Author's Note: Extra long chapter to get Sherlock and John to Christmas day at the same time as we do. Consider it another Christmas present for all of you!
Thanks for the comments and favorites, friends. It made me smile to think of people from all over the world reading this story and rooting for Sherlock and John to get things right in time for Christmas. And no, though the thought is hilarious, I'm not going to have a proposal on top of the Empire State Building! Despite living in NYC for six years, I have never visited that building and I have a feeling that Sherlock isn't the kind of traveller who would go in for that kind of tourist trap, either. The New York that they are visiting is the city that I live in; all of the places that I mention really exist (including the Hudson Hotel – thought it was a cute coincidence because 221B is also part of a Hudson Hotel – Mrs. Hudson's Hotel, of course). At the very end of the story I will list all of the places in the story, but for now, you can look up any of them online and find out more about them. It's one of the joys of placing them in a city that I know so well – the backdrop is so easy to create.
Here be warned: mature content to follow. If male/male action isn't your thing, please don't continue. This is where the rating goes up to M.
Enough chatter. Here's the story.
Pax VII
"Was that alright?" Sherlock asked, when they finally broke apart from the kiss.
"Was that alright?" John repeated, his hands still around Sherlock's waist. He did not want to let go, not just yet. "A bit better than 'alright,' I would think." He leaned up and gave Sherlock another brief kiss on the lips, in thanks. Sherlock reached out and pulled him closer, reluctant to let John out of his arms. He couldn't resist kissing John again, the cold weather be damned. Sherlock was overjoyed; after days of tiptoeing around the matter, here they finally were, exploring intimacy through kisses and whispers and trembling hands.
Sherlock's kisses were luxurious, generous; he took his time to explore John's mouth, now running his tongue over John's, now sucking gently on John's bottom lip. It made John breathless to think that it wasn't just anyone who was kissing him, it was Sherlock – and far from being the selfish lover that John had feared he might be, Sherlock demonstrated an eagerness and sincerity that nearly made John's knees buckle underneath him.
"Shall we keep walking?" Sherlock asked when he let John go for the second time. "It's not quite time for dinner – how about that stroll through Columbia?" John assented, and the men walked up Amsterdam Avenue, hand in hand.
The entrance to the university was marked by tall, wrought-iron gates. Just inside, a walkway led across the campus, bracketed by rows of bare cherry trees outlined in a thousand white lights. The university walk was surrounded by a brick plaza that was buttressed by the old King's College library to the north and the newer library to the south, both grand and stately buildings.
It is all too perfect, thought John: the cold air, the dark night, the silhouette of the trees. And then there's Sherlock, who can't seem to let go of my hand, and there he goes again, dragging me along after him. Ah! A bench in the shadows. I know where his mind is headed…
Though they were not undergrads, they sat on that bench and kissed as enthusiastically as had any number of students before them.
Do you like this, John? Sherlock thought, nibbling at the tip of John's tongue as he cupped the other man's face firmly in his hands. I think you do. Oh, why didn't we do this before? Why was I such an idiot? John, you knew what this would be like, that's why you suggested it, and I was the one who didn't know a good thing when he saw it.
"John!" Sherlock said tenderly, breathlessly. They gazed into each other's eyes.
"Sherlock?"
"John! John John John. I can't stop saying your name. It's so marvelous, John. You are marvelous, oh you – John!"
John's laugh was open and clear, the sound of happiness. He rubbed his nose against Sherlock's, Eskimo kisses for the cold.
"Do you like this, John?" Sherlock asked, voicing his thoughts. He still couldn't believe that John had let himself be kissed.
"Do I like what, Sherlock? The kisses? The bench? The trees?"
"The kisses, you idiot," Sherlock said fondly.
"I'm not sure I've had enough to know for sure whether I like them or not," John joked, earning himself another round of kisses from Sherlock. John interrupted to say, "Kissing aside – and yes, you are a very good kisser, Sherlock, you don't need me to tell you that –"
"I don't want to hear that from anyone else, John. I only want you to like my kisses. Other people are irrelevant. I only want you, now." John felt a shiver run through his body at Sherlock's words.
"When did this start, Sherlock?" John asked, softly. "Why didn't you tell me before?"
"I've been trying to tell you all week, John. You just didn't take the hint, or didn't want to believe it."
"I noticed things, Sherlock – how could I not notice when you practically sat in my lap in the Korean restaurant and licked the ice cream cone right in front of me? Nice phallic gesture, by the way. I know I'm not as observant as you are, but I'd have to be a lot denser than I am to miss that."
