Sherlock's P.O.V
This had different from what he'd imagined.
It had been….good. Fascinating.
Definitely better than putting bullets in the wall.
Interesting.
Sherlock had kept his eyes open, bright and brilliant as they watched John for the fifty three seconds it took the doctor to come to his senses before he pushed Sherlock away.
"What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?"
Dull.
"Obvious John, really,"
"I must have missed the 'my flatmates gone mental' memo," John yelled at him, and the physical force of the words almost made Sherlock step back but he decided that if John could do this then so could he. Stand calm and still. A perfect soldier.
"I'm kissing you," he said, barely able to keep the eye roll to himself but being close enough to start cataloguing the freckles under John's left eye helped.
"Yes, thanks, I got that. I'm asking why, Sherlock. Why, today of all days, you decide you'd like to start kissing me like it's no big deal. Because I swear, if this is for some experiment or because you ran out of bullets I am going to throttle you into next week," John said vehemently, a finger coming up to accuse very close to Sherlock's face.
Best to say something non-artillery related then.
"I did it because I wanted to," Sherlock told him firmly.
"Right, brilliant then. We'll just do whatever it is Sherlock fuckin' Holmes wants and everything should be fine."
How did a man with 12 freckles along the edge of his zygomatic bone not understand this?
"You should be ordinary and boring. You probably will be. Eventually. Someday." Sherlock explained calmly, ignoring the desire to figure out the most accurate way of estimating the number of fine blonde hairs on John's head.
Later perhaps
"So what? You kissed me because I'm eventually going to be the one causing mental breakdowns around here?,"
"Making light of a situation is a pathetic defense mechanism John."
"Piss off," John snapped at him, real anger finally appearing instead of the frustrated confusion. Sherlock took a step back.
"If you're truly this dense, perhaps I take it back," he snarled viciously without meaning to, turning away from John to find the familiar path worn into the rugs from his pacing.
"You don't get to just take something like that back!," John yelled again, though Sherlock saw that the doctor was trying to compose himself. "People don't work like that Sherlock," he said more calmly, "I just don't understand. I'm not doing it on purpose," John finished quietly, forcing Sherlock's brilliant brain to focus fully on the words in order to hear them.
"Could you try and explain it, just a bit more?," John asked him cautiously.
Sherlock was going to do serious research into the links between freckles and intelligence.
"Fine, fine. I will try. If you continue to be so irritatingly incompetent after this, I will be forced to choose the skull over you," Sherlock muttered darkly, gazing intently on the spot that the tension in John's body should have been pooling on the floor.
"S'fair enough. I always thought you two would make a lovely couple any way, must be a cheekbone thing," John told him with an attempt at a smile.
"Defense mechanism, John."
"Stalling for time, Sherlock."
Sherlock scowled, choosing to not compliment the good doctor on his inconvenient observations that time. His mind wasn't sure which combination of syllables would convince John that he was serious. Far too many dark, twisting paths to go down that he knew John wouldn't like.
I would happily spend a week counting how many times you breathed, then figure out absolutely how long it is you could go without doing so. Just so I know how long I have.
No.
I think we should tell Miss. Hudson to stop dusting in here, she isn't our housekeeper after all. Then I could collect all the dust and see if I could sort out the bits of you that you hadn't noticed were missing. Skin cells, eye lashes, rheum from your eyes because other people might forget those bits but I won't because I know. I could keep it for you, so that none of you ever gets lost again forever.
No
If you were dying, really dying. Dying so much that I couldn't stop it and even Lestrade wasn't try to convince me that you were fine, I'd do it first. I'd take your gun and do it first. I'd tell you that it was so you had nothing to be scared of; you were just coming back to me- so you see no one could hurt you if you wanted to sleep because you were so tired. I'd tell you that and I'd do it first. I would be lying to you, with those last words. I'm too cowardly to go second."
No
A bit not good, he'd thought fondly
Ah.
