Work Text:
Sherlock headed toward the flat, jumping steps like a hop-skotcher in a rush of adrenaline. Behind him John lumbers the fifteen steps to the upper floor, and Sherlock is struck by a twinge of disappointment. Judging by the louder thumps John’s injured leg is acting up—Sherlock had hoped there might be more action than the removal of clothing and flopping into bed tonight. The limp only returns when John is truly tuckered out and Sherlock is forced to admit that an hour long chase would do in most mortals, even if he isn’t feeling the exhaustion quite yet himself.
The chase underneath the bright gibbous moon had been brilliant. Sherlock’s trap, finely tuned, was almost escaped in a breathless moment as the killer attempted to prove himself worthy of Sherlock’s energies. Rooftops were jumped, alleys cut through; Sherlock was strongly reminded of the cabbie murders and his first chase with John (which always brought a smile to his face, even if he wouldn’t allow anyone to see it.)
He entered the doorway to 221B without preamble, fingering at his scarf as he readied to throw it to the ground and flop in his usual position on the couch. He tossed the scarf and began to unbutton the top of his coat when the door slammed behind him.
That wasn’t good.
“Get on the floor, Sherlock.”
John’s voice took on the timbre of a military captain used to having orders obeyed, echoing slightly in the small flat. Something about that tone of voice (and John must know, surely he knew) short-circuited all the machinery of Sherlock’s brain. He found himself on hands and knees, still fully dressed, in the next instant.
As the cogs of his mind began to start up again Sherlock raised his head from its lolling position and attempted to catch John’s eye and thus better judge the severity of his anger. But John had managed to step into his blind spot and Sherlock felt a brief wave of fright -- he hated not being able to view the evidence. He lowered his head, relaxing his neck once again, just as John crossed the room. (His steps were much more even; his injury was no longer hurting as much. Interesting.)
“What in the hell was that about?” John said as he leaned over Sherlock’s back, seemingly gritting his teeth even as he let the words out.
Sherlock felt the heat of John against his left thigh, close and tantalizing. It was distracting and Sherlock’s emotional understanding, rusty at the best of times, seemed to break down entirely.
The adrenaline was pumping fast through his veins, urging him to move, to take. But Sherlock Holmes refused to let his body be his master, especially when John was doing something so tantalizingly out of character. The shorter man lost his temper often enough, yes, but he was generally quite capable of reining it in without allowing it a physical outlet. Sherlock often found John’s iron control frustrating—it was what kept him pursuing the normal: the women, the house in the country with three children. But the aftermath of the chase had gifted Sherlock with a glimpse at John’s ego, his true needs, manifested. This was different. No white picket fences here.
"Sherlock." John warned, one hand closing on the scruff of Sherlock's neck. It felt like an electric shock.
Right, what had he asked? What was… Ah. Obvious. He should have seen it sooner. If he weren't side-tracked by his prone position and imagining what it might lead to he would have had an answer much earlier. Foolish to let his body dictate terms; it was just transport after all.
"Horowitz. He shot at me, yes, but he didn't hit anything. The bullet was at least six feet off." Sherlock responded blithely.
"Why did he shoot at you, Sherlock?"
Strange. Did John normally use his name so often when he was angry? It would be something to study, later on.
"Because I was chasing him and attempting to arrest him for four rather grisly murders, of course. I don't understand why you're so distressed."
As soon as the words tumbled out of Sherlock's mouth the answer began to dawn. John was distressed. Over him. Over him being shot at, to be specific. Did John fear he hadn't properly protected his partner? That was ridiculous-- Sherlock was perfectly capable of defending himself. And the proof of that was his entirely unscathed body, right now on the floor with its pristine state visible to John’s eyes, mere hours after having been shot at.
"Every time, Sherlock! We go through this every single time. You ran off without me! Every time, every single time, you've promised you won't run off without me again. And then you do. Again."
Fear crept back in as John’s ranting voice took on icy, deadly quiet tones. As much as he hated to acknowledge it, Sherlock began to feel a tiny sliver of guilt run up his spine. The thought made him scoff—how ridiculously romantic. Emotions didn’t have any physical manifestations, at least not when they happened to Sherlock.
"John…" Sherlock began, unsure how the sentence would end. Another exceedingly rare occurrence.
"Save it, Sherlock. You'll just break your promise again." John huffed in an almost-sigh.
