Above, Below (Through the Cracks) || Part Eight (FINAL) ||
//
John could see the traces of dried tear tracks on Sherlock's face, running through the dirt and grime to show hints of his smooth, pale skin. His eyes were red and starting to swell, and John pretended he didn't see that either.
Sherlock was looking down at the Thames as it rushed and lapped against the banks below them heedless of how the entire world had just shifted around them forever. John had killed three men in less than twenty-four hours, and fallen through what Sherlock called the cracks in the world, becoming even more nameless and faceless than he had been when he returned from the war.
It was nothing compared to what Sherlock had been through. Running for weeks on end, and then finally turning to the one person he trusted only to be so betrayed. John could barely comprehend how low Mycroft had stooped.
His hands clenched into angry, involuntary, fists just at the thought of what Mycroft had done to his brother, what he'd been willing to do. Just for power.
Then Sherlock's hand covered John's. His long blood-stained fingers curling around John’s own until he turned his hand over and laced them together. Sherlock squeezed softly and John could feel a shudder of tension run through him.
John stopped looking. He allowed Sherlock to compose himself again and listened to the sounds of the traffic along the embankment rather than the sniffs and snuffles Sherlock was clearly trying to contain.
London slowly turned dark, the sky a deep and foreboding indigo that promised more rain and the skyline became bright with lights of all colours and the hazy yellow glow of pollution. Sherlock’s breathing was steady and even, though they’d both started to shiver in the cold.
Big Ben chimed behind them marking the hour.
It had only been twenty-four hours since Sherlock had woken on John’s sofa and tried to leave, tried to spare John all of this. At the fifteen-minute chime it would mark when had John made the choice that changed both their lives.
John had drugged Sherlock and pulled himself into the world of the Underside, become an unexpected citizen of London Below.
He supposed that he should regret it, that most people would. He would never speak to his sister again. He would never get to properly thank Bill Murray for slinging John over his shoulder and saving his life. He would never see his regiment again and daylight would become a novelty, something to be sought out.
Yes, most people would regret it.
John looked at Sherlock and knew he wouldn’t be alive, if a little battered and broken, if John had let him walk out his front door.
Given the chance to replay the last twenty-four hours over again there were plenty of things that John would change. Following Sherlock was not one of them.
//
It was impossible.
All the evidence pointed to the contrary but it wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be possible.
Everything he had ever said about no such thing as impossible, all the dismissive snorts and scornful tirades about whatever is left, no matter how improbable must be the truth were wrong. All wrong. They had to be.
There was another explanation for what had just occurred. There must be. He was still dreaming, drugged into a fitful sleep on John Watson’s sofa. It was a hallucination caused by lack of oxygen to the brain as the Golem’s giant hands crushed his windpipe. Moriarty and Moran had already killed him and this was hell.
It was better than the alternative. Than facing the notion that Mycroft had-.
That Mycroft would-.
That he had taken his brother’s life.
Sherlock swallowed down fresh tears and the bile that rose up into the back of his throat. He was covered in Mycroft’s blood and who would tell Mummy? Who would take care of her now? He bit back another sob, desperate to escape.
Mycroft would go into the ground and Sherlock would go back under it. The last of the Holmes line. Sherlock’s chest became suddenly tight and each breath was a deep, hard struggle.
He wanted to convince himself it was all a lie. That he was wrong. But the pain in his chest couldn’t be denied. The knowledge that the Holmes line, Mummy’s pride, had died at hands of Mycroft’s manipulation and betrayal was irrefutable.
Mycroft had betrayed him. Betrayed Sherlock, his little brother, and now they were both gone. Sherlock had trusted Mycroft, put all his faith in a childhood memory of a brother who could fix anything and knew everything.
A brother who had sent Sherlock into hell, and ordered his death for no other reason than wanting more power.
All that was left was his guilt and Below.
And John.
Doctor John Watson.
The only person Sherlock was able, was willing, to trust. The only person to have earned it since he fell through the cracks into London Below.
The only person he wanted.
