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When Sherlock makes his way back across the expansive ballroom, it’s as though he’s parting the sea, a very expensive, posh sea, but a sea nonetheless. People step out of his way and he pays no mind, doesn’t notice a single head that is turning, glancing, eyes dropping to check out his backside.
John watches, just a bit in awe as Sherlock carries himself over with perfectly-measured steps and sidles up to the table that the shorter man has been milling around for the better part of two hours. For all of the standing and doing relatively nothing that John has been up to, he feels positively exhausted for it.
“This is... why is this-,” Sherlock tosses his glossy hair out of his face and straightens his collar; the little product that Lestrade had managed to work into it is doing nothing to control the unruly curls. The fact that he’d allowed the D.I. to put product in his hair in the first place is no less surprising than his breaking in his portrayal of a wealthy bachelor. There’s a fine crescent of sweat at his hairline and his cheeks are fairly flushed and Sherlock is honestly doing his best to straighten himself out, perturbed as he is. Sherlock bites his lip as he dips his hand into his pocket, likely sending off a shorthand text without having to look. “We need to get close to the suspect,” he hisses and squirms in his tuxedo, looking decidedly uncomfortable.
There’s a frustration about him that’s nearly palpable in his demeanor, though perhaps only to John. They’re both aware that John is truly the only one who can properly get a read on Sherlock Holmes, even more so than his own brother. It’s been a positive factor in their relationship; John knows when to steer clear, shut up and vice versa. There is also the pleasant and simple knowledge that it is he that gets a read on Sherlock. It makes John feel proud and special, important to Sherlock’s process. Important in general.
Sherlock’s fingers linger over the hem of his tuxedo coat and pull; he looks like a school boy who is unenthused about dressing for class photo day; he’s slipping further and further out of character. Another tug at the jacket and a quiet little harrumph, as though this is honestly any different than his standard Dolce and Gabbana suit; as though what he’s wearing is the root of the issue. Sherlock yanks at the cuffs of his jacket and torques his neck against the expensive fabric. The dim lights from the room catch on the golden flecks in his irises as the man rolls his eyes and shuffles closer to John.
The bachelor auction had been a necessity to attend; their suspect -a wealthy Parisian socialite - was in London for one night only, attending the very elite, very posh, very secret bachelor’s auction held by one of the more flamboyant members of the royal family. They’d been tracking the woman’s whereabouts for the better part of two months when she’d popped up in public, on an evening flight from Charles de Gaulle to Heathrow.
It hadn’t taken much doing to sort where she’d be staying and after that, after Mycroft had provided the confirmation that she would be attending the auction. Their main goal was to get the woman to confess the information that they needed.
That being the location of a cache of gold bullion somehow stolen from the Credit Suisse some months before.
“She goes for tall, dark and stormy,” Lestrade had intoned as they reviewed the file over a long, low conference table at New Scotland Yard. Sally had managed a ladylike snort whereas John outright chuckled.
He’d raised his hand while he kept a finger to his lips, as though to halt the laughter. “Not your man.”
Lestrade had managed a half-smirk and turned his attention to Sherlock who was currently absorbed in the casefile clearly not picking up on the not-so-subtle hint that Lestrade had dropped.
“Sherlock, howd’ya feel about doing us a little undercover work?” Still, Sally was grinning in the corner where John had stepped over to join her, the both of them waiting on Sherlock’s impending reaction. ‘Tall, dark and stormy,’ John had thought at the time. ‘Emphasis on stormy.’
Sherlock flicked through the pages of the file, taking hasty notes here and there; he barely looked up as he’d snorted, remarked, “Child’s play,” and closed the folder with an industrious turn of his wrist. “Text me the details!” and with that, he’d gone; John had had to jog along to catch up.
Honestly, John had thought it would have been much more difficult to get Sherlock to go undercover, especially to an event such a this; sure, he’s seen the man slip into a disguise in the moment, feigning surprise or sadness, but never more than for a short time. He’d not been sure that Sherlock could contain his true self long enough for their ruse to be successful.
As it turns out, the role that they’ve carefully constructed for him to assume is working all too well. Jerome Vowell who’d hit it big in the dot com boom, who is now CEO of Keading Enterprises, net worth somewhere around three hundred million pounds. Between his financial status and the cut of his tuxedo, Sherlock-as-Jerome was laying on just the right amount of charm, touching the women just so. No wonder they were all-
“I can’t be left alone!” Sherlock huffs quietly, attempting to keep the frustration from lining his face. “This is... frightfully difficult and more than-John, honestly, these women are desperate the way they’re... tossing themselves at the men in here! Literally just heaving themselves.”
The other man blinks, lets the observation filter in and float about in his mind for a moment. He glances over Sherlock’s full form, head to toe and then over the man’s shoulder at the people looking wantonly in his direction. “You have got to be having me on,” John huffs, bringing an index finger to the bridge of his nose in a sort of mock withering as his eyes slide closed. “Kidding me, pulling a leg.” Surely, surely he has to be.
Sherlock’s hands are busy pressing his hair back from his brow in a maneuver that to others must simply look like a bit of primping but reads very much as squirming to John; what was to be “child’s play” has somehow become something so much more complicated, something that the consulting detective simply does not understand or know how to process. More of the minutiae of human interaction that he’s never really taken an interest in grasping. “Pardon? What’s so... John, there have been many... what does one-”
He’s impressed that Sherlock is able to keep up disguises at the moment when he is so clearly distressed. “You’ve been propositioned, yes?”
