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Chapter 14: Holding

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John had never been roused from his sleep by music – especially such mind-blowing playing. He wanted to get up right away and join Sherlock in the living-room. But maybe doing so stark naked wasn't the best of ideas. Getting up, he moved to Sherlock's wardrobe and opened it to find something, if only a shirt, that would fit him. He'd have to bring some clothes to Sherlock's room if that were to happen again.

John blushed. Happen again? Would it? How many times? Endlessly?

He shrugged it off. This wasn't the time to consider such things. What he needed right now was...

He froze. Among Sherlock's shirts, neatly folded, was one of John's jumpers. A greyish one he didn't wear much. He reached out and touched it gingerly.

What the...

Then it dawned on him. Sherlock had thought he was leaving him for good when he'd seen all of John's things were gone. Except a few which still lingered around the flat... He had said something about gathering them and putting it all on John's bed, hadn't he?

He must've taken it then...

One of his own jumpers. Why would he take a jumper? He wanted to keep something of me... but he took something I didn't wear much, something I didn't really like...

His heart clenched. Picturing Sherlock gathering his last remaining belongings around the flat, believing that he was leaving him... How must he have felt? It must have been so painful...

Deeply moved, John took the jumper out of the wardrobe and slipped it on. Forgetting all about decency, he put nothing under it: no trousers, no underwear. It no longer mattered. He hadn't wanted to shock Sherlock at first – getting up and bursting in their living-room au naturel did not sound like a good idea for someone who was so unfamiliar with 'mornings after'. But having seen the jumper, John did want to shock Sherlock now. Shock him into the realization that he wasn't leaving. Not now, not ever. And that Sherlock was worth so much more than a disliked jumper.

John burst into their living-room and came to a halt, subjugated.

Sherlock was nude under his coat, playing the violin in the morning light, his back to the window. Silhouetted against the greyness of dawn that was being shattered by the first rays of daylight, his profile was as breathtaking as the notes he was playing. Sublime. Beautiful Sherlock, unbelievable Sherlock, oblivious Sherlock, gifted Sherlock...

John fell in love all over again.

Eyes closed, Sherlock was so intensely engaged in his playing that he didn't hear his friend coming. As he drew the last notes of the sonata, he felt his chest clench and his brow tensed with an expression akin to pain. He finished the piece and finally opened his eyes.

Trembling slightly from the passion that was still vibrating throughout his body, Sherlock turned toward the kitchen and caught sight of John. His eyes widened and locked with his partner's. He opened his mouth, and...

"John."

John didn't think he could've been happier if he'd just heard his son's first word and if it had been "Dad!"
His face shone. Sherlock was speaking. He was speaking. He was also inconceivably arousing, completely naked under that bloody coat of his...

But John's exhilaration did not last long.

Sherlock had noticed the jumper. His face filled with panic. Abruptly turning back towards the couch, he put his violin in its case, stumbling, not knowing what he was doing anymore. Many thoughts assailed him all at once and he short-circuited. His first reaction had been to run away, but he couldn't because he was still holding his instrument and he had to put it back so it wouldn't be damaged. Clothes, too. He couldn't run out into the street naked under his coat, even if it was long. Also, John would try to stop him – there was no way he could get to his room to grab some clothes without a direct confrontation and yet he had to, he–

Flustered by the many thoughts jostling together in his mind, his arms and hands shook as he closed the case. John frowned, surprised by such a strong reaction. He walked up to him, reaching forward.

"Hey..."

Sherlock jumped.

"It's not me! I didn't steal it..."

John blinked, not sure suddenly whether he was really awake. Then he burst into laughter – which may not have been very tactful, considering his flatmate's current disoriented state.

Sherlock was baffled by John's reaction. He was ashamed and terrified because he felt like a complete idiot and wasn't used to it – but then John had to laugh and now he was utterly bewildered. He did feel slightly miffed, but didn't dare show it. He was too much in the wrong to be offended by mockery, wasn't he?

It wasn't mockery, though, even if the genius detective didn't realize it. John was just as puzzled as Sherlock. Slipping his arm around his waist, he brought him closer and tiptoed to kiss him. The moment their lips touched Sherlock jumped back. A flash of worry traversed John's gaze.