"You make tea. Constantly. I don't ask but you make it any way. You know when I want tea even when I tell you that I absolutely do not so help me John Watson. You started labelling my experiments in the fridge even though you said that if you found one more set of kidneys in there you were going to have me committed. You didn't have me committed. You don't get mad when I use all seven jars of jam to see how it splatters even though you don't eat your toast without it. You won't get mad about that teacup, you'll forget that you meant to be mad and I won't even point out how forgetful you are. You let me shoot holes in the wall and then ask if there's anything you can do. And you mean it. Anything." Sherlock told him, gaining speed and confidence as he went, each of his points causing John's mouth to hang a little more open.
Sherlock found he didn't mind.
"You, John Watson, should be ordinary and boring. You aren't just yet, but I find I fear you might be one day." He confessed, taking the few necessary steps over to the doctor and lazily rested hands on both of John's hip bones. Traced light lines as his mind brought up all the knowledge of body temperature and weight distribution it had.
"I did it anyway," Sherlock murmured finally, great pale eyes locking on John's in hopes that he understood. Understood that he may be boring on day, but that the detective thought it might be interesting to be there any way if only to find out for himself.
"Christ Sherlock-" John's hands were suddenly gripping tightly to the front of Sherlock's already straining button up shirt, as the doctor finally (finally) kissed him. Pulling Sherlock down and forcing the argument about when it is appropriate to wrinkle his shirts ( the answer is never) out of his head.
Kissing John was easy. It reminded Sherlock of the feeling he got when he solved a cold case older than he was. Reminded him of jumping across rooftops to catch the murderer waving a machete in his face. Thrilling. Letting his tongue roll against John's felt dangerous and it sent a wave of manic glee through Sherlock. He slipped his fingers quickly under the relatively light material of John's t-shirt, instantly pleased that there was no painfully hideous jumper getting in the way. Clavicle, costal cartilage, true ribs.
All of John was delightfully warm, as if the tan skin leaked the desert sun that had shone on it for so long. Sherlock rucked John's shirt as high as he possibly could before breaking the kiss to pull it all the way over the doctor's head.
"Besides, you aren't nearly enough for a proper experiment. " Sherlock told him as he stole another quick kiss like the thief that he was. "Maybe a case study though, some potential there. Provided you supply enough…information," he added with wicked grin, digging his nails into the rough skin beneath their tips as he soaked up the tiny gasp that this brought out of the back of John's throat.
"Bed," was all John said firmly once his face had lost that adorable fish out of water look. It was a look that Sherlock thought he might cherish for the rest of his life.
"I've been reliably informed that it isn't proper to go to bed in the middle of the day," Sherlock said while losing none of the mischievousness from his voice. "We could do anything we wanted right here," he added, eyes suddenly sparkling at the idea.
"I'd be happy to do whatever it is you like right here," Sherlock told him while slowly dragging long fingers to the waist of John's trousers, watching the way the other man's eyes fluttered shut briefly before the firm resolve came back.
"We are not doing anything else in a room Mycroft Holmes has probably bugged,"
Scowling at the mention of his brother at such a time, Sherlock was forced to agree as he let John out of his grip.
"Fine, my room,"
Sherlock moved quickly, bypassing the kitchen and any thought of which experiments were likely to suffer from neglect today as he pushed open the door to his bedroom with a loud bang. He'd trust in the good doctor to follow behind him, as ever, and Sherlock was not disappointed to hear a much quieter click of the door closing behind him almost instantly. Turning to face John again, his hands flew back to where they had been a few moments before. Making quick work of the button and zip on John's trousers before pulling them and his pants quickly down as he swatted at a leg to get John to step out of them. Wonderful. He took half a step back and looked appraisingly over John's body. Fought back the irrational urge to be cross with John for hiding so much from him under all those ugly clothes. Sherlock's body visibly shook with the desire to map out every scar, every constellation that was John Watson.
"Do I get to do you now?," asked in a sheepish voice was the only thing that pulled Sherlock's half-lidded gaze back up to John's face.
Well Sherlock couldn't blame John for not being equally interested in just John.