The sun set and the world continued to move around him. London Above went about its business as if nothing had changed. For them, nothing had. They wouldn’t see the two men, covered in blood, sat on the edge of the Thames in front of Parliament, holding hands. One desperate not to let go.
//
Big Ben chimed the hour again.
It wasn’t just John’s fingers that were numb with cold anymore, but pretty much most of his arms and legs too. The only part of himself he could feel were the small patches of warmth where Sherlock’s hand touched his own, clammy from holding on for so long.
He clenched his teeth against the chattering they were threatening. Medically, he knew it wasn’t the right thing to do - chattering teeth was movement, it would create warmth, keep him awake - but he didn’t want Sherlock to feel pressured to leave. He would give him as much time as he needed, and wouldn’t let go of the hand in his own until Sherlock pulled away.
"I have a home," Sherlock said, as if he knew what John had been thinking. "I found the missing sister of an opener called Door, she paid me for my services by creating a door." His voice was scratchy but level and John allowed himself to look at Sherlock, properly, again.
"To where?" He asked, as he studied Sherlock’s profile, so pale he almost glowed in the artificial light of the streetlamps. Twenty-four hours ago John would have been brimming with questions about opening doors with magic and creating locks out of nothing, but it didn’t really matter anymore. There was plenty of time for questions, to learn about the Underside.
Sherlock on the other hand…
John didn’t know what Sherlock wanted, now that it was all over for him. He didn’t need protecting anymore. He didn’t need John. He might not want him either, a walking reminder of all that had happened, of the death of his brother.
An adrenaline driven kiss and promise of more didn’t mean anything. Not really. Not when two people barely knew each other, no matter how much John wanted it to mean something. Wanted Sherlock. Wanted that breathily promised more.
"A small flat, it was once 221b Baker Street but there was a gas explosion, and it slipped through the cracks. The Lady Door created a lock and a key for me, ensuring it stays my own."
John couldn’t help but wonder. "Why didn't you stay there? When Moran and Moriarty were chasing you?"
It was selfish, but John was glad Sherlock hadn’t stayed in the flat that slipped through the cracks. Sherlock would have been safe, he never would have been stabbed, he never would have found out about his brother’s betrayal and he’d never have learnt what it felt like to take a life.
He never would have met John.
It made him a fairly deplorable person.
He didn’t regret it. He couldn’t bring himself to.
"Because they discovered its location and I could not have stayed inside indefinitely. I couldn’t have outlasted them, but it’s safe again now," Sherlock answered sadly, eyes tracking a small party-boat that bobbed past them on the river, full of lights and laughter. The bright blue of the fairy lights around the edge of the deck were reflected in Sherlock’s eyes and John was certain he saw regret in them as well.
Of course Sherlock regretted it. His entire world had been turned upside down and John Watson’s affection wasn’t even close to any sort of consolation.
"That's good,” he offered as casually as he could manage. “That you have somewhere to go. I don't imagine I could put you up again. If I've vanished from existence up here, I can't see my flat staying empty for long. It was a dump, but it was a cheap dump. Should be interesting."
As much as he was reluctant to let Sherlock go, John didn’t want him to feel obligated to stay with him any longer. He had to give Sherlock the chance to cut all ties to John, if that was what he wanted, no matter what John felt. He had to stop being selfish when it came to Sherlock. It wasn’t the time to be thinking about himself, he needed to think of Sherlock instead. Give him time and space and anything else he wanted.
"I wasn't-,” Sherlock started, eyes snapping up to John’s. “I didn't-,” he tried again but continued to fumble. There was frustration written all over his face, but the sorrow was still in his eyes as he took a long, deep breath. “What I mean to say is, I have a home.”
Sherlock paused, almost nervously and his fingers tightened around John’s. He took another deep breath. “If you would like to come with me. I would like you to stay."
While his heart was beating madly inside his chest, thumping out a desperate rhythm of yes and please he didn’t answer. John wanted to accept, wanted to laugh and smile and kiss the dirt and tears from Sherlock’s face at the possibilities he was being offered. Only it seemed like such a struggle for Sherlock to say the words, to make him the offer.
