Hello, dear reader! If your eyes have wandered here, welcome to my humble daydream of the famous pool scene. Yes, everyone has their own version of what they wished for this moment. Yes, it has been done a million different ways, most of them more beautiful than mine. Yes, some would say it has been beat over the head til sure death. But I love these two stubborn loafs, and I love their love, and I was bursting to share my clumsy daydream of what I wish could have been their beautiful beginning. I hope you enjoy.
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Part One
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i love you
don't you mind?
—
The taxi ride to Baker Street passes in a blur. As he numbly exits the cab and makes his way into 221B, for the first time since moving in John finds himself wishing that there were more stairs. He hasn't yet figured out a way to pull back in his anger and the clearest, most sane thought in his mind right now is that he doesn't want to lose it. He doesn't want to be made a fool of. He wants an apology, and he wants Sherlock to give it to him unprompted. Which probably won't happen but he needs it to happen because he has a right to everything right now because they fucking lived.
Sherlock is standing by the left window when he finally walks through the door. Looking down into the street; hands clasped behind his back. His jacket is draped over the back of John's chair.
It pisses John off more but it doesn't surprise him. He grits his teeth and takes a deep breath, then another, and another, and he's proud of the levelness of his voice. "You've had at least sixty seconds to get ready, Sherlock. Go."
Sherlock doesn't turn around. "What?"
"What do you mean, what?" John feels his hands twitching at his sides, curling and uncurling with the urge to sock the other man. "What the hell is wrong with you?"
Sherlock responds in the calmest and most unconcerned manner known to mankind. "You're angry."
"I'm–" John stops himself mid-hysterical scoff, clenching his jaw and praying to every god that might exist that he finds patience he doesn't feel anywhere in him right now. "Yeah, I'm angry. If you're not going to apologize why don't you go ahead and deduce why."
Finally Sherlock's head turns; it's just his head but at least John can see part of his face. But he wants to hit it; hit him because he's so fucking calm and John's hands are still shaking from the goddamn bomb alone and Sherlock looks ready to turn in for the night. "You probably don't want me to do that."
"Humor me."
"I'm not much inclined to amuse you at the moment."
"I'm not fucking laughing."
That's it. That's what does it. And honestly John could cry tears of relief when Sherlock turns completely towards him, but then he sees the look on the other man's face and the relief monsoons into fear. The entire room feels wrong. "This conversation is pointless."
"I want you to say out loud why I'm angry with you."
Sherlock's head tilts sharply. "Why?"
"Because I deserve it. Because you know it was bloody... Because we both almost died back there and you decide it's a good idea to just take off without even having the decency to–"
"To what?"
John stares at him, his mouth hanging stupidly open. "Are you joking?"
"I didn't have the decency to what?" Sherlock's eyebrow is high, his face the perfect portrait of bewilderment; John can't tell if he's faking or not and he genuinely does want to fall back on a lifetime of trauma and start hitting things. "Does it really matter if we took the same cab home?"
Clenching his jaw, John lets the pause last for seven seconds before speaking again. "Why did we have to take different ones? I wanted... Moriarty said a lot of things, Sherlock, I think we obviously have–"
"You don't need to worry about Moriarty."
"I don't need to wo—Sherlock." John can't help the sardonic laugh that pulls out of him, but he regrets it when Sherlock's jaw visibly locks. He clears his throat. "I'm pretty involved, to be honest. Worry is inevitable."
"I will handle him." There's no room for discussion in Sherlock's voice and John knows that. He knows Sherlock expects him to nod like a soldier and pretend like he has no idea the danger the other man is in and jump back into the chaotic hushed up whirlwind that is their life of psychotically brilliant crimes against all sorts of humanity. The rage glittering in Sherlock's eyes just confirms what John already knows because he knows him. God, he knows him. "Not only will I handle him, John, I will eliminate him. You don't need to worry about Moriarty. No games."
John fights the inappropriate urge to smile because despite how irritating Sherlock can be, he's also incredibly beautiful, too. Especially when he's angry. "Sherlock... until we know the extent of what we'll actually be able to pin on the man we can't exactly go around talking about murder in the first degree."
"Like I said." Sherlock slides his hands into his trouser pockets. It's something he does when he's nervous. "I'll handle him."
Taking a deep breath, John shifts his weight to his other foot because not only is he also nervous, he's exhausted. "Nice try. We're not even gonna pull that card out with this one, Sherlock."
Sherlock narrows his eyes.
John rolls his own. "The 'I'm going to continuously tell you to stay out of a case that you're already following every single happening concerning and also you're not going to work the case with me as we stay up together working the case until you have to go to bloody work the next morning' card. You know exactly what I'm talking about."
