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Part Two
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I've been ready since the day I fucking met you.
He is. Ready. Slick; grinding against him and staring with unabashed need into his eyes. And he does not wait. John barely gets his hands around his waist before Sherlock lifts his hips up and reaches back, pressing John's aching cock in until finally, finally he can slide down on it. John's eyes roll back in his head. Sherlock seems to agree, his entire back arching and his head falling back.
"Fuck," he chokes out.
"Jesus–" John finally gets his eyes open enough to meet Sherlock's; bloody shit. The other man feels incredible; absolutely incredible, bloody sodding perfect, honestly. John's even more afraid now of how long he'll last and then Sherlock desperately rolls his hips, groaning, "John."
All at once John is overwhelmed by the feeling of being inside him. He's inside him. He's buried completely inside the most intimate part of this beautiful man, completely enveloped by how soft and tight and giving and hungry Sherlock's body is and he's genuinely worried about how in control of any of this he's going to be. At this point a stroke at his age would not surprise him in the slightest.
Sherlock is staring down at him, mouth hanging open and fuck maybe that look alone is what's going to make him come but fuck if he'll stop staring straight back. He slides his hands to grab Sherlock's hips and lifts his own, feels Sherlock ride the motion and the other man groans when he holds him there for a moment. Sherlock's head falls back as he spreads a hand on the wall above the headboard to brace himself. John very much likes that. "Good?" he gasps.
Sherlock looks down at him, his hips grinding in a tight circle and his voice choked with how John assumes it feels for him too. "So fucking good, John... Christ..."
The bloody man's truthfully going to end this whole bloody thing right bloody now. John groans, nods frantically so Sherlock knows how much he agrees but he's not surprised when his throat tightens; he's so enthralled by the man straddling him and so far from understanding how Sherlock could claim that for him too. He has a growing and irrational fear that he's going to suddenly wake up. He tries to ignore it as he rocks up into him, slowly at first, the drag of it overwhelming. "You're beautiful," he breathes. His voice is choked but he doesn't mind. Sherlock's eyes stay fixed on his and are full of just as much; so bloody much; two wide pools of hunger but it's not just that. It's love. God, he fucking hopes it's love. He slides his hands over the swell of Sherlock's arse, down the backs of his thighs, fingers digging in. "So fucking beautiful," he gasps. "Jesus, Sherlock... Show me what feels good."
Sherlock stares at him like if he looks away he'll disappear. And he obeys. He settles his knees on either side of John's hips and hooks his feet over John's thighs, urging him with his whole body to straighten his legs and lie flat. John can't help but grit his teeth as he obeys and then Sherlock grabs both of his hands to pull them up over his head, folding them around the headboard and covering them with his own. And he rides him. He uses his grip on John's hands to move, dragging his whole body forward – pulling up quickly at the end of each thrust before sinking down and sliding back again.
John can do little more than cling to the wood of the headboard and moan like a fucking idiot. Sherlock knows exactly how to move; fucks himself like he does it for a living and he quickly starts catching on to the things that make John react the most; make him react the loudest. He wiggles his hips at just the right moments, holds him down for as long as they both can manage, fucks back on him so hard John's feet automatically slide up the bed, hips straining into how good it feels. Rarely do Sherlock's eyes leave his. They're full of fire, no other word for it – Sherlock is fire. Warmth, constant, catastrophic, sacred, overwhelming. Fire.
John's fingers itch to touch him. He tugs gently at the grip Sherlock has on his hands and the other man quickly catches on, letting them go, his own sinking into the pillows on either side of John's head and his knees sliding forward for different leverage to move. John spreads his fingers across Sherlock's arse; digs them in and uses the grip to help him bounce faster. Sherlock nods frantically when he does, his mouth wide open, just nods but it's so much sexier than if he'd screamed at the top of his lungs and John reaches up to wrap his arms around him and pull him down because he wants his tongue back inside that mouth–
"I need you to fuck me," Sherlock gasps before he can get it there.
