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Part Three
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i love you
i love you and all of your pieces
—
He can feel that Sherlock is not with him the second the sun slanting in through the blinds pulls him abruptly from sleep. The first full wave of consciousness comes with the horrible sensation of an empty bed. Cold sheets. The warm, pliant, delicious man that had slept in his arms all night is not there anymore.
John sits up sharply. He doesn't like that. He doesn't like being surrounded by Sherlock's scent and not having the man there to touch. He doesn't like the fact that Sherlock had made a conscious decision to leave not only the bed, but also the room. Somehow it makes all of the sharp, celestial memories of the night before seem almost like another dream and John tries to ignore the fear tugging at his mind as he looks around his room for the closest thing he can put on. He's grateful that they'd ended there before collapsing into exhausted sleep.
Twenty seconds later and by the time he's at the top of the stairs, he can hear him. He stops dead in his tracks for a moment, listening to the muffled sound of Sherlock's voice. Mrs. Hudson's much louder one follows.
"— make a difference."
"It might. I'm also fairly certain that nothing but completely moving would make enough of a difference for me to even bother."
"Must you be such a constant pessimist."
"Have you seen my blow torch? I seem to have misplaced it. I've looked everywhere."
John bites his lip to stifle a grin as he descends the stairs without making a sound. Before Mrs. Hudson can reply, he steps slowly into the kitchen. He doesn't expect to choke up like he does when he sees him. Sherlock, standing at the counter, his back to the door. Beautiful, ethereal, Sherlock. All he can hear is the sound of the man moaning his name. "It's under my bed," he says quietly.
Sherlock's entire body freezes. Just for a second, but John sees it. His mouth starts to water and his stomach is warmer than it's ever been upon coming into his flatmate's presence. This man that he'd probably call the love of his life. All he feels is want. Want. He wants him right there. Right now.
"Good morning, love." A shift, Mrs. Hudson's pointed voice. The second he meets her eyes he just knows that she'd heard them. It's there; a smugness in her gaze. She very clearly bites the sides of her mouth and calmly says, "No breakfast this morning; sorry. I've got to pop out."
John knows his ears are red as he thinks about the sheer volume of last night. He prays to everything above or below that the smile on his face isn't as hideous as he absolutely knows it is. "No, of course. Anything exciting on?"
He hears Sherlock choke on something before clearing his throat. He blinks quickly, refusing to look away from Mrs. Hudson's smirk, even when she raises a challenging eyebrow. "Don't you even mind. Let an old lady keep her secrets."
And with that she gathers up a stack of magazines from the cluttered table and disappears past him in a huff, bumping him with her hip on the way out. He is grinning and mortified as he watches her go. Poor, patient, lovely Mrs. Hudson. With a sound-show last night to rival the movies, probably.
—
He almost comes in Sherlock's mouth before he finally forces himself to grab the other man's hair and tug him back. Sherlock pulls off with an obscene pop that John feels convulse in his belly; grits his teeth as Sherlock groans into this skin. "I don't want to stop—"
"I want my cock in you again so you're gonna have to deal love." John's voice is torn; thick with lust as he takes Sherlock firmly by his hips and pulls him up over his stomach, reaching back with one hand to spread him open. Sherlock reaches back too and slides instantly down onto him, bottoming out with a violent groan. John nearly shouts from it, his legs drawing up and his hips bucking wild.
"Christ," Sherlock's eyes roll back as he lets go of the bed and lets John continue to thrust him up towards the ceiling. "John–"
"It's good, baby, isn't it?" John plants his feet on the bed, groaning each time Sherlock's arse hits his thighs hard. "You like it deep, don't you?"