"Why didn't you respond, then?" Sherlock asked.
"I –Sherlock –" John started. "I still can't entirely believe that this is happening. You, with me, I mean. You have to excuse me if it takes me a while to get used to the idea."
"Well, I've been thinking about it for six months," Sherlock announced. "Ever since that terrible night in Wales, which you must forgive me for. Immediately. Say you will, John, or I'll never stop kicking myself for having hurt you."
"Give me some time, Sherlock," John said. "I told you, I still cannot believe that you have actually changed your mind. But keep on as you were, and I'm sure that I'll come around eventually."
"Are you serious?" Sherlock asked. "You can't tell how I feel about you? Even now?" His eyes were wide and worried.
"I'm starting to believe it," John admitted. "But you have to understand that it may take a little time. You don't exactly make it easy to guess what you're feeling."
"I see." Sherlock grew silent. "Would you prefer that I don't kiss you? Until you believe me that I'm serious?"
"No! It's not that – the kisses are quite nice, Sherlock, and greatly reassuring, believe me. I like them, I like them a lot. It's just – " John paused, looking for the right words. " –you don't know how long I've hoped that something like this would happen. And if you're not serious about this, Sherlock, I will make sure that you never mess with my heart again." His voice had a threatening tone to it, one that Sherlock knew well, the kind of voice that John used when he really was going to toss one of Sherlock's experiments, it didn't matter how much Sherlock protested, John would ensure that those bloody eyeballs ended up in the incinerator the very next day. It was John's no-holds-barred-take-no-prisoners voice, and it always got Sherlock's attention. It was not for nothing, after all, that John was a soldier.
Sherlock gulped. "I meant it when I said that I wanted to try a relationship with you. I'm not good at these things, but I do want to try. With you," he clarified. "Can we try? Please, John?"
John leaned against Sherlock, breathing in the smell of Sherlock's wool coat. It was so comforting to be close to him like this, to just be sitting there, together, talking, touching each other, kissing – John felt as if he might burst from happiness. Was it possible to have his heart broken twice in the same year? By the same man? For it felt like his heart was breaking now, as Sherlock said those words. And John would do anything to reassure Sherlock that, yes, it was possible to learn how to love – what utter bollocks he'd said in the museum – and it thrilled John to think that, out of all people, Sherlock would choose him, John Watson.
"Yes, we can try, Sherlock," John said. "Though there's a lot to sort out, a lot of misunderstandings we need to clear up."
"We have time for that, John," Sherlock reassured him. "There's plenty of time for that. My job is almost over here, and I don't have another meeting until Tuesday."
"Sherlock, I don't just mean that we have to talk things through – though we do need to do that – and then everything will be fine. I mean, to have a relationship with someone is a lot of work. And you already are a lot of work. At least, that's how it feels to me."
"But won't it better," Sherlock proposed, "now that we're in a relationship? You can tell me things so much more directly now."
John laughed at Sherlock's ignorance. "That's likely to just make things more difficult," he pointed out. "It's one thing to get peeved with your flatmate, but it's another thing to have a fight with your lover. And I can't see how much more direct I can get with you than I already am."
"Is that how you think of me?" Sherlock asked. "As your lover?"
John blushed. "Not right now, no," he admitted. "Not yet. But things are headed that way, aren't they?"
Sherlock nodded.
John continued. "What I mean, Sherlock, is that our starting something together is likely to make things more complicated, not less. At least in the short term. And you do know that things might not work out. That happens in relationships, too. Like me and Sarah not working out."
"But you're still friends with Sarah," Sherlock reminded him. "And we could remain friends, too."
"I honestly don't know if we could," John said. "I'd like to believe that it's possible, but it doesn't always turn out that way. And the comparison with Sarah may not be the right one to make. Yes, she's still my colleague and my boss, but we only dated for a few months. And even she could see, at the time, that my friendship with you went much deeper than my romance with her."
"She said that?"
"Not in so many words. But, ultimately, you were the reason we broke up." Sherlock raised an eyebrow, as if skeptical. "Don't give me that look, Sherlock," John said. "As if you didn't know that already."
"Know what?"
"That Sarah broke up with me because I spent too much time solving cases with you. She saw how I felt about you before I even did."
"I thought – that first night at Angelo's – weren't you asking me if I was available? Weren't you interested then?"
"Well, yes, I was," John admitted. "But then you made it pretty clear that you weren't interested, married to your work and so on and so forth. So I put my eggs in another basket and started to see Sarah. Only you had this infuriating habit of showing up on our dates, and getting us kidnapped, and pulling me away just when we had our pants around our ankles, and –"
Sherlock interrupted him. "Thank you, John, I'd rather not dwell on that image."
