An Actual Story!
Adultery
Sherlock Holmes stared blankly at the ceiling, his feet dangling over the end of the sofa as he contemplated the repercussions of adultery. In his defence his wife had never been a particularly faithful lover herself; always running off on adventures, and leaving Sherlock to chase after her; flirting with anyone too, promising all her secrets to anyone fast enough to keep up. Only Sherlock had ever kept up so far, but even he could admit that there was no guarantee that he always would.
She was never dull though, Sherlock could get lost in her for days, but then she’d flitter away and leave weeks of endless drudgery and boredom in her wake. But then there was John. John the doctor; John the soldier; John the ordinary man - he should be so dull...
Sheets twist beneath them, their free hands find each other and their fingers entwine, knuckles going white from the strength of their grasp because somehow they’re convinced, if they let go there will be no tomorrow.
A key clicked in the lock but Sherlock didn’t look away from the ceiling, his fingers steepled beneath his chin; let John think he’d disappeared inside his own head for a while. He couldn’t block out the sounds though; John taking off his jacket and slipping off his shoes; padding into the kitchen, picking up the kettle and turning the tap, he could see each action without even having to look. Water rushes from the tap; bang in the metal sink and then whoosh as it fills up the kettle. It slowed; a rush to a stream, a stream to a trickle, then finally a trickle to just a drip. Then kettle clacked down on its plastic base and flick of the switch was a soft click.
John shuffled back out of the kitchen, stopped by his chair but didn’t sit; he was wringing his hands in the corner of Sherlock’s eye and Sherlock couldn’t not look at him.
His hair had grown a little from the sharp military crop that had given him away all those months ago; it’s dishevelled, swept mostly to the right -due to an external force, most probably wind, because it’s not style John wears voluntarily. A sharp gust of air travelling in one direction - from a tube then, as the weather was barely breezy.
His shirt was soft cotton, gentle on the skin and wouldn’t irritate the tell-tale bruise just peeking over the collar -
He gasps into the hot, damp skin of John’s bared throat. He can’t think. Can’t. Concentrate. Sensation floods through his mind and he’s spiralling, round and round, logic slipping through his grasp - the tighter he tries to hold on, the faster it falls away - until John’s hand becomes the only thing worthwhile in the whole universe. Desperate, he bites down, latching on to something firm, solid, real and John keens beneath him, his fingers tightening and his wanton hips rolling, rocking, grinding. After that, all it takes is a name, moaned and breathless in his ear.
John had been about to say something, a hesitant greeting most likely, but Sherlock’s sudden scrutiny had frozen him, his lips still parted round a half-formed word.
Lips bruised red and swollen wrapping around the syllables of his name like they’re a prayer.
“John.” He barely recognised his own voice, rough and dark with want.
“Sherlock.” Whispered, reverent, even as John was stepping back towards the kitchen. “Don’t. It’s not...” John struggled with the words, tried to force them to somehow express everything he wanted to say, everything he didn’t. “Sarah...”
The name died in the silence between them and Sherlock smiled deprecatingly, at least he wasn’t the only fornicator here.
“...I broke it off.” John finished quietly, staring down at his feet.
“I don’t date.” It was an automatic response. “I’m married-“
“-To your work, yes I know.” John cut through impatiently. He paused for a few seconds and then met his gaze steadily because John Watson didn’t run from anything - how could Sherlock not have been drawn to that? “Seems like a pretty open relationship.”
Sherlock’s already checking the distance to the window before he’s even fully aware of the thought - it takes him a second to realise where it came from too, because he’d thought he’d killed his flight reflex years ago, thought it had died off from lack of use like a limb denied of blood.
“Sherlock.”
“She can be a very fickle partner.” He agreed slowly, but he didn’t dare look up because his self-control was already in tatters and the last threads were fraying.
“Sherlock, look at me.” His voice was soft and deceptively calm, and Sherlock was drawn in again by this should-be-desperately-boring, painfully-ordinary, man.
When did he stand up? When did he push John against the wall?
“Why are you pushing this? I can’t work John, I can’t think because it all comes back!” He threw up his hands in frustration. “I don’t want to get rid of you but I will if I have to.” He hissed angrily.
“You can’t get rid of me; I pay half the rent the same as you.” John didn’t even raise his voice.
“I don’t have to stay here; it’s big city, there’s always somewhere to stay. Your money and medical expertise are convenient John, but don’t fool yourself into thinking that you’re necessary.”He bit the words out, harsh and furious, watched John’s steady gaze become a glare and waited for the blow, an upper cut across his left cheek, but it never came.
“Sherlock, shut up.”
He thinks John initiated it but then it didn’t matter because they were kissing, Sherlock pressing John hard against the wall, John’s hands crushing his hair in his fists as the world narrowed down to the war of lips and tongues and teeth. His own long fingers were out of control, desperate to map out every inch of the body beneath them as though it would disappear any second.
His heart was thrumming like it was riding an overdose of adrenaline, the crest of a cocaine rush. His breaths broke free from his throat in ragged, broken pants between the fevered kisses and his legs were trembling beneath him like he’d been slamming through the streets of London all night on the tail of a particularly energetic opponent.
‘Just John; it’s just John.’ The mantra in his head circled like a carousel, all bright lights and loud noise, but somehow falling out of mind like background static; there but unheeded. It wasn’t just John, it was John Watson and, right then, at that instant, he was everything.