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It's been just about a month since they met, since they moved in together, since John Watson shot a man for threatening Sherlock Holmes' life. Not the typical progression of flat-mates, Sherlock chuckles to himself. Since then, there's been the everyday getting-to-know-each-other, there have been various little puzzles dropped Sherlock's way that he hasn't been interested in, there have been a few misunderstandings about privacy, personal belongings, personal space and keeping inappropriate substances and detritus in the flat. Overall, though, it's been mainly the slow dance of two people learning about each other and how to live together peacefully.
Sherlock is often surprised -- and he tells himself that he hates this -- to find that he tends to misjudge parts of John's character. John will often display traits or preferences that Sherlock didn't expect and this drives him mad, these miscalculations (he still internally grumbles over his mistake regarding Harry's sex). John Watson -- mild, proper, considerate, seemingly predictable John Watson -- should not be the person who Sherlock can so easily misjudge. So those occasions when John surprises him only serve to make Sherlock observe him more closely. Honestly, John Watson's presence in his life works out so well because of that very edge of surprise, though Sherlock would be loathe to call it fascination. It merely keeps him... interested.
In this near-month's time, he hasn't really seen John actually interacting with other people beyond cab rides and dining out. No friends, no dates, no phone calls beyond Harry-the-Sister, John's old rugby friends asking for a pint out, the rare Stamford call to check in, or Sherlock himself. John certainly shows interest in women that he sees in the street or shops -- the crooked smile, the bright eyes, the licking of lips -- but there have been no actual advances.
There are no condoms in the drawers of John's nightstand, no items out of the ordinary, no evidence of sexuality beyond a perfectly reasonable bottle of hand cream by the bed that could be used precisely for that very reason (though, damnably, Sherlock knows exactly what it is used for). John's clothes are ordinary, the ubiquitous jumpers and jeans and jackets, though in the back of his closet there are one pair of decent enough black trousers and one soft shirt of a dark indigo hue that Sherlock supposes to be John's solitary "going out" attire. Though he can't imagine that outfit being at all remarkable, he tells himself.
There's just the two of them for now. Sherlock follows occasional case possibilities and John occasionally helps. John searches for work and Sherlock tries to ignore the increasingly furrowed brow as John scans the mail for collection notices and the necessary pension check. However, sometimes Sherlock catches a look on John's face that seems to go beyond the admiration of Sherlock's abilities and the growing friendship. It's a curious look, somewhere between caution and amusement, and Sherlock hasn't quite pinned it down yet. He doesn't think it's attraction, as that is something Sherlock can usually spot a mile away having been the victim of it too many times in his life. Interestingly enough, though, he is discovering that he wouldn't mind if it were, especially if it came with that spark of grim resolve that is seen on occasion, that soldier hiding under John's affable daily face. And this growing interest in John alarms him to no end.
Sherlock comes home one evening to find John cursing and wiping up a mess on the kitchen counter where a bottle of something has burst open and seeped out across the surfaces and onto the floor. The smell is rather horrific and Sherlock bites his lip to keep from either complaining at the loss of the experiment or laughing at John's face.
"I really wish to god I knew what was going on in that head of yours sometimes," John growls, gritting his teeth as he cleans up the mess, breathing through his mouth.
Sherlock pauses to watch him, considering. "You want to know what goes on inside my head?" This could be an interesting evening, after all.
John turns, furrowing his brow at the tone of Sherlock's voice, "Yes, I --"
"Do you really?"
"Yes! I just said so, didn't I?" John hurls the dirty rag into the sink, glaring as he clearly tries to decipher what mood Sherlock is in now.
"Get changed."
"What? Sherl--"
"And pick something decent. Go."
John shakes his head, planting his fists on his hips. Sherlock cocks his head, staring back, mocking him, "Well?" John glares, sighing, and climbs the stairs to his room.
Sherlock knows John is curious. He has no idea what Sherlock has planned, but he will most likely not be putting on his one good outfit for what he'll assume to be another display of intellect. Sherlock smiles to himself slightly, ignoring the feeling that tugs deeper inside and that he isn't willing to acknowledge. He walks upstairs to look into John's room as he is changing into a slightly nicer jumper, but still unsuitable for tonight. John turns to see Sherlock standing before him and jumps, "Jesus! Don't do that!"