Sherlock rolls his eyes and fiddles with the bowtie that is cleanly secured at the base of his neck. “It’s entirely overt! I’m not shocked by these situations but honestly, John, it makes little sense. I am simply trying to-”
John waves him off with a lazy hand and snatches a flute of champagne as it passes by on a sterling tray. When in Rome... “Get close to the subject, yes, but Sherlock you’re-”
“And being continually restrained from doing so by, by these women-”
John tosses back his champagne, eyes on the band, eyes away from those of his flatmate, “They’re not desperate, you idiot and they’re not throwing themselves at the men here, Sherlock. Just you. Everyone in this room wants a piece of you, they want you or want to know you.”
“...you deduced that...” His voice is flat, wholly unimpressed.
John takes the opportunity to roll his eyes once more and leans over to deposit his empty flute. “You’re an idiot, really, gorgeous and so stupid.” He returns, in front of Sherlock and smooths out the non-existent wrinkles in his own pressed suit, pulls at his delicious silk tie. “Out of your mind and your element when it comes to this, really.”
“...you’re speaking as though you wish to prompt me as to ask why I’m obtuse in this situation, I’m never obtuse John and this is no exception, this is simply an instance of-”
John bites his lip, snags a passing crab puff; for what was supposed to be an evening of startlingly difficult detective work this is turning out to be so very entertaining. He bites, chews, swallows it, watches Sherlock watching him. “There are, Sherlock, there are women - and actually more than a fair share of men who - are looking at you as though you’re both bait and catch.”
It’s an explanation, sure, a fairly good for most people, but Sherlock simply is not grasping it. John breaks into a hearty laugh, clutches a bit at his side and leans in, “They all want to proposition you, and if they don’t think they do, they’re searching for another adjective to describe what exactly they want to do...”
Sherlock bites his own lip and moves back a fraction, to survey the crowd.
John leans back in, “To you.”
“I’m not that far gone, John,” Sherlock scoffs and to John’s surprise, snags a passing appetizer, he turns it about a bit in his fingers before popping it into his mouth. “I understand this... haphazard, pathetic, mating ritual, I understand the supposed purpose of these events, but-”
“It’s emotion and feeling and just... sexual attraction, simple sexual attraction,” John begins, finishes another crab puff and gives up on attempting to explain emotion and feeling based on the mere sight of something. “What have we said about the cheekbones and the coat and the mystery?” John asks, falling back on old conversations, that he’s entirely certain that Sherlock will recall.
“The cheekbones? Perhaps, but- it’s my face.”
John blinks, Sherlock deadpan all too serious; he’s not having him on, not one bit. “You’re enigmatic you complete fool!” John exclaims.
Sherlock scoffs and rolls his eyes, gearing up for a diatribe during which he’s sure to set John absolutely straight while at the very same time insisting emphatically that his face cannot possibly be the reason for all of this fuss. “John-”
“With the voice, and the deductive reasoning and, and, the flippant manner, the cheekbones, yes? Because people like the cheekbones and, and the, the, everything else. Hair and eyes and that impossible purple shirt-” which he’s not wearing at the moment and John realizes that he’s tripping himself up a bit, “The general way in which you carry yourself and these ladies and gentle-”
“John, I’m not-” Sherlock cuts in and it’s definitive and clear.
“Where’s the suspect, Sherlock?” John deflects, turns his gaze away; they’re treading a very fine line right now, one that John had - at one time - outlined in thick, black charcoal; a line that is now somewhat... non-existent. The line that - firmly on his own side - John could effectively admire his flatmate from, admit that he was lovely, stunning, intelligent and his perfect foil and mean abbbbsolutely nothing by it. And now, now, John thinks admiringly of his flatmate, of Sherlock, from somewhere south of where the line should have been, but no longer is.
Still, there’s something about pretending it’s there so that John doesn’t allow himself to do something so spectacularly stupid and - in the process - possibly damaging the best thing to happen to him in, oh, honestly, just about ever.
“My face. Is the reason. These women are...” He tests the words on his tongue and even John can tell they feel foreign in his mouth. Sherlock sips from his own champagne, keeping a delighted smile on his face as though nothing at all is amiss, in the instance that anyone is interested in the conversation they’re having. Just two mates chatting about stock options or some other bollocks.
John is presented with another flute and he takes it after a brief moment of consideration. The fizz tickles his upper lip and as the liquid sizzles over his tongue, he thinks about saying something akin to ‘We need to stay on target,’ when instead he rolls his eyes, looking down at the shiny high top they’re standing at.
John laughs indignantly, “It’s true!”
“True how?” Sherlock asks and this has become convoluted very quickly. If he’s asking John how, there’s a ninety percent chance that the man already knows, just wants to hear John say it aloud.
“Sherlock, please-” John nearly begs, his elated, amused smile turning into one of warm embarrassment.
“Oh, do tell me how it is that I’ve become-”
“The face, Sherlock! Your face. And the body and... everything else. I’m sure you’ve known just what to say to every person here! You’re saying the exact things that you need to keep them on edge, wanting more, because you’re,” John flails his hands a bit as though indicating something but Sherlock’s brow simply furrows in confusion. “No.”
