Archive of Our Own

Sherlock had noticed the change in John’s morning bathroom routine immediately. The time between John using the toilet and brushing his teeth became longer, stretching out to a full minute. The time between the end of a shower and vacating the bathroom also became elongated, with bathroom scales being in frequent use during that time. The dust that had accumulated on them over the last few months was disturbed, John’s wet feet leaving a clear imprint behind.

Not that Sherlock had been keeping a close eye on John’s bathroom habits, going so far as to create a detailed mental spreadsheet. That would have been a preposterous waste of time and mind palace space. He was merely observing his friend’s behaviour, an unavoidable pastime since his bedroom was next to the bathroom and he could see the bathroom door from his usual seat at the kitchen table. It was all a convenient coincidence.

John’s sudden interest in his physical appearance, however, was somewhat puzzling. He was in good shape, well above the fitness level of the average man his age. Yes, he was a little bit slower than when they first met, but seven years was a long time and a decrease in physical abilities was to be expected. Sherlock himself had started feeling age creep up on him, the closer he got to hitting forty. A fact which hasn’t escaped John, and which he always brought up with unwarranted smugness, just to rile him up.

Sherlock hoped John’s concern with his body wasn’t a prelude to dating women. John’s record was abysmal, and Sherlock would much rather prefer they stay like this - the two of them against the world.

The camaraderie between them, their friendship, had only strengthened following the difficult events of the last year and a half. Even so, Sherlock felt their mutual attempts at normalcy masked a certain fragility, like the smallest misstep could propel them towards a momentous change. For better or for worse, he could not tell, and didn’t dare to hope.

He would accept whatever scraps of happiness he could get, meagre as they were.

Sherlock’s suspicions about John’s sudden scrutiny of his physical appearance were confirmed a few days later, after the bathroom routine upheaval, when John announced he was going for a run.

Sherlock didn’t pay much attention, or tried not to, to John’s attire. The t-shirt he was wearing was far too tight, and the shorts riding up to expose his knees made his legs look obscene. Especially when John did his warm up stretches in the living room, his thighs and arse in Sherlock’s direct line of sight.

John’s comment about getting rid of his flab, which he demonstrated by patting his soft belly and sides, was lost on Sherlock. He wanted to bury his face in John’s soft skin and live there, however unsustainable that might be.

“If you must,” Sherlock sniffed, and crammed a piece of toast laden with honey into his mouth, to show his indifference to the idea of jogging, and to stop himself from saying something inappropriate.

John tsked, and left.

Sherlock watched him from the living room window for as long as he could, before John disappeared into Regent’s Park. Sherlock stood there for a while longer, pondering the fact that John’s socially acceptable bare skin turned him into a flustered Victorian maiden. A Victorian maiden, who had to move away from the window, due to the prominent erection in her pyjama pants.

Sherlock knew there was no point in ignoring his state, as much as he wanted his prick to just give up already, so he resigned himself to yet another wank in the shower. Or a bath and a wank, since John was not going to be back for almost an hour and Sherlock did feel he deserved a little bit of indulgence.

He prepared a steaming hot bath with his favourite honey and lavender oil, and, on a whim, lighted a few of the pink grapefruit candles scattered around the bathroom. They were John’s, but since this whole situation was his fault, Sherlock felt justified in using them.

Soon, the smells of lavender, honey, and grapefruit filled the air, and Sherlock sank into the hot water. He groaned as the scented water warmed his skin, and settled in the bath. The only light came from the candles scattered around the room, their soft glow making the colourful bath bubbles shine.

Sherlock lolled around in the bath, soaking up the smells and letting himself relax. He wanted to draw out the process for as long as his patience would allow, knowing that once he did find release the wonderful bath would be ruined. He washed himself thoroughly, lingering around his nipples and inner thighs for longer than necessary. His skin felt oversensitive, aching to be soothed and caressed.

Sherlock closed his eyes and let his head fall back onto the rim of the tub. He didn’t fight the thoughts of John coming to the forefront of his mind; he had resigned himself to fruitless fantasies about John some time ago. He was aware of the enormity of his love—and want , dear God how he wanted—for John, but he also knew the chances of it being reciprocated were slim to none. Sherlock indulged in his fantasies often with minimal shame and guilt, locking those thoughts in the furthest reaches of his mind. After all, the fantasies were all he had, and would ever have.

Sherlock willed himself to relax, and let his mind wander.

He imagined John behind him, sucking wet kisses into his neck and brushing his hands down Sherlock’s torso.  Sherlock let his own fingers trace the path John’s fingers would, water cascading down his neck and chest. He lingered around his nipples, brushing them teasingly with his fingertips.

A low groan broke free from his throat, a telltale heat spread from his cheeks down his neck. He rolled his nipples between forefinger and thumb, until they were both bright pink and peaked. The imaginary John called him beautiful, bit down on his neck and pinched both of his nipples. Sherlock did the same, a helpless moan bouncing off the walls of the bathroom.

He had wanted to draw it out further, make himself want it more and indulge in the imaginary John teasing him, but he didn’t have the patience to wait any longer. His prick was  hard as a rock, throbbing insistently, twitching at every touch and caress to his skin.

Sherlock reached down with his right hand and grabbed his cock, left hand staying by his nipple to pinch it harder. He moaned as he wrapped his hand around his prick, and squeezed hard. He kept his fist tight, needing release and not wanting to waste any more time for teasing. Soon enough he abandoned his chest, and plunged his left hand into the water to tug at his balls. He rolled them around in his palm, before moving his fingers lower to massage his perineum.

