wassoalone (wassoalone) wrote in welcomethreads, @ 2013-08-14 00:44:00 |
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John was certain he wouldn’t sleep after Sherlock left. There were too many thoughts running around his head, and he rarely could get back to sleep after having a nightmare. He lay on the bed and looked up at the ceiling so he wouldn’t look over at where Sherlock was sleeping before. Somehow he did fall asleep and had no more dreams, at least none he remembered when he woke up to daylight outside. He didn’t have the luxury of thinking for a moment that it was a dream. He knew what happened was real. He could still taste Sherlock and remember his hands counting the vertebrae in his back. He could see the look on his face when John touched his hair, and also how quickly his expression went blank when John said the wrong thing. It took him a few minutes to get out of bed, and he went straight for the shower. It was cold in order to wake him up faster, and also to keep those heated images at bay. John wished he came out of it and had all the answers, but he spent some time cleaning up his room instead, procrastinating having to go into the common room area. He wasn’t sure if Sherlock was still in their flat. His days of denial were over. He desired Sherlock, both physically and emotionally, and that meant he wasn’t straight. Not fully straight. He loved women. He was certain a handsome bloke would never turn his head, but this wasn’t about men. He’d heard stories of people who fell in love with their same sex best friends, although they identified as straight otherwise. Not that this was about love. Was this about love? Jesus, if this was about love, it was going to be a lot more complicated. Sex was one thing. There seemed to be no end of ways this was getting more difficult. Friendships didn’t end the way relationships did. In a selfish and emotional moment he put their friendship at risk, and that was a problem. What would being with Sherlock look like? Would they be the exact same, only with sex involved? And it was hard to think about being with a man like that, even if he was certain he wanted him. You are such an idiot. So a night of rest hadn’t given him any answers. But maybe the only way to get them was by talking with Sherlock. John finally left his room and looked around for any sign of Sherlock. No, he was gone. Irrationally he was afraid he was gone for good or sent back or too angry at John. He said they could talk after tea, and he kept his word. So John tidied up the flat out of nervous energy and started the tea. Really, he’d prefer to have liquor, but it was too early for that. He put the kettle on a simmer so it would stay warm for whenever Sherlock got back, and he sat on the living room couch with the newspaper. Everything about the picture he made right now was exactly the same as if this was any day. You were right. There it sat in the unsent messages box for what was left of the night, glaring up at him from where he'd tossed his mobile on the sand. It might be inaccurate to say that he eventually mustered up the courage to send it. Arya had rolled over the screen at some point, acting as the unwitting messenger between two reality points that had yet to cross. He’d meant it as an apology—of sorts. To text her at all, even when she hadn’t arrived, was as much a confession as any, but to yield to her expertise was a different phylum altogether. Not only had Sherlock surrendered himself to the very disadvantage he had accused her of possessing (however much he had, in fact, lied about that), Irene had been the one to predict who he’d be yielding to. Sherlock really did owe her dinner at this point. It made him laugh, sharply, realizing with gradual discomfort that his eyes weren’t stinging from the seawater breeze. They, he and the dog, spent the rest of the night and the better part of the early morning out on the beach, going through the motions he’d seen his father use when training puppies. Assis was the first, necessary for every dog to learn. The next was reste, then ici viens after that. “Always train a dog in French,” Siger had said, the memory of his slow, rumbling voice as sharp as if he’d died yesterday and not a decade before. “Then your neighbors won’t be able to command them.” Coucher wasn’t going as well as he’d intended, but then again, he hadn’t taken after his father. He hadn’t taken after anyone. When the sun rose to approximately ten thirty, Sherlock shook the sand from his jacket and retrieved his phone. Arya darted across the shore, barking wildly at the gulls that dipped sharply from the sky in search of fish. The sharp ici viens brought her waddling back more leisurely, but that was just as well. He tucked her into the folds of his coat and carried her back to the flat, ignoring the way she licked at his adam’s apple, just once, as if to convey her sympathies. Sherlock had miscalculated the time John would make tea today, which bothered him a great deal. He could tell from the street that he’d already put the kettle on since the window was open. Too late. Wrong. It felt like someone had broken into his mind and rearranged all the boxes, stealing a keepsake or two for good measure. “Arya.” She barked in protest when he set her down, taking the last set of stairs up by himself. They’d be making rather a lot of noise out in the hall, which was the point. Alert John to their presence so that he could gather his kind, yet firm let down. Sherlock was impenetrable. He could survive this. “Ici,” he said, pointing to the top step. Arya growled. He raised an eyebrow. “Ici viens.” John heard the commotion in the hall, and he also knew exactly what Sherlock was doing. The detective rarely did anything without cause, and he could be ridiculously quiet when he wanted to be. Ofttimes John had no idea whether he was in their flat or not because of how quietly he came and went. He was giving fair warning, and John was thankful for that, since his reaction was to get nervous. It was funny, but he felt like a school boy again, complete with butterflies in his stomach and sweaty palms. He came to no real resolution about what he wanted for them, but he knew they couldn’t go backward. Not when the thought of seeing Sherlock again after what happened made him react this way. Unless that’s what Sherlock wanted. John had no idea what Sherlock wanted. He returned the kisses and seemed into it, he admitted to wanting it, but he had his own ways of doing things. John never saw him in a relationship or knew if that was something he even bothered with. He admitted to having Sebastian as a lover, but