Work Text:
By the time this has reached you,
I will be in bed. Naked.
SH
John had to read the telegram twice. That was most certainly a first time occurrence in the forty years he'd been alive: he'd never received such a lascivious message.
He thought he could feel his eyes widen as he read; he folded it back up once done, and cleared his throat.
"So who was it ei, Doctor Watson?"
Billy's voice had a tone of suggestion, and the boy smirked as he stood in front of John's desk.
A harrumph. "Nobody."
"Oh, come on Doctor Watson! Give us a hint! Who be the lucky dame...?"
John grabbed his overcoat, stuffed the telegram deep into one of the side pockets, and cleared his throat again while his face burned like flame. He made to leave, circumnavigating his old wooden desk and strolling decisively across the room.
"Is she a beauty?"
John stopped, clutched at his coat, gave a side smile. Billy was lucky that he was a good lad, or he'd have been cashiered from his practice long ago.
"Yes. She's a beauty."
Billy smiled broadly, and went to sit at his own smaller, rickety desk.
"Blue eyes? Pale skin?", he continued, excited as if the lady he was asking about was his own.
John bit the inside of his lip to keep himself from smiling, because wasn't Billy good at guessing. The telegram burned in his pocket, weighing a ton, and John had to take a breath to distract himself from the words that were inked on the yellowish paper.
"Yes. Blue eyes, pale skin. Now if you wouldn't mind, " he gave Billy a stern look. "I believe your working day isn't done just yet. Get back to it!"
"But of course. My apologies Doctor Watson!"
John left without turning around, because he refused to see the mischievous smile - and the total absence of remorse - Billy was most certainly regarding him with.
When he got to Baker Street, the flat was in darkness. No fireplace, no candles, no Mrs Hudson puttering about; the only pale light came from under the thick bedroom door, so the fire must be lit there. The air was warm inside the flat, almost damp, and John rubbed his hands together to chase away the cold that had nearly crept into his bones and made his fingertips go red.
He walked over to the bedroom, opened the door, unravelling his scarf from around his neck as he spoke. "Have you gone completely insane?", he said to the chest of drawers as he stuffed his garment into it. "I have already said the telegraph is only for emergencies, do you want someone to-"
As he turned around, the rest of his reprimand died miserably in his throat when he clamped eyes on Sherlock. Lying back on top of the thick duvet of their bed, shoulders and curly head resting on the large feathery pillow John had gifted him to encourage him to sleep; only a light coverlet over him to barely hide his waist.
"You are, actually, naked."
Sherlock smiled slowly.
"It's what I said in the telegram, is it not? I wasn't lying."
John cleared his throat, and set his jaw, frowned. He was cross, he was alarmed, he was really about to give Sherlock a lecture about messages and privacy and contacting him at the practice when there wasn't an actual emergency; but, as he found himself utterly unable to take his eyes off of Sherlock's body, he knew he had to be honest with himself. He certainly didn't rush home, leaving a flustered and giddy Billy behind at work, because he wanted to come back and be angry at Sherlock.
He harrumphed again. He'd been half aroused for the whole walk back to Baker Street; and for the love of God, Sherlock knew.
Still staring at him - the milky skin of his body standing out against the dark burgundy of the bed cover, half illuminated by the flickering flame of the candle, on the small table in the corner, so that it nearly turned gold, honey-coloured; the raven, wild curls against the pillow; and his eyes, the blue deep now, almost indigo; John opened the cuffs of his shirt, walked over to the bed and sat on his side, almost begrudgingly.
"I see it didn't take you long to get home," Sherlock said, voice warm and lazy.
John gave him a pointed look, and Sherlock smiled; he sat up - the coverlet sliding off his body, uncovering all - and rearranged himself slowly over John's legs, straddling him, a thigh on each side of his hips.
"Come now," Sherlock purred. John looked up at him. "What did you tell Billy...?"
His hips rolled, just lightly, just a gentle friction over John's groin; and John closed his eyes. Almost on their own accord, his hands went to grasp at Sherlock's backside, and pulled him in.
"I told him I was going to see a beautiful woman."
Sherlock let those hands guide him; sighed when his own groin stroked against John's still-clothed body.
"Did you, now?", he said, in a whisper. "That young boy must have got really excited."
"Mmmh, " John's hands pulled more firmly, and Sherlock's knees slid further up along John's sit bones on the silky, skin-warm bed. "I described her for him."
Sherlock placed his hands on John's shoulders, leaned down to stroke his temple, his cheek against the side of John's face. John's lips turned up into a mischievous smile - and he knew Sherlock couldn't see it.
"I actually did imagine a woman, you know..."
As predicted, that made Sherlock sit up, and he looked at him with those changeable eyes utterly on fire. "Watson!" his voice rumbled, indignant and piqued.