“John?” Sherlock prompted, as John warred with himself. Fought between the desperate desire to take anything Sherlock offered him, just to be with him, and caution.
Was the offer so difficult to make because Sherlock was afraid John would say no? Or because he was asking out of some misguided sense of obligation, because he tipped John over the edge into Below and there was nowhere for him to go?
John wanted Sherlock, wanted to build whatever had started between them in that tunnel, but not out of obligation. Not out of pity. John Watson had been on the receiving end of enough pity to last a lifetime.
"We've barely known each other for twenty four hours,” he said cautiously, lightly. Giving Sherlock a chance to think better of the offer and retract it. “Are you sure you want to me to come and stay with you?"
Sherlock snorted and something close to a smile curved the corner of his lips. "And you knew me even less when you shot a man to save my life. The first time."
The mention of John’s first murder shouldn’t have lightened the mood, but it did. John was unable to stop himself from laughing, a low and weary chuckle, because Sherlock had a point. John had barely known Sherlock, hadn’t even known his name when he’d pulled the trigger and killed the giant.
He would do it again in a heartbeat.
"He wasn't exactly a good man,” John offered with a shrug. He motioned at Parliament with his head, adding, “And neither were they. No matter which way you argued with them, they weren't going to let us live. Even if they didn't kill us today."
It would hardly have stood up in court, but he was pretty much beyond the reach of the British justice system. The only judge he had to answer to was himself, and while taking a life was never pleasant, it had been necessary. The Underside, the world he and Sherlock lived in, was going to be safer for what he had done. People - and not just themselves - were going to be safer for what he had done. It was enough to let him sleep at night, he was certain of it.
“Stay, John,” Sherlock said softly, his fingers tightening around John’s again. “Please, I want you to come home with me and stay. Of course, if you would rather not continue our association, I can assist you in finding somewhere safe and comfortable to stay, and then leave you in peace."
Sherlock’s offer to leave John sounded like the last thing he wanted in the world. John felt his heart flutter at the tremor of fear in Sherlock’s voice, and the way he refused to meet John’s eyes. The offer was genuine, John didn’t doubt that Sherlock would be a man of his word and leave John be if he asked, but not because he wanted to.
Whatever Sherlock felt, it wasn’t pity.
Hope flickered warmly into life in the bottom of John’s stomach, sending his insides churning as he rushed to reassure Sherlock. "No. No, I want to. I want to come home with you, I do. I just didn’t want you to think you had to.”
Sherlock looked up at John and there was just a hint of something other than sadness in his eyes as he gave a dry laugh. “Perhaps now would be a reasonable time to reinforce that I do nothing unless I want to. So do stop being such a gentleman, as despite the last twenty-four hours being deeply unpleasant, it has one thing in its favour. It has brought me you and I’m rather keen on the idea of not letting you go.”
“Alright then,” John agreed and didn’t suppress the urge to smile wide and happy as he stood, Sherlock’s hand still warm in his own. “Let’s go home. Get you cleaned up and warm.”
Yes, the last twenty-four hours had been pretty much the most FUBAR in John’s life - and that included an ambush and getting shot - but something had come out of it. Something good. Sherlock. Him and Sherlock. It would be stupid to let that go.
Sherlock climbed to his feet and stood pressed close to John’s side. He looked over his shoulder towards Westminster tube station and seemed to be deep in thought for a moment before declaring, "We'll ask the Earl to take us."
//
The Earl - or at least, the man John presumed to be the Earl - said nothing when Sherlock stepped in to the darkened carriage it the in middle of the tube, the one that all the other late night passengers avoided. The sign above the platform in Westminster station proclaimed it to be a District line train to Wimbledon, but John had learnt enough about the Underside not to make the mistake of thinking what was the same for Above was the same for Below.
He didn't ask Sherlock about it. There was plenty of time for that.
Sherlock looked around at the expectant faces and simply said, "It's over."