"Sorry. I'm just saying, you did behave as if you were trying to get her to leave me. Not that I'm complaining, now. But at the time I was just furious with you. You didn't want me as a boyfriend, and yet you didn't want anyone else to have me, either. I was in quite a bind, with you."
"So why did you keep working with me?" Sherlock asked. "Why didn't you find your own flat, or move in with Sarah?"
John looked down at his feet. "Because you fascinated me, Sherlock. I had felt so dull for so many months. In retrospect, I think I must have been depressed, in addition to the more obvious PTSD. Life seemed pointless, everything was washed out and faded – that's really how things seemed to me, Sherlock, I literally couldn't see colour any more. Just grays, and dark blues, and greens. And then I met you at St. Bart's, and everything changed. It wasn't just that I stopped using my cane, though I still consider that a minor miracle. It was that – I felt that I had a purpose again, which was to help you."
"You've always been more than a helper, you know," Sherlock said. "More like a partner, I'd say."
"Yeah, partner in crime is more like it. That's what Sarah used to say about us. Why don't you go and fuck your little partner in crime up the arse? She said once when she was very angry." Sherlock flinched. "Yes, Sarah actually said that. She may look like a sweetie but she can talk like a sailor when she wants to. I think that was the time when we had our pants d– but you didn't want to hear about that so I won't say any more. Suffice it to say that, whenever you called or texted me, there was nothing that could stop me from going."
"I think I took advantage of that," Sherlock admitted. If they were going to start a relationship together, he reasoned, it was best that he be honest about past sins.
"Yes, you did, Sherlock," John said. "And that made it even harder for me. I found myself falling in love with you, and you didn't seem to care, at all. You found it quite useful, actually, to have a besotted assistant who would jump at the opportunity to be of the slightest use to you."
"I think you're being a bit unfair, John," Sherlock protested. "Yes, I did want your help. But I didn't just want your company so that you could fend off Anderson and Donovan, even though you became good at that kind of thing, too. I wasn't looking for an errand boy."
"What were you looking for?" John asked.
"A partner, you dolt! A partner!"
"Colleague?"
"More like a friend, actually," Sherlock said. "I was lonely. Yes, even the great Sherlock Holmes gets lonely once in a while. And then you came, and you were so different from anyone else that I had ever met. I was intrigued."
"Me? Different? I think I'm quite ordinary."
"You're not, John Watson, and don't give me that. You are an extraordinary individual and it's time that you give yourself more credit."
"Thank you, Sherlock," John said. "I still can't believe we're talking about all this."
"Oh course we are, John. We're in a relationship!" Sherlock grinned widely. "And because we're in a relationship, I am going to ask you on a date. Right now. Would you like to accompany me to Chinatown?"
"You were serious about the fortune, then," John said.
"Of course I was serious. I predicted that you'd eat Chinese food, and go home with someone dark and handsome. And am I not right, on both accounts?"
"You are, Sherlock. You're almost always right."
"See?" Sherlock said. "It's so much easier being in a relationship. Because I can make my predictions come true!"
"Maybe I am putting a damper on things, but your predictions would have come true whether or not you kissed me. After all, we've been sharing a bed for the last three nights, and we've been flatmates for much longer."
"From flatmates to bedmates," Sherlock murmured, bringing John close for another kiss. "I quite like that idea."
John put his foot down when Sherlock suggested Sichuan food – he would not have another encounter with a hot pepper – and they ate milder Cantonese fare at the Golden Unicorn, followed by a trip to the Chinatown Ice Cream Factory.
"It seems strange to be eating so much ice cream in the middle of winter," John commented as they entered the crowded store. Even on Christmas Eve, it seemed, there were people who wanted a cold dessert.
"How do you feel about durian?" Sherlock asked.
"Durian?"
"Yes, a fruit from southeast Asia, related to the jackfruit, but much more fragrant – or odourous. An old Thai saying is that durian is 'hell on the outside and heaven on the inside.' "
"Sounds like a certain consulting detective," John joked.
Sherlock glared at him and continued. "Some people think it smells like rotting flesh, others compare it to almonds. But I think it smells like sex. It has that deep, musky aroma, redolent of dirt and grass and the seaside. Like sex," he repeated, as if that needed clarification.
John blushed despite himself. "I guess I know what flavour you're getting," he joked.
"Actually," Sherlock said, "I was thinking of going for the lychee, myself; the flavour is a bit more delicate. I mentioned the durian because it reminded me of you, as you do have a taste for the exotic."