"I'm going to come fast." Sherlock says it frantically, grabbing the headboard again and shaking his hips down on him like he's trying to get him deeper each thrust and John's entire soul shoves up into the movement. He's the prettiest thing he has ever seen and John almost doesn't want it to end as he starts chasing the beautiful fire crackling to life, even faster now, grabbing Sherlock's hips to steady him through it as the gorgeous man rides him desperately. Suddenly Sherlock starts whining so loud it startles him. And then it worries him, because yes it's painfully sexy but sodding Christ they have neighbors. And also a landlady. A landlady who will never be able to look at either one of them the same way again after this. "John John John John—"
"Shh, baby." John chokes the words, doesn't mean them; knows he's point two seconds from doing the exact same thing while he comes like a wild animal.
"I love you," Sherlock gasps, finally lowering his head and staring frantically down at him. "John I love you; I love you; I love you–"
John tries to nod; he literally can't breathe. "You show me," he says through his teeth, "you come for me, Sherlock, right now; you come like this; you come right here–"
And he does. Almost instantly, shoving his own fingers in his mouth to desperately try to muffle the hysterical way he keens as he rides him frantically through it, dragging John straight down into the white and yes there that yes—
—
"I need to tell you something, John."
Sherlock's quiet voice hits him like cold water before he's even turned back around, pulling him sharp from the hazy, wonderful reel of the memories that had begun in his mind. He feels his entire body stiffen with dread as he faces him fully now, staring at him. Of all the first words he'd imagined Sherlock might say. These ones – these ones are awful. Vague. Almost accusatory. Worthy of terror. Fuck.
Slowly Sherlock turns. And despite his nerves John very nearly lunges over the table between them the second he see his face. Wants his tongue instantly in his mouth; wants to plaster their bodies together and surround himself once more in Sherlock's taste, scent—
"Listen." Again Sherlock's voice snaps him back, commanding his gaze back up from his lips to his eyes. The man's posture is rigid, his eyes dark and fixed terrifyingly firm on his own. "I need you to know that I am aware you are afraid of commitment, and that you are afraid of this. So am I. And I meant every single fucking word I said to you last night."
Fucking hell. Sherlock keeps flooring him, over and over again, but of course he does, because he is made of so many unbelievable things and John admires him more than he's ever admired in anyone else in this life. He has to swallow, hard. "Where did you go?"
Sherlock's eyes are black. "Desk. Behind you."
At first the answer makes no sense; the words float through his mind unfounded as he free-falls once more into sweltering memories of Sherlock's beautiful skin and desperate moans and delicious body. But slowly he turns and forces his eyes to look towards Sherlock's work desk in the living room. There is a rumpled shopping sack sitting there, and beside it, a single, clear tube. The sight of it makes his stomach tighten even more. He turns back sharply on his heel and ignores the other words Sherlock starts to say as he walks directly at him. He watches the man's eyes melt with hunger, watches him swallow too before he gets one hand round Sherlock's throat and grabs his arse with the other, hitching him up onto his hips and walking him back against the wall. Sherlock moans sharply as his back hits it hard, his head bouncing against it gently. John can't believe how hot his chest is, how hard is cock is, how violently he already feels the urge to turn him round and pound him senseless.
"So you love me." His voice is hardy audible; thick with the nearly unbearable way he craves this man; this man who stares at him like he is the most gorgeous thing he's ever laid eyes on. "The consulting detective. You told me; over and over. You couldn't say it enough last night. Do you remember?"
"John." Sherlock gasps his name. John feels the frantic jump of the man's chest as he slides his fingers down it, slow down his belly, slower into his pants until yes; god, finally; this man is a fucking Greek god with a cock exactly as he'd expected of such a masterpiece. "John," he moans.
"I will never get tired of hearing you say it while I fuck you," he breathes, stroking him slow, nothing near enough, just a tease. Sherlock writhes against him and he has to grit his teeth against the razor-sharp pleasure that strikes down his spine. "Never, Sherlock. I didn't know it could ever sound so fucking sweet."
He feels Sherlock reach out and entangle their fingers. The man's mouth opens desperately over his again as he pulls his hand back around him until John feels him slide it down the back of his trousers. His breath catches when he feels the sudden brush of latex, his eyes flying up to lock onto the other man's. Sherlock's eyes are blown wide. "I had to keep you inside me. I've waited months for your come. Use it to fuck me, John, please—"
John cannot control the carnal way he says the words, his chest and his stomach white-hot and aching; "Why did you let me sleep? We could've gone to the shops together. Why didn't you wake me and beg me for it?"
