Interpretive Failure
Back on this horse, heaven help me.
Title: Interpretive Failure
Characters/Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Explicit sex
Spoilers: None
Word count: 2,646
Disclaimer: No ownership implied, no offense intended
Summary: Sherlock thinks he's being perfectly clear. John might not agree.
Author's Notes: This story owes a debt to bendingsignpost's wonderful fic " Behavioral Modification." This story is completely unrelated to that one in every way, and I can't hope to hold a candle to it, but it was inspired by the high level of unreliability that Sherlock's brilliant focus brings to his narration. Basically, I wanted to try on Sherlock's voice. Also, I just wanted to write some sex.
* * *
For Sherlock, the great tragedy is that the world doesn’t respond to his will alone. Like everyone else, he has to flip a switch to turn on the lights, reach into his pocket for his mobile. A frankly terrifying portion of his life is wasted on the basic processes of living. Sleep, of course, is the worst offender, to say nothing of traffic, food preparation, and waiting for web pages to load. How much simpler - how much more parsimonious - if he could just will things into being.
John is perfect in this regard. In John Watson, Sherlock is gratified to find his will made flesh. All Sherlock has to do is ask, and the man is up and out the door at a moment’s notice. When Sherlock needs a text sent, the best pair of hands for typing out messages in all of London is only as far as the other side of the room. John has excellent hands - solid, warm, square-nailed, not a bit unsteady, these days. Sometimes Sherlock finds himself a bit disappointed when John’s hands disappear behind his back or into his jacket pockets, or when, as they are at the moment, they’re obscured by the screen of John’s laptop.
But John’s hands aren’t the point. Well, they are a bit, guilelessly pecking away at the keys when Sherlock can think of much better uses for them. But, no, the point is that, while in many ways extremely limited in his powers of perception, John is exemplary at intuiting Sherlock’s needs. The man notes his preferences and habits with precise attention: he always remembers where Sherlock’s left his keys and knows exactly how he takes his tea. Inference: diligence, undoubtedly, perhaps even a certain kind of care.
Yes, care, that’s the word. John cares for Sherlock. John looks after him and has demonstrated a measure of solicitude towards his health and wellbeing. Even when his mind is elsewhere, even when he is elsewhere, there is always some part of John’s attention that is reliably fixed on Sherlock. That much is obvious. Now, for instance: the subtle orientation of his posture as he sits typing up their latest case, the way his fingers go momentarily still on the keyboard when Sherlock shifts in his chair.
All of which makes the fact that in this one matter John appears to be utterly unaware of Sherlock’s intentions even more exasperating.
It shouldn’t be difficult. John is a reasonably intelligent man - not, as they both know, extraordinary in his intellect, but observant enough for a normal person. In the heat of conflict, John is capable of interpreting the slightest twitch of Sherlock’s lips, the barest glance. Just this week, John clotheslined a suspect simply because Sherlock shouted his name.
So why should John, usually so receptive to Sherlock’s cues, fall deaf to them now?
Sherlock feels he’s been more than forthcoming. Over the past several weeks, he’s made it a point to stand closer, to let his fingers brush John’s in passing. When their eyes meet, he takes care to hold John’s gaze. Surely John sees the dilation of his pupils when he compliments Sherlock’s reasoning. Failing that, he must notice the way Sherlock’s breathing picks up whenever he’s near.
It’s not a question of inclination. While he’s primarily known John to express interest in the opposite sex, he’s noticed John’s eyes lingering, from time to time, on other men, and approximately 30% of the pornography John watches features homosexual sex acts. Bisexual, then, a two or three on the Kinsey scale, if he had to guess. He’s private about it, perhaps, but not repressed - he’s never seen a hint of self-recrimination on John’s face when he catches him admiring another man’s form. And as for his interest in Sherlock, particularly, well, that’s simple. He’s seen the way John’s throat works when he looks at him, the way he whets his lips sometimes. He’s even seen tenderness there from time to time, something more than mere desire. John cares for him. He doesn’t doubt that.
