Two weeks later, and John was free to leave the hospital; limping despondently with the help of the generic metal cane he had been provided with. Sherlock frequently had to busy his hands, or his anger would spiral out of control and he'd be snapping that blasted cane in two. It was a constant reminder of how John had saved him; and how he had done nothing in return.
Until tonight, of course. The night of their first official date.
Sherlock had been discharged three days after the explosion; worse for wear only in looks. Although his ribs frequently complained against his actions, the bandages soon came off and he was free to once again throw himself about with unparalleled vigour. He had visited John as frequently as he could in between his endless flat search. He was yet to ask John if he would flat share with him; half unnerved by the prospect of a 'no'.
7 o'clock, on the streets of London. Sherlock tightened his arms, and guided his boyfriend across the road; their position awkward; but relishing the feel of John's body against his own. John walked affront, whilst Sherlock directly behind, had his spindly arms encircling John's waist, hunched so as to place his head on John's shoulder. Both of them were smiling like idiots.
"I can't believe you're taking me out on a date." John huffed; only having had half an hour to come to terms with this event before he was forcefully dragged from his home. "I'm still wearing a bloody cardigan."
"I happen to like your cardigan." Sherlock mumbled, his petulant bottom lip thrusting outwards. John couldn't resist such a blatant offer and twisted to kiss the taller man, sucking his lip into his mouth and running his tongue along the inside of it. Sherlock shuddered and returned the kiss, opening his mouth so he in turn could explore John's warm, needy mouth with his tongue, licking at the backs of his teeth.
"John I-" Sherlock strugged to talk around John's lips and pulled back gently, his breath swirling in front of him. "John, we have time to do this in Angelo's," The protruding lip returned. "It's cold."
"Fine, fine." With a roll of his eyes at the infantile tone, John felt Sherlock's hand find rest on his hip, and they strolled forward, Angelo's only a corner away.
They were greeted by perhaps the most enthusiastic Italian man John had ever encountered. He flew forward the moment they set foot through the door; a whirlwind of animated chatter and dishevelled beard dandruff.
"Sheeerrrloooooock!" Crooned the man, leading the pair forward and seating them in the restaurant's premier seats by the window. Lanterns like glowflies hung above them, bathing them in a gentle orange glow. Remembering his manners, John stepped forward to pull back Sherlock's chair for him, an embarrassed smile careening his face. Blinking with surprise, Sherlock took his seat; watching with soft eyes as his boyfriend took up the chair next to him, cane placed to one side.
A menu in both hands, the Italian man advanced, his grin revealing a set of neat teeth.
"Anything on the menu; anything you want-" He was addressing Sherlock, smoothing back a withering head of hair with his hand. "-On the house for you and your friend."
"Do you want a starter?" Sherlock directed the question at John; more interested in the way John's eyes gleamed under the lanterns than the buzzing Italian.
"I'm his date." John corrected, looking between the two men, then down at the menu.
The Italian launched forward to grip Sherlock by the shoulders, who grimaced half-heartedly. "This man got me off a murder charge."
"This is Angelo," Sherlock explained, "A few months back Angelo was convicted during a particularly nasty triple murder. I managed to prove he was in a completely different part of town. Car-jacking."
John's mouth fell open into a perfect pink O.
"He cleared my name!" Angelo beamed.
"I cleared it a bit."
Undeterred, Angelo spoke onwards. "If it wasn't for this man I'd have gone to prison!"
Sherlock's embarrassed frown deepened, and he tilted his head to catch Angelo's eye. "You did go to prison…"
An awkward silence formed.
"I'll bring you a candle," Angelo finally dropped Sherlock from his grip. "Make it nicer for you and your friend."
"I'm his date!" John corrected, giving an exasperated drop of his shoulders; several scattered restaurant patrons turned to shoot him looks of varying disconcern. Sherlock caught the look and smirked under his breath; obviously amused by John's forwardness. The two of them fell quiet for a moment; surveying the menu. It was all exquisite, and John suddenly had a thought come over him whereas to how he was going to pay for all this.
