He broke away after a moment to breathe heavily against Sherlock's neck, feeling the pulse race under his forehead. "Will you give yourself to me?" he asked quietly, pressing soft kisses to the trembling skin of Sherlock's throat. "Let me make up for all the things he did to you?" His hand traced gently over Sherlock's cheek, stroking imaginary bruises left by imaginary lovers.
Sherlock let out a long, shaking breath, and nodded. John smiled warmly and placed one chaste kiss on his still-open mouth. "Undress and lie down," he requested gently.
He wondered if John had forgotten that Stephens had tied her up, but he stripped his jacket and toed off his socks before climbing onto the bed, leaning back on his elbows and watching as John copied his motions of undressing. He whistled mockingly. John grinned at him, his expression darkening slightly as he climbed over him. He settled between his legs as Sherlock spread them, dampening down a sudden longing for the intimacy, the eroticism, the smooth feeling of skin on warm skin. He ran his hands up John's bare arms instead, smiling softly.
John looked down at the touch and frowned. "This is about you," he murmured softly, kneeling up in order to remove Sherlock's hands and replace them above his head. "Will you let me tie them there? Trust me with your pleasure? I'll make sure you can get out if you need to –"
"Of course," Sherlock interrupted. "But… I want to please you as well, it's not fair if I –"
"Shh," John susurrated, kissing him into silence while he leaned over the bed in search of something to tie Sherlock's hands up with. "Pleasing you will give me pleasure." He kissed him again, then frowned. "The tape?" he asked, raising an eyebrow at the empty bedside table.
Sherlock frowned. "They used a scarf," he replied, lifting his head to glance at the coats and jackets on the floor, "but mine's in the living room – the tape's in the top drawer of the table."
John grinned briefly before leaning over again and flicking the drawer open. Sherlock almost expected him to comment on the box of condoms and the open bottle of lubricant, but he merely lifted an amused eyebrow at them and lifted the tape from its place beside them. He could have put it somewhere different, using it as he was for work – ostensibly, at least – but he liked having it beside the things that he used for pleasure, whether John drew the same conclusion or not.
He held still while John bound his wrists together, enjoying the innocuous slide of their chests against each other as John shifted. "Comfortable?" John asked, tapping the tape holding his wrists against the bars of his bedhead.
"Enough," Sherlock replied quietly. "Kiss me?" He made sure to say it like a plea rather than a demand, and John smiled as he complied, readjusting his body against Sherlock's so that he could feel the weight of him pressing him down, the kiss subduing him until his hips rocked unconsciously forward against John's thighs. He was so hard; how was it fair that John could do that to him with a few kisses and the promise of something more?
But when he rocked his hips up John was hard too, so it was quite clearly not just Sherlock who was affected by this. He smiled against John's lips, his head lifting automatically when they parted from his to chase them back.
John chuckled softly. He stroked Sherlock's cheek with one rough finger, watching him with fond eyes. "You're so gorgeous like this," he said softly, and something in his voice made Sherlock wonder whether he meant the words for him or for the character he was playing. He smiled shyly back anyway, attempting to shrug the praise away without words.
The doctor kissed the tip of Sherlock's nose with an over-the-top smooching sound, then slid himself slowly down Sherlock's body, pressing soft lips against his neck, the exposed skin of his collarbone, looking coyly up at Sherlock as he rested his cheek against the swell of his pectoral and moved one hand up to brush over his nipple. Sherlock twitched involuntarily as the touch of John's fingers sent a shock to his groin, a whimper escaping his lips. John grinned wickedly, twisting his fingers without warning to pinch at his nipple, turning his head so that his lips rested on the other. Sherlock gasped desperately at the sensation, trying to remember the name of the victim John was pretending to be in order to gasp that.
"Vince," he murmured after a moment's vague thought; it was difficult to muster declarative memories when John's fingers were playing with his nipple. John grinned again – then he bit down sharply on Sherlock's other nipple, making him cry out and rut his hips up against John's stomach. "God," he whispered, as John laughed and the sound vibrated through where they were connected, sending thrills through his chest to his throbbing cock. "Please, take me," he begged, almost attempting to sit up before remembering that his hands wouldn't let him.
John released his nipples with a last tweak and slid further down his body. "I don't think so," he replied easily, flipping Sherlock a nonchalant smile. "I think he'd have made her come like this before he took her."
His hands slipped down Sherlock's belly, toyed with the button on his trousers. For a crazy moment Sherlock thought he would undo it, undo the trousers and touch Sherlock's bare penis, but then the moment passed and John's hand moved down to the head of his cock as it rubbed gently against the now-damp fabric of his pants. "Oh," slipped from Sherlock's mouth. "Oh, please…"
The friction of his head against damp pants quickly turned from pleasurable to painful and Sherlock whimpered, trying to edge away from the touch. John smiled softly and shifted his hand down further, kneading and massaging Sherlock's balls, sending throbs of pleasure up the length of his cock. "Too much?" he murmured, looking up sympathetically.
Sherlock tried to shrug, but the movement didn't come out quite the way he had intended through his bound wrists, so he hummed uncomfortably instead. "Only right there – ah! Don't stop, please, Vince."
John's smirk flickered at the sound of the false name – so minutely Sherlock would almost wonder if he imagined it were he not so adept at reading microexpressions. He hitched it quickly back into place and continued the relentless massage up the base of Sherlock's cock, watching his legs twitch helplessly. "Talk to me," John murmured softly. Sherlock moaned, remembering John's assertions that he would have made her come before he considered taking her.