Sherlock moaned loudly, his hips jerking up into his fist. He sped up the hand on his cock and spread his legs further, vaguely aware of water sloshing around in the tub and spilling on the floor. He didn’t care, not when he could feel himself getting closer.

His spread legs allowed him to move one of his fingers even lower, brushing against his entrance. Sherlock bit his lower lip to stop himself from crying out. He pulled at his cock and thrust up into his tight fist, the movement pushing just the fingertip inside his hole. The rest of the fingers of his left hand pressed against his perineum, those three points of stimulation hurtling him towards an orgasm.

The heat in his groin coalesced and expanded, making his back arch, his eyes squeeze shut and his mouth open in a wordless cry. He kept his hands moving, on and inside himself, drawing out the orgasm for as long as possible. Once he stopped coming, his cock only throbbing with his pulse and slight oversensitivity, he sank back down into the tub, mess be damned. He gasped in lungfuls of air, full of the sweet scents of lavender, honey and grapefruit, and moved his hands away from his groin.

The water was already lukewarm, and he’d have to have a quick shower to wash off the mess he’d made. For now, he relaxed back into the bathtub with a sigh, feeling loose and fuzzy. John had a point, the oils and the candles were very relaxing.

+++

Sherlock had estimated there was a high chance John would give up his pursuit of physical fitness within two weeks, but to his surprise, and immense frustration, John’s stubbornness kept him going. John had jumped into jogging head first and went for a run every other day. Being an early riser meant he favoured morning runs, which also meant Sherlock was often present for his warm ups.

Sherlock felt victimised by the sight of John working out, especially since he was able to chart the progress of John’s fitness in exquisite detail. He observed the reduction in fat and increase in muscle mass, the outlines of John’s upper back and arm muscles now visible underneath his shirts. His thighs also thickened, filling out his jeans and running shorts to an obscene degree. The sight of John’s thighs now held the power to turn Sherlock’s brain into mush, and redirect all his blood supply southwards with astonishing speed.

After a month and a half of John jogging, and Sherlock having indulgent sex fantasies in the bathtub, Sherlock was fast approaching his breaking point. He could no longer maintain eye contact with John while he did his stretches, and quite often he had to sit in such away as to not give away his rather excited state. On occasion, he became aroused even when John wasn’t doing anything particularly exciting, like bending down to pick up his dropped wallet or cracking his spine in the evening after several hours spent sitting in his armchair. Sherlock cock, seemingly with a mind of its own, took every opportunity to demand attention and remind him of his pathetic pining.

Sherlock blamed this desperation for making him offer John a sparring session.

“You what?”

“A sparring session, John. Surely you have heard of the idea?” Sherlock repeated his question with a huff.

“Well, yeah. I just—this is a bit unexpected.” John lowered his book into his lap and continued to gaze at Sherlock with a bemused expression.

“You were looking for a gym in the area—the routine of running along the same paths became boring within two, no, three weeks—so you were thinking of enrolling in fitness classes as well as doing strength training,” Sherlock pointed out.

“My laptop, Sherlock, bit not good,” John mumbled halfheartedly, more out of habit than to scold.

Sherlock’s mouth twisted into a moue of displeasure. “Irrelevant, since I’m obviously right. You have had rudimentary training in boxing, along with some martial arts during your time in the army. Quite useful to keep that knowledge fresh in our line of work. Thus my offer.”

“Hm.” John frowned. “Why?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes in exasperation. “I want to help out a friend, is that so hard to believe? Or would you rather I tell you I can’t have a flabby old man running around with me?”

“Ye—no, I mean—well. You usually have at least three—Now, hold on a sec—”

“Fine, forget I asked,” Sherlock said with a pout, and got up. He intended to flounce past John’s chair and have a good sulk in his bedroom, but John caught the sleeve of his dressing gown between his fingertips.

“Yes, fine, Sherlock. I’ll go with you.” John said quickly, and offered him a small smile. “Thank you.”

Sherlock gathered himself up to his full height, pretending he hadn’t planned on barricading himself in his room because John didn’t want to play with him. “Be ready to leave at four.”

John smiled again and nodded, then went back to his book as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

At the time, Sherlock didn’t let himself dwell too much on the insane idea of taking John along to his gym for a sparring session. He had offered it spontaneously, without any prior consideration, as soon as he realised the potential a local gym could hold for meeting women. That idea had to be squashed before it got any further past thinking stage, so Sherlock opened his mouth and out came the sparring session.

It went fine, at first. Sherlock took them to the gym where he met with the owner, an ex-marine with the charming nickname P-Nut. He and John sized each other up, puffing out their chests in a childish display of masculinity, until P-Nut clapped John on the shoulder, called him “one of the lads” and made him promise to wipe the floor with Sherlock. Sherlock didn’t dignify that with a response, aside from pointedly asking for the keys to the gym.

Once inside they changed, and went about their individual warm up routines. The gym was spacious and well equipped, so they didn’t interact with each other until it was time to go into the ring. After establishing some ground rules—hand wraps only, avoid the face, no serious damage to the rest of the body—they started.

Sherlock was surprised to find John’s theoretical knowledge of boxing to be quite good, although out of practice. What John lacked in finesse he made up for in raw power. He was shorter, more compact and stronger than Sherlock; his jabs and uppercuts rare but powerful enough to wind Sherlock more than once. Sherlock’s own long reach, speed, and more classical training made it easier for him to dodge and block blows, even managing a few powerful counter-punches of his own. They were evenly matched, as in most things in life.

