Work Text:
When Sherlock is on a case, everything else becomes transport.
John knows this. He's known this since the day that he met Sherlock when Lestrade showed up at the flat and brought them both into a case that would end up changing John's life forever. For the most part, John has actually gotten used to it. He's made his peace with the fact that Sherlock rarely eats or sleeps while on a case (and by peace, he means that he's perfected the art of sneaking food into Sherlock when the man is too deep into thought to pay attention. Though admittedly he's still working on the sleep aspect) and he's learned to accept the way that the rest of the world pretty much disappears when Sherlock is trying to think. After all, for someone with an incredible mental gift, Sherlock has got a one-track mind like no one else.
He knows this.
What he doesn't know is why he thought that would change when their relationship did.
To be fair, things have only clarified between them about two weeks ago. Before that they were just two blokes easing their way into being a couple, and now they're still that except it's become two blokes easing their way into the kind of relationship John's wanted his whole life. But wanting, John is beginning to realize, is a far cry from having.
That's the problem, really. Neither of them knows what the hell they're doing.
He leans back against his chair and contemplates Sherlock. The detective is standing against the far wall, looking at the evidence he's pinned up. Sherlock has that distant look on his face that means he probably wouldn't hear anything or anyone unless a bomb went off right in front of him, and possibly not even then. John is free to do as he likes until such time as Sherlock strikes gold and leaps back into action. Before, John would've taken this chance to do... well, he probably wouldn't have done anything differently but it would've been nice to have a minute to himself. Now he just feels frustrated.
It's... hard. Having a taste of what he's been longing for and then being cut off is a bit like psychological torture. Sherlock is so close but at the same time he's so far away and it's just really very massively frustrating. John doesn't know how to articulate this frustration, wouldn't even begin to know how to make Sherlock understand, and honestly he feels a little guilty just for feeling this way in the first place. Because he knows how important Sherlock's cases are, and from the beginning Sherlock made it clear that their relationship was to happen during the time when there were no cases. But John can't shut it off like that; he can't make himself stop wanting Sherlock's attention and affection. He craves it and the longer he goes without it the worse it gets.
"Bloody buggering fuck," he mutters to himself.
"John?"
John jumps. "I thought you were thinking."
Sherlock regards him with a bemused frown, the sort of look someone gets when they've been in a coma for two months and have only just woken up. "I was."
"Oh, I suppose I disturbed you?" John sighs and doesn't wait for an answer. He already knows what it will be. He gets up and starts to walk over to his jacket. His leg spasms, muscles cramping, as he moves and he conceals a grimace, hoping that it doesn't show.
Who is he kidding? Of course it does.
"I'm going to the pub," he says. "Text me if something develops. Do not go after the criminal alone like you did last time, Sherlock."
He shuts the door behind him, easy like, and goes down the stairs. The cold air outside hits him like a slap in the face. He leans against the door, just for a moment, and shakes his head. He'd thought that he had found what he was looking for in Sherlock. Now he's beginning to wonder if he was fooling himself, just like he did with everyone else. Maybe Sherlock's not the one after all.
---
As silence settled back over the flat, Sherlock returns to looking at the evidence he has painstakingly collected. But he finds that he’s unable to concentrate. The expression on John's face as he left the flat keeps nagging at him, persistently flicking about his mind even when he tries to focus on a sample of mud. There’s something wrong with John, he knows. He's been acting odd ever since the case began but it’s getting especially noticeable in the last day or so. Sherlock had intended to wrap the case up quickly but one thing after another has led to it becoming a truly complex puzzle that is taking everything he has: just the sort of case that usually he loves. Only this time he’s not so sure.
His phone beeps.
Sherlock checks it, hoping that it may be John.
John isn't looking especially happy. Trouble in paradise already, dear brother? That’s fast work even for you. - MH
Bloody Mycroft. Sherlock scowls and thrusts his phone back into his pocket before striding across the flat and picking up his violin. He hates it when his brother spies on him. It has the effect of making him feel like he's about five years old. Annoyed, he places the bow on top of the strings and begins to jerk it back and forth in a series of discordant, jagged thrusts that produce sounds no violin should ever have to make. It will irritate Mycroft, if he's still spying, and it has the added effect of blocking out any background noise so that Sherlock can think in relative peace.
So, John.
No. No, he should be thinking about the case, not John!
But -
But Mycroft, much as he hates to admit it, is right.
John doesn't look happy and it hasn't escaped Sherlock's notice that John's limp has returned.
What, then, is the problem?
The surgery? No: things have become more comfortable between him and Sarah since she got a new boyfriend.