"Oh, John, really?" Sherlock's lip curls, as he plucks at the sleeve of John's jumper, "I did say something decent."
"This is decent," comes the answer from between gritted teeth, "Hey, wait --" Sherlock has pushed past him and is rooting in his closet. He pulls out John's dress shirt and nice trousers and thrusts them at him.
"Here. These. Be quick about it." Sherlock steps back and looks at John expectantly.
John grabs the clothing, grumbling under his breath as he begins to draw off the maroon jumper, "What, you just going to stand there and watch? Jesus." When he realises Sherlock is going to do exactly that, he leaves the jumper on and turns his back to Sherlock, quickly pulling off his jeans and stepping into the trousers, a blush rising on the back of his neck. Funny, Sherlock thinks to himself, years of being naked in front of men in the army and he's worried about it now.
John quickly pulls off the jumper and is buttoning up the indigo shirt when he feels the hands at his neck. He flinches and turns, as Sherlock is smoothing out wrinkles across the shoulders and folding down the collar. "What are you, my mum?" John cocks an eyebrow at him.
"It is a bit of mess, John. Haven't worn it in a long time, after all. Good thing you've lost weight recently or it..."
"Thank you, yes, shut up. It still fits. Good enough, now?" He juts his chin out a little and looks up at Sherlock, defying him to say anything else. Sherlock gazes back thoughtfully as reaches out to unbuttons the cuffs, loosely rolling up the sleeves. John clicks his tongue in irritation, but his face colours again. After a moment of letting himself stare under the pretense of approval, Sherlock nods and walks out of the bedroom, calling back, "And bring a decent coat if you have one."
Downstairs, Sherlock sighs as he sees the ubiquitous black jacket in John's hand, but lets it pass as they go out to the street. "So, where exactly are we going?" John asks him.
"You said you wanted to see inside my head. We need subjects to observe."
John huffs out a sigh, "I see you observe and dissect and flay people open on a regular basis, how is this going to be any different?" Sherlock doesn't bother to answer, only ushers John into a cab.
They end up at a busy high-end nightclub, a line full of beautiful, elegantly dressed people waiting to get in. John clearly is feeling out of his element: this is not the kind of place he would normally ever go to. Sherlock asks him, "Changing your mind? If you really want to see what's in my head and how it works, we go in."
"Yeah, go on, show me how a posh nightclub is going to demonstrate how your mind works," John grumbles, following Sherlock as they step into the line and make their way inside a few minutes later. It's loud and John has his jaw clenched as Sherlock steers him to the bar. "I don't see how getting me drunk is going to make me understand you more, Sherlock."
Sherlock rolls his eyes, "I'm not getting you drunk, but I need you to feel some extra stimulation." He turns to the bartender and orders what ends up being a rather large energy drink mixed with two shots of vodka. John raises an eyebrow but drinks it down, frowning at the sickly sweet taste. Sherlock nods, "And now we wait for the stimulant to kick in."
Within 15 minutes, John is responding to it, jaw twitching, fingers tapping. He has only had coffee or tea as long as Sherlock has known him, probably hasn't used any real stimulants since Afghanistan while trying to stay awake in those long hours in the desert. The drink has John grinning and looking down at his trembling hands bemusedly. "Jesus... been awhile since I got this wired." Sherlock knows that the two hefty vodka shots are contributing to him being a little euphoric as well, and nods.
"That." Sherlock replies, looking at him steadily. "To be always... wired, as you say, always thinking. There is always noise in my head. It never goes quiet." John looks as though he wants to say something, but Sherlock turns away. "Now, look around you."
