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"I’m not known for having impeccable manners, John.”
John didn't even glance up from the morning paper as he quirked an eyebrow, took a sip of tea, and replied, “You can say that again.”
“Many would, in fact, argue that I'm rude.”
This time, John did look up, vaguely wondering what Sherlock was getting at. His friend was standing and looking out of the window, hands resting lightly on his hips, his posture appearing relaxed and yet… something was off. There was a pause while John waited for Sherlock to elaborate, but Sherlock was not forthcoming with any further self-analysis.
“So…” John prompted, “what's your point?”
Sherlock turned a little, pinning John with his sharp gaze. “Why doesn't it bother you?”
“It does bother me.”
Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, and John held back a grin at the realisation that he’d managed to surprise such a perceptive man. Assuming an unaffected air, he turned his attention back to the paper and hid behind his tea in an attempt to maintain his poker face. He could practically hear Sherlock reshuffling his thoughts to make sense of this apparent revelation, and it was a few moments before he spoke again. “Are you sure?”
The genuine uncertainty - bafflement, almost - in his voice put paid to John's schooled expression, and he couldn't help but huff out a chuckle. “You may not worry about offending anyone, but I do. And your…” he gestured aimlessly as he searched for the appropriate wording, “... way of speaking usually gets me into just as much trouble as it does you. I'm not sure how that happens, but it does, and with an alarming regularity.”
The cogs continued to turn. “Am I rude to you?”
“Yes. All the time.”
“And it bothers you?”
“Yes.” John paused for a moment. “Which part of this is coming as a shock to you?”
Sherlock turned to face him fully, still clearly reading and deducing and doing all of those brilliant things that he did in his head, and John met the look with his own open and questioning one. For all his genius, Sherlock could be socially clueless, and John was ashamed to admit that he found it… almost endearing.
A few purposeful strides brought Sherlock over to his own chair and he sat down, fingers templed under his chin and deciphering gaze still locked on John's face. With Sherlock distracted by his own thoughts for a moment, John allowed himself the luxury of giving his friend a once-over and hoped it wouldn't be noticed.
It was a warm morning in summer, and although Sherlock was dressed as usual in a well-tailored shirt and trousers, he had forgone a jacket and his sleeves were rolled up past his elbows, exposing sinewy forearms that complemented his elegant hands perfectly. His top two buttons were undone, showing off an extra sliver of collarbone, the skin there tantalisingly creamy, and John felt his mouth water a little. Sherlock’s dark hair was still slightly damp from the shower he’d taken earlier; a few strands clung to the sides of his face, and others defiantly curled upwards, unwilling to be tamed. The familiar urge to take fistfuls of that hair and drag his nails along Sherlock’s scalp pushed itself to the forefront of John's brain, just for an instant, before John swept it back into the corner of Things Not Allowed.
He took another sip of tea and reminded himself that no matter how good Sherlock was at making deductions, he couldn't actually read minds.
Then Sherlock was speaking again, although mostly to himself. “It bothers you, and yet you stay. You're the only one who ever stays. Why would you do that?”
John shifted in his seat, suddenly uncomfortable under Sherlock’s scrutiny. The simple truth, of course, was that John was in love with the insufferable bastard. And it was a truth that most people with any level of social eptitude seemed to pick up on fairly quickly after seeing the two of them together. Fortunately, Sherlock’s social eptitude was zero, and so the truth had miraculously managed to evade him thus far in their friendship. However, this line of questioning gave John the impression that he was skirting dangerously close to making that realisation, so he rushed to give an alternative explanation. “It’s not a friendship deal breaker for me,” he said, aiming for a casual tone but unable to tell whether he was successful. “I mean, I’m sure there are a tonne of things about me that irk you too, right?”
Sherlock’s huffed response of, “Obviously,” was somewhat expected.
“So I could ask you the same thing. Why do you stay? You can barely tolerate anyone for more than a few minutes. It's the same thing.”
“The same thing.” Sherlock sounded unconvinced. “No, John. I may not be an expert in navigating the dynamics of friendship-”
“Correct.”
“-but I am convinced that my motivation differs significantly from yours. Which leads me to question what it is, exactly, that motivates you.”
“You’ve clearly got too much time on your hands.” John looked back down at the paper, though he was no longer taking in any of the words. “Why don't you find a case to work on?”
“Trying to divert me. You don't want me to know what motivates you. Interesting.”
John sighed and gave up on the paper, folding it and placing it on the small table beside his chair. “What makes you so certain that I put up with you for different reasons than you put up with me?”
