Chapter Text
Chapter One: Please
The first time Sherlock had noticed it, he had done something completely uncharacteristic: he had doubted his own judgment. It had been too absurd. John Watson was quite secure in his heterosexuality. How many times had John corrected people assumptions about the two of them? Thus, Sherlock could not possibly be the recipient of the strange expressions that he had noticed flickering across John's face.
The first few times it had happened, Sherlock had actually looked around, as though expecting to find an attractive woman hiding somewhere in their flat. Or at least a lingerie commercial on the telly or a porn mag on the table – any kind of arousing stimuli. He never found anything of the sort, however, so he had been forced to come to the only remaining conclusion.
Before he could truly believe it, Sherlock had run a few small experiments. That evening, he had feigned a languorous stretch on the couch, his tight shirt drifting up to reveal several inches of his abdomen. Sure enough, there had been the look. The next morning, he had bent slowly at the waist to retrieve a container of kidney stones from the bottom shelf of the refrigerator. As he straightened, he had caught the look before John had hidden behind his newspaper. Later, he had exited the bathroom, still damp and with naught but a smallish towel around his waist. There had most definitely been a look.
Sherlock had recorded all of this information in a notebook and, upon analysis, there had been little doubt in the results. Now there was only one more thing for Sherlock to do. He retreated into his mind palace, lingering there for almost two days while he self-analyzed. He was vaguely aware that John was worried and confused, unused to Sherlock withdrawing in this fashion when there was no case to contemplate, but he knew he could not face his flatmate until he understood exactly how this information made him feel.
He had already known he was attracted to John – he had known that almost as long as he had known the man – and the idea of a relationship with him was intriguing. On the other hand, Sherlock had never really been in anything the average person was likely to describe as a relationship and he doubted he would be very good at it. Besides, Sherlock liked the status quo in their flat. He enjoyed having John as his close friend and, as he was uncertain how much of John's obvious attraction was apparent to John himself, he did not want to risk upsetting the balance of their friendship. If John approached him, he would agree to attempt a relationship, but John would have to be the instigator.
With the decision made, he returned to the present, much to John's relief, and continued as though nothing had changed. John still looked longingly at Sherlock when he thought Sherlock wouldn't notice, and perhaps Sherlock went out of his way occasionally to attract the look, but otherwise, life in 221B carried on like normal. It may have done so ad infinitum if it hadn't been for one thing.
Sherlock was kidnapped.
It didn't take long for Sherlock to conclude that being kidnapped was horribly boring. His captors were thorough, if a bit dull, and Sherlock was quite securely tied to a chair in some dreary basement. He had connected a recent murder to a local politician, one Henry Beauregard. Beauregard had found him investigating his house and had seized him in an attempt to convince Sherlock not only to hide his role in the crime, but also to frame a rival politician in his place. It was all very mundane. Beauregard's lackeys had roughed him up occasionally in an effort to convince him to cooperate, but they weren't very creative about their methods of persuasion.
While he slumped, stiff and aching in his wooden chair, Sherlock also realized that he needed to improve his communication habits, if not with Lestrade, then at least with John. He hadn't even told anyone who his main suspect had been before he had gone haring off to find hard evidence, too impatient to wait until John finished his shift. After witnessing the consequences of the last time he had died, Sherlock really wished to avoid putting John through that kind of anguish again. He told himself he would stop rushing into things with no backup. It struck him as strange that he felt the need to be more careful about his own life as a result of someone else caring for him, but it was clearly true.
He tried to remember how long he'd been in the basement. Had it been three days yet? Beauregard had informed Sherlock soon after his capture that if he didn't agree to his terms by the end of the third day, the politician would get rid of the only thing that could tie him to the murder.
A racket upstairs drew Sherlock's head upwards. The man guarding him leaped his feet and drew his weapon just as the door burst open, flooding the dim room with light. The guard went down before Sherlock's blinking eyes could even focus at the figure at the top of the stairs. A small smile twitched Sherlock's lips. No one in the Yard could shoot like that.
Then John was in front of him, his blue eyes telling Sherlock exactly how worried John had been for him.
"Sherlock!" he gasped, gently cupping Sherlock's bruised face in his hands. "How badly are you hurt?"
"I'm fine. All of my injuries are superficial," Sherlock murmured, low and soothing as John scrabbled at the ropes. The doctor flung his hands away with a curse before pulling a knife out of his back pocket and parting the bindings with a precise downward movement. He slipped an arm around Sherlock's back and helped him to to his feet. His firm hands steadied Sherlock as he swayed on legs that had been denied adequate circulation for far too long and opened his mouth as if to say something, but then Lestrade was there, along with half the Yard, and they were herding Sherlock toward the medics.