John scans the crowd along with him as Sherlock begins to talk in an unending stream, barely audible over the thumping music, "That woman in that red dress talking to that man with that hideous grey suit and not cutting to the heart of the matter which is that she'd like to take him home to her boyfriend for a BDSM scene, the other couple on their right who are looking to make a sexual connection with other couples and not realising that looking like slavering dogs is putting everyone off them, the three girls there in the corner who are staring at those young men over by the speakers and trying to guess which one of them has a chance with whom although they don't know two of those men are already in relationships and one has a rampant STI..." He goes on, trance-like, nonstop, for several minutes as he analyses and picks apart the patrons around them, explaining aloud as he always does.
Sherlock pauses to look at John and continues to let the words out in a rush, "This, John. This is how it feels. To always be vibrating, often unpleasantly so. To be hearing a constant flow in my head of people, voices, conversations, ideas, colours rushing everywhere, the constant music in my head as a backbeat, everything all at once, all the time and it won't be quiet unless I have something to focus on, truly focus on. And it never, ever stops, John." He pauses to take a breath, suddenly feeling exposed and exhausted. "All these different things shouting in my head all at once," Sherlock repeats, "This."
John scans Sherlock's face, speechless. He clears his throat and has a look on his face that Sherlock realises is too close to pity. "Jesus. I'm... sorry, you know it sounds like a full-blown manic--" he begins only to be cut off sharply by Sherlock.
"Don't," he snaps, so disappointed that he couldn't make John see. "Don't make the mistake of pitying me. I didn't do this to garner your pity. You wanted to know, I tried to explain it. And don't diagnose me or tell me to try a psychiatrist, there have been plenty of those." Sherlock turns on his heel and makes for the door, leaving John to catch up.
Sherlock rushes out the door and feels John quickly grabs at his sleeve, turning him, "Sherlock, no. I wasn't. I wasn't trying to diagnose. Just trying to understand, and yeah, it does sound bad for you sometimes, I imagine it was worse as a child. That's all." He's lying though, and Sherlock knows it, hates it. This is not what he wanted to elicit from John.
Sherlock takes in a deep breath, turning away to gesture around him, "God, all those people in there. All the sheep of the world, going around and being dishonest about who they are and what they want but in the most idiotic of ways. It's maddening. Do you see how it's maddening now, John?" He turns back to face him. "Why I complain about some cases, avoid others, and only really work well when it is something extraordinary... something worth thinking about?"
He is looking at John, desperately willing him to understand this thing that is so vital, so essential about himself. The feeling inside has returned again: a small flutter threatening to become something that could completely unmake him from the man he has carefully become.
"Yeah. Yes, I get it, okay? I really do." John replies softly, looking up at him. "It's the challenge and you need something to distract you from yourself, right? I don't think on your wavelength, won't pretend to, but I get it now. I think." He pauses to take in a deep breath, "But I am sorry." Sherlock narrows his eyes and John quickly continues, "I'm sorry it's all so frustrating for you. And noisy."
Sherlock nods slowly as John rolls his shoulders, trying to shake out the effects of the energy drink. "God, remind me to never drink that piss again," he grins, trying to lighten the mood. It only serves to remind Sherlock how much he has come to need this man, this one person who cares. He takes a deep breath as he realises what he wants to do next, wondering if he has the conviction to continue this. He turns to walk away, calling back over his shoulder, "One more, John."
"Hang on, one more what?"
"One more observation," Sherlock answers as he hails a cab. As they climb in, he goes silent and fends off further questions with a shake of his head until they have pulled up in front of another club. Sherlock quickly gets out, leaving John to follow him in. This time the clientele appears to be mostly entirely male and he sees John biting his cheek to keep from speaking, likely thinking that this is Sherlock's way of making him uncomfortable. He can't know that this is making Sherlock uncomfortable in utterly different ways, that he is fighting the urge to call this off before it is too late.
The music is even louder than the other club and John looks flushed. Sherlock supposes it's embarrassment, the beat pounding in their chests too strongly, the air too hot. John's also clearly irritated by the way Sherlock keeps looking at him, expecting him to react to the fact it's a gay club, to be embarrassed or bothered. Taking a deep breath, Sherlock draws John to a corner, farther away from the speakers where they can talk without bellowing.
