A Silver Sixpence || Part Two
John had expected it to be more difficult, settling into ‘married life’ with Sherlock. Only it wasn’t that different to regular life with Sherlock, or ‘pretending to be engaged’ life with Sherlock.
Sherlock still stole John’s phone, never made the tea, spent at least four hours on the internet a day, and was completely unapologetic about being such a slob he almost put Wayne and Waynetta to shame. The only differences to their relationship were the displays of affection necessary to sell their romance.
Kisses hello and goodbye, holding hands. Sherlock's possessive arm over John's shoulders. Sharing the same bed, sitting curled around each other on the sofa, and casually offered I love you’s because it seemed like the thing to say.
It had been a bit weird at first, especially in the flat when there was no one but them. Only it was breeding the sort of familiarity they were supposed to have with each other and had saved them more than once from Lestrade’s suspicious gaze. Occasionally they forgot, but it wasn’t too hard to write off as the habit of keeping them a secret, or just Sherlock having a strop.
It was all just a bit too easy.
John would have been more suspicious of it, if they weren’t too busy worrying about Barnet. The week before the wedding had mostly been looking at all Barnet’s kills and putting together a plan of action so that Sherlock didn’t end up dead. Now they were married they were just playing the waiting game. Monitoring the papers and internet for any other attacks Barnet might make, though they both doubted he’d be able to turn down the chance to frame John.
A month into their marriage and despite them both being vigilant to the point of paranoia, nothing had happened. Except the overwhelming sense of domesticity on John’s part, though he was pretty sure that Sherlock felt it too, even if he wouldn’t admit to it.
“Takeaway for dinner, or do you fancy going out?” John asked, poking his head around the kitchen door after a look at the clock on the wall explained why his stomach was grumbling unhappily.
He knew for a fact there was nothing in the fridge that was edible, or the cupboards except for a lowly tin of tomato soup that wouldn’t go very far between them. Another thing that hadn’t changed since their marriage: Sherlock was still allergic to going food shopping for all intents and purposes.
“We’ve not been out for dinner in twelve days,” Sherlock answered, being less than helpful from where he was sprawled out across the sofa still in his pyjamas. That was one battle John had given up fighting, even before the wedding.
“Not what I asked,” he said, raising his eyebrows in a show of disapproval before going back to the mess on the kitchen table that mostly belonged to Sherlock. “And not really a very helpful answer. Am I looking for menus under this mess or not?”
“Should we go out or should we stay in?” Sherlock called out and John was revisited by the urge to throttle him that occasionally popped up when he was being an utterly useless git.
“I’m pretty sure I just asked you that!”
“You did,” Sherlock agreed, before offering. “I’m unsure of how to answer.”
John sighed and abandoned the search for takeaway menus. “Not that hard of a question really,” he pointed out, heading back into the living room where Sherlock had managed to move himself into the upright position for the first time in hours. “Do you want to put some clothes on and actually leave the flat, or not?”
Sherlock seemed to give the question far more thought than it actually deserved, before finally settling on more ambiguity. “My preference would be no, however we have just got married. Shouldn’t I be taking you out more? Showing you off and having a good time, or some such?”
John couldn’t help but laugh. It was turning into a theme, Sherlock defaulting to John for advice on their marriage as for once he was considered the expert. Actually having been in long-term relationships, or relationships at all. “You really should know better by now. I like a night in with a curry, a pint and a bit of a cuddle on the sofa.”
He always had and probably always would, regardless of how much action and adventure Sherlock brought into his life. Nothing beat a night in, especially not a night on the town.
“That’s fortuitous,” Sherlock said with a smirk that John knew all too well. “As I’ve had the menus all afternoon and have already ordered you a lamb Jalfrezi. A bottle of Tiger too.”
“Git!” John snapped, despite the unusual thoughtfulness of Sherlock ordering exactly what John wanted, lager included. Dropping down on the sofa next to Sherlock, he gave him a light smack on the chest with the back of his hand, body heat bleeding through his pyjamas and John’s jeans where their legs touched. “Rule number five of married life, no manipulating me to get what you want. All you have to do is ask for what you want.”
There was no point in adding the caveat that John reserved the right to say no. After all, they were married. That pretty much proved he was incapable of saying no to Sherlock, whether he was asked or manipulated. At least he had a little warning when Sherlock actually asked for what he wanted.
“Manipulation?” Sherlock gasped, with such an air of over the top offence they could almost be in a Carry On film. “Would I do that?”
“Do you really want me to answer that?” John snorted as Sherlock settled his arm over John’s shoulders, pulling him in until they were fitted together. John tucked his head against Sherlock's chest, where he could hear the steady beat of Sherlock’s heart, in case Mrs Hudson popped up for one of her frequent surprise visits.
Sherlock laughed, resting his cheek on the top of John’s head, as he said, “Perhaps not.”
“Is this something we need to talk about?” Sherlock questioned as John slowly dragged himself out of sleep. Sherlock was beneath him, wide-awake and shaking him rather violently by the shoulder.
That would be why he was awake when it was still dark outside, then.
“Talk about what?” John asked in return, not all that keen on waking up or being made to think.
“About the erection currently poking me somewhat suggestively in the hip,” Sherlock answered shortly.
