"Do you want to go to dinner tonight, or, no- you're busy." John picked up his keys from the table; set them down again. He felt like an idiot for fumbling over his words. It was only Sherlock.
It had been several days since their date to the cinema. John wasn't even sure it had been a date, but that's what his head kept calling it even when he chided himself about being silly.
Sherlock set down his violin, and took out the pen between his teeth to regard John for a moment.
"No, dinner would be nice."
John smiled, "great. What are you in the mood for?"
"Italian is always filling."
"Angelo's then?"
Sherlock nodded, "Yes."
They walked the two blocks to the restaurant they frequented often. Angelo, a jovial, plump ginger, greeted them with a hug, and a hand clap like he did every time the pair walked through their door. Angelo had met his now wife after taking her to a small concert Sherlock held by the Thames two years earlier; he was very thankful.
Angelo showed then to their usual table, picked up the reserved sign, and disappeared. John shrugged out of his coat; Sherlock too.
They sat in a companionable silence waiting for Angelo to return with menus, the wine l list and a small flickering candle, such as he always did. At first, John had protested the candle altogether, then, he let it sit on the table, but blew out the flame. That night, however, John watched the fire sparkle against the frosted glass it was encased in, and left it alone, just as it was.
They ate. Sherlock ordered a small salad, and picked the chicken and the olives out of John's picatta, to which John had no objection, just as he never did, and they then ended their meal with dessert, on a whim. They sat and lingered over a final glass of wine in the near empty restaurant. John had a ridiculous feeling of not wanting to leave, not wanting to finish his conversation with Sherlock; not wanting to stop watching his face in the beautiful glow of the candle light. It felt as though, if they went home, together, the spell that they had somehow come under would be broken, and John very much wanted to stay enchanted.
But they did eventually pay their cheque, (rather, Sherlock paid) despite being told repeatedly that there was no need, and made the short walk back to Baker Street. All seemed quiet from the outside; and the inside as well. They hung their coats, and walked up the stairs together, as they had many nights before, and entered into their flat. Sherlock, unexpectedly stopped in the doorway to toe off his shoes, having stepped in a puddle on their way home, and John bumped into him, causing the tall man to lose hi balance, and fall into John's arms just a little bit; just enough, for John to lose his mind completely; already half lost staring into his eyes all night, and press his lips against Sherlock's in a brief, gentle kiss.
John quickly realized what he had done, and pulled away, almost too terrified to look at the shock and surprise across Sherlock's face.
"Shit- - Christ, Sherlock in sorry." He scrubbed his hand along the back of his neck, "I- the night just got to me I guess."
Sherlock, having regained his composure quickly, blinked a few times, "it's fine, John." He said.
John dug his toes into the hardwood, and fixated his eyes there as well. "I should probably go to bed before I do something even more stupid."
John backed away, and started to turn to run and hide in his bedroom for maybe the rest of his life, but most certainly for the remainder of the night, but he was stopped short by Sherlock's voice.
"Could you make me some tea first? Since you're going into the kitchen anyway."
"You want me to-you can't make your own bloody tea; this one time?"
John was thankful that Sherlock hadn't said anything against John's mistake, had attempted to return to their normal status-quo, but asking John for tea, as if he hadn't just been kissed, albeit chastely, by him, was a bit much.
"It tastes better when you do it." He said, sweeping through the living room.
John sighed, "That's because you don't steep; you stew."
He quickly resigned to Sherlock's request, and filled the kettle, and rinsed out the nearly clean mugs left in the sink from the morning. John was aware of Sherlock hovering in the background as John milled about the kitchen, busying himself with the other dishes.
"What would you do?" Sherlock asked, his voice carrying from the other side of the dining table.
"What?"
"What is it that you're afraid you would do?"
John dropped a tea bag in both of the clean mugs; decaf constant comment- his favourite brew before bed.
"I don't know, Sherlock." He said, quietly, looking down into the mugs, before he mustered the courage to turn around.
Sherlock was unexpectedly right in front of him once he did.
"Would you kiss me again? Sherlock asked, far too low and sultry for anyone's good.
John found that he couldn't form any words in answer, and instead, just nodded. Sherlock smiled, and settled closer, one sock covered foot slotting itself between John's. He was so close to that John could smell everything Sherlock ate for dinner on his breath, including the three glasses of dry red wine and the plate of tiramisu that they shared.
"Sherlock..." John was trying to find something to say, to protest maybe; he wasn't sure, but it didn't much matter, because Sherlock was kissing him, and John was kissing back.
It was a bit hesitant art first, but then Sherlock found his confidence, and brought a hand up to the back of John's neck, bruising their already hard pressed lips together even harder. It was an instinct, or maybe it was just overwhelming, hidden desire, but John's fingers went for the smooth buttons of Sherlock's shirt, and he pushed them through the fine stitched button holes, exposing more and milkier flesh as he went.