Sherlock's eyes roll back, his hips bucking frantically up into his hand. "Please–"
He still can't quite believe Sherlock wants him like this. Wants him so madly; so primally. But he knows that he will never let anything that this man does go; will never deny him anything. He kisses him, furious and wet before he flips him round and pulls Sherlock's trousers down past his arse, pulling it out 'til the arch in his back is so gorgeous it nearly drags the come from his cock right then. He grits his teeth as he listens to Sherlock choke on his moans and he does not speak again as he frees himself, gathers Sherlock's wrists behind him in one hand, pulls the plug out with the other and thrusts fully into the warmth of last night. Both of them nearly shout at the drag of it.
"Yes," Sherlock whines, "oh, John—"
There are no words for awhile after that; just Sherlock. The man moans unbelievably sweet as John fucks him into the wall, slow at first, but hard, good, good hard; the force of it rocking up blissfully through him too as Sherlock stays arched so high John doesn't even have to lower his hips to slide in right. He knows he's going to come incredibly quick, so after only several hazy and glorious minutes of it he gathers every cell of willpower in his overheated body and stops. Somehow, some bloody fucking how, for a moment he stops thrusting into the gorgeous heat of Sherlock Holmes.
And it makes Sherlock furious. "John," he snarls, his eyes flying open. "Fuck–"
"Listen to me." Flattening Sherlock's hands on the wall, he pins them there with his own and holds him still for a moment. "I think you're unfathomable."
Then he thrusts. Twice. Hard.
"I think you're intelligent."
Two more. Sherlock moans sharply.
"I think you're compassionate."
Sherlock starts whining with each one, and he reaches one hand up so he can curl his fingers around the man's jaw and keep it open while he does, biting the next words into his neck.
"I think you're brave."
"Please," Sherlock says.
John groans. "I think you're mine," he pants, and then he loses the ability to focus on much besides the drag of his cock as he feels his orgasm sliding up fast. He is not surprised how close he is, nor does he care. He cares only about making sure that Sherlock does not stop whimpering like a bloody whore as he pounds him into the wall and then suddenly his breath stops in his throat when he feels Sherlock pulse around him, hard, knows the man is coming for him first, knows he'll never be able to stop himself from wanting to make him come like this over and over and over and over—
Sherlock gets loud, louder than he has with him yet and it's ridiculous and incredibly fucking hot and John knows that every new thing that this man does will kill him.
Bloody end him.
It takes awhile for Sherlock's orgasm to subside. Long enough that the way he keeps fucking himself through it has John's cock so hard it hurts; hurts, and the way Sherlock claws desperately back for his hands and the sensation of Sherlock's body is too much but bloody Christ it's so fucking good he doesn't want to stop yet and he enfolds Sherlock in his arms, pulls his head back, pants against his mouth, "I'm going to come in this every sodding day. Sherlock–"
Then it's one blurry glance down at the way Sherlock slides desperately on and off him and his hips buck frantically forward and he groans in sharp relief when finally finally he lets go; feels the glorious, wonderful throb of it as he comes deep. "Oh, Christ," he gasps, grinding it in and Sherlock swallows his words and keeps rocking back on him to make it last. John has a hard time getting all of the sensations under control, even long after his orgasm ends and his body begins to relax. He is also vaguely worried that he might have been slamming his gorgeous man a bit too violently against the wall.
"Fuck," he gasps, pulling out of him with a groan and turning him round. Sherlock instantly brings one leg up around his waist, then the other, wrapping his arms around his neck and John takes the hint and frantically gathers him tight into his chest, choking out against Sherlock's lips, "I love you so much; I'm never gonna let you fucking go, 'kay?"