"Jesus." The second he loosens his grip again Sherlock pulls out of his grasp and lifts off his cock to kneel next to him and lean over him instead. John wraps a hand frantically around his neck to pull him close; he needs him close; and the brief glimpse he gets of the look on Sherlock's face has him moaning like a moron again before Sherlock finally shuts him up with his tongue. He also reaches down and wraps a hand around him, not giving either of them time to catch their breath as he strokes him firmly and kisses him like he's trying to pull his lungs up his throat. His lips break from John's only to gasp, "How do you want me?"
John grabs both of Sherlock's forearms and pushes the other man back as he sits up. He waits until Sherlock settles back on his knees before spreading the fingers of one hand around his neck, squeezing harder than he needs to. Sherlock loves it. John can see it in his eyes, instantly; they light up like he'd just won a prize, his mouth falling open and his own hand flying up to grab John's wrist. "No, Sherlock. How are you going to take it?"
Sherlock clings to his arm, his hips rocking against nothing as he tries to moan but can manage little more than a grunt around the pressure on his throat. "I—"
"*Ah." John tightens his fingers, cock pulsing hard at the way Sherlock chokes when all of his air is cut off and grabs John's wrist with both hands. He could honestly come from how visibly Sherlock loves being unable to breathe; he probably will sometime. He waits until half-lidded eyes focus on his before he quietly says, "Don't talk. Show me."
The second John loosens his grip Sherlock turns frantically around, bending 'til he's on his hands and knees. "Fuck, John, fuck me," he moans, hips pushing needily back against him. John rubs himself slowly between his cheeks, holding them apart to help Sherlock grind into it. He can hear himself panting like a dog but the sight of Sherlock like this, spread open for him, the sound of him begging for his cock; all of it is ten million times more incredible than he'd ever imagined of this man. "You're so bloody gorgeous, baby, do you know how much I fucking adore you?"
"Oh, fuck." Sherlock drops his head, his entire body shuddering and with ease he relaxes enough to slide back onto him. "John Watson I am thoroughly expecting you to fuck me until I can't walk tomorrow or fuck me until I am deceased; either way I need you to fuck–"
John doesn't let him finish because he grabs his hips and after two shallow thrusts that earn him two glorious sounds he starts fucking Sherlock to both their fucking deaths. He's over witty flirting with the gorgeous bastard – miles over it. All there is now is the way Sherlock pulls around him, riding back on his cock like he's trying to fuck him just as much as he's being fucked. After his knees slide over the sheets several times Sherlock reaches up to brace himself against the headboard; John loves that. He lowers his hips a bit, thrusting up just as hard but it hits Sherlock different; good enough to make him whine. His arms have started to shake so hard John suddenly notices it and if he comes right now he's going to kill himself and then suddenly he almost feels like he could.
Groaning, he stops against the other man so abruptly that Sherlock cries out, reaching back to grab his hip and try to pull him back into moving. "John—"
"Can you give me your hands?" John gasps, sliding one of his own through the sweat on Sherlock's back.
"Don't ask me that; tell me that." Again, John never wants to hear Sherlock speak normally again; only like this, fucked open and raw. The other man reaches a hand back and the second John grabs it Sherlock gives him all his weight, reaching back with the other. John wraps his fingers around Sherlock's wrists and waits until he straightens his back before he starts moving again, sliding deeper now because of how he can hold him. His head falls back, eyes focusing blearily on the shadows on the ceiling; he's never felt it this good; ever. "Oh, god, yes. Sherlock..."
Sherlock doesn't bother trying to speak. John can tell he wouldn't be able to at this point. He's moaning so frantically that if his head wasn't down and muffling it some John's a bit worried it might be loud enough to wake Mrs. Hudson on its own, which is something he bloody does not want to even think about right now—
After a moment he realizes that Sherlock is frantically gasping words. "Fuck, John, stop – stop; I can't – John–"
John slides back in and obeys, willing his violently pounding heart to settle enough for him to breathe as he squeezes Sherlock's wrists. "*Christ, you okay?"