The Earl, sat at the end of the carriage, took in Sherlock's bloodied and defeated appearance for a moment before nodding. Then the train doors beeped, closed and they were moving.
John reached up and grabbed onto the yellow rail above his head with one hand. Holding on tightly against the motion of the speeding tube he wrapped his other arm around Sherlock's waist.
Sherlock swayed into John, unbalanced and exhausted looking. His shoulders were heavy under the weight of everything he'd been through, as he slumped against John and hid his face in the crook of his neck.
The entire - and impossible - journey to the Baker Street station was made in silence.
The other people in the carriage, the dwellers of the Underside lurked at the edges of John's awareness. Silent. They wanted answers, but followed the example of the Earl and his quiet contemplation of the scene before them. They didn't ask any questions. Just watched Sherlock and John with expressions of curiosity, fascination and awe.
//
Sherlock led John straight through the graffiti covered tunnel wall below Baker Street tube station and felt some of the pressure lift off his chest. He was home and safe and he had John Watson with him. To stay.
The weight of the Earl’s stare had unsettled him. Brought him the unpleasant realisation that there were going to be questions. The Underside, the remaining tribe leaders, would want answers and Sherlock was for once uncertain as to how to proceed with the truth.
Could he truly tell them that it had been his own brother? That his place in their society had been a part of his elder sibling’s master plan to control Above and Below, through his depraved puppets?
“Tomorrow,” John said softly, his hands warm and solid against Sherlock’s shoulders as he pushed off his tailcoat. Clever, steady fingers started to unbutton his waistcoat, then eased his shirt from where it was tucked into his trousers. “Worry about it tomorrow.”
Sherlock nodded in agreement, allowed John to step forward, press in close as he eased off the waistcoat before dropping it onto the sofa and starting to thumb open his shirt buttons. John’s breath was warm and damp and just a little sour against his cheek, and if Sherlock breathed in deep he could catch the smell of John, beneath the blood and the sweat and Above and Below.
It was comforting and distracting.
Perfect.
Sherlock curled one hand around John’s waist, pushed his fingers up under his jumper and the waistband of his jeans. Sought out the hot, soft skin of his belly and let the contact ground him, remind him that he still had something good come from the disaster.
John would be there tomorrow, and hopefully every day after. He would help Sherlock find the right answers to give, hide away in the world Lady Door had secured for him until Sherlock was ready to face the Underside again.
Until he had processed the events that even a brain like his, fast and significantly more detached than your average, was desperately attempting to ignore.
“Where’s the bathroom? We’re going to clean you up, then it’s bed for some rest,” John said, interrupting Sherlock’s thoughts and sounding so much like a doctor that he couldn’t help but chuckle.
“Doctor’s orders?” He asked, thumb stroking over the sharp curve of John’s hipbone.
John nodded, brushing back Sherlock’s hair. “Doctor’s orders.”
//
The water was so hot it burned Sherlock’s skin on first contact. He hissed, as the aches and pains he had been going to great trouble to ignore existed made themselves very well known.
Running for one’s life was hell on pretty much everything.
“You alright?” John asked, from the other side of the shower curtain where he was tending to the wounds Moran had inflicted on him in Mycroft’s office.
It was fortunate John had kept his medical kit. Sherlock could hear the occasional sharp intake of breath that indicated John was using the bathroom mirror to stitch the deepest of the cuts. Treatment that Sherlock’s meagre first aid kit - inherited from the original owners of 221b - could not have even hoped to provide.
“I’m fairly certain you should be concentrating on yourself currently,” Sherlock said as the sharp pain in his shoulder settled down into a steady, low, throb and he favoured his uninjured side to wash. It was after all still less than two days since he had been stabbed.
“I’m done now,” John said after a moment’s pause, and then pressed. “Really, are you alright in there?”
“Perfectly fine,” Sherlock assured him, almost entirely certain it was true in the physical sense at least.
Emotionally, the less he thought about the events of the last twenty-four hours the better.
“Shout, if you need anything,” John offered before the bathroom door opened and then clicked shut again.
