You Owe Me Nothing

John is reminded that Sherlock has not always been exclusively his, and he does not like it one bit. He decides he must fix this.


Part One


"What the hell are you doing?"

John's heart goes sick with love at the unexpected sound of Sherlock's voice. He hadn't heard him come out of his room; not a single one of Sherlock's footfalls in the hall. The man had always reminded him of a minx. Silent, graceful and incredibly good for a 'round the corner heart attack. John had almost decapitated him far too many times to count. He'd joked once about buying him a bell; melted at the way Sherlock glared at him. 'I'm not going to prison for killing you, Sherlock. Please start screaming 'I am here' whenever you approach me. Jesus Christ.'

He'd been holed away for nearing four hours now; shut up in his bedroom with his phone and a mountain of contacts to bring up to date – and probably vice versa – concerning the new anomaly that is Jim Moriarty. John had begrudgingly agreed him his seclusion only after the promise of a reward once The Work was taken care of.

And now, finally, that voice. God, that voice. John had never loved the sound of something more.

Sherlock goes on, completely unaware of the myriad of emotions that he evokes within John's soul simply by speaking words. "Mere hours ago we were shagging in this kitchen and now I return to find you... doing the dishes."

He practically spits the last word; John swears he can hear the man shiver in disgust. He rolls his eyes as he lays up the last plate without turning around.

"You are such a bastard sometimes."

"Not the worst you've ever done."

"Fuck off. They were starting to smell; we've been busy and if you haven't noticed apparently Mrs. Hudson is on strike."

"Mm. Yes. I said I wouldn't be long."

"You weren't. I'm incredibly efficient at getting things done quickly. Observe." With a flourish he shuts off the faucet and pulls the drain, watching to make sure the sud-filled water begins to slowly lower before he removes his gloves. He tries and fails to keep the cheekiness from his voice; feels it curl his mouth in visible betrayal of his composure. "And shagging, eh? Is that what it is we're doing now?"

Before he can turn he feels the warm presence of Sherlock suddenly draw up to him from behind. It's absolutely electrifying. His body sinks back into him, an instinctual gravitation he's felt from the first moment he'd met the man. He hadn't been able to act on it in the past as he played diligently the role of Sherlock's flatmate and best friend.

Now the man is his lover. His. John believes he will never be able to stop breathing Sherlock in like he's the last slight of air. Will never comprehend the utter devotion that ignites in Sherlock's eyes when he looks at him; understand how or why this dream of a man now takes him so earnestly into his arms. His lungs feel as though they are smoldering in his chest. He does not mind this.

"I've always found these gloves quite fetching on you," Sherlock murmurs into the back of his neck, his voice a low, cock-waking rumble that sends shivers straight down to John's feet. His eyes flutter close and his toes curl in his shoes, the gloves falling into the sink with a splash when his fingers wrap round the counter's edge for balance. He feels Sherlock smile against his skin, continuing softly, "Thank you, John. For the way you have always kept after us. I know I am a horrid flatmate."

"You make it very worth your filth," John breathes, turning round in the circle of his arms and sliding both of his own around Sherlock's waist to pull the other man flush against him. He feels Sherlock melt into his chest; melts him too as they grin at each other.

"My filth, hm?" Sherlock's chuckle is deep and gorgeous, spilling out against John's teeth as their mouths meet sloppily. "I know what you're referring to, but that is not how I'm taking it."

"Definitely not how I mean it to be taken." John's voice is deceptively matter-of-fact as the entirety of his insides take their turn monsooning into helpless butterflies that Sherlock somehow always manages to evoke in him, no matter his resolve. He's come to accept that this is most likely going to be a permanent response to Sherlock's existence, as it had been for quite some time now. They perhaps might have to go on holiday until he can get his hands under control. Friend holiday, of course. Just two blokes enjoying a working vacation. "You forget, Sherlock, that I have now had the privilege of getting to the absolute bottom of you." Sherlock's eyes twinkle as John presses their noses together, his voice wavering a bit at the press of their thighs as he tries to ask, "How did it go? Somewhat sorted?"