John thought about the accusation for a second and realised two things. One, Sherlock was right, but thankfully he was too tired to even think about being horny and two, Sherlock wasn’t the only one being poked suggestively.
He couldn’t work out what Sherlock’s problem was, seeing as it was bound to happen at some point. John just hoped that Sherlock wouldn’t always be so cranky in the future as he rolled off him and onto his side of the bed, pulling the duvet up around his ears.
“John?” Sherlock prompted and he managed a grunt of sleepy frustration before giving in and accepting the fact that he was going to have to wake up properly.
A glance out the top of the duvet cocoon he’d been hoping to hide himself in showed it was only four in the morning and all he wanted was to go back to sleep before it got light. Which considering it was August, wasn’t going to be that long.
John huffed in further irritation before rolling over to face Sherlock, glaring at him over the top of the duvet. “What exactly, is there to talk about? I have an erection, you have an erection, the end.”
“Stating the obvious is not a discussion. Why are you so calm about this? Is this not upsetting your heterosexual morals?” Sherlock ranted, sounding less calm with each question.
John might have cared what his problem was; only it was four in the bloody morning.
“Were you expecting me to be embarrassed or something? Because one, I was in the Army in case you forgot; two, you know exactly how long it’s been since I had a shag and god only knows when you last had one. And last but not least, you know I’ve kissed men before, so why on earth would you think I’ve heterosexual morals to upset? In fact I’ve shagged more blokes than I have women, so there.”
Being married to Sherlock wasn’t exactly good for his love life; it certainly put a dampener on any chances of actually getting shagged in the near future. It wasn’t as if there was any other option for him than sneaky one-night-stands, and as he was getting closer to forty than not, he just wasn’t interested in them or crazy flings anymore. He wanted something more solid, a real relationship with regular sex as one of the perks, with someone he was comfortable and happy being with.
As stupid and mad as it was, he had almost everything he wanted with Sherlock. They were comfortable and mostly happy in each other’s company, he didn’t have to worry about what he said or what Sherlock thought. The only thing that was missing was the sex, and it wasn’t as if he hadn’t been without that for long stretches before.
Sure he missed it, but sex wasn’t everything. Especially not when he could have a wank in the shower without Sherlock passing comment anymore.
However, the fact that John wasn’t at all bothered by the situation did little to calm Sherlock down. “This does not happen to me, it has never happened to me, and it has been much longer since my last sexual encounter.”
“This does answer one thing, I suppose,” John said, the words slipping out before he could stop them.
“And what is that?” Sherlock snapped.
“I wasn’t sure you were even sexual at all, after that whole ‘I’m married to my work’ speech when we first met.” At least it might put an end to the curiosity.
“Just because I prefer intellectual stimulation over physical, does not mean I do not occasionally fall prey to perfectly normal human, physical desires.” Sherlock huffed and John could see his cheeks flushing through the dark. He wondered if it was anger, or if this was the second time John had actually seen Sherlock Holmes embarrassed.
“Is there any chance that telling you this is perfectly normal will end this little chat?” It was a long shot, but worth a go. He failed to see why Sherlock was making such a big deal over a bodily function they had no control of while they slept.
“I was asleep! It is not perfectly normal, I do not get aroused in my sleep,” Sherlock said with perhaps a bit more detail than John needed. Though he supposed it did clear up a few of those questions he probably shouldn’t have had.
John yawned and decided he’d had enough. If Sherlock wanted to get upset over accidental erections he could do it at a reasonable hour. “You’re also not used to sleeping wrapped around another warm body. One who does occasionally get aroused in his sleep. Just consider yourself lucky it didn’t happen sooner. Now either shut up and go back to sleep, or go have a wank in the loo. In the words of bored housewives everywhere: I’ve got a headache.”
John rolled over away from Sherlock, burying himself further into the cocoon as Sherlock huffed and finally got out of bed.
“I’m going to look at the Barnet file again,” Sherlock announced. John wondered for just a second if that was his way of saying he was going for a sneaky wank that he didn’t want John to know about.
“See you in the morning, dear,” John called out in amusement after him, before settling down to go back to sleep.
“Er, Sherlock?” John questioned, a bit worried about what the bloody hell Sherlock was up to as he loomed in a not entirely threatening, but definitely sexual way, over him on the sofa one Thursday afternoon.
Considering the way Sherlock had reacted the other week over the midnight erection nonsense, he wasn’t entirely sure what to make of it. Then Sherlock had him flat on his back, stretched out across the sofa and was in the process of settling on top of him.
Was Sherlock actually about to-?
“Your sister is here,” Sherlock said, propping himself up on elbow next to John’s head before ruffling both their hair, untucking his shirt and opening the top three buttons. The doorbell rang and Sherlock pushed the bottom of John’s shirt up, resting his hand possessively across his belly. “Mrs Hudson will open the door and Harriet will come straight up to the flat. Of all the people we must continue to convince, she is the one mostly likely to see through you.”
John had a horrible feeling he knew where this was going. Sherlock was the worst when he thought he had something to prove.
“In your own words John, make it believable,” Sherlock said and it was the only warning John had before he was under a full-on amorous Sherlock attack.