"This isn't a case."
"Right; it's you finding your new arch nemesis through a game of twenty-one questions featuring bombs; how could I forget." John says the words sarcastically, doesn't even really think them through until he hears them echo back in his head and instantly he feels like a dick. Sherlock's mouth shuts hard, his eyes flashing with mortified guilt and John feels it tug painfully at the back of his throat. He shakes his head, standing up straight again, hoping Sherlock can see the apology in his eyes. "I didn't mean that. I shouldn't have said that, Sherlock."
"I don't think it's fun," is Sherlock's quiet reply. John grits his teeth, but the other man goes on before he can respond even if he'd in any way known what the fuck to say to him. "What he's doing does not amuse me. He does not intrigue me. I'm inclined to rip his head off of his body with my bare hands. I need you to know that I plan on stopping him, not that I'm entertained by him or that I find myself in his likeness. I want him gone."
"Sherlock, I know. I bloody know that, come on–" John is two seconds late in realizing he's reaching out a hand and taking a step; it's Sherlock's widening eyes that bring it to his attention and he quickly pulls it back. "You're nothing like him. He's just a psychopath with a bloody file for Quantico and apparently a mountain of wealth to match. And I know you'll stop him. That's what you do. He didn't get into my head; don't let him get into yours."
Sherlock's voice is even quieter than before. "He's not what's in my head."
That probably would've been the appropriate time for John to take about seven thousand steps back and let them both off yet another hook of emotionally healthy closure by not pressing. This very much isn't anywhere near an appropriate time to question the completely charged words.
But John's always loved the opposite of appropriate. And there's still adrenaline buzzing through his veins because an hour ago he'd had a bomb strapped to his chest and a sniper ready to take him out, so why the bloody fuck not. "Okay." He clasps his hands behind his back. "What is then?"
Sherlock has the audacity to roll his eyes and John fights the quick urge to spring forwards and throw him against a wall. "Is this how people usually converse with each other after a particularly harrowing yet non-fatal event?"
"You just said Moriarty isn't what's in your head. So what's in your head? What is there to think about right now that tops him?"
The sarcasm previously in Sherlock's eyes is gone. He is silent. He stares so directly at him that John feels his body automatically fidget to the other foot, heat crawling up the back of his neck, but he refuses to back down. He's bloody sick of doing that. "Stop acting like I'm forcing you to sit down for a goddamn therapy session every time I ask you anything remotely personal. I just want to know what you're feeling after being put through an incredibly dangerous situation. Because I'm your bloody friend, Sherlock, and I–"
To John's utter shock, Sherlock's face closes off like a stone wall. His mouth closes sharply and he turns on his heel, walking towards the hallway. He literally walks away. He's two steps into the shadows when John finally gets his voice to work. It breaks at first, but he ignores it.
"Sherlock, don't walk away from me. I'm tired of this. This fucked up communication with you; I can't do this anymore. I need to know what you're thinking because as much as you – I can't read your fucking mind."
His whole body goes cold with relief when Sherlock stops. He takes the few seconds that Sherlock's back is turned to try to compose himself; get his shaking hands and tight throat and burning neck under some sort of control. He folds his arms across his chest, his jaw aching.
"Why?"
"Why what?"
Sherlock's posture is rigid. He's half turned towards him, but that's it. "Why did you do it?"
"Do what?"
"Jesus, John." Sherlock moves like he's going to walk away again. But he doesn't. He doesn't move after that. He still won't look at him, but he stays. "If you don't know what I'm asking I don't want you to answer."
John's arms tighten around his chest. "You can't be manipulative. You can't throw loaded shit out in the air and then expect me to dissect–"
"I'm not being manipulative. What part of that question needs dissecting?"
"You were going to ask me there, weren't you? Why did I try to let you run? What stopped you?"
Sherlock turns and stares at him like he'd just told him to fuck off. John panics a little; takes a moment to make sure his voice is calm and completely nonthreatening. "It's fine. I don't mind telling you why; it's okay for you to ask."
"Yes you do." Sudden anger flares to life in Sherlock's eyes as he says the words. John is taken aback by how openly the other man is looking at him.
"What?"
"Yes you do. You do mind, and you won't tell me why. I don't think you'll ever really tell me why, John."
John's throat is suddenly so tight he stands no chance this time in sounding normal. "What does that mean?"
"You know what it means."
"Stop it." John takes a step towards him, his arms falling to his sides. "Ask me what you want to ask me."
He has to swallow hard when Sherlock turns his head and stares down the hall. He looks like he could sprint down it. Just a word. It would take one word. "Why did you try to let me run? Why did you think it was appropriate to try to kill yourself just so I could have the slightest and most improbable possibility of living?"