The grip on Sherlock’s neck strengthened and he heard John place his feet more firmly on the sitting room’s rug. His face headed towards Sherlock’s ear, tickling the hairs there slightly.
"Tonight you're listening to me, Sherlock Holmes."
Oh. That was new, too, his full name. He was beginning to think that running off without John had been a very smart move indeed.
The hand on Sherlock's neck began to drift down on his back, slowly, the feeling almost entirely muffled by his thick coat. As it reached his lower back the hand trailed off and within the next moment the long tails of his coat were flung upwards across his back, leaving his rear uncovered.
Sherlock gasped as the hand slid between his legs and palmed at his growing erection. John’s body tilted slightly towards the other man’s, allowing Sherlock to feel the growing bulge he sported. They were both excited for this, more so than was usual in the post-case high.
Quite suddenly the warmth was removed and Sherlock felt bereft, enough to draw a small breath that might, to outside parties, be considered a whimper.
"Clothes. Off. Now." John said sharply, but his increased rate of breathing put his attempted aloofness from the situation to the lie.
Sherlock pushed himself to his knees and removed his belt swiftly. It took a bit more doing with his trousers, but he managed to get them around his knees eventually. He reached down to take off his pants as well but John’s hand gripped firmly at his wrist, stopping him.
He lowered his hands once more to the floor, beginning to feel the ache in his wrists as John reached at his elastic waistband and tugged slowly downwards. His cock slid free as the underwear shimmied down his legs to lie atop his trousers.
Sherlock longed for John’s hands to touch him, for his slightly callused palms to pull and tug and wrap around his length. Pre-come leaked from him swiftly and Sherlock began to feel a shiver wrack his abused muscles.
“John,” He pleaded.
He inhaled quickly as a sharp slap rang against his left buttocks. His concerns about what John’s emotional state might be were derailed, completely obliterated by the carnal physicality the smaller man displayed.
“Quiet.” Said John, his voice betraying his own excitement.
Sherlock bit against his full lower lip and attempted to comply. John’s finger reached for his cleft, generously lubricated, and Sherlock was forced to pull in another gasping breath. Somewhere amongst these movements Sherlock’s attentions, even the unconscious observations he seemed unable to shut off, had entirely ceased.
The slow stretch and burn filled all of Sherlock’s nerve endings and he bit down harder to avoid any forbidden sounds from escaping. A second finger joined the first and soon enough John began to ghost over his prostrate, causing Sherlock’s back to arch in pleasure.
He loved John for many reasons, but his knowledge of human anatomy ranked highly among them.
The fingers popped back out as quickly as they had come and Sherlock felt bereft. John seemed to sense this and placed his hand on the other man’s shoulder.
“Patience.”
John’s anger and frustration seemed to have been rerouted into their passions and his voice no longer carried the tone that made Sherlock ache so oddly. He was relieved and very, very ready.
Soon enough Sherlock felt John push his thighs against his and his muscles relaxed against the fullness gliding into him. At first there was a burn but quickly it became intoxicating, deadly pleasure, the kind Sherlock longed for all his life but never attained until now.
“Ohhh…” He moaned, unable to stifle himself.
John chuckled, pushing himself harder until his entire length was engulfed. Sherlock worried that small movement alone would kill him but his body rocked slowly nonetheless, seeking the gentle rub of John’s cock against his prostate. When the correct angle's finally managed Sherlock let loose a yell while John began to murmur endearments, clearly at least as far gone as the man below him.
They pushed and pulled against one another until John’s body tensed and he spilt himself, leaning his chest against Sherlock’s back in relief. Sherlock let out a growl of frustration, unable to pull himself off while both his hands are supporting his body weight.
But John was not a monster, he reached down to grab at Sherlock, stroking two quick movements down his length until Sherlock comes hard. Fireworks go off in his head, illuminating and sparkling amongst the hard machinery of his brain. The minute the high ends Sherlock’s elbows bend and his entire body slides into a prone position.
Rolling out and over to Sherlock’s right side, John lay on his back against the carpet and looked at the ceiling. His voice was soft and content when he finally gets his breath back,
“Promise me you won’t go where I can’t follow.”
Sherlock smirked against the wood, turning his head enough to make himself heard.
“If this was meant to be a deterrent…” He began, mischief in his tone.
John’s eyes narrowed as he growled warningly, “Sherlock.”
The grin on Sherlock’s face widened,
“I promise.”
And John thought he might really mean it this time.