"I'll tell you later." Sherlock's eyes do not hold the teasing sentiment from before. They are suddenly dark, and John stops altogether trying to push back the fire that grows inside him every time he touches this beautiful man and fastens his mouth to Sherlock's with a moan, open, hungry, tongue winding with his. Almost instantly Sherlock reaches for his waist, fumbling with the clasp of his trousers and lighting him up. John falls back onto his elbows to stay standing, a breathless chuckle spilling from deep within his chest despite how undone he already is. "Well, gorgeous man, I'll never be able to question your tenacity, that's for sure."

"Sod off," Sherlock growls, finally, finally getting his hand down where they both want it and John groans, his head falling back, heat curling to familiar life in every piece of him as Sherlock tilts his head, kissing softly down his neck and stroking him slow; ridiculously slow.

"Sherlock Holmes," he grits out.

Sherlock grins like a cat against his skin. "Mm, yes, captain?"

John's moan is interrupted by a sudden ping beside them. Instantly he feels Sherlock freeze. He had seen him set his phone down on the counter before taking him into his arms, and the way he tenses now against him makes John's heart leap up into his mouth. Cold fear drenches the haze of lust they'd sunk into, and he knows that for the rest of his days he will regret his decision to turn his head and read the words on the screen.

'At the risk of sounding needy, as you so call it, it has been too long. Come tonight.'

The number is unsaved. John had hoped that something in Sherlock's eyes would shift; soften with understanding, and then an explanation, one that wouldn't break his already mauled heart into a thousand molten pieces. This does not happen. Instead Sherlock steps away from him, eyes cold with dread before he casts them to the floor and folds his arms across his chest. He looks a bit like he might be sick. John echoes this sentiment ardently. The text pounds round his skull as he does not allow himself even a moment to gather himself, nor allow one for Sherlock, either.

"Who is he?" The words feel like glass in his throat. Break hideously across the flat, striking across their home with contempt even though they stand four feet from each other in the kitchen.

Sherlock, despite the misery on his face, still does his best to throw up his hands in a weak refusal of this utter shit. "I am in contact with hundreds of people. Why do you ask about this specific message?"

He regrets it even as he does it, but John picks the phone up and throws it onto the table next to Sherlock. The voice he hears come from his mouth is ugly; taunt with rage. "Read it."

The look on Sherlock's face makes John's heart wilt further in his chest and he turns away sharply, wiping bone-dry hands on the towel draped over the sink. Silence as thick as water settles over the kitchen as he stands there, staring into nothing, boiling with unfounded rage. He knows he walks now a very thin and delicate thread, and not for the first time since he and Sherlock had begun to explore this new level of their relationship he finds himself utterly petrified. Because he knows that this is often what tears even those most desperately in love apart. What ruins them. That trust is perhaps the most difficult part of being with someone. And that trust is a mangled thing that John has never truly learned.

But this is what they've chosen. Together. Sherlock has shown him, and has told him, in many lovely and overwhelming ways, that he is in love with him. So, now? Now does he allow the pain and the ache from his past to help jealously rear its ugly head? How can you be in love with me if you claim to have fallen that way while you were fucking someone else?! He steps lightly outside of himself for a moment and watches a scenario in which he snarls the words in Sherlock's face. And he sees the pain he knows they would put there. How deeply they would cut the man; how irreparably Sherlock would cripple with shame he did not deserve to feel, born of a toxic past and the normalcy of manipulation. He wants to make sure that Sherlock knows this is not who he is. He is not that man. He will never make him feel ridiculed; will never allow that; allow him to feel unsafe or anything that resembles this. It is his job as this man's lover to build him up and to obliterate anything that might seek to tear him down.

Gladly would he fold this mystery man in half and feed him to a pack of rabid wolves.

But he should never subject Sherlock to feel guilty for knowing him. Never ask him to feel responsible for explaining this part of his past. That isn't his place. Not his right; not anyone's. Not even as the man who now Sherlock is choosing to build a relationship with. With sex, and also with commitment, and with a foundation formed of the long-standing trust and respect as companions that they've always had for each other. He is not owed anything. Not an explanation of Sherlock's past or the roles of those in it. His only responsibility is to trust what the man tells him he feels for him now; to choose that. To move on from worrying about any other man.

To be the only man.

And Sherlock knows. 'Course he knows. Because he's his, and he fucking knows it. All John needs to do is touch him and it's clear. They both know as well that he is quite insane and very prone to destroying the things that cause either of them complication, but that is beside the point.