more than that, John didn’t know. Get it together. You’re an adult, not a teenager. And a soldier and a doctor. He was used to handling pressure. He folded the newspaper and set it down, getting to his feet. They could both try for nonchalance to get started. John crossed to the door and opened it. Sherlock was standing there waiting for the dog, their dog. He was wearing the coat and clearly hadn’t been back at all last night, and his hair was a mess. John could not look at that hair the same way after seeing Sherlock completely at his whim just by touching it. His lips went dry and he licked them, knowing what that meant and he was in so much trouble. Instead he looked down at Arya. “She’s still a puppy. Those stairs are big to her.” He passed by Sherlock to go down the steps and picked her up. Yes, he was going to be the coddler of the two of them. Hardly a surprise. She licked his face and he smiled, going back up the stairs and into their flat. The door left open of course for Sherlock to come in too. John set her down and went to the kitchen. “I’ve got the tea started.” Nonchalant. E-5. “You know she won’t learn if you coddle her.” The words weren’t his own. It was how he was raised, the very admonishment given to any of the new Holmes estate staff that sympathized with the boy with wild eyes. He didn’t bother hiding the fact that he watched John descend the stairs, taking in every contour he wasn’t permitted to before, every hard, methodical gesture eased by a kind of softness that made it hard for Sherlock to breathe properly. “I know,” he managed, somehow, forcing all of that back down. The open window meant tea. A closed window meant bad telly. Nothing would change when John put a stop to this developing anomaly. He would pack it away and play pretend, trick even his own judgement that this wasn’t what it was. Not like everything else between them. Tea, toast, email, clinic, Yard, email, Hudson, Yard, scene, cab, telly, tea. Most people weren’t aware that as chaotic and unpredictable as Sherlock’s work was, he preferred unerring monotony in his private life. Sherlock suddenly, indiscriminately, wanted Mycroft here. It hurt like a burning in his chest to know that at the end of all this, there wouldn’t be an unmarked black car waiting. The flat. He hadn’t followed John into the flat. D-4. Sherlock inhaled, slowly, and stepped over the threshold feeling rather like a man facing his own execution. However, he remained in the hall just before the kitchen, peeling off his jacket and removing his shoes and socks, stripping down to just a shirt and trousers. Better. Marginally. It felt like his walls were dismantled when he removed the coat, but he rather preferred smelling like the sea and not lingering sweat from the exertion. The hair, well. Unsalvageable. He’d made the mistake of taking a shower before leaving, which meant his curls were in a riotous disarray without the usual routine of blowing it dry. He made his way over to the window, pushing it open further while assuming John would fix him a cup of tea. If they were playing the game of All Fine, then he wasn’t about to overextend courtesy here. John always fixed them both tea, unless Sherlock was on his own. Besides, the one time he did offer John one, he was drugging him. He doubted that would happen again, but understandably, he was suspicious of unusual gestures. Focusing on the tea was better than looking at his hair and thinking about smoothing it down. John had a thing for hair, it was something he liked with women too, running his fingers through it in a casual and comfortable setting or in the bedroom. He was similarly dressed; he really thought being in boxers at this point was a terrible idea and it was silly to wear shoes in the house. He was glad to see Sherlock shedding the jacket. He used it as a shield. John paid attention to those small details. He knew a metaphoric suit of armor when he saw it. He gave Arya a treat and one of her toys, and then brought the tea over. It was set down on the coffee table, one cup for them both. “She’ll learn, but she’s also a puppy. You need to occasionally give her some coddling.” John was starting out with the conversation about their pet, and he was fond of her. It’d been a long time since he had one. Only family dogs, never any once he was on his own. The army and medical school didn’t give him enough time to spend with anyone, human or animal. He worried for a moment that the open window would make their voices carry, but no, it wasn’t like they were speaking loudly. That was another thing he’d have to get used to if they gave anything a try. It being public. There were too many layers of how he’d be uncomfortable, and he’d have to get over it. “Were you out at the beach all night?” John wasn’t terrible at deducing nowadays. He was trained by the best. Sand on his boots, and he smelled like the sea. He got close enough when passing him on the stairs to smell it. Sherlock must have been bothered, to go brood somewhere that long. John felt guilty about it and stirred his tea, sitting on the couch. “Could you come have a seat? We obviously need to talk about what happened.” He cleared his throat anxiously and looked at the tea instead of at Sherlock. “I’m sorry if I upset you, let me start there.” Eight minutes. He tilted his head away from the window to consider the lumpy white puppy, his body still facing toward the glass. Or maybe even nine, given all the potential distractions that new life seemed to inspire. It was about as long as Arya would last with that chew toy before she collapsed from a night of overexertion. “I’ll leave the excessive spoiling to you, then.” It wasn’t spoken sharply, more a statement of fact. John was the heart between them, after all. Sherlock handled the brains. Though, for all his cold calculations, keeping a dog was a point of pride for him. Arya had taken to him rather more quickly than the other dogs he inspected, and after further training, he had great hope for her abilities. The breed was notoriously loyal to their owners and keenly intuitive, both traits he would take pride in rewarding. And then, of course, she could help him look after John when he wasn’t able to. Piste and garde were next. Sherlock smirked to himself when John drew the deduction of his whereabouts. There were some things, even when risks ran high and they were edging around a minefield, that couldn’t outstrip the sheer, unadulterated pride he had for him. It was always there, lingering like the smell of freshly brewed tea, but to be reminded was enormously gratifying. He was so very proud of John that he