“No!?”
“No, I won’t, I won’t,” John takes a moment to smile at a short brunette with whom he’d been casually flirting earlier, tips his chin in a repeated greeting. “I won’t feed your ego, we need to, need to get along with this.”
Sherlock simply stands before him, clutching his champagne and looking to all the world as though he’s not understanding a thing that John is saying. The man fidgets again, runs a hand through his hair awkwardly.
It couldn’t be... could it?
Sherlock turns away and sips at his drink, makes eyes with their subject across the room and he takes a long, deep breath. Steadying himself, preparing himself.
But oh, honestly, honestly and truly. This hasn’t been about getting John to admit to the attractive qualities about Sherlock; this isn’t an exercise in vanity.
Sherlock honestly doesn’t understand that he’s stunning, breathtakingly beautiful.
Oh.
A sleek, glossy woman sidles up behind Sherlock and makes a glance at John; as his eyes are already wide, he doesn’t need to stop his pupils from blowing when he notices their suspect sliding her palm into Sherlock’s back pocket. Sherlock flinches once, reads John’s face and turns smoothly to the woman behind him.
“Good evening,” his voice holds so much dark promise that if John wasn’t so sure that he was slipping back into character his knees would likely buckle.
The woman steps back and gives Sherlock the once over and how can this man not understand, how can he not understand that he is walking sex.
How?
---
It’s not much later when Sherlock pulls up beside John and exclaims that it’s time to leave; John gets their coats from the check and follows Sherlock out into the crisp London evening; the lights from the patrol cars are pinging off of the expensive marble of the mansion.
“Easier than I thought,” the detective says in what John could swear sounds like surprise, sliding a lean finger into the knot on his tie and giving a tug. Behind them, Lestrade takes Genevieve Allard into custody; she’s cursing and spitting all the while.
John leans in to Sherlock a bit, spying a spot of color on his jaw, “You’ve got something, god, Sherlock, is that lipstick? Is that her lipstick?” John pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and hands it over as though without a care.
“Ah, yes,” he takes the starchy cloth and rubs it absent-mindedly against his jaw, smearing dark cherry over ivory. “Well...”
“Well,” John parrots back, loosening his tie as he does so. “Take away or...” Sherlock tosses out an arm to hail a cab.
A shake of the head, “Not hungry.”
“Well, I am,” John says and honestly, feels ridiculously sapped. Exhausted and drained from an evening thinking over Sherlock, watching the man flirt, wanting him for the better part of the night.
When the cab rolls up, Sherlock flings open the door, ushers John inside. “We have things in,” Sherlock breathes, settling back against the seat, his eyes sliding closed. “Should be sufficient.”
The ride back to Baker Street is startlingly silent; John watches out his window while Sherlock gazes out the window opposite. John manages a few glances at the other man, notes the cut of his jaw as the lights from the street glance off of his skin. Long, thin neck (bitable, John thinks, utterly bitable, and then he rebukes himself for the deliciously impulsive thought) leading to broad, cut shoulders, similar chest. A thin but muscular waist, strong back, fit arse. His mind halts there, trips up his train of thought and a thin smile breaks out on John’s lips; alright, so he’s giving his friend the once over in the back of a dingy cab.
What of it?
A chuckle escapes him at just how mad he’s become. Mad for Sherlock, mad in general. Simply, utterly wanting and completely raving mad. Mad for wanting to explain to Sherlock just how attractive he is, and why, and how.
“What?” asks Sherlock and his voice isn’t brash or clipped or annoyed, but inquisitive.
John snaps his gaze to the other man’s, not bothering with wiping the smile off of his face. “Nothing, nothing.”
Sherlock blinks and his eyes take on a suspicious gleam. “Stop appraising me, John, I’m not-”
“Not what?” John laughs outright at that.
Licking his lips, Sherlock truly thinks on that for a moment before returning his attention to London streaking by. Sherlock’s reaction to John’s appraisal has him pondering once more over the notion that the man does not understand how stunning he is. Sherlock understands the notion of human beauty, attraction. He’s heard him go on and on about facial symmetry, about the mating rituals of the urban human male (that had been a tedious one-sided conversation but slightly interesting nonetheless.)
Sherlock can perceive the significance of beauty, conventional attraction in others though for some unknown reason cannot extend that understanding to himself. It can’t be for the fact that he believes himself to be undeserving of attention, why else would he go to so much trouble tailoring his clothing and looking properly put together when leaving the flat? No, the social reality of needing to look pressed and put together as to make the impact on others that one is professional is not lost on the man. Social conventions - while he pretends to revile and sometimes simply ignores them - are quite familiar to him.
Why then is the notion of conventional attraction so upsetting and confusing. Why isn’t he pleased that others are attracted to him based on his outward appearance. There is, of course, much more to his beauty than that, but what is there to this that Sherlock cannot grasp. It’s one of the simplest and most instantly-gratuitous forms of attention that anyone could receive and yet he chooses either not to see, or not to accept it.
The cab pulls up abruptly and snaps John out of his thoughts; Sherlock is gone, leaving him to pay the fare and once he has, he steps out onto the sidewalk to discover that Sherlock has already entered the flat and bounded up the steps.