"I will break both your hands if you so much as reach for your wallet," Sherlock uttered under his breath, barely above a whisper; his storm grey eyes never leaving the page of the menu. John, understandably, gawped.
"Sorry, how did you-?"
"I saw your eyes widen as you perused the menu, then drop slightly as you viewed the prices; your hand subconsciously went to your pocket where you keep your wallet – it hardly a challenge to guess your train of thought." Closing the menu, Sherlock smiled, tight-lipped, and set it down.
"Right… Right OK." John exhaled, and let the menu drop from his hands, eyebrows drawn in confusion. "What do you do, exactly? As a job? I've never asked."
"What do you think?"
"I'd say private detective…"
"But?" Sherlock's elbows came to rest on the table, his fingers clasped together.
"But… Lestrade – that Detective Inspector texts you. The police don't consult private detectives."
Sherlock grinned; ever so slightly impressed. "I'm a consulting detective." Then; a lot prouder: "The only one in the world – I invented the job."
With an honestly interested expression, John leaned forward, rapt. "What does that mean?"
"It means," Sherlock happily explained, eagerly lapping up the attention John was giving him. "When the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me."
"Brilliant. So, you what; go look at crime scenes and help out?"
"Lestrade caught me hovering around a crime scene two summers back; a prostitute had been repeatedly stabbed in an alley in Whitechapel, some sort of homage to Jack the Ripper. I put forward my hypothesis, and when it turned out to be correct, Lestrade took my number. Now he texts me whenever he needs assistance."
"Wow." John was on fire with his compliments tonight. "That's fantastic."
"Mm, thank you." Sherlock settled back, "I'd ask you your job but I fear I may already know it."
"Yes," John chuckled, "I think I gave that away a couple of times." He went to gaze back at the menu; but the fervent glint in Sherlock's eye was asking for elaboration. "Yeah, well, nothing interesting happening there; I joined the army when I was eighteen, got positioned in Camp Bastion with my dad, and quickly realised I looked really fit in the uniform."
Sherlock choked back a violent laugh, whilst John dissolved into helpless giggles.
When Angelo returned, face permanently branded with his trademark leer, candle in tow, orders were given in quick succession. A bottle of red wine found its way onto the pair's table, "My treat," Sherlock had claimed, a wry smile worked across his mouth. Their hands soon found each other under the table, slim fingers grasping tentatively around stronger ones. Before long John's restraint broke, and he began to caress Sherlock's leg under the table with his own; managing to retain a look of complete nonchalance. Sherlock, in contrast, rose into a blush that coloured his pale cheeks, and downed a glass of wine in its entirety.
Meals were eaten; John maintaining that Sherlock was too skinny for his own good and feeding the taller man food from his plate, kissing the crumbs that tumbled over his boyfriend's lips. Laughing softly in the dim light of the restaurant they conversed quietly, swapping food and stolen kisses like schoolboys.
All too soon; the shutting of blinds indicated that the restaurant was closing – other patrons long gone, and that they too, soon, would have to leave. They had been lost in their own little world for so long, to come back to reality left them slightly disorientated; suddenly craving that intimacy again.
The two of them fell, tipsy, into step beside each other, leaving Angelo's with heavy hearts. Piling into a taxi – their laughs become more sanguine by the minute – they returned to John's flat.
Fumbling fingers opened the door and they stumbled inside, giggling and shushing each other playfully. The light was flicked on, and the room was revealed. It was simple; understated. A single beige couch facing a large television, a coffee table sandwiched between the two. A kitchen ran off to the left, where also lay the kitchen through the next door, and to the right two doors, leading to two bedrooms. Mismatched photo frames lay around; family and friends with wide smiles in long forgotten memories. Sherlock stepped up to one, and lifted it to view it better.