"Oh, fuck – I just – it's just the hands." Sherlock's hips won't stay still. He's rocking gently against him, tightening around him at the same time and making John doubt his broken words. "I'm too close; I want to wait for you – sorry–"
"Fuck; shut it." John groans pathetically loud, fighting the urge to just fuck him to death. "Don't apologize for liking something. Jesus Christ – should we go for more, beautiful man?"
Whimpering, Sherlock looks back at him over his shoulder which is incredibly close to ending it right there. "I want this cock for the rest of my fucking life, John, you may not stop. Fuck me."
John knows that's a request he very much will fulfill; he plans on worshipping this bastard every single night for the rest of their existence and that's a completely irrefutable fact. As soon as John lets his arms fall Sherlock drops, flattening his chest against the bed but he keeps his hips up, new sounds pouring from his mouth as John hits completely new spots this way. Sherlock grabs his own ankles and presses his face into the balled up sheets around them, riding back onto every sharp thrust. John has to brace himself on the wall so he can still move, overwhelmed, staring down at him. "God."
Whatever Sherlock groans in reply is muffled. Something about yes and John and harder. Reaching down, he spreads one hand between Sherlock's shoulders and the other across the dip in his lower back, his own voice low again; full of the way he wants to own everything about the man he's burying himself inside. "You like it like this, baby?"
Sherlock's hips fuck back on him desperately as he clutches fistfuls of the sheet now. John doesn't have a problem hearing him anymore; his moans are still muffled but by this point they're hysterical. "Don't stop; fuck me–"
Apparently the bastard is intent on ripping apart every damn bloody piece of John's soul. He bites down on the soft part of Sherlock's shoulder hard enough to make blood gather there, fucking straight down. Each little bit more that Sherlock unravels has a torpedo effect on him and before he even decides he wants to say it out loud he hears himself breathe, "You like it when I call you baby, Sherlock? I've wanted to since the moment I saw your gorgeous face."
"Yes – yes, John; yes–" Sherlock half sounds like he's sobbing. He wraps his ankles around John's and reaches back; John knows the grip he has around his forearm is going to bruise tomorrow. It makes him grit his teeth and fuck in even harder. "Fuck, John, please–"
All at once John notices that he can hear himself moaning. For a few seconds he doesn't realize it's his own voice doing it. "You feel so fucking good... you're so goddamn good, Sherlock... you feel so *fucking good..."
Sherlock turns his face into his neck and slides his fingers through his hair, holding it desperately as John feels him go limp against the bed, letting himself be fucked into it. He tilts his head so he can suck on the inside of Sherlock's arm and bite around his skin to leave a bruise there too. No one will see any of the marks. Just Sherlock in the mirror; and him, the next time he takes the other man's clothes off.
Fucking hell.
The next time.
He groans when Sherlock's thighs tighten around his; John's already noticed how much he likes when he bites him. "You're bloody mine." The words that come through his teeth are ones John doesn't expect to actually say. He knows he's not the only one who can hear the rage seething behind them, but suddenly he can't control it. It spreads quick and violent through his veins as memories of the sniper mark on Sherlock's forehead and the terror in his eyes when he'd seen the bomb are there again; filling his mind. He doesn't really remember how to breathe. "Fuck everyone else – you're mine. Fuck him; do you understand me? This. Is. Mine."
Sherlock is up on both elbows now, trying to look back at him. "John."
"Do – you – understand – me?" John punctuates each word with a slow, hard thrust, his cock sliding free before it's swallowed again. He wraps a hand around Sherlock's throat just underneath his jaw and Sherlock's head falls back against his shoulder.