John has tuned out, though, caught up in watching the go-go dancers not far away. Two young men, both attractive, both dark haired, alternating between doing their own dance and dancing together, writhing sinuously in black briefs and combat boots. Watching John, Sherlock feels everything tighten beneath his skin and before he knows it, he is crowding into John, behind him. He feels something dangerous shake loose in his head and slither down his limbs.
"See," Sherlock begins, "here they are more obvious about their desires, not apologising for them or making excuses, not trying to convince anyone anything. They are who they are, and they don't give a damn who sees it. More honest than those idiots at the other club. Anyone can observe this, not just me." John's breathing has quickened at the soft touch of Sherlock's hair against his ear, at the voice in his ear and he shifts, a slide of fabric rippling across his skin. Sherlock can't even begin to stop himself from brushing John's side, trying to make it a casual movement, then sucks in a breath as John reaches down for his hand, gripping it.
Sherlock's fingers splay across the curve of John's hip and he suddenly hears himself asking, "John?" John leans back slightly and Sherlock lets out a disbelieving breath into his ear, "You're aroused." John's fingers tighten on Sherlock's hand as he continues, "Your breathing... your heart rate..." He is trying to sound as though teasing but the truth is that he is trembling, trying not to give himself away any further. He knows now that he wants nothing more than to lower his lips to John's neck and taste, see if he can somehow discover how John has become this vital component in his life.
John stiffens at Sherlock's mocking tone, but his fingers tighten again. He must be feeling Sherlock's breath coming faster against his neck than should be reasonable, he couldn't be that obtuse. Then John suddenly laughs aloud. "You never actually asked. I never said I was straight."
Sherlock's breath stops and he knows he is saying something into John's neck, not even knowing what the words are anymore, just knowing he can't stop himself from trying to express what is happening to him. John inhales sharply at the sudden feeling of Sherlock pressing flush against his back as Sherlock's breath finally coalesces into a soft word, "John...?"
Suddenly John reaches back behind his head to twine fingers up into Sherlock's hair and tug. The whisper becomes a harsh, helpless gasp, and John spins around to reach out as Sherlock is already changing position to back John into the wall.
Sherlock pushes against him in attempt to grind their bodies together, needing to feel this now, acknowledge this now, damn whoever's watching, but John growls. "Not here." Sherlock leans forward, his mouth only breaths from John, and again John reaches into Sherlock's curls, pulling hard in two short jerks for emphasis, "Not. Here."
Sherlock is frozen, gasping into John's mouth before letting out a small noise of frustration as he steps back and away, jerking his coat shut and smoothing his lapels. John turns for the door and Sherlock follows him this time.
They are silent on the way home, the only words are from John to the cab driver. At Baker Street, they walk together upstairs, still quiet. The door is closed, coats are removed and hung in silence. Sherlock feels the strain tearing at him and his mind is reveling in every damn second of it. He crosses to the other side of the room, looking out the window, trying to moderate his breathing. John still waits by the door as Sherlock slowly turns to face him, "So. You got a glimpse into my mind. Do you see now?" He can hear himself, faintly desperate, uncertain, close to being devastated that he cares so much.
John takes a step towards him, eyes dark and steady. "Do you?" Sherlock's eyes widen and as he takes a deep breath John has already crossed the room, already reaching out to drag Sherlock's mouth down to his. Sherlock groans, hands fluttering over John's hips, waist, shoulders, trying to decide where to land before he settles on plucking at the buttons of John's shirt.
John devours Sherlock's mouth, sucking, licking, gasping, "God, let me... just..." He tears at Sherlock's shirt and gets a slapped hand in reply, "Careful," Sherlock hisses and John suddenly goes back to plunging his fingers into Sherlock's hair, yanking his head back, growling, "I'm through being fucking careful."
Sherlock moans: this is the John he wants, this is who he has been trying to decipher, to see. Not the kind doctor, not the long-suffering and worried flat-mate, but this forceful, capable, confident man, wholly focused on his desire and on getting what he wants. John is back to tugging at the buttons of Sherlock's shirt, getting it open, popping off a button on one of the cuffs as he goes. He grins breathlessly at Sherlock, daring him to complain before he continues to the zipper of Sherlock's trousers. He swiftly pulls them down over Sherlock's hips along with his pants and when Sherlock reaches out to undo John's, John grips his wrists. "Not yet. I want to look at you."