It was John in Camp Bastion in Afghanistan; young faced and freckled across his cheeks, wearing his beige-brown camouflage with regimental pride. He looked as if he was only eighteen or nineteen – white teeth shining in contrast with his tanning skin. Two men stood either side of him, sandwiching him with their height. The first was John's age; pale, with a strong jaw. His brown hair half hidden under a loosely placed helmet; its straps attacking the man's cheeks. The second man was older; perhaps late forties or early fifties. His face was proud, with a gentle almost familiar smile. He too, like John, was tanned; and through his bluster Sherlock noted their identically coloured eyes, both squinting as their cheeks bunched in a smile, both happy.
"My dad." John muttered humbly; suddenly appearing behind Sherlock's figure to nod at the older man he stood so proudly next to in the photo. "He died two years after that was taken. And that's Bill-" He indicated the paler man, "My flatmate."
Sherlock's throat constricted; unknowing of the protocol. "Your father looks like you," He settled with.
"Yeah, he does." John chuckled, sad blue eyes fondly falling upon the photo with half hidden hurt. "Ugly bugger."
"John, " Sherlock wound an arm around John's jean-clad waist, hand gripping the blond man's hip; who leaned into Sherlock's warmth, finding comfort in the touch. "You do realise I now can't deny the allegation you are ugly without it sounding as if I find your father attractive…"
John snorted loudly, shaking his head. He pried the frame from Sherlock's hand and set it down fondly. "You idiot… as if anyone would call me ugly."
A laugh burst from Sherlock's mouth, and they found their way on to the couch. They squirmed, attempting to find a comfortable position, until John took control and Sherlock found himself sprawled across his back along the sofa; John hovering over him, his kind eyes blown wide.
Slowly, when he couldn't resist any longer, John bent at the elbows to bring his lips to Sherlock's and they kissed languidly, lips sliding over lips almost lazily. Sherlock tilted his head and slowly opening his mouth, tugging at John's top lip as he did so, to ask for access. John complied and his mouth opened, allowing Sherlock to push his tongue inside.
Leaning onto his right forearm, John lifted his hand to undo the buttons of Sherlock's shirt, fingers lingering on his smooth skin. He felt more than heard Sherlock's breath catch in his throat, and kissed down the taller man's jaw, hungrily now, and sucked along his neck, raising red, almost possessive marks along the expanse of his pale skin. In his mind, he knew where he wanted to take this; he just hoped Sherlock's mind was in the same place. Sherlock's mouth fell open in a groan, and he pushed at John's cardigan, throwing it onto the floor and ripping at the t-shirt underneath, managing to get his hands under and dragging John closer to him, craving closeness. Meanwhile, John nuzzled into Sherlock's neck and pulled the sides of Sherlock's shirt apart, revealing the pale, smooth muscular area of Sherlock's chest.
With his tongue, he moved back and traced wetly along Sherlock's raised abs and bit at them playfully, drawing small, breathy moans from the man beneath him. He grinned, and leaned to suck one of Sherlock's dark nipples, swirling his tongue over the tip, then pinched the other into hardness. Sherlock was so very responsive, and with every movement John could feel is growing arousal pressing firmly into his stomach through the man's dark trousers.
Sherlock squirmed in pleasure and pulled the hem of John's t-shirt up and over his head, finally revealing John's lean, toned chest, and felt his mouth water at the sight of it. Going up onto his elbows he rolled them and they twisted until Sherlock was on top, who immediately set about mapping John's chest with his mouth, his lips caressing every ridge and scar along John's flushed skin. This was unexplored territory for him, and he was intent on making the most of it. John tasted good, unrecognisable – like something musky, heady. Sherlock catalogued every scent and texture, bringing his hands up to bracket John's writhing hips and all but attacking the delicious circles of John's nipples, tasting them.
