Fic: A Matter of Affection - Sherlock/John - 3/3
Title: A Matter Of Affection
Rating: NC-17
Category: Sherlock/John
Length: ~9000 words in total
Disclaimer: The show Sherlock and that incarnation of its characters belong to the BBC, the show's writers and its actors.
Warning: Rated for naughty bits. A bit of very vague season 2 foreshadowing.
Summary: Sequel to A Matter of Convenience, wherein Sherlock and John became lovers. While John and Sherlock are (mostly) okay with the sex, they find other aspects of their changed relationship more of a challenge.
Beta: Big thanks to 01cheers, rranne and the_kinky_pet who all worked so hard to work out what bothered me about this part. I hope you like how it finally turned out!
Author's note: This part just didn't want to happen. I had a version of it written out when I posted the first two parts but it just wasn't working right. Then I was sick for ten days. Then I rewrote this and still wasn't happy. And now, I think I'm finally happier. Even though it looks as if actually resolving the issues raised here will take a whole other story (if I feel strong). I just hope it's a good read for all those of you who didn't have to suffer the rewrites. :)
Continued from part 2
John heard the click of the front door downstairs and surmised that Mrs Hudson had just gone out to lunch. He ran his hands flat down Sherlock's chest and stomach, then back up again, twisting his fingers into the sparse pale hairs across his pectoral muscles. John gently rocked his jeans-clad hips against Sherlock’s and thought about their earlier conversation. He wondered if he should try to repeat exactly what they had done the previous night. After being dragged into Sherlock's bedroom, John had given Sherlock a backrub which had not surprisingly led to sex, and judging by Sherlock's reaction that morning, it had been a hit.
Eyes closed, Sherlock hummed with appreciation, and John slid his hands onto the sofa to lean down and give him a deep kiss.
"I like this," said Sherlock into the kiss, apparently not realising that it was obvious even to John. Sherlock's body beneath John's hips was beginning to respond to the physical stimuli.
"Shh, I know."
John kissed him again, leaning up on his arms to keep his rough jumper off Sherlock’s bare skin and continuing the slow motions of his hips. After a moment, Sherlock's eyes flew open as if a thought had just occurred to him. He opened his mouth, closed it and then gave John a look as if he didn't know if he was allowed to speak. John pulled back and raised his eyebrows.
"Condoms in my coat," said Sherlock finally.
"Okay."
John reluctantly hefted himself off Sherlock and went to get the packet, slipping it into the pocket of his jeans. After their first time, Sherlock had apparently decided that the condoms John had bought for trysts with his girlfriends were not suitable, and procured a new set which had made their first appearance the previous night.
When he turned back, John paused to admire Sherlock spread out on the vomit-coloured fake leather sofa. His skin was so pale it looked almost cadaverous in the dim corner of their living room, but there was nothing but life and lust in his eyes. And the expectation that John was going to be "amazing" again.
"I have to warn you," said John, feeling suddenly nervous, "If you were serious about, um, pain, I have no idea what I'm doing."
"No change there, then," commented Sherlock, rolling his eyes.
"Oh, it's like that, is it?" said John, grabbing Sherlock's cashmere scarf from the coat hook. "Any more lip from you, young man, and I'm stuffing this in your mouth."
Sherlock's eyes widened, no doubt alarmed at the idea of choking on expensive fine fibres. John imagined actually doing it and decided it was a daft idea. He tried not to laugh.
"You don't have to take what I said literally," said Sherlock calmly. It was amazing how he managed to sound like his usual self despite being laid out on the sofa dressed only in his underwear, with his trousers round his ankles and his arms above his head.
John decided they were both going to lose interest if they kept up this conversation. "Okay, I'll remember that in future. Don't listen to what Sherlock says. Right. Now shush."
Reassured that he wouldn't have to do anything he wasn't comfortable with, John grinned wickedly as a thought came to mind. He hovered the scarf over Sherlock's chest, lowering it just enough to brush against his skin. Sherlock arched his back and groaned loudly. John smiled; although they had only had sex four times -- five counting this one -- he had soon realised that Sherlock reacted strongly to any kind of touch. He probably wasn't used to it. After all, one of the primary purposes of having sex -- aside from actually having sex -- was to get someone else to touch your body, and if Sherlock hadn't had sex, it followed that he probably hadn't been touched all that much. Lots of fun for John.