Nor can it be that John’s interest lies elsewhere. He hasn’t been on a date in weeks, hasn’t even attempted to chat anyone up. He has been going out more recently, but it’s plainly not romantic, as he always comes back smelling of beer and crisps and the cool night air - a pint or two, followed by a leisurely walk home. There’s something on his mind, perhaps - hence the long walks - but it’s not a woman. He’s seen John that way, and this isn’t that, the nervous energy, the uptick in attention to pointless personal grooming. If anything, he’d say John is troubled, but by what? He’s in good health, their finances are relatively stable at the moment, and nobody has actively tried to kill either of them in ages. So what problem could possibly be weighing on John’s mind to the extent that he would miss signals as painfully obvious as Sherlock’s have been?
He certainly isn’t doing anything particularly interesting at the moment. Whatever he’s looking at on his laptop clearly isn’t engaging, as the gradual slowing of his keystrokes suggests he’s gotten stuck on a certain passage in his blog and has lapsed into scanning the feed on some social networking site - Facebook, most likely, which Sherlock knows John only uses to keep tabs on his sister and a few old military friends. In other words, dull.
No, the question is definitely not one of interest. John has so far been unresponsive to Sherlock’s appeals, but not because he isn’t attracted to him. Therefore, John isn’t disinterested, but his attention is divided - only not by another potential partner, and not by ordinary preoccupations. So the question, then, is not whether John is interested but how Sherlock is supposed to induce him to act on that interest.
He thinks of the cyclist the other day in Regent’s Park, the one John knocked down with a clean blow to the throat. They’d been pursuing a bicycle courier who was transporting illegally harvested organs, and had learned that the man’s route that day would take him through the park. Lying in wait along the outer circle, the plan was that Sherlock would spot the suspect and John, a little further down the road, would leap out and stop him. But in the crowd of recreational cyclists, it had taken Sherlock longer than he’d anticipated to identify the man. He’d had only a moment to signal to John, and all he could do was call out and hope that John understood. He did, of course, and the sure sweep of his arm plowing the man off his bicycle had been a thing of beauty.
In that case, Sherlock hadn’t been able to rely on subtlety. There was no unspoken exchange. He’d had no choice but to telegraph his intentions for all to see, to shout out to John as loudly as he could.
It’s possible that this is the reason for John’s ignorance now. Perhaps those non-verbal cues, in this case, simply aren’t enough. John’s attention has been divided, after all, if only marginally, and even Sherlock has to admit that this isn’t the kind of need he usually expects John to intuit. Perhaps Sherlock hasn’t made himself sufficiently clear. The idea has merit, not least of all because it’s a problem he can remedy.
He sits up properly and leans forward on his knees, shoulders inclined toward John, his eyes fixed on him precisely. “John,” he begins, but finds it surprisingly difficult to find the right words. He’s never needed to proposition someone before. His voice is rough in his throat, surprisingly low.
John glances up from the screen and catches Sherlock’s gaze, is caught. Good. Marked improvement. John draws a slow breath in through his nose before returning his attention to his computer.
No, that won’t do at all. Sherlock resists the urge to sigh, for fear it will confuse John’s reading of the situation. He supposes that, now that he’s begun, he might as well follow through with this course of action. There’s nothing else for it. If the mountain won’t come to Muhammad, then Muhammad will have to go to the mountain.
He stands up. In one, two, three steps, he closes the distance between the sofa and John’s chair. Standing there before him, Sherlock is headily aware of his height, of how much control it could give him over John. But that’s a thought for another time. At the moment, Sherlock is more interested in closing the distance between them.
He splays his right hand on the arm of the chair, caging in John’s dominant arm. Then, with his left hand, he lowers the screen of John’s laptop until it snaps shut.
There it is again, that dragging intake of breath, John’s stomach drawing in at the proximity of his hand. Yes, much better.
"Er,” John begins. He whets his lips and tries to lean further back into his seat, but there’s nowhere left to go. Sherlock can’t help smiling. “Sherlock, what are you-”
“I should think that would be obvious,” he says, and then he kisses John.