felt it everywhere, all the time, coiled up inside him like a spring ready to be let go. “Close,” he said just to be contrary, leaving the window to retrieve his tea. Milky with a pinch of sugar. Left to his own devices, Sherlock would probably drink whole milk to the exclusion of everything else. “We were out at the beach all night. Arya, assis.” She sat—or rather, sat, then fell over, panting happily. He didn’t bother resisting the second smirk, absolving their dog of her earlier transgression for the latest attempt. It made it easier to stomach what was sure to come next, mostly because he wasn’t too keen on taking the same sort of command. Request. Whatever. Sherlock preferred standing to sitting when faced with a difficult problem, and this was almost as bad as The Problem, just without the snipers. They could talk on the roof? Bad. Wrong. He had to make a choice before the silence stretched too long, so Sherlock stiffly took the spot on the other end of the couch, both hands cradling the cup while his tea cooled. John would recognize that for what it was. A gesture in good faith. “Don’t.” Not the best place to start. He tried again, eyes carefully guarded. “Neither of us are apologizing. It’s unnecessary and doesn’t solve anything.” “Between the two of us, she’ll turn out just fine.” John liked dogs and would do only the basic training himself if he had to, but Sherlock clearly enjoyed doing it. Arya took to him quickly and it was charming. He saw it as a sentimental attachment, one his friend wouldn’t want to admit to. Dogs could be guardians and useful, but they were also companions. Any time Sherlock willfully allowed someone - or something - into his heart, John considered that an accomplishment. Just as Sherlock found his growing deduction abilities a source of pride. No one could deny that John being in his life opened the detective up, and it was one of the few things John took credit for happily. He was surprised when Sherlock did in fact take a seat, since he preferred not to, and saw it for the gesture it was. His smile was sincere, eyes soft, and John was starting to understand why people saw it in them before they did. The way they looked at each other. It wasn’t necessarily sexual, at least not before, but it was intense connection. Intimacy. The sense that there was no one in the world outside of the two of them when they locked gazes, and that’s all they needed. John never wanted to lose that. He did once, and it was horrific, but if he lost it now because of being an arse, he’d never forgive himself. “You don’t have anything to apologize for. I started it, and then I upset you, right after you ….” Opened his heart to John. Showed more of it in those heated moments than months of living together. He really didn’t want to talk about this. Every part of his body was tense and uncomfortable about it. But he needed to grow the hell up. This was too important. He was supposed to be the one who humanized Sherlock Holmes, and he was doing a poor job at acting like a real human. “Ever since you came back, I’ve noticed my feelings have intensified. I always felt a great deal for you, Sherlock. I don’t think there are words that can express what you mean to me or what I lost when you died.” That he wasn’t dead mattered little. It made it worse in some ways. He drank his tea and set it down, turning partly on the couch so he could face Sherlock directly. It was tough to force himself to make eye contact, but he did it. “Last night wasn’t the first time I thought about doing that. Why do you think I’ve been irritable since you started sleeping in the bed with me?” Something in the pit of his stomach unraveled, very slowly, when John smiled at him in the way that crinkled at the corner of his eyes. It may not be an entirely ideal situation right then, but at least it was ultimately All Fine. His shoulders relaxed. They would continue as they had before, perhaps a bit differently—but they were still irreparably Sherlock and John. A team as they always had been. Though he hadn't necessarily put together why most people assumed they were sleeping with each other, mostly because opinions were as common as bread. But here, right now, Sherlock gazed at John for a moment far longer than necessary, searching his face for any sign that this might end poorly. It wouldn't. He could trust in that. That is, until John started talking. Sherlock’s facial expressions went through several key phases in the span of mere minutes, each as difficult to read as the next. There was a warm ease when John spoke of their dog, more like familiarity, then relief at the smile. He sat up marginally straighter to better focus on John’s face when they shared a look in the resounding silence, which slid into tension when Sherlock seemed to brace himself for whatever might follow right after you despite the trailing off again (thank God). The rest left him equal parts flushed, embarrassed, and more than a little lost. This wasn't his area. However much it put things into perspective knowing John was as lost as he was about all this, it didn't exactly help Sherlock sort himself out at all. Months had already been spent analyzing their nuanced, intimate friendship, and yet he came up with absolutely no explanation as to the reasons for it. Even with the newly acquired data pertaining to the contours of John's mouth, he knew about as much as he'd known before. Nothing. Or close to it, since he was fairly certain he wanted a repeat performance. Preferably with his mouth exploring other parts of John's body to determine taste variations. He blinked, flicking his gaze back up again. It took a long time for Sherlock to force any words out in reply, but they were far quieter than he meant it to sound. Broken, lost. He hated that. He hated himself. To be defeated three times by three separate people meant he was the weakest link in the chain, the fraying bit of robe that snapped after enough pressure was exerted. Clearly, this was his fault. Not John’s or anyone else’s. Sherlock swallowed hard, setting his jaw. "I haven't asked you for anything, John. Nor am I forcing you to make any decisions. This—is your choice. Entirely yours. Whether you make one at all." What that choice was, even Sherlock didn't know. Maybe he was posing the answer simply to obtain the question. How absurdly Socratic. This conversation might be awkward and throw them off, but it wouldn’t end poorly as long as they both kept in mind what they wanted. And that was each other in their lives. John wished he was more clear on where he wanted this to go. It was down to the wire and he was still hemming