John continued to run the scarf over Sherlock's body, up the exposed underside of his arms, back to his pale chest, past his stretched briefs, all the way down his hairy legs to where his trousers were bundled around his ankles. That part looked a bit silly, so John pulled the trousers off.
Sherlock folded up one leg against the back of the sofa.
"John, I want you to lie on me."
The command brought John back to the moment. He took a look at Sherlock's flushed face and resisted the temptation to obey.
"No," he said quietly, though he smiled. "I'm busy."
Sherlock glared at him, but seemed prepared to play along. John continued his exploration with the scarf, and he was rewarded with another loud groan when it brushed Sherlock's inner thigh. Sherlock had perhaps heard the door closing earlier and deduced that they were alone too. Not that he probably cared either way. And for all his earlier admonitions, John found the sounds Sherlock made very satisfying to his own ego.
"John..." Sherlock tried again, breathing heavily through his nose; something that might under different circumstances have suggested unflattering parallels with a horse, but which under these particular circumstances made John decide it was time to move on.
John tossed the scarf onto the floor. Sherlock watched it fall with a displeased expression -- he bought very expensive clothes and, experiments gone awry aside, took good care of them. John distracted Sherlock by kneeling between his legs and pinching one of his nipples. The howl John got in response was completely out of proportion with the pain he'd caused and went straight to his groin. Okay, maybe just a little bit of pain was acceptable if it produced noises like that.
"You public schoolboy, you," said John teasingly, before leaning down to lick the flesh he had just pinched.
That turned out to be a mistake, because the next thing John knew, a silken shirt flew over his head and Sherlock's long arms and legs were wrapped around him. It took less than a second for the shirt to be discarded, leaving Sherlock's hands free to grab John's thick jumper and pull him down.
John didn't resist, laughing as he collapsed heavily onto Sherlock's chest. They kissed and John tried not to grind too hard against the warm body beneath him; he doubted that Sherlock was very comfortable with John's belt buckle digging into his lower stomach and a coarse Aran jumper rubbing his bare chest.
“Let me get these off,” said John, lifting himself up on one arm to unfasten his belt.
Sherlock helped, undoing the button on John’s jeans and unzipping his flies. Though John realised that was going to be the extent of Sherlock’s “help” when he felt a warm hand slide inside.
"Oh, dear god," breathed John, amazed at how quickly his own body had recovered.
Since he knew no one else was listening -- and since Sherlock had made such a big deal about him not letting go enough earlier -- John allowed a groan to escape his lips. Sherlock's face lit up with a delighted smile and he stroked John more firmly, so John closed his eyes and tried to relax and make whatever noises felt natural. Though after two decades of training himself to keep quiet, it wasn't as easy as he'd hoped.
"Are you up for it now?" asked Sherlock in a matter-of-fact tone.
John just had to laugh at how stubbornly self-centred Sherlock could be.
"Yes, all right. I'm ready to go again."
Sherlock shoved him off. John sat at the end of the sofa and undressed. Meanwhile, Sherlock bent both his legs up in the air to pull off his underwear. It offered John an unedifying view that would have been a turn off in any other situation. John had never found male bodies attractive, though watching gay pornography the last few weeks had at least made him realise that he didn't find them completely repulsive. Given the right circumstances, and sex with Sherlock certainly counted as the right circumstances, he'd found he could get quite turned on by the idea of what he could do with a man. Ella would probably have a field day trying to square that with John's instinctive reaction to Anderson's comment earlier.
Sherlock lowered his legs again and looked at John through the gap between his knees.
"It's a shame you don't want people to know about what we do," said Sherlock languidly. "You look amazing with nothing on. Here, give me a condom."
John laughed off the compliment and did as he was told. The previous night, he'd expressed mild dislike for the lubrication on the ones Sherlock had bought -- not something John had ever needed with girls so they were a bit of a surprise -- and Sherlock seemed to have taken that to mean he should be in charge of putting them on John. John certainly had no complaints about that arrangement.
"There you go,” said Sherlock. “Though I will enquire about a blood test when the current case is over. Can’t have you pulling that face every time we have sex.”
“What fa-- no, look it’s fine,” said John, anxious not to start a conversation about condoms at this juncture.
“Now pass me something to lie on," said Sherlock as if he hadn’t spoken. He indicated John's clothes down at their feet. "I'm sticking to this stupid sofa."