They’d only done the full on snog bit a couple of times. Like when Sherlock had proposed, at the impromptu wedding reception, and a couple of weeks before when John woke up from five minutes out cold as the result of a brick to the back of the head at a crime scene.
Considering how little experience Sherlock always gave the impression of having, John hadn’t prepared himself for the possibility that Sherlock would be so bloody good at it. And he was.
“Put some effort into it,” Sherlock said, before biting and sucking at John’s neck, and oh god that was Sherlock giving him a love bite. He’d not had one of those since he was fourteen and if Harry spotted it, it’d be the end of him.
There were footsteps on the stairs and it was too late for John to tell Sherlock the plan wouldn’t work. Assuming the plan was to embarrass Harry into not staying. She’d probably just egg them on.
Sherlock kissed John like he was drowning, as if it were the preface to best shag of their lives, and John was helpless to do anything but join in, like he meant it.
Sherlock’s skin was warm under his hands as he slid his shirt out of his trousers and up his back, tracing the curve of his spine and the sharp cut of his hips. Sherlock tasted like tea and nicotine - he’d fallen off the wagon waiting for Barnet to make his move - as they traded breaths and tangled tongues.
Sherlock shifted his hips to align with John’s and traced his fingers down John’s neck, over that spot that never failed to get him horny as hell. John inhaled sharply, if Sherlock wasn’t careful they were going to need to have another conversation about accidental erections.
It was just too bloody good. Sherlock was too bloody good and maybe he was taking it a bit too seriously. Faking it should not have turned him on so much.
A loud and obviously fake cough brought everything to a stop, including Sherlock’s hand on his belly that had started to wander towards the waistline of his jeans.
Harry.
“Haven’t you heard of knocking?” Sherlock said, in a very good impersonation of him being bloody irritated and horny. John tried to catch his breath and looked up at his sister, smirking down at the pair of them.
“I would say it’s nice to see you two haven’t lost the spark yet, but I didn’t ever need to see my little brother doing that, thanks,” she teased instead of just saying hello, or answering Sherlock, inviting herself in and dropping down into John’s chair.
John didn’t need to fake a blush in response as he and Sherlock sat up on the sofa, adjusting his shirt to cover the line of stomach Sherlock had exposed. His cheeks were burning all on their own as he offered a pathetic sounding Hi across the living room in return.
“And to what do we owe this pleasure?” Sherlock asked, in obvious disgruntlement, even though he’d probably already deduced the answer.
Even though they’d moved to opposite ends of the sofa like they were some sort of naughty teenagers, not married adults, Sherlock didn’t let go of John. His arm was stretched out along the back of the sofa cushions, fingers curled lightly around the nape of John’s neck as Sherlock’s thumb traced gentle circles over the curve of his jaw. It was hard not to lean into the touch, soothing as it was, and John didn’t put much effort into resisting as Harry made herself comfortable.
She was in a surprisingly good mood, ignoring Sherlock’s tone and the fact that she’d obviously been interrupting something. “I was in town for an appointment. It finished early so I thought I’d pop in and try and catch my little brother for a chat before my train home.”
“And you brought us a bottle of wine, how thoughtful of you,” Sherlock said in the tone of voice John knew meant he was judging Harry, and getting ready for an all out verbal assault. John reached out to rest his hand on Sherlock’s thigh, giving the firm flesh under his fingers a quick pinch in warning against whatever he was planning on saying.
He almost wished their relationship wasn’t fake, then he could at least threaten Sherlock with no sex. Though the idea of even a fake pending domestic seemed to be enough to keep Sherlock silent, his free hand resting over John’s in what he hoped was reassurance.
“I’ll go open it, shall I?” Harry offered, giving them no chance to refuse as she got up, adding with a smirk. “Give you two a minute to sort yourselves out.”
As soon as Harry slid the kitchen doors shut behind her, Sherlock was glaring at John in annoyance and hissing, “That was supposed to both convince and get rid of her.”
John rolled his eyes as Sherlock shifted along the sofa, until they pressed together from shoulder to knee. “If you’d actually let me speak, I could have told you it wouldn’t work. Though I don’t think we need to worry about convincing her, you almost had me thinking you wanted a quick shag on the sofa.”
“John,” Sherlock growled and John could tell from the way his eyes twitched he was tracking Harry’s movement around the kitchen. “I do not like your sister, and I like having to be nice to her to keep you happy even less. Make her leave.”
“Welcome to marriage,” John said under his breath, giving Sherlock’s thigh a hard squeeze as Harry came out the kitchen smiling, three glasses of wine in her hands.
“So, how are you enjoying married life?”
Barnet broke in during the middle of the night in September. Sherlock was wrapped around John like an octopus when the sound of the creak in the floorboards outside their room snapped him awake. He silently thanked the army for his ability to fall asleep and wake up at the drop of a hat, and shook Sherlock awake.
It had been three months since the wedding, longer than they had expected to have to wait for Barnet to strike. Sherlock theorised that Barnet was torn between the suspicion of their marriage considering Sherlock’s profession as a consulting detective for Scotland Yard and his own desire to punish John. He also theorised that because of their connection to Scotland Yard, he was taking extra time to ensure John would not escape conviction.