Sherlock stands, shivering, as John looks him over head to toe, eyes pausing over the lightly muscled planes of chest, belly, thighs. He reaches out one finger and slowly traces a line from the hollow of Sherlock's throat, down his torso until he lightly touches the tip of Sherlock's cock. "John," Sherlock shakes out a whisper.
"God, you're fucking gorgeous." John's rasps. "Those clothes hiding this, it's bloody criminal."
He palms one quick slide down Sherlock's cock and Sherlock groans. "John, for god's sake, let me..." He can't finish, can't form the words.
John backs away, plucking at the button of his trousers, his shirt, shrugging the indigo fabric off his shoulders, letting everything slide off. As soon as he's naked, Sherlock is reaching for him and again John stops him.
"Wait. Look. Look what you're doing to me." Sherlock stares down at John's erect cock, trembling as John continues. "You've done this to me since I first saw you and I've been so fucking careful not to show it."
Sherlock lets out a ragged breath; the admission is almost too much to bear. "I thought you were through being careful."
John lets out a rush of breath and finally pushes Sherlock back, pinning him against the wall and kissing him savagely. Sherlock is moaning into his mouth and the thought of doing this, of letting John shatter his aloofness into this mess of desire, makes his hands shake with need. "Bed," he gasps out.
"Floor," John growls back, beginning to pull Sherlock down, but he resists.
"In the nightstand, I've..."
"Go." John snaps, pushing Sherlock toward his bedroom. When they reach it, Sherlock rips back the bedding with one tug, already reaching to pull John down. Finally, finally John's hands are skimming across Sherlock's body, but John is pulling roughly at Sherlock as he remains standing at the side of the bed. Sherlock sits at the edge as John steps between his legs and Sherlock understands. He swoops forward and takes John's cock in his mouth in one swift movement and for the first time, John lets out a shuddering groan.
This, Sherlock knows how to do. With this, he can gain back some equilibrium from the helpless spiral John has sent him into. He sucks, licks, swirls and John is letting out a stream of praise and curses.
"God, yes, dreamt of this, you swallowing me down with that mouth, god, that fucking mouth stretched around my cock, yes, do it, oh fuck, Sherlock, your mouth." John curves a hand around Sherlock's skull as his hips begin to jerk lightly until he suddenly stops and pulls away. He shoves Sherlock back onto the mattress, falling down beside him.
Finally. Flesh against flesh, both of them groaning at the feeling, the slide of it all. "Let me fuck you, do you want me to fuck you," John is gasping. "Let me."
"Just... here," Sherlock chokes out, pulling John firmly on top of him. John straddles him, sitting back slightly, and Sherlock begins to stroke their cocks together. "Not enough?" Sherlock asks, breathlessly, watching John's eyes close tightly at the sensation.
"Could be a little more," John pants. He reaches up, spitting into his hand before lowering it again to stroke and they both moan.
Sherlock shudders, "Oh, god, good," but it could still be better. Sherlock reaches out, hand diving into the drawer on the nightstand, cursing until he finds the bottle of lubricant. John shakes out a laugh, "Thought this wasn't your area."
"I said girlfriends weren't. You never asked whether masturbation was," Sherlock retorts breathlessly.
John laughs again, the sound devolving into a groan as Sherlock reaches down with his now-slick hand and slides over their erections. "Oh, god, there's a thought to keep me warm at night. You down here, doing this."
"I'd rather hope," Sherlock gasps out, stroking faster, "that that would keep you more than just warm." He's rolling his hips against John's, jerking them both hard and fast and John reaches for the bottle of lube. He slicks his fingers and thrusts them between their bodies, sliding backwards and halting Sherlock's motion. He slides his hand slowly down past the base of Sherlock's cock, down until he is pressing against the perineum and Sherlock gasps, writhing.
John watches Sherlock's expressions greedily as he slowly massages around the opening and Sherlock begins to stroke himself, panting. "Do you want more?" John growls, "do you want me to fuck you?" Sherlock shakes his head, helplessly bucking into his fist.