They traded punches and friendly insults for some time, as the sparring grew ever more competitive. Sherlock’s classic approach became a disadvantage when John figured out the move combinations he was using, and adjusted his strategy to anticipate and match Sherlock’s punches. John’s own combinations grew more erratic and unpredictable, allowing him to gain an advantage over Sherlock. To Sherlock’s dismay, his own attempts at improvising were easily avoided by John, who weaved and slipped from Sherlock’s reach with ease.

Sherlock, however, was not above fighting dirty, if it meant victory.

“Give up now and I’ll let you lose with dignity,” John grinned at him, sweat trickling down the side of his face.

Sherlock wiped his face on the sleeve of his t-shirt. “Fuck off,” he replied, a smile tugging at his lips.

John giggled at Sherlock’s unusual foul language, letting his guard down and allowing his posture to relax, which was exactly what Sherlock had hoped for. Before John regained his guarded stance, Sherlock launched himself at John’s midsection, knocking him off balance. John flew towards the rails with a startled oof , and Sherlock pressed his advantage by immediately following with a right-handed straight jab.

Despite his momentary confusion, John dodged the blow, slipping to Sherlock’s right and grabbing his arm. His left arm came up to grab Sherlock’s right shoulder, just as John took a step behind Sherlock. Sherlock felt a strong tug on his shoulder, heard John jump, and then John’s legs wrapped around his neck. Their shared weight made him bend over double, the entire world spun on its axis, and the next thing Sherlock knew was lying spread eagle on the ground with his head held securely between John’s thighs.

Sherlock was floored, both literally and figuratively, by what had happened. He knew he should be far more upset about his brilliant plan at sabotage backfiring, but he could not bring himself to do anything besides marvelling at the feel of John’s thighs around his neck. He stared ahead, eyes unseeing, trying to process his current position. John’s thighs around his neck. Skin on skin. Dear God.

John cleared his throat, making Sherlock’s eyes snap back into focus. Sherlock opened his mouth to demand release, but the words died on his tongue when he realised he was staring straight at John’s crotch. Which was just a few centimeters away from his face.

Sherlock felt a familiar burning sensation in his cheeks, spreading all over his face and neck, as he flapped his mouth soundlessly. The rest of his blood rushed south, pooling in his groin with alarming speed. He tore his eyes away from John’s groin, only to be met with John’s smug smirk.

Sherlock, mortified to the core, wiggled in John’s grip, trying to escape it. John laughed, not unkindly, but let him go after a few seconds of Sherlock pawing at his legs. Sherlock staggered up to a standing position and glared furiously at John, who got up still smiling.

“What the hell was that?” Sherlock demanded, hands coming up to touch his neck where John’s skin had met his.

“Something an Israeli bloke taught me once.” John shrugged. His face scrunched up with worry when he noticed Sherlock rubbing at his neck. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

Sherlock took a step back, avoiding John’s concerned hands. “I’m fine,” he snapped.

He wasn’t, but John didn’t have to know. Not because he was hurt—his ego took a far more thorough beating than his body—but because he could still feel John’s legs wrapped around him, their shared sweat now cooling on his skin, the smell of John so close still filling his every breath. It was the closest Sherlock had ever been to John, closest to how he wanted to be with John. It made his head swim, his cock throb, and he needed to escape John’s scrutiny to memorise this, store it safely inside his mind palace to examine later.

“Cheating git,” John snorted. Sherlock made an offended noise, making John laugh harder. “Come on, we’re done here.”

Sherlock, aware his arousal was about to become undeniable to someone even as unobservant as John, trotted back to the changing rooms to take matters in hand. He threw his gear onto the floor near his locker, grabbed a towel, and locked himself in the shower cubicle farthest from the changing facilities.

He heard John come in, sigh at the mess, and make his way towards the showers. Sherlock washed himself quickly, aiming to be done and dressed before John was finished showering, but the moan John let out when he finally stepped under the hot spray blew those plans out of the window.

Sherlock’s cock, which had softened while Sherlock scrubbed himself, hardened once more. Sherlock couldn’t ignore it, not with John making obscene noises a few cubicles away, and the sounds of water hitting John’s naked skin filling the room. He was powerless to stop the memories of John’s skin sliding over his, the feel and smell of it, from filling his mind. He had first hand data, collected even while he was panicking, allowing him to recreate the moment with crystal clarity.

His entire body ached to be touched, and to touch in return.

He took himself in hand, biting down on his fist to stop a moan from escaping his lips. His cock throbbed, and the feel of John’s thighs against his skin filled his mind, real and tangible. He tugged and pulled at his cock with no regard for finesse, not having the time nor the inclination to indulge. He was hurtling towards an orgasm at breakneck speed, fine tremors starting to make his legs wobble. He leaned his forehead against the shower wall to steady himself, gnawing on his hand harder as the heat in his groin started to coalesce.

Another one of John’s pornographic groans filled the air, and Sherlock was done. The shock of the orgasm made him slip on the wet tiles, one hand shoved into his mouth and the other a blur on his spurting cock, and he fell to his knees with a wet thud.

Sherlock let go of his cock, and steadied himself on all fours, his mouth free to take in gulps of air. Through the haze of blood rushing back to his head, and the water still beating down on his back, he heard John turn off his shower. Quick, wet steps towards his cubicle followed.

“Sherlock, you okay in there?”

Sherlock coughed in response, buying himself a few more seconds of silence, and tried to get his breathing under control.

“Fine,” he croaked out. “I slipped.”

“You sure? You sound a bit winded.”

Sherlock watched his own semen disappear down the drain, his cock giving one last exhausted twitch. “I’m fine,” he repeated, trying but failing to sound more sure of himself.