"Sherlock..."

"Morning breath. And I haven't showered," Sherlock said preemptively.

John bit his lips to prevent himself from laughing again, but naturally Sherlock noticed and scowled.

"Why am I so funny to you?"

"You're not. You're just... so refreshing," John explained, trying to avoid the word 'adorable' which would only serve to scare Sherlock away. He was jumpy enough as it was.

Sherlock pouted, clearly unconvinced. John couldn't resist and kissed him again, bringing him down to his level this time, his hand running through the black curls. Sherlock didn't jump back, but shivered when they parted.

"Did you taste it?"

"What?"

"My morning breath."

Sherlock furrowed his brow.

"No, but..."

"Just stop worrying about such little things. So... why are you naked in our living-room?"

Sherlock blushed.

"I'm not naked!"

"That coat isn't clothing. It's a sex accessory."

"Excuse me?"

John kissed him again, silencing him effectively. He wouldn't be able to stop if Sherlock kept being so damned adorable and oblivious about it.

Sherlock squirmed and mumbled a protest against the warm pair of lips pressed to his. This wasn't good. He had to get away. John was holding him securely though, so he had to distract him a bit if he wanted to avoid the upcoming conversation... Deepening the kiss, he explored John's mouth and made a note of his every sound. When he sneaked a hand up John's back under the jumper, pressing their two bodies closer together, rubbing their torsos and groins, the smaller man positively moaned. Sherlock smirked into the kiss, before remembering why he was doing this. Right. The plan. There was a plan. It was almost reluctantly that he moved slightly so John had his back to the window, and suddenly, taking advantage of his partner's relaxed grip, sneaked out of his arms and made a run for his room. It took John a second to realize what was going on. He ran after him, only to have the door slammed in his face.

"Sherlock!" he exclaimed, outraged.

He considered banging on the door, but on second thought decided against it. He could hear Sherlock's erratic breathing just behind the wooden panel. John rested his hand against it instead.

"Sherlock. What are we doing?"

He couldn't make out the muffled words muttered against the door.

"What?" he asked, listening carefully.

"I'm sorry I took your jumper... You can have it back..." the smothered voice replied somewhat sulkily, yet with a noticeable tinge of embarrassment.

John's eyes widened, and he smiled. Sherlock, Sherlock... Only he could manage to be so imperious yet so shy all at once.

"Sherlock. Do you remember rule number two?"

An unhappy grumble told John that Sherlock remembered very well.

"Sherlock. Please come out."

"Will you keep beginning your every sentence with my name?"

John chuckled.

"I don't know, maybe... Sherlock."

He could perfectly picture the pouting face of his friend as he groaned, half-grumpily, half-sheepishly. Interesting combination.

"Please come out," John repeated in a graver tone, his palm tensing a little against the door. Please.

Sherlock took a deep breath, silent behind the door panel. John had said "we". What are we doing? Strangely, Sherlock was very moved about the choice of pronoun. He complied and opened the door.

… looking everywhere but in John's eyes. John winced imperceptibly, wondering what he had done to make Sherlock feel so unsure and so out of place with him. He knew he wasn't the direct cause, and that the shame came from someone else entirely – someone he'd gladly slaughter at the moment. But did it really? John couldn't help but feel responsible to some extent. If Sherlock kept wanting to run away from him, then there must be something he wasn't doing right.

As if he'd been reading his thoughts, Sherlock suddenly nudged John's hand to snap him out of his self-derogatory considerations. Only then did John realize that he'd been slowly lowering his gaze until it was cast down, his face shadowed in dark introspection. He looked up to meet a pair of piercing blue eyes.

Sherlock swallowed, but didn't avert his gaze. As John felt the long fingers withdraw, he swiftly caught the retreating hand and pressed it, staring at the detective intensely. Slowly, Sherlock pressed back. The tentativeness of his touch was just too much for John, who didn't know how to get it across, how to convince this crazy, brilliant, stupid man that he was his already. You don't need a damned ugly jumper – you have me. John didn't stop to make his usual mental remarks about how stupid that expression was and how you could never belong to someone and could never own someone because another person wasn't a thing and you couldn't be sure, you could never be sure of what they were thinking and what they were going to do in the future. Another person was free, beyond the reach of certainty. If John had taken the time to have those usual thoughts of his, he might have had a glimpse of what was going on in Sherlock's mind. But he didn't, and kissed him madly instead, pulling him down with a hand on the nape of his neck.