John sighs and follows (always follows, isn’t that how it goes?). He makes it into 221B to discover Sherlock’s tuxedo coat tossed haphazardly on the sofa, along with his bowtie. John follows suit, tossing his jacket and tie on top of the heap and then joins his flatmate in the kitchen.
As it turns out, they do have things in and John pulls out some leftovers, locates a fork and digs in enthusiastically not bothering to heat anything up, leaning casually against Sherlock’s “lab” table near the sitting room. Before him, Sherlock flicks on the kettle and settles himself back against the counter.
They don’t look at one another.
John finishes the cold chicken and rice and when he moves over to the sink to put the container in, Sherlock sparks to life, begins pacing to and fro. John spares a glance and without much more consideration, takes down two cups for tea and lays them out.
Sherlock continues to move about and John resumes standing at the other end of the kitchen, undoing a few buttons on his shirt as he does so. The buttons at his wrists come undone as well. John simply watches; Sherlock’s hands move about at his sides, as though he’s having a conversation without moving his lips. It’s a bit hypnotizing, truth be told and instead of going upstairs to his room to change, he simply stands and takes pleasure in watching.
The kettle gives three beeps and John sets about preparing the tea, still saying nothing, avoiding Sherlock as he makes the return pace towards the sitting room. Sugar in the mugs and John once more retreats to lean against the table and watch Sherlock.
As he passes by, he snatches his tea, dangling it from fingers to the point that it should be sloshing onto the floor but isn’t. It’s a full minute, two, three before Sherlock takes a sip and when he finally does, he stops his manic back-and-forth. He pauses across the table to regard John very openly. And the way Sherlock is looking at him, John feels nearly naked, stripped to the core, but he doesn’t shy away, simply waits for Sherlock to speak. Prepared to give him... well... anything.
“Earlier you implied that I am... attractive, that people desire me. That not simply women desire me but men as well.” Sherlock speaks slowly and clearly. “I understand sexual desire, have been on the receiving end of the most basest of sexual desires but... otherwise...” Sherlock works his jaw back and forth and takes to thinking again. “I’m not certain...”
His flatmate waits a minute to be sure that the thought has properly petered out before he speaks. “You’re... insanely desirable,” John states with finality, arms crossed lazily over his chest, teacup steady in his right hand.
Sherlock nods, accepting, “Sexually?”
“Desirable?”
“Of course.”
John nods his head curtly, once. “Of course.”
Sherlock nods again, his own hands on hips and paces the kitchen a bit, back and forth and back again while John continues to stand on the other side of the table, watching him. If they’re going to have this conversation, they’re going to have this conversation. John supposes that it’s convenient that they’re having it while he’s in a prime state of wanting and still just the slightest bit tipsy on deliriously expensive champagne.
“You find me sexually desirable,” Sherlock says with finality; statement of fact.
“...yes. Very much.” It’s spoken plainly, so plainly one might assume that Sherlock had asked John if he’d like a biscuit with his tea.
Sherlock nods, paces a few steps and spins back to John. “You’re not homosexual.”
John blinks and thinks no, no I wouldn’t consider myself a homosexual. He says, “I’m not, that much is true... it’s just... well, you, I suppose.” John nods to himself as though that explains everything and perhaps it does. It’s neat, it’s easy and so he accepts that as truth, nods again for emphasis.
Sherlock’s eyes squint and John can nearly see the cogs in his head turning and processing. “You’re sexually attracted to me. Why?”
John ponders this for a moment and decides to settle in, slipping up onto the stool behind him. He’s never lied to Sherlock and he’s not about to begin now, especially because Sherlock is trying so desperately hard to work all of this out. “Well, there’s what we were talking about earlier, Sherlock. Your... the way you look, of course. You’re... different to me than other men, though that’s not particularly in your appearance or how you carry yourself. Though, that’s not to say that you’re not stunning, because you are.” John takes a swallow of tea as he feels some butterflies invade his stomach; he begins bouncing his leg against the support beam of the stool.
Sherlock blinks and waits patiently (perhaps too patiently) for John to continue. “I know you and the man you are is... the best man I could ever hope to know.” He takes another sip of tea because suddenly his mouth has gone a bit dry. “You’re intelligent and kind - when you want to be - and I care for you a great deal.” John thinks on that for a moment, “As I think you care for me, as well,” it’s not a stab in the dark, but he presents it as one, doesn’t want Sherlock to be too spooked, knowing how close the man has allowed himself to become.
“And when I think about where I’ll be in ten or twenty or thirty years - if I’m not dead by then - it’s, every future I imagine you’re right there with me, giving me a solid reason for, well...” John trails off. “It’s just shocking how close I think we’ve become, you know? I know you’ve said caring is a disadvantage but...”
He stands up straighter, uncrosses his arms and stops glancing at the floor; John finishes his tea with a heavy sigh and places the drained cup on the table. “I think that’s why you’re so brilliant. Why you and I are so brilliant. I suppose all of that is why.”
“And all of that is why... you find me sexually desirable and attractive.”
“Mmmm, yes,” John hums and takes a few tentative steps towards his flatmate. Sherlock’s face is still screwed up and he’s thinking and thinking. “Don’t you understand?” John whispers to him, suddenly fierce, suddenly feeling the conviction to prove this to Sherlock.
Sherlock simply blinks back, won’t say ‘no.’