John stood still for a few more second, debating whether to keep pushing or let Sherlock be, before walking away towards the changing rooms.

Sherlock breathed a shaky sigh of relief, and finished washing himself.

There was tension in the air on their way back home, filling the heavy silence that hung over them, making Sherlock fidget. John kept sneaking glances at him, frowning in a way which meant he was trying to figure something out.

Sherlock knew he was busted, it was merely a question of time before John figured it out on his own. As much as Sherlock liked to poke fun at John’s intellect, John was clever and would put two and two together soon enough. For once, Sherlock didn’t know how to spin this in his favour — and he didn’t want to. He was tired, he realised, bone deep tired of keeping his longing a secret.

It was bound to come out, as much as Sherlock prided himself on being in control, he was aware all that went out the window as soon as John entered the equation. And as much as he liked giving up that control, this was the one situation where he would’ve liked to keep himself in check. He let himself slip, the disastrous wank in the gym only one of many blunders over the last few months. Deep down he knew he had wanted John to see, had wanted him to figure it out, and take the first step.

Sherlock was frightened of the countless what ifs, the variables he could not account for. No matter how he approached it, the ending was never a happy one.

He entered the flat dejected, bracing himself for The Conversation and the disaster that would follow. Because John would leave. Why wouldn’t he? Who would want to stay flatmates and friends with someone who wanted so desperately? Not John. Never John.

John offered to wash Sherlock’s gym clothes with his own, and Sherlock agreed wordlessly, dropping his bag at John’s feet on his way to his bedroom. He could feel John’s frowning gaze at the back of his head as he walked away. Sherlock almost wished John had spoken then, put him out of his misery, but both of them had remained silent for the rest of the day.

+++

Sherlock slept in the next day, showering and then shuffling into the kitchen in search of coffee and breakfast long after John had left for his morning run. He was grateful for the brief solitude, giving him some time to gather himself and brace for the rest of the day. For the inevitable.

The coffee was more bitter than usual, a fitting taste to start the day.

John came back soon after Sherlock finished his meagre breakfast, stopping in the kitchen to grab a glass of water and offer a quiet good morning to Sherlock. Sherlock said nothing, as usual, and nodded his head towards the fresh pot of coffee waiting on the counter. John answered with a silent smile, making Sherlock’s stomach flip unpleasantly.

Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief once John disappeared into the bathroom. He fiddled with his microscope and jotted down useless notes, hands unable to keep still. He felt like he had his head stuck in a guillotine, waiting for the blade to drop.

Sherlock scrunched up his nose at his own thoughts. Morbid, but apt.

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock jumped in his seat, startled at the sudden yell, snapping out of his glum mood in an instant. His mind conjured up the mental image of the bathroom, trying to remember whether he left something in the tub or used up John’s toiletries or—

The towels.

Towels.

That meant—

A sopping wet John storming out of the bathroom, angry frown on his face, clad only in soaked boxer briefs.

“What have you done to the towels, Sherlock?”

The towels had been important. For something. He took them all into his room, because he needed them for… something. Very important. Vital. Towels.

Sherlock wanted to remember what the towels were for, wanted to explain, but couldn’t stop staring. John was nearly naked, the wet underwear clinging to his skin and leaving no room for doubt, water cascading down his body and dripping onto the floor. Sherlock had the mad urge to follow one of those rivulets with his mouth and tongue - up John’s thick thighs, feeling the muscle shift beneath his lips, along his abdomen and chest, up to his neck and mouth. He followed that same path with his eyes instead, hungrily taking in every detail along the way. He lost track of time and place, completely mesmerised by the display before him, until he reached John’s face.

Sherlock snapped out of his trance with a jolt when he realised John had moved, and was now standing directly in front of him, a smug look on his face.

“See anything you like?” John’s widened his stance and put his arms on his hips, playfully putting himself on display. Sherlock’s eyes drifted down to John’s belly, now nearly devoid of softness. He still wanted to bury his face in it and, to his horror, his hand twitched with the urge to touch.

Sherlock’s blood pooled in his groin, John’s obvious joke having the exact effect he had feared. His mouth dry, he forced himself to look back up and meet John’s gaze.

John’s smug grin had faltered, and that in its place doubt and apprehension had appeared. John was well on his way to embarrassment, and a denial he had ever made a joke—no, an invitation.

In his preoccupation with John’s physique, Sherlock failed to notice the unmistakable physiological signs of attraction.

John licked his lips as his eyes flicked down to Sherlock’s own, and Sherlock knew he had to take a leap of faith.

Gathering up all his courage, Sherlock stood on slightly wobbly legs and said, “Yes.”

John breathed in noisily through his nose, eyes widening. This close, Sherlock could see how dilated John’s pupils were, hear his quickened and shallow breathing, see the bright and obvious flush in his cheeks. How long had he been missing the signs? He had assumed John’s preoccupation with his physique was meant for female eyes - how stupid he had been for theorising before the facts.

Emboldened, Sherlock took a step closer, close enough for his open dressing gown to brush John’s skin, and reached out to touch John’s damp chest with his fingertips. “I like all of it,” he said, looking at John from beneath his lashes.

John made a strange noise at the back of his throat, part relief and part groan, and pulled Sherlock down for a kiss. Sherlock went willingly, relief melting his bones. Their first kiss was uncoordinated, messy, sloppy, and the single most amazing kiss in Sherlock’s life.

Their lips missed and their teeth clashed, until John used both hands to hold and angle Sherlock’s head. The kiss deepened as John pushed his tongue past Sherlock’s pliant lips, moans vibrating through their chests. The sounds spurred John into abandoning Sherlock’s curls, a loss which Sherlock protested with a whine, in favour of grabbing his hips and walking both of them towards the kitchen counter.