Sherlock's lust-blown eyes fill with an emotion John can't claim to completely know but would like to believe is the same thing choking him bloody senseless. The man holds his head still for a moment, cradling it in both hands. Just stares at him. Looks at him like he's not real. "I believe you," he finally says. It's no louder than a rasp, and it's terrified. "I love you, John Watson. Do not ever forget this, even when I am doing everything I can to make you forget."
"Shut up." John stares at him. There is the same look in his eyes that is there every time he's inside him. It never relents; it's been there from the moment John had finally told him the truth. He realizes that Sherlock has actually always looked at him that way. How could he have pretended not to see? "I should throttle you for that. Don't plan for complication, Sherlock. I mean it. I have been so sodding in for you for so bloody long I will not let you go. This is real, Sherlock. I'm here; I've always fucking been and I am going to stay here with you until you decide you want me to leave. And I will always be honest with you about how I feel. I ask only that you do the same."
He hopes Sherlock can see in his eyes how much he means the words; how he feels them surge up from his bones, desperate to be heard. Even through his own nerves and his own fear he wants this man to know that he is cherished in return, and that he will always be safe. And he knows there is so much Sherlock wants to say back, but he also knows that just as for him, it is impossible to decide what words to breathe to life first. He knows they'll all be full of the painful parts of this love and this longing that they'd felt for ridiculously too long. "You don't have to say anything, love," he whispers, pulling the man forward and stroking a curl back from his brow. He feels how hard Sherlock trembles against him and he carefully tightens his arms, running gentle hands down his back. "You don't have to say anything. Swear."
"Let me try." The quiet, gentle way Sherlock murmurs the words; the way he runs his fingers tenderly through the hair on the back of John's head makes him want to sob. His throat closes up and he nods. The corner of Sherlock's mouth lifts in a beautiful smile that is almost the final straw. "You deserve to know how I feel about you, John. I never would have thought you loved me. I always wondered; could see something in your eyes; could feel something at times when we weren't being careful. But I never thought it would be love. There are several things that I need you to know."
Tightening his legs round him, Sherlock pulls his head forward, pressing a gentle line of kisses down the side of his face. "John, you are not just a shag. You are not another distraction. You are a man whom I admire, whom I value, whom I have grown to feel things for that I have never felt for another in this life. Since we've moved into this flat, I have fallen completely for the way that you adapted to how I work, to how I live. What I need more of and less of. To each goal I have as they come. You are natural for me, John. I… I've known that I love you for a long time. I have felt you from the first moment I met you. I felt you when you shook my hand outside our door, and then killed a man that day to save my life. I felt you the first time you woke me on the couch to tell me you'd made eggs. The first time you came all the way in from the kitchen to click off the telly because you knew I was trying to think. The first time you told me you'd noticed I was out of aftershave so you'd picked up another bottle while you were out. John—"
A sudden break in Sherlock's voice; a break that John feels down to his bones. He swallows hard round the tears in his own throat and presses their lips together; Sherlock whispers the rest of his words breathlessly against his mouth, "John, I can't live without you. Please, through this, stay. Stay with me. And I will try to give you a life that no one else ever could. You are mine."
Thirty minutes later and he has the man moaning uncontrollably on his cock again. As he watches him through half-lidded eyes he decides that Sherlock will come for him once a day. No excuses.
"I don't think I'm ever going to leave this arse again. You're going to make me lose my job at the office."
"Good. You don't fucking need it. Ah; John—"
—
fin
Thank you so much for reading. This is the humble and final installment of my three-part piece. Not much, but wrought with much love, care, and wrenching frustration at the utter travesty of never getting to see Sherlock and John fuck out these feelings (the goddamn feelings) that we all know they had. Urg. x
Also, a little note for the Guest who left me a review: Thank you, thank you, thank you. Your words were so kind, and so appreciated. There is nothing I love more as a writer than when others read and are able to experience what I'd hoped would translate through my words. Thank you so much, sweet friend, for letting me know that this happened for you. If you read it, I hope very much that part three did not disappoint. Hugs!
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