John is before him now, in his face and when John glances up, Sherlock looks incredibly lost, unlike John has ever seen him and in that instant, his heart breaks for the man. “Let me,” John finds himself rushing to say, before he’s thought about any of the words that are spilling from his lips. “Let me show you.”
“John,” Sherlock’s eyes flutter closed when John brings his hands up to rest on his shoulders. Sherlock swallows and takes a breath, takes a long, long moment to consider before speaking again. “John...”
His lips are a breath away from Sherlock’s, the man’s hot breath puffing out against his upper lip. “What? Tell me.”
Sherlock sucks in a sharp breath and opens his eyes suddenly. “Show me.”
It’s then that John smiles brilliantly, grins and Sherlock’s lips mirror a shadow of the other man’s mouth. But it’s a real smile, one of his rare, real smiles and John tilts his head up and tastes of it. Sherlock’s lips are staid for a moment but as John runs his tongue along Sherlock’s upper lip he sighs and opens. Once John’s tongue touches his Sherlock responds greedily, kissing John back, pressing him back until his arse hits the edge of the table.
They tussle like that for a bit, John trying to take control of the kiss just as Sherlock snatches it back from him. There’s a moan and just as he dips his fingers beneath the waistband of Sherlock’s slacks he realizes that it’s come from his own throat.
John pulls back for a moment, gives a bit of a silent chuckle. “Stop trying to distract me, I’m taking my time.”
“What is so compelling?” Sherlock drones and John unwinds his arms from the detective’s waist.
“Your throat, for one,” John rumbles, leaning in to kiss just around the jut of his adam’s apple; it moves, glances against John’s lip and he follows it with a tongue, quickly darting over to taste. “Lovely, you taste,” he hums against the skin and kisses again. “Just lovely.”
Sherlock hums right back, sliding his hands around to bracket John’s waist, holding there loosely. “And you?” Sherlock rumbles, peeling his eyes slowly open. “How do you taste?”
“That’s a good question, Sherlock, always inquisitive,” John’s fingers work at the buttons on his flatmate’s Oxford, making quick work of the hard tabs. John’s head is ducked, keeping trained on his movements but when he turns up to glance in Sherlock’s eyes - just to make sure he’s still there, in the moment, with him - Sherlock’s eyes flash, caramel and sea water and he dips his head, grazes his teeth over the skin of John’s neck, dragging.
John inhales thinly and his hands shudder to a stop, pliant against Sherlock’s chest. The detective moves his hands to John’s shoulders, finding purchase, leans in and lavishes attention. Lips, teeth and tongue moving over the stubbly skin of John’s neck, fast. “Oh,” John says because this is new, it’s all new, and oh so brilliant. “Alright,” he breathes, feels like he’s really, oh, really going to-might pass out. “Verdict?”
“Hmmmm,” he scissors his teeth and sucks briefly. “You taste like... the flat,” Sherlock says and pulls back, running a hand through John’s hair affectionately. “How is that... you taste like tea, of course tea, you drink enough of it, fabric softener, the London air and this flat...”
John chuckles and tilts his head back, an affectionate smile on his lips. “Well, I suppose I’ll take that,” he continues to work against the buttons as Sherlock holds him rather loosely, mind off elsewhere for a moment.
“You taste like this flat, where I live, where you live,” Sherlock sighs, eyes slipping closed, “You apparently taste like home.”
“Romantic,” John accuses as he makes quick work of the buttons at Sherlock’s wrists.
Sherlock cracks a tiny smile, “Shut up.” It’s a bit miraculous really, that Sherlock’s hands fall away and he allows John to rid him of his shirt; he takes care of his own once he’s through with the detective and in the next moment they’re standing before one another, clad in shoes and trousers and it looks just a bit ridiculous.
“Can we,” John begins to ask and flicks his eyes toward the hallway, towards Sherlock’s room. “I mean, is it alright if we-”
“Of course,” Sherlock cuts him off and, kicking the small puddle of clothing at their feet out of the way, steps around the table and towards his bedroom. It seems as though once they cross the threshold that Sherlock regains a bit of his composure, attempting once again to glean the upper hand in their situation.
The taller man advances on John, wrapping a hand around the back of his neck and pulling him in for a bruising kiss. John presses back, wraps his arms around Sherlock’s waist and gives himself over more a moment, his lips caressing over the dectetive’s. He’s just tasting, just taking, just for a moment.
Sherlock dips his head, skims his mouth wetly against John’s shoulder, his collarbone, the sweep where neck meets shoulder. He bites. Hard.
John’s voice comes out a ragged yelp, “Jesus, Sherlock!”
“It’s strange,” Sherlock pauses as his tongue soothes over the bite. “I was quite unaware that I wanted this,” he moves up John’s neck, bites again. At John’s answering hiss, he soothes again. “But I very, very much do.”
Tangling his fingers in John’s hair, he continues to languidly explore his neck and though John realizes he’s given over the control of the situation, he’s happy to let it go for a moment. With Sherlock feeling him like this, tasting him, he’s... perfectly happy.
Sherlock shuffles closer, the tips of his shoes glancing against John’s, a slide of leather against leather. It gives the man pause and he pulls his lips away from John’s skin to assess the situation.
Giving himself the once over, Sherlock says, “Ah,” and after taking a glance at John and calculating the distance from his body to the bed, gives him a bit of a hearty shove and he nearly flies back, his backside bouncing against the mattress.