Friends? Doubtful. John doesn’t have many of those outside of their immediate circle.
Harry? Unlikely. He hasn’t seen Harry since Christmas.
It can't be girlfriends; John hasn't been out with a woman since long before Sherlock kissed him.
Hmm.
His bow scrapes across the strings particularly hard.
Their relationship, then.
Sherlock hasn't put much thought into it, to be honest, beyond things he might like to do to John once the case is over. He mulls this over as the increasingly squeaky sounds soften into something that sounds almost like actual music. He's used to ignoring the demands of his body and that includes sexual desires. When he wants to kiss John, or pin him down, or make him whimper, he forces himself to ignore it, even if that's getting to be a bit more difficult than it used to be. After all, the case is everything, and everything else falls to the wayside when he has a case. That’s how it’s always been.
He wonders if the rules have changed now that he and John are no longer just friends.
That’s the problem with relationships, though. It’s why he’s never bothered with them. Sex yes, romantic attachments no. It’s a pain and an annoyance, and he hates the thought of having to turn his attention to something else when there’s a fascinating case that’s demanding everything he has to give. But then there’s the nature of his and John’s relationship and the fact that Sherlock has stepped up as John’s dom. He’s supposed to be caring for John but how can he do that when he needs to focus on The Work?
The Work should come first.
Logically it makes the most sense.
And yet.
The look on John’s face when he walked out of the flat haunts him.
Disappointment mingled with something Sherlock can’t place, but it makes him nervous.
Abruptly he sets his violin down and sweeps over to the sofa, grabbing John’s laptop.
He has research to do.
---
By the time John gets home from the pub he feels an odd mix of guilt and shame that has nothing to do with the single pint he’d managed to drink. This isn’t Sherlock’s fault. He has never made an attempt to fool John into thinking he was anything other than what he is. John has gone into this with his eyes wide open and if he’s dissatisfied then he has no one to blame but himself; he knew that the cases would come first because Sherlock has always made that abundantly clear. Taking his own feelings of inadequacy and jealousy out on Sherlock is unfair, especially when John suspects that Sherlock has no idea why John was upset in the first place.
He climbs the stairs slowly, hoping against hope that Sherlock is buried in the case by now so that he can slip by and spend another sleepless night staring at his ceiling.
Luck is against him.
As soon as he pushes the door open he sees that Sherlock is sitting in his chair facing the door, evidently waiting for John. His hands are laced in front of his chin and he looks pensive. He watches John silently.
“Sherlock,” John begins feebly, and he’s not sure what would’ve come next because all of his half formed sentences have completely fled his mind.
“Come here, John.”
Almost before John’s mind registers the command he’s moving across the room. He stops in front of Sherlock and swallows. “Sherlock, I – ”
“Give me your hands.”
Bemused, John holds his hands out. “Listen, I wanted to say that I – oi!” A startled exclamation cuts off the rest of his apology as he wrenches his hands away. By then it’s too late. A short metal chain connects his wrists: handcuffs. “Where did you... Sherlock, do these belong to Lestrade?”
Sherlock waves a hand. “That’s of no consequence.”
Which means yes.
John sighs. “You can’t just go around stealing police equipment, Sherlock. And you can’t go around putting them on people, either, and that includes your flatmate.”
“I put them on my sub.”
Each word is perfectly enunciated and has the effect of making John’s stomach cramp. He looks at Sherlock over his bound hands, speechless. Sherlock smiles slowly and indicates his feet. There’s a pillow there, John notices distantly. It doesn’t take much work to figure out what’s supposed to come next, but he’s not prepared for this; he wasn’t expecting it. He stands there stupidly, heart racing, eyes darting between the pillow and Sherlock as he tries to figure out what he should do. Demand Sherlock take the cuffs off so that they can have a chat like reasonable adults? Walk away? Kneel at Sherlock’s feet with his hands tied? His cock half hardens at the thought and his mouth goes very, very dry.
Slowly, he kneels down on the pillow, his back to Sherlock so that Sherlock can’t see his face and deduce what he’s thinking. Of course Sherlock can probably do that just from John’s back, but John likes to think he makes it a little more difficult, at least. He tenses when the sound of violin music comes from behind him, soft and oddly sweet, the kind of music that Sherlock rarely plays. His heart is pounding so hard that he actually feels kind of breathless and on edge, waiting for what might come next. Surely this can’t be all?