"So you could possibly and probably live." John doesn't second guess any of the words that fall from his lips now; he doesn't think them through, he just says them. He's so tired. "Would've been worth it. And you don't think I'll tell you why? Wrong. I'll do everything I can, always, to try to keep your absolutely suicide driven and fucking psychotic self safe. Because I bloody *care about you, dickhead. Whether you like hearing it said out loud or not."
This time, when Sherlock looks up at him again after several long, horrible minutes of silence, his face is exhausted, too. "Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why do you think you care about me?"
At this point John could literally scream at the top of his lungs. "Think I care about you."
"Why, John?"
"Sherlock." He knows his frustration is starting to show in his face and in his body language but he can't help it because this is the most emotionally available Sherlock has ever been and he's not entirely sure what the man is getting at. "I – okay. How do you expect me to put something like that into words?"
"I don't know, John. Do it."
John's heart stops, because Sherlock's voice breaks halfway through the sentence and the other man looks furious with himself for either being unable to say it more composedly or saying the words at all. His hands are clenched into fists at his sides that John notices for the first time and suddenly he does know. He knows.
"Sherlock."
"Try." God, he doesn't even sound the same; it's like a completely new man standing across from him and John can feel his heart starting to pound with each word Sherlock says. "I need you to try. I need to know, John, I... I need you to do this for me."
"You need me to put into words why I care about you?"
"Yes." Sherlock is frozen with fear; fear that John can feel pounding in his own heart as the other man waits barely a second for him to respond before choking out, "Please."
John swallows, hard. "Why?"
"I don't know. I'm sorry." Another step. John feels like the man literally has him by the throat. "I don't know what I need you to tell me, but I need you to tell me something." He closes his eyes for a moment; the pain in the action is devastating enough. But it's still nothing compared to the way Sherlock saying his name tears through his heart. "John, help me understand why you're willing to die for me."
Good. He knows. "Do you want me to tell you why I care about you? Is that really what you want? Or do you want me to tell you how I *feel about you?"
Sherlock's eyes fly open.
John takes a step. Their dance had felt stupid at first, but at this point it's filling him with such an adrenaline rush that even his knees are shaking. "I told you to ask me what you want to ask me. No more games. Tell me what you need to know."
"I can't," Sherlock rasps. "I don't know how."
"Try." John tries to ignore how hot his ears are and how cold his skin is and how he wants to run for his life just as much as he wants to pin the other man to the floor right now, right fucking now. "Try, Sherlock. I'll try too."
"I want you to tell me how you feel about me," Sherlock says, and all of the air in John's body falls from him like water. Pours into the floor. He grits his teeth, pulls himself back for a moment because this is Sherlock and this could still literally be the biggest misunderstanding of his life; maybe the heaviness of the other man's words are coincidence but he wants it so much it hurts. Sherlock's voice isn't much louder than a whisper; it might as well be a scream with how hard John feels it hit him. "I want you to tell me if I'm just a friend to you, or if you... I want you to tell me if you want as much from me as I want from you and I'm sorry if it's too much to ask you to put it into words but I've been trying to put it together myself and every time I feel like I'm close, you... you're introducing me to another fucking woman. But I... John, sometimes the way you look at me–"
"Look at me," John whispers. Sherlock shakes his head. He's panicking and John can tell even from across the room because this is hard, this is Sherlock expressing himself in a way that John has never seen him come close to doing before and through the shock and chest-tightening joy that's filled his brain he feels another warmth spread. He's grateful that Sherlock is different for him. He's so many things for him. "Sherlock."
"Tell me," Sherlock whispers to the floor, those fists nearly white now and John's own hands itch to hold them until they relax because he wants Sherlock to know how real this is. "However you know how; just tell me–"
"Look at me."
Sherlock's head lifts, his eyes locking on John's and instantly John can't breathe. He's trying to ignore how fast his heart is beating in his ears and how violently it feels like every part of him is ripping apart and forming again; a healed version of himself with Sherlock's words filling in cracks and sore spots that have kept him awake since the day he'd met him. He tries to fall into it. Just fall. No over-thinking, no panicking. Sherlock looks like he's going to faint.
"They don't mean a bloody thing to me. I use them to run. I've been running for a long time."
It's instant. Instant. Sherlock's face collapses in what John knows is relief. "Running."
"Yes."
"You mean–"
"Running from you. You said you want to know if I want as much from you as you want from–"
"I want you," Sherlock breathes.