“Oh.” John sighs the word into his mouth. And then, miraculously, John becomes pliant under Sherlock’s touch, opening up to him. He tastes John’s tongue, the back of his teeth. Without the anchoring presence of the keyboard, John’s hands hover uncertainly over the closed lid of the laptop. He’s experiencing - what? Indecision?
Not at all satisfactory, Sherlock decides. There should be no room for doubt in John’s mind. There should be no room for anything but Sherlock.
He redoubles his efforts, licking into John’s mouth in a way that makes the other man groan. John really is an idiot. How could he have been so obtuse, how, when he’s so obviously wanted this just as much as Sherlock has?
One of John’s hands - the right - works its way into Sherlock’s hair and tugs him closer. And when Sherlock’s fingers begin to pluck at the hem of John’s jumper, urging him up, out of these clothes, to a more suitable location, John, the wonder that he is, finally takes the hint.
In one seamless movement, Sherlock lifts the computer from John’s lap as John stands up. Sherlock drops the laptop onto the chair and then they are moving, hands twisting in hair and clothing, feet tangling with one another in a mad rush to get where they’re going.
He doesn’t have to say, ‘Upstairs,’ doesn’t have to do anything more than slide one hand up under John’s shirt, and John is guiding them toward the stairs, edging backwards, pulling Sherlock after him. He stumbles a little on the steps, misjudging the height of the rise, but Sherlock steadies him, taking advantage of his arm around John’s back to draw him close and bite at his throat. This makes John misstep yet again, to Sherlock’s great delight.
This tactic backfires a bit, however, when neither of them is quite able to regain their footing the second time and they come toppling down on the stairs. Sherlock just manages to break their fall with an outstretched arm, and then John is laughing, those breathless staccato huffs, and Sherlock finds himself laughing, too.
Sherlock thinks about getting to his feet, about helping John up and going the rest of the way to John’s room. John’s bed is a promising goal, to be sure, but on the other hand, here he is, already lying flush on top of the man. What could be better than the whole length of John’s warm, solid body pressed against him? Very little.
Judging by the way John’s hips shift against his own, John clearly agrees. Good.
Still bracing his weight with the hand beneath John’s shoulders, Sherlock reaches between them and undoes the zip on John’s jeans.
“Oh, Christ,” John gasps, his head falling back against the stair. Sherlock hears so much in those two words: anxiety and relief, desire, submission, anticipation of what’s to come. He doesn’t intend to disappoint.
He seals his mouth against John’s and eases his full cock out of his pants. Oh, yes, this was worth the wait, John’s thin moan reverberating against his lips, the smell of his arousal sharp in the air. John grips his shoulders as he closes his hand around the shaft, working him gently. He doesn’t fail to notice the buck of John’s hips as his thumb swipes the glans, and so he does it again. The tightening pressure on his shoulders says, quite clearly: more, faster, please. Sherlock is only too happy to oblige.
In return, one of John’s hands slips down to Sherlock’s arse, a warm thigh insinuating itself between his legs, and Sherlock loses John’s mouth, almost loses focus altogether. John pulls his hips flush, urging him to rock into that unyielding pressure, and he does. Even through their clothes, John is hot, so incredibly hot, but nowhere is he hotter than in Sherlock’s hand, his foreskin wonderfully wet and slipping against his palm.
Too distracted to reclaim John’s lips, he mouths at the man’s rough jaw as his hand flies up and down the length of John’s cock. John is gasping, swallowing sudden mouthfuls of air and half-choking on little unconscious noises of desire.
He tries once, twice, to shape Sherlock’s name, but Sherlock knows what’s coming, is ready for it. John comes, surging up against Sherlock, fingers digging into his shoulder, urging him impossibly closer.
As soon as the spasms in his limbs recede, John is pushing at Sherlock’s trousers, trying to free his erection. Sherlock rears up, kneeling over John on the stairs, and lets him tug his trousers down past his hips. The touch of John’s hand is perfect, dry and firm and absolutely free of any hesitation.