Sherlock was so startled he didn't push John away. He felt a tongue tracing the line of his mouth, first the bottom lip, then the upper one, before it ran between both, parting them delicately. A shiver ran down his spine and when John's tongue stroked his, it sent a jolt straight to his groin. Sherlock gasped in surprise, unintentionally allowing John to penetrate further and ravage his mouth. His eyelids fluttered and his legs wobbled under him, but John circled his waist with his free arm before he even had the time to formulate the thought 'I'm going to fall'. It was funny how John still managed, with such a small, short body, to hold him in such a way that Sherlock felt safe. It's because your worst fear involves him not being there with you, a voice whispered somewhere in the recesses of his mind. If he's here with you, holding you, it means he still wants you, it means he's not leaving and you can hold him back.

It was strange as well, how John's presence had come to be almost a part of Sherlock. To some extent, it was true that he'd replaced the skull. He was much better at bouncing back ideas, too. It wasn't so much that Sherlock needed him to be there at all times – even when he wasn't, the detective kept talking to him. Rather, Sherlock wanted the doctor to be here always. It was almost inconceivable to go back to a time when John wasn't part of his life. It wouldn't happen, he thought. Even if John left 221B, he'd probably keep talking to him as if he were there, always. The realization that he wasn't would hit him at some point though, and it would hurt, Sherlock knew. But he'd spent years talking to a skull. He could certainly spend the rest of his life talking to a ghost.

And yet he was hoping that time wouldn't come just yet. A time when he'd wonder every day whether John's presence in him would fade away at some point, and he'd be left with nothing but scraps of lifeless memories.

John bit his lower lip, effectively bringing him back to the present. Sherlock's eyes snapped open, in time to see the scowl on his partner's face. He couldn't help but smile. John was very 'refreshing' in his own way, he mused, kissing back to smooth away the disapproving frown. This seemed to galvanize the ex-soldier, who pressed their half-naked bodies closer together with passion, kissing Sherlock senseless.

When John finally broke the kiss, he wrapped his arms firmly around the taller man, preventing him as much from escaping as collapsing. Their chests were heaving erratically and Sherlock's swollen, parted lips were so inviting that John had to muster all the self-control he had not to crush their mouths together again. But this wasn't about him taking his pleasure – not even about him giving pleasure. John truly hoped that he'd got the message across this time. Sherlock was so dense sometimes... Or maybe he didn't understand the words or the gestures. Still, John had to try and try again, and keep trying always. He looked him in the eye.

"I love you, Sherlock."

Ethereal blue eyes widened in bafflement, unbelieving. Sherlock couldn't fathom why John would say such a thing without being subject to orgasmic release or lying limp in its afterglow.

The second thing he noticed was that he was blushing furiously and the awareness made the pink in his cheeks turn crimson. He looked away abruptly, mortified, and babbled precipitately, half-muttering:

"I thought you were leaving for good and I'd never see you again well I would've probably stalked you but I would've never touched you again and you never even liked that jumper you wore it only once when you went to your sister's because she was the one who bought it for you I thought you wouldn't care you wouldn't even notice and I..."

John kissed him again. And again. And again – drowning the babble until Sherlock shut his mouth and finally seemed ready to listen to him. It broke John's heart that Sherlock should feel so despondent and miserable.

Thinking he would never touch him again but desperate enough to plan on stalking him.

Thinking he'd have to face him one last time to give him back the things he'd forgotten in the flat, and gathering them for him, alone.

Thinking of what he could keep among the remaining items and deciding upon the one thing he believed John liked the least. Something John wouldn't miss, and whose disappearance he wouldn't even notice.

Oh Sherlock... Do you really think so little of yourself?

John hugged the taller man tightly, burying his face in the crook of his neck.