John laughed and reached behind him; the first item he could grab was his jumper. He held it up and Sherlock gave a half shrug to indicate that it would do.
"Do you want to turn over?" asked John.
"Um--" Sherlock considered their respective positions and the width of the sofa. “Good point.” He turned over, lying face down with John's jumper underneath him, his head resting on his folded arms. "Well, this feels familiar," he said, his deep voice practically a purr. “Though we should try it the other way around some day.”
“Yes.” John lay down on him, kissing the soft white skin on Sherlock's broad shoulders. He liked this position; his bare skin was in contact with Sherlock's from his chest to his hips, and there were no legs in the way, just Sherlock’s warm body and the nape of his long neck under John’s lips. He gave it a gentle nip and shifted his hips.
“Ah,” sighed Sherlock. He shifted one arm out from under his chin and took John’s hand, holding it by his shoulder as if to brace himself for what was to come. “I suppose -- oh -- I suppose it's easier to forget I'm a man this way around."
"Hardly, especially with that voice," said John, though he was concerned by Sherlock's assumption. Now still wasn't the time to have a discussion, though. "We'll try the other way round when we're in a nice soft bed next time."
"No... oh... kitchen table next time."
"Please tell me you haven't made a list of... of places to have sex," said John.
"Too weird?" breathed Sherlock, his voice muffled by John's jumper beneath his face.
"Uh, surprisingly normal, actually. Now shut up."
"Oh, god... okay."
John looked down at Sherlock's profile outlined against the oatmeal-coloured wool and felt a surge of tenderness. He wondered what Sherlock got out of their physical relationship, aside from the obvious. He certainly seemed to enjoy this; John had always heard that it could be pleasurable, though he found that hard to believe.
Sherlock reached up blindly to twist his fingers into John's hair; his lips were parted, his small blue eyes open but unfocussed, his breathing heavy, every other exhalation carrying with it a loud grunt or groan, or nonsense words telling John to go harder and deeper.
John slid his free hand with difficulty in between the sweaty sofa and Sherlock's smooth skin -- or was it vice-versa? -- and held back for as long as he could, waiting for Sherlock to get every minute of pleasure he could out of this moment. The thought that their lunch was being squashed under a box of books was a useful distraction. Then Sherlock finally tensed beneath him, shouting incomprehensibly, and John was able to let go.
Okay, this time you can make noise, said the little coherent part of his brain, the one that always stayed on standby at times like this, to listen out for irate parents or enemy bombs or any sign that a neighbour could hear him. Usually to remind him to keep quiet. But not this time.
"God, I love you, Sherlock," said John breathlessly. "I love you so much."
Sherlock didn't say anything; he just lay where he was, still flushed and breathless. He looked thoughtful again, as if his brain was analysing what he should say. John decided being told he was loved was very much like being told he was clever; not something he should expect from Sherlock and therefore something he could live without. Sherlock would no doubt express his true feelings in a variety of odd ways as usual.
John kissed Sherlock on the cheek and after a long pause to get his breath back and convince his legs to work again, he went to dispose of the condom, grabbing his trousers and underpants on the way. When he came back, his lower half reasonably decent, Sherlock was getting dressed.
John wrinkled his nose when he realised Sherlock had used John's jumper to clean up.
"Is that revenge for your shirt the other night?" asked John, tossing it in the general direction of the bathroom, where their dirty laundry lived.
"I don't want you to think this doesn't mean anything to me," Sherlock blurted out.
John blinked in surprise and sat down beside Sherlock.
"When I was a little boy, I used to hide in the airing cupboard on the landing," said Sherlock, talking rapidly but keeping his eyes fixed on the floor. "I used to spend hours in there, humming and rearranging my Mind Palace until Mummy or Nanny would drag me out to eat or go to bed. Mummy sometimes sat on the landing and listened to me. Those were the best times."
John pictured Mrs Holmes kneeling on the floor at the top of her stairs while her little boy sat wedged in a cupboard, waving his arms and making odd noises. He felt sorry for her.
"I grew out of it, of course," continued Sherlock. "Both literally and figuratively. But there are times when I want that sensation again. Feeling... safe, I suppose. Just now, when you were on top of me, inside me, holding me down, it felt a bit like that. Like being safe and I don't know, being wanted, I suppose. It was nice." He looked at John and must have noticed his bewildered look, because he frowned and added, "Not good?"