“Jesus, Sherlock, some warning, next time?”
“Oh, where’s the fun?” Sherlock says predatorily. Advancing on his partner, he bends at the waist and pulls at John’s belt, slides it through the loops with a quick hiss of leather on cotton. The flies come next, left hand working at that while his right flicks the tab open. He’s then down on one knee, tugging at John’s loafers, his expensive loafers.
“Laces, please,” John sighs, half in exasperation, half in amusement. Sherlock grits his teeth and fumbles with the tiny laces, eventually freeing John’s feet, snagging his socks and discarding those as well.
Sherlock is annoyed for a moment, snapping his head up, curls bouncing everywhere. “Better?” At John’s nod, he too nods in reply, “Lift.” Sherlock’s fingers hook in, nails glancing against the skin at John’s hip and christ if he had to guess, he’d say this is the hardest he’s been in quite a long while. “There,” Sherlock says as, with a flourish, he tosses John’s trousers across the room so forcefully that they thwack loudly against the door.
John can’t help but chuckle at the self-satisfied look on the Sherlock’s face, “Proud of yourself?”
“Quite!” Sherlock perks and there’s a rising in John’s chest, something so light and delicate that floating is a definite possibility. He’s had giggly sex before, he’s had slow, utterly deliriously happy fucking but this feels deeper and yet somehow entirely easy. An inevitability, perhaps; John knows intrinsically that for the first time in his life he doesn’t feel the need to hide anything from the person he’s taking to bed.
That’s a sort of love, John thinks. A type of love that’s very hard to find, if humanity’s struggles are any indication; he feels something more than lucky. Blessed, he supposes, in a very secular way. John thinks that perhaps, as he ghosts his fingers over Sherlock’s collarbones, that he’s found one person in the whole of creation that he’s supposed to be with.
It’s all a bit much, really, and John takes a moment to steady his breathing. He notices Sherlock sliding up onto the bed, trailing his own fingers against John’s sides, being slow and careful and entirely unlike how he is when he needs or wants something that it gives John pause.
It’s new to him, too, in a way, John is sure and so he remains still, lets Sherlock explore his skin, pads of fingers slipping around the delicate starburst on John’s shoulder. They say nothing about it and Sherlock passes on as though it’s no different from the rest of him; for a moment, John fights a wracking sob.
As he comes back to himself against the duvet he realizes that this isn’t what he’d set out to do; he gives Sherlock another moment to feel his fill and then stops him.
“You sneaky bastard, this isn’t about me,” John grumbles and in a flash he’s sitting up, manages to push him back and stands, perking up on his toes to press a desperate, sweet kiss to the man’s lips. Just lips on lips but it lingers and cloys and John doesn’t want to back down; when his calves begin to cramp he settles back down, strokes Sherlock’s cheek and abruptly turns the tables.
In a flash, the taller man is flat on his back against the mattress, disheveled and bewildered. “Unfair!”
“Oh, I hope so.” He repeats the undressing bit on Sherlock but takes Sherlock’s pants with his trousers, leaving him naked and so lengthy and pale on the bed. “Jesus, it’s like you chose that duvet...” John has to stop there because against the deep aubergine of the duvet Sherlock is in chiaroscuro; he’s a damned Caravaggio in ivory and pink. “You impossible, beautiful jackass.”
“You keep saying that,” Sherlock mumbles, can’t keep his gaze on John’s.
John nods as he slides up alongside him on the bed; Sherlock perks himself up on an elbow and looks at John. “And?”
John leans in slowly and presses him back against the mattress, plying Sherlock’s lips open with his. It’s desperately languid and deep, unhurried as though they’re moving backwards through time. John’s hands can’t stop touching; Sherlock’s face, his hair, cataloguing the different textures, remembering them. He can’t begin to believe that this will be the singular time something like this will pass between them (he might actually wither, if it is, after having this) but dear god if it is he will remember every pore and follicle.
Lips at his temple and down his cheek; John’s teeth nip at the bas relief of Sherlock’s collarbone and tease his nipples until he’s is struggling not to keen out. It’s different, the skin beneath his hands and mouth but John actually can’t get enough; each time he pulls back he thinks, ‘No, more, more now,” and is back in, laving over a pectoral, seeking out lips. And Sherlock as completely impossible and manic as he is, lays there and accepts it.
Not takes, accepts.
“And,” John breathes, smoothing his lips down the center of the Sherlock’s chest. “Can I show you?”
Sherlock breathes it with what sounds like the last shattering breath in his chest. “Show me?”
John can’t help it; there’s always a certain bit of him that can’t buck up the courage to be completely, totally available. When he says it, pink blossoms against his cheeks and a delicate sweat peeks out on his brow. “How, how utterly, fantastically beautiful you are, Sherlock.” It doesn’t matter that he means it, that he wants to show him, he feels a bit foolish saying it aloud.
Sherlock blinks and even in this light - this low light, nothing but the dimness from the hallway and the sodium arc sifting in through the curtains - his eyes pick up every bit of light and refract it and it is brilliant.
“What?” Sherlock gasps, hips bucking hard into John.
John’s forgotten that this isn’t something that he does, that this is far beyond the scope of his knowledge. John screws his eyes closed and blinks them back open, only to find that Sherlock is staring up at him in wonder.