"I would've taken your coat," he muttered.

"What?" came the disconcerted reply.

"Or that damn scarf of yours."

"What does my scarf–"

"Or the bloody purple shirt."

"John, what are you–"

"Maybe the skull? The Union Jack pillow. Your laptop, even if you never use it because you take mine."

"John..."

"You mobile phone. Your violin."

"I would've noticed that! All of that!" Sherlock protested.

"Exactly."

Sherlock froze as John's point dawned on him.

"I would've taken your coat. Your scarf. Your favourite shirt. Your 'friend' the skull. The pillow you like – you must like it for some reason, or why would you bother with the design? Your laptop on which you access your website. Your mobile phone with which you can send and receive texts about cases. Your violin, which is probably the thing you care most about in this flat."

John held him tighter, pressing their bodies against each other, looking up and pinning Sherlock with his gaze.

"I would've taken everything you liked the most so you would've come back to me."

They stared at each other. Sherlock blinked. Then frowned.

"But, John, that doesn't make sense. You're the thing I care most about in the flat anyway."

This time it was John's turn to blink. He gaped, then broke into a fit of giggles.

"What? What did I say? You're the one being illogical!" Sherlock exclaimed.

John couldn't stop laughing.

"Oh God, Sherlock..." The thing he liked the most? That was hilarious. And just so Sherlock...

Sherlock pouted and tried to break away from the embrace. John stopped giggling and frowned.

"Nope. You're not going anywhere. No running away, remember? If you don't want something, just say–"

"Then go on, pin me against the wall."

John froze.

"What?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"You've been dying to since the moment I opened the door."

"How could you possibly–"

The detective clicked his tongue in impatience.

"You keep glancing at it, John."

John blushed, his cheeks and ears turning red. He felt despicable. I really am a beast. He'll think I'm obsessed with sex – which isn't even true! It's him, just him... obsessed with him...

"John. If you don't pin me against the wall right now, I will pin you against it."

It took only a second for John's brain to process the information and send the signal for the proper reaction – suddenly spinning them, he slammed Sherlock's back to the wall and trapped him against it. Sherlock gave a gasp. John smiled and pressed even further, parting the long, lanky legs with his knee.

"Don't count on that," he said with a self-assured grin.

"I was rather counting on you," Sherlock retorted, his lips curving slightly.

John thrust his knee up, pressing against the detective's hardening groin, loving the way Sherlock arched his back and gasped against the invading touch.

"You really are in no position to act so smart," John murmured against the porcelain throat, relishing the shiver his warm breath elicited from Sherlock.

"I don't need to act," Sherlock pointed out.

Rolling his eyes at the smugness of the answer, John lowered his leg and bucked his hips against Sherlock's groin. The detective yelped in surprise

"That's..."

"No, Sherlock, that's not cheating. It's what I meant by you're in no position to be all cocky."

"Really? I thought this was exactly the position to.. ah!"

John let a superior smile spread across his face. Sherlock scowled, but his blush, his panting and his parted lips didn't make it very convincing. To be fair, the position didn't allow for much authority at all. The coat was useless and he was basically naked, pinned to a wall with his legs parted, and it was absolutely impossible to hide his erection – or anything, for that matter. Exposed, Sherlock thought. In every sense of the term.

It was rather embarrassing, and Sherlock wasn't used to adopting the submissive attitude, especially knowing that there must be a camera somewhere in the corridor leading to his room. But he could tell John was enjoying it – a lot. And that in itself was enough to persuade Sherlock to go along, and to make him ridiculously excited, too.

This time he was the one thrusting his pelvis and grinding their two bodies together. John gasped, befuddled, but soon his face broke into a wolfish smile.

"Oh? Not enough, perhaps?"

"Yes, enough!" cried Sherlock as John's jumper grazed against his nipples and his firm, muscular thigh was pressed against his pounding penis. He meant to say You excited is enough, you smirking is enough, you are enough... but he noticed his speech becoming increasingly paratactic as John abolished all notion of personal space. Sherlock loved it. "More..."

John chuckled, kissing his cheek, his chin, his throat.

"You're not making much sense, love," he noted playfully.