"No, good. Very good," said John, though his insides felt oddly twisted. "A little intense, maybe. But good. Well, I think I know what you're saying."
"I don't... care what people say about me. About us." Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. "I can't think about other people sometimes. It's just not there. I get absorbed and I forget about people. Even you."
"I've noticed," said John with amusement.
Sherlock frowned. "I don't want you to leave me. To leave me for someone normal."
Well, that was pretty blunt.
"Sherlock, I just told you I love you," said John softly. "I'm not going to leave you."
"You must have told at least some of the women you have slept with that you loved them or they wouldn't have slept with you. But you still left them. So the words themselves mean nothing. They're a snapshot of an emotion at a point in time." Sherlock's voice sounded as cold and analytical as usual, but John wondered how much of that was an act when the topic suddenly changed. "Lestrade said I needed to be nicer to you. That otherwise you'd feel rejected and leave."
"Right, and you don't think a man whose wife is sleeping with their kids’ PE teacher might have a slightly jaded view of love?"
"The thought did cross my mind," said Sherlock, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. "That's probably the point at which I stopped listening."
John stroked the thick dark hair at the back of Sherlock's head. "Well, for what it's worth, maybe you could be a bit nicer sometimes. But to be honest, I've put up with you for over a year now so I'm pretty used to it. It didn't make me leave when we weren't having steaming hot sex, so it's very unlikely to do that now."
He kissed Sherlock's cheek and they leaned back on the sofa together, Sherlock leaning on John's bare chest.
"I knew having sex with you was a good idea," said Sherlock smugly.
"Ah, another way to bind me to you, like giving me joint access to your bank account?"
"You use it more than I do. And I really like the sex." Sherlock rearranged his long body on the sofa until his head was in John's lap. "I actually didn't think I would when I offered, though I've always thought I might like that... which you think is weird," he said with a frown.
"No." John was feeling relaxed and happy, and in an honest mood. "Okay, a bit. It isn't something I've ever fancied doing myself. I suppose some day, you can show me." He felt a little alarmed when a thoughtful look settled in Sherlock's narrow eyes. "Some day in a very long time. When I've got over, well pretty much everything I've believed about myself for nearly forty years." He laughed. "God, I don't know what it is about you, Sherlock, but you... I'm not even gay. I mean really. And you're an ugly sod and you're a man, and for some reason, I just think you're the most gorgeous bloody thing I've ever seen in my life."
Sherlock looked pleased, though he raised his eyebrows. "Why? Because I'm clever or because what we do - I mean the ordinary things like solving cases - excite you? You gave up a safe job as an RAMC medical officer, normally kept away from combat duties, to perform as a field medic. You were miserable when you were discharged, until you met me. You like the thrill of what we do. What if I stopped having cases and took up... beekeeping?"
"Beekeeping?" John spluttered. "What- Why...? Oh, never mind. Okay. I might leave you if you took up beekeeping. Though you'd probably find a way to make it interesting."
"Well, yes, I would. Actually, I've always been interested in entomology. I could get a place, maybe on the South coast, set up an apiary and--"
John laughed. "Don't you dare! Just not-- yet. When we’re retired, maybe." He drew back to look at Sherlock. “Lucy was right, you know - the girl who dumped me a few weeks ago - you're the most exciting, wonderful thing that will ever happen to me. And I’m not going to leave you because nothing will ever be better than this." He waved his arm airily. “So there you have it. You’re the most thrilling thing in my life and I’m your... airing cupboard.”
“A very sexy airing cupboard, of course,” said Sherlock ruefully. He lowered his eyes. “And the most important person in my life.”
John stroked Sherlock’s hair and let the thought sink in. “I’m a lucky man.”
“You certainly are,” said Sherlock with a twinkle in his eyes.
They both laughed. John leaned his head on the back of the sofa, enjoying their easy companionship and the feeling of Sherlock’s hair tickling his bared stomach. But when he glanced down through half-closed eyes, he caught a strange expression on Sherlock’s face, as if Sherlock knew something that John didn’t; something that made him immensely sad.
But almost as soon as John had noticed it, it was gone, and Sherlock was talking about the Clapham Kidnapper and how he was going to find it hard to concentrate on the case after what they had just done. John wondered whether he should interrupt and remind him about the squashed sandwiches. But Sherlock started to review the clues in the entire case out loud and in excruciating detail. So John just smiled and thought he had never been happier.