"Yes," he chokes. "I'm sorry–"
"Don't." John clenches his jaw against the familiar warmth that claws at his throat, his hips moving desperately faster as he presses his face against Sherlock's cheek. "Don't, Sherlock; I've got you now. I just need you to know you belong to me–"
"I do," Sherlock gasps, his voice breaking the same way John's does. "I have for so fucking long, John – god you fuck so good; I've wanted this for so fucking–"
The volume of the sound that shoots from John's throat startles even him but bloody Christ. He tilts his head down so their mouths can slide together, his breath ridiculously out of control. "Jesus, Sherlock, I'm gonna come–"
Sherlock drops his head and shoves his hips up so hard against him John almost loses it. Thankfully he doesn't move again; instead he groans through his teeth, "Fuck yes; Christ yes – let me turn first; flip me on my back–"
"I can go a little–"
Sherlock's voice is suddenly demanding. "John I want to fucking see you – turn me over."
John can't breathe. He doesn't care. He doesn't need to breathe. He can feel every sodding part of the man around him and he never thought he'd actually hear Sherlock Holmes ask him to fuck him on his back but he did, he is and the intensity of everything at once is overwhelming. "Ready?" he gasps, and Sherlock instantly pulls his hips low enough that he slides free. They share another breathless groan as he sits back on his knees and Sherlock quickly rolls over. John helps him hold his right leg against his chest so he can get it round the other side of him; he thinks he's going to lower it again, but he pulls his left leg up the same way and then reaches out to grab John's arm and pull him down. He does everything so desperately fast that John's forced to start pulling to mind things that repulse him because fuck he's going to come before he's even back inside the bastard; this man is incredible. He presses his free hand into the underside of Sherlock's thigh. "Give yourself a second; you need to breathe."
Sherlock reaches down for his cock. "No; fuck," he groans, "I need you back inside me, now–"
Sliding his hand down to cover Sherlock's own, John rubs gently against him, teasing, moaning sharply himself and doing his best to swallow the much more ridiculous sounds he can feel building in his throat. "God, Sherlock–"
"John." Sherlock's entire body arches the second John slips just his cockhead inside. His other hand shoots up and grabs John's jaw, his mouth and his eyes wide open. "Fuck, John – slow now; slow for me–"
"You can have it however you want when you ask me pretty like that," John breathes against his chin, rolling into him so slow he has to hold his breath to try to back away from his orgasm. He reaches down and hooks his arms under Sherlock's knees so he can pull the other man's legs up and spread him open, planting his hands on the bed and groaning loudly when Sherlock easily folds. "Slow like this?"
"Fuck, yes–" Sherlock's fingers dig into his back as he clings to him, moaning into his mouth. "Oh my god, John... oh, fuck..."
John's cock pulses with how close every word the other man says takes him but he can hear and feel how much Sherlock really does love it like this. He tries to focus on that instead and give him as much of it as he can, not really even pulling out anymore as he rocks his hips achingly slow; god he's deep. At one point he lets his legs go so he can touch him and for some reason he's not surprised when Sherlock pushes his hand away and frantically shakes his head, grabbing the backs of John's thighs to pull himself down. And then he suddenly lets go of him, arching as much as he can while he's pinned, his head pushing back into the pillows. "John – fuck; right there – shit–"
John groans, his body scrambling to obey before he even consciously tells it to. He pushes himself up on the back of Sherlock's thighs and plants his knees for more balance and fucks him so hard Sherlock has to push against the headboard to keep from being knocked against it. "Fuck, baby, did we find it like you thought?"
"Yes; don't fucking stop–" Sherlock is whimpering now; frantically loud; it's beautiful. John loves how he can hear his own voice join Sherlock's deeper one in a chorus of falling a hundred miles an hour towards their release. He's waited so bloody long to be here. Here, on this edge, where everything rational has bled into the heat and want and now of his body and what he's falling towards and Sherlock is with him now, right at his two-step. Always at his two-step.
Sherlock drops his arms and wraps them both around John's neck, pulling him close. The action is frantic and needy and John feels just as desperate as he slides an arm under Sherlock's shoulders so he can hold him too, his other hand reaching back to pull him open. There's no rhythm in his hips now; they grind together frantically as they both chase it and there's never been nor will there ever be anything John will ever want more than Sherlock now. How he sounds and feels and moves and—
"John," Sherlock gasps. His lips are against John's ear and his voice breaks each time John fucks in which is painfully beautiful just like every other goddamn thing about him as John suddenly hears him choke out, "I love you."