And yet, the minutes tick by and Sherlock never stops playing, moving seamlessly from piece to piece with little interruption, until the music blends into one long, pleasant hum in John’s ears. He stares at a blank spot on the far wall, eyes half-lidded. It’s oddly agreeable to sit here and know that he doesn’t have to do anything. The flat is a bit of a mess with Sherlock’s abandoned experiments and all of the papers they’ve accumulated for the case, but for once the clutter doesn’t bother him. He doesn’t have his phone (or at least, its conspicuous weight is gone from his pocket which means that Sherlock’s probably lifted it from him) so there’s no way that someone can interrupt unless they come to the door, and although the thought that someone could see him like this on his knees at Sherlock’s feet should alarm him, it doesn’t. All he has to do is sit here and listen.
“That’s right, John,” Sherlock says in a very soft voice, barely audible over the music. “You’re safe here. There’s nothing you need to be concerned with.”
Nothing. No crimes, no surgery work, no Mycroft, no drug busts, no mad detectives to chase after because said mad detective is here with him. That sounds nice. Gradually he feels the tension beginning to flow away from his body. His shoulders slump and his muscles twinge at the relief. His hands come to rest in his lap, fingers loose, palms a few inches apart. The gnawing cramp in his leg slowly eases and fades away. He almost feels like he’s floating, like the world outside of their flat that isn’t touched by the beauty of Sherlock’s music is so far off that it can’t possibly touch them where they are.
Slowly, the music stops.
---
John has relaxed. Sherlock lowers his violin and sets it and the bow aside carefully. He reaches down and touches John’s shoulder, pleased when the man doesn’t jump or shy away from the contact. Instead John almost seems to relax further into the touch, a quiet sigh escaping him.
“Come here, John.” Sherlock repeats his first command, the lifting curve of his fingers under John’s arm leaving no misconception as to what he wants. He helps John to stand. John’s legs are wobbly after being on his knees for well over an hour and Sherlock supports him easily, guiding John down onto his lap. There’s a hazy smile on John’s lips but his blue eyes are focused enough that Sherlock knows he’ll pay attention. That’s good; this is important.
“John, are you listening?” he asks just to be sure. “I need you to answer me.”
It takes a moment for John to process the question. Then he says, “Yes.” The word is slurred slightly.
“Good. I want to...” Sherlock hesitates slightly. God he hates this, loathes this part, but John deserves it. “I want to... I… I’m sorry.”
That shakes John out of it a little. His heads tilts and he regards Sherlock with genuine puzzlement. “You’re... sorry?”
“Yes. I was insufficiently prepared to begin this endeavour with you,” Sherlock says stiffly. Apologizing and admitting that he’s wrong has never been his strong point. “I did not perform the research necessary to appreciate the magnitude and significance of… of this ahead of time. I believed it was something that could be explored when I didn’t have a case on but now I understand that is incorrect.”
John stiffens. He bites his lip and a thin line forms between his eyes. “Sherlock, it’s alright,” he says, sounding panicked. “I don’t need you to - to coddle me. I know that your work is more important than… I didn’t mean to make it sound like you’re not doing it right.”
“But I wasn’t,” Sherlock replies honestly.
“I’m okay with that.”
“No, you’re not. Don’t lie to me, John.” He injects a little note of warning into his voice and John shivers in response. “If we are to continue this relationship then I would have to find a way to balance you and my work.”
“So that’s it, then?” John’s voice is quiet and he’s staring at his lap, at his bound hands.
Sherlock frowns, studying him closely. He’d thought that John would be pleased at this, but he’s acting like… Oh. “John,” he says gently, reaching out and tilting John’s chin up. “I am not ending this. I still want to be your dom. I’m just telling you that I’m going to be more careful about it in the future.” He can’t imagine giving this up now. John belongs to him and that’s exactly how Sherlock likes it. “It costs me nothing to put you on your knees while I’m thinking. I can find that balance. I can’t promise I will always put you first, though.”
“But you still want this,” John says, just to be sure.
“Yes, as long as you promise that in the future you will tell me if you have an issue.” Sherlock watches him closely. “When I’m wrapped up in a case I don’t always pay attention to what’s going on around me. You’ll have to tell me and make me listen if there’s something wrong. No more keeping it to yourself and running off to the pub for a pint.”
John looks thoroughly flummoxed that Sherlock Holmes is admonishing him about not communicating, but he nods. “I’m sorry. I know your work is important to you. I was trying to respect that.”
Sherlock nods: he’d expected as much. He’s relieved to note that the spark is back in John’s eyes.
---
Relief. That’s all John can feel for one blindingly long moment. The way the conversation had been going he was fully expecting Sherlock to say that a relationship costs him too much, but it seems that possible, maybe, that that’s not how it’s going to be after all. He’s not sure he believes that a balance can be wrought but if Sherlock’s willing to try that’s, not quite half the battle, but more than he expected.