John only chuckled and continued to grasp, pulled Sherlock even closer to himself. "No. It's John...", he purred, breathing warm and damp against the smooth chest of his companion. Even in the dimmed, cosy, flickering light of the candle he could see goose pimples erupt all over the untouched, ivory skin; he kissed them, kissed the pectorals, the small nipples that waited, mouth-watering, right before his eyes.
"Sometimes, my love, you're so easy to trick."
Sherlock's eyes looked at him, incensed. Then he leant down again, and kissed him, hips moving once again, rolling against John's erection, which was still trapped within his trousers and undergarment and now swollen, pulsing, demanding. Sherlock's lips against his were soft and scorching hot, and John bit, pushed his tongue in, stole his breath - let his thick moustache rub against Sherlock's mouth because he knew that the delicate skin would swell and redden - and become even lovelier.
"Are the curtains properly closed," John broke the kiss to ask, growling against Sherlock's mouth. His mind had been so fixated on one thing only since he left the practice that he hadn't thought of checking like he usually did - and now the worry crept in.
"Yes. Yes," Sherlock breathed back. His hips were rolling unfalteringly now, as if he was already seeking completion, even though John was clothed still. "I closed them myself."
John wasn't done checking.
"And Mrs Hudson? Where is she?"
"For the love of God, John," Sherlock tried to protest, sighed - his hips still undulating. John pinched at his nipples, hard between thumb and forefinger of each hand.
Sherlock's hips gave a hard jerk.
"Ah! She's - she's with Mrs Turner. Probably - probably polishing off those rum balls they're so fond of."
Satisfied that they weren't in immediate danger of being seen, John gave in. Grasped Sherlock's head, behind his nape, urged him down for another hard, deep kiss. Bit his lips, released him just to see the scarlet in his mouth - the wild, fiery expression in his unfocused eyes.
"Look at you," John growled, stroking a thumb along Sherlock's cheekbone, down to the corner of his mouth, along the bow of his lower lip. "You're so damningly beautiful."
Sherlock smiled, turned slightly, squeezed John's thumb in between his teeth. Bit gently, closing his eyes.
"Get yourself out of these trousers, Doctor Watson." Sherlock said a moment later - and a good plan, too, because they were both at risk of ending up over the edge way too soon.
He leant over to the night table, held the bottle of oil in one hand while he helped John with the other.
John sighed deeply at the feel of Sherlock's hand stroking him, oiling him - those long, elegant fingers squeezing, rubbing, and pulling his foreskin down in a way that nearly brought him to completion there and then. He bit at his own lip hard, and looked up at Sherlock, brought a hand to join Sherlock's on his cock and collected lubrication.
As he slid two fingers inside Sherlock's tense body he moaned, just as loud as his companion; as he pushed inside him, aiming for his prostate, his mouth demanded a kiss, and he trembled when he felt how unhinged, how restless and aroused Sherlock was.
John breathed on his lips, "Now?" Sherlock nodded impatiently, lifted his hips to make more space - and a moment later he was lowering himself down, taking John in, crying out against the side of John's face while John grit his teeth and dug his nails into his skin.
"Is it all right?", John asked, breathless, looking up at Sherlock as the younger man set a rhythmic undulation with his hips, held on to his shoulders for support.
Sherlock smiled.
"Quiet, Watson."
"I said, it's John." John pushed up with his hips to meet Sherlock's downward slide; looked up at him, eyes aflame, when Sherlock arched back at the sensation.
"I want you to always call me John". He knew he was speaking out of turn. "I want you to be mine."
Sherlock only sighed, pushed harder with his hips.
"Shhh. I am yours..."
John shut his eyes, set his jaw, tried not to think about how that was true, yet it was never actually going to be true; he asked for another kiss and was rewarded, felt the warm of Sherlock's lips and tongue, his muted scream as he touched himself and climaxed - his orgasm shaking his body, making it tremble and spasm and ripple, bringing John along with him. Reducing them both to weak breaths, and sweaty limbs, unable to rearrange themselves on the bed yet and so having to stay joined, embracing.
"You were sure about Mrs Hudson," John asked after, as they lay in bed, Sherlock's head half on his pillow, and half on John's shoulder. "You weren't just deducing it."
Sherlock huffed, rolled to lie supine. "By God, John! There's no difference whether I know it or deduced it. It's the truth."
John laughed quietly. He leaned over, gave Sherlock's pouting mouth another kiss. "So you also deduced what she was eating, did you?"
Sherlock shushed him. "If you keep quiet for a moment, John, I will prove to you that I was right. Once again."
John looked at him quizzically, but a few moments later the front door opened and closed with the familiar creek; and an equally familiar voice sang through the silence.
"Mr Holmes!", the elderly housekeeper called. "Mr Holmes! I've brought you some of Mrs Turner's rum balls - they are delightful, we've been eating them all evening!"
John looked at Sherlock; they had to keep quiet, and so he only pursed his lips in amusement.
"I will leave them on the table here for you to try!"
They listened as she made her way back downstairs, to her own flat; and when it was all silent again, they couldn't help but burst into quiet, happy laughter.