and hawing. He could tell that Sherlock was willing to let it go. If John wanted to move on and go back to being friends, he’d do the same. It was good to have that to fall back on, but John didn’t think it would be easy to stop thinking about his hair and lips and neck any time soon. His heart went out to Sherlock when he sounded that broken and no matter what he said about not needing an apology, John felt like he owed him. He thought about reaching out to touch his hand. It was an easy gesture. It was wrong for now. They needed to get this out first before deciding what level of touch was comfortable. “No, that’s not true. It can’t be my choice only. There’s two of us here, and I don’t know what you’re thinking. I’ve got no idea what you want.” He thought he had a good idea, but with Sherlock it was difficult to read his intentions. He was into what they were doing. John didn’t have to worry about him being interested in anyone else, he was surprised Sherlock was interested in him. “Irene is gay and I am straight and we’re both mad about you. I don’t think you realize how magnetic you are.” It was both a compliment and a problem. John was reluctant about it. Sherlock broke his heart once already, and they weren’t a couple. This was going to get more involved. “Sherlock.” John gave in and reached out, hesitant, to touch his knee. He knew his next question was a gateway to their future, and he had to ask it. “Do you want me?” "Yes." Sherlock said it before he reacted, hand reaching out to wind tight around John's. "Yes, I want you. I've always wanted you. I—" He glances away because John's eyes are too warm, they're too easy to read. If he's going to assign indiscriminate feelings to words, he needs space. He needs to work burning paths in the carpet, close the windows back up to contain his thoughts, and yet. And yet. His fingers only tighten, marginally, keeping John in place as if he were the one needing an anchor. "It's been you all along. I didn't notice because I've never felt this way before, and I couldn't understand what it meant. Do you remember what Moriarty said about my heart? John, everyone knew. Everyone but me saw this developing for what it was. I don't—I don't care if you're not ready for anything more than what happened last night. Even if you're never ready for it. I just want you. That's ... that's all." When he finally glanced at John, after several seconds trying to catch his breath, his eyes are as bright as they've ever been. They're startlingly open, full of all his hope and fear in equal parts. This was more than he'd ever expected to reveal, and as absolutely terrifying as the ordeal was overall, Sherlock felt an immense weight lift off his shoulders. It was new, so very new to be doing this. More than that, he knew he was capable of it at all. Ah. He still had John's hand. Sherlock let his own slide away, resting on the couch instead. "Just," he cleared his throat, attempting a very small smirk. It helped to curb the very real fear taking root. "Inform me if you would prefer pursuing girlfriends. I'll have to schedule alternate distractions if they're to visit." Good lord that was more than John ever expected. He was taken aback by how fervid and sincere Sherlock was. It was basically a love confession without using the exact word, and he blinked several times in disbelief as it settled in. He had never heard anyone speak of him that away, and to think someone like Sherlock felt if for him, it was unbelievable. John considered himself a decent enough bloke. Smart, well educated, polite, loyal. He cared about being a good man and a good friend. But he didn’t see himself as special or someone who stood out much, not like Sherlock. Sherlock was blinding in his brilliance. A force of nature. Unforgettable. He realized he’d basically been staring at his friend, shocked, and knew his brain could go into overdrive on this issue. He could obsess over it and change his mind a dozen times, or he could just do what his heart wanted. “Well, that settles that.” John smiled at him and shook his head. Amazed. Humbled. Flattered. He snagged Sherlock’s hand on the couch and held it within his own. They’d done this only once, when running from the police, and he joked about people talking. Even then maybe he was speaking more from his point of view, reading into it as something more than friendship. “Sherlock, that’s not going to happen,” John said firmly. “Don’t be ridiculous, if I had any intention of dating someone else after this, I’d never be cruel enough to bring them here.” And realizing what that was implying, he was quick to follow it up. “I’m not, though, planning on dating anyone else. I just wanted to be clear I’m not a careless asshole.” A man who would do anything like that after his best friend was clearly in love with him was someone who deserved a broken nose. “I don’t know why you’d think I would, unless that was something that bastard Sebastian did, in which case I’m going to beat him up once we get back.” He was fiercely protective of Sherlock before this started, now he was going to be much worse. He lifted Sherlock’s hand to his mouth and kissed the palm. “I’d usually say I think we should take it slow, but we were kissing for a few minutes last night and I barely was able to stop myself.” John smiled wryly. His body had not been kind to him over that betrayal. It still was unhappy with him considering the past few weeks of torture sleeping next to Sherlock. “I want you and I want to be with you. I can’t say I’m one hundred percent comfortable with it, but that’s my issue to work out. I’m willing to commit to trying this, if you are.” Even when John reassured him that this settled everything, when Sherlock’s admission had seemed to receive a favorable response—he didn’t let down his guard. Not right away. If anything, he had arrived braced for rejection, and the reassurance that John wouldn’t bring girlfriends home in his company was precisely what he’d expected to hear. Of course he would extend that courtesy. John was absurdly conscientious. He began to shift away, poised to stand once the appropriate words of apology were made. And then he … clarified? Sherlock hovered for a moment, confusion clear in his stillness. But the comment about Sebastian startled a sharp, unexpected laugh out of him. Sherlock glanced down, rather more surprised by the declaration than amused. It was still difficult to get used to inspiring this kind of vigilance. He was far more accustomed to repelling people. "No. Sebastian didn't parade around his subsequent relations, John. The fault was mine and I paid appropriately