Lying supine on the stairs, trapped between Sherlock’s legs, John is in an ideal position to observe, and Sherlock can see that he’s watching carefully, cataloguing the wild heat creeping up Sherlock’s throat, the way his mouth hangs open at John’s touch. When he comes, it’s as much John’s attention - his pure, undivided attention - as it is John’s hand that sends him over the edge.
“Fuck,” John says as Sherlock collapses back down on top of him. There’s amusement in the curse, and no small part amazement, too.
“Mm,” Sherlock breathes. “Finally.” He rests his forehead on the cool edge of the stair beside John’s head.
John huffs a laugh into his hair. “Sorry, what?”
With great effort, Sherlock pushes himself into a sitting position - more or less - and looks John in the face. “I’ve been waiting for you to do that for weeks.”
John’s eyes, pupils already dilated from his orgasm, go even wider. “You what?”
Sherlock gives him an incredulous look. Even after all this, John still doesn’t understand? “I think I’ve made my interest perfectly clear.”
John’s mouth opens, works wordlessly for a moment. “You-? All that, the-the-touching and the smoldering gazes, that was on purpose?”
“Of course, what else?” Isn’t that how people usually indicate interest? He’s read enough studies, seen enough movies, to know it is.
“I thought that was just-“ For a moment, Sherlock thinks John’s going to hit him. “Bloody hell, Sherlock, I’ve spent weeks - weeks - thinking I was going mad, seeing things just because I wanted to see them.” Then John does hit him, though lightly, on the shoulder. “Why didn’t you just say something, you prat?”
Sherlock frowns, caught between amusement and genuine confusion at John’s irritation. “I didn’t think I had to.”
“Only you, Sherlock,” John says, shaking his head slowly, “would expect someone to deduce that you wanted to shag them.”
“But you’re clear on that point now?” he asks, just to be sure.
John grins, and leans in to catch Sherlock for another kiss. “Quite clear.”
***
"A Problem of Basic Logic," a companion piece
Title: Interpretive Failure
Characters/Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Explicit sex
Spoilers: None
Word count: 2,646
Disclaimer: No ownership implied, no offense intended
Summary: Sherlock thinks he's being perfectly clear. John might not agree.
Author's Notes: This story owes a debt to bendingsignpost's wonderful fic " Behavioral Modification." This story is completely unrelated to that one in every way, and I can't hope to hold a candle to it, but it was inspired by the high level of unreliability that Sherlock's brilliant focus brings to his narration. Basically, I wanted to try on Sherlock's voice. Also, I just wanted to write some sex.
* * *
For Sherlock, the great tragedy is that the world doesn’t respond to his will alone. Like everyone else, he has to flip a switch to turn on the lights, reach into his pocket for his mobile. A frankly terrifying portion of his life is wasted on the basic processes of living. Sleep, of course, is the worst offender, to say nothing of traffic, food preparation, and waiting for web pages to load. How much simpler - how much more parsimonious - if he could just will things into being.
John is perfect in this regard. In John Watson, Sherlock is gratified to find his will made flesh. All Sherlock has to do is ask, and the man is up and out the door at a moment’s notice. When Sherlock needs a text sent, the best pair of hands for typing out messages in all of London is only as far as the other side of the room. John has excellent hands - solid, warm, square-nailed, not a bit unsteady, these days. Sometimes Sherlock finds himself a bit disappointed when John’s hands disappear behind his back or into his jacket pockets, or when, as they are at the moment, they’re obscured by the screen of John’s laptop.
But John’s hands aren’t the point. Well, they are a bit, guilelessly pecking away at the keys when Sherlock can think of much better uses for them. But, no, the point is that, while in many ways extremely limited in his powers of perception, John is exemplary at intuiting Sherlock’s needs. The man notes his preferences and habits with precise attention: he always remembers where Sherlock’s left his keys and knows exactly how he takes his tea. Inference: diligence, undoubtedly, perhaps even a certain kind of care.