At least they’d not entirely let their guard down, despite falling so comfortably into the routine of married life. John took his gun and epi-pen from the bedside table as Sherlock sat up, eyeing the door.
“It’s him,” Sherlock breathed in John’s ear. “He’s counting on your military training to kick in. He’s going to make a disturbance downstairs to draw you out. He will attempt to dose you with chloroform and then mask its use. Then he intends to come up to where I am waiting, kill me, and plant the necessary evidence on us to prove you the perpetrator.”
John nodded, adrenaline surging through his system, making his heart pound inside his chest. “Like we planned?”
Sherlock mirrored John’s nod in agreement and John handed him the gun, clicking the safety off. “Be careful,” he said, slipping out of bed and pressing a quick, instinctive kiss to Sherlock’s lips.
Sherlock looked surprised for a brief moment, then he was sending John off to do his part with a sharp tilt of his chin.
John did as he was instructed and as they had planned when they’d first started looking into the murders Barnet had perpetrated. Barnet wasn’t going to make a move on Sherlock until John was out of the way. John, however, had no intention of actually being drugged to any effect.
Sherlock had suspected chloroform as Barnet’s drug of choice after Martin Arnott had said his mouth tasted of peppermint when he’d woken up. Barnet had access to the drug through his partner and was using a breath spray to mask the distinctive smell.
When the cloth clamped over John’s mouth and nose just as he stepped inside the living room door, he was ready for it. Closing his eyes and moving his chest in fake inhalations, he counted to three and then slumped to the floor, playing dead as everything started to get a little hazy. He slowed and evened his breathing as Barnet checked that he was still alive before moving off.
John waited until the stairs creaked before he jabbed the epi-pen into his thigh and pressed down. The rush was instant -- the haziness cleared and his heart started pounding, all effects of the chloroform forgotten as he stood.
John retrieved their second illegal handgun from where it was locked in the bottom drawer of the desk before following Barnet up the stairs. He checked the clip and flicked off the safety as he took the stairs two at a time, avoiding the creaky fourth and seventh ones.
He pushed the bedroom door open, finger on the trigger as he flicked on the light with his other hand. Sherlock was climbing out of bed, face slightly red and John’s pillow and gun on the floor.
So Barnet had gone with smothering, then.
Barnet himself was stood at the end of the bed, his own ancient looking revolver pointed at Sherlock, his face red with obvious anger.
“Drop it,” John warned, aim fixed firmly upon Barnet’s right hand where it was curled around the gun. “I’d love nothing more than to shoot you right now.” As much as he wanted to put a bullet in his head, he knew he wouldn’t. He couldn’t. They needed Barnet alive so they could exonerate those he’d already made suffer.
“Never,” Barnet hissed and John acted, before Barnet could pull the trigger.
John’s gunshot echoed through the small room, blood splattered and Barnet screamed, his gun clattering to the floor.
“If you even think about trying anything,” John warned, collecting Barnet’s revolver and tucking it securely into his waistband, “I’ll shoot you again, in the other hand.”
Barnet dropped to his knees, clutching at his bloody, ruined hand, cursing them both. John risked a glance at Sherlock, who was still flushed and breathing hard, but not looking too damaged. “You okay, Sherlock?”
Sherlock nodded, assuring John, “I’ll be fine,” as he crossed the room to join John, hand pressing against the small of his back. “I shall phone the police, and Lestrade,” he added, before dipping his head and kissing John lovingly.
John wasn’t sure whose benefit it was for: his, Sherlock’s, or Barnet’s.
He hoped it was for theirs.
“I thought they were never going to let us out of there,” John groaned, collapsing back onto the bed in the room Sherlock had got them for the night at the St Ermin's hotel, five minutes down the road from Scotland Yard. They were both exhausted, there was blood all over the floor and walls of John’s bedroom, and sleeping on the sofa came nowhere on either of their agendas for the next twenty-four hours.
The place was nice and John wasn’t going to complain about the price, even if they did only have one double bed. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t been sharing a bed with Sherlock for months anyway. In fact, he was worried that he was actually going to miss Sherlock clinging to him like a limpet in his sleep. He’d got used to sharing his bed with another person and it was going to be strange going back to sleeping on his own.
“Exonerating seventeen people, arresting a serial killer, and explaining away you shooting another person was never going to be quick. Especially when taking into account the combined intelligence of Scotland Yard could be beaten by some form of garden insect.”
“Some form of?” John laughed, too tired to even bother taking off his clothes or getting under the duvet. “You must be tired, that’s very non-specific for one of your insults.”
“Hm,” Sherlock agreed, stripping out of the trousers and shirt he’d pulled on in place of the pyjamas he’d been sleeping in once the Met officers who had arrived at Baker Street first had secured Barnet. “Yes, it has been a busy night, hasn’t it? You really should undress. You don’t have any spare clothing here and Lestrade wants to speak to us again after we’ve had some sleep.”
“I know,” John grumbled, attempting to remove his jumper without actually getting up, and unsurprisingly failing. “He’s a right tosser. It’s already almost five in the morning.”
“That really is a most ineffectual method of undressing yourself,” Sherlock commented instead, turning back his side of the duvet.