John's heart stops. He stares at him; warmth rushing into every part of his body. "Sherlock, fucking hell, you fucking have me–"
He can't breathe and Sherlock meets him halfway and wraps his hands around his head, pulling him in and latching onto his open lips with such desperation it makes John's entire body shudder with so many things he can't feel them all at once. He gasps in the deepest breath of Sherlock he physically can, pushing himself up on the tips of his toes and wrapping his arms around Sherlock's back to fold the other man into him. There's an erratic and lust-drunk thought buzzing at the back of his skull that he can't believe he's real life real as his skin kissing Sherlock Holmes. He's wanted everything about this man for so long he could cry; truthfully he probably will tonight and not a single part of him cares. One of Sherlock's arms wraps around his neck and his other hand slides underneath his shirt so he can spread it across his back and Sherlock knows exactly how to use his mouth and he feels so goddamn bloody fucking—
Suddenly Sherlock is walking backwards into the kitchen and turning them around so he can push John against the edge of the counter, hands grabbing his hips hard enough to make him moan. Their lips never once break apart. Not until Sherlock pulls back to irritably gasp, "Too much." And honestly John panics a bit – just a bit – because no this is not enough. His fear transforms the next second when he hears the sound of shattering glass and decides he should probably open his eyes, grabbing the front of Sherlock's shirt. "What are you–"
Apparently Sherlock is offended to hear him speak because he only gets an eyeful of the flushed man before his mouth closes roughly on his again and there's the repeated sound of total destruction and then he's suddenly being lifted up and sat on the counter. His breath rushes down Sherlock's throat; he'd handled him like a twenty pound rag doll and John really likes that. Spreading his legs, he wraps them around the other man's waist and Sherlock sucks in a gasp of his own when he crosses his ankles to pull him in as close as he can. It's not lost on either of them when there's more to grind against and Sherlock is finally moaning as he slides his mouth from John's chin up to the space just below his ear. John moans too because the spot makes extra shivers crawl up his spine and also because Sherlock's fingers are pulling at his waistband now. He leans back a bit so he can press their lips gently together; he wants to see him.
"Sherlock." His voice is muffled. Suddenly he's fighting the urge to grin. "Are you standing on your tip-toes?"
Sherlock pulls back, staring at him, half annoyed and half holding back what looks like hysterical laughter. "Excuse me? You mean like you were doing several literal seconds ago?"
He's giggling like a schoolboy and he doesn't give a single toss. "You're just not as tall as they say you are, are you, Mr. Holmes?"
"Very amusing, doctor." John knows it's a joke but for some reason it makes his cock jump enough to weaken his whole body. He shivers again, fingers tightening in Sherlock's shirt and thighs tightening around Sherlock's hips as they stare at each other. And then Sherlock raises an eyebrow. "Would you like to continue to insult my height or may we please move on?"
"Shut the bloody fuck up," is all John takes the time to gasp before pulling Sherlock forward, releasing his shirt to instead unfasten the clasp of his pants and pull his zipper down as their mouths lock together again. He feels Sherlock grab his thighs, long fingers squeezing hard as he moans – bloody hell he is never going to get over the sound of Sherlock moaning – and he almost feels guilty for not sliding a hand in where Sherlock more than likely assumes he will. Instead he slides them both down the back of his trousers, and his pants, cupping smooth skin and pulling him forward, circling him gently. Sherlock pulls away from his mouth, sucking in air as he grinds against him.
"Sherlock," he starts to ask, but the other man presses his forehead hard to his own and fixes frantic eyes on his.
"Yes. John, yes. Please."
Filed under one of his new completely favorite things: his flatmate gasping the word 'please'. Then Sherlock's on him again, warm, soft, lips, tongue, hands; it's the new current in John's brain that makes it run, he can't get enough of how it feels, how he feels, how they kiss, how Sherlock holds his head like he's scared he's going to pull away. He keeps his eyes open, watching as Sherlock's expression changes with how gentle or rough the grip he has on him gets; then how his mouth goes slack and his eyes fly open too when John wraps a hand around his cock and squeezes. It's sort of like he'd flipped a switch. Sherlock's eyes sear into his for half a second before the other man slides his hands underneath his thighs, lifting him up, gathering him off the counter onto his hips. John has to quickly wrap his arms around Sherlock's neck to avoid a ridiculous three foot fall to the ground. He gasps, legs clenching hard, cock clenching even harder with the glorious way it's trapped.
"Jesus Christ, Sherlock–"
"John."
Fuck him. He could say any sodding word like that and John would literally do anything in the entire world. It's doubly unfair when it's his fucking name.
"What – you plan on carrying me all the way to your bedroom?"