He’s forgotten that this isn’t something that he does.
Still, he breathes and reminds himself: they’re still Sherlock and John, John and Sherlock. Now it’s simply without the secular necessity of clothing between them. Now John seeks to prove his devotion and admiration with his body in lieu of his words.
It’s no different, John tells himself. They’re still the Doctor and the Consulting Detective.
Leaning in, John nudges Sherlock’s nose with his, bumps against it twice and then settles gently over Sherlock’s lips. It’s quiet, and slow and John shifts away to ask, “Do you trust me?”
Sherlock only blinks, speaks as though John’s asked him the most ridiculously of obvious questions. “Of course.”
John basks in that knowledge, settling his weight over Sherlock and kissing him again, reaching down to twine his right hand in Sherlock’s left. They remain like that for awhile, startled gasps and bitten moans, a slow burn between the two of them.
When Sherlock bucks up again, sliding his cock against John’s still-clothed pelvis, John wonders at the brash, white-hot sensation. His own hardness is straining painfully against the fabric and John bucks back, gasps as he feels the head of Sherlock’s cock roll wetly against his thigh.
“Do you,” John manages, swallowing the rush of feeling that mottles his words. “Do you see? What you do to me?”
Sherlock groans and sighs, hooking his thumbs into the band of John’s pants. “You do this to me,” John mutters painfully, forcefully. “You make me feel this way.”
“John,” Sherlock gasps, nosing his way against John’s ear as he fumbles with the detective’s pants. John sucks in harsh breaths and stands, shucking the last of his clothing. Everything feels painfully slow and somehow impossibly fast. He nearly can’t remember how they’ve come to this point, Sherlock naked and needy on his bed; John, the one who got him there.
John stands next to the bed and takes himself in hand, looks down upon the scene before him; Sherlock writhing just the tiniest bit, eyes wide and pupils blown, hands out and palms up, needy for John. “This,” John whispers again, tugs against his cock, “You do this to me, because you’re so, you’re so-”
“John, John,” Sherlock asks.
“Fucking gorgeous, yeah?” and at that Sherlock smiles and blushes, eyes falling closed as he reaches down and takes himself in hand.
And just the sight of that - long, pale fingers against hot, mottled flesh - it breaks something in John and he climbs up onto the bed with a remonstration, “None of that.”
He forgets that this isn’t something that he does as he leans in to swipe at the bit of precome atop Sherlock’s prick with an eager tongue.
“Jesus!” Sherlock gasps and can’t help bucking into John’s mouth.
“Yeah,” John agrees in a voice that is laced with both wonder and trepidation before he licks Sherlock, root to tip. It’s... different. It’s a different taste but John is determined to learn it, suckles at Sherlock’s tip and rolls the flavor against his tongue. “Hmmm,” he hums, and swallows every last bit of the man that he can manage.
“Jah-Joh-, what?” and Sherlock’s fingers fist in the duvet and his hips jerk and shake and John thinks - as he maneuvers to take an experimental lick at Sherlock’s scrotum - that the sounds coming out of the other man’s mouth are the most erotic, gorgeous and brutally honest sounds that he’s ever heard.
John smiles as he tastes his fill, lingering back to place gentle kisses at Sherlock’s hip. “Take it easy,” John says and slides back up the bed.
“You, you take it-”
“Alright,” John chuckles and slings an arm around Sherlock’s hips, tickles at him a bit before he rolls to his side. “Are you-”
“I’m fine,” Sherlock says, voice low but clear, eyes sharp. “Better than...” Sherlock reconsiders, nearly smiles. “Fine.”
John’s eyes shine and Sherlock’s shine right back and John falls a bit in love then. A bit more in love.
“On your back,” John whispers and glances his tongue over a nipple. “Up, up, pillows.”
Sherlock swallows a groan, “Is that how you want me?” It’s a tease, a definitive tease and John smiles, bites down.
“Every way, Sherlock, I want you every way,” he says as he settles his hips against his flatmates and grins as Sherlock rolls his eyes. It’s quite heartening, that neither of them are so overwhelmed by the magnitude of the situation that they’ve lost themselves.
Sherlock shakes his head in something like disgust, “John.”
“Had to,” he returns and shifts so that their cocks glance alongside one another. “Had to,” John repeats as he snaps his hips hard one, two, three times. Sherlock’s head thrashes on the pillows and his fingers dig in hard to John’s hips; it’s bites, but the pain is wonderful. It makes the coiling at the base of his spine seem less imminent.
John does it again, slowly. He rolls his hips, his cock sliding heatedly against Sherlock’s. “Yeah?” he asks.
“More,” Sherlock demands, pressing against him. “More, John.”
“More?” John asks and continues at his maddeningly slow pace.
Sherlock grinds his teeth, slams his head against the pillow before tilting his head up and biting at John’s ear. “Please!”
John chuckles at that, his chest rumbling against Sherlock’s. “Please?!” he asks, surprised, and works a hand between them.
Sherlock gasps, gasps, goes with John when he rolls them onto their sides, face to face. “Oh, shut up,” he manages before sliding his hand down along John’s left arm. John breathes, leans in, kisses the tip of Sherlock’s nose and wraps his hand around the both of them.