Sherlock hung his head under the rush of water from the showerhead and let it wash everything away. John was waiting for him.
//
John investigated the small flat while Sherlock finished showering, his bag abandoned on the end of the leather sofa once he’d pulled a fresh pair of boxers and a t-shirt from inside. Sherlock had forced him into the shower first and it was nice to be clean, if sore and tender in more than a couple of spots.
It was almost like being Above, as long as he ignored the parts of the flat where it blended into Below. The patches of wall that faded from wallpaper to Victorian brickwork and the empty, black space outside the sash windows when he looked past the reflection of the sitting room.
There was a kitchen, the table covered in what looked like science experiments, abandoned when Sherlock had gone on the run. Books lined the bookcase, stacked so high that their weight bowed the shelves. On the wall a yellow smiley face grinned back at him and the mirror above the fireplace was covered in scribbled notes, maps and sketches.
The lights worked and the electric hum of the bulb was loud in the quiet of the room. John stared up at it for a moment and wondered how the bloody hell a flat that had fallen through time, and space, had working electricity.
“You should know better than to stare directly at that,” Sherlock said, making John jump. He hadn’t heard him coming. “You are a doctor, after all.”
Sherlock stood leant in the doorway, his damp curls dripping onto the light blue pyjamas he’d dressed in. His face was pale and the smudges under his eyes a dark purple. The bruises at his throat from the giant’s attack were already deep and angry looking against his clean, white skin.
“Speaking of which. They didn’t hurt you, did they? Moriarty and Moran?”
Sherlock shook his head and John studied him for a moment, attempting to work out if he was telling the truth or not.
Sherlock pushed away from the doorframe, and crossed over to where John was stood. Where he’d been perusing the titles on the bookcase and attempting to decipher which ones belonged to Sherlock rather than the previous owner of the flat.
Then Sherlock was in John’s space, the closest he had been since they’d kissed in the tunnel and it felt like a lifetime ago, even though it had only been hours. Long, careful fingers curled around the nape of John’s neck and then Sherlock kissed him again.
It was nothing more than a soft, tentative press of lips on lips and the sharing of warm, slow breaths. Sherlock’s eyelashes brushed John’s cheeks and his hands moved to Sherlock’s waist, solid and real under his touch.
“Come to bed,” Sherlock whispered against John’s mouth. “Please. With me.”
“Are you sure?”
Sherlock kissed him again and taking his hand, led John up the stairs and into the bedroom.
//
The room was lit by a small lamp in the corner and smelled like Sherlock. The bed was an unmade heap of sheets and blankets and there was a mixture of more books and clothes scattered about the floor. Sherlock untangled himself from John to shut the door behind them and doubt, deep and gnawing crept in.
Without the warm, distracting form of Sherlock pressed against him it was impossible to ignore. Should he stop this before it went any further?
Of course he wanted Sherlock. How could he not want Sherlock? Sherlock who was attractive and brilliant and wanted John, and did he mention utterly brilliant?
That didn’t mean thinking with his cock was the right idea.
Not after all that had happened to Sherlock in the past few hours, not after what he’d learnt and had had to do.
He wanted Sherlock for keeps. Not just for sex Sherlock might end up regretting, or worse, resenting John for.
"Stop it," Sherlock said. His lips brushed the shell of John's ear as Sherlock's calloused, dexterous fingers curled around John's waist and worked their way back under his clothes to stroke circles against his skin. Each firm, but gentle press lit up sparks in John's nerves. "Stop thinking, questioning. I want this. If anyone is taking advantage, it's me. I want you to distract me and I want us both to enjoy it."
"Sherlock-"
"Please do not ask me to be more explicit about what I require at this moment. We have plenty of time for that, tomorrow and all the days after. For now, take me to bed and fuck me."
It was impossible for John to deny him. Not when his voice was a low, needy rumble against the quickening throb of John's pulse. When the unmistakable evidence of Sherlock's growing arousal was pressed against him.
Sherlock wanted this. Had said he wanted this and for more than just one night.