Their groins pressing together made Sherlock break free of the kiss to gulp for air. John kept on kissing whatever skin he could reach; wet, open-mouthed kisses landing on Sherlock’s jaw and neck.

Sherlock’s hands were restless, skittering along John’s strong arms and back, trying to touch all of John at once, clinging to his still damp skin. John’s own hands had moved under Sherlock’s t-shirt, splayed along his back, keeping Sherlock in place while he rutted against him.

“I thought I had imagined it all,” John gasped into Sherlock’s neck. He mouthed his way back up to Sherlock’s lips, capturing them in an oddly chaste kiss. “Thought you didn’t notice.”

Sherlock rested his forehead against John’s and closed his eyes, breathing in their shared air. “I did but… I thought—I thought it was for someone else.”

“There is no one else. Not now, not ever.” John brushed their noses together, and giggled. “God, we’re idiots.”

Sherlock pulled away to see John smile, to see the laugh lines appear and know he was the one who put them there. His own mouth stretched into a grin. “We really are.”

John giggled again, and Sherlock kissed him, tasting the laughter on his lips. He kissed him again, and again, drinking the joy from John’s lips.

John pushed him back against the kitchen counter, reminding them both of their neglected erections. He untangled one hand from Sherlock’s hair and slipped it between their bodies to cup Sherlock through his pyjama bottoms.

“I’m going to do very bad things to you,” John half growled against Sherlock’s slack lips, open on a gasp of surprise.

“Please,” Sherlock moaned.

John squeezed Sherlock’s cock, making Sherlock whimper. His knees were like jelly, only John’s strong arms preventing him from toppling over like a felled tree.

“Bed,” John said, decisively. He grabbed Sherlock’s hand and led them towards Sherlock’s room.

Sherlock had no time to overthink what was happening, no time to start feeling anxious about the imminent sex and his own lack of experience , before John was kissing him again. Gone was the urgency and barely coordinated frenzy, tender passion taking its place.

Sherlock still felt he ought to tell John, no matter how hard it was to stop kissing him.

“I don’t—mmph—I never— John ,” Sherlock whined in protest.

“It’s okay. I’ve got you.” John kissed the underside of his jaw. “Let me take care of you.”

Sherlock hid his face in John’s neck. “M’not a blushing virgin,” he grumbled.

“Of course not.” John coaxed Sherlock’s face away from his neck and kissed his pouting mouth. “I just want to spoil you rotten.”

“Hmph.” Sherlock pouted some more as John kept dropping feather light kisses on his face, the creases around his eyes betraying his good humour. “That would be acceptable.”

Sherlock leaned down to kiss John properly, a slow, heated promise of what was to come.

“You’re overdressed,” John murmured against Sherlock’s lips, tugging at his clothes. He pushed Sherlock’s dressing gown off his shoulders and threw it carelessly to the floor. Next was the t-shirt, pulled off with only a short break from kissing, and tossed aside without thought.

John steered them towards the bed, gently pushing Sherlock down onto it. He knelt in the vee of Sherlock’s legs and, as Sherlock leaned back on his elbows, hooked his fingers into the waistband of Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms. He paused, looking up to Sherlock’s face, seeking permission.

Sherlock didn’t trust himself to produce intelligible words, so he gave a single, firm nod. John leaned down and placed a kiss in the centre of Sherlock’s chest, then tugged down his bottoms along with his pants.

Sherlock resisted the urge to curl up on himself, hide his nudity and his imperfections. He wasn’t like John, with his golden skin glowing in the morning light. He was overly pale, his skin marred with scars old and new. But he stayed as he was, splayed out at the centre of the bed, gripping the sheets tightly and fighting to control his trembling limbs.

“ Fuck. ” John brushed his palms up Sherlock’s quivering thighs. “You’re beautiful.”

Sherlock dipped his chin to hide his blush, but leaned into John’s touch when he cupped his jaw. John kissed him again, languid and deep, and he melted into the mattress.

Sherlock’s fingers found their way to John’s boxer briefs. “Off,” he pouted as he plucked at the waistband of John’s underwear.

John smiled, and placed one last kiss on the tip of Sherlock’s nose. “As you wish.”

John stood up and, holding Sherlock’s gaze the entire time, shimmied out of his briefs. He kicked them away from the bed, and stood naked and proud in front of Sherlock.

For a few seconds, Sherlock forgot how to breathe.

He took his time taking in all of John, now that he could do so openly. His eyes were drawn to the scars on John’s left shoulder; the one left by the bullet ripping through his body—uneven, jagged, angry sunburst full of past violence—and the precise surgical marks of scalpels around it.

Noticing his gaze, John took a step closer to stand between Sherlock’s knees, and Sherlock sat up to hug him around the waist.

“We match now.” Sherlock placed a single kiss on John’s sternum, where his own bullet scar was.

John’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, a trace of sadness in the creases around them. He reached down to tangle his hand in Sherlock’s hair, briefly brushing his fingers along the top of Sherlock’s back and the scars crisscrossing his skin. He leaned down and kissed Sherlock’s forehead, and Sherlock turned his face up in a silent plea for more.

They kissed again, slowly, unhurriedly, the brief melancholy having dispelled their earlier urgency. John pushed Sherlock back onto the bed, and they arranged themselves on their sides, facing each other.

John’s hands were drawn to Sherlock’s arse, evidently fulfilling a long held fantasy. He hooked Sherlock’s leg over his hip, giving himself better access, occasionally lightly brushing Sherlock’s ball sack just to make him shiver.