"Thanks," John said. "The fruit that smells like sex reminded you of me. Let me guess where your mind is headed."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Let's not be too hasty, John. I just thought you'd like it."
"I'm sure I will." To the teenage girl behind the counter, who was listening to them with a smirk on her face, John asked for one durian cone and one lychee cone.
They ate their ice cream as they wandered the Chinatown streets, watching merchants pack up their stalls and prepare for closing. Sherlock wouldn't let go of John's hand, not until it was time to look for a cab and John pointed out that it was a bit tricky to signal for one if they were joined at the wrist.
They had shared a bed for the last several nights, without saying anything about it to each other, but as they rode up the elevator to the penthouse, John realized that he was both excited and anxious about sharing a bed with Sherlock that night.
"What's the protocol for starting a relationship with someone who's already sharing your bed?" Sherlock asked, once the door had shut behind them.
"I don't think there's a hard and fast rule for that, Sherlock," John said, laughing.
"Should we still share the bed tonight? Now that we've…" Sherlock looked hopeful.
"We can do whatever we want, Sherlock. We're grown adults and we don't have to follow any rules."
"Yes, but haven't we skipped a few steps? Don't kisses come before sharing a bed, not after?"
"Sherlock, our whole relationship thus far – and I don't mean the one that just began today – has been one big exercise in breaking the rules."
"Still," Sherlock insisted, "I want to know: when is it appropriate to start sharing a bed? I thought that it took several dates before Sarah let you spend the night, and even then she didn't let you sleep in her bed, so I'm wondering if it's not good that we are already sharing a bed."
"I'd say the number one rule of a new relationship, if you are looking for rules, is to not ask your mate what he did with previous partners."
"So, no talk about Sarah? But how else am I going to know what you expect from a relationship?"
"Er, I can think of a few ways that don't involve deductions that extrapolate from a relationship that didn't work. I'm not saying that it's off limits to ask me about Sarah, but I'd rather you and I talk about what we want to do, not what I did with Sarah once upon a time."
Sherlock blinked. "I see. Well, then. John. How do you feel about sharing the bed with me tonight?"
"Are you asking me about sleeping next to each other, like we've been doing for the last several nights, or are you asking about having sex?"
Sherlock dropped his coat on the chair and came closer to John, taking the shorter man in his arms and gazing at him.
"John, given that I've shared the bed with you for the last three nights and did not cop a single feel – despite the great temptation – you don't really believe that I'm thinking of kipping out on the sofa now, are you?"
John swallowed nervously as Sherlock brought his to mouth close to his. He wanted the kissing to start again, but he knew that he needed to make clear a few things with Sherlock first.
"Sherlock!" John exclaimed, twisting away slightly. "You don't beat around the bush, do you?"
"What do you mean?" Sherlock frowned. John extricated himself from Sherlock's arms and sat down on the sofa. Sherlock sat next to him.
"What I mean is, I tell you that we should talk about our relationship, and what we want from each other, and you immediately ask me about sex!"
"Not good?"
"No, a bit not good, Sherlock."
"Why not? Is that not the fundamental difference between the relationship we had last week, and the one that we began today? Sex?"
"Two friends don't become lovers just because they have sex together. Hell, I could have sex with any stranger and that wouldn't mean that we're in a relationship."
"But it's a very important distinction," Sherlock insisted.
"How so?"
"I've never had sex with a friend before," Sherlock said.
"You've never had sex with a friend?" John asked, a bit astonished. Their knees grazed each other and Sherlock had thrown a long arm around John's shoulder. Apparently the detective was trying to get as close to John as possible while remaining next to him on the couch. "You haven't had a friend with benefits? Or a friend whom you slept with by accident when you were drunk or high?"
"That's ludicrous, John. I didn't shoot up with anyone I would consider a friend."
John remembered that it was Sherlock Holmes he was dealing with; for all he knew, he was the first friend that Sherlock had ever had.
"How many friends have you had, Sherlock?" John asked quietly. "No, wait – you don't have to tell me. That's a stupid question, and inconsiderate of me. If you asked me the same, I wouldn't be able to tell you the answer."
"That's because you have too many friends to count, John," Sherlock said. "But there are very few people whom I would consider my friends. You, of course." Sherlock took John's hand and began to rub his fingers lightly over his palm, tracing the heartline again. "And Lestrade. Mrs. Hudson. Does family count?"
"Yes," John said. "I love Harry but I'm not her friend. So family should count because they're not automatically your friends."