“Don’t care,” John said sounding far more pathetic than he intended to, lost somewhere under the collar of his favourite cable knit. “Too tired to move.”
John heard Sherlock sigh, but surprisingly it sounded more affectionate than long-suffering. Even more surprising however, was Sherlock’s hands carefully pulling John into a sitting position and easing his jumper and T-shirt over his head and off. They were both discarded onto the chair by the window before Sherlock guided John to lie back down and commanded him to raise his hips with a simple touch and removed his trousers.
“Er, thanks,” John said once Sherlock was in bed beside him, rolling onto his side to face him.
It was more than a little…strange to think that for the first time in four months they didn’t need to be acting like a couple. But they still were, Sherlock acting like his husband more than he ever had.
Then there were the kisses. The way they had both kissed each other when there had been no real need during the events with Barnet. It had been all over; there was no need for kisses to breed familiarity and habits for believability. Then there was the fact that John had enjoyed not just the kisses, but the change in his and Sherlock’s relationship since the wedding. It had become more than just habit. It was natural, comforting.
Even without sex it was still one of the best, most solid and stable relationships he’d ever been in.
There was still another twenty-one months before they could apply for dissolution of the Civil Partnership. How were they going to act around their friends? What were they going to say? Lestrade clearly suspected catching Barnet was the reason they’d got married and it was only a matter of time before he, and others, started asking.
What were they going to do with each other?
What were they going to be to each other?
Were they really going to go back to the way things had been before their easy affection and tender kisses?
Was that really what John wanted? To stop the easy kisses and affection that seemed to come so naturally between them? Stop being the centre of Sherlock’s attention and give up feeling like he was the centre of the universe just from one look?
“I thought you were tired.” Sherlock's low and sleepy voice interrupted John's thoughts.
“Sorry,” John apologised, giving Sherlock a weak smile, knowing he’d been caught thinking too hard. “How are you feeling? I didn’t get to ask - he wasn’t smothering you for long, was he?”
Sherlock shook his head, turning to face John. “Hardly long enough to cause any concern.”
John suddenly realised in all the confusion between trying to hide the spare gun and the police descending on the flat he wasn’t sure if a paramedic had even seen Sherlock. “Any dizziness, headache, or blurry vision since it happened? Any trouble breathing?”
Sherlock gave John a smile that said I am only answering these ridiculous questions to indulge you. “No to all the aforementioned. I am somewhat attached to my brain functioning at the height of its capabilities. I assure you, if anything was wrong I would tell you.”
“When you put it like that,” John conceded with affection. Sherlock probably did have a point; he held his brain in such high esteem that he would be demanding John fix any damage to it.
Sherlock leaned over John to switch out his light, having correctly concluded that if it was left to John it was going to stay on until they got up again. Once he was settled back down, close enough to John that he could feel the heat of Sherlock’s body and breath against his skin, Sherlock asked, “What were you thinking?”
John wasn’t sure how to answer, how Sherlock would respond to the knowledge that John was contemplating where their relationship would go from there. Wondering if it was possible to go back to just being friends, after four months of being together in every aspect but their sex life. Not when he wasn’t even sure that he wanted to.
So he tried to deflect Sherlock with a joke, hoping he’d take it as a hint to leave it alone. At least until they’d both had a decent amount of sleep. “If you can’t tell me the answer, then I’m not going to enlighten you.”
“I know the answer,” Sherlock said softly into the darkness between them, something almost afraid in his voice as he finished, “but I would rather hear you say it.”
John’s heart stopped in his chest, paralyzed with fear. He was certain the words were chosen deliberately. The answer Sherlock had given as John had teased him while he was down on one knee in the Royal Albert with a ring in his hand.
“Sherlock,” John breathed back, voice barely audible and shaking. Was he really asking John what he suspected he was? What he thought, hoped, Sherlock wanted from him? Going forward instead of going back. Because he did want it, in that moment where it was suddenly on the table, he knew. He didn’t want to return to being just friends, he didn’t want to give up the measure of contented happiness they’d accidentally made for themselves.
“What are you saying?” John asked, voice shaking. He didn’t know what he would do, what they would do if Sherlock didn’t feel the same.
“I defined a relationship as two people with an emotional connection as driven by sexual relations and mutual attraction… I feel perhaps that I was incorrect.”
“Incorrect?” John questioned, heart suddenly pounding in his chest, all traces of exhaustion wiped away in the face of Sherlock’s words. What had the last four months done to change the way Sherlock felt about relationships, about their relationship?
“I would now define a relationship as an emotional connection between two people, driven by a mutual desire for each other’s company and regard for their well-being,” Sherlock continued softly and for a moment John couldn’t breathe.
Please, John thought. Please let that be how Sherlock saw them now. Saw what their relationship had become, that somewhere along the line of pretending it had become real for him as well. Please let him feel the same.
“Would you say that applies to us?”
Sherlock shifted and as John’s eyes finally adjusted to the darkness in the room from the blackout curtains, he could tell Sherlock was looking away from him. “I feel it’s safe to say that a reasonable comparison can be drawn between this new definition and our current relationship to one another.”