Sherlock maneouvered his arm between them to grab John’s cock, pleased by how it made John’s hips stutter and buck into his hand. He ran his fingers from root to tip, caressing and exploring the thick, hard length.

“Bloody tease,” John gasped against Sherlock’s lips.

Sherlock smiled, pulled John’s foreskin back, thumbed at the slit and spread the precome around the head of John’s cock, making John groan.

The angle was too awkward to maintain for long, and his hand was beginning to cramp, so Sherlock withdrew his arm in favour of hooking his leg around John’s back and pulling him on top.

John took the hint, pushing and pulling at Sherlock’s legs until they were both hooked around John’s hips. John thrust against him, grinding and sliding their cocks together, their shared precome easing the way. He broke away from Sherlock’s lips, kissing his way across his jaw to his ear, and nipped at his earlobe. The dual sensations from his cock and the skin of his neck were nearly overwhelming for Sherlock, all attempts at keeping quiet foiled. He moaned and keened and whimpered, quiet and loud noises escaping his lips at every thrust of John’s hips, every touch of his lips to his fevered skin. He could do nothing more than cling to John’s back and give himself over to pure, mindless pleasure.

He could feel his orgasm building, his toes curling in pleasure. He grabbed at John’s arse, tried to make John go harder and faster. He was getting so close, so close, he could taste it, it was so—

John suddenly stopped, and tore himself away from Sherlock’s body.

“Don’t stop, don’t stop !” Sherlock whined loudly, trying to pull John back down, his hips still thrusting up into empty space, chasing the last remnants of his near orgasm.

John hovered above him on all fours, a downright filthy smile playing on his lips.

“Not yet,” John said, voice husky with arousal. “Show me what you like,” John murmured into Sherlock’s ear, his lips close enough to brush the sensitive skin with each word. He planted his hand in the middle of Sherlock’s chest. “Show me how to make you feel good.”

Sherlock hid his face in John’s neck, feeling his blush spread down his chest. John followed the path of pink skin down to Sherlock’s belly, past his navel and the trail of dark, soft hair, to the plump cock twitching and leaking onto Sherlock’s skin. Sherlock watched him lick his lips, thought he might swallow him down and suck him off to completion there and then. Instead, John kissed the skin around it, and then moved back up to Sherlock’s face.

Sherlock let go of the sheets he held in a death grip, and placed his right hand on top of John’s on his chest. He tentatively moved their hands across his torso, caressing the base of his throat and the flat planes of his pectorals. He paused at his nipples, letting their joined hands brush over them. John took over, letting Sherlock’s hand fall away, the hint being loud and clear.

John caressed Sherlock’s pebbled flesh with his thumb, pinched and rolled them, the pace maddeningly slow. Sherlock fidgeted, restless, seeking more stimulation. John kissed his way down Sherlock’s throat, bit at the junction of neck and shoulder, and smeared his mouth down to Sherlock’s chest down to his nipples.

Sherlock opened his mouth to complain about the endless teasing, but the words died in his throat when John closed his lips around one of Sherlock’s nipples and sucked. John laved attention on Sherlock’s chest, teasing, sucking, biting every patch of skin he could reach. Sherlock’s skin felt raw and oversensitive; an exquisite agony. He could feel every puff of breath and every brush of fingertips against his skin, his world focusing down to those single points of contact. His cock twitched with every touch, so hard he was sure he’d come from the barest hint of pressure.

Sherlock’s whimpers and moans took on a desperate edge, closer to sobs than gasps of pleasure, something which Sherlock would have been deeply embarrassed about if he had been coherent enough to hear himself.

John moved away from his nipples, now red and swollen from the attention laved onto them, and kissed his way back up to Sherlock’s ear.

“Show me,” John said as he placed his left hand on Sherlock’s sternum again. He propped himself up on his right elbow, and held Sherlock’s gaze as he licked his lips.

Sherlock, blushing down to his toes and trembling, grabbed John’s hand. He moved it down his belly, following the trail of sparse hair from navel to crotch.

Sherlock’s hand fell away as John ran his fingers through the dark thatch of hair at the base of his cock. John brushed his fingers up, along the underside of Sherlock’s cock, then back down again.

“Please,” Sherlock choked out. “John, please. ”

John took pity on him and took Sherlock’s cock firmly in his left hand, swallowing Sherlock’s moan in a deep, wet kiss. He gave the cock in his hand a few tugs, slowly pulling the foreskin down and exposing the pink, glistening head. John ran his fingers through the moisture leaking copiously from Sherlock’s cock and spread it along the shaft, easing the glide of his hand.

Sherlock couldn’t stop making tiny, breathless noises whenever John twisted his wrist on the upstroke and rubbed his thumb firmly along his frenulum. John drank the sounds from his mouth, the contact more a sloppy smearing of lips and shared breath than actual kissing. Sherlock couldn’t keep still; he writhed on the bed, fists twisted in the sheets, legs skidding across the bedding as he tried to find purchase to thrust up into John’s hand.

He could come like this, very quickly if John kept up the strong and steady rhythm, but it wouldn’t satisfy the bone deep hunger he’d been harbouring for years. He wanted more - more of John, and to give himself over completely, in every way possible. The crude, exquisite medium of sex would have to do for now, however insufficient it seemed to convey the depths of Sherlock’s surrender and devotion.

John must have noticed he had been thinking, hand slowing at Sherlock’s cock to rub along the glans at a glacial pace.