"My cousin Georgina. Aunt Rosalind."
"Wait – I've never heard you mention these people before."
"That's because they're dead," Sherlock said in a flat voice.
"I'm sorry, Sherlock," John said. "Was that recent?"
Sherlock shook his head. "Aunt Rosalind died when I was at uni. And Georgina died in June."
"In June, Sherlock? This June?" Sherlock nodded. "Why didn't you tell me about her? And why didn't you mention that a family member of yours had died?"
"We were in the middle of a case. It didn't seem important at the time."
"Not important? Sherlock, if she was one of your friends, as well as your cousin, then of course that was important! I should have known that. I would like to know these things about your life, Sherlock, if we are going to be in a relationship."
Sherlock was quiet for a few moments. "I don't always know myself what is important and what is not when it comes to other people," he explained.
"Yes, I've figured out as much by now, thank you," John said, kissing Sherlock's cheek. "That's why I'm telling you these things: so you're know. I want you to tell me when someone you love –" Sherlock flinched – "dies. Wait - that must have been just before we went to Wales! And you didn't say a word." Sherlock looked abashed. "You have to tell me, Sherlock. I might have understood your reaction better at the time, why you were so on edge when I said I wanted something more. You had just lost someone you loved. But you should have told me about that! And I want you to tell me other things, too. Like what you want from me."
Sherlock closed his eyes and rested his head on John's shoulder. "I want you, John. I want to be like this together. I – I don't know what else to say, John. What do you want me to say?"
"That's enough for now, Sherlock," John said, before surprising Sherlock with a firm kiss on his mouth. "Perhaps we can start here and see where things take us? Eh?"
"I want to know what you expect from me, John. Tonight. I need to know what you want me to do."
John laughed. "I certainly don't want you doing anything that you don't want to do, Sherlock! This is new for both of us. I'd hate for us to rush into something prematurely and miss the time we would have spent getting to know each other."
"Can you be plainer, John?"
John sighed. "I don't want us to have sex tonight, Sherlock. We can share the bed, yes – we've been doing it the last few nights, after all – but I for one would like to take things slowly."
"Meaning?"
"Sherlock, I don't know exactly what that means! Do you want me to spell out exactly what we can and cannot do?"
"Yes."
"But I'm telling you, I can't do that, that's something we have to work out together. I'm not the only one making the decisions, here. That's the whole point of a relationship."
Sherlock looked a bit frightened, if it were possible for Sherlock Holmes to feel fear.
"All right, all right, Sherlock. Let's start with kissing. We can both agree that it's OK for us to kiss each, right?"
"Correct."
"Good." John started to laugh. "I feel like I'm in secondary school again, trying to see if my girlfriend will let me put my hand up her shirt!"
"I don't see how this is the same thing at all."
"No, you might not see why, Sherlock. But that is why you are so you." John took Sherlock's face in his hands and carefully, slowly, ran his lips over the other's mouth. When Sherlock began to open his mouth, John murmured, "No, no, just the lips for now. Just the lips, Sherlock." Sherlock sat back against the sofa cushions and let John cover his mouth with soft, insistent kisses, until Sherlock's lips were red and he was gasping, "John! John!"
John pulled away triumphantly. "See how I've barely touched you and you are already aroused?"
"What does this have to do with anything?" Sherlock gasped.
"This is why I want to take things slowly, Sherlock. Because sex can become dull over time. Not that I think that sex with you could ever be dull. But – it's more special, somehow, if you take your time learning what the other person likes, instead of jumping straight into bed together." A thought occurred to him.
"Sherlock, what has sex been like for you?"
"Most of the time?" Sherlock asked.
"Yes, most of the time."
"I don't know how you would characterize it. Hard. Fast. Tedious." John smiled.
"Who were your partners? Is it alright that I ask you that?" John stroked Sherlock's hair.
"Of course it's alright, John. I didn't care about any of them, so why would I care about telling you? They were people I met at bars, at clubs, at crack houses. Just people around."
"Men or women?"
"Both." John held Sherlock more tightly. He felt suddenly protective of his friend, and sorry for him, too. What must it be like, to have only had sex with strangers? To never have loved a lover?
"Was it consensual?"
"I never raped anyone, if that's what you meant, John."
"No, I wasn't thinking that, Sherlock. I would never think that of you. I was more concerned about whether you wanted to have sex with those people, at the time."
"Not always." Sherlock shrugged. "But it was over quickly, in most cases."