Then John slides a fingertip barely inside and Sherlock gasps, "God, yes." John begins to slowly focus on teasing the opening, swirling and pushing just past the sensitive edges and Sherlock's hand is flying so fast over his cock that the motion blurs. Without warning, John slides in deep, one slick finger thrusting and Sherlock begins to shake, begins to moan at the thought of John doing this to him -- mild, proper, considerate, private, confident, strong, rough, god, John! -- and he comes with a shout, hips pumping.
Before he's even completely finished spasming, John is crawling up his body again, thrusting his cock against Sherlock's thigh, demanding, "Come on, fuck, touch me." Sherlock reaches out blindly, John's cock straining into his hand as Sherlock strokes him. John gasps, "Harder, god, slide it."
Sherlock stops and pushes John onto his back, scrambling down his body and taking him in his mouth again. "Fuck, yes, suck it, swallow me," John continues in a breathless stream and Sherlock has a moment of bemusement that John has certainly no qualms about being vocal before John is coming in his mouth, groaning and cursing as Sherlock swallows it down.
Sherlock pulls away, wiping his mouth and gracelessly flopping back onto the bed beside John as they lie there, panting. Sherlock is filled with euphoria so boundless that he thinks no feeling will ever match this again, and then it shifts to terror and back again in a bewildering cycle. What has John Watson done to him, and how did he dissect the layers built up over years? How had he not seen this and what might John do to him further, if Sherlock were to let him? After a few minutes, he clears his throat and steels himself, "All right?"
"All right," John replies softly, and Sherlock can hear the smile in his voice.
"Anything need to be... discussed?" Sherlock dearly hopes the answer is a negative, that this wasn't a howling mistake.
"Nope. Beyond saying that it's fine, any time." This time, there is the hint of laughter in John's voice and Sherlock silently lets out the breath he'd been holding.
He rolls slightly towards John, scanning his upturned face, the closed eyes, the smile playing on his lips. "You've wanted me since we met?" He can't keep from sounding put out that he hadn't caught this vital bit of information.
"Yes," John grins, eyes opening. He turns toward Sherlock, and takes a steadying breath. "And will want more."
"That's fine." Sherlock answers, trying to keep his face neutral, trying not to show the sudden surge of fierce gladness. He hesitates, then says quietly, "Though it isn't only sex, is it, John." It isn't a question.
John's eyes widen, startled. "Problem?" he asks, mildly. "It's not like I'm going to start bringing you flowers or anything."
John licks his lips, the nervous gesture making Sherlock want to kiss him again, and he feels himself wanting to grin like a fatuous idiot. "No." He can't even bring himself to be embarrassed at his reactions at this point, it's beyond that now.
"Good."
"Fine."
"Okay."
They both lie back again, grinning. After a moment, Sherlock lets out a quiet laugh, "Are you always going to be this... aggressive about it? The sex?"
John's grin widens. "Maybe."
"We'll see, "Sherlock sniffs, trying to maintain a casual impression.
"You liked it," John retorts.
"Obviously." Sherlock's voice is testy, this time bordering on embarrassment at how marvelous he feels, how utterly languid. He rolls to face John again, "But do you?"
"You'll have to find out," John answers, softly. He smiles, stretches, and rolls out of the bed, grimacing. "God. I'm going to go shower." He looks down at Sherlock, his expression softening. Sherlock smiles back, feeling peaceful for the first time in weeks as John leans down to kiss him lightly. "'Night, Sherlock.
Sherlock reaches out a hand as John turns and pulls him back for another kiss, this one a little more involved. When they break apart, John chuckles, "Have to have the last word, don't you." He walks to the door, laughing when Sherlock answers smugly
"Always."
He wonders, though, how much that will continue, now that John has opened up this floodgate of feeling and want and need after years of ignoring such things. He finds himself considering how much more perception and observation this will now create, and he is glad beyond words as his clamouring thoughts calm and spiral around one central being, one central mystery. One vital component now seeing and seen through his eyes.