“There’s more,” he whispered against Sherlock’s slack mouth. “You want something more. Show me.”

Sherlock bit his lower lip, drawing John’s eyes to it, making John’s tongue trace his own lips in response. Sherlock waited until John held his gaze once more and, without breaking eye contact, pulled at John’s wrist until John’s hand was cupping his balls. He spread his legs further apart, pushing John’s hand lower, until the tips of John’s fingers brushed against his hole. John was staring at him slack jawed, dark eyes full of hunger.

John crushed their mouths together, the fingers of his left hand caressing the twitching rim of Sherlock’s entrance. Sherlock kept enough wits about him to fling his arm out towards his nightstand, blindly searching for the lube stashed in the drawer. His uncoordinated hand knocked things over and nearly upended the nightstand itself, before his clumsy fingers closed around the bottle.

John snatched the lube from him and kissed his way down Sherlock’s abdomen, murmuring endearments mixed with profanities into his skin. Sherlock threaded his fingers through John’s hair, now damp with perspiration, eliciting a deep, vibrating rumble.

Sherlock had expected John to tease him some more, so the dual sensations of John’s mouth on his cock, and a slick finger massaging his hole, made him howl in surprise. John didn’t pause, swallowing Sherlock’s entire length until it hit the back of his throat, nose buried in the hair at Sherlock’s crotch. He withdrew slowly, until only the very tip of Sherlock’s cock was in his mouth, John’s tongue swirling along the corona. At the same time, his slick finger pushed gently at Sherlock’s entrance, in time with its twitching.

Sherlock watched John work his cock with slack jawed awe, hypnotised by the look of pure bliss on John’s face.

John bobbed his head for a few minutes, his finger an increasingly insistent pressure. It finally slipped into Sherlock, timed perfectly with a hard, long suck at Sherlock’s glans.

Sherlock writhed on the bed in ecstasy, dry-mouthed and hoarse from the moans and garbled gibberish John was pulling from him. He couldn’t keep his body still, back arching, hands fisting in the sheets and in his own sweat matted hair. He didn’t know whether to spread his legs further, open himself up to John more, or clamp them around John’s head to keep him in place. Throughout it all he kept his eyes on John, unable to look away for even an instant, committing every second to memory.

After a near kick to John’s head, John wedged his right shoulder under Sherlock’s thigh to keep it in place. His right hand sought out Sherlock’s left, which had gripped the sheets so tightly it hurt, and eased it open until their fingers entwined.

Sherlock loved him in that moment more than ever, a swell of emotions so powerful it constricted his throat, reducing his moans to croaked out sobs. His eyes stung, and he let the tears fall, unashamed.

John’s second finger joined the first inside Sherlock’s arse, both thrusting deeper and harder. They reached ever closer to his prostate, building up the tightness in Sherlock pelvis agonisingly slowly. John redoubled his efforts on Sherlock’s cock, hollowing his cheeks and then swallowing around the head of Sherlock’s cock in his throat.

Sherlock threaded the fingers of his right hand through John’s hair, squeezing their joined hands with his left, willing him to look up. He could feel heat gather and coalesce low in his abdomen, pulling at the base of his cock and his balls. Fine tremors ran through his limbs, from his toes to his hands, and his muscles started to tense.

Sherlock was on the precipice, so close that one hard thrust of John’s fingers would be enough to send him over the edge.

Sherlock tugged at John’s hair, his name falling from his lips. He wanted to see him, needed to see his face as he came, and to make John see what he did to him.

John lifted his gaze to lock eyes with Sherlock, and whatever he saw there made him moan around Sherlock’s cock, the vibrations enough to push Sherlock over the edge.

Sherlock couldn’t keep his eyes open, he threw his head back onto the pillows, back arching, his thighs clamping like a vice around John’s head. Sherlock felt the bones of John’s hand grind against each other as he squeezed it. He heard himself shout John’s name, voice raw and hoarse.

John worked him through his orgasm, purposefully brushing his fingers against Sherlock’s prostate, milking him to the very last drop, and swallowing it all down with a satisfied groan. He let go of Sherlock’s cock when it stopped pulsing against his tongue, slowly becoming soft.

Sherlock registered all of that from far away, through the haze of blissful lassitude coursing through his veins and weighing down his limbs. He lay sprawled over the bed, sweaty chest rising and falling with each laboured breath. He was incandescent with bliss.

John crawled over him, still holding onto his hand, kissing a gentle path along his skin, up to his face. Sherlock opened his eyes with great difficulty and smiled what must have been an utterly loopy smile.

“Hey, beautiful,” John spoke softly. He brought their joined hands to his mouth, kissing each of Sherlock’s knuckles and then the back of his hand. He leaned down to kiss a trail up Sherlock’s cheeks to his eyes, following the path of tears Sherlock hadn’t stopped from falling earlier. John kissed his eyelids, the tip of his nose, the corners of his mouth, before finally bestowing a kiss on his lips with a satisfied sigh.

They kissed slowly, unhurriedly, for some time, John licking and sucking at Sherlock’s mostly slack lips. Sherlock found the strength to wrap his arm around John’s neck and pull him down on top of himself.

John groaned as his cock was trapped between their bodies, giving one hard thrust against Sherlock’s abdomen.

“ Fuck , Sherlock, love,” John cursed. “Can I—can I—please—”

“Yes, yes. Anything ,” Sherlock moaned in response, not waiting to hear what John wanted to ask. He’d do anything for John, would let John do anything to him, especially when he called him love .