“Your frequent protests regarding third party assumptions that our relationship is anything other than strictly platonic. Your string of female bed partners and short-lived relationships. Your constant worry about the opinions of others and how those opinions come together to forge your reputation. Your blatant lack of interest in my notably unusual sexual history. Your conscious attempts to maintain an adequate physical distance-”
“Whoa, whoa. Just… hang on a second.” John pinched the bridge of his nose as his brain tried to make sense of what he had just heard, and he soon realised with rising terror that he was trapped. His two options were to contradict Sherlock, and thereby admit his attraction and humiliate himself, or to agree with him, dooming himself to a lifetime of buried feelings and releasing his clinging grip on the tiny strand of optimism and hope that his friendship with Sherlock could ever be anything more.
Neither option was particularly appealing. Sherlock waited.
Then, as he processed his apprehension, other pieces seemed to click into place,and his breath hitched in his throat as he came to a startling realisation. “You…” he started, daring himself to look up at Sherlock’s unreadable expression, “... you want that.”
Sherlock furrowed his brows. “Want what?”
Normally, that sort of response would be enough to have John second-guessing, backtracking, running for the hills to preserve his dignity. But this time he felt as though he’d grasped a thread of something tangible, something possible, and he knew he needed to pull and see what unravelled. “You want… something… not platonic. With me.”
The words hung heavy in the air between them, and John felt that he was standing on the edge of a precipice. He couldn't take it back, and he was going to fall; he just didn't know whether he would fall alone, or with Sherlock beside him.
And Sherlock was the bravest man he’d ever met, but John noticed as his eyes darted to the side and the faintest blush began to creep into his face. “I didn't mean to,” he answered at last, a tinge of uncertainty colouring his voice and exposing his inexperience, and John's heart threatened to hammer its way straight out of his chest.
He laughed, slightly hysterically, and shunted his chair forward so that his knees were close enough to brush against Sherlock’s. He leaned forward on his elbows. “Sherlock. You can be… completely stupid sometimes.” He took a deep breath, then threw himself to the lions. “Can I kiss you?”
From this close, he could see how Sherlock’s pupils dilated at the thought, and how straight away his gaze flickered to John's mouth. Jesus. John reached a hand up, hesitated a moment, then lightly cupped Sherlock’s jaw. His fingertips tingled at the feel of his skin, and Sherlock leaned into the touch almost imperceptibly, tongue darting out to wet his lips as he replied, “I would like that.”
It was soft and simple and everything John had ever imagined it would be. The fact that he was kissing Sherlock ( actually kissing Sherlock ) sent a shock of electricity down his spine, his eyes drifting closed of their own accord as he revelled in the moment. As little as ten minutes ago, this scenario would have been pure fantasy, as unlikely as the most unlikely thing in the world, and yet here they were. Trust Sherlock to flip the status quo on its head just by asking questions.
Realising that Sherlock, although receptive, had tensed beneath his fingers, he broke the contact but remained close. He let out a shuddering breath and opened his eyes to find that Sherlock’s were tightly shut and his fingers were gripping the arms of his chair. “Sherlock?” he murmured, voice barely louder than a whisper. “What is it?”
“I can't… I haven't… I’ve never…”
John froze, panicked as his brain supplied endings to those sentences, and he drew back. “Oh god, I’m so sorry. I knew that you… haven't…” He cleared his throat, and tried again. “I just assumed… I didn't realise. I assumed you'd kissed before.”
“What?” Sherlock was immediately indignant, and John exhaled, because at least indignance was familiar territory. “Of course I’ve kissed before. I just don't make a habit of it. However, while physical intimacy beyond kissing doesn't alarm me as my brother would have you believe, I can't claim to be… well-practiced. You know how I loathe sentiment, John, but the fact is that you matter to me, and I find myself afraid of disappointing you.”
John blinked, a little taken aback by this sudden outpouring of feeling, and he couldn't help but reach out to cover one of Sherlock’s hands with his own. “Hey. I know you. You're arrogant, and manipulative, and your regard for the feelings of others is practically non-existent. You're a git, to be honest.”
“Is this intended to be reassuring?”
“But you're also extraordinary. You show me how to see the world differently. And without you, I’m… incomplete. You could never disappoint me, Sherlock.”
“Never?” Sherlock repeated, some of the tension draining from his body as a grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. “That's a bold statement to make.”
John tried to look stern. “It’s also not an invitation to try and prove me wrong.”
“I hope never to prove you wrong, intentionally or otherwise.”
Sherlock’s flip-flopping between arrogance and heartfelt sentiment was playing havoc with John's nerves. He squeezed Sherlock’s hand and he didn't miss the short, sharp inhale of breath that this elicited. “Look. I don't want you to feel pressured or anything.”