Yes, care, that’s the word. John cares for Sherlock. John looks after him and has demonstrated a measure of solicitude towards his health and wellbeing. Even when his mind is elsewhere, even when he is elsewhere, there is always some part of John’s attention that is reliably fixed on Sherlock. That much is obvious. Now, for instance: the subtle orientation of his posture as he sits typing up their latest case, the way his fingers go momentarily still on the keyboard when Sherlock shifts in his chair.
All of which makes the fact that in this one matter John appears to be utterly unaware of Sherlock’s intentions even more exasperating.
It shouldn’t be difficult. John is a reasonably intelligent man - not, as they both know, extraordinary in his intellect, but observant enough for a normal person. In the heat of conflict, John is capable of interpreting the slightest twitch of Sherlock’s lips, the barest glance. Just this week, John clotheslined a suspect simply because Sherlock shouted his name.
So why should John, usually so receptive to Sherlock’s cues, fall deaf to them now?
Sherlock feels he’s been more than forthcoming. Over the past several weeks, he’s made it a point to stand closer, to let his fingers brush John’s in passing. When their eyes meet, he takes care to hold John’s gaze. Surely John sees the dilation of his pupils when he compliments Sherlock’s reasoning. Failing that, he must notice the way Sherlock’s breathing picks up whenever he’s near.
It’s not a question of inclination. While he’s primarily known John to express interest in the opposite sex, he’s noticed John’s eyes lingering, from time to time, on other men, and approximately 30% of the pornography John watches features homosexual sex acts. Bisexual, then, a two or three on the Kinsey scale, if he had to guess. He’s private about it, perhaps, but not repressed - he’s never seen a hint of self-recrimination on John’s face when he catches him admiring another man’s form. And as for his interest in Sherlock, particularly, well, that’s simple. He’s seen the way John’s throat works when he looks at him, the way he whets his lips sometimes. He’s even seen tenderness there from time to time, something more than mere desire. John cares for him. He doesn’t doubt that.
Nor can it be that John’s interest lies elsewhere. He hasn’t been on a date in weeks, hasn’t even attempted to chat anyone up. He has been going out more recently, but it’s plainly not romantic, as he always comes back smelling of beer and crisps and the cool night air - a pint or two, followed by a leisurely walk home. There’s something on his mind, perhaps - hence the long walks - but it’s not a woman. He’s seen John that way, and this isn’t that, the nervous energy, the uptick in attention to pointless personal grooming. If anything, he’d say John is troubled, but by what? He’s in good health, their finances are relatively stable at the moment, and nobody has actively tried to kill either of them in ages. So what problem could possibly be weighing on John’s mind to the extent that he would miss signals as painfully obvious as Sherlock’s have been?
He certainly isn’t doing anything particularly interesting at the moment. Whatever he’s looking at on his laptop clearly isn’t engaging, as the gradual slowing of his keystrokes suggests he’s gotten stuck on a certain passage in his blog and has lapsed into scanning the feed on some social networking site - Facebook, most likely, which Sherlock knows John only uses to keep tabs on his sister and a few old military friends. In other words, dull.
No, the question is definitely not one of interest. John has so far been unresponsive to Sherlock’s appeals, but not because he isn’t attracted to him. Therefore, John isn’t disinterested, but his attention is divided - only not by another potential partner, and not by ordinary preoccupations. So the question, then, is not whether John is interested but how Sherlock is supposed to induce him to act on that interest.
He thinks of the cyclist the other day in Regent’s Park, the one John knocked down with a clean blow to the throat. They’d been pursuing a bicycle courier who was transporting illegally harvested organs, and had learned that the man’s route that day would take him through the park. Lying in wait along the outer circle, the plan was that Sherlock would spot the suspect and John, a little further down the road, would leap out and stop him. But in the crowd of recreational cyclists, it had taken Sherlock longer than he’d anticipated to identify the man. He’d had only a moment to signal to John, and all he could do was call out and hope that John understood. He did, of course, and the sure sweep of his arm plowing the man off his bicycle had been a thing of beauty.