"John," Sherlock breathed, scraping his teeth over the curve of John's jaw. It sent a shudder of oh god and yes, more through him, and chased away the lingering voice of moral complaint at the back of his head.
"Yes," John gasped and gave in. He turned in Sherlock’s arms and then they were kissing again.
Really kissing and it was messy, all teeth and tongues and so fucking good. It was as if a fire, all hot, desperate need, had been lit inside of John and it burned right through him. His heart pounded in his chest and blood rushed in his ears, all to the tune of Sherlock’s name.
Sherlock’s hand, which had been so dexterous and careful, fumbled with John’s clothes. He tried to push John’s t-shirt up and underwear down at the same time and growled, a deep, vibrating sound of frustration into John’s mouth when he didn’t get anywhere.
John laughed between kisses and tangles of tongues, dragged himself away from the tempting heat of Sherlock’s mouth and tugged his t-shirt over his head.
“Better?” He asked with a grin, biting at Sherlock’s bottom lip before stripping him of his pyjamas carefully, mindful of the still fresh wound in his shoulder.
“Better,” Sherlock agreed, chest heaving as John just stepped back and looked.
Really looked, studied each inch of Sherlock’s skin on display, just for him. His lean, muscled frame, smooth, pale chest, slender waist and sharp hips. His cock, already hard and just begging to touched and sucked and stroked until Sherlock came gasping John’s name.
John couldn’t pull his eyes away.
“Like what you see?” Sherlock teased, though John didn’t miss the flash of fear, of self-doubt in his eyes.
“Lay down,” John instructed softly, pressing reassuring kisses up Sherlock’s neck to his lips.
Sherlock did as he was told, taking two steps back and settling back on the bed, resting on his good elbow. He watched John through lowered eyes as he pushed his underwear down and stepped out of them and John could feel his cheeks flush at the intensity of Sherlock’s gaze. His eyes obviously moved up and down John’s body, lingering on his cock before sweeping back up. John felt the same as how he imagined Sherlock had; the way John always felt the first time he was naked with someone, only now there was the bullet-scar - the spider web of white, ragged flesh that marred his shoulder.
Sherlock nodded at John and asked, “Why aren’t you kissing me?”
John laughed and Sherlock smiled slyly, the nervous tension suddenly gone. It was replaced almost instantly by a different, much better kind, as John leaned down and kissed Sherlock, long and slow and dirty.
“While I can’t imagine lube and condoms being for sale at the floating market, please tell me you have some,” John said when they finally parted. His fingers curled in Sherlock’s hair, and one of Sherlock’s hands stroked over his chest.
As much as he wanted Sherlock, he was still an army doctor and he wasn’t going to do anything without either.
“The advantages of being unseen above,” Sherlock said, nipping at John’s earlobe before rooting through the set of drawers beside the bed. “It makes shoplifting from Boots incredibly easy. However, these are not new. It has been some time.”
“I’m sure I morally disapprove of using our powers of invisibility to shoplift,” John joked, checking the expiry date on the condoms and feeling a rush of overpowering relief to find they were still good.
“I give it three months before your moral qualms are silenced for good,” Sherlock retorted, smirking.
John wanted to wipe the look off his face, certain he was right, and so kissed him, before easing him back onto the bed and settling between his legs. Heat and electricity sparked as they touched from head to toe and John groaned. He rocked his hips into Sherlock, fitted their cocks together and greedily swallowed the needy, throaty moans escaping from Sherlock with each press and slide.
John set a slow, teasing rhythm, drinking in all the little hitches of breath and low whines Sherlock made as he moved with John, tried to demand more with each increasingly desperate rock of his hips. Then he stopped, swallowed Sherlock’s whimper of complaint with a lazy tangle of tongues until they were both breathless.
“John,” Sherlock gasped, cheeks flushed with arousal and skin hot and damp with beads of sweat.
“Shh,” John soothed, pressing open mouthed, biting kisses along Sherlock’s jaw, and down his neck, avoiding the marks the giant had left.