“I don't.”
“You must know, though?”
“Probably.”
John couldn't help but grin. He felt giddy, and the words tumbled out of his mouth before he could reconsider. “You must know that I want everything with you. I want anything you're willing to give me. And I want to give you anything you could want.”
“Oh. Perhaps I wasn't quite one hundred percent aware that… you felt that way. About me.”
“That's because you're rubbish at emotions.”
Then Sherlock was suddenly leaning into his space, hands tentatively coming to rest on John's thighs, his voice low and downright sultry. “Show me, John. I need your help.”
John obliged. This kiss was firmer than the last, and John allowed both hands to thread through Sherlock’s hair, which was soft and perfect. The high-pitched sound that rose in Sherlock’s throat as he massaged his scalp was positively addictive, and John gasped against his lips as he felt Sherlock’s nails digging into the flesh of his legs.
The kiss eventually ended as all great kisses do, and John rested his forehead against Sherlock’s as he fought to regain a little composure. He was hard, his erection painfully constrained inside his jeans, and a quick glance downward revealed Sherlock to be in a similar state of arousal. It was surreal in the most glorious way, and he ached to touch.
“Sherlock,” he began, catching himself as his voice broke a little. “Tell me. Tell me what you want, and I swear I'll take care of you.”
Sherlock’s eyes opened slowly. He was dazed and flushed and a little out of breath, and John was sure he’d never seen such a stunning creature in all his life. “I don't know what to do,” he admitted, and John could feel a tremble in his fingers. “I don't know how.”
It was a rare moment of vulnerability, and John felt humbled that he was being allowed to witness it. Then Sherlock was kissing him again, and it was desperation and passion, any attempts at finesse out of the window. Hands clung to his shoulders, long fingers shaking as they snaked behind his neck, and Sherlock’s tongue was in his mouth and John would forever deny that the sound he made was a mewl.
Sherlock pulled away and shifted forwards out of his chair, dropping to his knees between John's thighs. And before John could get his head around that image, Sherlock hands were reaching out and deftly unbuttoning his jeans. “Holy hell,” came out of his mouth before he could think better of it, and Sherlock looked up at him.
“Is this right? Tell me if I'm doing it right, John.”
Just the sight of Sherlock trying to get into his pants was enough to scramble John's brain. He tried to calm himself down a bit, reminding himself that this was important, and he forced himself to focus enough to speak properly. “You absolutely don't have to do this if you don't want to. I need you to be sure this is what you want. Before we cross a boundary that we can't walk away from.”
Sherlock got John's cock out in the open, and experimentally wrapped his fingers around it. John hissed a sharp breath and shakily blew it back out again, willing himself not to come on the spot. “Oh, John,” Sherlock replied as he looked up, his eyes somehow innocent and positively devilish at the same time. “I don't want you walking anywhere for a while.” With no further warning, he leaned forward and took the head into his mouth, and John's eyes rolled back in his head, his hips thrusting upwards of their own accord.
It wasn't a pro job by any means, but for someone who had never in his life gone beyond kissing before, Sherlock was incredible. John knew he wouldn't last long; he gave in to temptation and put his hands back into Sherlock’s delightful hair, his breath coming in gasps and groans. Every bob of Sherlock’s head engulfed him in delicious warmth, and that tongue was dragging and doing sinful things, and those fingers were curled around his hip bones like anchors. Then he dared to look down, and he saw that gorgeous mouth stretched around him, swallowing him, and he was done for. He couldn't even warn Sherlock that it was going to happen, but a fresh pulse of arousal coursed through him as he realised that Sherlock had no intention of moving away until he was quite finished. He was boneless by the time Sherlock carefully pulled back, noting that he looked pretty pleased with himself as he wiped the corner of his lips with his thumb.
“Going by the end result, can I assume that using my mouth was ok?”
John's head fell back against the chair as he tried to catch his breath. “Only you could be both unsure and impossibly smug at the same time.”
There was a glint in Sherlock’s bright eyes. “I’m never smug. And very rarely unsure.”
John couldn't help himself. He tucked himself back into his jeans and shunted his chair back just far enough to make room, then dropped to the floor in front of Sherlock, taking his face in his hands and kissing him again. He could tell that Sherlock was beginning to relax, as Sherlock’s arms wound around his back to pull him closer, and John shuffled forward, carefully encouraging him to lie back and positioning one thigh between Sherlock’s legs.
Except Sherlock was more sensitive than John had anticipated, and his lack of experience showed through the cracks in his smugness. The moment John's thigh brushed against Sherlock’s erection, his back bowed in a sharp arch as he automatically pressed up against the friction, and his head fell away from the kiss, hitting the floor with a thud. His fingernails clawed into the muscles of John's back, and his expression was twisted in silent ecstasy as he held his breath.