Rating: NC-17
Category: Sherlock/John
Length: ~9000 words in total
Disclaimer: The show Sherlock and that incarnation of its characters belong to the BBC, the show's writers and its actors.
Warning: Rated for naughty bits. A bit of very vague season 2 foreshadowing.
Summary: Sequel to A Matter of Convenience, wherein Sherlock and John became lovers. While John and Sherlock are (mostly) okay with the sex, they find other aspects of their changed relationship more of a challenge.
Beta: Big thanks to 01cheers, rranne and the_kinky_pet who all worked so hard to work out what bothered me about this part. I hope you like how it finally turned out!
Author's note: This part just didn't want to happen. I had a version of it written out when I posted the first two parts but it just wasn't working right. Then I was sick for ten days. Then I rewrote this and still wasn't happy. And now, I think I'm finally happier. Even though it looks as if actually resolving the issues raised here will take a whole other story (if I feel strong). I just hope it's a good read for all those of you who didn't have to suffer the rewrites. :)
Continued from part 2
John heard the click of the front door downstairs and surmised that Mrs Hudson had just gone out to lunch. He ran his hands flat down Sherlock's chest and stomach, then back up again, twisting his fingers into the sparse pale hairs across his pectoral muscles. John gently rocked his jeans-clad hips against Sherlock’s and thought about their earlier conversation. He wondered if he should try to repeat exactly what they had done the previous night. After being dragged into Sherlock's bedroom, John had given Sherlock a backrub which had not surprisingly led to sex, and judging by Sherlock's reaction that morning, it had been a hit.
Eyes closed, Sherlock hummed with appreciation, and John slid his hands onto the sofa to lean down and give him a deep kiss.
"I like this," said Sherlock into the kiss, apparently not realising that it was obvious even to John. Sherlock's body beneath John's hips was beginning to respond to the physical stimuli.
"Shh, I know."
John kissed him again, leaning up on his arms to keep his rough jumper off Sherlock’s bare skin and continuing the slow motions of his hips. After a moment, Sherlock's eyes flew open as if a thought had just occurred to him. He opened his mouth, closed it and then gave John a look as if he didn't know if he was allowed to speak. John pulled back and raised his eyebrows.
"Condoms in my coat," said Sherlock finally.
"Okay."
John reluctantly hefted himself off Sherlock and went to get the packet, slipping it into the pocket of his jeans. After their first time, Sherlock had apparently decided that the condoms John had bought for trysts with his girlfriends were not suitable, and procured a new set which had made their first appearance the previous night.
When he turned back, John paused to admire Sherlock spread out on the vomit-coloured fake leather sofa. His skin was so pale it looked almost cadaverous in the dim corner of their living room, but there was nothing but life and lust in his eyes. And the expectation that John was going to be "amazing" again.
"I have to warn you," said John, feeling suddenly nervous, "If you were serious about, um, pain, I have no idea what I'm doing."
"No change there, then," commented Sherlock, rolling his eyes.
"Oh, it's like that, is it?" said John, grabbing Sherlock's cashmere scarf from the coat hook. "Any more lip from you, young man, and I'm stuffing this in your mouth."
Sherlock's eyes widened, no doubt alarmed at the idea of choking on expensive fine fibres. John imagined actually doing it and decided it was a daft idea. He tried not to laugh.
"You don't have to take what I said literally," said Sherlock calmly. It was amazing how he managed to sound like his usual self despite being laid out on the sofa dressed only in his underwear, with his trousers round his ankles and his arms above his head.
John decided they were both going to lose interest if they kept up this conversation. "Okay, I'll remember that in future. Don't listen to what Sherlock says. Right. Now shush."
Reassured that he wouldn't have to do anything he wasn't comfortable with, John grinned wickedly as a thought came to mind. He hovered the scarf over Sherlock's chest, lowering it just enough to brush against his skin. Sherlock arched his back and groaned loudly. John smiled; although they had only had sex four times -- five counting this one -- he had soon realised that Sherlock reacted strongly to any kind of touch. He probably wasn't used to it. After all, one of the primary purposes of having sex -- aside from actually having sex -- was to get someone else to touch your body, and if Sherlock hadn't had sex, it followed that he probably hadn't been touched all that much. Lots of fun for John.