As soon as Sherlock's teeth grazed the waistband of his jeans, John's brain went offline. He wriggled up to lean onto his elbows, breathing out of control, hair mussed and sticking up in all directions. Sherlock's long fingers flicked open the button and ripped the zip down, then he caught John's eye and slid his fingers into John's boxers and around his ridiculously hard, leaking erection. He wrapped his fingers around it and stroked it from root to tip inquisitively.
At first he stroked him gently, getting used to the feel of John hot and thick in his hand then lowered his head to lap tentatively at tip of John's cock, hearing John whimper and buck his hips, trying to get Sherlock to take more of him in his mouth. Sherlock obliged, and veered downwards, slicking John's cock into his wet mouth and firmly sucking on it, bobbing his head up and down, lips running along John's shaft.
John wove a hand into Sherlock's mess of curls, not forcing him or guiding him, just because he needed something to hold onto or he would loose his mind or go blind with pleasure. He curled his other hand into a fist and bit down on it, shaking his head gently. This was so, so ridiculous.
With increased suction, Sherlock bobbed his head faster, a hand going down to tug at one of John's balls which were drawn tight to his body. Sticky precome was leaking steady down his throat, which he swallowed hungrily, and worked to take John deeper in his mouth.
John knew he was close to coming, and finally lost control he thrust more actively into Sherlock's slick mouth, feeling the hot coil of arousal in his gut sink lower.
"Sh-Sh-erlock-" He stuttered, feeling his body begin to seize violently and his thrusts become frenzied. "I'm going t- going to-nngghh-"
Keening a loud, animalistic cry he came, white light bursting behind his eyes. Long streams of come spilt over Sherlock's lips and trickled down his chin, whilst he swallowed all he could, milking John until he slumped against the rough material of the couch, thoroughly spent. Sherlock ran his tongue over his lips, making sure John was watching him through half-lidded eyes, and crawled up the older man's body to kiss him gently. John moaned softly, he could taste himself in Sherlock, and worked to catch his breath. Slowly, he trailed a hand down to cup Sherlock's still throbbing groin through his trousers.
"Your turn, I think…" He breathed, raising his eyebrows suggestively.
Half an hour later, they lay entwined on the sofa, both forgoing clothes and dignity and lying naked along its length; facing each other, placing kisses on exposed skin with wry smiles. A thick, red blanket obscured their more delicate parts.
"I wanted to ask you…" Sherlock began, looking up through his eyelashes, "I've… got my eye on a place on Baker Street, together we should be able to afford it – the landlady is Wilf Hudson's ex-wife and she needs protection; she's more than willing to give us a lower price-"
"Are you asking-?" John's bright eyes shined from beneath his lids. "Are you asking me to move in with you?"
Sherlock shifted uncomfortably under John's piercing gaze, "You're a doctor. In fact, you're an army doctor…"
"Yes…?"
"Any good?"
"Very good." John, as usual, eschewed modesty.
"Seen a lot of injuries then?" Came the murmured question. "Violent deaths."
John paused; uneasy as to where Sherlock was taking this conversation. "Yes."
"But of trouble too, I bet." And there was that playful smile, working its way onto Sherlock's face; sending John into reeling confusion.
"Of course; yes. Enough for a life time… far, far too much."
A calculated pause.
"Want to see some more?"
John stilled, Sherlock's intent eyes watching him fiercely. They had been through so much together; faced death and found the beginnings of love in each other's arms. So many things could go wrong; spiral them into an unearthly oblivion to which there would be no return. But John would risk anything for Sherlock; because, he told himself – they were meant to be together, and was there a more beautiful power than that?
"Oh, God yes."
On the surface of the kitchen table, a vibration broke through, echoing abysmally off Sherlock's phone, a text finding its place in his inbox.
[Moran said he had fun playing with you and your little pet and
now I can't wait to have my way with you.
See you around, my dear. –JM]
The screen faded to black, the text waiting to be discovered. It was to be the beginning of everything. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson; together, solving crimes… and falling in love.
-end-
A/N: This can be read on its on, or with the following chapters. Roll on part 2!