It was good enough, more than enough, in fact, for John. Sherlock was putting as much of himself at risk as John was and it was clear Sherlock didn’t want to go back to the way things had been between them before. John swallowed, shifting across the sheets so he was pressed against Sherlock’s lean frame as he asked, “And what about falling prey to physical desires on a regular basis?”
John felt Sherlock’s breath catch in the second it took him to compose himself before answering. “I have no evidence in this field, but I should imagine it enhances a relationship.”
John laughed and asked, “Want to test your hypothesis?”
He didn’t give Sherlock a chance to answer, just curled his fingers around the nape of his neck and pulled him in for a real kiss. It was all teeth and tongue and needy desire, and what John hoped was the first of many, just for them.
Epilogue
"You're not planning on spending the entire day here, are you?" Lestrade asked with raised eyebrows as Sherlock read through all the evidence and crime scene reports in front of him. Naturally they were all sadly lacking in the appropriate detail, but there was enough in there for him to glean more of an insight than Scotland Yard's supposed finest could only dream about on their best day.
"Is there a reason you suddenly do not want my help anymore? Because I can assure you there is plenty here that you have missed."
Lestrade's eyebrows went up again and it became instantly and painfully obvious that he was aware of something that Sherlock wasn't. "You do know what today is, don't you?"
Sherlock frowned, "Yes, it's Tuesday."
At this Lestrade didn't appear at all impressed. "And the date?"
"June 25th, why is that..." Sherlock trailed off as the answer to his question about the importance of the date arrived in his head. Perfectly formed and it was ridiculous that he hadn't realised sooner.
He stood. John was going to kill him.
Lestrade, the bastard, just leaned back in his seat and looked smug. "Got there, did you?"
"Why didn't you say anything sooner?" Sherlock hissed, pulling on his suit jacket.
"To be honest, I thought you'd get there sooner. It is your one year anniversary."
"Yes, and on that note, my doing your job for you shall have to wait for another day. If I don't leave now there is very little chance I will actually get to have sex tonight," Sherlock said, before rushing from the office.
Lestrade's voice followed him out the door, "Too much bloody information!"
It took Sherlock twenty-three minutes to get back to Baker Street from Scotland Yard. He paid the driver with a £20 note and didn't bother waiting for the change. It took another three minutes for Mrs Hudson to open the door - why had he decided that maintaining the line of his suit was more important than taking his keys with him?
"Thank you Mrs Hudson," he called over his shoulder as he took the seventeen steps up to his and John's flat two at a time.
"Happy anniversary, Sherlock dear!" She called back, before the front door to her own flat shut with its telltale thump and click.
"Bollocks," he muttered to himself, undoing his suit jacket with one hand, the other on the handle of the closed living room door. If Mrs Hudson could recall today was their anniversary - and she wasn't always the most lucid of sorts - then there was no chance it might have slipped John's mind. The closed door was not a good sign.
"Oh," John said, looking somewhere between confused and surprised when he looked up from the medical journal he was reading to find Sherlock in the doorway. "You're back early?" It was not what Sherlock had been expecting him to say.
John took Sherlock's confused silence as he tried to align John's behaviour with what he knew of John, as a cue to continue speaking. "Are Scotland Yard being a bit brighter than you give them credit for or did you get bored?"
"You're not angry?" Sherlock blurted out, unable to bear the confusion, the not knowing what on earth was going on with John.
John raised an eyebrow, shutting the journal and dropping it to the floor next to his chair. "Should I be?"
"About today?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes in suspicion; maybe John had forgotten. It was possible he could use it to his advantage if John had, for things that Lestrade would surely class as too much information when he tormented him by recounting them happily before enlightening Scotland Yard to their once again blinding stupidity.
"Didn't forget," John said, bursting Sherlock's bubble with that smug little smile of his that Sherlock was determined he was going to stop finding adorable. Some time soon, really.
Sherlock stripped off his jacket. It was verging on intolerably warm in the flat in the late June heat wave that was crushing London. John had clearly spent too long in Afghanistan, as he wasn't even sweating, despite the heavy jeans and thick cotton shirt he was wearing. The windows were closed against the traffic noise and pollution. He switched on the fan that John had put on the desk, mostly for Sherlock's benefit rather than his own and dropped into his own armchair.
"This is not what I was expecting," he confessed when it became clear John wasn't going to say anything more, just kept on watching Sherlock like he was the most entertaining thing he'd seen all day. He was certain John knew how much he enjoyed it when he looked at him like that, even though he had done his utmost since their marriage to keep it from him.
"What? You thought that after two years of knowing you, and one year of that being pretty intimate, I wouldn't have noticed you're completely useless?"
Sherlock tried very hard not to be affronted. John did, after all, have a point. It had taken Lestrade to point out it was one year since he and John got married. Even if it had only been for a case at the time, it wasn't any more. Arnott and sixteen others were free and the trial of Alexander Barnet Junior was due to be entirely sensational when it started in November, proving his - and John's - brilliance once and for all.
"Getting distracted," John laughed, interrupting Sherlock's thoughts in a way that proved he was far more intelligent, and capable of reading Sherlock, than he had ever given John credit for during the first year. It had only got worse once they started sleeping together.
"I am very intelligent, you know," Sherlock felt the need to point out in his defence.
"I noticed." John laughed again and Sherlock ignored the fact that he was being mocked.