"It's because you're not listening, darling," Sherlock retorted in the same sweet tone.

They stared at each other for a second before breaking into a fit of giggles.

"Darling?"

"Because you think love is better? Why not sweetie or sugar, while we're at it?"

"Why not?" John smirked, sliding his arms behind Sherlock's neck, his hands resting on the nape while he replaced the thigh against the taller man's groin with his own throbbing erection.

Sherlock's head fell back, hitting the wall, and he moaned loudly. Biting his lip, he glared down at John.

"Because there's nothing sweet about you."

The doctor smirked.

"Oh, but you are very, very, very sweet, Sherlock," John retorted, punctuating each word with a well-adjusted thrust that made the detective see stars.

Stars. Stars were positively dancing before his eyes. Soon they took the form of little men, running around, doing weird things... Dancing?

Sherlock suddenly wrapped his arms around his partner and pressed him closer. John stopped his moves abruptly.

"Sherlock? Are you all right?"

Worried, John wondered if he'd gone too far. What was he doing, pinning his flatmate to the wall? Sherlock had just been provocative, as always. That didn't mean he should...

"Ah!" John exclaimed, jumping as Sherlock bit his earlobe none too gently with something like disapproval, and repeated insistently, the annoyance clear in his voice:

"More!"

"Oh, you..."

Sneaking a hand up Sherlock's thigh, John grabbed the flesh of his right buttock and groped.

"... have..."

Sherlock gasped and jerked a little, but started bucking his hips furiously in order to rub their erections against each other.

"... no idea..."

John ground his own clothed torso against Sherlock's unguarded chest, so pale but already reddening under the friction, his nipples sticking out, hardening and reacting madly to the stimulation.

"... what you're asking, do you?"

"Aah!"

John shoved Sherlock back against the wall, and pulling his hair back with a firm grip, he forced him to look him in the eye. Their gazes locked above parted lips and panting chests. More, demanded the clear eyes, diluted with lust. More, echoed the darker blue ones, blackened with desire.

They froze, their faces so close their noses almost touched. The realization hit them simultaneously, making them lost and dumb. I want more, much more.

Sherlock realized he wanted John inside him. The idea seemed so absurd that he was completely disoriented, and confused as to why he should feel such a deep, feral craving. The thought made him harder than ever and his cheeks went ablaze.

John realized he wanted nothing less than to fuck Sherlock into the wall until he no longer knew it was there. Appalled, he stood petrified and dared not move. I'm disgusting, he thought, feeling dizzy all of a sudden. Sherlock was a rape victim and a man to boot – and that was overly confusing too.

Embarrassed, Sherlock started fidgeting and wriggled against the wall, which only made the matter worse as their very hard penises rubbed together, making them both jolt and gasp. Sherlock frowned, determination and fear in his eyes, a peculiar combination which betrayed his unbalanced state of mind. Desperate, he resumed bumping and grinding, thrusting and thrusting again and the myriad of sensations was enough to overwhelm John and knock him out of his mortification.

He cupped Sherlock's face suddenly and thrust forward once to stop his erratic movements, forcing him to stand still against the wall, legs inordinately parted, shaking.

"Hey. No headlong rush, okay? It feels like you're charging in to avoid facing things."

Sherlock pouted in a failed attempt at contempt. His lips were trembling.

Slowly, very gently, John brushed a curl off his face and stroked his furrowed brow, smoothing the wrinkles away.

Sherlock's head was spinning under the assault of foreign sensations. That's how addictions always started: the feeling that it was all too much, and yet the outrageous hankering for more. The little men were still dancing madly before his eyes, spinning, spinning...

John's hand slid down his throat, caressed his torso and brushed a nipple, stroked his belly and came to rest on his penis as if it were its natural place. Sherlock was so light-headed he didn't even gasp, but his breath caught in his throat. His eyelids widened around excessively dilated pupils.

"Come here," John murmured. For some reason, the meaning of his words was clear to Sherlock, who obediently brought a tentative hand to their groins. Hot flushes increased his giddiness.

"Good. That's good," John commented in a placating voice, holding Sherlock firmly against the wall with his other hand so he wouldn't fall.