John catalogued every moan, shiver and shudder of desire. Sucked a love-bite to the soft, sweat-slick hollow of Sherlock’s neck just to hear the choked noises he made for John. Then he moved down. Kissed the smooth, pale skin of Sherlock’s chest, licked and teased each nipple in turn, smiled around them as Sherlock’s hips pushed up, demanding.
John soothed a sharp nip to Sherlock’s hipbone with lips and tongue, watching the way Sherlock’s face contorted in pleasure, curls clinging to his forehead and the smudges of his eyelashes against his cheek.
John shifted on the bed, but didn’t let his eyes leave Sherlock’s face as he curled his fingers around Sherlock’s cock, flushed and slick with precome, and stroked slowly. Once, then twice.
Sherlock’s eyes flew open. “Fuck,” he moaned. “John.”
“You’re amazing like this,” John breathed, meeting Sherlock’s eyes. His pupils were dilated so far John could barely see his irises as he stroked Sherlock, oh so gently, pressing wet, teasing kisses across his hips and belly.
“Don’t,” Sherlock gasped, sounding desperate and on the edge of breaking. “Please, don’t tease.”
“Want to learn every inch of you,” John said greedily, nosing at Sherlock’s belly button. “Find out what else makes you incoherent.” It wasn’t so much a suggestion as a promise. John didn’t just want to know, he had to know how to make Sherlock a desperate, horny mess under his touch. How to do as he asked and make him forget anything except John’s touch and the need to come.
“Yes, yes,” Sherlock whimpered as John circled his thumb over the head of Sherlock’s cock. “Tomorrow, any time you like,” he started. John’s fingers moved down and rubbed teasingly over his entrance. “Oh god John,” Sherlock whimpered, hips pushing down into the touch before he recovered himself. He demanded firmly, “Not tonight. Not now. Please, please, I need you to fuck me. Right now.”
John’s cock twitched, the ache in his balls and the deep, desperate desire for Sherlock was impossible to ignore anymore. Not when Sherlock was begging, palm cupping John’s face and pulling him up for a kiss, messy and wet and pure want.
“Yeah,” John agreed into Sherlock’s mouth. Fumbling blindly with the lube until his fingers were covered with it and he could open Sherlock up with careful touches and teasing presses to his prostate.
“Ready,” Sherlock said, skilled fingers shaking as he slid a condom onto John. He made the world go white with hot, sharp pleasure as he stroked his length with lube slick fingers. “John, I’m ready.”
Long, lean legs wrapped around John’s waist. He pulled Sherlock into a kiss and eased in.
//
“Yes,” Sherlock breathed against John’s lips, and he opened Sherlock around him with one careful, steady thrust that set every nerve in Sherlock’s body on fire.
John was all that mattered. His skin, hot and slick with sweat against Sherlock’s. His chest heaving and hitching with each breath he huffed in and back out, ghosting across Sherlock’s cheek. Inside Sherlock, leaving him full and desperate for more.
“John,” he gasped not caring just how broken and needy his voice sounded in his own ears.
John rolled his hips and there was nothing left in the world other than their bodies, moving together.
//
Sherlock was hot and tight around John. The feel and taste and smell and sound of him consumed all of John’s senses and all he could he could think about was Sherlock. Never letting him go. Never letting this go.
“John,” Sherlock whimpered and just the sound of it sent shivers of pleasure and pride through John. That he could do this to Sherlock, for Sherlock.
John leaned down, pressed his mouth to Sherlock’s and swallowed all the gasps and moans of his name with hard and dirty kisses. Chased the taste of Sherlock, licked it from his mouth as Sherlock’s fingers pressed hard into John’s spine. Then moved lower to grab his arse, to try and force him deeper, harder.
“More,” Sherlock demanded, biting at John’s jaw and rolling his hips up to meet John’s thrust. “Please, fuck, more.”
John was helpless to deny him.
He pulled Sherlock closer, shifted the angle of his hips and saw, felt the moment he pressed against Sherlock’s prostate. Sherlock’s moan was soundless as it shuddered through his body and into John’s.