Sherlock's already halfway down the hall, and John literally doesn't understand how because Sherlock's face is buried in his neck but then they're in Sherlock's room and Sherlock is kicking the door shut and then Sherlock is lowering him onto his bed and suddenly there's a lump in his throat because not one single time do the man's arms unwrap from him. The word pops into his head – sentiment. Sherlock Holmes the detective would be appalled. But this Sherlock Holmes, his Sherlock Holmes... John's never doubted his capability of sentiment. His inclination towards it. It shows in how tenderly he cradles him now, how careful he is to keep him close as they both shuffle up until John's against the pillows. Sherlock doesn't even give him a second to get comfortable; as soon as John is sitting the other man straddles him, grabbing his head and tilting it up, kissing him desperately again. John reaches up and slides a hand into his hair, not letting him pull away when he tries to because he's running frantically from the tears that sting his eyes every time he sees Sherlock's face. It's too much. Everything is too much. The way Sherlock looks at him, the way he touches him—
"John." Sherlock finally pulls back to just say it, soft, his voice rough and beautiful.
John's heart is a twisted knot in his throat. "I want your clothes off," he breathes against Sherlock's lips, his fingers already on the third button of his shirt. Sherlock shoves quickly at his trousers and it would have been funny if he wasn't so fucking hard and ready to see Sherlock's bare skin and somehow the other man is able to get the pants to his ankles without having to lift from his lap. And suddenly, magically, Sherlock is naked, and John's hands slide hungrily over his arse; the way Sherlock rocks his hips slowly so they slide together yanks at every part of John's bloody soul. He tries to press a gentle kiss to the other man's mouth but he has to pull away, gasping for breath. "Sherlock–"
"John, don't." Sherlock says the words so quietly John almost doesn't hear them. He goes very still; his eyes moving to lock onto the ones Sherlock opens after a tense moment of silence. The look in them pulls his heart from his body and slams it to the ground. "Don't change your mind. I am so bloody terrified that you're going to change your mind."
John's throat is suddenly so tight his voice doesn't even sound like his own. "Sherlock."
Sherlock spreads the fingers of one hand around the back of his head and fists the other in the collar of his shirt. John's heart continues to twist, continues to recoil from the guilt the other man's expression makes him feel. "This one night isn't worth losing you."
"Christ." John wraps both arms around his waist. "Stop it, Sherlock. I'm not going anywhere. I would never leave you. No matter what else; in spite of everything else I'm not ever going to leave you. It doesn't matter what happens, okay? Never. Do you understand that I mean that?"
"Yes." Sherlock grinds down so hard John's extra aware of how uncomfortable he is in his jeans. He grits his teeth, running his fingertips lightly up and down Sherlock's back. The other man shivers; so does his voice. "I think you're a fucking moron and I know that you mean it. If you ever do anything again like you did at the pool tonight, I promise you, John Watson, I will kill you myself."
"Sherlock, honestly–"
"Honestly." Sherlock stops moving and suddenly reaches back, grabbing John's hands to pull them around himself and squeeze them almost to the point of pain as he stares unflinchingly into his eyes. "John, despite however it may currently appear, I'm furious with you. You could have been killed. You are not allowed to die at my expense. Especially when you wouldn't have even been at risk of it if it weren't for–"
"Shut up." John pulls free and wraps both hands around Sherlock's thighs, lifting his chin and raising a challenging eyebrow because not only does he know Sherlock, he knows Sherlock. "Just because things have changed doesn't mean you can start acting like you don't understand and also appreciate our working relationship. I go where you go."
"Yes, when you're knocked unconscious and dragged against your–"
"I wasn't knocked unconscious. I'll thank you very much to know they drugged me this time."
"John."
Biting back the fond smile that wants to take over his lips, John leans forward and presses his mouth against Sherlock's chest, sucking at his skin. Sherlock's breathing instantly quickens and his fingers dig into John's back. John can't help but be smug about it; it's a good thing Sherlock can't see him definitely smiling now. "You're right; not fair. But I'm right too and you know it. Are you angry because of that or is it still just because I tried to save your arse? Bloody gorgeous arse, might I add."
"I loathe you." Sherlock's tight, desperate voice says the complete opposite of his words. "Don't flirt with me; I detest flirting. Promise me."
"First of all I'm going to flirt with you all I bloody want; second of all that is sodding bullshit, flirting is your middle fucking name. And third of all, promise you what?"
"Promise me you will always be safe and smart because I can't lose you, John. I'm... serious."
That catches hard in John's throat. He lifts his head and gently pulls Sherlock down so he can whisper the words against his lips, "This is a conversation for later, yeah?"
Sherlock pulls back the tiniest bit to smirk at him. "Why; you think I can't multitask?"