for it." He eyed John from under his lashes for a minute, wondering whether standard daytime soaps applied here—that discussing past relationships was considered a faux pas with potential lovers. What else would be expected of him if they started sharing more than a flat and their work? He wanted to crawl into John's life and never, ever leave. If that meant occasional gestures of romance, well. He’d have to make time for a little field work. They were trying this, then. Together. It shook him to his core. "I am," Sherlock replied, lowly, a bit mystified when John kissed his palm. This whole venture had turned out so differently from what he'd even dared to hope. He abandoned his cup on the floor sometime before discovering he even had a heart to tear out, tea long since gone cold. Sherlock hung onto John's shirt at his side with a free hand, searching his face not to find, but to commit to memory. John was his pulse. He relaxed for it, thumb sliding along John’s cheek. "I would ... prefer to engage in this at a moderate pace. I can maintain forbearance if we tread slowly." Sebastian had been all heat in the beginning, and Sherlock, despite what he advertised to the world, tended to commit himself far too quickly to what he recognized as truths. If John ended this like his college tryst had, sudden and without warning, he may not recover without assistance. This was much more complicated than what he was used to. John went about relationships in an average way. He met a woman, chatted her up, asked her out if it seemed like there was mutual interest, and kept at it until something changed and they went their separate ways. Since living with Sherlock, nearly all of his subsequent relationships ended because of his partner. They didn’t like the time he was spending there, or that his devotion to Sherlock was more than what they could hope for. And they were right. Sherlock would always come first in his heart. Coming at a relationship when there was already so much groundwork would be new. “Well he’s a ponce anyway.” John was fiercely protective of Sherlock. He’d been so from the first time they met. Mycroft remarked that he was loyal very fast, considering they’d only known each other for a little over a day when Mycroft offered him money to spy. He was called a guard dog - dog again - for Sherlock, and he didn’t mind the title. His friend needed someone to defend him, whether he thought so or not, and John chose that position. “I honestly didn’t think you were interested in any of this.” Mycroft made that snarky remark about his lack of knowledge about sex, but that was apparently about something else entirely with the two of them. It could be about women, since Sherlock was gay. Whatever it was, John never saw any interest from Sherlock toward other people in that way. This was a bit of a surprise. He felt pinpricks on his skin when Sherlock touched him, and his heart raced when he realized they were doing this. For real. This was happening. “Yeah, yes, we can do that. If you mean you want us to take it slow.” Sherlock used formal speak when he was uncertain of himself, like a computer, but John stopped himself from mentioning that. It was too close to comparing him to a machine, and he knew Sherlock didn’t like it, even if he was teasing. John moved on the couch so they were sitting next to each other. He reached up and slowly brushed his hand through Sherlock’s wild hair. “See, told you I’d remember,” he murmured, and leaned in to kiss him. In the light of day it was a little different, it wasn’t hasty and secret like in the dark bedroom. Although that led him to thinking, and thinking got in the way of kissing, so he reluctantly pulled back before the kiss could get any good. “Is it all right … if we’re taking it slow, can we keep it to ourselves for now? We’ve got a lot to figure out.” He didn’t want people commenting on his relationship the same way they already did back home. And since he was working out his own issues about it, being questioned about it? Not really in his comfort zone. “Quite.” He let the comments about Sebastian slide for now, mostly because John wouldn’t take well to the reasons that had brought them together. Irrelevant. Sure, the man had been a certifiable ponce, but Sherlock was rather certain he fit the same bill. Best let John keep his delusions lest he wake up one day and realize who he’d agreed to be with. “Contrary to popular belief I am, in fact, human.” He found the charred edge of the carpet particularly interesting to look at. Tactful, it was Sherlock. “I might have … deleted. The majority of my memories regarding sexual contact. It simply didn’t seem relevant to the nature of my career.” Thus, the great Sherlock Holmes had deleted orgasms from his database, and saw no real reason to conjure it all back again. He suspected Mycroft had mistakenly assumed he’d deleted the whole of his memory pertaining to relationships, but that would be a gross misconception on his part. Everything about those months at the university were clear in his mind—everything that had destroyed not only his bond with Sebastian, but any relationship he’d had with his brother. He’d gone quiet again. Sherlock put the brooding to rest. Cutis anserina. He was similarly affected, though ignored the notation in favor of dragging his hand along John’s side to inspire it again. “You would fair better, I think, if we did.” It’s not like Sherlock was at all opposed to going down on him right now. In fact, he tilted his head for a minute and considered his more-than-flatmate with half-lidded eyes, weighing the instant gratification with the resulting fall-out. Probably not a good plan overall. Not that plans were at the forefront of his mind when John started petting his hair again and most of any former thoughts dissipated entirely. Dammit. Sneaky, this one. Sherlock huffed out an annoyed sigh that wasn’t annoyed in the least, nudging his head further against that hand. If John insisted on talking, he would have to work for it. “I couldn’t care less if you told people we were cousins. How you publicly define us is your venture, not mine.” He stole another kiss simply because he could, though his mouth started to curve into a smirk. Sherlock leaned away just a little, eyes gleaming in a way that meant trouble. “Why don’t you blog about it? You’ll have more than enough subject matter.” “Of course you’re human. You’re the most human person I know.” John said it at his grave, and he meant it. The reminder made something in his stomach clench, and he let his free hand drop down to Sherlock’s knee. Just to ground them both. “There