John sucked in his breath sharply. There was so much that he wanted to tell Sherlock – that he was sorry for him, for all that Sherlock had missed out on; that he would be a very different kind of lover for Sherlock; that he never would have Sherlock to have sex just because it was something that John wanted. But John held back saying these things, because he didn't want Sherlock to feel embarrassed or to feel like he had done something wrong in his previous sexual encounters. I want to show him how good it can really be, John thought. I want him to learn what it is like to really want someone, to feel that great build-up that comes from flirtation and touching and kissing, before any clothes come off. Sherlock needs this; he has no knowledge of this. It pleased John enormously to think that he might teach Sherlock something, after all.
All he said was, "I don't want this to be over quickly, Sherlock."
"Nor do I," Sherlock whispered. "Please, John, may I kiss you again?"
"Yes, Sherlock, you may. Yes!"
Sherlock adjusted himself on the sofa, moving his knees further out so that he could turn and face John directly. John also moved, pulling back from the sofa cushions, and met Sherlock at the sofa's edge. At first, when Sherlock kissed John, he kept his grip light on John's fingers and held his torso away from the other man. John said we should just kiss, Sherlock thought. And I'm curious to see what this feels like, just kissing him.
Their lips and hands were the only places where they touched; even their knees were kept apart as Sherlock and John explored each other's mouths and hands with their own. Sherlock discovered how John's breath would stop whenever he bit down on his lower lip, and John was struck by how smooth Sherlock's face and how soft his hands were; just noticing that smoothness was enough to make John turn hard in other places, too. Their hands were almost as active as their tongues, rubbing fingers over each other's, seeking out contact, each prompting tickles and shivers in the other as Sherlock now ran the pads of his fingers over John's palm, or John brushed Sherlock's knuckles with the back of his. There were many gasps and pants and small moans; strokes and bites and smiles; and long, languorous kisses when John thought that he might just melt in Sherlock's mouth, so warm and inviting it was.
I'm kissing Sherlock Holmes, John said to himself, for not the first time that day. I'm actually kissing Sherlock. And damn, all of my self-control is going to go out the window if he keeps up that thing with his fingers on my palm. It feels like he's playing Mozart on my heartline, which is entirely possible given how Sherlock feels about Mozart and the violin. And now – change in the rules? He's taking my hand, he's bringing it up and – oh! YES! Yes, that's very good, Sherlock. Very good, indeed.
Sherlock was slowly sucking on John's pointer finger, and the sensation brought chills down John's spine. It's just his mouth, John had to remind himself. And that's just my finger. So why is it so special, so completely amazing, that he is doing this to me and making me feel this way? It's not as if I haven't done this before. But it was never with Sherlock. Why? Why didn't we do this earlier?
"Stop thinking," Sherlock ordered, pulling away from John's finger with a tight popping noise that sounded strangely erotic in the silent penthouse. "I need you to stop thinking."
John pulled Sherlock's face to him and began to frantically kiss at his lips, prying his mouth open with his tongue until their two open mouths ringed each other. John swirled his tongue around Sherlock's and then sucked gently on its tip. Sherlock began to mew.
"Oh, you like that, do you?" John asked, pulling away.
The kisses grew faster and more heated after that. Soon it wasn't enough to them to be seated and facing each other; Sherlock longed to press his body against John's, and John did not protest when Sherlock gently pressed him down against the sofa's cushions. Sherlock lay his long body on top of John's, and waited for a few moments until he could feel John's heart beating under his.
"I want to kiss you, John Watson," he panted.
"I thought that's what we were doing," John pointed out.
"Yes," Sherlock said. "But I wanted to make sure it was fine if I did this." He rolled his hips over John's, causing John to buck up against him when he felt their erections come together.
"Yes, Sherlock – yes, that's fine. It's all fine. I said, we'd take this at our own pace – just, Sherlock—" John gasped "— can we go into the bedroom if we're going to do this?"
Sherlock jumped off of him, taking John by the hands and practically dragging him in to the other room. The bedroom was dark and Sherlock fumbled around for the dim light near the bed. I need to see you, John, he thought. I need to touch you, and I need to see your face when you come. This is alright, isn't it, John?
"This is alright, isn't it, John?" Sherlock asked, when he pushed John down on the bed and assumed the position that they had had on the sofa, spreading himself over John's body. John nodded his assent as Sherlock's mouth trailed over his chin and down his neck, past his sternum and downwards as Sherlock slowly unbuttoned John's shirt. With every inch gained, Sherlock explored the surface of John's chest. He twirled the other man's soft blond hair between his fingers and listened to John pant his name above. When Sherlock put his mouth on John's left nipple, John gasped and grabbed Sherlock's head, keeping him firmly in place.