"If you wish, John," he drawled – dragging out John's name just to see the ex-army doctor have to put conscious thought into not letting his knees buckle.
Sherlock made no effort to close the small gap of space he'd accidentally put between them though. That was a step for John to make all on his own. It was one that the good doctor hesitated on making for only a moment. Only a moment before Sherlock silently preened for correctly deducing that this sense of… attraction mixed with a healthy dose of possessiveness was not entirely one sided. John did not need to be convinced.
"Stop looking for pleased," John told him sternly, though the tone did not find it's way into the doctor's eyes as he put a tentative hand on Sherlock's shoulder where the pale blue silk dressing gown hung already slipping half off. A second hand mirrored the first's movements and Sherlock didn't so much as blink as the expensive fabric fell to the floor. Warm sun leaking fingers were quick to tug on the hem of his grey v-neck tshirt, also deceivingly expensive and treated with the same lack of care as Sherlock's impatience got the best of him. He whipped the thin shirt off with a flourish, tossing the thing to some forsaken corner of his room.
He mustn't realize he's giving away all that light Sherlock thought as pale blue-grey eyes watched the rough fingers move with growing confidence (and less like they were going to break something precious)over his pale skin. Sherlock knew he was attractive in an abstract sense. In a way that could be used to gather information, a way to be used against other people if and when it was convenient. He thought little of it. But the hot flush that crept up his chest was… unexpected.
He suddenly longed for one of his expensive suits as John's right hand rested over Sherlock's pounding heartbeat. He longed for the armour he wore during cases, to offer some protection even if it was an illusion. It was one of the few feelings that Sherlock could control, that he knew was irrational. What he very much wanted was for John to explore any skin necessary. It was just sentiment that made his chest feel vulnerable in a situation like this. The detective had no use for such things.
John had obviously, obviously, started with his shirt because it seemed safer. Sherlock understood that but he still shuffled a little closer to John to press the soft cotton of his pyjamas against bare thighs urging the doctor on. A sharp intake of breath was followed with John tugging apart the knot of the drawstring and pushing the fabric off of Sherlock's warming skin.
Sherlock had always imagined that being looked at naked the way John was doing right now was what all those other must have felt was happening when his brilliant deductions were forced upon them. Exposed, put on display to the world. Sherlock enjoyed the thrill. Why so many people told him to piss off was a mystery.
"God- there isn't an inch of you that isn't perfect is there?," John asked in a disbelieving voice.
Sherlock smirked, ready to supply the Don't be absurd John. Even you must have noticed that chemical burn on my right bicep not to mention the healed over marks on the inside of my left arm. Hardly perfect. but John just shook his head minutely before reaching up for Sherlock's mouth again. Playing tongues together, tasting with a heat that hadn't been present in the sitting room.
Sherlock was quick to recognize it as dangerous want
Gripping the nape of John's neck firmly, he trailed his free hand down the tan chest covered in fine gold hair to roughly tease a nipple into a hard nub. Greedily swallowing the breathy gasp that this elicited from John. Sherlock broke the kiss with a grin, lowering himself to suck gently on the nipple before running a wet tongue over to work and switching to the other side.
"Holy fuck – that shou…shouldn't be soooo," John stuttered out, the half-finished thoughts amusing Sherlock so much that he didn't even demand John find the right words to complete them for the sake of clarity. Releasing the second nipple and bending to trail sloppy kisses down the desert sand skin, Sherlock felt he understood perfectly even with the missing pieces.
Sherlock stopped his descent down John's torso, and the subsequent cataloguing of the salty sweet taste of skin, when he'd reached John's navel. Running lightly calloused violin playing hands firm up the inside of less tanned than everything else thighs, before dropping fully to his knees.
"Jesus Christ, what are you doing?," was the shakey response to this, John's eyes looking down to meet Sherlock's gaze. Both sets of pupils were blown wide with desire and Sherlock wondered if he might damage the muscles bringing a devilish smile to his face from pure overuse after so long.