Aware that resisting would only lengthen the process, Sherlock sat patiently while the medics taped him up and John hovered at his shoulder like an anxious sentinel. After what seemed like an eternity, they finally entered the familiar surroundings of 221B. The reality of almost three days away crashed down as Sherlock took in everything that made the flat his refuge: the skull on the mantle, John's ratty armchair, the dented kettle on the stove. As the door swung shut with an ominous click behind him, Sherlock prepared himself for John's concern to explode into a rant about Sherlock's lack of self-preservation.
Instead, what John did was pounce, pushing him towards the sofa. Blinking in surprise, Sherlock allowed himself to be shoved onto the cushions. The doctor's fingers ran over his face, checking the work of the medics, then through his hair, searching his scalp for additional injuries. When he didn’t find any, the fingers traveled back down, under Sherlock's chin and across his neck.
"John, really, I'm fine, you don't have to…" Sherlock began, before trailing off as something told him to be quiet and let him have his confirmation. John's fingers continued as if he didn't hear the words. When his explorations were interrupted by the collar of Sherlock's filthy shirt, John wasted no time in removing it. Sherlock winced as a button went flying, but the shirt had been beyond salvaging anyway. The deft hands ran over his shoulders, across his chest, then down his stomach, curling into the waistband of Sherlock's trousers before they froze.
John's startled blue gaze drifted slowly up from the fingers clenched around Sherlock's fly and up his naked upper body until they were blinking into Sherlock's eyes, clearly wondering how they had ended up in this position. Then they traveled back down, as if they didn't quite believe what they were seeing. He seemed about to repeat the sequence when he noticed the obvious tenting in Sherlock's trousers and his wide gaze snapped back to Sherlock's face.
That was quite enough of that, Sherlock decided. It was time they did something about this. "John," he rasped, surprised by the harshness of his own voice. "Don't stop. Please."
John's head was spinning. He was pretty sure he should be embarrassed that he had just practically stripped his flatmate, but his brain was confused by numerous conflicting emotions. There were the fading dredges of worry from the three long days that Sherlock had been missing, the extreme relief of having him home and relatively unharmed, and the absolute shock at what he had just been doing, not to mention the amazement caused by what was unmistakably an interested bulge. He might have just run away and buried his head in the sand for a few days while he tried to work through it all, except then Sherlock had said something completely out of character.
He had said please.
Taking a deep breath, John wrenched his gaze up from Sherlock's groin and took a moment to study his friend. He knew what he was seeing in that familiar face, although the expression seemed almost alien. Sherlock had taught him how to read the signs of desire in someone and they were all there. There was also anxiety. In a flash of clarity, John knew it wasn't what they were doing that was worrying Sherlock, but the idea that John might somehow reject him. Still, John needed to hear his consent aloud.
"Are you sure?"
Sherlock snorted, forcing a corner of John’s mouth to curl upward. Of course he was sure. He never said anything he didn't mean. He removed his hands from Sherlock's waistband, but before Sherlock could doubt his intentions, he pressed himself closer. Bracing on the back of the sofa, John straddled Sherlock's lap, bringing his clothed chest flush against Sherlock's bare one. It was a rush just being so close to this usually untouchable man. He ran his fingers through Sherlock's dark curls again, this time just because he wanted to, ignoring the days of unwashed grit. He clung there for a moment, so very glad that Sherlock was all right. Sherlock's arms came around John's back and held him firmly. For several long minutes, the two remained completely still, simply breathing in each other's presence.
Then John leaned back just a fraction and, minding the bruises, cupped that refined face in his hands. His lowered his head, ignoring the small part of his brain that was screaming that the moment his lips touched Sherlock's, his entire life would be upended. Then their mouths connected and that voice went blissfully silent, along with all of John's other thoughts. Sherlock's hands slid from John's back to his hips, grasping them tightly. His mouth was warm against John's and his tongue did wicked things, forcing John's hands to clutch at Sherlock's shoulders. Long fingers drifted around to press firmly into John's own burgeoning bulge, forcing John to break the kiss long enough for a ragged gasp.
He took the moment to admire how beautiful Sherlock looked like this, his cheeks flushed and his eyes dark with desire. Then John pulled away and climbed shakily to his feet. Concern flickered across Sherlock's face before John reached out to seize his hand and pull him up as well.
"Come along, Sherlock," he told his friend. "If we're going to do this, we're going to do it properly, not rutting on the couch like a couple of teenagers." Then he dragged the taller man towards his bedroom, his mind flooded with delightful possibilities.
Perhaps he would even be able to make him say please again.