Chapter Text
I.
Sherlock looks gorgeous in the flickering light of the fireplace, and John takes another gulp of his wine before setting his plate on the floor and getting up.
They have just finished a lovely dinner courtesy of Angelo’s, balancing the plates on their laps. Lasagne for Sherlock and chicken caprese for John, and the doctor feels that on a night like this, with Rosie fast asleep in her cot and gentle rain tapping against the windows, what could go wrong?
Taking two careful steps, John crosses the space between their armchairs and leans over the detective, whose lips have an almost magnetic pull now that he has tasted them once, twice, three times over the past few days. And Sherlock is looking up at him, the smile almost shy, his eyes so open, vulnerable, John wants to laugh and cry at the same time. Most of all, he needs to kiss this man, or he might go mad. He knows he is torturing both of them by taking it slow, but then there is no need to rush. They have all the time in the world, now.
Placing a careful hand on Sherlock’s cheek, he brushes his lips against the detective’s forehead. “Can you believe this?” He whispers, breath grazing over Sherlock’s brow. “That we finally got here?”
“If you eliminate the impossible.” Sherlock grins and reaches out to cup the side of John’s neck.
“Are you implying that this…” He indicates the both of them, and all of 221B in a hand gesture, “Is the only possible way things could have turned out?” And he can barely wait for Sherlock’s answer with the need to taste him.
“That would make me a believer in faith, John.” He is being pulled further down, and John doesn’t have the strength, or the will, to discuss their life philosophies right now, when they are finally here.
Since their first kiss, a tender press of lips that lasted mere seconds, that had in its seeming diminutiveness broken down walls which had been built up over several years, there had been no time to take things further, to spend time on their own. So, tonight is the night, their night, and John feels nervous and excited and has so much love for this man in front of him.
Their lips fit perfectly against each other, just resting there for a moment, and John is holding his breath. “John.” Sherlock whispers, and never has so common a name been said with more emotion, John is sure. He kisses and kisses and kisses him, their fingers tangled in the other’s hair, pulling closer and pushing away briefly just so they breathe for a second, before they meet again. John is almost on Sherlock’s lap, his feet barely touching the carpet, and Sherlock has both his arms and legs wrapped around him. John feels a pang of guilt, convinced that Sherlock is still afraid that he might leave. John will prove him wrong, tonight.
What seemed like a good idea in his head, turns out to be less elegant, or easy, but John still manages to pull Sherlock up, hands on his upper thighs, and carry him to the bedroom. There are giggles, and sipping kisses, and Sherlock’s back collides with the wall more than once, which makes them giggle more. From their first evening together, this shared laughter has bonded them together, and all nervousness is now gone. John can be open, show Sherlock how much he loves and wants him.
They manage to get out of their clothes before John presses Sherlock into the mattress. He is so beautiful that John can barely find words for it. Miles of pale, soft, marvellous skin almost silver in the dark room. With his flatmate’s lack of modesty, John has seen almost all of him before, the sheet not leaving much room for imagination. It is no wonder, then, that John’s eyes are pulled down to the lean, long cock nestled against Sherlock’s belly. He leans forward to mouth at his lover’s jaw and neck.
“Tell me where I can touch you.” He whispers, and Sherlock shudders at his words, lids falling shut for a moment, before pale eyes look down at him. “Everywhere, John, please. I want… everything.”
They are kissing; hungry, open mouthed kisses, and John’s intent to hold back, to take things slow, dissolves when Sherlock bites at his lips and rolls his hips, pressing their cocks together in between their bodies. “Fuck.” He curses, his fingers pulling at dark curls. “Tell me if I do anything you don’t like, yeah?” He manages to breathe against Sherlock’s ear, before he starts to mouth at every centimetre of marble skin, until he has the detective writhing on the sheets, bucking up against him.
“John.” Sherlock moans, and John is amazed with how open his lover is, not hiding a single emotion as he looks at the doctor. “No more hiding,” John thinks “for either of us.”
“John, I want… I want everything.” And John understands. Traveling up the detective’s body, he kisses the sweet mouth waiting for him, stealing the words that have just left those lips.
Everything.
“It might hurt.” He warns, hands pushing curls from Sherlock’s sweaty forehead, as he holds himself up on both elbows.
“I don’t care.”
“You really should.”
“I trust you.” Sherlock smiles, rubbing their noses together, and there it is again, the feeling of wanting to cry with joy. John rests his brow against Sherlock’s. “Okay, we’ll try, and see how we like it, yeah?” He feels Sherlock nod, as his large hands skim down John’s back, grabbing his buttocks and pulling them flush against each other.
There is a moment where they reorganize themselves, scooting more towards the middle of the bed, as Sherlock retrieves the lube and a condom from his nightstand before John kneels between Sherlock’s thighs.
“Ready?”
“Hurry up.” John grins, swatting at Sherlock’ bum, before he leans down to lick at the lovely cock nestled against dark curls. For a while, Sherlock is all John can focus on, as he stretches him open, while distracting him with his mouth. He has never done this to a man before, but he knows what he likes, when it comes to blowjobs, and he is a doctor, so preparing the ring muscle doesn’t scare him. The way Sherlock moves against him, and moans his name, he seems to be doing something right.
John only stops when Sherlock is begging him, begging to be fucked, and John needs to kiss his posh, dirty man, needs to taste his lips and press him into the mattress. He pulls on a condom to avoid the mess, and god, how much he adores this man. There is nothing he wants more than to bury himself deep inside him, and make him feel so loved, so cherished. John has always been a careful but thorough lover, and a firm believer that lust has to be shared, not just claimed for himself. For Sherlock Holmes, he wants this to be perfect. They have both held back for so long, and John’s heart is pounding in his chest, his cock throbbing between his legs. Still, he needs a clear head, needs to take care of Sherlock first. “It might feel a lot, in the beginning, love. You’ll tell me, if it is too much, promise?” Only, when the detective nods, does John slowly push in, only the head, at first.
Warm, tight heat surrounds him, and John drops his head against Sherlock’s chest. It’s been so long since he felt himself press into another body, and Sherlock moans, pushes against him.
In a second, everything changes. John’s hands start to shake, and he feels he cannot breathe. Suddenly, being surrounded by Sherlock makes him feel trapped. He has gone from being desperately aroused, longing for his lover, to feeling like someone has pushed him into cold water, and he is drowning, scrambling to keep afloat.
“I’m sorry.” He gasps. “I can’t. I can’t.”
He pulls out, getting as far away from Sherlock on the bed as he can. John does not understand why his body is reacting like this, why he is suddenly overwhelmed. Hands over his eyes, the doctor bites down on his lips so hard it hurts, breaking skin. There’s not enough air filling his lungs. Hyperventilation, he knows, a knowledge that is useless, because he can’t bring himself to follow the advice he would have given anybody else.
“John?” Sherlock’s voice is quiet, small. “John, can I touch you?”