John continued to run the scarf over Sherlock's body, up the exposed underside of his arms, back to his pale chest, past his stretched briefs, all the way down his hairy legs to where his trousers were bundled around his ankles. That part looked a bit silly, so John pulled the trousers off.
Sherlock folded up one leg against the back of the sofa.
"John, I want you to lie on me."
The command brought John back to the moment. He took a look at Sherlock's flushed face and resisted the temptation to obey.
"No," he said quietly, though he smiled. "I'm busy."
Sherlock glared at him, but seemed prepared to play along. John continued his exploration with the scarf, and he was rewarded with another loud groan when it brushed Sherlock's inner thigh. Sherlock had perhaps heard the door closing earlier and deduced that they were alone too. Not that he probably cared either way. And for all his earlier admonitions, John found the sounds Sherlock made very satisfying to his own ego.
"John..." Sherlock tried again, breathing heavily through his nose; something that might under different circumstances have suggested unflattering parallels with a horse, but which under these particular circumstances made John decide it was time to move on.
John tossed the scarf onto the floor. Sherlock watched it fall with a displeased expression -- he bought very expensive clothes and, experiments gone awry aside, took good care of them. John distracted Sherlock by kneeling between his legs and pinching one of his nipples. The howl John got in response was completely out of proportion with the pain he'd caused and went straight to his groin. Okay, maybe just a little bit of pain was acceptable if it produced noises like that.
"You public schoolboy, you," said John teasingly, before leaning down to lick the flesh he had just pinched.
That turned out to be a mistake, because the next thing John knew, a silken shirt flew over his head and Sherlock's long arms and legs were wrapped around him. It took less than a second for the shirt to be discarded, leaving Sherlock's hands free to grab John's thick jumper and pull him down.
John didn't resist, laughing as he collapsed heavily onto Sherlock's chest. They kissed and John tried not to grind too hard against the warm body beneath him; he doubted that Sherlock was very comfortable with John's belt buckle digging into his lower stomach and a coarse Aran jumper rubbing his bare chest.
“Let me get these off,” said John, lifting himself up on one arm to unfasten his belt.
Sherlock helped, undoing the button on John’s jeans and unzipping his flies. Though John realised that was going to be the extent of Sherlock’s “help” when he felt a warm hand slide inside.
"Oh, dear god," breathed John, amazed at how quickly his own body had recovered.
Since he knew no one else was listening -- and since Sherlock had made such a big deal about him not letting go enough earlier -- John allowed a groan to escape his lips. Sherlock's face lit up with a delighted smile and he stroked John more firmly, so John closed his eyes and tried to relax and make whatever noises felt natural. Though after two decades of training himself to keep quiet, it wasn't as easy as he'd hoped.
"Are you up for it now?" asked Sherlock in a matter-of-fact tone.
John just had to laugh at how stubbornly self-centred Sherlock could be.
"Yes, all right. I'm ready to go again."
Sherlock shoved him off. John sat at the end of the sofa and undressed. Meanwhile, Sherlock bent both his legs up in the air to pull off his underwear. It offered John an unedifying view that would have been a turn off in any other situation. John had never found male bodies attractive, though watching gay pornography the last few weeks had at least made him realise that he didn't find them completely repulsive. Given the right circumstances, and sex with Sherlock certainly counted as the right circumstances, he'd found he could get quite turned on by the idea of what he could do with a man. Ella would probably have a field day trying to square that with John's instinctive reaction to Anderson's comment earlier.
Sherlock lowered his legs again and looked at John through the gap between his knees.
"It's a shame you don't want people to know about what we do," said Sherlock languidly. "You look amazing with nothing on. Here, give me a condom."
John laughed off the compliment and did as he was told. The previous night, he'd expressed mild dislike for the lubrication on the ones Sherlock had bought -- not something John had ever needed with girls so they were a bit of a surprise -- and Sherlock seemed to have taken that to mean he should be in charge of putting them on John. John certainly had no complaints about that arrangement.
"There you go,” said Sherlock. “Though I will enquire about a blood test when the current case is over. Can’t have you pulling that face every time we have sex.”
“What fa-- no, look it’s fine,” said John, anxious not to start a conversation about condoms at this juncture.
“Now pass me something to lie on," said Sherlock as if he hadn’t spoken. He indicated John's clothes down at their feet. "I'm sticking to this stupid sofa."