Soon, their hands were wrapped around both erections, their fingers brushing, making the pleasure so intense Sherlock wasn't sure which hand was his, and which was John's; which hardness was his, and which was John's...

"John."

"Uhm?"

"What are we doing?"

John smiled.

"Just feeling. See?" He stroked the length of Sherlock's shaft and caressed the tip as if he were merely soothing a child. Sherlock cried out.

"Why... are we doing this?"

"Because I need to know that you want me and that you're not just playing along to please me."

"That's preposterous!" Sherlock protested. Then he saw the graveness in John's eyes and sighed, closing his eyes and diving into the sensation. "You're more idiotic than I thought if you believe I don't want you when I'm this hard." He slid his fingers against John's flesh, mimicking his gesture, teasing more at the tip to stress his point. John groaned, pushing him back against the wall, bucking his hips – they gasped in unison.

"Wider," John ordered, blinded with lust.

"What?"

"Your legs. Spread them wider."

Sherlock's blush deepened but he complied, shyly. John parted his thighs even more, eliciting a pleading whine from his throat.

"Just wrap them around my waist."

Sherlock blinked and kept quiet, refusing to sound like an idiot and repeat: What? John growled and pinched his buttocks and thighs until Sherlock was so jumpy John could easily catch both legs and wrap them round his waist, thrusting his pelvis up, slamming Sherlock into the wall again and making him scream.

"Hold onto me!"

Sherlock tightened his grip, unintentionally pressing their penises even more firmly against each other. He thought he'd pass out even before he reached his orgasm. His eyes rolled back and the dance of the little men became hectic. Like the smileys... he thought. The dancing smileys forming a code and...

"Oh..."

"Uhm?"

"Oh!"

"Sherlock? What's going on?"

"John, this is brilliant! You are brilliant!"

John frowned, sensing that this wasn't quite about his essential brilliancy, and rather annoyed that Sherlock could think of anything else when they were about to climax together.

"Wait a min–"

But Sherlock looked at him with shining eyes and repeated, enthralled: "John, you're brilliant!"

And he looked like a child at Christmas and John melted, melted, in the sheer excitement and passion of that luminous gaze.

Sherlock crushed their lips together, kissing John madly, bucking against him, thrusting his hips and tightening his legs around him – John was supposed to be leading here, and yet he felt positively trapped, swallowed in Sherlock's thirst and wild fervour. He came in a matter of seconds, screaming into the kiss, not sure whose come was covering him as he felt both of their shafts bump against each other, squeezed between their two bodies, and spurt at the same time.

Sherlock was enjoying every second of it, his mind never so free and quick to process information and figure things out – this was better than cocaine, more efficient than the Woman's taunting. The pleasure John gave him was so blinding it freed him from all his chains, and Sherlock could almost feel his mind expanding and blowing every obstacle away. Writhing, his body racked with orgasmic spasms, he still wouldn't let go of John and hadn't even realized they'd both collapsed and were now lying all tangled up in each other in the corridor.

John was completely knocked out and wondered if all orgasms would be that good with Sherlock – they seemed to be getting better and better, more intense every time – and as of now, he'd been taken by surprise. He noticed after a while that they had fallen to the floor, and that they'd made a mess, ejaculating all over the few clothes they were wearing. He smiled, burying his face in black curls and a black coat smelling of lavender and both their most intimate scents mingled. Sherlock held him tight, and John hugged back, wondering if the detective's great after-sex remark today would be about getting his coat to the cleaners. But...

"What day is it, John?"

"What?"

"What day is it today?"

"Friday, but..."

Sherlock suddenly jumped to his feet, with an energy of which John felt completely deprived.

"Great! Let's go away for the weekend."

John gaped, still sprawled on the floor, stunned.

"What?"

"You're repeating yourself, John. Come on, let's get ready!"

John growled and stood sorely, teetering a little. How could Sherlock recover so fast? He groaned.

"But... where are we going?"

Sherlock turned to him with a gleeful grin, his coat hanging loose, his hair more ruffled than ever and his torso gleaming with come. His eyes were sparkling and excited like a child's.

"To Norfolk!"

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tbc