He can tell Sherlock doesn't mean to say it. It sort of tears from him; broken enough that John almost can't make it out. But he does. And it makes tears gather in his eyes, his heart pounding to the same suffocating rhythm of Sherlock's breath because he's needed to hear him say it for so long. He's needed this for so long; they've needed each other for so goddamn long and he wants to fuck away every bullshit time they've both choked back words when they should have screamed them. He pulls his head back and the second he sees Sherlock's face he almost loses the half-hearted battle of holding back his tears and also the more focused one of wanting to make Sherlock come first.
"Mine," he breathes, biting down on Sherlock's bottom lip and digging his fingers into his back. Sherlock's elbows press into John's shoulders as he cradles his head in his arms and nods, their eyes locked together. "Come like this."
"Fuck." John watches Sherlock's eyes roll back in his head, his arms going limp around his neck and his heels digging into the backs of his thighs. The way he slides up and down on John's cock is so sloppy and so gorgeous that in the back corner of his hazy mind he sort of wants to beat the man for ever having rode another bloke's cock like this. The thought instantly disappears as he feels the fire finally begin to rush towards his belly and he groans in loud relief, his thrusts frantic now. "Fuck," he groans, "fuck, Sherlock, fuck–"
Through the delicious waves rolling through him he hears Sherlock frantically gasping, "Don't fucking stop, don't stop, don't stop, don't stop–" John has zero fucking problem complying, groaning even louder at the feeling of fucking warm come deep back up inside him. He doesn't even give a shit anymore about the sounds he makes. All he cares about is how Sherlock is whining like a bloody pornstar; the fucking man's the sexiest thing on earth and fuck honest to every god this is the only thing he wants. This, every day, over and over and over and—
Christ.
He hadn't said it back.
"Sherlock." Heart pounding against his ribs with panic now; panic as well as bliss, he pulls back. Waits until the Sherlock focuses on him completely; waits until the man's eyes fix on his. They're erratic, blown wide with his own orgasm but they're also terrified. John frames his face in his hands and when he starts to talk again he makes sure that it's very slow. Deliberate. "You are the most psychotic human being I've ever met. You're a bloody nutcase. You drive me fucking insane half the time, and I have never known someone who understands me how you do and I want you to know that I adore everything about you and that you make me feel alive." He presses even closer and he's relieved and Sherlock frantically grabs his hands, clinging to them. He smiles at him softly. "You are the most brilliant and beautiful person to exist in this universe. Jesus, Sherlock, in case you can't tell, I love you. I fell so quickly and ridiculously in love with you I fucking question my sanity half the time."
"You are indeed fucking delusional John Watson and I do not deserve you," is what Sherlock quietly says. There are tears in his eyes. Any other day and he'd be furious with himself, but not now. Not today.
John presses his lips against Sherlock's nose, and then his forehead, and then he meets his eyes again. "Shut up. Sod that. You brought me back to life." He really doesn't expect the surge of emotion that overwhelms him and he's not even sure he means to say it that way but he refuses to second guess anything from now on. "You bloody yanked me away from a hole I couldn't see the bottom of. You gave me back a reason to want to stay on this fucking planet and I mean that, Sherlock, and I know... I know it doesn't feel like it, and I'm sorry. You're right – I've stayed ten feet from you since the moment we met. I'm sorry."
The look on Sherlock's face is beautiful; tears and all. "I don't–"
"I'm sorry." John finally has to admit to himself that he's crying too because he sounds like a fucking moron, but for the first time in so painfully long he feels brave enough to speak. He's never felt closer to another human being. He's never seen this one like he's seeing him now. "I should've told you. I hate myself for it; I hate everything about... There was no sodding point."
Sherlock just keeps shaking his head. His hands are clenched around his so tightly it's painful and his lip keeps trembling and he's the most incredible thing in the world. No contest. "Don't," he whispers. "Don't."