"Considering your more... romantic notions, I had presumed you would want some sort of grand gesture for today."
"Sherlock, in all the time you've known me, have you ever once seen anything to suggest that I'm the sort of bloke who needs, or even wants, grand gestures? I was thinking we'd get a curry, maybe watch some telly," John said with a small shrug as he got up and moved over to balance himself on the arm of Sherlock's chair. "If we weren't running all over London, that is."
Sherlock looked up at him, and considered the possibility that he should have done some research on first anniversary traditions before coming home. He was certain 'at home with a curry' wasn't one of them.
Even if John did not want something 'grand'.
"We could go out?" he suggested. Sherlock knew John secretly enjoyed correcting people, telling them 'no, actually he's my husband,' and Angelo would at least have candles, something he was positive was a requirement for anniversary dinners.
"Bit early," John dismissed cheerfully, nudging Sherlock's shoulder. Maybe he had a point. It was only three. "Did Lestrade remind you what today was?"
Sherlock wanted to deny it, tell John that he remembered on his own because it was the sort of thing that would please John. Only John could see through Sherlock's lies with a worrying, and astounding, amount of accuracy.
Another talent that had gained strength since their marriage. It was almost worth some sort of investigation, if he wasn't certain it would annoy John enough to withhold sex.
John poked Sherlock in the side and he confessed, "Yes, Lestrade pointed me in the right direction."
"Thought so," John said, looking smug again and Sherlock was unable to resist the temptation to crane his neck up and kiss the grin away.
When he finally pulled away John was still grinning, only he found he didn’t mind so much anymore.
"You're looking very pleased with yourself," John commented with more good humour than suspicion as he rested his arm around Sherlock's shoulders, a warm, heavy weight he found extremely pleasant.
"Just considering the fact this time last year you would not have been so receptive to me kissing you in private, just because I felt like it."
John hmmm’d thoughtfully, before leaning in and kissing Sherlock tenderly to illustrate the point. "Think it's an improvement in our relationship?" he asked with a smirk, although he already knew that Sherlock did think it an improvement, a vast one at that.
John however, liked to be reminded. “Certainly one worth celebrating," Sherlock offered and the truth was certainly an easy price to pay to make John happy.
"Want to get started on that?" John asked in his most suggestive manner, with a dirty grin to match that went straight to Sherlock's groin.
Just because John was the first person to be able to arouse him so thoroughly and consistently didn't mean he was unable to resist teasing him, "I do believe that just last week you told me 3 o'clock was no time to be in bed."
John’s eyebrows went up but he still chuckled in amusement, producing a warm sensation in the bottom of his stomach he had come to associate with John alone. "This is the one day of the year that particular rule doesn't count."
"Really?" Sherlock questioned, not entirely in false curiosity. After all, anniversary traditions were not something he’d ever deemed as useful knowledge. That would have to change for next year. John would be getting an appropriate gesture whether he liked it or not.
"Really,” John said, leaning in close enough that they were sharing the same air, lips teasingly brushing against his own as he spoke. “In fact, if you remember next year, you might get lucky and not be let out of bed all day."
"Perhaps I should bring to your attention that we were not married until 2 o'clock on this day last year,” Sherlock pointed out. His breath caught as John nipped at his bottom lip. It should not have been possible for John to still be able to reduce him to being driven by his libido alone with a few choice words and touches.
“And?” John asked, nosing his way along Sherlock’s jaw before pressing a careful kiss to what John knew very well was one of his ridiculously erogenous zones.
It wasn’t surprising that his voice was shaking as he continued, “One could construct a very logical argument that our anniversary has only just begun."
"I don't know,” John mused, taking Sherlock’s hand to press a line of kisses across his wrist bones. “I might need some persuading."
If Sherlock had been standing he was sure his knees would have given out on him as John followed the kisses with a slow drag of his teeth. John had taken a great deal of pleasure in tormenting Sherlock in public when he’d first discovered that particular erogenous zone.
“Not sure I can persuade while you’re doing that,” Sherlock confessed, a shiver of pure desire running through him.
“Want me to stop?” John might have been trying to look innocent, but Sherlock knew better. Much better.
“Only if it’s to move this upstairs,” Sherlock said, standing and pulling John to his feet with his free hand.
“And what’s in it for me?” John asked, biting at the edge of his scaphoid.
“Anything,” he offered, trying very hard not to whimper. Then he emphasised the point he was trying to make. Moving his hand down to press against John’s erection, he traced the outline of the head through John’s jeans with his thumb, a mixture of promise and retaliation.
John gasped, eyes fluttering shut so perfectly, for just a second. “Anything?”
“Anything you want,” Sherlock said, feeling his whole body flush and buzz with anticipation as to just what John would do with him.
“Right,” John said, dropping Sherlock’s wrist before ordering. “Upstairs. Now.”
The command in John’s voice was more than enough to move Sherlock’s brain back up from below his beltline for just long enough to make it up to their bedroom. John didn’t use that voice often, because it seemed to have hardwired itself directly into Sherlock’s libido. He’d once tried to use it get Sherlock to do the washing up, but it had only resulted in him bending Sherlock over the kitchen table and shagging him senseless.