Their lips never parted, but as John finished with the last button, and slid the shirt off from Sherlock's shoulders, he ran the whole of his palms across the other man's chest, feeling his planes and angles; the way his rib cage expanded with each sharp intake of breath, and pressed against the wall of his chest as he leaned into John's touch.
Sherlock's hands were still firm against John's neck, as if he were to let go, John would put a stop to whatever it was that Sherlock had started, but the more of Sherlock's body he felt, the more John was starting to think that he wouldn't be able to stop even if the kitchen was burning down around them.
It wasn't a fire, however, that did stop but them, but rather the roaring whistle of the kettle, and the furious churn of the boiling water inside of it.
They stood, their lips and bodies now unlocked, and looked passed each other, neither of them having a clue as to what to say to one another. John reached for the kettle, and poured the hot water over the tea bags, and slid Sherlock's mug across the counter toward him. Sherlock looked at it, picked his shirt up from the floor, and wordlessly disappeared from the kitchen with a click of his bedroom door.
John let out a sigh. He didn't know how he didn't know that that was something he wanted. How could he have not known that he wanted to feel Sherlock; to taste him? He wanted to be devoured, and inside him; not just sexually, but spiritually; John wanted to be a part of Sherlock- one with his bones and his skin.
He couldn't sit still in his chair; kept tapping his toes against the rug, and starting to sip at his tea only to stop the moment the warm liquid hit his lips. He got up, walked to the back of the flat, and knocked once on Sherlock's bedroom door before opening it and standing fully present in the middle of the room.
Sherlock was on the edge of his bed, mug on his bedside table, changed into his pyjamas. He looked so much younger in his pyjamas; vulnerable, innocent almost. John had never noticed it until then.
"Can you explain to me what that was, Sherlock?" John asked.
"I'm sorry." Sherlock answered. His voice far too quiet and unsure of itself.
"Not an explanation."
"You were right; the night-the wine- was incredibly intoxicating; it clouded my mind."
"No it didn't. Nothing clouds your mind Sherlock, and you never do anything without wanting to do it. I'm not upset. I sure as he'll don't regret it; I just want to know, for my own piece of mind, what it was all about? Was it just a kiss; just an end to our night or was it something more than a kiss; the beginning of something different for us?"
"Would you want it to be; more?" Sherlock asked, quietly; not looking at John.
"I-I wouldn't be against seeing if it could be." John laughed, "But, you might just prefer me to stay your friend; I've been told, more than once, that I'm a terrible boyfriend."
Sherlock smiled, "so am I."
"Okay. We'll go slow, then. Keep it to ourselves for a bit, until we know it's real?"
"Yes."
"Good. Good. Now, will you come drink your tea with me, please?"
Sherlock slowly stood up from his bed, and walked over to where John was still standing. He enveloped John's face with his hands, and brought their lips together. It was a chaste meeting between two that lasted barely five seconds before John lowered himself flat on his feet. John had just a fleeting moment to realise and rationalise what was happening before there was a flurry of movement before him, and Sherlock's hands were on John's cheeks again, and his lips, hard against his own.
John hadn't been expecting that kiss, and it took his already foggy mind some time to catch up to the pushing of Sherlock's lips into his, to the velvety swipe of Sherlock's tongue against his, that seemed to be working on its own volition, and pressing back against the other man's dexterous pink muscle.
When John finally caught on to reality, he felt a tickle in the pit of his stomach that rose up into his chest, causing it to quiver as the feeling rose even higher into his throat where everything culminated in a noise that made his shoulders shake, and his mouth detach from Sherlock's.
"Are you laughing? You weren't laughing earlier" Sherlock asked, almost unbelieving.
"I'm sorry." John said, through the rise and fall of his uneven breath, "Earlier I wasn't thinking. Earlier we weren't..." John stopped a moment, brought the laughter under control as best he could, and thought about his next word, "a couple-" he tried, and Sherlock made a face, "dating; together?"
Sherlock made a sour face at each of John's suggestions.
"What would you call this then?" he asked.
Sherlock cast his eyes down, so that John could see them clearly, "earlier; we weren't us." He said, and kissed at John's lips again, but Sherlock's lips were barely able to touch John's before John started laughing again.
"Honestly..." Sherlock said, sounding irritated.
"I'm sorry, it's nerves."
"Do you want to just go and drink your tea until you calm down?"
"God, no. I want to kiss you; right now. I'm fine. I'm fine."
John cleared his throat, and rocked his head back and forth to crack his neck the same way he did before a game of rugby, and pressed up on his toes to meet Sherlock's height the best that he could. Sherlock was slow, waiting to see if John was going to crack up again, but he stayed strong, and so they both gave into the kiss. It quickly turned heated; Sherlock's tongue running along the wet heat of John's mouth- teasing it; tasting it. John returned the sentiment of exploration; chasing Sherlock's tongue in his own mouth to tangle them together.