John was in equal parts alarmed, concerned, and amazed that such a simple point of contact had such a profound effect. “Sherlock. Sherlock, breathe, remember?”
The reminder was apparently necessary, as his eyes snapped open and he quickly gasped a few breaths. “I’m sorry. I don't know what happened.”
John felt that he could very quickly get used to seeing Sherlock like this, out of his depth and in a scenario where, for once, John had the upper hand. Reliant and testing and wanting to please. It was frankly adorable. “Don't apologise. If you want me to stop, I will.” He applied a little pressure with his thigh again, loving the answering thrust from Sherlock’s hips and the deep howl it tore from his throat. So responsive. “Do you want me to stop?”
Sherlock shook his head wildly on the floor. “No, please don't.”
“Oh, thank god.”
John draped himself over Sherlock’s body completely and tilted his head to press small kisses to the side of Sherlock’s neck, while Sherlock almost subconsciously turned away to allow him more room. With the pressure provided by John's thigh, he rutted rhythmically against him, every hitched breath punctuated by a gorgeous moan. He seemed utterly lost, and it was beautiful, made even more so by John's knowledge that he was the first - and only - person to see Sherlock quite like this.
“John…” Sherlock almost squeaked, his tone desperate and his thrusts almost frantic. “John, I can't help it. What do I do?”
John's answer, aroused beyond belief by how undone Sherlock was for him, was to sink his teeth into the flesh of Sherlock’s neck and suck, and the effect on Sherlock was instant. He wailed incoherently, his entire body tensing and shuddering as he clenched John's shirt and arched up and dug his heels into the floor. It took John a moment to realise that Sherlock was coming, in his pants no less, and he took in the state of him and the intensity of it, and he hadn't even had a chance to get the man’s belt unbuckled.
Finally, when the aftershocks had subsided, Sherlock released his death-grip on John and collapsed back onto the floor. His eyes stayed closed. John carefully rolled over to lie beside him, and after a moment of consideration he wriggled close enough that their sides were pressed together. They stayed like that for what could have been seconds or hours, coming down from the high, processing the turn they had taken in their relationship.
Then, inexplicably, Sherlock began to laugh, and John sighed, although he couldn't keep a smile from his face either. “Alright. What's funny?”
“Nothing, it’s just the endorphins.” Through giggles, and it was too quick.
“Bollocks, it is.” John pushed himself up onto his elbows and looked down at Sherlock’s face, intending to decipher him, and softened when he saw that Sherlock’s smile looked just… happy. “You knew how I felt already.”
“I suspected.”
“You engineered this.”
“Oh John, you make it sound so cold and calculated.” John shot him a knowing look, and Sherlock fidgeted before adding, “And anyway, the plan didn't work out entirely. I hadn't anticipated the intensity of… everything. When you touched me, I lost control of myself. I couldn't think.”
This time it was John laughing. How could he not have seen from the start that this was Sherlock’s weird and roundabout way of seducing him? “You’re not supposed to think too much, you ridiculous twit. You're supposed be in the moment, and do what feels right.” He reached out, brushing an errant curl away from Sherlock’s forehead. “Sherlock, I-”
“No, don't say it.”
“What?”
“Don't say it.”
“You don't know what I was about to say!”
“I do. I do because I want to say it too.”
John looked at Sherlock, really looked, and he knew. His eyes started to feel hot, and his heart swelled.
“But this isn't the right time,” Sherlock continued. “I have rapidly congealing ejaculate inside my pants and it is not a pleasant sensation. I want to be able to fully appreciate it when you say it.”
“Well. The tone of this conversation has suddenly taken a nosedive.” John climbed to his feet and extended a hand to help Sherlock do the same. “Why don't you have a shower? Then maybe we can go somewhere to get lunch. And talk.”
A pause. “Talk?”
“Yes, talk.” John squeezed Sherlock’s hand as the grin fought its way back to his face. “There's something I need to say to you, but apparently you don't want to hear it while you've got rapidly congealing ejaculate in your pants.”
“Oh. Right.” Sherlock hesitated for a moment, before leaning in and pressing a quick kiss to John's mouth. “I won't be a moment. In the meantime, choose somewhere with champagne.” Then he turned and strode away to the bathroom.
John stood dumbly in the living room, processing the events of the morning in his head. He shook his head, trying to snap himself back to some semblance of normality, and took a glance at the clock.
Ten minutes past ten.
He ran a hand through his hair and smiled again as he heard the rush of water from the bathroom. Lunch would have to be early.