Sherlock liked it when John used that voice.
“John?” Sherlock questioned as John started to tug frantically at his clothes as soon as they were in the bedroom, hands fumbling in their haste to undo the buttons of his shirt.
“I’ve spent half the afternoon thinking about what I was going to do to you when I got the chance,” John explained, pushing Sherlock’s shirt off his shoulders before moving down to his belt. Sherlock could feel the muscles in his abdomen tremble in anticipation. “I want to fuck you, then I want to order takeaway and eat it naked in bed, have a bit of a cuddle, and then you’re going to spend the rest of the night making up to me the fact that you forgot our anniversary.”
Sherlock was suddenly so full of complete adoration for John, and happiness that he had to laugh and pull his husband in for a sloppy but thoroughly affectionate kiss. He should have hated the domesticity of it all, but since the change in his and John’s relationship it had become familiar and comforting. It was just so very John, that ‘a bit of a cuddle’ was part of his plans, but more importantly to Sherlock, John wanted it with him.
“What was that for?” John asked once Sherlock finally released him, pulling his shirt over his head and off.
“Because you reminded me why I love you,” Sherlock said, pressing a quick but meaningful kiss to John’s lips before he set about removing his shoes and socks. They were not words Sherlock had ever expected to be able to say easily and actually mean. Idly throwing them around at the start had bred a certain amount of familiarity so that now the words weren’t empty, he could still please John by saying them.
The look John gave him in return was heart stopping in its intensity. It was the look that could reduce everything in Sherlock’s brain to nothing more than the glint in John’s eyes and the curve of his lips. It made Sherlock feel as though he were the centre of John’s universe, and it was a good thing.
John pulled him into a sweet kiss. It was perfect, pressed together from head to toe, all naked skin on naked skin, and a lazy tangle of tongues, tasting of John and tea.
“The things I’m going to do to you,” John said softly, voice breathy and rough and just how Sherlock liked it, when they broke apart.
“I’m looking forward to it,” Sherlock said and stretched himself out on the bed, resting on his elbows as John tried to locate the lubricant inside the somewhat cluttered set of drawers beside the bed.
“Come here,” John breathed in a command Sherlock was never going to disobey, as he climbed on the bed with Sherlock, straddling his thighs.
Sherlock sat up to meet him, shifting carefully so their hips aligned just so and John’s whole body shuddered as their erections pressed together. A roll of John’s hips and Sherlock’s breath was catching in his chest, the hot rush of want surging through his veins.
“To think,” he gasped as John pressed soft, opened mouthed kisses down his neck, “I used to think sexual arousal an infrequent, but inconvenient distraction.”
“Changed your mind, have I?” John teased. John traced patterns over Sherlock's left nipple with his tongue, coaxing it to hardness before moving across to the right.
“You could say as much,” Sherlock answered, arching into John’s touch as hands skated down to Sherlock’s waist and his skin hummed in response.
“Lie down,” John whispered against Sherlock’s lips in command, sparks of need so sharp they were like electricity running through his veins as he obeyed.
Anticipation made every sense sharper as John moved, dragging his teeth over Sherlock’s hipbones - one of John’s favourite parts of his anatomy - and settling between his legs. They knew this dance between them so well words weren’t required and Sherlock guided John back up for a kiss.
It was slow and breathy, all teeth and tongue as John worked him open with careful and well-lubricated fingers. Even in haste, John was gentle and able to reduce Sherlock to little more than a gasping, needy, begging mess with his fingers, lips, and liberal stimulation of his prostate.
“Please,” Sherlock breathed, hips pressing down into John’s touch and he was ready. Unable to think of anything beyond the need for John inside of him, for release.
John eased in. One smooth thrust and it was as though he’d set every one of Sherlock’s nerve endings on fire. Again. Then John started to move and Sherlock's world narrowed down to John and only John. It was gasping breaths, desperate, violent kisses, sweat slick skin, bruising grips and rising heat under Sherlock’s skin until it was too much.
With a choked moan of John’s name, Sherlock's orgasm hit. A white-hot rush of endorphins, so good it was even better than cocaine. Still so intense it took him a minute to be able to breathe again, to watch John’s face crease in a mirrored pleasure marked with his own name, gasped for him alone.
John collapsed onto the bed next to Sherlock as everything started to slow, heart rate and brain function in the aftermath of the rush of sexual chemicals and physical exertion. With still shaky hands, John retrieved a handful of tissues and wiped the smears of come from Sherlock’s stomach in what John had once informed him was a sign of true love.
They arranged themselves together with an ease borne of lots of practice under the light sheet and blanket they’d been using instead of the duvet since the heat wave began. Sherlock curled around John in his favourite manner, John’s fine blonde hair tickling against his throat and his breath warm and reassuring against his collarbone.
“Sleep and ‘a bit of a cuddle’ before takeaway in bed?” Sherlock questioned, dipping his head to capture John in a much needed, simple kiss.
“Perfect,” John answered against his lips.
It was completely illogical that Sherlock still took so much pleasure in something they had done hundreds of times. In words he’d once thought had no meaning and in physical intimacies, of both the sexual and the non-sexual nature. It should have bored him long ago, but it hadn’t. He suspected it never would.
After all, it was John.