“Fuck,” John choked out, curling one hand around Sherlock’s cock. “Sherlock.”
All that came out of Sherlock in response was a jumble of desperate sounds as John worked his cock with long, firm strokes in time with each press into Sherlock’s body. He stopped holding back, stopped thinking, and moved on instinct with each moan and gasp and push of Sherlock’s body.
He let the heat of orgasm build in his stomach and pressed wet, open-mouthed kisses to each inch of Sherlock’s skin he could reach.
“John, John, John,” Sherlock chanted, his breath catching in the back of his throat with each hard press of John’s cock against his prostate.
John knew Sherlock was close. His whole was body was trembling, pushing into John’s hand and his thrusts. He pulled back, watched as with one final stroke Sherlock came with a low groan that was John’s name.
It was enough to send John falling over the edge. Orgasm hit him hard as he kept moving inside, in time with Sherlock, until everything was white around the edges and his whole body thrummed with pleasure.
The only word on his lips was Sherlock.
//
The endorphin rush was amazing.
Sherlock couldn’t remember a time when sex had been so good. When he had wanted it, needed it, so much or enjoyed it so thoroughly.
His chest heaved almost in time with John’s as their bodies worked through the aftermath of the physical exertion and the effects of orgasm. They were both damp with sweat and Sherlock’s entire body felt warm and soft, as though he were on the edge of melting.
John made a gurgled noise of contentment and Sherlock could feel the smile on his face stretching his cheek muscles until they ached. Then John’s arms were around Sherlock, tugging him in close for a lazy, affectionate kiss and a warm embrace.
All Sherlock could think about was John.
All he wanted to think about was John.
He mouthed thank you against John’s lips and his heart seemed to swell inside his chest when he felt anything for you against his own in reply.
//
"You think I'll ever get the hang of this?" John asked, running his hand through Sherlock’s tangled curls.
Sherlock’s breath was warm and damp against John’s chest with each of his steady exhales. It was a pleasant feeling. One John wanted to get used to.
Sherlock tilted his head to look up at John. His pupils were dilated so wide his eyes seemed almost black in the low light of the bedroom and there was a curious curve to the corner of his lips.
Of course he knew exactly what John meant. That as the endorphin rush started to wane the reality of John’s situation was really beginning to settle in. His entire life Above was gone and even if this flat Sherlock called home - that John would call home too - looked like it belonged up there, it didn’t.
At the bottom of the stairs you didn’t step out into the rush of Baker Street, but through the cold, damp stone of an ancient wall into the dark of Below. John didn’t even begin to know how to live his life in a world where he didn’t know the people, or the rules.
"I'll help you," Sherlock said, without a moment’s thought or hesitation. He shimmied up John’s chest and his mouth watered, just a little, at the expanse of smooth, pale flesh before him. All for him. To touch and lick and kiss whenever he wanted.
“I’ll show you,” Sherlock promised, brushing his lips over John’s.
John’s whole body sparked and buzzed with pleasure and desire and hope.
Sherlock had believed in John and John had kept him safe, saved him from Moriarty and Moran, even if he couldn’t spare him his brother’s betrayal. Sherlock was offering himself in return, to keep John safe.
He thought about the Floating Market, all the people to discover in this new world, all the people who needed help. Sherlock’s, and his own. The Baron had said it, after all. They didn’t have a doctor, but they needed one.
John would fix their bodies. Sherlock would solve their mysteries and lead John through Below with a sly smile and the mad, addictive rush of adrenaline.
There was never a chance he was going to refuse.
"I know you will," he replied.
Then he kissed Sherlock, and believed him.
// End //
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Final author's note! Well done and thank you for reading if you've made it this far. While writing this seemed impossible at times, I've had a great deal of fun playing with John and Sherlock in one of my favourite universes. If you are of the artistic inclination and want to do further art for this story, I highly encourage you to (and sunryder doesn't mind, either!). There isn't much I won't do for Sherlock in Regency clothing, including writing more of this. /shamelessness
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