are some people who sincerely aren’t interested in sex, it wasn’t that strange of an assumption to jump to.” John personally couldn’t understand that in the least. He had a healthy appetite himself, but each to their own. He tilted his head as he thought over what Sherlock was saying. “I’ve gone through some bad break ups of my own, but none have led me to want to delete it.” Nor could he, since Sherlock was the only person he’d ever heard of ‘deleting’ facts willy nilly. John chuckled when Sherlock physically begged for more attention to his hair. “I wouldn’t have guessed that for an erogenous zone. You do have really great hair though.” It made him think all types of suggestive stuff, one image in particular of Sherlock’s head in his lap that he’d try to purge before he forgot about that going slow option. He had no problem at all with stroking those curls. They were wild from being out all night, he’d have to take a shower to get them back under control. A shower. God this being slow thing was harder than he expected, but John never thought he’d be thinking any of this. It was as if all these doors suddenly opened he wasn’t aware he closed. It was strange. “Don’t be ridiculous, we can’t be cousins. We don’t look a thing alike.” John would be the black sheep for certain next to the tall, dark and slender Holmes brothers. He saw that gleam in Sherlock’s eye when he leaned back, and if he was trying to banishing images in his head, what he said had the opposite effect. John flushed and his own eyes darkened. “Will I? Don’t make promises you can’t keep.” He tugged Sherlock into a kiss that was almost punishing, because dear god that was cruel, and after a brief hesitation, he leaned forward. He applied just enough pressure with his upper body to suggest that Sherlock go backward, hoping to use more of the couch instead of being in this awkward half-sit. They were going to lie down on the couch and make out like teenagers. It was their flat, they could do what they wanted. Not Good. Suicide or Sebastian, however mutually exclusive the subjects were. He caught the hand on his knee tightly, like before, giving a squeeze for good measure. “I’m interested in sex approximately twelve percent of the time. It’s rare, but it happens. Occasionally. I’ve just diverted my attention by—alternate means.” It felt like his cheeks were on fire and he hated it, but this was for John because he appreciated honesty, and these weren’t things he ever talked about with anyone before. That had to count for something, hadn’t it? Sherlock ducked his head again, but it was just as well. John had lovely hands and maybe, if he pushed hard enough, they would fill the empty spaces in his head. A room of half-filled boxes and torn papers, of a haphazard residency and hasty retreat. There were some pains Sherlock didn’t have words for. He grunted, low. “Don’t stop.” It was out before he could think better of it or even process the underlying implications. Those fingers in his hair just felt so right. Sherlock was practically leaning his entire body on John for support at this point, anything to better service this incredible stimulation. Somehow, it inspired a sense of calm and heat in equal parts—as if the gesture both harkened back to something of comfort from his childhood, but also experiences from the near-present. He didn’t care. Nothing mattered because John’s fingers were in his hair and he had to kiss him, had to chase away the next words with his own mouth before they could carry on any longer. If he ever thought this awkward, stuttered excuse for a serious conversation would end with John on top of him, he would have come home far sooner. To be fair, he likely wouldn’t have left in the first place. They would be stretched out in bed, right now, courtesy be damned after a long, endless morning of exploration. Sherlock snuck his hands up underneath John’s shirt and caught that lower lip between his teeth, suddenly amenable to the idea of hauling up in their flat for the indiscernible future. “I won’t ever,” he began, dragging his mouth around to murmur in John’s ear. “Make promises I can’t keep.” Sherlock’s unexpected shyness about masturbation surprised and amused John, who was finding out all sorts of new things about his best friend. These were questions he never thought to ask, although he could have easily. It wasn’t like their flat was a don’t ask don’t tell place. He assumed Sherlock would find it beneath him, for some reason, since he was a genius and a detective and had better things to think about. “It’s all okay. Obviously I’m glad because we might’ve had more trouble if you weren’t interested in the physical side.” John shrugged lightly. He wasn’t saying they’d be completely incompatible, but he was smart enough to know that a healthy sex life was something he wanted in a relationship. Whether it was a man or a woman. “Jesus,” he muttered, wondering if Sherlock could get off on playing with his hair alone. He’d have to figure that out one of these days. John’s body apparently decided ‘to hell with rules’ because it seemed just fine with him caught up with a man. It really liked it, or maybe it only liked Sherlock. He settled on top of him once they slipped into place, and while he was shorter and stouter than his friend, it suited them perfectly well in this position. He groaned when Sherlock bit his lip and rocked heavily against him for the first time. He instantly regretted that since this was not being slow this was being quick so quick. But he could indulge a little bit, right? Right. John moved his mouth back down to Sherlock’s neck, where he wanted to linger the night before. He had a beautiful neck. It was long and elegant and John wanted to put his mouth over every inch of it. He nibbled at his collar and tugged down a little on Sherlock’s shirt to expose more skin and...thought about it. About the fact he was rubbing up against Sherlock, one hand in his hair, the other undressing him, and where it went from there. Like before he felt both lustful and alarmed, as if he knew exactly where this ended but was nervous about it at the same time. So he stopped. At least from taking it any further. He didn’t stop entirely though. He moved up so he could kiss Sherlock again and this time it was slow and easy. Tender, even. While it took some of the bite out of the frantic desire, John was making it clear he still wanted to be there. He went up on his elbows above him, releasing his hair for the first time, and instead brushing his fingers along Sherlock’s cheek and jawline. “You have no idea how much I want you,” he said softly. After a moment’s