John's heart twists violently in his chest. He presses quickly forward and opens his mouth hard against Sherlock's lips. He decides he doesn't want him to feel like he has to respond, explain anything, find any words at all. This is enough. This is everything. Sherlock wraps his arms around John's neck and pulls him desperately close, his legs tightening around his waist. John can feel his almost feral need for complete contact and it's overwhelmingly beautiful and if he hadn't already been totally gone for this man, he beyond is now. The first time their lips break for air he breathlessly says across his temple, "You don't need to worry about me going anywhere, Sherlock. I sodding love you."
He knows for a fact that Sherlock is shaking with more than just post-orgasm gratification, and he's shaking hard. It builds another lump in John's throat. He tries to swallow around it, sliding his arms underneath Sherlock's neck and letting all of his weight press the trembling man firmly into the bed. Sherlock buries his face in John's neck and somehow manages to tighten his grip around him even more, holding him like he's trying to fold him in half. As John turns his head with every intention of smashing some part of their faces together again he suddenly realizes that his left arm is completely numb. Which is hilarious. For whatever reason. For no reason. For every reason. John doesn't know anymore.
Regardless, he starts laughing so hard he can hear the bed jerking in rhythm with it and he sounds like a sugar spiked ten-year-old cackling like a lunatic and he's so in love with how Sherlock has always made him feel that he could scream it from every rooftop in the United Kingdom.
That could be the autobiography of John Watson, honestly.
Sherlock has frozen underneath him. His arms are tight as a vice and his face is still mostly wedged between John's cheek and shoulder, but he manages to get his muffled voice loud enough for John to hear him. "Why are you laughing?"
"Because my bloody arm's asleep." Still giggling, John accepts the genuine happiness that seems to have suddenly commandeered his brain and doesn't fight it because he's tired of doing that. "It's funny. Laugh."
"Funny."
"I'm surprised you didn't take another jab at how devastatingly ancient I am. Are any parts of you asleep?"
"John." Sherlock tries to pretend like he's affronted, but he fails because he snorts, pulling back to meet his eyes. "It is quite the opposite, if you'd like me to be transparently honest."
"Look at you being cheeky."
"You're not devastatingly ancient. You should be proud. Extenuating circumstances aside for us both, you gave me a run for my money."
"I had you right where I wanted you."
"You had me well, too."
"Christ." Sucking in a deep breath, John tries to ignore the heat that still pulls hard at him every time they slide against each other. He pushes himself up a bit and glares at the other man. "If you're doing that on purpose, stop."
Sherlock bites the inside of his lip to stifle a smile, grinding gently up against him, intentionally now. "What?"
"You're a fucking–"
"John."
There's a change in Sherlock's voice; suddenly it's urgent. John's eyes lift quickly to fix on the other man's. "Yeah?"
Sherlock seems to notice his alarm because his face softens and he lifts a hand, tracing the line of John's brow, down his cheek, across his bottom lip. "I love you."
"God." When he tears up this time he doesn't even care. The words he tries to say get stuck in his throat and Sherlock's eyes fill with tears too. He quickly slides his hands around John's head to pull him close again, pressing trembling lips hard against his and John tries to kiss him back but it basically just turns into a sloppy mess. It's stupid, and it's brilliant. This man has made John into someone he never thought he could be again.
Sherlock slides his lips along John's cheek, wraps him up in his arms, presses kiss after kiss into the hair on the side of his head. It all just makes John want to cry harder. "I'm so sorry I pulled you into this. I never thought–"
"No." John's grateful that the instant anger that flares up in him helps him keep hold of his composure. He pulls back as much as Sherlock lets him; not far, but far enough to stare hard into his eyes. "Don't. I make my own choices."