In that case, Sherlock hadn’t been able to rely on subtlety. There was no unspoken exchange. He’d had no choice but to telegraph his intentions for all to see, to shout out to John as loudly as he could.
It’s possible that this is the reason for John’s ignorance now. Perhaps those non-verbal cues, in this case, simply aren’t enough. John’s attention has been divided, after all, if only marginally, and even Sherlock has to admit that this isn’t the kind of need he usually expects John to intuit. Perhaps Sherlock hasn’t made himself sufficiently clear. The idea has merit, not least of all because it’s a problem he can remedy.
He sits up properly and leans forward on his knees, shoulders inclined toward John, his eyes fixed on him precisely. “John,” he begins, but finds it surprisingly difficult to find the right words. He’s never needed to proposition someone before. His voice is rough in his throat, surprisingly low.
John glances up from the screen and catches Sherlock’s gaze, is caught. Good. Marked improvement. John draws a slow breath in through his nose before returning his attention to his computer.
No, that won’t do at all. Sherlock resists the urge to sigh, for fear it will confuse John’s reading of the situation. He supposes that, now that he’s begun, he might as well follow through with this course of action. There’s nothing else for it. If the mountain won’t come to Muhammad, then Muhammad will have to go to the mountain.
He stands up. In one, two, three steps, he closes the distance between the sofa and John’s chair. Standing there before him, Sherlock is headily aware of his height, of how much control it could give him over John. But that’s a thought for another time. At the moment, Sherlock is more interested in closing the distance between them.
He splays his right hand on the arm of the chair, caging in John’s dominant arm. Then, with his left hand, he lowers the screen of John’s laptop until it snaps shut.
There it is again, that dragging intake of breath, John’s stomach drawing in at the proximity of his hand. Yes, much better.
"Er,” John begins. He whets his lips and tries to lean further back into his seat, but there’s nowhere left to go. Sherlock can’t help smiling. “Sherlock, what are you-”
“I should think that would be obvious,” he says, and then he kisses John.
“Oh.” John sighs the word into his mouth. And then, miraculously, John becomes pliant under Sherlock’s touch, opening up to him. He tastes John’s tongue, the back of his teeth. Without the anchoring presence of the keyboard, John’s hands hover uncertainly over the closed lid of the laptop. He’s experiencing - what? Indecision?
Not at all satisfactory, Sherlock decides. There should be no room for doubt in John’s mind. There should be no room for anything but Sherlock.
He redoubles his efforts, licking into John’s mouth in a way that makes the other man groan. John really is an idiot. How could he have been so obtuse, how, when he’s so obviously wanted this just as much as Sherlock has?
One of John’s hands - the right - works its way into Sherlock’s hair and tugs him closer. And when Sherlock’s fingers begin to pluck at the hem of John’s jumper, urging him up, out of these clothes, to a more suitable location, John, the wonder that he is, finally takes the hint.
In one seamless movement, Sherlock lifts the computer from John’s lap as John stands up. Sherlock drops the laptop onto the chair and then they are moving, hands twisting in hair and clothing, feet tangling with one another in a mad rush to get where they’re going.
He doesn’t have to say, ‘Upstairs,’ doesn’t have to do anything more than slide one hand up under John’s shirt, and John is guiding them toward the stairs, edging backwards, pulling Sherlock after him. He stumbles a little on the steps, misjudging the height of the rise, but Sherlock steadies him, taking advantage of his arm around John’s back to draw him close and bite at his throat. This makes John misstep yet again, to Sherlock’s great delight.
This tactic backfires a bit, however, when neither of them is quite able to regain their footing the second time and they come toppling down on the stairs. Sherlock just manages to break their fall with an outstretched arm, and then John is laughing, those breathless staccato huffs, and Sherlock finds himself laughing, too.
Sherlock thinks about getting to his feet, about helping John up and going the rest of the way to John’s room. John’s bed is a promising goal, to be sure, but on the other hand, here he is, already lying flush on top of the man. What could be better than the whole length of John’s warm, solid body pressed against him? Very little.