pause he had to smirk and look down. “All right you might have some idea,” he admitted. John swept Sherlock’s hair back and kissed him. “So. Hair.” Yes he was doing some pillow talk, don’t mind him. “Anything else I should know?” “I’m not interested in the physical,” he said, not quite meaning to purr, but the lower register of his voice tended to give that impression. Sherlock eased a leg between John’s when he settled over him, enjoying that weight. It anchored him, physically and mentally. “I’m interested in you. Anything relating to that subject is fair game.” Sherlock gazed up at John with an expression he seemed to save just for him, even before they crossed this line together. It was intensity and affection, curiosity and hesitance. Could he give up all of himself to someone? Sentiment may be a dangerous disadvantage, but he realized, with a slow smirk against John’s mouth, that he rather liked the idea of this danger. Sherlock’s fingernails dug tiny crescents into John’s lower back when he moved against him, an encouragement, before sneaking a hand down over his ass. It wasn’t like he hadn’t admired John before, though he’d told himself it was strictly necessary should he need to recall his measurements in the event they needed disguises. This new evidence was … a bit of a departure from that notion. Sherlock squeezed John, just once, though it was more than enough to alleviate any doubts he had of his proclivities. John had a very nice ass, and he fully intended to take advantage of that. By the time he felt those fingers slide out of his hair, he was trying, raggedly, to catch his breath. This was bad. So very bad. He’d known on some level his hair might pose a problem, but he didn’t have so much as an inkling it would turn out this compromising. It felt sharply sensitive all over, like he was some livewire switched on after being charged for far too long. His gaze focused slowly, almost with difficulty on John’s face when he spoke. Sherlock rolled his eyes right after, but the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth gave him away. “Oddly enough, I did manage to deduce that much.” With a hand grasping his bare side to keep John firmly in place, he rocked up into him, slow and deliberate. Then, his expression glossed over, a picture of innocence. “I believe, the more pressing question is—do you enjoy biting?” “You seem plenty interested in the physical right now. As long as that keeps up, we should be fine.” John shivered at Sherlock’s voice. The lower it went, the more it got to him. He noticed before about his voice, that it was deep and compelling and impossible to ignore. Now it took on a new meaning. He settled between Sherlock’s legs and found it very attractive, having him underneath like this. Dominated by John, at least for now. He had no doubt Sherlock could turn the tables on him at any time, he never did the expected. He locked gazes with Sherlock when that expression crossed his face, and a similar one was on John’s. It made this feel incredibly real and important all of a sudden. Sentiment indeed. Sherlock’s hand was on his ass and he hesitated before thinking yup, that was completely fine, it felt good even. John didn’t think too often on how attractive he was, if he was at all. He seemed to be okay, since women regularly took an interest in him, and he did keep up with grooming and being relatively fit. That Sherlock enjoyed his body was flattering. He smiled and let him grope to his heart’s content. Any hope he had of trying to slow it down was getting countered by the way Sherlock was moving back against him. John liked it. He loved it even. It was equal parts pleasurable and agonizing. Sherlock was being a tease and John groaned, dropping his head down so his forehead pressed on Sherlock’s shoulder while he tried to breathe. He didn’t stop him from moving, and after some truly impressive control on his part, he gave in and rocked back against him. The friction sent constant waves of pleasure at him, and he groaned and turned his head so his hot breath was against Sherlock’s neck. He bit down on the flesh there, nearly enough to leave a mark, running his tongue against the skin to sooth it over after the initial sharpness. “Does that answer your question?” He went back up to take Sherlock’s mouth in a rough kiss, losing interest in taking it slow. His hand moved down his side and grabbed a hold of Sherlock’s outer thigh, lifting it a little for a better angle as he thrust hard into him. “We were supposed to take this slow,” John growled into Sherlock’s mouth, but he went back to kissing him. Oh well. He did try. “Says the man who climbed on top of me,” Sherlock spoke through his teeth, turning his head away from that last kiss so that he could press his mouth against John’s neck this time. “We’re still clothed. This is slow.” It had been as good as any warning. He bared his teeth and sucked a harsher mark into the dip of John’s shoulder than he’d received, holding fast until he was satisfied enough to release him, tonguing the skin until it purpled nicely. If there were any lingering doubts that Sherlock was capable of succumbing to petty jealousies, the flare of bone-deep satisfaction at the mark was probably indication enough. He made note to explore the matter further. When he wasn’t pinned to their couch with his flatmate on top of him, that is. All the same, they had agreed on slow for John’s benefit. That didn’t mean Sherlock had to compromise everything he wanted in the heady excitement of the moment, but he knew what it was like to rush into unknown territory without any defense. “John,” he said, a low and heady murmur under his breath. Sherlock traced a string of kisses along that jawline, reverent, in his own way. His hands found their way underneath John’s shirt, exploring much more slowly, petting as if to map out every slant of muscle he’d thought about since they moved in together. It felt like disarming a gun sometimes, to be with him like this. To know the raw power encased within so intimately, to come so close to burying underneath the gentle, kind exterior—he saw layers upon layers that others, he was certain, could never appreciate. “John,” he said again, curving his leg around John to bring him down closer, until there was no space left between them. Sherlock pressed his nose against John’s neck and inhaled, slow and steady. This was home. This, he could get used to. “It seemed like a good idea at the time,” John said with a laugh. He wasn’t sure why he decided to push him down, other than they’d be more comfortable probably. Yes, this was so much more comfortable. He