Once again, working from instinct, John's hands reached out to touch the man in front of him. He slid a hand up underneath Sherlock's shirt, splayed his palm over the expanse of Sherlock's chest, and felt the absolute dichotomy of the planes of Sherlock's body. His bones stuck out at awkward angles; were easily felt underneath the skin, but as John's hand smoothed up Sherlock's body, he could feel the defined, yet lean, muscle of his pectorals, and followed it underneath the sleeve onto the bicep of a man who could play a violin like a lover for hours.
John broke their kiss, and stood back to admire the swell on Sherlock's lips, the flush on his cheeks, and the dazed expression that danced over his blue-gold eyes. He was finding it unbelievable, and just a little but wonderful, that he was the one to cause such a look of sheer debauchery and ecstasy on Sherlock, who, for his part, was just standing there, watching as John watched him; waiting to see if John would strike again.
"I thought we were intending to take this slow, John."
There was a primal need rising inside of John, to take more of him; to see just how much he could give the mad musician before it was too much.
"I do intend to take this slow, Sherlock." John dipped down, and laved his tongue against the thin skin over Sherlock's ever increasing pulse point. "Very, very slow." He punctuated with each swipe.
He felt Sherlock shudder underneath him, and heard the slightest whisper of a broken moan ghost into his ear.
John lifted his head to look back at him, and smiled; dark and predatory, and Sherlock matched it with the same across his own face. He made quick work of the buttons of his shirt; pausing for just a moment to silently ask Sherlock if he wanted to do it for him, but Sherlock only let his tongue dart from between his lips, and nod for John to continue on his own.
John was aware that his body was not what it used to be. Yes, there was still the taut muscle he had formed from his years at Uni playing rugby, and squash, but it was covered a bit more by squishy pockets of fat than they once were. And despite his regime of jogging and crunches, his middle and his waist had gone a bit soft. He didn't mind, however; John always had been, and assumed he always would be comfortable with his body, he was just suddenly very aware of it underneath the scrutiny of Sherlock's gaze, but when John changed a glance upwards from his own body, he saw nothing but reverence and hunger in Sherlock's eyes.
John let his shirt pool at his feet and he reached out to Sherlock, grasping for the other man's fingers to pull their bodies together; chest crashing against chest, and as they flattened even more against one another, their clothed erections brushed together as well. It lit John up, like he was a match and Sherlock was the rough strip of paper inside the book. Their mouths collided; a hard gnashing of teeth, tongue and lips. Hands ran erratically across exposed back, each feeling for spine and scapula before roaming back to the front, and undoing the other's respective pair of trousers.
Before John knew it, they were naked, and Sherlock had laid himself on top of the duvet covering his bed; his cock; long and lean like the rest of the man, teasing against his belly; waiting. John took in a deep breath, suddenly feeling very dizzy at the prospect of being able to take Sherlock as his own.
John kept to the promise he had kissed into Sherlock's pulse earlier, and slowly made his way over his lover's body.
Lover?
Yes, Sherlock was his lover; and he, Sherlock's. They were no longer flatmates or friends- they could never be either of those things again; not now, not after this. They would forever be entwined as us, whether together or apart.
Sherlock snaked an arm out from where it rested on his side, and cupped the nape of John's head. He gently pulled him down until he could lick at the seam of John's nearly parted lips. Sherlock lapped, not asking for entrance; perfectly content to trace the pattern and shape of John's lips, and John was perfectly content to let him, until effortlessly Sherlock's tongue did push into John's moth and tangle with his. They stayed kissing, slowly, lazily; as if they had the entirety of their lives laid out on front of them.
John supposed that they did.
He wasn't sure who did it first, but there was suddenly a pressure against his groin that quickly gave way to an absolute pleasure that continued to build as both men rolled and rocked their hips together, sliding their cocks against one another's; between their two bodies. Their lips had long since parted to give way to the short, desperate pants for breath, and the whining cries to God.
John opened his eyes to find Sherlock's closed, his head arched against the pillow underneath him, mouth open, and the most delicate plea dancing on his tongue.
"Please, John."
This was not the man that everyone else knew, not the man that the world knew; he was barely even the man John that he knew. This man was wonderful, and free; resigning his control over to John; trusting him to take him where he wanted to go.
And damn if it wasn't the sexist things John had ever seen.
John ground into Sherlock, decidedly hard, and Sherlock yelled out, arched ever higher off the bed, doubling down the pleasure by pushing back against John.
"Oh God... Can't- John...I can't."
"Shh." John soothed, and bent to kiss at the beads of sweat on Sherlock's forehead. "Let go, Sherlock. Come. Fuck, I want to see you come."
Sherlock keened while John rolled against him, and bit at his bottom lip until John saw a bright red blossom burst from the thin skin. He pressed his lips against Sherlock's, effectively swallowing the shout emanating from Sherlock's throat on the trail of the blood he was also sucking into his mouth. He felt Sherlock spill, hot, against him, and John couldn't hold on anymore himself.
He came, his lips falling from Sherlock's, but still searching for skin to touch and taste, as he called his lovers name quietly into the stillness of the bedroom.