"A little harder," he suggested, squirming as John complied. "Ah! Yes – faster, Vince, please, I need – oh, oh, please!" John's hand pressing down on his cock stilled as he affected a shudder and a series of gasps. He'd never pretended to orgasm before, but he supposed as he was pretending to be someone else – a woman, no less – it didn't really matter how ridiculous he looked. Sherlock had only ever seen one woman come in real life, and he wouldn't be caught mimicking her actions in front of anyone.
He had squeezed his eyes shut and thrown his head back while John watched him shake and moan, keeping the pressure even on his cock as though to guide him through his climax. Once he felt it had gone on for long enough, he subsided, opening his eyes and smiling blearily down at John. "Now you," he pleaded, trying to reach out but being stopped by the tape still holding his hands above his head. "Please, Vince."
John smiled at him, giving his penis one last indulgent rub before climbing over him and pressing their mouths together, open and wet and messy. "You're so beautiful," he breathed against Sherlock's lips. "That was incredible. God, I want you so much."
Sherlock spread his legs suggestively, letting John slide more solidly against him and kissing him frantically. "Then have me," he told him, arching an eyebrow as coyly as he could. John groaned, reaching down to adjust himself in his trousers, like he was steadying himself to thrust in.
He sighed when John pushed his hips down, as though taking John inside his body had alleviated some ache deep inside of him. He could almost feel the ache himself. John groaned again, deep and rough as though the sound was pulled right from his groin. "God," he moaned softly. Sherlock whimpered agreement.
He knew he wouldn't be able to get through much of this without coming. He supposed it had been bound to happen sooner or later. John took a shaky breath in and began to roll his hips firmly against Sherlock's, the slow, relentless friction positively maddening. His hands slid slowly down Sherlock's chest, revelling in the feeling of his shirt against his skin, and settled on his hips, clutching tight as he rocked.
Sherlock tipped his head back and moaned until John's hand reached back up to his face, his pace increasing slightly, the hand that was still at his hips tightening until Sherlock began to feel he would have a mark the shape of the dome in his trousers for hours after they finished. The tiny bites of pain from the friction and the pressure blended with the pleasure building in waves until he could barely tell them apart, until the moans still spilling from his lips were entirely involuntary.
John continued to thrust harder and faster, but it wasn't enough – Sherlock's cock throbbed until he was utterly desperate. He needed more, needed harder and faster still until the role-play no longer mattered. "John," he said sharply, jerking his hips up to attempt to convey what he needed. "John, please, I –"
"All right," John whispered, pressing his hips down hard against his. "Take what you need, Sherlock."
Sherlock whimpered again, biting his bottom lip as he lifted his hips frantically against the now-solid weight of John's, feeling the pressure and the binding pleasure build until he wanted to scream with it. "J-John!" he cried instead as it took him, clutching the other man's waist with his legs and heaving ragged breaths into his lungs, feeling his heart beat wildly as though it were no longer a part of him.
John gasped as though he had not been expecting to hear his own name and folded into Sherlock, shuddering and coming; he could feel the mad pulsing of his flatmate's cock matching his own. The doctor's arms wrapped around his shoulders, holding him tightly until the two of them stopped convulsing and faded into pants and shivers.
John didn't let him go, even when the mess in Sherlock's trousers bled uncomfortably through them. It seemed like it would fuse them together if they didn't move, but Sherlock wasn't sure he was entirely opposed to the prospect. If the fusing wasn't terrifically uncomfortable, that was; his groin began to itch as they lay there and semen soaked into his skin.
He wanted to get up and clean himself off, change back into his pyjama bottoms and then come back and lie down with John and fall asleep in his arms.
And why not? If he wasn't mistaken, and he didn't think he was, John had come because he had heard his own name in Sherlock's voice. He couldn't get more concrete proof than that that John wanted him.
"John," he said quietly, shifting his shoulders and cursing the tape holding his arms away, "I wonder if –"
His phone rang from inside his discarded jacket pocket. Sherlock swore. For a moment he considered not answering it – it wasn't Scotland Yard, he could tell by the ringtone – but it could be relevant to the case. Far more relevant than what they'd just done. He sighed. "Could you cut me free?" he asked John.
The doctor chuckled, but his heart wasn't in the noise. He leaned over to fish the scissors out of the bedside drawer and cut through the tape; Sherlock flexed his wrists as John rolled off him and adjusted himself again.
"Sherlock Holmes," he answered briskly, trying to sound as though he hadn't just come in his pants after a bit of casual frottage with his flatmate and then been interrupted before he could declare undying love.
The voice was deep, mellifluous, and whispering frantically. "Mister Holmes? It's Jake Henzell."
He sat up sharply, glancing at John. Henzell was the other man he had contacted about finding the killer; he had told him he hadn't seen anyone but that he would keep an eye out. "Have you seen her?"
Henzell coughed awkwardly. "One of my regulars just walked in. She's blonde, but I hadn't seen her in a while so I didn't think to mention her. She has bruises all over her face, just like you said – and, now I think about it, I'm pretty sure last time I saw her she was with one of those men you showed me."
Sherlock jumped off the bed, gesturing for John to get up, and jerked open a drawer of his dresser to look for a clean pair of pants. "Can you keep her talking for twenty minutes while I get the police?"
There was a pause. "Yeah," Henzell replied. "But hurry."
He hung up, flinging his phone at John, and yanked a pair of briefs out of his dresser. "Get changed," he told the doctor sharply. "They've found her."