was embarrassingly hard on top of his flatmate. He was definitely not the genius of the two of them. “Right, keep the clothes on, we can do that.” He thought that was a decent line to draw actually, and felt better for having it there. Except soon after his mind went completely blank because Sherlock was giving him a hickey. It was a little painful but mostly really hot and John gasped, his hand going straight back up into Sherlock’s hair. He was dazed for a moment after Sherlock pulled away and then touched it. “I’m going to have to wear a shirt to hide that tomorrow, thanks.” He didn’t mind as much as he probably should have. Besides, he wasn’t about to be shirtless in front of anyone else any time soon. Sherlock’s hands against his bare skin felt amazing and John seriously considered taking off his shirt. Except he remembered the whole keep his shirt on aspect of what was going on. Barely. He was getting to see a side of Sherlock he didn’t expect. Not just the sexual side. The emotionally intimate side too. He kissed and held John like he was treasured and adored, and it’d been a long, long time since he felt that way. He was as close as he could get to him right now, and he pressed his own nose into Sherlock’s dark hair. He smelt like the sea and sweat and adventure and danger and familiarity. “Sherlock,” John murmured, profoundly shaken by something this simple. “You’re going to be trouble.” He was a little concerned with the state of his heart. Sherlock Holmes broke it once already. If they were going to get closer and have sex and be everything to each other, and he lost that again? The very idea of it was terrifying. He sat up partially, still between Sherlock’s legs but able to get the fuller picture now. Sherlock looked thoroughly mussed and his top few buttons were undone and he looked good. “I still don’t know what I’m doing, but I’m glad whatever it is, it’s with you.” Sherlock nosed against the mark on John’s neck, huffing out a quiet exhale. He felt lethargic and absurdly self-satisfied, which didn’t exactly spell bad things for his ego. “You like trouble.” His thumb brushed just underneath the spot where John’s heart would be, his brow knit like he wasn’t paying attention to what his hand was doing. Atrium. Lateral ventricle. He knew, just inside, that John functioned the same as him. All the proper organs were in place. But why did it matter that his heart lay just under his hand? Sherlock remembered looking down the barrel of a gun and seeing John on the other end, strapped to bombs, nearly burned out of his life. Or his chest, even. Did they have hearts that looked the same, that beat in time? He wasn’t a surgeon or a doctor, but he knew what it felt like to have someone else’s hands in your chest, keeping you alive. It wasn’t love. It was irrational, hopeless, fervid allegiance. “Yes, well.” Sherlock shifted a bit underneath him, not quite uncomfortable but seeming to near it. He’d had one too many revelations in under twenty-four hours, thank you very much. Besides—John was looking at him in the way that Sherlock feared he might be returning that same look back, which would damn them both. He laughed, suddenly, rubbing a hand over his face. “One of us has to know what we’re doing. You’re supposed to be better at this than I am, aren’t you? Field work. Extrapolate, then.” It surprised him that despite everything between them now, he felt less and less like hiding from it. There was something so suspiciously easy about falling into bed with John. Like an analeptic, only far more potent. He briefly considered googling any maladies pertaining to prolonged happiness, the kind that made it difficult to stop smiling. Best add that to the research list. He found John’s hand after a bit of opportune groping, tugging it insistently until Sherlock could press his mouth to the center of that palm. Inhale, exhale. There were certainties and theories, as different as day and night. He could feel a pulse against his lips and that—that was a certainty. “Me too,” he murmured, but it was likely too quiet to really make out. “I do like trouble. Doctor, soldier, blogger. The third one surprisingly dangerous.” John came running when Sherlock said danger, that was how they worked. And now they were running together toward something potentially worse (and better) than everything else combined. They were sweet and affectionate now, small touches and soft eyes, the way couples were when they first began. That was what they were now. A couple. It wasn’t as scary as he thought. Not when Sherlock kept smiling that way, and John smiled back so wide it started to hurt. “I usually do, yes, but this isn’t typical. We’ll have to make it up as we go along.” Nothing would ever be simple with Sherlock Holmes, but John didn’t want simple. He followed the kiss to his palm with a real kiss, and then he lifted his weight off Sherlock. This was not going to be the last time they ended up nearly in a tangle of limbs and cast off clothes. He still missed the feel of his body once it was gone. “All right, we’ve both had a long night. How about you take in the shower, and I’ll order us some take out. Or we can go to Granny’s and get something to eat.” He would bother him about sleeping later, but for now John was going to try him out on the food option. They could both use it. His eyes were still wandering somewhat over Sherlock’s face and body. “I plan to do a lot more of this,” John waved a hand between the two of them, “so you’d best get used to it.” His first instinct was to grasp onto John when he attempted to get up, but let him slide free the second he realized what his body was doing. Reflexes. Inconvenient. Sherlock stretched like a lazy housecat instead, popping something in his lower back with a satisfied groan. “Yes, yes. Necessities. Dull. Order takeaway or I’ll accost you at the diner.” At least he was giving proper warning, which was an achievement in and of itself. Sherlock made zero effort disguising the fact that he was admiring John in return, cataloging every novelty for the occasion, though his gaze lingered halfway with something of a smug gleam in his eyes. Oh, yes. If it wasn’t already apparent, Sherlock was going to be a handful. Sherlock roused himself from the couch with a show of enormous effort, raking a hand through his hair. It really didn’t do the curls any favors. He leaned down to press his mouth against John’s ear, voice a low rumble. “I look forward to a repeat performance. Several times a day, on every available surface.” With a kiss to his cheek, Sherlock swept out of the room again, completely and utterly satisfied. |