"You make fucking horrid choices." Sherlock's eyes are just as pointlessly threatening, but his cheeks are rosy at the same time and it melts John like butter. "Why is it that every time you're given an opportunity to die in the name of some form of superficial justice you insist on shredding my fucking sanity by leaping arms wide open into whatever pointless–"
"Stop," John whispers, dropping his forehead against the other man's and closing his eyes. He listens to Sherlock draw in a deep breath at the same time he does; they're already so used to mirroring each other that he knows Sherlock does it on instinct. He does it again before he opens his eyes and Sherlock's expression is achingly beautiful. "Nobody died tonight. We can honestly thank the bloody maniac for knocking our heads together. For lack of a better term."
There's still tears down the side of his face, but Sherlock scoffs. "I'm not thanking James Moriarty for anything. I'm going to send him to hell–"
"Okay." John tries his bloody hardest not to laugh, but he chuckles a little and he hates himself for it. Sherlock's face fills with awe instead of annoyance as he watches him and John feels himself blush this time under the total adoration in the other man's eyes. He notices for the first time that Sherlock is drawing on his back with the tips of his fingers. Fuck. "And I suppose you already know I'm going to assist you in doing that. Hell meaning prison, also. Just so we're clear."
"Hell meaning pits, John. He signed his death warrant the moment he told them to lay a finger on you." Sherlock's brows are furrowed, but his eyes give him away because they're soft and loving and John's halfway towards his mouth when Sherlock starts talking again. He pulls back, reaching up to slide his fingers into Sherlock's hair and cradle his head while he listens. It's almost like he's afraid. The words are rushed and John wishes he didn't feel guilty but he feels guilty. "I didn't just leave you. I didn't want to leave without you. I needed... I needed time. To think, because I was–"
John covers his mouth with his free hand, nodding. "I know. You don't have to–"
"No." Sherlock grabs John's hand, pulling it off his mouth and biting the side of his palm before pressing it against his neck. His eyes are somber. "John, you don't know. I nearly told you there. At the pool. I was going to shove you against the wall and tell you that I'm in love with you. Christ, John, that terrified me. I had to leave."
"You're in love with a fucking idiot." John's voice breaks again before he can even get the first few words out. Sherlock's fingers tighten around his wrist, his eyes soften; he deserves the entire world and John is furious with himself for having been too afraid to try to start giving it to him. He nuzzles down underneath his jaw, breathing him in deep. "I'm sorry you were afraid to tell me."
"John."
"You deserve an apology. I'm sorry I hid it. I'm sorry I made you feel like you had to hide it too."
Sherlock grabs his head and pulls him back, and he knows this is important and he meets the other man's eyes; he can see all the urgent things Sherlock doesn't say there. "We're both grown men. I fucked myself too. I had you every day – every day I could've told you. And I didn't. It doesn't matter anymore."
"It matters." John clenches his jaw, doing his best to hold his ground even as Sherlock strokes his bottom lip with his thumb. "It's cock-all, but it matters. You can't–"
Sherlock presses his lips tenderly to his, cutting him off. "I feel like such a fucking idiot," the man breathes against his mouth. "You have been on my mind every second since the moment I met you. Always when I'm conscious; often when I'm not. I've known you three-hundred and forty-eight days and I've woken up almost every morning wishing you were there to fuck me as you just did."
John moans around his tongue, sliding his fingers into Sherlock's hair to force the other man to pull back enough for him to breathe, "And you call yourself a genius."
Sherlock's eyes meet his; John is floored by how dilated and already frantic they are. "John–"
"Do you seriously mean that?"
Sherlock seems startled by the question. He pulls his arm out from under John's back and presses both hands firmly to the sides of his face, holding him still. "Why would I say it if I didn't mean it?"
John can't breathe. Sherlock is so fucking beautiful he doesn't know how he's ever going to be able to one-hundred percent convince himself that this is real life; this is life now. He presses his fingertips to Sherlock's hips, sliding them slowly up his sides, over the curve of his shoulders, round the front of his neck, along his jaw. Sherlock refuses to look away from his eyes because John knows he's expecting an answer, but the other man shivers under his touch and his eyes fight to close and John bites back a gentle smile, ignoring how his voice is a bit strangled. "This doesn't feel real. You don't feel real. Hearing you say it like that – it's only ever been dreams, Sherlock. This is going to take some getting used to for me."