"You like this, do you?" Sherlock asked, before loosening the buttons at John's wrists and turning his friend slightly so that he could remove the shirt entirely.
"Yes," John said in a scratchy voice. "I – yes, Sherlock, I – don't stop!" Sherlock moved to John's other nipple, and as he sucked and twirled around it, his fingers strayed towards the wiry hair under John's arms. He moved slowly, so that he wouldn't trigger the tickle reflex, just lightly stroking the outside of John's chest and under his arms, where they met his shoulders. John began to wriggle under Sherlock, but when Sherlock rubbed his nose against him, he was too turned on to protest or worry about what he might smell like.
This is John's scent, Sherlock thought, pleased to finally be close enough to smell him properly. This scent that I have been chasing after, this unnameable scent, this Watson-ness. JOHN.
Next, Sherlock's hands ventured up to John's shoulder. He pulled his head back to examine John's scar.
"You aren't ashamed of your scar," Sherlock observed.
"Why should I be?" John asked.
"Some people are," Sherlock said. "They think scars make them look less beautiful."
"I've never really worried about my beauty, Sherlock," John said.
"That's because you are a very, very attractive man," Sherlock whispered in a sultry voice. "And don't tell me you don't know that." He smiled against John's shoulder and then began to kiss across the scar. Sherlock knew that the scar tissue wasn't as sensitive as the skin around it, and so the injured shoulder really shouldn't have been an erogenous zone for John, but there was something about feeling Sherlock's mouth on his most vulnerable spot that made John want to sob. He cried out Sherlock's name instead and hugged the other man to him, shifting Sherlock's head so that it rested on his chest.
John ran his fingers through Sherlock's thick hair and tried to suppress the tears that were rising to his eyes. It probably doesn't matter, he thought. Sherlock will have noticed what it did to me, to have him touch my scar that way.
"This is so good, John," Sherlock said, below him.
"I know," John said. "Sherlock – when you kissed my scar, do you know what it seemed like to me?"
"No. What?" Sherlock nestled closer to John.
"It was if you were worshipping my scar."
"I was paying it homage," Sherlock corrected him. "That is, paying homage to your injury."
"But – why? It's just an ugly mess of tissue."
"You said you didn't care about being beautiful, John."
"I don't. But why were you doing that?"
"Because, if you hadn't been injured, you wouldn't have been sent back to England. And I would never have met you." Sherlock crawled up and rested his forehead against John's, their noses pressed tightly together. "Which would have been most unfortunate, I think we can both agree." He smiled mischievously and began to kiss John again, all the while unbuttoning his own shirt. John slipped his hands around Sherlock's back and then helped Sherlock to remove his cufflinks and slide out of his sleeves.
Sherlock's skin was soft, impossible soft, John thought. His body was almost hairless and it was like running his hands over silk, to rub his hands freely against Sherlock's back and torso. Sherlock hissed when John touched his ribs, and John took note of that particular location on Sherlock's body. He was so busy learning Sherlock's chest, memorizing what he liked and disliked, that he almost did not notice that Sherlock had opened his zipper and had slipped a hand inside his trousers, rubbing at John's penis through his pants.
"Sherlock!" John cried out as the other man's hands came in contact with that most sensitive of places.
Sherlock stopped immediately. "Is that not alright?" He asked worriedly. "Is this going too far?" John shook his head and lay back against the bed again, his head lolling from side to side as Sherlock slowly pulled his trousers and pants off, leaving John naked and panting on the sheets. And then he was touching John again, rubbing his fingers lightly against the underside of his shaft, dipping to cup John's balls and shift them lightly from side to side, as if he were weighing a precious object. Sherlock paid close attention to John's reactions, adjusting the pressure and speed of his fingers according to the way John breathed or moved.
"I like to see you like this," Sherlock whispered. "Like this, spread out underneath me. Naked. Exposed."
John grunted. Sherlock spit into his hand and gripped John's penis, lightly pumping his hand up and down. John cried out when Sherlock tugged on his foreskin, batting Sherlock's hands away.
"Shhh, John," Sherlock said. "I'm sorry, that was too rough. Shh. I won't do it again. Just lie back and relax. Let me give you this." John obeyed – what else could he do? He was terribly aroused and was being given a handjob by the most attractive man that he knew. I'm not going anywhere, John thought. Just keep doing what you're doing and I'll –
"Good GOD Sherlock," John burst out. "Yes, that's it. Right there. Just like that. Don't stop."