"That's a good guess but still just Sherlock for now," he said as his long fingers gripped firmly onto John's cock, giving an experimental tug. John shuddered above him and Sherlock moved his free hand to hold tightly on to the doctor's hip to offer a bit of support.
"Still a good guess though, you're definitely getting warmer," he added without looking away from the slightly awed expression on John's face. Without wasting another second Sherlock brought his mouth to John's cock, quickly licking the bit of precum that was there before easing John into his mouth.
Setting a slow pace at first as his tongue moved up and down the length before flicking across the tip. Sherlock dug his nails into hipbones to keep John where he wanted him as the doctor's moans began to shake through. He felt John's fingers grip onto his curls as they trembled with the desire to keep Sherlock's mouth just there and Sherlock was quick to speed up the movements of his head. Taking John in deeper, he hummed as he worked- creating his own mixture of hollowed suction and strokes of the tongue. Without saying a word Sherlock released one of John's hips and he reached for his own aching cock, tugging on his own length till he moaned around John's.
"Jes- Sherlock I'm going to..," only just managed to be said over him.
Sherlock hummed again in acknowledgement but did nothing to stop what he was doing. In fact, he began to draw more rapid strokes with both his tongue and the hand on his own cock, feeling the pressure building in himself mirrored in John.
When John finally came, it was with a shudder that seemed to wrack through every one of the nerve endings in the doctor's body in a hot flash. Sherlock swallowed happily, claiming every bit of John's that was his before releasing the other man. With a few more strokes and the feeling of John's fingers running through his hair, Sherlock followed soon after with his own long low moan.
His whole world went white for a few blissful seconds. All the bit not good parts of his brain wiped away and all the noise gave way to a peaceful quiet. Like the world had finally figured out how to hide from his deductive powers. The feeling never lasted though. Too soon all of his senses came flooding back to him but at least he got to hold onto the easy calm that came after that.
"Bed," he commanded while wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, rising to gently push John towards and back onto the unsurprisingly impressive silk sheets. Without a word, he quickly went to the bathroom, grabbing a flannel to wipe himself relatively clean before heading back into the bedroom.
Where he pointedly ignored how awkward John Watson was making himself appear sitting there with all the posture of an ex-soldier.
Instead, he lay down on the other side of bed with a sigh, pulling the covers back to curl up under them.
Watching the other man shift slightly from side to side was amusing but all that thinking radiating over to him would keep Sherlock up all night.
"Stay," he said softly, keeping his gaze on John through mussed curls as the doctor finally stopped staring at his feet to turn in Sherlock's direction.
"No- it's fine I don't have to, I'll just let you sl-," "Stay," Sherlock repeated firmly, not at all put off by the sigh he got in response.
"I've nightmares, Sherlock, and I don't want to hurt you. Not to mention you don't sleep enough as it is and I'm sure I'll put you off with all this," John told him, pointing to his own skull for the full effect.
"I'm not scared of sleeping with you John."
"That's not really the point Sher-."
"Then it must be me. You're scared of sleeping with me, isn't that correct?"
"I just don't want to be here in the morning when you realize what a massive miscalculation you've made and that this is too big a risk," John confessed finally, averting his gaze again.
"I make no guarantees about the future John, you know as well as I do that the way we live doesn't allow for those kinds of promises. However I think I can say with a reasonable amount of certainty that, despite your claims that I ever make miscalculations, my feelings in regards to you will remain unchanged," Sherlock told him, trying to keep the lazy sound of sleep out of his deep voice but starting to fail miserably about half way through his explanation.
Peeking one eye open, he found John eyeing him warily before pulling the corner of the covers on his side up and lying stiffly underneath them. Moving onto his side only to face Sherlock fully.
"I'd like for you to stay. I appreciate your concern and feel free to go, but I still wish for you to stay," he whispered now, losing focus on all things that weren't the good doctor's face.
"You're scared. Do it any way," he finished with a grin, using the same words that had started all this once again to sooth John now.
Ah. Sentiment.