"It's real," Sherlock breathes, pressing himself more firmly against him and the way it makes both of them softly moan brings their eyes together again at the same moment; they both blush and it all honestly can't be real life. Sherlock's familiar, wonderful voice contradicts the thought banging around John's skull the next second. "I don't think it's going to take long for you to be tired of how real it is."
"Fucking bullshit." John's breath is ridiculously unsteady, but he tries to cut himself some slack because Jesus Christ now the bastard is kissing on the spot behind his ear that he'd way too easily found tonight. "I should knock you for that. The only thing I'm not sure of is how we're ever going to be able to get out of bed."
Sherlock makes a soft sound, pulling back to press their noses together again and slide one leg over his thigh so he can straddle it. "We're not getting out of bed. I swear to god, John, I plan on staying here 'til the first one of us goes to ground."
"I don't think that would sit well with all of England." John can hear the smirk in his voice, but it's also broken and thick with love at the same time and Sherlock doesn't seem to miss that either as he reaches down to grab his hand and thread their fingers together, pulling them up against the pillow. John's entire body warms as he gazes up at him and he's so out of it he doesn't realize he's talking again until he sees Sherlock roll his eyes. "You're beautiful. You're so beautiful, Sherlock."
"John." The name is a sentence. A sentence that Sherlock uses all of the time, everywhere, in all sorts of ways. But it's always full. Reverent. Purposeful. John. He's made it John's favorite word in the entire world.
"I bloody mean it." John adores the gentle blush his words spread across Sherlock's cheeks and down his chest. He traces it with his fingertips; watching his movements at first but quickly looking back into the other man's eyes when Sherlock pulls lightly on his hair. "I want to make something abundantly clear. It was the night you asked me to look at the flat – our first night together. That's the the first time I almost came onto you. I was going to kiss you before Mrs. Hudson came out to tell you about the police. After Angelo dropped off my cane; when I turned around and saw you against that wall, Sherlock, smiling at me like you... I was going to pin you there and snog the fucking hell out of you. But then Mrs. Hudson came out of her room and my god – I was fucking furious."
It makes him laugh. Sherlock almost instantly joins in. They giggle like idiots for at least a minute straight; Sherlock even snorts and when John beams at him because of it the other man rolls his eyes. "Shut up. You're a child."
John isn't phased in the slightest. He can't stop smiling; his cheeks are probably going to fall off by the end of the night. His entire body is hovering on the brink of shivering with joy and disbelief and he's glad that by the grace of some god he's been able to hold himself somewhat together. At least for the moment. But he doesn't plan on stopping any of the words that want to pour out of him because not only does he adore every physical inch of the man in his arms, he's also in total love with the dickhead and holding things back so far has done nothing but hurt them both. "You floored me, Sherlock. You bloody cured me of something in forty minutes that I'd started to think might end me after I came back. That was the second way you saved me. Out of a million. I haven't ever really told you out loud because I'm a sod at being emotionally forthcoming with every single person I value but I'm going to tell you now and every day – Sherlock Holmes, I am so bloody grateful for–"
Sherlock kisses him. Hard. "Stop."
"Stop what?"
"Mentioning that there was ever a time when you even considered robbing me of the chance to meet you." Sherlock's voice is hushed with the emotion John can see in his eyes now as he drops all his weight until they're pressed together, holding his head between his arms just like John had done. "There's so many things we could both say right now. But we don't have to do it all tonight."
John nods a little frantically. He's just about got his mouth on Sherlock's again when the other man breathes, "What was the first?"
John closes his eyes, running the tip of his nose lightly across Sherlock's jaw. "The first? The first way you saved me?"
Sherlock nods. John swallows the catch he knows wants to get him and quietly says, "You gave me this home. A foundation, Sherlock. You were a starting point."
John will never forget the look that the words put in Sherlock's eyes.
Nor will he ever forget how Sherlock slides instantly down his body and swallows his cock.
—
TBC
I hope you enjoyed, dear friends. Happy reading. G