"I'm not stopping, John," Sherlock said, as he dipped his fingers lower to fondle John's balls again. He noticed how John groaned when his fingers left John's shaft, and John jerked his hips upwards, as if he was looking for Sherlock's touch again.
It was almost over, right then, when Sherlock put his lips over John's foreskin, suckling gently until John felt the heat rise up in him, deep in his belly, and with all of the willpower he could muster, he pushed Sherlock's head up.
"You don't – have – to – do – that," he panted in jagged breaths.
"Maybe I don't have to," Sherlock said deviously, "but I really think I should, don't you?"
"Arg!" John shouted, as Sherlock returned his hot mouth to his penis and sucked slowly, carefully, from the root to the tip and back again, until John's hips began to jerk again, and this time John really was on the edge, and Sherlock knew it, and he concentrated his tongue on John's balls instead, taking the stimulation away from his penis, until John began to cry out in panic, willing Sherlock to return to where he had been before, and then, and only then, did Sherlock suck John dry.
That is what it felt like to John, as if Sherlock were pulling the orgasm from him, extracting every drop of liquid from his body in long, electric waves until John cried out Sherlock's name, over and over, as if it were the only thing he knew how to say, and then fell back, spent, gripping Sherlock's head in his hands.
A few minutes later, when John had calmed down, and Sherlock had moved his head up next to John's, John realized that Sherlock still had his trousers on. Sherlock was staring at him, examining his face carefully, when John moved his hand down Sherlock's chest, towards his groin. Sherlock grabbed John's arm and settled it around his neck in a gentle embrace.
"Not now, John," Sherlock said.
"Why not?" John was eager to give Sherlock something of what he had just experienced.
"Because today was about you, John." Sherlock's tone implied that this was something that John should have already known. "You said we'd only do what we wanted to do. And I wanted to give you that. But I don't want you to touch me, not tonight. Tonight was for you. To show you - to show you that I am serious."
John laughed.
"I know it's not enough to just get you off, John, but please, I wanted to give this to you. So let me."
"Sherlock – that was – you are -"
"Amazing?" Sherlock interrupted. "Exactly how I feel about you. God, you should have seen your face when you came!"
John turned to him and kissed him slowly and tenderly. "You have always been amazing to me, Sherlock. But this –" John rubbed his body against Sherlock's. "I had imagined us together, but I had never imagined it quite like this."
Sherlock smiled. "Glad that I exceeded your expectations, John."
"That's an understatement. Our friendship is pretty much characterized by you exceeding my expectations."
"And now – now that we're not just friends?" Sherlock asked.
"I think that's the part that is the most incredible," John said. "That you're willing to try a relationship with me."
"Of course it would be with you, John. With whom else?"
John giggled. "The thousands of admirers you have?"
"What admirers, John? Any admirers I have are entirely because of you and your blog."
"I think that your dashing good looks must have something to do with it, too. Don't be modest, Sherlock," John said, suddenly turning over and lying on top of Sherlock. He kissed his lover on the tip of his nose.
"Do you know what time it is, John?" Sherlock asked, twisting his head to try to see the bedside clock.
"It's 12:36 a.m.," John announced. "Happy Christmas!"
"Happy Christmas to you, too," Sherlock said. "I never thought I'd like saying that to someone."
"Come on, Sherlock, even you can't be such a sourpuss," John said, as he pulled Sherlock closer to him for another kiss. "Are you sure you don't want a Christmas present from me?" John asked, moving his hand lower to cup at Sherlock's erection.
Sherlock moved his hand away. "I'm very tempted, John – you don't know how absolutely fucking delicious you look right now. If I were a different kind of man, I'd begin to debauch you straightaway. But I meant what I said: tonight was about you."
"Do you know what I'm thinking right now?" John asked.
"Oh, probably that you're falling in love with me. Or is that too presumptuous of me?" Sherlock sat up and stretched his long trousered legs in front of him, leaning back against the head of the bed.
"Entirely too presumptuous, Sherlock. But also very much true. So now you know everything about me."
"Not everything, John," Sherlock said. "And though I never guess, I did guess a bit about that."
"How so?"
"It's what I was feeling too, John. That I was falling in love with you. And I hoped you were feeling the same."
"You are a sentimental schoolgirl, you know that, Sherlock?
"Mmmm. John?"
"Yes?"
"Can we do this tomorrow?"
"Yes. Now, let's turn off the light and go to sleep.
"Happy Christmas, John."
"Happy Christmas, Sherlock."
Nota bene: There will be more, of course there will be more. But I (as well as John) am a bit spent at the moment. So Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!