John sat back on his heels, and shifted to the side. He pushed at Sherlock’s legs until they were pressed together, and then spread a generous amount of lube between Sherlock’s thighs. Following John’s trail of thought, Sherlock squeezed his legs, trapping John’s hand. John retaliated by pushing his fingers down and towards Sherlock’s still loose hole, dipping just his fingertip inside. Sherlock choked on his laughter, a strangled gasp coming out instead. He tried glowering at John, but John only smiled smugly in return.

Satisfied with the prep, John straddled Sherlock’s legs, and lowered himself down, all the while guiding his cock between Sherlock’s thighs. The slick slide of John’s erection against Sherlock’s skin drew out moans from both of them.

John paused for a few moments, shoving his arms underneath Sherlock’s back and splaying his palms against his shoulder blades, before he fully lowered himself to lay atop Sherlock. He gave a few short thrusts, his breathing already reduced to harsh pants.

“Jeeesus, Sherlock, oh God , this won’t—fuck—this won’t last long,” John said through gritted teeth.

Sherlock waited until John established a rhythm before squeezing his thighs, hard, making John’s hips stutter. John dropped his face into Sherlock’s neck, cursing softly.

Sherlock grabbed John’s head and coaxed it up for a messy, sloppy kiss that still tasted of Sherlock’s own release. His hands drifted along John’s back, feeling the powerful muscle shift and move underneath the skin. He dug his fingers into John’s arse, pulling him in, harder, faster, their bodies rocking with the strength of John’s thrusts.

John broke away from their kiss to pant, only coherent enough in his own pleasure to smear his mouth against Sherlock’s. Soft sounds escaped his lips, bitten off moans and fragments of Sherlock’s name.

John’s thrusts became erratic, shallower, and his fingers dug into Sherlock’s back.

“Oh—oh God, Sherlock, I’m—”

“Yessss,” Sherlock hissed against John’s slack mouth. He squeezed his thighs together again, and dug his fingers into John’s arsecheeks, hard. “ Fuck me , John.”

John choked out a startled yell, the muscles along his back and arse going taunt, and his hips giving a few shallow, powerful jerks before stilling. Wet warmth spread between Sherlock’s thighs, John’s hard cock spilling into the tight space. A content sigh escaped Sherlock’s lips, as John held himself completely still above him, gulping in air.

After a few long seconds, John extricated his cock from between Sherlock’s legs, and then collapsed on top of him in an exhausted heap. Sherlock caressed John’s back, happy to just lie there and wait for John to come down from his orgasm.

John stirred, making half hearted attempts at moving away. Sherlock tightened his hold on him.

“Stay.”

John lifted his head to look him in the eyes. With his eyes still dark, skin pink and covered in a sheen of sweat, and tousled hair, John was the single most beautiful man Sherlock had ever seen, and he loved him fiercely.

John’s expression was soft. “Of course,” he said, and pecked Sherlock on the lips. “Of course I will.”

Mollified, Sherlock let John settle back on his chest, his hands drifting to back up to play with John’s hair. They stayed like this for a few quiet moments, sweat and semen cooling and making them stick, saying nothing and simply existing together.

“Did you mean what you said?” Sherlock asked quietly. John propped his chin up on Sherlock’s chest, a quizzical look in his eyes. “What you said earlier, when you—you said there was no one else,” Sherlock clarified, breaking eye contact.

“Oh, Sherlock,” John sounded pained.

Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to look at John’s face, fearing what he might see there. Even though they just had passionate sex, even though he let himself be vulnerable and open in front of John, even though John has called him love - the doubt at the back of his mind was still there, fuelling his fear of being hurt, and of losing John once again.

He felt John shift, his hot breath fanning across his cheek.

“Sherlock, I love you, you big lump.”

Sherlock scrunched up his face. “You can’t just say that,” he said, voice wavering dangerously.

“I’m not,” John cupped Sherlock’s cheek, trying to coax him into opening his eyes, “I mean it. Sherlock, look at me, please.”

Sherlock breathed in heavily through his nose and slowly opened his eyes. John gave him a tentative, soft smile.

“I meant it when I said there’s been no one else, and there is no one else. It’s always you, Sherlock Holmes,” John echoed Sherlock’s words from a few years earlier. Seeing Sherlock’s doubt, he quickly added, “We both did stupid things, I know. But I regret every moment I spent apart from you.”

John’s face was open and an honest, not a trace of hidden meanings or dishonesty. Finding nothing, Sherlock let go of his doubts and fears, knowing that fighting against something he had been yearning for was futile at best, and stupid at worst.

He pushed and prodded at John, until he could curl around John’s side and hide his face in his neck. For the second time that day, he gathered up his courage, and took a step into the unknown.

“I love you too,” he mumbled into John’s skin.

He felt John smile against his hair. “I can work with that.”

Sherlock hummed in agreement, snuggling in closer. John kissed the top of his head, and settled in for a doze.

“I did mean what I said, though.”

“What’s that, then?” John asked muzzily.

“I do want you to fuck me,” Sherlock said with a mischievous smile, which stretched into a grin when John cursed, and his spent cock twitched against Sherlock’s thigh.

“Fucking hell, Sherlock. Give me half an hour to recover.”

Sherlock pulled back from John’s embrace, and looked up at him with a mock pout. “A full half hour?”

“Hmm,” John bit his lip, pretending to mull it over. “We could probably shave that down to twenty minutes if you kiss me some more.”

Sherlock nodded seriously. “That’s a fair deal.”

He caught John’s gaze, and couldn’t hold it in any longer, both of them erupting into laughter at the same time. They laughed until their bellies ached, until they cried, until they kissed the joy from each other’s lips, and got lost in their happiness as the world fell away again.