Long fingers slide in between in his thighs. John’s legs are parting before he even realizes that he’s being touched. His eyes fly open and he rocks backwards, momentarily disoriented, saved from falling only by Sherlock’s left arm, which is around his waist, and Sherlock’s left hand, curled possessively over his hip. His right hand cups John’s cock, which swells immediately beneath the light touch.
“S-Sherlock, what are you…” The question dies in his throat on account of all the blood in his body heading south and he’s left feeling lightheaded.
“You deserve a reward,” Sherlock says. There’s a wicked little smirk curving his lips and he twists his hand, the long slide of his fingers making John gasp. “Or you could take it as the second part of my apology.” He lets go and, one-handed, unfastens John’s jeans and thumbs the button, tugging the stiff material down and aside to reveal John’s underwear.
John feels trapped, perched on Sherlock’s knees, his hands cuffed together, precariously balanced even though he knows Sherlock won’t let him fall. He grabs onto Sherlock’s silk shirt, tugging at the material with clenched fingers as Sherlock works his cock out. He’s fully hard now, the days of inattention when he didn’t even feel like wanking catching up in a solid rush. Sherlock’s hand is hot, burning almost, and it strokes him cleverly with slow, trailing pulls that make John’s eyes flutter shut.
He can feel Sherlock’s gaze on him, the familiar penetrating stare making the hair on the back of his neck prickle. He wriggles, squirming, unable to help himself even though the last thing he wants to do is get away. Sherlock’s knowing fingers tease the foreskin back and slide over the sensitive head, smearing pre-come and providing more delicious friction. The hand on his hip presses harder, stilling the unconscious thrusting that he wasn’t even aware he was doing. John moans in frustration and drops his head, shuddering.
“That’s right,” Sherlock murmurs, and his voice is a deep throaty purr whispered directly into John’s ear, his lips brushing against the skin of John’s neck with every word. “I bet you’d like it if I fucked you, wouldn’t you, John? If I stripped you naked and pinned you down, making you take all of me? I could fuck you with my fingers alone, you know. I wonder how many you could take. Three? Four? Or maybe I’ll fuck you with my cock and my fingers, stretching your hole until you feel like you’re going to burst. We’ll have to find out.”
Jesus. Fucking. Christ. John’s lips part as he pants for breath, clutching at Sherlock’s shirt desperately, searching for a way to remain grounded. Between the lurid images Sherlock’s painting in his mind and the pressure on his cock, he can feel the bubbles of pleasures leeching through his body, spreading mercilessly along every nerve until it feels like every inch of him is simmering, and all he can do is sit there and take it.
“Maybe I’ll open you up with my tongue first. I could do it slowly until you’re a whimpering, begging mess, fucking yourself on my tongue until you can’t take it anymore,” Sherlock whispers. John whimpers. “Shh, John, that’s right. I want to see you. Come on, I want to see.” His fingers tighten and twist, the heat building, until he leans in just right and sinks his teeth into the crook of John’s neck, sucking hard.
John is dimly aware that he cries out when his orgasm hits him with the full force of what feels like a speeding lorry, but what exactly his mouth is saying is a question for the ages. Sherlock keeps sucking and nipping and stroking and it only seems to prolong it until he’s shuddering, his muscles twitching helplessly at the sheer overload of pleasure. Finally Sherlock pulls away looking satisfied and John can only collapse against him, too exhausted to do anything but blindly wonder what he’s gotten himself into.
---
His own cock is hard, nudging eagerly against John’s bottom, but Sherlock ignores it. John is warm and sweetly pliant in his arms and Sherlock discovers he actually likes this. He leaves John’s hands cuffed together and stares out over John’s head, his mind - for one brief, shining moment - blessedly clear of anything except for John and how he sounds and the way his face looks when he comes.
And then it all snaps together.
“Of course,” Sherlock breathes, evidence and clues sliding into place like puzzle pieces. How could he have missed this? He grabs the closest phone, which turns out to be John’s, and types out a brief message to Lestrade explaining who the killer is and why.
John feels him moving. “Sh’lock?” he slurs.
“Shh, John. Go back to sleep,” Sherlock soothes, not taking his eyes off the phone. It lights up a few minutes later with Lestrade’s confirmation and he feels a glow of satisfaction at having solved yet another case that left everyone else with no ideas. He puts his phone down and looks thoughtfully at the man who is sleeping against him, hands cuffed, cheeks flushed, cock still on display, semen drying on his jeans and jumper.
He expected that this would give him something to do when he’s bored, as well as be a way to keep John close and prevent him from leaving someday.
He didn’t think it would help.
Interesting.