John rolls his eyes even as he swallows back tears because he refuses to lose it already; absolutely not yet. But Sherlock is so fucking beautiful, inside and out, and he wants to photograph and frame this moment. "I know you can. Later."
Later.
Sherlock's eyes gentle, not helping John's composure issue one bit. He knows Sherlock is opening his mouth to say something but Sherlock is also naked and hard and on top of him and he can't not shove his mouth against the gorgeous one inches from his own. Sherlock moans in clear agreement, one hand sliding up to fist in his hair and pull him closer. The way Sherlock knows how to kiss is just as shocking as it is incredible. It's hard for John to pull away but if he doesn't get his tongue where there's smooth skin and lots of sweat he might die soon. He needs to taste him everywhere.
Lot of painful nights and messy mornings to bang out with this fucking sod.
So he does it quickly, grabbing him firmly by the hips and lifting the other man up and off of him. He lets Sherlock suck in one breath before flattening him on his back and Sherlock hisses sharply through his teeth as John grins down into his flushed face, leaning over him, opening his mouth and pressing it against his neck. Closing his lips gently, then a little harder, John sucks a trail down Sherlock's skin, stopping at his nipple to roll it with his tongue and feeling his cock ache at the way Sherlock's mouth hangs open as he moves across to the other and does the same. Down his navel; sliding his tongue slow and flat. Sherlock shivers as it wets his skin and John looks up again to see his head fall back. He's beautiful. He's honest to god the most physically perfect thing John's ever laid eyes on and the fact that he's completely naked and completely sprawled out for him now is hard for him to process.
When John's mouth reaches Sherlock's hip, the other man puts his feet flat on the bed and raises his head to stare down at him, one hand reaching up to grab the headboard. John rubs gentle circles in his hips with his thumbs where he grips him, keeping his voice soft and low. "Can I?"
Sherlock looks surprised by the question. He nods a little frantically, his eyes wide, and then he bites his lip and that makes John want to scream like a girl. The bloody man really has no right being as sexy as he is. Not a single right at all.
So he doesn't warn him before he wraps his hands under his thighs and lifts his legs, folding them against his chest and exposing him so perfectly his mouth starts to water. Sherlock groans and quickly grabs them to hold them up, his head falling back again and his voice shaking through the room. "Fuck, John."
John doesn't ever want to hear Sherlock say his name again without moaning it like this. He closes his whole mouth over him, tongue flattening there, and it sort of sounds like Sherlock sobs. He knows what to do because he's done it before but he's never been with someone who moves like Sherlock does; who rides his face like he's already being laid open and shivers under every lick, suck, bite. He has a hard time not feeling like a god or something. Sherlock rocks against his mouth for no more than a few minutes before sliding his fingers through his hair to pull his head back, gasping, "John; there's – top drawer–" He gestures wildly, cut off by another desperate groan when John ignores his hand and slides his tongue in deep again. "Fuck; please–"
He reaches up and opens a hand against Sherlock's chest, pulling back to press a firm kiss inside his thigh. "I know, Sherlock. I've got it. I've got you."
Sherlock is panting. But he's already trying to pretend like he's not, releasing his legs and straightening them slowly. John waits for him to be comfortable enough and then grabs his ankles to wrap the other man's legs around his waist, pressing into him and starting to grind because bloody fucking shit this is Sherlock. He's got the man he's craved; painfully craved; wrapped around him, on his tongue. Sherlock seems to echo the sentiment, his fingers still buried in his hair as he rolls his hips up, sliding against where John is still clothed and setting every nerve-ending in John's body on fire. He presses their foreheads together, staring into Sherlock's eyes, tracing his bottom lip with his thumb until their mouths fasten together again. He can only take the slide of the other man's tongue for about half a minute before he's pulling away to suck in air, his heart pounding his ribs to dust. Lube. Left. Need. Now.
"John."
His eyes open quickly at the hesitant way Sherlock says his name. The other man visibly tries to quell some unknown nerves and smiles at him, because he's Sherlock, and Sherlock always wants to be three steps ahead of anything he might feel. It's who he is and John adores him for it so bloody much he could cry.
"I might be tougher than you think I am."
"You what?"
"I'm not... You don't have to–" It's odd to see Sherlock unable to find words; unable to perfectly say what he's thinking. John can tell how unsteady his breath is and he can feel him shake so hard he wonders if they might need to slow down at all. It's odd. It's so brilliantly beautiful that again, John really probably will cry. "I won't break," Sherlock eventually says.
Fighting back a smile so he doesn't piss him off, John spreads a hand across his chest and raises an eyebrow. "Are you trying to tell me you know what you're doing?"
Sherlock's lips twitch up into a real smile of his own this time. "I know what I'm doing."