John’s throat is thick with need and emotion as Sherlock curls into him, grips his arm, says, “Yes, yes, yes.” There’s a twist to his wrist as his palm moves their cocks against one another; it’s slow, methodical at first, partly because John wants this to last and partly because he’s consumed with watching Sherlock’s face.
It’s messy and a bit uncoordinated but Sherlock seems to pay it no mind. Their thighs slide together, sweat and precome aiding them. John doesn’t bother thinking about whether he’s doing this properly or not; he doesn’t bother thinking about the fact that he’s in bed with a man because it doesn’t matter. Not at all, not a bit, because he’s never felt like this before, never so much wanted to please another person, never needed to prove to someone so undoubtedly that they’re whole and wonderful and beautiful.
So John doesn’t think about that, just thinks about how wonderful Sherlock’s cock feels against his and how perfectly it feels in his hand; he instead thinks about how persistent Sherlock’s lips are to kiss, how seemingly desperate he is to spill profanities, how John can’t imagine ever having to stop touching and seeing and feeling and having this man.
John’s thumb streaks over the other man’s slit and Sherlock stops moving all together before sobbing out something threatening, something along the lines of “If you think about stopping I’ll murder you,” before going completely boneless, giving every last shred of himself to John.
“Gorgeous,” John mumbles and runs a thumb over the head of his cock, smearing their precome together; the idea of their seed mingling appeals to a very base part of John’s brain and he swears, he could come from thinking about that alone.
He doesn’t, but he could.
Instead, John shifts and maneuvers his other arm up to tangle in Sherlock’s hair, tugging. “Do you understand, do you?” John demands. “This is how you make me feel you... fucking beautiful disaster of a man.”
Sherlock’s eyes peel open and he licks his lips, presses his forehead to John’s and he won’t look away. They rock together, sharing breath and Sherlock won’t take his eyes off of him. John thinks of everything in that moment, everything he’s ever wanted to tell Sherlock, everything Sherlock deserves to know, to understand.
And Sherlock blinks once, so slowly, as if he understands, as if it’s all so clear, so clear now.
“Oh god, oh god,” John gasps and sinks his teeth into his bottom lip as he comes and in turn, Sherlock curses and grips John’s arm so hard he’s sure the circulation has been cut off. As John settles, Sherlock continues to jerk, his eyes squeezed tightly closed as he covers John’s hand in his come. Hot, hot, fuck, so hot.
The doctor slides his fingers around a bit, milks Sherlock to the last as the man falls back against the bed and gulps in air. “Christ, christ John,” Sherlock throws an arm over his eyes for a moment, moves to rub a hand over his face and then presses John back against the bed, climbs atop of him and kisses him until John is lightheaded and completely breathless.
As Sherlock flops back dramatically against the mattress, John realizes that he hadn’t thought this far ahead and that the stickiness on his stomach is beginning to feel a bit uncomfortable. He should get up and clean himself off but John is frightened; frightened that if he leaves the bed, he won’t be allowed back in.
Or worse, that when he leaves the room, Sherlock will close the door behind him.
Luckily, he doesn’t have to do anything of the sort because Sherlock shifts over the side of the bed - giving John a spectacular view of his bum - and retrieves his trousers. He dips the cuff in a glass of water on the bedside table and cleans them both up; John says nothing about the unsanitary nature of the process or of Sherlock ruining what is surely an obscenely expensive pair of trousers just to mop up come.
Sherlock shifts onto his back and tosses the trousers back onto the floor. “Never done that before then?” he asks, a bit smug, a bit surprised.
“Loads and loads of times,” John says dryly and wants to mention that this isn’t exactly the sort of pillow talk he’d imagined. Not that he’d imagined pillow talk. Alright, maybe a little.
Sherlock rolls his eyes again, “John.”
He clears his throat. “No, ehm, I mean, no, that was a... a first.” John is silent for a moment. “In more ways than one.” He doesn’t elaborate but the weight behind his words settles between them and they both fall silent for some time.
“Sadly,” Sherlock breathes shallowly as he nudges against John’s shoulder with his cheek, “I’ve yet to grasp the full implications of what you meant.” His hot breath puffs over John’s shoulder. “You will perhaps need to continue to attempt to... prove it to me.”
John yawns, sated, can smell Sherlock all over his skin. It’s positively thrilling. “That can probably be arranged.”
“Probably,” Sherlock scoffs and kicks at the covers until they loosen enough to wriggle beneath; he extricates himself from John for the briefest of moments, to settle them both beneath the bedclothes. “Please.”
John chuckles and tries very, very hard not to cuddle into Sherlock too desperately; there’ll be time enough for that later. For now, they both need to reassess their positions in one anothers’ lives.
Sherlock has other ideas, however, and curls himself so thoroughly around John that he’s nearly consumed by the taller man. “Or, perhaps I could make an attempt to prove to you how positively brilliant you are.” His voice is light, excited, like he’s stumbled on some before unforeseen clue.
“Oh stop,” John mutters against his flatmate’s skin. “You flatter me,” he adds sarcastically, a little uncomfortably.
“You are, John,” the consulting detective says quietly and stares at the ceiling.
John grumbles and pulls the sheet up to his chin. “Sherlock... I... just... stop.”
And there it is; it’s shocking, startling really, that John Watson simply does not grasp how truly brilliant he is.
‘Oh,’ Sherlock thinks, sadly as he gently runs his fingers through John’s hair. ‘Oh.’