Judging by the way John’s hips shift against his own, John clearly agrees. Good.
Still bracing his weight with the hand beneath John’s shoulders, Sherlock reaches between them and undoes the zip on John’s jeans.
“Oh, Christ,” John gasps, his head falling back against the stair. Sherlock hears so much in those two words: anxiety and relief, desire, submission, anticipation of what’s to come. He doesn’t intend to disappoint.
He seals his mouth against John’s and eases his full cock out of his pants. Oh, yes, this was worth the wait, John’s thin moan reverberating against his lips, the smell of his arousal sharp in the air. John grips his shoulders as he closes his hand around the shaft, working him gently. He doesn’t fail to notice the buck of John’s hips as his thumb swipes the glans, and so he does it again. The tightening pressure on his shoulders says, quite clearly: more, faster, please. Sherlock is only too happy to oblige.
In return, one of John’s hands slips down to Sherlock’s arse, a warm thigh insinuating itself between his legs, and Sherlock loses John’s mouth, almost loses focus altogether. John pulls his hips flush, urging him to rock into that unyielding pressure, and he does. Even through their clothes, John is hot, so incredibly hot, but nowhere is he hotter than in Sherlock’s hand, his foreskin wonderfully wet and slipping against his palm.
Too distracted to reclaim John’s lips, he mouths at the man’s rough jaw as his hand flies up and down the length of John’s cock. John is gasping, swallowing sudden mouthfuls of air and half-choking on little unconscious noises of desire.
He tries once, twice, to shape Sherlock’s name, but Sherlock knows what’s coming, is ready for it. John comes, surging up against Sherlock, fingers digging into his shoulder, urging him impossibly closer.
As soon as the spasms in his limbs recede, John is pushing at Sherlock’s trousers, trying to free his erection. Sherlock rears up, kneeling over John on the stairs, and lets him tug his trousers down past his hips. The touch of John’s hand is perfect, dry and firm and absolutely free of any hesitation.
Lying supine on the stairs, trapped between Sherlock’s legs, John is in an ideal position to observe, and Sherlock can see that he’s watching carefully, cataloguing the wild heat creeping up Sherlock’s throat, the way his mouth hangs open at John’s touch. When he comes, it’s as much John’s attention - his pure, undivided attention - as it is John’s hand that sends him over the edge.
“Fuck,” John says as Sherlock collapses back down on top of him. There’s amusement in the curse, and no small part amazement, too.
“Mm,” Sherlock breathes. “Finally.” He rests his forehead on the cool edge of the stair beside John’s head.
John huffs a laugh into his hair. “Sorry, what?”
With great effort, Sherlock pushes himself into a sitting position - more or less - and looks John in the face. “I’ve been waiting for you to do that for weeks.”
John’s eyes, pupils already dilated from his orgasm, go even wider. “You what?”
Sherlock gives him an incredulous look. Even after all this, John still doesn’t understand? “I think I’ve made my interest perfectly clear.”
John’s mouth opens, works wordlessly for a moment. “You-? All that, the-the-touching and the smoldering gazes, that was on purpose?”
“Of course, what else?” Isn’t that how people usually indicate interest? He’s read enough studies, seen enough movies, to know it is.
“I thought that was just-“ For a moment, Sherlock thinks John’s going to hit him. “Bloody hell, Sherlock, I’ve spent weeks - weeks - thinking I was going mad, seeing things just because I wanted to see them.” Then John does hit him, though lightly, on the shoulder. “Why didn’t you just say something, you prat?”
Sherlock frowns, caught between amusement and genuine confusion at John’s irritation. “I didn’t think I had to.”
“Only you, Sherlock,” John says, shaking his head slowly, “would expect someone to deduce that you wanted to shag them.”
“But you’re clear on that point now?” he asks, just to be sure.
John grins, and leans in to catch Sherlock for another kiss. “Quite clear.”
***
"A Problem of Basic Logic," a companion piece