"How come you're suddenly deciding to act like a grown up? Am I gonna have to suck it up and admit if I know what I'm doing too?"
"Excuse – John." The breathless laughter that Sherlock can't hold back is adorable. "Fuck off." John's not sure how much more his heart can fill with affection for this bloody man before he keels over and kicks it. His stomach aches with his own giggles before their mouths open against each other again, Sherlock's with a sigh. It kills him. John slides his hand down his neck, lightly across his shoulder, over his stomach; grabs his thigh to pull him closer. Sherlock's entire body moves with that hand, wrapping around him. After a few long and wonderful minutes the other man pulls back just enough to whisper, "You're still dressed."
"A brilliant deduction," John gasps, he can't help it, and Sherlock looks absolutely pleased with him for the point three seconds John sees his face before he throws his head back and everything goes deliciously blank because Sherlock's hand is down his jeans and fuck his fingers feel good and fuck he needs so much fucking more than—
"Lay back," Sherlock breathes against his mouth, kissing him softly before John bonelessly obeys and falls, closing his eyes for a moment, sucking in air to try to do everything but pass out. Feeling Sherlock very quickly undo his jeans and then feeling everything pulled down, over his feet, off; he hears some of it hit the wall – none of those things help. Neither does opening his eyes to see Sherlock is still there, still kneeling naked on the bed next to him, hair wild from his hands, lips red from his teeth, chest peppered with marks from his mouth; hard and beautiful and leaking for him. He watches Sherlock lean to the side and open the drawer of his nightstand and he knows what the other man pulls out before it's even pressed into his free hand.
Sherlock starts to unbutton his shirt, and then his shirt is off and Sherlock is pressing his lips firmly to the center of his chest and then suddenly they slide until they're against the scar on his shoulder. He presses his forehead to it for a moment; kisses the torn and raised skin around the bullet wound more tenderly than he's kissed him anywhere else so far. John can hear every intimate thing Sherlock says to him and he never says a single word out loud. The instant lump in his throat chokes him bloody senseless as he presses his face into the curls below his chin, clutching them with one hand, the little bottle burning in the other. "Sherlock–"
But then suddenly Sherlock's lips aren't against his scar anymore – they're around his cock. Fireworks go off behind his eyes and pretty much without him being aware of it his hips thrust up incredibly too high and he yanks on Sherlock's hair incredibly too hard but the waves of guilt that flash through him are completely obliterated by the waves of holy bloody god yes. Sherlock apparently wants him dead because he moans around him and takes him easily, all the way down; not even a gag. Warm, tight, wet, beautiful bliss. Through the fog of looking down to watch Sherlock pull slowly off, grasping the base of his cock before swallowing him again, John feels the bottle in his hand suddenly crack apart.
He's full of too much fire to laugh as he tugs on Sherlock's hair, groaning loudly. "Shit – Sherlock, I need to – oh my god–" The bloody man's stubborn as a mule, grabbing John's thighs to hold him down and run his tongue from the bottom of his cock to the tip of it, slow and flat. He ignores the hand in his hair but John pulls harder – this is an emergency. "Sherlock, the fucking bottle broke; let me touch you–"
A surprised moan rips from Sherlock's throat and he pulls off, leaning back over him. He kisses him hard as he straddles him and quickly helps catch some of the liquid running down his arm. John's fingers have just brushed Sherlock's skin when he feels Sherlock wrap a hand around him and start to stroke, slow and firm, slicking him up, thumb massaging his head. John's hips roll into it, his entire body thrumming with sensations that are more overwhelming than he'd ever imagined this could be. Every dream he'd had of this moment, every overwhelming emotion that had always clung to him after he'd woken up, the longing and the fear and the hope; none of it compares to what roars through him now as he grinds desperately into Sherlock's hand and he's grateful for many reasons that the other man's tongue is in his mouth. They kiss like if they don't completely fuse together they'll be ripped apart.
Because that's what it feels like. That's what they've always been. Apart.
Eventually he succeeds in focusing enough to get his hand where it needs to be. When he spreads now-warm lube generously across Sherlock's skin, pressing against the puckered hole firmly with the side of his palm, Sherlock hitches up so fast their lips are pulled apart. The sound that comes out of his mouth when John slides a finger inside him as soon as he relaxes is a brutal test on John's self control. He almost moans louder than Sherlock does, grabbing his hip with his free hand before sliding it back to spread him open. Sherlock arches his back and pushes onto his finger again; he seems impatient when John pulls it out but he's not prepared for it to be two now instead of one because John just knows.