John laughed and reached behind him; the first item he could grab was his jumper. He held it up and Sherlock gave a half shrug to indicate that it would do.
"Do you want to turn over?" asked John.
"Um--" Sherlock considered their respective positions and the width of the sofa. “Good point.” He turned over, lying face down with John's jumper underneath him, his head resting on his folded arms. "Well, this feels familiar," he said, his deep voice practically a purr. “Though we should try it the other way around some day.”
“Yes.” John lay down on him, kissing the soft white skin on Sherlock's broad shoulders. He liked this position; his bare skin was in contact with Sherlock's from his chest to his hips, and there were no legs in the way, just Sherlock’s warm body and the nape of his long neck under John’s lips. He gave it a gentle nip and shifted his hips.
“Ah,” sighed Sherlock. He shifted one arm out from under his chin and took John’s hand, holding it by his shoulder as if to brace himself for what was to come. “I suppose -- oh -- I suppose it's easier to forget I'm a man this way around."
"Hardly, especially with that voice," said John, though he was concerned by Sherlock's assumption. Now still wasn't the time to have a discussion, though. "We'll try the other way round when we're in a nice soft bed next time."
"No... oh... kitchen table next time."
"Please tell me you haven't made a list of... of places to have sex," said John.
"Too weird?" breathed Sherlock, his voice muffled by John's jumper beneath his face.
"Uh, surprisingly normal, actually. Now shut up."
"Oh, god... okay."
John looked down at Sherlock's profile outlined against the oatmeal-coloured wool and felt a surge of tenderness. He wondered what Sherlock got out of their physical relationship, aside from the obvious. He certainly seemed to enjoy this; John had always heard that it could be pleasurable, though he found that hard to believe.
Sherlock reached up blindly to twist his fingers into John's hair; his lips were parted, his small blue eyes open but unfocussed, his breathing heavy, every other exhalation carrying with it a loud grunt or groan, or nonsense words telling John to go harder and deeper.
John slid his free hand with difficulty in between the sweaty sofa and Sherlock's smooth skin -- or was it vice-versa? -- and held back for as long as he could, waiting for Sherlock to get every minute of pleasure he could out of this moment. The thought that their lunch was being squashed under a box of books was a useful distraction. Then Sherlock finally tensed beneath him, shouting incomprehensibly, and John was able to let go.
Okay, this time you can make noise, said the little coherent part of his brain, the one that always stayed on standby at times like this, to listen out for irate parents or enemy bombs or any sign that a neighbour could hear him. Usually to remind him to keep quiet. But not this time.
"God, I love you, Sherlock," said John breathlessly. "I love you so much."
Sherlock didn't say anything; he just lay where he was, still flushed and breathless. He looked thoughtful again, as if his brain was analysing what he should say. John decided being told he was loved was very much like being told he was clever; not something he should expect from Sherlock and therefore something he could live without. Sherlock would no doubt express his true feelings in a variety of odd ways as usual.
John kissed Sherlock on the cheek and after a long pause to get his breath back and convince his legs to work again, he went to dispose of the condom, grabbing his trousers and underpants on the way. When he came back, his lower half reasonably decent, Sherlock was getting dressed.
John wrinkled his nose when he realised Sherlock had used John's jumper to clean up.
"Is that revenge for your shirt the other night?" asked John, tossing it in the general direction of the bathroom, where their dirty laundry lived.
"I don't want you to think this doesn't mean anything to me," Sherlock blurted out.
John blinked in surprise and sat down beside Sherlock.
"When I was a little boy, I used to hide in the airing cupboard on the landing," said Sherlock, talking rapidly but keeping his eyes fixed on the floor. "I used to spend hours in there, humming and rearranging my Mind Palace until Mummy or Nanny would drag me out to eat or go to bed. Mummy sometimes sat on the landing and listened to me. Those were the best times."
John pictured Mrs Holmes kneeling on the floor at the top of her stairs while her little boy sat wedged in a cupboard, waving his arms and making odd noises. He felt sorry for her.
"I grew out of it, of course," continued Sherlock. "Both literally and figuratively. But there are times when I want that sensation again. Feeling... safe, I suppose. Just now, when you were on top of me, inside me, holding me down, it felt a bit like that. Like being safe and I don't know, being wanted, I suppose. It was nice." He looked at John and must have noticed his bewildered look, because he frowned and added, "Not good?"