Taking a deep breath, John watches the bubbles shift and deform for ten more seconds before turning back 'round. Sherlock has not moved. He is standing in the same spot, miserable eyes fixed unseeingly on the table next to them, mouth closed tight. John had almost expected the man to not be there anymore and feels the familiar, fierce pull of joy in his stomach at the sight of him; no matter what, since the moment he'd met the dark-haired man, he feels it every time he comes into his sight. He really does believe that he has never encountered anything else on the earth that enthralls him as Sherlock does. From day one the man has taken him quite literally by the bollocks. He would have offered them willingly if this hadn't been the case. Falling in love; being in love had always been such a paradox to him before. He suspects he's never 'been in love' with anyone. Not 'til now. Not 'til this six-foot-tall, misanthropical dickhead that he'd met in the morgue after being crippled by his own life choices. Not 'til Sherlock. His lovely, life-giving Sherlock. He will never let him go.

Sherlock suddenly moves, tilts his head, those sharp, beautiful eyes moving slowly up to meet his. There is another quiet moment as they both stand there, staring at each other, each with a foot back in time, dipped into the pools of their past. John wills with everything in him for Sherlock to see his heart in his eyes. To see that this is all he has ever wanted, and he won't bully it away. Will never let Sherlock turn into another scar to join those from his past. Sherlock Holmes, for every day until I'm gone, I will do everything in my power to make you the happiest bloke alive.

But you must pretend other men do not exist for awhile, love.

And perhaps send this one a strongly-worded message. Soon.

His fingers itch for the phone. Instead he smiles sadly into Sherlock's guarded eyes, a poor excuse for one, pushing away from the counter and reaching out. "Come here," he says softly.

Sherlock's eyes soften, but John sees as well that his jaw is still tense. "I'm not entirely sure I—"

"Sherlock." He reaches out, more gently this time. "Please."

The way Sherlock looks as if he wants to disappear into the ground makes John feel like utter shit. "Please know that it is simply a conversation not had yet. And it was never a relationship. At the risk of sounding impolite, it was simply a means to an end. It means no—"

"Hey; hush. Stop. Sherlock." He says it quietly, relief rushing through him when Sherlock seems to sense the urgency he feels and takes a breath, nodding acquiescence. John wants to sit him on the counter and make him come for it. "I'm sorry for acting that way. This is new. You've been living a life separate from me until now. I need you to know that I will never expect anything of you but trust. I want you to trust me, Sherlock." The way Sherlock's eyes shine when he says this melts John's heart, and it also does nothing to quell the fierce way he wants to put this man on his cock, right here, right now. He takes a deep breath, fists opening and closing for control at his sides as he pushes on. "You owe me nothing. And I trust you. I know we'll take each step of this as it comes, and if that's enough for you, it is for me too. Can you forgive me for acting like a total dickhead?"

Sherlock's voice is soft, beautifully rough with the reverence John can see has replaced his fear. "There is nothing to forgive, John. I know well the rage of envisioning the man you desire with someone else." A dark brow rises with a teasing hint of accusation up into the mess of curls at Sherlock's forehead. God, he's gorgeous. John's stomach is painfully warm by this point, nails in his skin as his hands curl tighter, itching to touch him. To touch him until those curls stick to the man's forehead with sweat.

In fact he quite plans to.

He knows vaguely that Sherlock is continuing to speak. He can hear his elegant voice; see those exquisite lips forming more words as Sherlock gazes back at him earnestly, but those words are nothing but noise in his ears, because already all he can hear is Sherlock begging for him as he soon intends to have his man.

"Sherlock."

Instantly the man goes quiet. John can tell that somehow Sherlock knows; knows to wait, knows that soon he's not going to be standing and speaking as he is now. John cannot breathe around the force of the want that floods up from his gut, taking him by the throat, weakening his legs, commanding his hands. He refuses to let any of this show as he shrugs slowly out of his jacket, letting it fall to the floor and staring unflinchingly into Sherlock's eyes.

"Get on your knees."


TBC

AH. Thank you so much for reading. This is a follow-up to my first piece, Don't You Mind?, which itself is a follow-up that I wrote for the ending of The Great Game. I would love to know if you enjoyed, and I would love love love to see you back for part two, because it is going to be a part two, if you know what I mean. Hugs. Happy reading! G