Sherlock's head falls so his mouth can rest in John's hair as he groans, loud and ragged, cut off halfway through and John's pretty sure it's because he starts holding his breath. He has the faint urge to roll his eyes. Instead he slowly slides his fingers in, then out, matching the rhythm to how Sherlock moves. It's not lost on him how quickly the other man's body opens and accepts everything he does; how instinctual it is. "Great idea to force yourself not to breathe when you've a problem to begin with." He tries to say the words teasingly but his voice comes out choked instead. "You give yourself a panic attack and this is over, you do realize that, don't you?"
Sherlock throws a hand back to squeeze his wrist so hard it nearly hurts. "I am well experienced in the do's and dont's of sexual intercourse, John, please don't feel any sort of need to coach—"
John doesn't bother telling him to fuck off with words. He instead adds a third finger, and the heels of both of Sherlock's hands dig into his shoulders as he takes the message with a sharp cry. John tilts his head up and whispers against his throat, "Good?"
"Yes; fuck yes–" Sherlock still isn't breathing often enough for John's comfort, but he can't deny how much every nerve-ending in his body adores the way the lack of breath changes his voice. "Everything you do is so much more than good, John Watson – do not fucking stop–"
Good fucking god. John Watson literally might die tonight, honestly, and if he doesn't focus he's going to piss them both off entirely too soon. He pays careful attention to the reactions Sherlock has to what he does; he learns that the man loves when he curls two fingers once they're deep and lets them catch as he's pulling out; gently at first, then harder when it makes Sherlock's entire body convulse. After several glorious minutes of riding his hand like his fingers are a cock bloody god John can't wait till it's his cock Sherlock gets his hips high enough that John finally feels it; a tiny brush of roughness against the pad of his middle finger. The second it's touched Sherlock makes an incredible sound and pulls away from his hand, settling onto his stomach, his fingers wrapping around John's arms when he grabs his hips to steady him.
"You okay? I thought we'd just found–"
"You did." Sherlock pants the words, his voice breaking and John has to do another internal chant to wrangle himself in. "I don't want to come before I feel you. I'm ready, John, I want your cock now; I think you'll be able to hit it–"
"Fucking Christ, Sherlock." John groans, sliding a hand down to sink his fingers in the flesh of Sherlock's thigh. He grabs a handful of his hair with the other to pull him down and say the words against his mouth. "You're not allowed to be upset with me about tonight, 'kay? You've no idea how long I've bloody wanted this. Wanted you."
Sherlock pulls back to meet his eyes, his own wide and dark and totally and completely *full. There's no confusion there. None. Just hunger. And for a second he thinks Sherlock is going to say something beautiful to express what that look means but then his mouth opens and John is reminded that the man he's in love with has always been and will always be a fucking dickhead. "I need you to give me an educated guess on my parameters."
"Listen, you absolute bastard, I'll do my sodding best–"
"You think I'm joking. Do you have any mental mantras; something of the sort? Because I have been waiting incredibly too long for you–"
"I swear to god, Sherlock–" John's sort of terrified by the fact that he finds the entire conversation hilarious. It means so much to him; so much that Sherlock invalidating his stamina isn't annoying, it's fucking hilarious. But he'd never say that to him. In fact he kind of wants to wipe the smug grin off the man's perfect face, so he grabs said face in both hands and does his best to look furious. "Do you want me to fuck you or not?"
Sherlock draws in a sharp breath, grinding a little faster against him and nodding quickly and John moans because he doesn't expect that; the instant relent, the plea in Sherlock's eyes. He uses his grip on his face to pull him forward and just before their lips touch he breathes, "Are you sure you're ready?"
"John." Sherlock tightens his knees around his hips so hard John can feel bone dig into bone and reaches back to hold him still. "I've been ready since the day I fucking met you."
Suddenly all of the sentimental jokes and come-backs and emotional revelations he'd been subconsciously building up are gone. Now there's just fire. Everywhere. Everything is Sherlock, naked and hard and slick against him, eyes fixed on his, full of frantic need; John is overwhelmed by it. By the way the man looks at him like he's the divine creator of the universe. He knows there will never be a day from now on that he doesn't crave him; crave the flush curling up his chest, over his face; the curls on his forehead stuck with sweat. John's favorite sight in the entire universe has become this. Sherlock like he is now, completely open and taken apart and real. He's beautiful. John doesn't deserve a single part of him.
I've been ready since the day I fucking met you.
—
Thank you so much for reading! These blokes infuriate me with their absolute refusal to see the bone-drenchingly gorgeous love they've fallen into with each other. I do have more, just haven't fully decided if I will post. I hope so much that you enjoyed your time. Let me know if you're interested in a little continuation? Perhaps a steamy bit of continuation? ;)
-G