"No, good. Very good," said John, though his insides felt oddly twisted. "A little intense, maybe. But good. Well, I think I know what you're saying."
"I don't... care what people say about me. About us." Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. "I can't think about other people sometimes. It's just not there. I get absorbed and I forget about people. Even you."
"I've noticed," said John with amusement.
Sherlock frowned. "I don't want you to leave me. To leave me for someone normal."
Well, that was pretty blunt.
"Sherlock, I just told you I love you," said John softly. "I'm not going to leave you."
"You must have told at least some of the women you have slept with that you loved them or they wouldn't have slept with you. But you still left them. So the words themselves mean nothing. They're a snapshot of an emotion at a point in time." Sherlock's voice sounded as cold and analytical as usual, but John wondered how much of that was an act when the topic suddenly changed. "Lestrade said I needed to be nicer to you. That otherwise you'd feel rejected and leave."
"Right, and you don't think a man whose wife is sleeping with their kids’ PE teacher might have a slightly jaded view of love?"
"The thought did cross my mind," said Sherlock, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. "That's probably the point at which I stopped listening."
John stroked the thick dark hair at the back of Sherlock's head. "Well, for what it's worth, maybe you could be a bit nicer sometimes. But to be honest, I've put up with you for over a year now so I'm pretty used to it. It didn't make me leave when we weren't having steaming hot sex, so it's very unlikely to do that now."
He kissed Sherlock's cheek and they leaned back on the sofa together, Sherlock leaning on John's bare chest.
"I knew having sex with you was a good idea," said Sherlock smugly.
"Ah, another way to bind me to you, like giving me joint access to your bank account?"
"You use it more than I do. And I really like the sex." Sherlock rearranged his long body on the sofa until his head was in John's lap. "I actually didn't think I would when I offered, though I've always thought I might like that... which you think is weird," he said with a frown.
"No." John was feeling relaxed and happy, and in an honest mood. "Okay, a bit. It isn't something I've ever fancied doing myself. I suppose some day, you can show me." He felt a little alarmed when a thoughtful look settled in Sherlock's narrow eyes. "Some day in a very long time. When I've got over, well pretty much everything I've believed about myself for nearly forty years." He laughed. "God, I don't know what it is about you, Sherlock, but you... I'm not even gay. I mean really. And you're an ugly sod and you're a man, and for some reason, I just think you're the most gorgeous bloody thing I've ever seen in my life."
Sherlock looked pleased, though he raised his eyebrows. "Why? Because I'm clever or because what we do - I mean the ordinary things like solving cases - excite you? You gave up a safe job as an RAMC medical officer, normally kept away from combat duties, to perform as a field medic. You were miserable when you were discharged, until you met me. You like the thrill of what we do. What if I stopped having cases and took up... beekeeping?"
"Beekeeping?" John spluttered. "What- Why...? Oh, never mind. Okay. I might leave you if you took up beekeeping. Though you'd probably find a way to make it interesting."
"Well, yes, I would. Actually, I've always been interested in entomology. I could get a place, maybe on the South coast, set up an apiary and--"
John laughed. "Don't you dare! Just not-- yet. When we’re retired, maybe." He drew back to look at Sherlock. “Lucy was right, you know - the girl who dumped me a few weeks ago - you're the most exciting, wonderful thing that will ever happen to me. And I’m not going to leave you because nothing will ever be better than this." He waved his arm airily. “So there you have it. You’re the most thrilling thing in my life and I’m your... airing cupboard.”
“A very sexy airing cupboard, of course,” said Sherlock ruefully. He lowered his eyes. “And the most important person in my life.”
John stroked Sherlock’s hair and let the thought sink in. “I’m a lucky man.”
“You certainly are,” said Sherlock with a twinkle in his eyes.
They both laughed. John leaned his head on the back of the sofa, enjoying their easy companionship and the feeling of Sherlock’s hair tickling his bared stomach. But when he glanced down through half-closed eyes, he caught a strange expression on Sherlock’s face, as if Sherlock knew something that John didn’t; something that made him immensely sad.
But almost as soon as John had noticed it, it was gone, and Sherlock was talking about the Clapham Kidnapper and how he was going to find it hard to concentrate on the case after what they had just done. John wondered whether he should interrupt and remind him about the squashed sandwiches. But Sherlock started to review the clues in the entire case out loud and in excruciating detail. So John just smiled and thought he had never been happier.